Bad Samaritan (29 page)

60

Kenny's had a long night on the front seat of his Range Rover. Sure, it's a comfy seat, but all fucking night? McBain owes him, and he better appreciate it.

He looks out of the windscreen at Ale's flat on the second floor. It's a classic Glasgow tenement. Large sandstone blocks. Big windows. The same across the street, and people peering into each other's lives.

Her curtains open. Her face appears at the window. She moves away. Then back. Stares down at him. She mouths a question that Kenny can read from where he is sitting.

What the fuck?

Seconds later, her front door opens. She appears and waves him in. Mouths the next question.

Coffee?

He gets out of the car. Stretches. Craves a lie down on a soft bed. But Ale has said the magic word. Follows her in through the door and up to her flat.

She walks into the kitchen. He follows, admiring the swell of her backside in her tight, black jogging pants.

Ale reaches the worktop. Reaches over to the kettle. Flicks the switch. Turns and says, ‘You better not have been staring at my arse.'

‘It would've been rude not to.' Kenny grins.

She throws him a finger. ‘One lump of cyanide or two?'

‘Sounds like a Ray McBain line, that,' Kenny answers.

Ale grins. ‘Yeah, I've been working with that eejit for far too long.'

‘Just milk, thanks,' Kenny says.

Ale does the necessary, and moments later they're both holding warm ceramic as if it's a lifeline. She takes a sip. ‘Right. What the hell are you doing outside my house at this time of the morning? Is Ray OK?'

‘I've been there all night, Ale. Is that you just noticing?'

She makes a face. ‘All night? Why the hell would you do something like that?'

Kenny tells her about his conversation with Ray the day before.

‘Right.' She takes a sip. ‘Thanks, I think. But if that psycho comes anywhere near me, it's him that will be needing assistance.' She smiles. ‘I may be a lady, Kenny O'Neill, but I'm no pushover.'

‘I didn't say you were. I was just doing something that would help keep Ray's mind at rest.'

‘Well,' she makes a small bow, ‘it is noted. And appreciated. And now you can piss off.'

‘There's gratitude for you.'

‘What about Ray?' she asks. ‘Have you heard from him yet this morning?'

‘Nope,' he replies. ‘He was spending the night with Maggie.' He makes air symbols with both hands. ‘“Protecting her.”'

Ale laughs. ‘So Maggie gets the good stuff, I get a stiff in a car.'

‘A Range Rover, if you don't mind.'

Kenny drains the last of his coffee. ‘Anyway. Enough with the banter,' he says and looks at his watch. ‘It's gone eight o'clock. We should probably phone. Just to check in, eh?'

‘Sure,' agrees Ale.

Kenny pulls his phone from his pocket. Dials Ray's phone. It rings. And rings. No answer. There's a faint note of concern in the back of his mind, but he decides to ignore it for now. Could be nothing.

‘When I spoke to him yesterday, he said his phone was almost out of juice. Do you think he'll keep a charger at Maggie's?'

‘How the hell should I know? Anyway, chargers for lots of modern phones are interchangeable, aren't they?' Ale asks.

‘We're talking about Ray McBain here. What's the likelihood of him having a modern phone?'

‘He has mastered the art of texting, to be fair.'

‘You got Maggie's number? Try her?' Kenny asks. ‘Just to be sure, eh?' The faint note of concern has become a chill in his gut. He pushes the worry away and waits for Ale to call.

The phone rings. And rings. Goes to her answering service.

‘That was too quick to go to a message. Try again,' Kenny says.

As Ale dials again. Kenny dials Ray on his phone. Neither respond.

‘Right,' says Kenny. ‘I'm going over there to check.'

‘I'm coming with,' says Ale, reaching for her handbag.

‘No. You're not,' says Kenny and runs out of the house, down the stairs two at a time, out into the street where he jumps into his car.

As he pulls on his seatbelt, the passenger door opens and Ale climbs in.

‘Think about it, Ale,' says Kenny as he fires up the engine. ‘If, and it's a big if, something is going on, you can't be a part of it.'

‘But it's Ray,' she pleads.

