Kiss Her Goodbye (6 page)

When Joe didn't respond the driver spoke again. "Fishing?"

Joe waited a moment, then said, "Baseball."

"Oh," the driver said. "Unusual." He clammed up again. Probably didn't know what to say. Never met anyone Scottish claiming to have an interest in baseball. Reckoned his passenger was a major nutter. Or taking the piss. Dangerous, leg-squeezing, taking-the-piss nutter. Yeah, Joe thought, that's me.

Several minutes later, the driver said, "Never met anyone Scottish who played baseball."

"Never played the game," Joe said. "I just like the bats."

"Grand." The driver's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Nearly there." Evidently keen to change the subject. He rapped his fingers on the steering wheel. His left leg was trembling.

"Don't worry," Joe told him, leaning forward. The driver flinched. "I don't have an issue with you," Joe said. "At the moment." He leaned back, thinking, what a tosser. If he'd planned to snap the driver's neck he'd have done it by now. Joe rested his head against the window and reflected. To be honest, that was all shite about breaking the driver's neck. It was what he would like everybody to think he'd do. Truth was, although he'd come pretty close a few times, Joe had never killed anyone, and he was more than a bit nervous at the prospect of doing so.

He raised his head, sat up, put one hand on his bag and tugged the zip. He felt like he had as a teenager about to lose his virginity. He zipped up the bag again, clasped his hands together and tucked them between his knees. He'd put somebody in a coma once, but the bloke came out of it a couple of weeks later. One time he broke a punter's spine — the man didn't die but he doubtless wished he had. Another occasion, he'd fucked up a client's leg with some tools (this guy really had been an arsehole) and he'd have died if Joe hadn't called an ambulance before he left the guy's flat. What with the shock and blood loss it was touch and go, anyway, even with the paramedics' speedy arrival. But, no, Cooper employed somebody else to take over where Joe normally stopped. Employed, that is, on a contract basis. A man called Park. Joe imagined he wasn't your typical hired killer. Didn't call himself a killer, either. Thought it too undignified. Claimed that anybody could kill. Give a six-year-old girl a handgun with the safety off and she'd manage to point it in somebody's face and pull the trigger. Anybody could kill. QED, as far as Park was concerned. So he called himself an expurgator, which was different, apparently, although the subtle distinction was lost on Joe, even though he had gone to university.

The point was, Park could have called himself a fucking fairy and nobody would have dared bat an eyelid. Joe had met him on each of the occasions some thoughtless prick had annoyed Cooper sufficiently to justify the expense of having him killed. To date, that was three times. And three times Joe had broken out in one hell of a sweat. He hurt people and he could live with that. Killing people, he wasn't comfortable with, and he wasn't comfortable with anyone who was comfortable with it. Cooper said he should work on cultivating more of an inferiority complex. Like Park. Cooper said you could tell a mile off that Park's dick was hardly big enough to satisfy a midget. Maybe so. But whatever the size of his tadger, Park's utter disregard for human life was one of the few things that scared Joe.

No, Joe had never killed anyone.

Still, he thought, drawing his hands out from between his knees and flexing his fingers, there had to be a first time.

On the outskirts of Kirkwall, the car pulled into a driveway separating a handful of suburban villas and entered a large parking area. Two cars and a motorbike were parked in front of the entrance to an ugly, brilliantly white L-shaped building that squatted at the edge of an otherwise empty field. Along the length of the entire façade a single window peeped through the concrete. The building looked more like a warehouse than Joe's idea of a writers' retreat. But this was it. This was where Gemma had lived.

The driver asked for the fare.

This is where she had died.

Joe handed over the money and stepped out of the car. The driver passed his change out the window and didn't hang around to wish him luck. Joe watched the taxi's taillights disappear, then turned and approached the doorway. Twenty feet high, oak, studded, the door was like the entrance to a fairytale castle. He glanced at the doorbell, but chose to ignore it. Beginning a couple of feet off the ground and extending about four feet upwards, a panel was cut into the oak. A brass handle beckoned at shoulder height. A smaller door. The entrance for mere mortals. He turned the handle and shoved. The little door jerked open. He crouched, lifted his foot over the lip and stepped inside.

