Big Boy Did It and Ran Away (33 page)

Angelique said her thanks and went outside, where McIntosh had already brought the others up to speed about Ash’s phone call. She stopped Mellis before he could go in.

‘This Ash,’ she said. ‘Does he have any form, do you know, or has he been on the wrong end of anything before?’

Mellis nodded. ‘For what it’s worth, yeah. Breaking and entering. Donkey’s years ago, though. Nothing since.’

‘You’ve got a file?’

‘The jacket’s with DI Carmack at Burnbrae.’

‘Lot of use that is to me.’

‘Don’t sweat. You’d be better talkin’ to Angus McPhail at Partick. You know Gus?’

‘Aye. Thought he’d retired.’

‘Christmas he bows out. It was his collar.’

She dropped McIntosh off at HQ then headed for the West End, her old student stomping grounds. Partick copshop saw more than its fair share of the bizarre, having Glasgow Uni on its patch, which was why Raymond Ash had ended up there in the final year of his degree.

‘It was just a student prank that got out of hand,’ Gus McPhail told her, having looked out the station’s records of the case. She sat opposite, a hand over her own folder containing notes and updates on the Black Spirit. ‘They broke into the university museum. They didn’t steal anything, just, ehm, rearranged a few of the exhibits.’ He smiled as he spoke. It was the kind of case he didn’t mind recalling.

‘Wait a minute, I remember this. I was a student here too. I was in first year at the time, but it was the talk of the whole campus. Was it not some kind of protest?’

‘Well, catch‐
all excuse for anything students get up to, isn’t it? I think it was part protest and part just because it was there to be done. The uni had spent a whole load of cash on a new security system for the museum.’

‘And the students were saying the money could have been better spent elsewhere, I remember. I think I was at a meeting about it. You go to everything like that in first year.’

‘So these two decided they’d break in to prove the system was keech anyway.’

‘How did they manage it?’

‘Computer hacking, distraction, what have you. They were quite clever, but … well, they didnae need tae be that clever. That was the point. They didnae just succeed in provin’ the security was keech – they proved that if somebody had wanted to screw the place, it would have happened already. Anybody could have done it – they were just the first to bother.’

‘So how did they screw up?’

‘They didnae. Nobody knew whodunnit.’

‘How did you catch them, then?’

‘An anonymous tip. Well, supposedly anonymous. It was called in from the guy’s parents’ hoose, but it was a young bloke’s voice and he had nae brothers. He gave himself away.’

‘Ash?’

‘Naw, the other fella. Simon Darcourt, his name was.’

The name rang a bell, but she couldn’t place it. Maybe she remembered hearing it in her uni days, but she was sure it was more recent than that.

‘Why did he do it?’

‘You answered that one yoursel’ a minute ago. It was the talk o’ the steamie. Everybody was goin’ on about how smart and how ballsy these guys had been, and if you ask me, it was killin’ him that they all didnae know it was him.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time that’s given us a body.’

‘Aye. You hear them sayin’ aboot serial killers that deep‐
doon, they want to be caught because they want somebody to stop them. I think some of them want to be caught so they can finally take the credit.’

Their discussion winding down, Angelique asked for a photocopy of the case file, still wondering why that name was familiar, as well as trying to construct a scenario that could tie a student prank to an abduction more than a decade later.

Gus handed her the pages and she opened her folder to accommodate them. She caught him staring at the cover, on which there was a reproduction of the Black Spirit’s eponymous calling card.

‘Right bad yin,’ he said.

Not half, she thought, then remembered that he shouldn’t recognise it, that the image was classified. ‘You know this? You’ve seen this before? When?’

‘This mornin’,’ he replied. ‘Ridin’ up Woodlands Road on a two‐
legged horse.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘And I’m outta here.’

That was the problem with not just the Glasgow polis, but the city in general: everybody was a fucking comedian.

Angelique drove down Gibson Street, bringing back memories of the university sports centre at the top, and of the good work undone in the late‐
night takeaways further down. She checked the tank: running on fumes as per. With a trip out Crieff way in the offing, she’d best fill up. There was a station not far away; quarter of a mile along – as it happened – Woodlands Road.

She coasted through the roundabout and indicated as the petrol station came into view on the left‐
hand side.

Before she got there, however, she glanced to her right and almost ploughed into the oncoming traffic as a result of what she saw.

