Murder Mile (Di Rob Brennan 2) Read online

  He turned back to Dr Pettigrew, pointed a finger. ‘I want that girl thoroughly looked at. What is that in her mouth?’

  The doctor leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest and creased his narrow forehead as he bawled out. ‘We can’t get the red cloth, her jaw’s clamped on it. But, I’ll tell you this for nothing, Inspector … you have a seriously deranged psychopath on the loose.’

  Outside the tent Brennan removed his blue shoe coverings and handed them to a passing uniform, stomped towards McGuire. The DS was leaning on the bonnet of the Passat, staring into the night sky. The wind caught Brennan’s coat as he pulled the rubber gloves from his hands, secreted them in his pocket. He stopped still for a moment, felt his shoulders tightening inexplicably, then he shook himself, buttoned his coat and approached McGuire.

  ‘What do you think?’ he said.

  McGuire steadied himself on the bonnet of the car. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ He fastened his eyes tight, thin radial lines appeared at their edges. ‘It’s just deranged … utterly callous.’

  Brennan moved round beside him, hitched his thigh on the edge of the car’s wing. ‘It looks … practised.’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘The ligatures, the hacked genitals and the eyes … it’s all specific.’

  McGuire turned to face him, ‘You think this is pathological, like some kind of ritual?’

  Brennan looked out to the field, there were more SOCOs arriving, directing photographers. ‘No, not ritual, more like a release. What I’m saying is, it’s systematic – and controlled – our killer knew what he wanted out of this.’

  ‘I hate to admit it, sir, but Pettigrew’s right then – we’ve got a psycho on the loose.’

  Brennan eased himself off the bonnet of the car, the springs wheezed beneath him. ‘It’s more than that, Stevie, we’ve got a psycho who’s acted on his urges.’ He crossed the ground towards the car’s door. ‘And it’s down to us to stop him acting on them again.’

  Chapter 4

  NEIL HENDERSON WATCHED the prison officer pack up his belongings, tipping the little plastic containers into the brown paper bag. He was sneering, the bastard was sneering at him, he thought.

  ‘Got something to say to me, pal?’ said Henderson.

  The officer shook his head, dropped his chin onto his chest and jangled some coins into the bag. He looked to be enjoying himself too much, continued to sneer.

  A spasm twitched on Henderson’s lip as he spoke, ‘No, come on, out with it.’

  The officer closed a drawer, turned a key in the lock and then returned to Henderson’s possessions. The bag was full now, he rolled over the top, made it into a neat bundle then passed it through the chute. He was still sneering as he made a little wave through the glass. ‘See you soon, sunshine!’

  Henderson double blinked. The muscles in his neck tightened, became firm rods. He wanted to punch the window, smack the screw bastard. They were all the same, screws and filth; just out to rumble you, give you a hard time. They got off on it. He spat out, ‘You’ll be fucking lucky!’

  A laugh now, he was laughing at him. His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he spoke through the laughter, ‘Want to take a wee bet?’

  Another screw came into the picture, a fat bastard with pools of sweat under his armpits, they were both laughing in sync. The one who called him sunshine rubbed his hands together, then pointed at his palm. ‘Could make a few quid at this, Drew.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah … Only this prick hasn’t got a penny. What’s he gonna bet with?’

  The prison officer tugged at his earlobe, tilted his head and pretended to look thoughtful. ‘Have to go out and rob someone … Now there’s an idea, Hendy!’

  Henderson inflated his chest, yelled, ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘That’s what you do, isn’t it?’

  ‘I said, fuck off.’

  The other screw joined in, he leaned over the counter and widened his eyes, raised his voice. ‘Robbing and beating the shite out of innocent old punters. You followed him home from the bookies, didn’t you. Wonder if that old boy’s family will be waiting for you out there?’

  The other one jumped in, ‘His son’s a rugby player, I heard.’

