Blood Lines (15 page)

The next thing he did was cut the chains and take
his
cars back.

When Bancho went to collect the evidence on Monday morning, it wasn’t there. He couldn’t charge Moses with theft because he had no evidence. He did have CCTV footage so he charged Moses with breaking and entering. The second charge was an attempt to pervert the course of justice; the third charge was breach of the peace.

On the morning of the trial, I pointed out to the Fiscal that her case had more holes than Emmental cheese. She was young, a more experienced Fiscal might have run it. Okay, I bullied her when I pointed out that in Scotland you can’t be guilty of breaking and entering unless you intend to steal. How can you steal your own property? If there’s no theft, there’s no court case, so how can you pervert the course of justice?

Then I said my client would plead to a breach of the peace.

In the plea in mitigation, I said he was very sorry for having sworn at the police officers but he was justifiably upset at being accused of a crime he did not commit. Moses got a fifty-quid fine instead of the seven-year jail sentence Duncan Bancho thought he would.

Bancho had been mad at me ever since. That didn’t mean I was ready to roll over and let him win.

Alex Cattanach was alive, and that was the best news I had heard in ages … even if I did have Jack Deans to thank for it.

Chapter Seventeen

‘How much for a blow job, darlin’?’

A 1967 white 3.8 S-type Jaguar sedan pulled up at the kerb. I ran out from the close where I had been taking cover.

‘Nice to see you too, Jack. Drive.’

Jack Deans leaned over and kissed my cheek. My body betrayed me, as it often did, and I turned to face him. I had heard that fear heightened sexual response. Could I use that as my excuse?

‘Tell me about Cattanach. How come you managed what the police couldn’t?’

‘I’m proud to be one of the best muckrakers around.’

‘Muckraker?’

‘To get answers, you’ve got to stir shit. “Investigative journalist” just makes it all sound so antiseptic. You know I’m not that type.’

He stroked my face at the traffic lights and I kicked myself for not telling him to piss off. The streetlights twinkled in the fog, and Edinburgh took on a mysterious feel. I saw myself as a raunchy Nancy Drew, off to solve a puzzle.

There was little traffic and the journey across the Forth Road Bridge was smooth. Jack fondled my thigh – or was it a reassuring pat?

‘You’ve had a hard time the last few days.’

‘My life would be easier if you put both hands on the steering wheel and then told me what shit you had to stir to track down Alex Cattanach.’

The haar disappeared as soon as we left the east coast and started moving inland. Jack, on the other hand, was immovable on the subject of his contacts.

‘Are you expecting me to put out, Jack, before you tell me what I want to know?’

‘What age are you? Fifteen?’

‘Well, why don’t you tell me, then?’

‘You don’t have any rights here. I have to protect my sources. I’m able to find out facts that the police can’t because I use sources that they don’t. Did you know the Salvation Army reunites ten people every day with their families? They’re a damn sight more reliable – and pleasant – than the cops. Everyone on the run shits themselves if they see a copper – but a nice Salvation Army wifey is a different matter.’

‘So the Salvation Army found Cattanach?’

‘I didn’t say that. My job is to seek out and expose scandal. My sources have to trust me. You can trust me too.’

‘Are you going to do a story on this?’

‘It’s what I do, Brodie.’

‘So, how come wherever Alex is didn’t work out that the headliner on “Crimewatch” was within their midst?’

‘We’re talking the North of Scotland, Brodie. The Highlands barely even recognize television, never mind watch it.’

‘Oh, come on, that’s a crock of shit, Jack – they’re not exactly stuck in the Stone Ages. Do you want the Scottish Tourist Board putting you on a hitlist as well?’

‘Seriously, Brodie,’ he said, ‘It’s another world up there. They get a different local regional news programme to Edinburgh – and Edinburgh was where Cattanach went missing, so it’s seen as a local angle. Just the same with the papers – it was huge in the Edinburgh
Evening News
because they’d already been following all the Law Society stuff and running interviews, but anywhere else? No story.’

‘And that’s where you come in with your sleuthing skills and dodgy contacts?’ I asked.

