Deadly Harm Page 18

  Caitlin closed the car door. She wasn’t going anywhere. ‘What’re you saying?’

  ‘He has a grip on her. Emotionally? Psychologically? Physically? I’m not qualified to judge. But it’ll take more than a couple of well-meaning amateurs and a room at the refuge for her to have a chance of a normal life.’

  ‘Okay. That’s the future, why should that prevent us from rescuing her or calling the police?’

  Mackenzie studied her face – Caitlin didn’t understand. ‘She’ll be damaged. Maybe more than we can begin to imagine. Believe me, I’ve been there.’

  ‘But you’re okay. You survived.’

  The comparison seemed apt. It wasn’t. ‘I was held for nine days. God knows how long it’s been for Judith. It’s six months since anybody heard from her.’

  ‘There are hospitals, treatment. In time–’

  ‘Forget it. You’re kidding yourself. Judith Thorne will never stop reliving the horror, unless…’

  And there it was; the truth. Ugly and unavoidable.

  Since Kirsty McBride, she’d been coming to this place or another like it. “Safe as houses” – the promise haunted her. Caitlin shivered although the heater was on. ‘You intend to… kill him?’

  Mackenzie didn’t flinch. ‘I intend to set someone free. She can only be free if she’s certain he can’t hurt her ever again. How would you feel knowing Peter Sanderson could still come after you?’

  ‘That was an accident.’

  ‘Of course, but how much better the threat doesn’t exist. Men like Jack Walsh prey on people weaker than they are. The pain they cause only ends when they no longer exist.’

  ‘Then what are we up against?’

  Mackenzie turned away. The answer she had wouldn’t make them feel better. Earlier, they’d debated whether to come. That discussion had ended the moment the pitiful cry reached them. Emily Thorne wasn’t a bitter rejected mother bent on causing mischief after all; she’d told the truth, a truth easy to doubt in the comfort of the refuge. There was no doubting any of it now. They’d uncovered something sick, worse than sick. Something evil.

  The glow from beyond the curtains made the modest cottage in the Scottish countryside seem sinister. Imagining what went on behind the whitewashed walls made Caitlin’s skin crawl. If she’d had her way, they’d be home, Judith Thorne would be safe, and the police waiting when Jack Walsh returned from another drunken session. Impatience made her irritable. Mackenzie understood her concern; she shared it.

  ‘But how? How are we going to kill him? I mean, look at us.’

  She was asking for details: a plan.

  ‘We’ll rush him as he goes in the door. After that…’ Mackenzie hesitated. ‘…I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘We’ll never get away with it.’

  Mackenzie’s eyes were hard and unblinking. ‘He’ll be drunk and won’t be expecting anything, that gives us an edge.’

  ‘This is wrong.’

  ‘No, this might be the most right thing we’ll ever do. Are you with me? – you don’t have to be.’

  ‘What? Leave you to do it yourself? You know better than that.’

  ‘I couldn’t be sure. You deserved a chance to back out.’

  ‘Thanks, I don’t need one.’

  They waited. The clock on the dashboard showed 11.35.

  ‘For fuck’s sake. Let’s just break in and get Judith out.’

  ‘You know why we can’t.’

  ‘Do I? Tell me again.’

  ‘Because the only way this will really be over, the only way Judith Thorne will really be free, is if Jack Walsh can’t come after her.’

  Caitlin played with her fingers, unable to relax. She got what Mackenzie was saying and didn’t doubt she was telling the truth. It didn’t help. She banged her fist against the dashboard.

  ‘How much longer?’

  Mackenzie lifted the baseball bat from the floor in the back of the car and weighed the head in her palm; its heaviness reassured her. Caitlin said, ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘He might be drunk, but he’s still bigger than us. How else will we get the better of him?’

  Their footsteps were loud against the broken concrete stairs to the patch of green at the front of the cottage. When they reached the top, they hid behind a large rhododendron, a relic from the days when caring hands had tended the garden. To their right, the unlit road stretched into the night – as soon as Jack Walsh appeared, they’d know. Mackenzie touched Caitlin’s arm. Wound tight, she drew away. Working at the refuge brought her face to face with mental as well as physical cruelty. Nothing like this. Suddenly, she felt tired, her eyes burned in her head, she struggled to keep them open. Mackenzie sensed the energy dip. ‘Are you okay?’