  They were winding him up, just sticking the needle in. Henderson grabbed his belongings from the chute; the bag was bulky and the brown paper wrapping rustled loudly as he tugged it free. When he had the package under his arm he raised a single digit on his right hand and said, ‘Get fucked.’

  The tone suddenly changed, the screws weren’t having a laugh any more. The big one pointed at him through the glass. ‘I hope you do, mate. I hope you get well and truly fucked, because you know what, you deserve it. You’re a fucking animal.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You know fuck all about me.’

  The screw nodded, his meaty neck quivered under his chin. ‘I know your type, fucking sure I do. And I know a leopard doesn’t change its spots.’ He leaned closer, got right up against the glass, ‘You’ll be back in here in under a month. How do I know that? Because you’re all the same. You’re scum, Henderson. Fucking trash.’

  Henderson’s pulse raced, he dived for the screen, got close enough to face the screw but was yanked back by his shoulder, another prison officer turned him away. ‘Move it!’

  The pair beyond the glass were still staring. What had started out as a bit of innocent patter had turned ugly. It always turned out like that, thought Henderson. ‘Get fucked the pair of you!’ he yelled.

  ‘I said move it!’ The screw poked him in the back.

  Henderson thundered along the corridor, his heart was still beating hard. He wanted to attack the screws; he wanted to show them who he was, that he didn’t take that kind of shit from anyone. Least of all a couple of lard-arsed screws. He was Hendy the Leith boy; he was known. Folk knew that name, knew who he was. He wasn’t to be messed with.

  As he walked his rushing blood calmed, seemed to settle. When he got like that, he couldn’t control it. He just wanted to lash out. He couldn’t change that, it was who he was. He put his energy into his stride, but the prison followed him. The prison smell haunted him. He would never forget that smell; on his first night he’d asked an old giffer what the smell was. ‘The stench of a thousand reeking bastards,’ he’d told him, ‘their farts and shits, their BO and their utter fucking despair!’

  There was no escape from it, the prison got under your skin. It polluted you. If it wasn’t some radge talking about who he’d offed on the outside it was some nut-job looking to make a name for himself by offing someone on the inside. You had to be on your toes, every minute of the day. There was no way of avoiding it; if you didn’t play the game then they thought there was something wrong with you. That’s how rumours started. He remembered the bloke who’d got moved from Kilmarnock, he never fitted in, never made the effort and then folk started to say he was a nonce. A beast. He was battered into a coma.

  That’s what prison had taught Neil Henderson, to be tough; to get the first punch in. No one was looking out for you in the pound. You were on your own. And if you let your guard down for a second it could be fatal. Life was like that, too. That’s what they all said. ‘Get your retaliation in first!’ That’s what he’d been told, and that’s what he believed.

  ‘You got someone coming for you, Hendy?’ said the screw.

  ‘I don’t know, not a fucking mind reader am I.’

  The screw shook his head. ‘Have you no family?’

  Henderson shrugged.

  The screw rattled some keys. ‘What about a girl?’

  ‘What the fuck’s it got to do with you?’

  The conversation came to an abrupt halt as the prison officer opened the first door into an enclosed area that had been partitioned off. He pointed to a sheet of paper on a clipboard, said, ‘Sign.’

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘For your possessions.’

  Henderson grabbed the brown paper bag tighter. �
��You better not have nicked anything … I know what I came in here with, got it all up here,’ he tapped his head.

  ‘You saw it counted out, now sign it or you’ll be in another night. That what you want?’

  Henderson grabbed the pen, signed. When he was finished he let the biro fall, it swung on its chain, rattled off the wall. The screw picked it up and placed it on the counter. ‘Always the arsehole, right to the end, eh. You learnt nothing in here?’

  ‘Oh, I learnt plenty, mate … fucking plenty.’

  The screw turned down the corners of his mouth, he seemed to have something else to say but kept it to himself. It was a look that Henderson had seen many times before, it had started at home, when he had a home, then it was school, the workplace, the street, pubs. Everywhere. Someone always seemed to be ready to tell Neil Henderson how to lead his life, where he was going wrong.

