Savage Night (31 page)

"You won't get away with it."

"That's for me to worry about. Now lose the sword."

"They'll send someone to look for them."

"Yep. They'll take a while, though. I saw to that. Look, we can remain like this as long as you like. But every second you waste here is a second of what remains of Jordan's life."

Sweat dripped off Savage's forehead. Ran down his nose. He looked like he'd collapse any second.

Park said, "You don't have the strength to kill me, so put the sword down."

"No?" Savage yelled and swung the blade.

Park swivelled out of the way. The blade hit the gun barrel. Almost smacked it out of his hand. Savage stumbled. Fell over. Bumped his face off Park's knee. Lucky he didn't skewer himself on the sword. Park stood on the flat of the blade and placed the muzzle of the gun against Savage's ear.

"Nearly took my fingers off," Park said.

Savage didn't say anything. Just lay face down, making snuffling noises.

"You hear me? Nearly sliced my fucking fingers off." Park pressed the gun harder against Savage's ear. And watched as a trickle of red appeared beneath Savage's face. "Blood? Oh, you fucker."

Yeah, Savage was bleeding.

If ever there was a time when Park was desperate to overcome his disability it was now. The nausea built rapidly and his limbs grew heavy and he thought of his mother lying with her head in a pool of blood in the kitchen. He lowered his head, tried to breathe. His vision was clouding. Fuck, no. Couldn't pass out. Not now. He couldn't. Had to stay …

***

TOMMY ASSUMED SMITH was playing games with him.

He'd banged his nose on the fucker's knee, hard enough to get a nosebleed for his trouble. Probably on account of him being weak and half-starved. But when Smith keeled over, Tommy had thought it was an act.

So Tommy got to his feet and started kicking him. And even considering he couldn't kick him all that enthusiastically with his bare feet, the fucker wasn't flinching.

Smith was out for the count.

Tommy grabbed the sword, was inches from going ahead, sticking it right through the fucker's belly, when he recalled what Smith had said.
Blood? Oh, you fucker.
Like that was a problem or something. The last thing he'd said before he toppled over.

And it clicked. Why Smith hadn't watched the screen. Why he'd had to get his daughter and her boyfriend to cut up Phil and Fraser. Why he'd asked if anyone was eating rare steak at the restaurant. Why he was lying unconscious because Tommy's nose was bleeding.

Jesus Christ. It made sense. At the same time as not making any sense at all. Whoever heard of a psychopath who was squeamish?

Tommy kicked him a few more times while he decided what to do. Then he wiped his nose with Smith's shirt. The flow reduced to a trickle.

He looked across at the laptop. Fraser's house was dark. Nothing moved. It was as if no one had ever been there.

He didn't know if Jordan was alive or dead. The cops' arrival had stopped him finding out.

Tommy stuck his hand in Smith's pocket. Got a phone. Wrong one, though. Tried the other pocket and found the one he was looking for: his own.

His nose was still bleeding a little but he sniffed the blood back. Spat it out. God, it tasted good.

He ignored the pain in his gut and dialled Jordan. No answer. Damn phone went to voicemail. He hung up. Tried again.

Not Jordan, for Christ's sake.

Effie had Jordan's phone. Tommy had seen her take it from him.

Pick up.

She answered, finally. "Who is this?"

He waited. His teeth hurt. He was about to speak to the woman who'd killed his son. What could he say that would sum up how he felt?

"You fucking know, bitch." It was the best he could do. He kicked her father again.

She swallowed. He could hear her. Not so tough after all. "Where's Dad?" she asked.

Good. Concern. He'd wondered if she was human. "What did you do to Jordan?"

"I want to speak to Dad."

"I want to speak to my son." Oh, he was so fucking in control now. He'd beaten Smith. The daughter and her boyfriend were next. He felt the elation in his shoulders like balls of flame.

"No," she said, voice cracking. "You can't."

"I can't? If you've harmed him—"

"He's alive. He's here. In the van."

He wanted to believe her. Christ, he wanted to. "Put him on the phone."

"I can't do that."

He heard a voice in the background. A man's voice. Martin Milne, no doubt. Tommy didn't want them talking. Didn't want them scheming. He said, "If you don't prove to me that Jordan's alive, your dad's dead." He meant it.

No reply. She didn't hang up, though. Must be thinking.

Tommy said, "I know what you did to Phil and Fraser." Just in case she didn't know he'd been watching.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr Savage," she said.

But she knew his name.
Mister
fucking Savage, too. Why was she denying it? In case the call was being traced? Maybe it was. In which case, he ought to spell it out. "Want me to tell you about the tub? About the hacksaws? About you and loverboy all naked and covered in my family's fucking blood?"

He thought he could hear her breathe, thought he heard her sniff. "Where are you?" she said. "Maybe we can do an exchange."

"What about Phil and Fraser? Who are you going to exchange for them?"

Another pause. Then: "I don't know who you mean. But even if I did, there's nothing we can do about what's already done." He didn't know what to say to that. Maybe he should just play along. Take what he could get.

"Okay," she said, interrupting his thoughts. "Where do you want to meet?"

"Parking lot at the East Calder entrance to Almondell Country Park," he said. It was close and it seemed appropriate. "Bet you know where that is."

