Truth Lies Bleeding drb-1 Read online

  ‘No strings attached, eh?’

  ‘Exactly, I just give off that kind of vibe, y’know, and I’m discreet — ask your missus, she’ll tell you.’ Lauder burst into laughter. He sounded like a teenager to Brennan.

  When the laughter subsided, the topic of conversation touched on something that was more interesting to the DI in the toilet cubicle.

  ‘What about Brennan, then? Must have put the shits up him to see Aylish from the News there,’ said Lauder.

  ‘I hear he wasn’t chuffed… Apparently she near lamped him with a voice recorder. Jesus, what a picture that would have been. Galloway would have had his balls for earrings…!’ McGuire’s voice halted.

  ‘What is it?’ said Lauder.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No, come on… What’s up?’

  McGuire exhaled loudly, his words coming out like a puncture. ‘I’m getting kicked about on this case already.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I just…’ He held schtum. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No, say…’

  McGuire sounded livelier: ‘They say Brennan’s a top operator, don’t they?’

  Lauder bit: ‘Do they?’

  ‘I mean, that’s the word about the station, that he’s a good cop and has landed some good collars in his day.’

  Lauder arked up, ‘You fucking fancy him now?’ The DI raised his voice: ‘I’ll tell you this, I don’t rate him and I’ve been in this game long enough to know who the top operators are, son.’

  McGuire didn’t respond. The atmosphere in the toilet block seemed to have cooled. Brennan felt his legs start to ache. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to hold them up for much longer.

  The sound of a tap turning, the splash of water, took over from the silence. A hand dryer blew out a violent blast.

  ‘I’ll catch you later, Ian,’ said McGuire.

  Lauder didn’t answer.

  Brennan waited for the creak of the door. He let the hinges sigh and the wood kiss the jamb before he stood up. Lauder had started to whistle; as Brennan opened the cubicle door he saw the DI pitching up on his toes as he relieved himself into the urinal. He had his head facing the tiled wall, but cocked it sharply to the side as his colleague appeared.

  ‘This’ll be where the pricks hang out then,’ said Brennan.

  Chapter 10

  Devlin McArdle was sitting in the Wellington Cafe on London Road when the cabbies came in, asked for the television to go on. They saw McArdle and nodded, took some more nods from the bloke behind the counter and moved to sit at the rear of the premises where the dusty windows faced the street. The PVC seats squealed as the men lowered themselves down. The cabbies looked over the greasy, laminated menu and clawed at the new prices that had been stickered over the old; there was already a rim of sauce and crumb-dust ringing the white tabs. McArdle looked the other way, towards the television. He waited for the midweek football results to come on. He was only interested in the fortunes of Heart of Midlothian but in the absence of a fixture for his team, scanned the rest of the division. They were all losers to him — anyone not on the Deil’s side was a loser.

  ‘Can you believe the run United are having?’ said the bigger of the two cabbies.

  ‘Dundee United?’said McArdle. ‘Fucking Scum-dee… Who cares what kind of a run they’re having? Do they even have a stadium up there? Does the manager take the strips home for his missus to wash? There’s only one team: Hearts… The fucking glorious Jam Tarts!’ McArdle felt his face warming as he spoke. He knew his voice had risen because there was an old couple sitting at the front of the cafe who looked at him. They had to crane their necks over a rack of vinegar bottles to see him. Their effort bothered McArdle; he didn’t like being put on show. ‘What do you fucking want, Granny?’

  The elderly couple turned away immediately, dropping gazes back to their fish teas. The cabbies laughed it up. The bigger one spoke: ‘Nice one, Deil… Showed them!’

  ‘Fucking pair of p-r-i-c-k-s-s-s…’ He stretched out the word for effect, savoured the sound of it on his tongue. For a moment he seemed satisfied within himself, but the expression soon changed. ‘Right, what you pair got for me?’

  The cabbies dropped hands in their inside pockets, removed rolls of banknotes. They were mixed denominations, tightly bound and held by elastic bands.

  ‘These are a bit fucking light,’ said McArdle.

  The thinner of the two, a stubbly chin and chalk-blue eyes, said, ‘No one’s got the money, big man.’