  A key turned in a large lock, then another. A bolt slid across the door and then light and a cool breeze flooded in. Henderson tipped back his head to inhale the luxury of clean air.

  ‘Don’t get too used to it out there, sure we’ll be seeing you again soon.’

  Henderson smiled. He was too pleased to see the outside world to manage a riposte. As he stepped over the prison threshold he felt a weakness in his knees. He was out. He was back in the real world. For a second he felt exhilarated and then he felt a tightening in his gut. Something twisted there, like a rag being wrung out. He wondered what it was. Fear? Panic? It was nothing, surely. Just the shock of being out, of getting away from that shit-hole. There would be no more, he was out.

  ‘You fucking beauty!’

  He looked up Gorgie Road, he could go anywhere, do anything. He sniffed the air like a dog that had been kept in for too long. Beer, he wanted a bevy. He could grab a pint and then, at the weekend, he could see Hearts. The glorious Jam Tarts.

  Henderson was free, he felt it like a rush. He raised his bag and ran towards the bus stop.

  Chapter 5

  ANGELA MICKLE HAD woken with a humming in her head, she didn’t quite know if it was the humming that came from a hangover or the humming that precipitated her withdrawal from heroin. She’d shot up but knew the slim takings she’d managed out on the Links the night before weren’t going to be enough to score again soon; and she would need to score again soon.

  Her arms itched, her throat was dry and the humming in her head made her feel woozy. There were bruises too, finger marks on her arms; her last punter had been too rough, but he’d paid extra for that. She touched her lip, it had been split, she remembered the knuckle cracking off her teeth. She’d told him, bawled him out, but he said he was taking what he’d paid for and that was that. ‘Scream all you want you dirty whore, who’s going to hear you out here?’

  That’s what he’d said.

  He’d driven her to an old factory site in East Lothian, miles from anywhere and threatened to leave her there if she didn’t play along. As Angela gripped herself, felt her bruised ribs, it didn’t seem like such a good idea now. Even for the extra twenty pounds.

  She looked at herself in the mirror that sat on the floor beside the mattress where she lay. Her dirty blonde hair needed washed, there was blood smeared in it. Her lips were cracked and scabbed, she couldn’t go out looking like this. But she needed to go out, to score. It was a Friday, punters were always looking to score at the end of the week, they were flush with wages. That’s what Hendy had told her; he had looked after her.

  Angela knew she couldn’t go out in the daylight, there was too much aggro now from residents on the Links. Nosey bastards; Edinburgh was full of them. It was a town full of square pegs. It wasn’t her town any more, it didn’t feel like the place she’d grown up in, but she couldn’t see herself going anywhere else now; not any time soon anyway.

  Angela raised herself from the mattress; she felt a little sick rising in her stomach, it reached her throat and she threw up on the floor. Some milky-white vomit splashed on the mattress and her foot. She leaned over and felt the knots in her stomach again.

  ‘Got to fucking score,’ she said.

  As she reached over to the wall, tried to steady herself, she became vaguely aware of noise from beyond the front door of her flat. It jarred with the humming in her head, made her feel worse. But it was Leith, there was always noise in Leith stairwells. This was something different, however; it sounded like a celebration.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

  Angela pushed out her thin legs, they were bruised and scraped. At one stage her punter had kicked her out of his car, she’d landed in an overgrown bramble bush; she remembered now. So much of what she did seemed a haze at the time, but it always came back to her the next day. That’s when she wanted another hit, to block it all out. Angela Mickle didn’t want any reminders of what her life had become.

  There was a knock at the door; heavy thuds.

  Angela felt her heart kick. Little needles tingled at the back of her eyes. It didn’t feel like fear, but it was confusion. She tried to push herself forward. Her hands steadied herself on the wall as she placed one foot in front of the other, slowly at first, but then she found something close to a rhythm.

  The knock came again. Louder this time.

  ‘Angela, open up, eh?’

