Pig Island (42 page)
Authors: Mo Hayder
Tags: #Suspense Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Journalists, #Suspense, #Fiction, #Supernatural, #General, #Horror, #Sects - Scotland, #Scotland, #Occult fiction, #Thrillers
His eyes were cold. “The only time I’ve ever seen DNA receptors like you left in the chapel is after a fight.” He took a notebook from his coat pocket and opened it, uncapping a pen. “You didn’t like the PHM much, did you? We spoke to your publishers this morning. They were saying how you—‘
“J
wasn’t even on the fucking island when he killed those people
.”
“Aye. That’s the problem. Malachi didn’t kill ”those people“.”
“Oh, please, what toss is this now?
Of course he did
:
Struthers and Danso looked at each other. Danso rearranged his coat, pulling the two sides neatly together and smoothing it down. “Joe,” he said quietly, “he couldn’t have.”
“Couldn’t have?”
“No. He was already dead.”
I stared at him. I knew the blood had left my face.
“That’s right. He’d already been dead more than a week.”
“What?” In my arms Angeline raised her head, wiping her eyes. “What did you say?”
“He was dead when it happened,” said Struthers. “You’ll hear all the science bit in court—got some bearded creep from Edinburgh University lives and breathes insects. Turns out that early winter we got in Argyll was a jackpot for a forensic entomologist.”
“OK,” Danso said warningly. “Let’s not hand him our case on a plate.”
But Struthers was sitting forward, smiling at me like a pitbull on a leash, his eyes watering. “Aye, turns out there are things that insects just can’t do to a body when it gets that cold. See, me, I never knew that. Never knew it, but sounds like some insects just won’t lay eggs if the temperature’s wrong. See, if he’d gone in the ground after the killings in the chapel he wouldn’t have had—‘
“OK,” Danso said. “Let’s stop this now.”
“Where was he?” Angeline sat up and stared at Struthers, pushing her hair from her eyes.
“On Cuagach, hen. Near your home. Contractors found him. Cleaning up the chemicals. This time we know it was him. The DNA works. Aye,” he muttered, staring red-faced at me. “Shoved head first in a mine shaft—and your boyfriend’s stamp all over the place. He took photos of the pig too. Something else his publishers told us. Bit of a souvenir collector when it comes to photos.”
“Look,” I said reasonably, “this doesn’t work—he was seen after the massacre. Loch Avich for a start.”
He shook his head. “The DNA from the bothy didn’t match.”
“Didn’t match?”
“No. It was just some dosser. Dove was already dead. And now it’s all unravelling. What’s funny is that all the time we were trailing him round Argyllshire there’s nothing to place him on Argyll the whole of September.”
I stared at him. “Nothing to place him there?”
“It’s true.” He shrugged. “Strange but true. We caught up with the wee sods who had the Vauxhall from Crinian Hotel car park. Glasgow neds, like I always said.”
Angeline made a small sound and tried to stand, pulling herself up slowly and shakily. Her face was drawn and smeared, her head a little wobbly. She put out a hand to steady herself, like she felt faint, and instantly Struthers was on his feet, supporting her under the elbows, lowering her back to the sofa. “There you go, hen. There ye go.”
She sat for a moment, breathing in and out, her hands pressed to her temples, staring at me like everything was falling into place. “You didn’t like him,” she muttered. “You never liked him. You didn’t like them either. The Garricks—you said you didn’t trust them.”
“When did I say that?”
She didn’t answer. She turned to Danso pleadingly, tears in her eyes. “Can I go, please? I can’t stay here in this—in this—place with—with him.” She made a low, furious sound in her throat, and raised her foot to kick me viciously in the calf with the tip of her stiletto. ‘
Why did you do it
?“
“Fuck off,” I said, holding my hand out to stop her doing it again. ‘
Fuck off
.“
“Hey! Hey! Come along now…‘ She tried to kick me again, but Struthers pulled her away, turning her to look at him, holding her face. She was weeping uncontrollably now, wiping her nose and shaking her head. ”Let’s not see any more of that, wee lassie. You hear me?“
“I want to go.
I want to go
. I’m not staying here with
him
.”
“Callum, for God’s sake.” Danso waved his hand at Struthers. “You’re FLO-trained, aren’t you? Take her somewhere. Have you got somewhere to go, lovey?”
‘No!“
“No one to visit?”
She shook her head again. Then something occurred to her. She wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands, taking breaths to stop her chest heaving. “Yes. Paul. I can go to him.”
“Paul?” I echoed. “Who the fuck’s Paul?”
She looked at me, full of contempt. “You didn’t even bother to find out his name.”
“That fucking arty photographer? How long have you and him been friends, then?”
“That’s enough.” Danso flicked a hand in the direction of the street. “Get her out of here. Meet me at Salusbury Road.”
As Struthers pulled her to her feet, the warm, creamy expanse of her right breast slid briefly into view from her sweater, then back as she straightened. She shook her hair, tucking a curl behind her ear, taking care not to look at me. I sat totally still, numb, silent. My head was pounding.
Mineshaft
, I was thinking.
Wedged in a minesbaft
.
“Was there a carcass on top of him?” I asked Danso distantly, not taking my eyes off Angeline. She was letting herself be led to the door. In the hallway they paused so Struthers could sort through the coats, looking for hers, asking her, did she need a handbag, keys, phone? A wash of unreality came over me. I felt like something old and poisonous had fastened its mouth over mine and was breathing silently and steadily into me. “An animal? One of the pigs?”