He had the feeling he was expected. Nothing psychic. Just a simple deduction based on the fact that someone had just snapped off the lights. Joe dragged his other foot inside. The door banged shut, bounced open again and creaked slowly back towards him. He stood for a moment, listening keenly, while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Blood pounded in his ears. Adrenalin crackled in his veins. His heart thumped against his ribcage. He threw his bag into the darkness in front of him and heard a yell of surprise. Joe launched himself after the clatter of footsteps, tripped over his bag and went sprawling. He scraped his wrist on the floor. Great start.

The footsteps stopped. A voice said, "That you, Joe?"

Joe sat up and tried to examine his wrist in the sliver of fading daylight that crept through the still partly open door. He couldn't make out a bloody thing. Tenderly, he touched his chafed skin. Adam's voice had come from fifteen, maybe twenty feet away. "Got some advice for you," Joe yelled into the darkness. "Run. And keep running." He heard footsteps. Slow and heavy. Getting closer.

"Why did you do it?" Adam's voice sounded no more than ten feet away now.

Joe was giving the stupid fuck every opportunity. Twat wanted to get killed, then so be it. Another footstep. Another. Joe supported his right wrist with his left palm and wriggled the fingers of his sore hand. It felt slightly swollen, but it wasn't broken or sprained. He could still use it to rip Adam's head off. The arsehole was getting closer, his shoes clacking on the polished floor like hooves. Joe, wanting to keep him coming, said, "Do what? The fuck are you talking about?"

Adam's voice quivered. "Can't even bring myself to say it."

Joe couldn't stand much more of this shit. But he played along. Quietly, in the near darkness, Joe raised himself to his feet. "You want to tell me what I've done?" Keep the bastard talking. Get him closer. "I'd really like to know."

Four resounding footsteps. Agitation apparent in the acoustics of Adam's forward momentum. "First Gemma," he said. "And then Ruth."

Joe swore. He couldn't help but be intrigued. Adam had his attention. "What are you talking about?"

A single footstep. Adam was a vague shape only a few feet away. If Joe reached out he could probably touch him. But he wanted him closer still. He wanted to see the whites of his victim's eyes. Which, of course, he couldn't in the dark. So he'd make do with smelling his breath. Then he'd make his move. "Humor me," Joe said. "Remind me what it was I did."

Unfortunately, Adam never had the chance. At that moment a blinding light burst through the door. Joe screwed his eyes shut. Shielding his face with his hands, he staggered backwards towards the wall. He heard footsteps rushing towards him. Still unable to see, he was attacked from both sides. Somebody yanked his left arm from in front of his face and twisted it behind his back. Somebody else did the same with his right. He yelled as the bastard's grip tightened on his friction burn. He kept his head lowered and twisted to the side, trying to keep his eyes away from the spotlight.

He heard more footsteps entering the building. Adam said, "I'm okay. Don't worry about me." Then, a mumbled response Joe couldn't quite hear since he was yelling again as handcuffs tightened around his wrists.

They turned off the spotlight. After a few seconds Joe opened his eyes. Somebody had flicked the hall light back on and, as his eyes adjusted slowly, Adam came into focus. He looked wide-eyed, angry. He kept wiping his chin with the back of his hand as if he had a serious drool problem. The fingers of his other hand were balled into a fist. A couple of uniformed policemen stood by his side. In front of them was the man in charge. Dark blue suit, tightly knotted dark brown tie. A glance from him and the two men either side of Joe loosened their grip on his arms. Their boss tugged at his jacket cuffs. "Joseph Hope?"

"Joe, please."

"We'd like you to come with us."

"Party somewhere, is there?"

"I'm going to caution you. You do not have to say anything."

"Silent party, huh? I've heard those are increasing in popularity."

"But anything you do say will be noted—"

"You can write? Just shout if you need help with the big words."

"—and may be used in evidence."

"Wait a minute." Joe would have scratched his head if his hands weren't handcuffed behind his back.

"Do you understand what I've just said?"

"Are you arresting me?"

