All those mad murders he’d read about in the papers were truckers. Beasts and murderers. Had to be mad to be a trucker, spending all that time driving up and down the same road day in, day out. And then, sleeping in a cab the size of a bloody toilet cubicle. They were all beasts and murderers, that’s what they were.
As the thought subsided, McArdle’s mind returned to the moment when he’d put the knife in Melanie’s back. For a second he felt something for her — was that shame? Hurt?
He blocked it out. ‘The bitch asked for it!’
The baby screamed louder.
He turned, roared, ‘Shut it! Shut it!’
She did ask for it, Melanie. She’d taken a knife to him; he couldn’t have that. He was Devlin McArdle, the Deil. People knew him. He couldn’t have his own wife showing him up.
But what would people say about him if they knew?
‘Nothing. I’m the Deil! Who would mess?’
There was a voice in his head that jeered him. The voice taunted him with what he’d done. He’d killed his wife, Melanie. He’d had Tierney and Vee killed too. And he’d taken a child, a child he didn’t know a thing about, and was going to hand it over to a gang of paedophiles.
‘So fucking what? It’s not my lookout! It’s not my kid!’
Did it matter whose kid it was?
He didn’t think about the baby he’d taken from Tierney and Vee, two junkie lowlifes from Muirhouse. Why would he think about a kid like that? So what was it that was different about this kid? Was it because she had been talked about on the television? The minister, on the news. The police, everyone looking for her. This was big news — big, big news.
McArdle smacked the side of his head with the heel of his hand. ‘No. No.’
He wanted the rolling of thoughts to stop. He knew if he was caught now, he was finished. He’d be in Peterhead. He’d be in with the beasts.
‘I’m not a fucking beast!’
He’d be in with the beasts, because that’s what they’d say he was. He’d have to be separated from the other prisoners because every day someone would be trying to kill him, stab him. That’s what they did with beasts.
‘I’m not a fucking beast!’
As McArdle lowered the speed, put the needle under thirty, he steered into the car park. The Little Chef was open but there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. He drove around to the BP garage. There was a green Skoda being filled up by a man in a grey suit. A sales rep; there were always sales reps about these places, no matter what time of the day it was. McArdle felt comforted by the sight of the man — he was a connection to the safe, normal world. A rep, just a salesman. Someone like him, sort of. That’s all it was — a transaction. He would hand over the child and take the money, then disappear. It was a sales job, that’s all.
He drove round past the overnight truck stop and spotted what he was looking for. The silver Citroen estate, with German number plates. He could see Gunter behind the wheel, staring out from behind those thick dark glasses of his. He wore driving gloves, brown leather ones with rope backs. As he spotted McArdle he raised a hand, waved.
McArdle nodded, put in the clutch and selected third gear.
The German didn’t move again as McArdle drew up beside him, rolled down the window.
‘Gunter,’ he called out.
The German kept eyes front, pressed a button to lower the window.
‘Put the baby in the back with Frank.’
The child was screaming. McArdle didn’t want to go near her but he wanted rid. He removed his seat belt and then turned to open his door. When he got out of the car he felt his knees buckle; his legs had grown weary after the long journey but he stamped some life back into them.
The baby screamed louder as he removed the fastenings on the cradle carrier. Her face was red and her eyes tightened as she wailed out. ‘Christ Almighty, can’t you shut the fuck up?’ It was almost at an end; he was about to hand the child over. He felt relieved — why couldn’t she be quiet? The baby let out an ear-splitting shriek. How could something so small make so much noise? And why? Did she know? Why did he keep thinking that? Why did the thought keep pressing on his mind?
The man in the back of the Citroen leaned over and opened the door; McArdle passed in the screaming child. Her face was scarlet as the man called Frank took her. McArdle caught sight of the smile he gave to the child and then he watched him wet his lips and place a small kiss on the baby’s mouth. McArdle didn’t look back after he saw that. The sight of the red-faced howling baby with the smiling beast made him feel uneasy.
He moved towards Gunter. ‘Well, that’s that.’
‘Is it?’ said the German.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean you failed to inform us of the current situation with the police.’ Gunter touched the rim of his glasses; the lenses were dirty.
‘Look, you wanted the fucking kid, you got it, now turn over the cash or I’ll have to get nasty.’
Gunter looked in the rear-view mirror, seemed content with the noisy bundle back there. He reached under the front seat and removed a small package. ‘Here it is. Less than we agreed.’
‘It better fucking not be-’
Gunter raised a hand. ‘We will incur some expenses to evade the police on our return — we now have to drive back through France. We have deducted the extra costs, and something for our inconvenience.’
McArdle leaned in, grabbed his throat. ‘You never fucking said anything about that.’
The German choked out his words: ‘And you never said anything about the police. If you like, we can give you the child back and go our separate ways.’
McArdle turned for a final glance at the noisy baby. As she roared, her round cheeks darkened and her tiny fingers pressed the air. As quickly as he had turned, he looked away. McArdle wanted to strangle the beast where he sat, but more than that he wanted to leave. ‘Get out my fucking sight.’ He grabbed the money and then, stepping back, he pushed the German’s head against the steering wheel.
The Citroen sped off. McArdle watched the fumes pouring from the exhaust. He tucked the small bundle of notes inside his jacket and headed back towards his car. The rain had started to get heavy.
Chapter 47
Devlin McArdle watched a lorry manoeuvring through the car park. It looked awkward as the cab reversed its giant tail through more lanes than he could count. He could see the driver struggling to right the truck, make sense of where he had come to rest, and McArdle felt at ease. He was over the worst of it, surely. The child was off his hands; all he had to do was lie low for a time and then he could think about his next move. He had some money; he had no ties. McArdle knew he had always done okay on his own. He didn’t need Melanie. In fact it was better she was out of the way because she would only go blabbing to the police.
‘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