  Caitlin lied and pulled herself together. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.’

  ‘Good, because we’ll only get one chance to do this. And remember, no heroics, if it goes wrong, run as hard and as fast as you can.’

  She didn’t respond – abandoning Emily Thorne’s daughter a second time wouldn’t be happening. One way or another, Judith was coming with them.

  They heard Jack Walsh before they saw him, singing out of tune at the top of his voice, mangling the same melody he’d whistled on his way out. Whisky had added a bawdy lyric of his own creation. In other circumstances, comic. Not tonight. Behind the bush, Mackenzie and Caitlin’s expressions were stone. Walsh fell up the stairs, muttering, one meaty hand gripping a plastic carrier bag like his life depended on it – the party was about to begin.

  27

  Jack Walsh fumbled for the key, cursing loudly when he didn’t find it and the women got their first close look at the man Mrs Thorne had taken an instant dislike to. Walsh was broad-shouldered and tall, an intimidating presence sober, let alone drunk. His unshaved face, bloated by alcohol, made it difficult to believe any woman would find him attractive. Caitlin’s fingers dug into Mackenzie’s arm. Knowing what they knew, going up against him was a terrifying prospect.

  He dropped the key on the step and bent to pick it up. On his third attempt, he managed to find the keyhole. The door opened. Mackenzie whispered, ‘Now’, and they rushed towards it. Until they slammed into him, Walsh hadn’t realised they were there.

  He thudded on the faded threadbare carpet, one hand still clutching the plastic bag. Mackenzie tried to get past. He grabbed her leg, growling like an animal, and wouldn’t let go. She lost her grip on the baseball bat and fell into the room the light had come from, scrambling on her hands and knees to get away. Walsh struggled to get up. Caitlin kicked him from behind. He roared and rose unsteadily to his feet.

  Caitlin screamed. ‘Where is she? Where’s Judith, you bastard?’

  Walsh grinned an awful grin, as if enjoying himself, no longer as drunk as he’d been.

  ‘Want to take her place, do you? That can be arranged.’

  Taking him on had been a mistake. Every instinct urged Caitlin to run, to get away from this monster. That would leave her friend alone. Mackenzie looked round the living room for something to fight with, seeing nothing more menacing than the Scrabble board set up on a card table in front of the fire. Walsh was between her and the baseball bat. The advantage they’d had – they’d needed – was gone, and she was terrified.

  He took a slow step towards her: he was laughing. ‘Come to play, have we?’

  Mackenzie faced him down. ‘Too late for games, Jack.’

  ‘Oohh! You’re frightening me.’

  Caitlin jumped on his back and held on. Walsh spun in a crazy dance, trying to break free. Suddenly Caitlin let go. He fell forward striking his head off the table, scattering Scrabble pieces everywhere, and lay still. Mackenzie grabbed an iron poker from the hearth. ‘Get up! Get up!’

  She warned Caitlin to keep her distance. ‘Don’t go too close to him. He could come to at any minute.’

  ‘No. I think… I think he’s dead.’

  Mackenzie didn’t believe it. ‘No, he’ll get up. Won’t you, J
ack? You’re working out what to do, aren’t you?’

  Caitlin moved to pick up the bat. His eyes opened. A calloused hand closed round her ankle. The next thing she knew she was on the floor beside him, his hands round her throat, fighting for her life with stale beer and whisky in her nostrils. Walsh dragged himself on top of her. ‘Bitch. You fucking bitch. I’ll do the fucking both of you.’

  Mackenzie tightened her grip on the fire iron – heavy and blackened from decades of use.

  ‘Wrong, Jack, you’ll never hurt anyone again.’

  She raised the poker above her head, her face twisted in hate, then brought it down.

  Again and again and again.

