standing lamp quivering and when he withdrew his knuckles he saw there were three little declivities in the plaster.
‘Fuck it!’ he roared.
He heard Melanie stir upstairs. She moved to the landing and hung her head over the banister. ‘Dev, what’s going on?’
He looked up, shouted, ‘Nothing. Nothing. Get back to that kid… Get saying your goodbyes — it’ll not be here much longer.’
Melanie seemed to stall for a moment or two before moving off. She made no reply.
McArdle moved back to the sofa and threw himself down. He had a pack of Carlsberg sitting on the seat beside him and pulled a tin towards himself, cracked the seal. ‘Fucking German beasts,’ he muttered. ‘Get me my money and get the fuck out my face.’
They could do what they wanted with the child; that wasn’t his concern, he thought. No one had ever looked out for him. Why should he care if no one was looking out for that kid? They could have their fun with it and drop it in a pit; he didn’t care. It’s not my lookout, he thought. The kid’s nothing to me. He knew he had watched his wife bond with the baby over the last few days and he didn’t like that. He never let his emotions get in the way of business, and that’s all this was, business. He’d sold a child to the Germans before and they had paid promptly. They had collected promptly too, however, and he wondered why they were taking so long this time. Was it the price? He’d increased the price, of course he had, but not by that much. It made him nervous.
McArdle knew how they treated beasts inside, had seen it first hand. He didn’t want to be associated with them. Even though he was certain in his mind he was nothing to do with them — it was business, that’s all — there would be people who would see it differently. The police, for sure.
He didn’t like the waiting. It unsettled him, made his mind seek out possible reasons for the delay. Every minute of the day that the child stayed in his keep was a minute too long. He needed to get rid of it, fast.
McArdle supped on his tin of Carlsberg, put it back on the arm of the sofa and removed his mobile phone. He checked his calls to see if he had missed one from Gunter, but there were no messages at all. He went into his contacts, looked out Gunter’s number and contemplated ringing him again, and then his mind froze. If the filth were watching him, they could be tracing his calls. He knew he couldn’t take the risk. The thought lit a taper in him; his anger erupted again and he rose, kicked out at the sofa. The tin of Carlsberg went over and poured onto the cover.
‘Fuck it! Fuck it!’
He wiped at the lager with the back of his hand, sprayed the majority of it onto the carpet and worked it in with his foot. He didn’t care about the mess. Melanie could clean it up later… if she was ever finished with that fucking baby.
He touched his brow, wiping away the line of sweat that had formed below his close-cropped hairline. He ran his lower lip over the tops of his teeth and tried to think but there was nothing close to a solution in his mind. The frustration started to create a burning feeling in his chest; the beat of his pulse increased its rate. He was getting worried, irrational now — he knew the signs. He needed to calm himself, keep a level head, that’s what he’d always been told. It was the ones who lost it that got locked up.
McArdle lowered himself back on the sofa and picked up the remote control, pointed it at the television screen. The Weakest Link had finished and the news was on now. He watched the day’s headlines and the endless jousting of political rivals that went on every night of the week, and felt somehow secure enough in his own home once more to let his mind settle. The world was a mad place, he thought; you did what you had to do to get by, find a way through the madness.
By the time the Scottish news headlines came on McArdle had relaxed enough to open another tin of Carlsberg. The pounding in his chest had subsided and his thoughts seemed to have settled into a more peaceful commentary on the day’s affairs. Everything changed when the newsreader shifted to the next item. It was as if her voice had been altered to impart the seriousness of the story she was relaying. As she spoke a picture appeared behind her head. Whatever it was she was saying seemed to be cancelled out by the image for McArdle. As he leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees he couldn’t quite take in what he was seeing. The photograph, obviously blown up from a CCTV image, was of a face he clearly knew.
McArdle felt his breathing alter right away. He leaned back and tried to compose himself but his surging blood wouldn’t let him. He felt as though he was drowning, like his head had been shoved under water and his mind was being flooded with strange memories, sensations, premonitions. He knew the sight of Barry Tierney’s image on the television was the beginning of a nightmare.
McArdle grabbed up the remote control, pumped the volume as he dropped to his knees in front of the television screen.
The newsreader’s words came like arrows: ‘ Police investigating the murder of Pitlochry schoolgirl Carly Donald have today released images of a man they would like to identify. The footage, taken from inside Edinburgh Bus Station, shows Carly, who was sixteen at the time of her death, and her baby daughter, Beth, who has been missing since her mother’s murder, and an unknown man.’
McArdle put his hands to his mouth. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was Tierney. The bastard. ‘What the fucking hell has he done?’ he blasted. McArdle sensed the seriousness of the situation at once. It was on the evening news, for Christ’s sake.
The woman on the screen introduced another man, a police officer. His name was printed along the bottom of the picture: DETECTIVE INSPECTOR ROBERT BRENNAN.
The officer spoke: ‘ Lothian and Borders Police are very keen to trace the man in the picture. These images were taken only the day before Carly Donald’s remains were found in the city’s Muirhouse housing scheme, and we believe he may be able to help us with our inquiries.’
The reporter spoke: ‘ What should people do if they recognise this man? ’
‘ They should get in touch with police, or Crimestoppers, in complete confidence… I should state again, there is a very young baby missing and we need to locate the whereabouts of young Beth as soon as possible, so any information, however small, will be of use to us.’
McArdle felt himself grimacing before the screen. He could feel the heat pulsing in his neck as his veins bulged. His eyes were wide in disbelief. He knew exactly what ‘help police with their inquiries’ meant — Tierney was dead meat. The filth were probably tearing the city down looking for him already. If they got to him, McArdle knew he was finished. Tierney would do anything to try and save his scrawny neck.
McArdle looked at the cop speaking on the screen. He could see the determination in his eyes. He knew this was a man he couldn’t cross; he’d met his sort before. He was old school, not like the by-the-book mob who ran shitless from a fancy brief. McArdle was scared; he rocked to and fro on his knees. ‘Fucking hell! Fucking hell!’ he roared. ‘Tierney, you bastard, I’ll fucking kill you. I will fucking put a bullet in you.’
McArdle knew his only chance was to get to Tierney before the police. If he didn’t, he was looking at a jail cell in Peterhead, where they put all the beasts.
He rose, turned to collect his phone. As he did so, he noticed Melanie standing behind the sofa.
‘How long have you been there?’ he said.
She didn’t answer.
Chapter 35
Declan Killean didn’t travel across the water without good reason. He’d flown on the first available flight, after a call from Devlin McArdle. He hadn’t known the Scotsman, but McArdle had supplied a list of names he could check him out with. They all confirmed he was, if not trustworthy, careful, and, more importantly for Killean, a payer.
The stewardess smiled as he left the plane. They weren’t as good-looking as they once were, he thought. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. Manners were important — it was the ones without manners that stood out, got remembered. He didn’t want that.
Killean carried no luggage in the hold, so made his way out as everyone else stood at the carousel. He passed through customs in the green channel and found himself in the main concourse of Edinburgh Airport; the