‘Fuck me.’

Angelique righted her swerve and pulled the car quickly into the kerb, before leaping out and crossing the road with the engine still running. She must have driven past here a hundred, a thousand times; filled up at that station at least a dozen, and though she’d noticed the black statue at the foot of the hill, she’d never actually looked at it.

She was bloody well looking now.

It was a two‐
legged horse, which should have been striking enough, but it was what it bore on its back that had almost caused her to flip the motor. In front was Ash’s bearded cowboy with the shiny sheriff’s badge, and riding behind him was none other than the grinning ghost, the smiling spook, the Black bloody Spirit. It wasn’t exactly as on the calling cards, which had omitted the brow of his hat to make the figure look more shapeless, but it was undoubtedly the same: a towering black figure with two oblongs for eyes and a gaping grid of teeth below.

There was a plinth underneath. Barely breathing, Angelique bent forward and read the inscription:

She thought Gus had said ‘right bad yin’ as a comment on the Black Spirit’s deeds, but she had misheard.

Rank Bajin. Resident villain.

Jesus Christ.

‘They were quite clever, but … well, they didnae need tae be that clever … Anybody could have done it – they were just the first to bother.’

The Black Spirit’s MO to a T.

‘I think some of them want to be caught so they can finally take the credit.’

She couldn’t wait until she reached the office to make the call. Instead she got Rowan on her mobile and asked him to relay Enrique’s number on the spot. Enrique answered after an even‐
more‐
agonising‐
than‐
usual number of rings.

‘Enrique, it’s Angelique. I need to know: does the name Simon Darcourt mean anything to you?’

There was a moment’s silence, or maybe it was a month’s.

‘Simon Darcourt,’ he repeated, considering. ‘Simon Darcourt. Yes. He died on flight 941 out of Stavanger.’

‘You know the names of everyone who died on that plane?’

‘No, just Simon Darcourt, Jesper Karlsen, Jostein Groen and Marta Nillis.’

‘Why them?’

‘Because they’re the ones whose bodies were never recovered.’

Lexy rolled over and pulled the covers tighter, thinking with some relief that, as it was still dark, his alarm wouldn’t be going off for ages yet, so he could snuggle down again. He looked for the red LED read‐
out on his bedside table to find out exactly what the time was. That was when he remembered that he had no idea where his bed, table or alarm clock were in relation to his current location.

He was lying down on the lorry’s floor, wrapped in a removal blanket; jaggy but warm.

‘Shite.’

He reached around for the torch Wee Murph had given him, pilfered from one of the crates, but couldn’t find it. Murph was still asleep, his breathing audible close by. Lexy remembered feeling sleepy from the movement of the lorry and the warmth of being buried behind the pile. The pair of them must have nodded off, and worryingly, he had slumped down and wriggled his way out from their hiding place in search of a comfier position.

‘Murph.’

‘Mmmwaah.’

‘Murph.’

‘Five mair minutes, Ma.’

‘Murph, wake up.’

‘Mmm‐
wuuh‐
mmm … Aw fuck.’

‘Murph, where’s your torch?’

‘Aw fuck, man. I was dreamin’ there.’

‘So was I. I was at hame in my bed, but I fuckin’ woke up here. I cannae find my torch.’

‘Put the light on then.’

‘Very fuckin’ funny.’

‘Sorry, man, I’m no’ awake yet.’

Lexy could hear Murph rummage among the blankets, then with a click there emerged a beam of light. His own torch was revealed to be sitting about a foot from his knee.

‘Christ,’ said Murph with a yawn. ‘Why did you have to wake me up, man? I was havin’ a dream aboot Linda Dixon. I was gettin’ a feel ay her diddies an’ everythin’.’

‘Dreams is as close as you’ll get.’

‘Well, right noo I’d settle for just seein’ her again if it meant we got hame.’

‘I know what you mean, Murph,’ Lexy said, wisely stopping short of the whole truth, which was that he wanted his mammy.

‘Here, we’re no’ movin’.’

‘That’s why I woke you up.’

‘What time’s it?’

Lexy pointed the torch at his watch. ‘Half eleven.’

‘Shite, man. We’ve been asleep for ’oors. I wonder where we are?’

‘Dunno, but they’ve no’ come back in for their gear yet, otherwise we’d be fucked. I ended up lyin’ oot here, in plain sight.’