  Andrew Geddes mopped his brow with the back of his hand and loosened his tie. The tinfoil containers on the table had been scraped clean and the pungent aroma of curry spices filled the flat. As usual, he’d managed to spill some down the front of his shirt. Once again, ordering too much hadn’t stopped him eating everything apart from a last shard of naan bread and two golden pieces of vegetable pakora; putting them in the fridge for the next day crossed his mind.

  The DI tilted the bottle until the last of the whisky dripped into the glass in his unsteady hand. Not exactly the ideal accompaniment to chicken madras. He’d overdone it on all fronts and would suffer in the morning.

  Geddes unfastened his belt, not sure if he was happy or sad. Maybe both. Was that possible? He’d wanted Mackenzie in his life and he’d got her, but more and more it was clear he’d never be the centre of her universe. Independent women were fine, in fact he preferred them. His ex-wife waited until they were separated before redefining self-sufficiency with the help of her Rottweiler lawyer – a sorry experience Andrew had been fortunate to survive. Since they’d gone their separate ways, carry-outs – liquid and solid – had become par for the course. Marriage, as he told anybody who would listen, was a mug’s game. Except now he wasn’t so sure.

  Mackenzie wasn’t Elspeth. Nothing like; she was beautiful, smart and committed to what she did, as well as being the kindest person he’d ever met.

  So what was his problem?

  He knew the answer. She had a life that didn’t include him and a part of herself she kept hidden. Predicting her was impossible – alluring even – apart from on nights like that night when he’d no idea where she was or what she was doing and insecurity ate at him.

  The whisky, taken straight, mixed with chilli, cumin, coriander and the rest, set his throat on fire on its way down. Geddes grimaced and emptied the glass. In the bedroom mirror he spoke to his reflection, sober enough to tell himself the truth, drunk enough to hear it.

  Mackenzie was special. He was in love with her.

  The Firth of Forth was a black snake slithering over the land beneath them. In the middle of the bridge, Mackenzie stopped the car, got out, and threw the bloodstained poker, the damp towel and rancid dishcloth they’d taken from the bathroom and the kitchen to remove any trace they’d been there, over the side. Then she added the gloves and the hats they’d worn and watched them drop into the darkness.

  She opened the passenger door. ‘Give me your shoes.’

  ‘What for?’

  Mackenzie answered by taking off her own and dropping both pairs into the water below.

  ‘Footprints. We can’t take any chances.’

  The rest of the crossing was made in silence, with the lights of Airth and Stenhousemuir twinkling in the distance; the women took no comfort from them. They hadn’t spoken since leaving the cottage – not a word. Mackenzie emptied her mind of everything except the road disappearing under the wheels, concentrating on keeping their speed to a shade under seventy miles an hour, refusing to allow herself to think. The last thing they needed was some zealous police officers pulling them over. That would be too much.

  A bad night had ended badly. Blood that had coursed through Jack Walsh’s veins spattered their hair and faces – as soon as they got home, their clothes would be burned. Caitlin sat in the passenger seat unable to look at Mackenzie. They’d had words in the cottage – worse than words – been close to coming to blows, because, after the hell they’d been through, Emily Thorne’s daughter was still a prisoner.

  At the Cumbernauld intersection, Mackenzie indicated and headed towards home.

  Caitlin wasn’t ready to let it go. ‘Why didn’t we bring her? Why didn’t we bring Judith with us? Wasn’t that the idea?’

  Mackenzie was tired of explaining. They’d been over this, almost had a stand-up fight about it with Walsh staring sightlessly between them. Her tone was terse, the words forced through clenched teeth. ‘No, it wasn’t. Checking out what Mrs Thorne said was the idea. Doing some fucking good was the idea. Setting Judith free was the idea – and she is free. Free forever. The police will respond to the anonymous call. They’ll find a dead man in one room and a woman locked in another who couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with it.’

  ‘But to just leave her…’

  Caitlin was in shock – they both were.

  ‘For the last time. We didn’t have a choice. If she’d seen our faces she’d be able to identify us. What was the point of removing all traces of us being there? This way her mother gets her back and nobody knows we were at the cottage.’

