eyes as well. His lids were black and torn and his cheeks distended. If there was a tooth left in his head, I couldn’t see it. A flap of skin had been torn clear of his forehead, so severely that the white of his skull showed beneath. For a second I hoped his throat had been cut, that they’d shown some mercy, but they were savages.
I felt my breath faltering; my mind raced. This was a man I’d seen only a short time ago, in rude health. Kerr had been kicking off, but nothing to deserve this. The pit of my stomach cramped; I couldn’t take it all in. My eyes adjusted to the scene, but my mental processes stalled. It seemed unreal.
‘Do you see this?’ said Mac. He pointed to Kerr’s hands: not a mark on them, save two matching bruised and bloodied holes in the centre of each, just below the knuckle where he gripped the arms of the chair.
‘Holy fuck.’
He’d been nailed through the hands.
‘Didn’t want him running away… Probably used a nail gun for that.’
‘This is fucking medieval,’ I said. My thoughts raced, darted on to Michael and how he’d met his end. I wondered who and what the hell we were dealing with here. Kerr’s sound-off at the factory played before me again.
‘It doesn’t make sense…’ I said.
Mac had a tight hold of the dog as he spoke: ‘Some folk get off on this shit, get a taste for blood… Maybe they got carried away.’
‘But in his own fucking house. And to just leave him here… This is a warning, Mac. Someone wants this to get out; there’s no point to it otherwise.’
Mac nodded. The dog struggled again. ‘We better fucking nash. Plod won’t be chuffed to find us here.’
I was all set to agree when the door we’d walked through a few moments ago was suddenly edged open again. In the living room stood the old gadgie from next door. ‘Och, no,’ he said, ‘what in the name of God…’
I looked at Mac, could tell he was contemplating lamping the bloke, making a run for it. It was an idea. Had I less to lose, I might have went for it, said, ‘We better call the police…’ The thought didn’t exactly tickle me, but we were up to our nuts in it. I took out my mobi, called Fitz. As I did so, I caught sight of Mac edging the neighbour out the door. I kept the call businesslike — could tell Fitz was raging. An arse-caning was coming my way. I’d take that standing, just hoped there wasn’t worse to follow; had known the filth to hang worse on me.
When I rang off, I joined the other pair on the back step. The old giffer was shaking; I offered him a tab.
‘Thanks, son…’
I sparked up myself. ‘You all right?’
‘The blood… Fuck tae fuck. I never saw blood like that.’ I thought I was going to have to take hold of his hands to help him get the cigarette in his grid. He managed it, just. ‘I never imagined… The noise, last night, y’know.’
I pressed him: ‘You said there was a bit of a barney…’
He coughed over his palm. ‘Aye, aye… a bit ay shouting and that. I thought he just had a good bevvy in him… I didn’t, I mean, if I thought…’
‘I know. I understand.’ What I understood was that he was obviously blootered drunk himself; I could see he was gantin’ for another bash at the bottle now. He wasn’t alone. ‘Did you see anyone?’
He shook his head. ‘I didnae get up… sometimes I take a deck oot the window, but I didnae even get up to batter the wall last night. You know how it is, you just get used to it… Big Ian was a right washoot lately, he was getting tanked up every night after the job went and the missus left and all that.’
I took a pelt on the Marlboro, caught Mac sighing. He took the dog to the corner of the garden. I said, ‘Did he say anything about his job?’
Head shakes, still trembling. ‘Naw, we never spoke much.’
I knew I was onto a loser, but tried anyway: ‘Look, you must have saw some coming and going at the house… any, y’know, funny business?’
He laughed. ‘Oh, aye… every fucking night. All Big Ian’s, mind — he was a radge.’
I could hear sirens, the police were on the way. Moving fast too — not a good sign. I left the waste of space to himself. He tried to tap me for some folding; I ignored him.
‘Last laugh!’ shouted the gadgie.
I turned, looked at him.
He was tucking his hands into his jacket pockets, thin shoulders trembling in the cold. ‘That’s what he said to me… He was gonna have the last laugh.’ Tyres screeched, the filth were just about on us. ‘He was pished, said something about being fucked over but he was gonna have the last laugh… Said he had nothing left to lose.’
I had my mouth open, words waiting as the divvy van suddenly shot into view. A pack of uniforms made a rush for the house. There was no sign of Fitz. The first of the woodentops into the yard grabbed the gadgie round the neck; two came straight for me. The cuffs were on before I could draw another breath.
Chapter 9
At the counter sat the standard-issue Lothian and Borders battleaxe: peroxide-blonde hair and kebab-meat complexion, topped off with a hefty dose of attitude. Your perfectly balanced Scottish woodentop — a chip on both shoulders.
‘Hello, there,’ I said.
Eyes rolled, a twist of the gob. ‘Oh, please.’ She shuffled over to the phone, gave me an eyeful of an arse you could turn an artic on. A few moments later and she shuffled back; I wondered why she wore her bat belt, one with the cuffs and the spray and mini-nightstick. ‘Empty your pockets, gimme your belt and shoelaces.’
I could see my last run-in with Fitz had got his goat. This wasn’t so much going to be a matter of swallowing pride, but of burying it altogether.
‘If you could just tell Fitzsimmons I’m here.’
She had a Bic biro in her mouth, took it out to point at me. ‘Shut up, eh.’ She scribbled some more. Thought: Can be few so content in their job; she was really getting off on this. I wanted to leap the counter, run past her and through to Fitz’s office, but I didn’t rate my chances of getting that far without a few pairs of size tens bouncing on my napper.
‘Look, I think there’s been a mistake… I actually called you in, I’m not a suspect.’
The biro got slammed down. ‘Are you telling me how to do my job?’
A bulb went on above my head — filth do not like that — said, ‘No, I’m not.’ Fitz’s warning about leaving things to the force flooded back.
I got a cell to myself. Knew Mac would have one too. He wouldn’t be chuffed — with his record, plod goes in hard. Still, there was no way they could hang anything on us. I knew this was all for show. For Fitz to make a point, the point being that it was his case, not mine.
I paced about a bit, rubbed my wrists where the uniform had tightened the cuffs. The thought of being back in the nick really boiled my piss; the filth could make it difficult for me to get to the bottom of things if they wanted. If I was looking at being tore up every step of the way, things were going to get messy. I was only just beginning to draw some conclusions, but I was still a long way off the point where I’d like to be.
My lungs were calling out for nicotine; a few other cravings chased them. I tried to figure in my mind what it was that Ian Kerr might have known, might have been able to put a threat on someone with, but nothing sparked. All I could see was his gouged eyes and battered face; figured the image was staying with me for a while. I’d seen blood and gore before, but there was something about the brazenness of this that unsettled me; these bastards didn’t care who they noised up.
After an hour or two I was taken from the cell. I walked holding up my beltless jeans to an interview room. A dippit-looking uniform, drooping lower lip, pushed me into a plastic chair. As he closed the door behind him he stared at me through the crack, glowered, said, ‘Don’t get out that fucking chair.’ I had a wee laugh to myself — fucksake, I’d had worse warnings.
When he finally showed, Fitz the Crime wore the same suit that he had on the time I saw him with Davie, but his expression had changed completely. He shone red, forehead and cheeks. The tie was loosened and the shirtsleeves rolled up. He barked orders at a pug who scurried to the wall and stood silently.