‘Well, it’s certainly where I come in with my willingness to get bored titless phoning every hostel and guest house and possible resting place for Cattanach’s weary head.’

‘So where was it? Hostel? Guest house?’

‘Hospital actually. Usually one of the first stops, but not always the best as it depends on whether you get Nurse Ratchett answering the phone or not. I’d put it off as I’d had a bad experience doing a story a while back where a guy walked out of his house one morning and never came back. All searches turned up blank, then eventually someone told me he had been seen at Inverness Royal. I set up camp to see if it was him – it was, but it turns out he wasn’t an amnesiac patient, it was a straightforward running off with his fancy piece who worked on the switchboard rather than an international spy scandal or anything. Abuse I suffered made me a bit wary of Inverness’s finest medical frontliners though …’

‘And Cattanach? Tell me about Cattanach?’

I was trying to concentrate on Cattanach because I didn’t want to think about Jack. Being close to him after last Saturday night was odd. It hadn’t felt like this in the pub – probably because we hadn’t had the chance to do anything there. Now? We could do what we liked. If we liked. And I wasn’t sure whether I liked or not. If I was honest with myself, I would admit that I was thinking about Glasgow Joe. When he sent me the divorce papers, I couldn’t breathe without it hurting. It took me years to live again, and then just when I could live without him, he showed up.

So why did I feel like this about Jack? Why did I feel that I wanted him? He put his hand on my leg again; we both pretended it was for reassurance. I closed my eyes and feigned sleep. It was easier than having to work out how to respond.

When we passed Perth, I felt the energy outside change. We were moving into the Highlands. Jack nudged me awake.

‘I’m starving, Brodie. Let’s stop at the chippie in Dunkeld.’ I didn’t want to admit that I’d already eaten at a chip shop that night, so I was forced to wolf down a fish supper by the cathedral. I must have consumed fifteen thousand calories today. I regretted not giving Moses that chip.

‘Did you see the sign for Birnam Wood?’ Jack asked.

‘From
Macbeth
?’ I replied.

‘Yes, from
Macbeth
.’

‘I don’t want to think of tragedies and ghosts and people falling from grace at the moment – thank you. And I certainly don’t want to think of men named Banquo.’

‘Suit yourself.’

‘I hate it when you’re tight-lipped, Jack.’

‘I don’t like it when you play hard to get.’

‘If I dropped my knickers you’d tell me what you know?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself – but if you’d like to put it to the test, I’d be willing to participate.’

‘It’s ten o’clock – can we see Cattanach tonight?’

‘No – we’ll have to wait until the morning. Do you want to get a room?’

‘Jack – you bastard.’

‘We can get two rooms, since I find it difficult to resist temptation. Anyway, you were the one who insisted on coming up tonight.’

‘We’ll sleep in the car,’ I decided.

I think, just to spite me, Jack chose a lay-by in Drumochter, the highest and most exposed mountain pass in Scotland. I closed my eyes in terror as the car shook from the force of the juggernauts speeding past on the A9.

‘It’s beautiful, Brodie. Just look at that sky.’

We were surrounded by Munros and, although it was late summer, there was still snow in the gullies. Outside it was so light it was impossible to sleep. I regretted not checking in to a hotel. With all the worry of the last few days I had slept very poorly indeed – a post-coital snooze might have been just the thing.

Jack was suffering from no such problems. His snoring actually didn’t bother me as it meant that I knew he was asleep, so I was free to check him out. A sneaky voice in my head suggested that I might need to have erotic memories if I ended up in prison, so I gave myself permission to dream. I must have dropped off, because after what felt like no time I woke myself from drooling onto my jacket and heard Jack laughing at me as he drove.

‘Whatever was going on inside your head, it sounded great. I wish I’d been there,’ he said.

I felt myself flushing – I didn’t like to tell him that he was.

‘Where are we?’ I asked, to change the subject.