  ‘What do you fucking mean, no one?’ McArdle’s eyes widened. He showed his bottom row of teeth — they were yellowed, stubby.

  ‘It’s the recession an’ that,’ said the other man.

  McArdle slammed his fist on the table. The elderly couple flinched; the woman dropped a knife. ‘Since when did schemies feel the pinch? They’re on the dole, on the rob.’

  The pair looked at each other. McArdle knew he had them scared. He grabbed one by the shirt front. ‘Don’t you be coming to me for gear, taking the fucking gear, and then not selling it. I’m not a fucking charity, right?’

  ‘Yeah, I know… I know.’

  ‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘We’ll go back out.’ The cabbies turned to each other, nodded. ‘We’ll go back out. No bother.’

  The old man and woman crossed to the counter to pay up. They hadn’t finished their meals. McArdle blared, ‘You’re fucking right you will. Get down to the Links and crack onto the brasses. There’s no recession for punters looking for blow jobs last time I heard. And if they’re not on it, get them on it… Right?’

  The pair nodded. ‘Yeah, sure. Sure.’

  McArdle stood up and the two men followed. As they did chairs scraped on the laminate flooring and put a scare on the old woman. She hurried towards the door. ‘Boo!’ yelled McArdle. The couple increased the speed of their steps and McArdle laughed as they fumbled with the door handle. ‘Night-night, you old p-r-i-c-k-s-s-s.’

  As the door closed McArdle returned to the cabbies; his demeanour returned to assault mode. In a flash he fired out a fist. It caught the large man clean on the nose. His head shot back on contact and he stumbled into the orange plastic chair he’d just left. The back of his thighs caught the tabletop and stopped him from falling to the floor. He was dazed, his eyes rolling wildly in his head.

  ‘Take that as a taster,’ said McArdle. He held up a roll of cash. ‘You come back to me with a bundle like that again and it’ll not be your nose I’m bursting next, it’ll be your fucking head with one of those big cleavers out the kitchen.’

  The man behind the counter laughed as he turned a dishtowel over his shoulder. The cabbies turned for the door, the bleeding one helped by the other.

  McArdle raised a thumb to them. ‘What do you make of that pair of pussies?’

  Shakes of head. ‘Can’t get the staff, eh?’

  ‘Hard times, I tell you… Hard times.’

  McArdle sat back down and the waiter brought him over a mug of coffee. As he counted out the takings, separated it into denominations, then clear plastic money bags, McArdle glanced idly at the television. The football scores had finished and the Scottish news headlines were being read out by a pretty young girl in a red party dress.

  It was the same old stories: job losses, strikes. Some eighty-year-old in the finals of a talent competition. None of it interested McArdle. He only liked the news when there were serious crimes reported. Then he would shout at the screen, blast the criminal’s idiocy. He knew better than most how to make crime pay. No one was ever going to put the Deil behind bars again. He’d spent the eighties in Bar-L, had a stint in the Nutcracker Suite. He’d learned all he needed to know in there about staying out and he’d put it into practice every day since.

  The Scottish news turned into the local news and immediately McArdle’s interest was gripped. The top story was an eye-catcher.

  The girl in the party dress said, ‘ The b
ody of a young woman was found on an Edinburgh housing estate today.’

  So what? thought McArdle.

  She went on, ‘ Police have yet to identify the victim but witnesses confirmed the badly mutilated body was found in a communal bin in Muirhouse. Residents described being alerted to the grisly find by four young girls who stumbled across the body.’

  The newsreader made the familiar tilt of the head that indicated the screen was about to change. Some new footage started up, fronted by a less-attractive male reporter at the housing scheme.

  His piece to camera was backgrounded with some shots of police cars coming and going at the crime scene.

  McArdle laughed out, ‘Fucking plod! Useless bastards.’

  The reporter went on, ‘ Lothian and Borders Police are remaining tight-lipped about what is believed to be a brutal murder scene in the Muirhouse area. Of course, this locality has had more than its fair share of murders over the years but the teenage girls who stumbled upon the body revealed some particularly horrific details for me when I spoke to them earlier… I do warn viewers some of the comments they made to me are of a graphic nature and not for those of a delicate disposition.’

  The camera angle changed again.

  ‘Hey, turn this up, mate,’ said McArdle, ‘sounds good, this.’