  ‘You seem okay about it.’

  Mackenzie lost her temper and immediately regretted it. ‘You mean the same as when I came across you kneeling over Peter with his head caved in? The same as when I finished him off? That kind of okay?’ She took a deep breath and spoke softly. ‘We did what we had to do. The world won’t cry for a man like Jack Walsh. We may never understand why he turned on his wife. Maybe she was going to leave him. Maybe that’s who he was and it was always going where it went. I don’t know and I don’t care. It’s over. At least, it is for us.’

  Her house was in darkness when Mackenzie pulled the car into the drive. She turned off the ignition. ‘It’s been a tough few hours. We’ll feel better in the morning. I’ve no regrets. None. As far as I’m concerned, we did what we had to do and – in case you’re wondering – I’d do it again. In a heartbeat.’

  no more Kirstys

  Mackenzie thought Caitlin was going to cry. Instead, her voice was strong and certain. ‘Nice speech. But the fact remains we killed a man tonight. We–’

  ‘A bad man.’

  ‘You lied to me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Leading me to believe we were only there to have a look, not to… to… murder somebody. You’d already decided to be judge, jury and executioner.’

  ‘What do you think he’d do with Judith, just let her go? Sooner or later, somebody in that cottage was going to die. What else was I supposed to do?’

  Caitlin’s eyes were hard and uncompromising; diamonds in the dark. ‘Tell the truth. Leave me a choice, for God’s sake.’

  ‘That’s not fair. You were given a choice. I didn’t know – couldn’t know – what we’d find. When we did it was too late. You were there. You saw what I saw. The police had their chance. Walsh fooled them into thinking everything was fine. If I’d imagined for a minute calling them would’ve been enough to save Judith, I would’ve. Sometimes it just goes the way it goes.’

  ‘So why did we need gloves and our hair tucked under those stupid hats?’

  ‘Again, because we couldn’t know what we’d find.’

  She stopped herself, adding that if Caitlin had had the experience she’d had in the cellar in the Lowther Hills, she wouldn’t be so quick to question.

  There was nothing more to say.

  The women got out and, shoeless, stepped carefully over the gravel so as not to wake anyone in the house, aware of how they must look.

  Inside, they closed the door behind them without turning on the light.

  Caitlin was exhausted. In the last few hours she’d gone through more emotions than her nervous system could cope with. Jack Walsh grabbing her ankle had been like something from a low-budget horror movie. She was too tired to be afrai
d, just grateful to be alive.

  Mackenzie whispered, ‘Take off your clothes. Everything. I’ll burn them.’

  Caitlin did as she was told, went to the sink and poured herself a glass of water. Outside, the same red moon that had lit the cottage in Clackmannan hung over the Campsies. Peter Sanderson died on a night not unlike this. Mackenzie was right: it went the way it went. No-one was to blame.

  She turned to apologise. Instead, she screamed. The glass slipped from her hand and smashed on the floor. Mackenzie dropped the pile of clothes she was holding and switched on the light.

  Sylvia Scott was sitting at the table with Juliette asleep in her lap.

  28

  Sylvia’s blue eyes took in their nakedness, the flecks of dried blood on their faces and in their hair, and the feigned innocence. In a gesture which would later seem ridiculous under the circumstances, Mackenzie held her hands over her breasts.

  ‘You startled us. We thought everybody was in bed.’

  ‘Really?’

  Caitlin blurted out the first lie that came into her head. ‘We had a flat tyre and got ourselves into a right old mess trying to fix it. We’re filthy.’

  ‘So I see. Lost your shoes too, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Mackenzie called the AA or we’d still be there.’

  Sylvia ran her fingers through the fur behind Juliette’s ear, waking the dog. ‘You must think I’m a silly woman who’ll swallow any old rubbish.’

  ‘No, no, it’s true.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You don’t believe us?’

  Sylvia ignored Caitlin and spoke to Mackenzie. ‘Let’s save each other time, shall we? Cards on the table: I know.’

  Caitlin kept up the pretence. ‘What’re you talking about? Know what?’