‘Whit did ye dae that for?’

‘Tae get away fae your fartin’, probably.’

‘Cannae help it. It was the beans.’

Wee Murph hadn’t let on about the torches before the truck set off again last night. Instead, he had waited until they were well underway and then scared the crap out of Lexy by holding one under his chin and suddenly switching it on, going ‘Muahahahaha’ at the same time.

Once Lexy had scraped himself off the ceiling and been cajoled out of his subsequent huff, the pair of them put the new‐
found lighting to use in a further hunt through the crates, reckoning they were safe from interruption as long as the vehicle remained in motion. The search came to a sharp halt when they discovered the baddies’ store of provisions, containing several loaves, three six‐
packs of scoosh, a variety of tins and, crucially, a can‐
opener. With neither of them salivating at the prospect of cold Cream of Mushroom, they had opted for pork’n’beans, helping themselves to a tin each along with a few slices of dry bread. It was after this banquet that tiredness started taking over from adrenaline, though it was a miracle Wee Murph didn’t blow all the blankets away with his exploding arse before the pair of them nodded off.

‘Half eleven, man.’ Murph said. ‘It’s nearly Friday lunchtime. Ma maw an’ da’ll be worried sick.’

‘The polis’ll probably be oot lookin’ for us.’

‘Man, we need tae get oot o’ here.’

Murph stood up and began walking towards the rear of the truck, the beam of his torch pointing the way.

‘Where ye gaun?’

‘There’ a wee hole in that shutter. I’m gaunny have a keek through it.’

‘You’ll never get your arse up that high.’

‘Very good. I says a keek, no’ a keech.’

‘I know.’

Lexy followed on behind, using Murph’s beam for guidance. They had agreed not to use both torches at once in order to save battery power. Murph was pressing his face against the shutter, where there was indeed a tiny hole between two of the slats, probably made by rust.

‘Let’s have a look.’

Murph stepped aside and allowed Lexy a shot. He closed one eye and squinted through the gap: he could see trees and bushes, with a steely grey colour visible behind through breaks in the foliage.

‘No’ much tae go on,’ said Murph. ‘We could be roon the back o’ the school for aw I can see.’

‘Hing on, I ’hink that’s watter.’

‘Watter? Where?’

‘Through the trees. I ’hink we’re by a loch or somethin’.’

‘Gie’s another swatch.’

Murph returned to the spyhole. ‘Dunno, man, that could be the side ay a warehoose. Or a big puddle.’

‘Doesnae matter where it is as long as we’re stuck in here, though, does it?’

‘Nae sign o’ the baddies, but. I think they’ve ditched this.’

‘They wouldnae ditch the truck if it’s got aw their gear inside it.’

‘I’m no’ sayin’ they’ll no’ be back. I’m just sayin’ they’re no’ here the noo. Let’s see if we can get this ’hing opened.’

‘Got you, Murph. Let’s fin’ somethin’ tae wedge up the shutters.’

Murph trained his torch around the walls and over the crates.

‘The drills,’ Lexy remembered.

They pulled the blanket away and examined one of the machines.

‘Could we drill oor way oot?’ Murph asked.

‘Aye, if ye can get through a hole six inches across.’

‘Aye, awright, I only asked. Whit aboot drillin’ through the lock?’

‘The lock’s doon at the flair. The lowest these ’hings can reach is aboot two feet. We need tae look for somethin’ tae use as a crowbar.’

‘What aboot thae spare hingmies?’ Murph asked. ‘Look.’

Murph pointed his torch at the drilling machine’s chassis, where there sat a rack accommodating three smaller heads of different lengths and girths. Unlike the fearsome, huge, razor‐
toothed ball of steel currently attached to the shaft, these resembled chisels, presumably for more precise cutting.

They grabbed one each and returned to the door, where they spent a few sweaty and frustrating minutes failing to force the tapered blades between the floor and the rollers.

‘Hing on,’ Lexy said. ‘Gimme that wan as well.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll show ye.’

Lexy took the smaller of the makeshift chisels and rested its tip against the desired point of entry, then began hitting its base with the other shaft. This was more of a success, in as much as it gouged a groove in the wooden floor and allowed the drillhead underneath the shutter, but when he tried to apply some weight, it just slipped back out amid splinters and dust.