“I suppose if someone wanted to disguise the smell of a corpse it’s a good idea …‘
“Yeah. A dead pig. It would have disguised the smell. And my fingerprints … they were …‘ I paused. Struthers was taking Angeline out of the front door and on to the garden path. Now he’d transferred his hand from under her arm to round her shoulders. She was leaning against him, steadying herself against his chest as she limped away to the street. For a moment I was back on Cuagach, a cold wind blowing, her voice, thin and fleeting: ’
Stop it watching me
…‘ ’They were on a chemical drum, weren’t they? My fingerprints. That’s where you found them?”
“I’ve got a case to build, Joe. You understand that. What we’re going to do now is take you down to Salusbury Road and question you.”
“But they were. Weren’t they? My prints. On a chemical drum.” I stood, heading in a trance for the front door. “A drum wedged in front of him.”
“You’ll need to stay here, Joe. Until I’ve got some men in.” When I didn’t stop he raised his voice behind me. “You’re
detained
, Joe.
Detained
.”
I threw open the door. In the dark street the blue emergency light flashed on and off, shadows racing up the neighbouring houses. The hail had stopped and Struthers stood at the police car, closing the door on Angeline. As I came down the path he went round to the other side and got in. Danso was coming up behind me. I wrenched the garden gate open. ‘
Hey
!“ I said, hurling myself at the car, shaking the handle. ’
You! Angeline
.” I banged a fist on the window. “Open this. Open the fucking door.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see uniformed police jumping out of the other cars. I could hear Danso breathing behind me. “Joe,” he said. “Come on, son.”
“Open the fucking door,” I bellowed. The driver flashed me a nervous glance, just a small glint of eye under the cap, and put the car into gear, taking off the handbrake. Struthers was leaning forward, urging the driver on. ‘
No! You fuckers
!“ I grabbed the door trim, digging my nails in, shouting at Danso who was behind me, hands on my shoulders. ”I put the fucking drum in the shaft
for her
.“ I banged on the window. Blood vessels popped in my temples. ’
Angeline. Open this fucking door
.” Flecks of spit shot out of my mouth. ‘
Angeline. You bitch. You BITCH. You evil bitch
:
Suddenly, with a whoosh of cool air, the electric window slid smoothly down and Angeline’s face appeared close to mine. Everyone on the street became very still. The driver re-engaged the handbrake and Struthers sat back with a jerk. “What did you say?” She leaned close to me. Her breath was sour, like something was erupting from her. “Just then, what did you say?”
‘I said, you evil fucking bitch:
“Joe.” She reached a hand up to my face. “Joe. You don’t believe in evil. You don’t believe in possession and you don’t believe in evil. You said it yourself.”
“Shut
up
!” I bellowed. “Shut up!” Out of nowhere hard arms wrapped round me, pinning my hands down. Someone was frisking me, searching my pockets. I twisted in their grip, banging my leg on the car and sending someone’s cap flying off into the gutter. ‘
You arseholes
.“
“Joe, whatever it is you’ve done …‘ More tears came to her eyes. She looked pityingly at my struggles. ”… I don’t blame you. You must remember that, I don’t blame you.“
She sat back in the seat, letting the electric window slide calmly up to close off her face. I stopped struggling and stared at her. She crossed her stockinged legs and next to her Struthers lowered his chin to get a look. There was a bit of a pause, then the driver took off the handbrake again and the car pulled neatly out into the road. For a split second I thought I saw something coiled and dark, like smoke or a spirit, lifting itself out of the car and hovering near the roof, then the driver reached the end of the road, hesitated, put the indicator on, turned and disappeared from sight, leaving me standing in front of my own house, held back by two police officers, nothing better to do than watch the car drive away.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to everyone at Transworld, particularly my utterly dedicated, 24/7 editor Selina Walker, and also Patrick Janson-Smith (keep trying, PJS, and one day I might forgive you for leaving Transworld). To Jane Gregory for being my rock—and a brilliant, flaming, red-headed rock at that. A loud cheer too for the Hammersmith office: Anna the traitor, Claire, Emma, Jemma and Terry.
To everyone in the Strathclyde police force: DC Dee Bradbury and DC Gary Brown for fitting me in between pregnancies and attempted murder charges, and DS Allan Derrick (glockenspiel king). To Dr Awny Lutfy (FRCPath) of The Dumfries and Galloway Royal Infirmary; to Sisters Rosalyn Bonner and Jackie Iverson, and especially Nurse Practitioner Breeda McCahill of the Glasgow Royal Infirmary Burns Unit. To Mr Richard Spicer (FRCS) of the Bristol Royal Hospital for Children for the insights into the sacrococcygeal growth and its complications, and to explosives expert David Hargreaves for detailed explanations of how to make things go bang. Thank you to Minette Walters for teaching me more about the publishing industry in four days than I’ve learned in the last eight years, and most of all a huge hug to Mairi Hitomi for being my best chum and for teaching me how to get ma geggy round Glasgae slang.
Thank you also to: my mother, my father and my little brother; Jim Brooks; Broo Doherty; Simon Gerard; Pat Mallows (website king); Murf and Margaret (OWO Murphy); Karin Slaughter; Gilly Vaulkhard; the Downings, the Laydons; the Heads; the Roberts. A special hurrah for everyone at Bath Spa MACW (especially Tracy and Richard), everyone at Appletree and the Larkhall yummy mummies: Helen, the two Kates, Konny, Mel, Ness, Olivia, Rebecca. But most of all: love and a thank-you that goes on for ever to you, Keith, and our little girl, Lotte Genevieve.
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