"I'll find it."

He hung up. He felt calm. Tasted blood on his lip, smelt the blood in his nose. It was all good. Meant he was alive.

He knew he should have called the police. He could still call them. But he'd have to explain what was going on and there wasn't time for that. He'd also have to explain why there were two dead policemen downstairs. And there definitely wasn't time for that.

Fuck, no, he felt great. He felt strong. He'd just taken out Smith, hadn't he? Shit, there was no messing with Tommy Savage. He wasn't going to sit around and let someone else do his dirty work for him. Anyway, Effie and Martin would have nothing to lose. The bastards wouldn't leave Jordan alive if they could avoid it. No, Tommy had to take care of his own. Hell, he wanted to take care of his own.

Grant's voice in his head:
A father's duty is to avenge his son or he's no father at all.

Maybe it had to be that way right enough.

Tommy dug in Smith's pocket again and found a set of keys. Car keys, house keys, various other keys. He tried a couple before he found the one that fitted the closet chain.

He stripped Smith naked. See how
he
liked it. Hard work with only one good arm, but Tommy managed. Then he attached one end of the closet chain to the bed and clipped the other cuff on Smith's wrist. Tightened it, put the keys in Smith's pocket and tossed his clothes into the far corner of the room.

He left the sword by Smith's side, hoping the fucker woke up before the police arrived. If Smith had delayed them, as he claimed, so much the better. He'd have to figure out whether to cut his hand off or lie there and suffer the consequences. Of course, if he cut his hand off, he'd probably pass out from shock. Or if not, then he'd pass out at the sight of his own blood. Or maybe it was only other people's that set him off. Tommy kind of hoped the latter was the case. He'd really like Smith to have a good reason to cut off his hand.

Tommy picked up the gun. He was going to get his fingerprints all over a murder weapon, but he didn't care.

He took a last look at his prison cell, turned, and walked out. He scooped up Smith's ski mask off the floor on the landing and put it on. Probably wasn't a bad thing if he wasn't recognised.

But he was forgetting something. Apart from the ski mask, he was naked.

He guessed Smith's bedroom was the room next but one along the landing. He'd heard him in there listening to the TV and talking on the phone.

Tommy stopped in front of the door, turned the handle, eased it open.

And there she was. A small frail woman, salt-and-pepper hair thinning. She didn't deserve to be called Old Mrs Yardie. She only looked about sixty. She was staring at the wall and didn't acknowledge him when he stepped into the room.

She didn't look dangerous. But you never could tell. Some people looked harmless enough and then the next thing you knew they were chopping up bodies.

So maybe this was who Smith was talking to when Tommy had assumed he was on the phone. Although those conversations had all sounded one-sided.

Tommy was only a couple of feet away from her now and she hadn't turned to look at him yet. A naked man in her bedroom and it was as if he didn't exist. Maybe she was blind. Or deaf.

He stopped by the arm of the chair and poked Mrs Yardie's arm with the gun.

No reaction.

"Hey," he said. "Mrs Yardie."

Still no reaction.

He poked her again, harder.

Same result.

Still staring ahead, unblinking, like she was transfixed by a movie playing on the wall.

"You okay?" he said.

Not the tiniest twitch of a muscle on her face.

He waved the gun in front of her. She didn't even blink.

Her expression reminded him of Smith's when he first heard about Grant's accident, sitting in the dark, unmoving, Tommy tied up next to him. A kind of catatonia.

So Smith had a girlfriend. One who really couldn't say no.

Tommy went over to the dresser. Bunch of crap on top of it. Combs and brushes, a jewellery box. No string or parcel tape or anything useful like that. He opened a drawer and found some of Smith's underwear. Put on a pair of socks and a pair of boxer's. Found a sweatshirt in another drawer. Put that on, too.

He tried the wardrobe. Shirts and trousers, couple of dresses, cardigans, some scarves. Put on the trousers. Tight enough round the middle not to need a belt.

The pair of men's trainers at the bottom were too small, but it felt good to be dressed again, even if he was wearing a stranger's clothes and didn't have any shoes.

Armed with a bundle of scarves, he returned to Old Mrs Yardie.

"Sorry about this," he said.

He used one of the scarves to tie her left wrist to the arm of the chair. Didn't seem to bother her in the least, being tied up. He did the same with her other wrist. Even when it came to gagging her, she didn't react. Same indifference. Like she wasn't there. She'd gone. Left this body behind.

He tied both ankles to the legs of the chair.

Now, even if she was the best actress in the world and she'd fooled him into thinking she was catatonic, she'd still not be able to help Smith escape.

"You'll be safe," he said. "Just hang on."

He left the room and hurried down the stairs.

Even from a distance, the mess that used to be the younger cop's face was tough to look at. How that hadn't set Smith fainting, Tommy didn't know. Maybe Tommy was wrong about the blood thing. Or maybe Smith had avoided looking at the cop somehow.

Anyway, there was no time to figure it out, and it didn't matter. Tommy had to get closer to the cop. He needed his car keys. He could probably use Smith's, but he'd get where he wanted more quickly in a police car. He'd try the older cop first. Maybe he'd been the driver, and he wasn't quite so full of holes.

Yep. Good guess. It was turning into Tommy's lucky day.