‘We’re in the grounds of Craig Dunain,’ he answered. ‘It’s a hospital in Inverness. Apparently Alex Cattanach has had a nervous breakdown; my source said they think it was caused by overwork. No one worked out who they were dealing with – a combination of the aforementioned media daftness up here alongside, and the fact that our Law Society accountant is in a bit of a state. It took a fair few bungs to a fair few people to track this one down, I can tell you. You’ve been asleep for ages, Brodie – so have I, but at least I remembered what we were here for. You looked like you were in a bloody fairy story lying there sound asleep.’

‘I’m going to ignore all of that apart from you saying overwork brought Alex Cattanach here. I’m not going to argue with that – Cattanach was a workaholic, especially when it came to nailing my arse. A nervous breakdown sounds a lot better when you compare it to murder, too. What else did your “source” say?’

‘She – obviously it was a “she”, darlin’ – suggested that we look here. There wasn’t any point in me looking anywhere other than hospitals and loony bins. I knew you hadn’t killed anyone – I think I’d be first on your list for that – so I took a different tack to the cops’. They were looking for a body; I wasn’t. Brodie, this is a bloody strange business; but that’s been where your luck lies. Because it’s so bloody weird, the receptionist I spoke to remembered her pal here telling her about it, and Bob’s your uncle.’

‘Was nobody else looking?’ I asked.

‘Nope – they don’t even get
Crimewatch
up here. It’s all
North Tonight
and sheep-shagging programmes as far as I can tell.’

Jack said that the medical staff insisted that Cattanach had complete rest, and, as a result, were really picky about visitors. Especially at this time of the morning, I guessed.

We parked and made our way into the hospital, via the fire doors. It was deathly silent, but, in my experience, that could hide anything.

Chapter Eighteen

Silence meant little to Alex Cattanach. Whether it was a friend or an enemy didn’t matter. Whether it helped or hindered was irrelevant. Since the attempted murder at Ruthven Barracks, it was just more background noise. The noise of nothing.

There was little of note in the surroundings of Room 404.

A small window, out of which could be seen a few trees and pathetic-looking bushes.

A print on the wall of some flowers, which attempted to bring colour, but failed in its banality, the cheap clip-frame doing nothing to enhance the pitiful lack of artistry.

A shaky metal bed with a thin duvet and a hard cotton cover.

A locker that held nothing. In fact, the locker wasn’t even expected to hold anything as it had no padlock, no means to secure it. It swung open and shut sometimes as hospital staff went about their duties. The metal clanged against itself, the ragged edges of the side never quite fitting into the frame.

A chair, which was facing not the window but the wall.

And curtains.

Some curtains.

All of the curtains in this place were the same. How many rooms? At least 404, and each glimpse that Alex had of any other room confirmed that someone, somewhere, had made all of the curtains in the same fabric and in the same manner.

They were hung in the manner of the 1980s.

Thick fake-pine curtain poles with fake-pine finials at each end. Each curtain had rings which slid onto the pole, and at each end the rings were aided by tiny little silver screws.

Alex liked the curtains – and the metal locker, and the unimaginative flower print.

The little silver screws were useful as they could gouge a line across wrists, across arms, in a slow but effective way. Alex had found that, if this action was repeated many, many times (and what else was there to do?), then blood would flow. It wouldn’t gush, but it would flow.

The metal locker was another matter. If Alex crouched down, then the ragged side – lethal, one of the nurses had warned – could be moved up and down any appendage or body part. Again, arms and wrists were easy, but any port in a storm – as long as some blood could be squeezed out, what did it matter where it came from?

The face.

The face could be dragged along the metal edge too, although that was trickier, to be honest.

The flower print had been glued into the clip-frame and the front piece of glass had been attached securely to the backing plywood.

It didn’t matter.

The corner could be smashed and the broken edge of glass used for whatever purpose necessary.

And there was indeed a necessary purpose.

The tiny screws.

The locker edge.

The broken glass-frame corner.

Added together, they were enough.

Alex utilised all of the materials available.

Wrists were cut, arms were gouged, the face was slit.

Alex was pleased. There was work to be done. As the blood flowed, as the skin gave up its secrets, Alex sat and knew that it was time.

Armed with as much material as could be gained under such restrictive circumstances, the word was written on the wall.

The deal was, indeed, sealed.

Chapter Nineteen