  The four girls were huddled together in the front room of a small council flat. A picture of a crying Spanish orphan hung on the wall behind them. One of the girls had a cigarette in her hand, which trembled every time she brought it to her lips. The other three competed for the camera.

  ‘ It was pure nasty… Loads of blood an’ that,’ said the loudest, a small freckled girl who seemed to be wearing too much make-up.

  McArdle sang out, ‘Wee fucking tramp!’

  Another girl spoke: ‘ I saw her first, well, second likes, after Trish, but it was me that saw the arms were missing. They’d been pure sawn off so they had.’

  McArdle chuckled to himself. ‘Christ, it’s a braw laugh seeing folk from the town on the telly.’

  The screen changed again, the reporter handing over to the studio.

  McArdle stood up, took the first sip of his coffee and put it back down. ‘Right, I’m off.’

  The man behind the counter nodded.

  ‘Put that on the tab, eh.’

  Another nod came.

  On the street McArdle’s strides were full of purpose. The cash in his jacket wasn’t enough, takings had been sliding down of late, but there was another option now that might come good. It was a bit more risky, and he still had his doubts, but he hadn’t been turned over in a long time. This was Edinburgh as well, where they chopped the limbs off young girls and dumped them in bins at the end of dark lanes. The filth had enough to be getting on with just keeping the streets free of folk killing each other. What were the chances of them taking an interest in his activities? So long as he played by the rules he’d set himself, then what could go wrong? Muirhouse was a long way from Germany and once he’d collected the cash, bunged Barry Tierney enough to keep him quiet, then the evidence would be out of the way. Well out of the way; the filth could say and do all they liked, but the evidence would be out the country.

  McArdle’s car was parked outside the post office. He turned the key in the lock and eased into the driver’s seat. The clock on the dash said it was after six now. That meant Tierney had had the best part of five hours to shoot that shit into his veins. It might just be worth giving him a rattle, making sure there was a deal to be done. You just couldn’t take a junkie’s word for it; these things had to be checked out. He started the ignition, engaged first gear and pulled out. The traffic was light on the roads, hardly anybody walking about either. Funny that, thought McArdle. He wondered if it had anything to do with the young girl’s murder he’d just seen on the news.

  Chapter 11

  Barry Tierney brushed dried vomit from his face. He couldn’t recall being sick, but there was no disputing the fact. At some point in his stupor, somewhere between taking the works from the Deil, going home to Vee, and shooting up, he’d thrown up. It was a milky sick, like a baby’s. He was familiar with the sight of baby sick lately, though this was a new occurrence and not entirely something he was happy about.

  The child was crying again.

  Barry pushed himself up. His sick-wet hand slipped on the greasy mattress and he fell towards the floorboards. The motion sent his brain swimming in his skull. He felt another heave in his gut; more puke rose in his throat and appeared in his mouth. He delivered the mouthful onto the mattress. He didn’t care whether it stained or smelled, he’d long since lost all desire to care about such matters.

  The child continued to cry, loud breath-filled shrieks. She’d be hungry again. Why the hell did they need so much feeding and changing? Did it never end?

  Tierney suddenly felt cold. He started to shiver. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and tried to rub warmth into his arms and shoulders with the palms of his hands. It didn’t seem to be working. The cold he felt was too deep. There was no heating in the flat — they had no money left for power cards after paying McArdle for their hit.

  Several attempts later Tierney got up. He swayed on his feet, like a much older man, and clutched the wall for support. His vision was weak, tired. He could never understand this — how could his eyes be tired when he’d just woken up? He scratched at his eyelids with blackened fingernails. His eyeballs burned. He wanted to scoop them out, drop them in cold water, iced maybe. He wanted another hit — the aches and pains disappeared as soon as he had a hit. He looked around the room for Vee. He couldn’t see her. All he could see was the kid, lying in a drawer, crying again.

  ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  He staggered to the other wall, felt his way to the door. ‘Vee… Vee, where are you?’

  There was no reply. She was supposed to be looking after that kid, that was the idea — and it was her idea. Tierney knew he’d played his part in bringing the child into their chaotic lives, but he didn’t want it to be like this. He didn’t want to have to think about the hows and the whys. He only knew it shouldn’t have been like this — it was wrong, all wrong.