  It was a man, who?

  She wasn’t expecting anyone, the rent was paid – it had been short but she wangled her usual five-finger discount from the landlord. He was starting to get greedy, had asked her to see to his friend as well.

  ‘Angela, fuck’s sake …’

  She got close to the door, cupping her stomach in her hand like she was holding in the contents. The voice sounded familiar now; as she reached the spy-hole she peered out. Her vision was too blurred to make out any more than the shape of a man’s frame. She paused for a moment, remembered her beating the night before. She felt scared, but she also wanted to block everything out and there was only one way to do that; only one way to get the money to do that. She slid the chain, turned the key in the lock and opened up the door.

  ‘Hello, Ange.’

  It was Henderson.

  ‘You?’

  He stood there, smiling. He had a television under his arm, one of those thin flat-screen ones. ‘Look, I brought you a pressie.’

  ‘But, when … I thought you weren’t due out for another six months.’

  Henderson put a foot in the door, ‘Aye well, they let me out a wee bit early.’

  Angela stepped back, let him in. ‘But how … why?’

  ‘I dunno do I … something about overcrowding or that, needed the cells.’

  As Henderson walked through the hallway, Angela closed the door behind him. He shook his head at the state of the place, he seemed to have something stuck to his shoe – a used condom. ‘Fucking hell, Ange … This place is a shit-hole.’

  She stood in the doorway, shivering. ‘Well …’

  ‘Well, do something about it …’ Henderson shook the condom from his shoe. ‘Have you been turning tricks in here?’

  Angela shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘No fucking maybe about it.’ He moved towards the window, opened up. ‘This place fucking stinks. Bad.’

  Angela took a step forward, ‘Where did you get the telly?’

  ‘What kind of a question’s that?’ Henderson turned round, looked at her. He stood facing her for a moment, showed her an open palm. ‘A man in a pub, of course.’ He turned away from her, leaned towards the shelving unit by the window and swept the contents off with the back of his hand. Angela shrieked as a cup smashed on the floor.

  ‘This place is a tip …’ said Henderson, he pointed at the cup. ‘I’d get that cleaned up … you going about in your bare feet and all that, you’ll get cut.’

  Angela moved over to the shelves, started to gather up the shards of pottery as Henderson plugged in the television. ‘Good job I brought the cord as well … Bloody-well knew you’d have no cord for the aerial!’

  The picture on th
e television came clear and sharp, Henderson stepped back, looked pleased with himself.

  ‘Not fucking bad, eh.’

  Angela nodded as she emptied the broken cup shards into an open drawer. She moved to stand beside Henderson. He put an arm out, ‘Don’t crowd me out, come on.’

  She put a hand into his jacket, ‘Hendy, I’ll look after you,’

  He faced her for a moment, removed her hand from him. ‘I don’t need any looking after, Ange.’

  ‘But, I will … y’know, if you look after me.’

  Henderson grinned, tipped back his head. ‘I’m not holding, if that’s what you were thinking.’

  ‘I need a shot, Hendy. I need it bad, I had a rough time last night.’

  He flicked the television channels, found the lunchtime news slot. ‘That’s the nature of the business you’re in love, I’d say it’s you that needs me.’

  She nodded, ‘I do. I need you, Hendy.’

  ‘Aye well. Maybe we’ll see about that.’ He pointed the remote control at the screen, shushed Angela as he increased the volume. ‘Check this out, that’s Edinburgh.’

  The newscaster started to relay the details of a murder scene.

  ‘Police are remaining tight-lipped about the discovery of a body on the outskirts of the city. No identification has been released for what is believed to be the body of a teenage girl found in a field near to the town of Straiton …’

  The camera zoomed in. Police officers stood outside a white tent as men in full-body overalls came and went.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ said Angela. She stared at the screen, raised a hand to her mouth and began to tremble.

  ‘Funny seeing your own town on the telly isn’t it,’ said Henderson. ‘Look there’s some filth daftie looking stupid!’