Truth Lies Bleeding (38 page)

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Authors: Tony Black

BOOK: Truth Lies Bleeding
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‘She had it bloody well coming,’ he mouthed to himself. ‘Better off without the bitch.’
McArdle started the car’s engine, rolled slowly through the gears until he hit the small network of roads that connected up the service stops. He spotted the Little Chef – he was hungry now – and pointed the wheel towards the front bays. He could see there was a drive-through hatch but it was too early in the day to be manned. He parked up, listened to the engine cooling for a moment and then he went inside.
The restaurant seemed instantly familiar, although he’d never actually been there before; it was like every other one of a thousand restaurants like it. Blond-wood laminate flooring, geometrically arranged tables and chairs with wipe-down menus everywhere. He spotted the sign for the gents and made his way past what looked like an artificial plant to get cleaned up.
The toilet room was bright, harsh lights reflecting off clean white tiles. At first he felt uneasy there, as if he was in a spotlight, but after he’d relieved himself, washed his face and neck, splashed water on his scalp, McArdle started to feel calmer, more like his old self.
The bandage he’d put on his hand had begun to seep blood again. He scrunched his fingers into a fist and watched the red ooze from beneath the cotton. He knew it would need to be replaced; the cut probably needed stitched – the worst one on his arm definitely did – but he would live without that. He couldn’t risk visiting a hospital and being questioned by the medical staff about how he’d come by such serious wounds.
McArdle put his hand under the dryer, let the warm air remove the moisture. When he was satisfied he tipped his head under the dryer, let the hot jets massage his aching neck for a few minutes. McArdle’s hand still needed attention. He went to the cubicles and removed a roll of toilet paper, wrapped a long stretch round his hand. It looked bulky now. He tried to pat down the tissue paper but it only sprang back. He looked at himself in the mirror: he seemed to be wearing one white boxing glove; it made him laugh. He fronted up to his reflection and started shadow boxing. ‘Yo! Rocky! Rocky!’ He laughed as he swung a final hook on his way to the door.
The restaurant staff were stationed behind a long counter. As he approached he checked out the menu. There were a lot of breakfast combinations: beans, bacon, toast, eggs. As he made his mind up he became aware of a television playing to his left, a small screen like the one Melanie used to have in the kitchen. He tried not to think about home, but when he turned to have a look he couldn’t help but be reminded.
The staff in the Little Chef were crowded round the end of the counter as they watched the breakfast programme’s newsreader going through a spiel. McArdle had little interest; he watched desultorily as the young reporter talked about a Liverpool murder hunt. If she had said Edinburgh, he might have been more interested, but who knew he was in Liverpool?
‘Hey! . . . Any chance of some service here?’
The staff turned away from the screen in unison, then one of them separated from the small pack of bodies and slouched towards McArdle, glancing back at the others as she went.
‘About time,’ he said. ‘My belly thinks my throat’s been cut.’
He made his order but the waitress struggled with his heavy Scots accent, made him repeat it.
‘Beans. Toast. Bacon.’ He said the words slowly, as though he was talking to an infant, or an imbecile. ‘And coffee . . . You get all that, or you want me to write it down?’
He rolled his eyes, caught sight of the rest of the staff watching him. He’d raised his voice and attracted attention to himself. They looked at him and he raised his bandaged hand in a salute, touched his right eye and smiled before ducking and weaving for show. ‘Rocky, innit!’
They didn’t get the joke, or didn’t find it funny.
The group had no interest in him; they were too taken with the tragic series of events being relayed by the newsreader and returned to the screen.
‘
The latest victim attached to one of the country’s most high-profile murder cases is a thirty-four-year-old woman who passed away in hospital early this morning.
’
McArdle rested against the counter, waiting for his breakfast to arrive. The waitress who had taken his order returned to the crowd at the other end of the room, transfixed by the television.
‘
Police have not named the woman but say she was directly linked to the case of the murdered Pitlochry schoolgirl Carly Donald.
’
McArdle registered the name at once. He turned around, senses alert.
‘
The schoolgirl’s mutilated body was found in an Edinburgh housing scheme earlier this week, but her baby daughter, Beth, has not been seen since. Police have now issued this picture of a man they are seeking in connection with the murders. Devlin McArdle is believed to be extremely dangerous and members of the public are advised not to approach him.
’
As McArdle heard his name, saw his photograph flash on the screen, his knees went weak. His heart seemed to have stopped beating in his chest and relocated to his throat. He felt a tight band gripping him round the neck as he watched the news report continue with images of armed police officers stationed at various points around the city.
‘
Police say they have definite information linking McArdle to Liverpool and have increased their presence in and around the city centre and main transport hubs.
’
McArdle didn’t wait for his breakfast to arrive. He backed away from the counter, at first slowly, then, turning, he broke into a sprint. As he dashed for the car, he didn’t look back. His heart had started to beat in his chest again, much faster than he could ever remember it. When he got the door open, he was shaking so hard he could hardly get the key into the ignition. He tried but his trembling fingers wouldn’t obey him and he dropped the bunch down beside the pedals.
‘Oh, fucking hell,’ he hollered. He had to open the door again and get out to retrieve the keys. When he had them, he used both hands to locate the slot, and then got back in the car. He spun tyres as he left the parking space and raced through the intricate connecting roads back to the motorway. As he travelled, he felt himself rocking in his seat; he gripped at the lever with his left hand and tried to work his way up the gears. He knew he risked being caught for speeding, but he also knew he needed to get far away from the city of Liverpool.
‘Fuck!’ He pounded the wheel with his head.
