matter. I smashed the neck against the wall: red splashed across the bare stone.
Where is she?
They re gonna find you and they re gonna pay you a visit.
Grow up.
Gonna cut your cock off and make you eat it!
You ve got nice towels in that spare bathroom. Very soft and fluffy. Very absorbent. I draped one over his mouth, then upended the wine into the towel, saturating it. Then another bottle. I put my foot on his forehead, pressing down hard enough to stop him moving his head. Poured more Bordeaux over his mouth and up his nose, filling his sinuses. He shuddered in the chair, knees and shoulders jerking, making muffled screams through the sodden fabric.
I pulled the towel off his face. He spluttered and retched.
Dirty murdering little fuck.
Where is she?
Gahhh Jesus SOMEBODY HELP ME! Eyes blinking, red wine running down his face and onto the tilted door. HELP ME!
Pliers were old hat, but waterboarding was a different matter. Thank you ACC Drummond for the suggestion.
Basement wine cellar, remember? No one can hear you. But that s why you had it built, isn t it?
I flipped the wet towel back over his mouth, picked a 96 pinot noir, and stood on his forehead again. Where is she?
Mmmmphmmnnnnphpnnnn!
Glug, glug, glug. I emptied the contents over his face.
More struggling, more screaming.
Someone once told me that the CIA s best covert operatives the ones specially trained to resist torture can put up with this for about fourteen seconds. The trachea, larynx, sinuses, and throat all fill up with liquid and the body goes apeshit. The brain s not in control any more. Panic, gag reflex, terror. Of course the lungs are above the high-tide mark, but the body doesn t care. Help me, I m drowning, I m dying.
I dropped the empty bottle.
Wallace s eyes were wide open, tinged with pink and wet with red wine. His whole body shook as if he was having a fit, the wet towel sagging into his open mouth as he gasped for air that wasn t there.
Bet no one in Guantanamo Bay got waterboarded with a 96 Pinot Noir.
I flipped the towel away.
He kept shaking, jerking against his restraints. I tipped the chair over onto its side.
Red wine gushed out of him, a deep sucking breath, then a spray of vomit onto the broken glass. I let him heave until there was nothing left but bile.
You having fun yet, Sensational Steve? Cause you ve got what two, three thousand bottles down here? We can do this all night.
I don t I don t know where she is. I swear! If I did, I d tell you! I don t know: I never touched her Please He closed his eyes, banged his head against the wet door. Please, I didn t touch her
Don t believe you.
I didn t touch her, I didn t!
Prove it: where were you Friday night?
Dundee. I was in Dundee I was in Dundee doing a leukaemia thing
I shoved him over onto his back again and pulled another bottle from the shelves. How does a Lengs amp; Cooter reserve shiraz sound to you 2001 s a good vintage to drown in, isn t it? The glass neck shattered against the wall and Wallace screamed.
God, please I was with my boyfriend! I was with my boyfriend! I was in Dundee with my boyfriend Wallace screwed his eyes tight shut. He s married. I didn t touch your daughter, I swear!
I stuck the towel back over his mouth and rested my boot on his head. Let s double check that, shall we?
Cue muffled screaming.
I pulled out Steven Wallace s mobile phone, found his boyfriend s name in the list, and pushed the button with my gloved finger.
It rang. And rang. And rang. And then a man s voice, throaty and muzzy. What Hello? Steve? God Rustling. The clunk of a door being shut. Jesus, Steve, it s two in the morning: Julia was right there in bed with me Steve? Hello?
I put on an English accent, hamming up the Mockney: asked him where he was last night. Told him I d send photos to his wife if he didn t tell the truth.
Then swore and hung up.
Looked down at Steven Wallace s shivering sobbing body.
Ah
I rolled up the overalls and dropped them into the flames. Held my hands out and absorbed the heat. Oldcastle Industrial Estate was a bit of a shithole, but at quarter to three on a Sunday morning it was perfect for a little tidying up. Boxy warehouses were locked away behind chain-link fences, streetlights standing guard over deserted cul-de-sacs.
The old Belbin s cash-and-carry was boarded up, its car park littered with plastic bags, leaves, and assorted crap: the charred skeletal remains of a burnt-out Ford Fiesta; a trailer with a broken axle the wheels sticking out at sixty degrees to the vertical; a little pile of buckled shopping trolleys, mattresses, and bin-bags.
And an oil-drum brazier.
I tossed the hammer and screwdriver in with the overalls, then dropped the woolly hat and shower cap on top. Pulled out Steven Wallace s mobile phone and dumped that into the flames too. Watched the whole lot burn.
Katie
No going back now.
Sunday 20th November
Chapter 41
And then she threw up all over Sergeant Roberts back, right there in the briefing room. Charlie wiggled his hips, twisted his shoulders from side to side, and lowered his head.
And it s this for a birdie
Plink. The golf ball trundled across the carpet tiles, then up into the little horseshoe-shaped thing with a hole in it, sitting on the floor by the far wall. He held the putter above his head and made fake crowd noises. And it s in! The young officer from Oldcastle is romping home at Gleneagles today.
He handed me the club, then settled into his office chair and ran a hand across his head, making sure the dyed brown comb-over was still in place. A splodge of what looked like brown sauce stained the breast pocket of his white shirt, black uniform jacket hanging over the back of his seat, its superintendent s epaulettes in need of a good clean.
The horseshoe thing spat the ball out again.
Charlie stuck out a finger and traced an invisible path around the cluttered office. It s a par three with a dogleg around the wastepaper basket. Another mouthful of bacon buttie.
Outside the tiny office window, the station car park was nearly empty. The occasional sweep of headlights broke the gloom, illuminating a high brick wall topped with razor wire. Twenty past seven: the sun wouldn t be up for nearly an hour yet.
I rolled the ball onto the tee a Tennent s Lager beer mat and lined up the shot. Nice and casual. Nothing out of the ordinary here Well, Rhona did get a bit bladdered last night.
You know I m supposed to give you a kicking, don t you?