  ‘Vee… Get up to that kid!’

  He dragged himself from the sitting room. There was no sign of her. Had she gone out? Where? If she had gone out she was whoring or scoring. Tierney tried to find strength to hit the wall but his dull thuds were barely audible. He saw the bathroom door ahead, sat ajar.

  ‘Vee… you in there?’ He edged closer, his aching limbs dragging.

  At the door to the bathroom Tierney’s heart rate picked up, only a little at first, but as he touched the woodwork his blood raced. ‘Vee…’

  He wondered if she was in there — why would she go in there? After last night Tierney could hardly bear to take a piss in there. ‘Vee.’

  There was no reply. As he edged inside the door, the hinges creaked. The mat caught behind the door as he pushed it open, tugging and dragging. Tierney felt moisture gather on his brow — he was sweating. His hands felt clammy as he turned towards the bathtub. The shower curtain was drawn shut. Mould and mildew grew at the top but at the base, where the bleach had been splashed about, it was white, bright. Tierney paused before the unusual cleanliness. His mouth dried over. He could see Vee’s pale feet resting beside the taps. Oh Christ, what had she done?

  He whispered, ‘Vee?’

  His voice cracked but seemed above his normal range in the small room. Oh Jesus, what had she done? Was it too much for her? If it was too much for her, it was too much for him. Where would he go? What would he do?

  He heard the child’s cries again. ‘Oh, Jesus, Vee… what have you done?’

  Tierney gripped the curtain and pulled it back. Vee looked pale and still. Her head rested on the rim of the bathtub; Tierney could see the blue veins in her temples. He wanted to shake her, to poke at her and wail, tell her to get up and stop being so fucking selfish… It was all her fault, after all. Everything was her fa
ult.

  ‘Vee…’ Tierney’s voice rose, became a growl. ‘Vee.’

  There was a twitch in her brow, a curl of her lip, and then her head turned. Tierney leaned over her. ‘Fuck’s sake, Vee!’He grabbed her face in his hand, squeezed hard. ‘You’re out of it!’

  Vee groaned. She seemed to try and open her eyes but her head lolled from side to side with the effort. Tierney pulled her hair, banged her head several times off the rim of the bathtub. Vee groaned, but failed to come round.

  ‘You selfish bitch!’ roared Tierney. ‘You lazy, selfish piece of shit.’ He drew a fist, aimed it at her face but stopped himself. ‘You’ll keep.’ He turned from her, went to the shower unit and flicked on the switch. Thin streams of water jetted onto Vee where she lay, fully clothed in the bathtub. She mumbled at first, then her mumbles became moans as she tried to wave away the water.

  Tierney left her to come round. Somebody had to look after the kid; she wasn’t capable, that was clear. He pushed at the door. It stuck again on the mat. He struggled harder and freed it. As he forced his weight into the door the action made the hinges squeal, then a layer of dust was dislodged from above the frame as the door slammed into the jamb and rebounded back towards Tierney.

  ‘Fuck’s sake!’

  Vee had started to react to the pelting of the water on her. She screamed out, seemed to have found a surprising amount of strength. ‘Turn it off… Turn it off.’

  ‘That’ll be right.’

  ‘Barry. Barry, get that off.’

  He started to laugh as Vee tried to fumble for the shower, hands outstretched like a blind woman; the scene was comical to him. ‘Serves you right, leaving me to mind that kid.’ He left her slipping, stumbling, ungainly in the bathtub, trying to escape the pounding of the thin jets of water.

  Tierney plodded back towards the hallway. He found himself coughing loudly after his exertions. A wisp of mucus trailed from his mouth as he raised a hand to steady himself on the wall. There was no strength left in him. He found his head ached once again. There was a dizzy spell queuing behind his eyes and he needed to sit down. As he stumbled towards the living room he put his hands out in front of him in preparation for a flop onto the filthy mattress he had left only a few moments ago. Once he was inside, the baby’s cries attacked Tierney like jabs. He couldn’t lock them out. The child was Vee’s responsibility, not his, he thought. But somebody had to see to it. He couldn’t let any harm come to the baby — there was far too much at stake for that.