How did they find him? Who knew? There was no one except the beasts. Had they been lifted already? He couldn’t think straight. Nothing made sense any more. All McArdle wanted to do was hide, to find somewhere where no one could get him.
He overtook a bread van heading out of the city and then weaved back into the left-hand lane. He sat there for only a few seconds before he was close enough to read the bumper stickers on a Nissan and then he pulled out again. He decided to stay in the middle lane for as long as he could – traffic was still quite light but it was building. He could see the commuter belt starting to feed in; but they were going into the centre and he was fleeing.
As McArdle pumped the wheel, the wound on his hand started to weep once more. He saw the blood run down his wrist and towards his shirtsleeve. The sight of the red stream made him nervous, but he didn’t know why. There was no real reason for it. Everything seemed to be conspiring against him. He felt trapped by fate.
He passed under a flyover and noticed a sign for a slip road. He eased out to the fast lane to let in any traffic that was entering; there didn’t appear to be any. He seemed to have the road to himself. For the next few minutes he pushed the needle higher and kept his eyes straight ahead, waiting, expecting to see some more traffic, but none appeared. Soon the sight of the empty road played on his mind: where was everyone?
‘Why the fuck is the road empty?’ he mouthed.
He passed another slip road, then spotted something in front of him – what was it? As he came closer he thought perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him. For a moment, it seemed to McArdle that there were two cars, identical mirror images of each other, blocking the lanes in front. As he tried to focus his eyes, another one of his senses was assailed by loud sirens wailing from behind him. When he looked in the mirror McArdle saw that the flashing blue lights speeding from the slip road were police cars; turning forward again, he could see the two cars blocking the road ahead were also police cars.
‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’
McArdle tried to think, but his mind shut down.
Chapter 48
DI ROB BRENNAN COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time he’d been to Edinburgh Airport. If it was for a holiday, he couldn’t place it. For some reason, those moments – the ones everyone else lived for – never sat so near the repeat button on his memory. He could still channel the summer holidays he’d spent with Andy, when they were boys: the trips to Banff, the boat rides across the water to Arran. But they were remembered for an altogether different reason; Andy hadn’t been so close to his thoughts when he was alive and the guilt burned Brennan every day.
He looked at his watch – the Liverpool detectives were due in now. He’d managed to get out of the station without being tripped up by any of the press pack and he was grateful for that, but he didn’t want to be seen hanging about mob-handed in such a public place for too long. Brennan had brought three officers and four uniforms in an unmarked wagon. The windows were blacked out and he was pleased about that; there would be enough pictures of McArdle circulating soon.
The Liverpool police had said the prisoner was subdued, no bother at all, but Brennan knew they hadn’t got the tough job of prising information out of him. He was prepared for a long night of it. He was prepared to give it whatever it took to crack the bastard.
McGuire sidled up, looked about the place, spoke: ‘This is taking too long.’
‘Ease up, Stevie,’ said Brennan.
He looked at Lou and Brian; they were shuffling their feet nervously.
‘I can’t believe we picked him up,’ said the DC.
Brennan nodded. ‘It was touch and go there for a bit.’
‘Pure luck, I’d say.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘That or somebody was looking out for us.’
Brennan dismissed the suggestion, turned to face McGuire. ‘The daft bastard walked into a Little Chef and started acting the Big I Am whilst his picture was being flashed across the airwaves. Who or what do you think was looking out for us – the ghost of Tommy Cooper? It was bloody comical.’
McGuire sniggered. ‘If you put it like that.’
Brennan didn’t know who was right and who was wrong; he cared even less. He had McArdle in custody and any minute now he was going to have him in an interview room.
‘The Scousers say he isn’t talking,’ said McGuire.
‘We’ll see about that.’
‘He must know he’s going down for Melanie’s murder at least.’ McGuire scratched the back of his head, sighed. ‘We’ve a lot to thank her for.’
Brennan agreed. ‘If it wasn’t for her . . .’ He cut himself short. What was the point? Brennan wasn’t the kind of man to dabble in what-ifs. ‘Look, we’ve nailed this bastard and if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll turn that child over to us quick smart.’
McGuire looked away, dropped his gaze to his shoes. ‘You think she’s still alive?’
‘Jesus Christ, Stevie . . . We’ve got to stay on top of this. There’s nothing to suggest she isn’t.’
McGuire raised his head. ‘There’s nothing to suggest she is, sir.’
Brennan didn’t have time to reply – the Scouse detectives appeared with the handcuffed McArdle. He watched the prisoner from across the airport barrier. His every step suggested to Brennan that he was scum. His appearance only confirmed it. The short stocky frame. The square shoulders and squat neck. The jailhouse tats on the arms. He was trash. He had killed his own wife in cold blood and then made off with an innocent child to sell into the most depraved trade on earth. Brennan clenched his jaw. He wanted to smash his fist into McArdle’s eye but he resisted. He had higher plans for him; he’d see him suffer for his actions soon enough.
The detectives brought over the prisoner, nodded to Brennan. ‘All yours, Inspector.’
Brennan reached out a hand to take the paperwork. ‘Thank you, lads.’
McGuire stepped forwards and directed Lou and Brian to take McArdle away. There was already a significant crowd gathered to look at what was going on.
Brennan turned back to the Scousers, spoke: ‘Safe journey home, lads. And thanks again.’
‘No worries, mate. Glad to see this charmer off our patch.’
Brennan and McGuire exchanged brief stares, then watched as Lou and Brian bundled the prisoner down the concourse towards the waiting wagon.
‘Now for the hard yards, Stevie.’
‘Haven’t they all been hard, sir?’
Brennan nodded; the DC had a point. It had already been the most difficult case of his career – and it wasn’t over yet. He tried not to think about how it might now play out – how hard it was going to be to get information out of McArdle and how hard it was going to be to find Beth.

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