‘Exactly. Now kindly get your cute, well-formed arse out of my car, before I push it out.'

As gracefully as she can manage, Ale exits the car.

Kenny sees her in his rear-view mirror when he stops to judge the traffic at the end of her street. Dark hair, and a pale, worried face.

* * *

Kenny parks in front of Maggie's house. Notes that Ray's car is still there. Looks up at the windows. All the curtains are still drawn. So? They're having a long lie. Nothing weird about that.

The nagging in his gut is a full churn.

He reaches across to the glovebox. Opens it and pulls out a pair of black leather gloves, which he puts on with practised ease.

He gets out of the car. Locks it. What's the worst that can happen? He pushes the door open to find Ray's white arse pumping away between Maggie's thighs. They can all laugh about it later.

Still.

Concern sharpens his vision. Adds a lightness to his tread. He's in full battle mode, and if anyone gets in his way, they should be afraid. Very afraid.

He reaches the door. Twists the handle. It's unlocked. They were probably in such a moment of passion last night, they forgot to lock up. He pushes it open and steps inside.

The first thing that hits him is the smell. The metallic tang of freshly spilled blood.

The next is the sound of weeping. Quiet and in a high tone. Man or woman, he fails to guess as he silently makes his way deeper into the house.

‘Ray?' he says, trying to keep his tone low and reassuring.

There's no response.

‘Maggie?'

Nothing.

The sound is coming from a room straight ahead. Kenny makes for it, his tread light and sure. If there's anything to worry about there, it won't catch him unawares.

He opens a door.

The room beyond is in chaos. Furniture and soft furnishings cast about as if a cyclone had passed through. There's a figure sitting on the one chair that's upright.

Male.

Naked.

Sobbing.

And he's too skinny to be Ray McBain.

The man's head moves. He opens his eyes. There's a resignation there. Whatever this intruder wants to do to him is fine.

Leonard
, thinks Kenny.

‘Where are they?' he asks.

Leonard moves his head to the side. Slowly. As if the effort costs too much.

Kenny follows the direction of his nod and walks into the bedroom. And sees a sight that will haunt him for the rest of his life.

Maggie is lying on her side as if sleeping. The lie of this notion betrayed by the red tidal slick of blood, from her throat all the way down her side.

McBain is beside her. On his back. Naked. A blade sticking out of his chest.

He turns, walks back into the room where Leonard has stayed, stock still. To Kenny, it looks like he has lost the power of movement. He's just sitting there. Staring, yet unseeing.

There is no decision to make here, thinks Kenny. Not really. And as the white heat of rage hits all points of his body, he somehow retains a cold, clear focus. He remembers one of the last conversations he
'd
had with Ray. His question, have you ever killed anyone?

Standing in front of Leonard, Kenny asks, ‘Do you know how many bones are in the human body?' And he can't quite believe how calm his voice sounds to his own ears.

‘Me neither,' he answers his own question. ‘Well, I'm going to break every one of yours. And then, the real fun can begin. You might have known suffering in your life, Leonard. But that was just a warm up to what you are going to go through now.'

Then, with a quiet fury, he sets to work.

Acknowledgements

Writers can have such a rich internal life that at times it is difficult to face the “real” world and your failings. In that regard the people who breathe life in to your work are where the proper riches lie. To all of you my thanks, affection (and the odd hug) are due. The gang at Saraband (especially Sara Hunt) – one of the very best independent publishers around. Douglas Skelton, for the cover image and for keeping me right. Jenny Hamrick for a painstaking edit. To the wonderful crew at Crime & Publishment in Gretna – the crazy gang in THE Book Club – all the troops in the Crime Scene – you guys keep me sane, you rock! And a special (too many to) mention to all the reviewers, bloggers, booksellers and readers – without you there is no book. Thank you for your enthusiasm and your continued passion for reading.

Copyright

Contraband is an imprint of Saraband

Published by Saraband,
Suite 202, 98 Woodlands Road
Glasgow, G3 6HB

www.saraband.net

Copyright © Michael J Malone 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without first obtaining the written permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN: 9781910192313
ebook: 9781910192320