"Standard procedure in certain circumstances before an interview takes place. You're not under arrest. Yet. But you are being detained to assist us with our investigation."

"Investigation into what?" Joe banged his wrists against his spine.

The policeman glared at Joe. "Into the murder," he said, "of Mrs. Ruth Hope."

"What?" Joe's arms flapped behind his back like broken wings. His only other outlet for physical expression was to stamp his feet, which was out of the question. Ruth was dead? "What?" he repeated.

Adam said, "You're fortunate I'm not a violent man, Joe. Otherwise, DS Monkman here would have another murder—"

No, there was one other way he could express himself. Joe lowered his head and charged forward, catching almost everybody by surprise. He ploughed into Monkman, knocking him over. He brushed past one of Adam's advancing police bodyguards. Luckily for Adam, the other one stepped to the side, allowing Joe a clear path, then swatted him on the back of the head with his baton as he drew alongside. Joe crumpled to the floor at Adam's feet, tried to get up and sank to the floor again.

After a minute or two Joe rolled onto his side, head throbbing. He'd have a lump the size of an old man's bollock tomorrow. He looked up to see Monkman looming over him, lips drawn tight, face pale and blue eyes bulging. Joe started to laugh. "Look at you," he said. "Happy as a pig in shit."

Monkman cocked his head and drew back a highly polished shoe. "Ha," he said, kicking Joe in the ribs. "Ha," kicking Joe again. "Ha," once more. He paused, then started again. He said, "Ha", half a dozen more times.

Joe groaned. But it wasn't so bad. He'd had much worse kickings. His ribs hurt like fuck but he didn't think anything was broken. Glad it was over, though.

Monkman crossed his arms and said, "Did anybody else find that funny?"

NINE

Joe stared at the ceiling. Once they'd removed his handcuffs he was able to hug himself with his right arm. Somehow, it helped. He lay on the narrow bed in his cell, cradling his side, palm warming the spot where the pain nagged most. Purely psychosomatic, he was sure, but the heat seemed to alleviate the constant, dull ache that had spread across his ribcage. He'd discovered over the past hour that the pain burst into life when he tried to sit up. He'd had to learn to lie back and relax. He couldn't relax properly, though. Couldn't take a deep breath without his side hurting.

Still, he'd been lucky. As beatings went, this one had been pretty lenient. At least none of the bastards had kicked him in the head. Which was just as well. His head already hurt enough from the baton blow that had knocked him to the ground. Another blow might have done some serious damage. Yeah, all in all it had been pretty civilized. In fact, apart from Monkman, the policemen would have failed an audition for a vacancy in the collecting business. Cooper definitely wouldn't have hired them on those performances — mind you, if they hadn't already hospitalized somebody, Cooper wouldn't have granted them an interview in the first place. Still. The point was, Orkney's finest showed no enthusiasm, obviously lacking in previous exposure to perpetrating acts of violence on innocent victims. And far too obviously worried about the consequences. This was a one-off for them.

For Adam, too. He'd surprised Joe. Even if he wasn't violent, and even if he wasn't particularly fond of Ruth, you'd think he'd want a shot too. But, no, he'd passed when it was his turn. It wasn't just that, though. Joe remembered at one point, a brief interlude between various identically shod feet driving into his ribs, glimpsing Adam through the ruck of bodies. A pudgy hand covered his mouth, piggy eyes alert, body tensed. He wasn't enjoying the show. In the end, he strode forward, said, "Excuse me," to the officer currently on kicking duty, bent over Joe's prostate figure and said, "He's had enough."

The officer stepped back, happy to be excused from his uncomfortable duty.

Monkman said, "You know what he did to his wife?" He waited for a reply, unfolded his arms, folded them again. "Your cousin?" Receiving no response from Adam, Monkman said, "You know he was planning on doing something similar to you?"

Joe was gasping for breath. He strained to hear Adam's mumbled reply, but it sounded like, "I know what he did to his daughter." Their eyes met. Adam pursed his lips, nodding. Joe turned his head away, looked at the floor, and panted like a beaten dog. Each breath was a stab in his side.