Raw Bone (28 page)

“Aye, the blow is extremely crude but spectacularly effective. Ye may be interested ta know, ah learnt tha growin’ up in Clydeside and not in the service of Her Majesty.” Bishop was wearing a grey T-shirt and black jeans. Squatting in front of MacNeice, he appeared immense, a gorilla studying a caterpillar. “It’s better if ye doan close your eyes, MacNeice. They swell shut if ya do.” He lifted MacNeice’s head so they were looking directly at each other. “MacNeice—ah know the name. Your family is from Perthshire, just north of Glasgow. Your clan motto is ‘By courage, not by craft,’ aye, but nae t’day.” He studied the detective’s face then let his head drop again. “You’ll feel a mighty pounding behind those eyes. Ah’m afraid ah’ve split the bridge of your nose, but otherwise, you’ll survive.”

He showed MacNeice two bloodied pencils, then dropped them on the floor. “While ye were out, I shoved ’em up yer nostrils. Then ah snapped them together like chopsticks ta reset your nose. You’ll have a fine straight beak, laddie—no charge for the medical services rendered.”

MacNeice could taste the blood in his mouth. His nose was already so swollen it intruded grotesquely into his sightline. Disoriented, he attempted to scan the room.

“Auch, your lady friend—a wee bit underdressed for the occasion but not unattractive.”

He towered over MacNeice’s chair. “Don’t trouble yourself, MacNeice. She’s trussed up, but not a feather of tha pretty head is outta place.” He pointed and MacNeice painfully turned his head to see Samantha gagged and sitting on a chair in the doorway of her bedroom, her arms and legs tied in precisely the same way he was. The cardigan was twisted, exposing one breast and
her entire lower abdomen, and she was trying to wiggle so that less of her was bare. Her eyes were wide with shock and fear.

The plastic ties cut into his wrists and his ankles, which were tethered awkwardly to the rear legs of the chair to ensure he couldn’t get his footing without toppling face-first onto the wood floor. Using his tongue, he tried pushing the cord out of his mouth to speak, but gave up and shook his head in frustration—which only served to increase the pain in his head and the flow of blood into his throat.

“We have a wee bit a business ta attend ta, am I right, Detective Superintendent MacNeice?”

The big man took him by the hair and shook his head up and down. When MacNeice tried to pull away, Bishop shoved his head hard against the wall.

“Ma name is Bishop. But ye know tha. Ye bin makin’ a bit a fuss o’er me, detective. Jacko Bishop. Ah go by Mars—the candy bar, not the god, eh—and Bishop’s not ma real name, of course, just another amusing
nom de guerre
.”

He retrieved another chair and placed it in front of MacNeice. Bishop watched him straining to see Samantha over the man’s shoulder.

“Aye, ah’d prefer she was more modest too.” He walked past her into the bedroom, emerging with a blue blanket. Glancing down at her breast, he looked at MacNeice and smiled. “Ah’m sure ye agree, the more plump and firm the better.” He tilted his head to look at the breast again. “Very pretty, Miss.” He pulled the cardigan closed and dropped the blanket on her legs to cover her groin. Turning away, he said, “There, tha’ should help ye to concentrate, detective.”

MacNeice tried to speak past the cord but started coughing.

“Auch, cough it up, man. Ye need ta get tha out. Ye’ve already made a fine mess of your shirt. Here.” He pulled the cord out of MacNeice’s mouth and told him to spit the blood onto the floor. “It’s only blood and spit,” he said. “Ye’ve yet to cough up an organ.” He shoved the cord back in MacNeice’s mouth.

“Ma stay in your fine community is at an end and ah need ta be on my way. I took the liberty to pay for yer dinner—aye, with a bonnie tip ta boot.” He picked up the plastic bag of Thai Village takeout from where it sat by the front door, put it in the oven and turned the gas on to 250 degrees. “Tha’ should take care of it.”

Returning to the living room, he sat down, crossed his arms and studied MacNeice. “The smell is somethin’ terrible, d’ye nae agree? Ah mean, as a Scot, ye cannae possibly enjoy the foul smell of tha.” He shook his head slowly in disbelief and looked at his watch. “By the time those wretched vittles are alight, we’ll be finished and I’ll be gone. Ta business then.” He rubbed his hands. “A wild guess, Detective Superintendent: ye’re lookin’ at me for the deaths of Duggie Langan and his Scandinavian sweetheart. As well, tha bonnie wee girl, Sherry—ah dinna remember her last name.”

MacNeice’s eyes went to the tattoos on Bishop’s arm.

“Ye recognize these, do ye?” He pointed to each word in turn, emphasizing the syllables. “Belfast—we took as good as we gave, and they lost. Herzegovina—treacherous cunts, the Serbs. But they have their reasons, eh?” He put his index finger on the next name and shook his head. “Mogadishu—ah was in the employ of the Queen, but only barely. Queensberry rules never made an appearance there. By Iraq and Afghanistan, ah was a soldier of fortune and, for the love of God”—he moved his finger to the last tattoo—“the Congo’s no place for gentlemen
soldiers, paid or no.” He took a deep breath and pointed to the SAS tattoo above the place names. “Do ye also know this insignia, detective? Jus’ nod if ye recognize it.”

MacNeice nodded.

“Aye, so now ye know, or think ye do, that Her Majesty spared no expense nor worldly resource in the making of me.” He was smiling broadly. “And what Queenie didn’t teach was taught ta me long before in Glasgow.

“Ah’m being reassigned abroad, but before ah take my leave, ah felt you deserved the truth about my stay here.”

MacNeice blinked to indicate his interest in hearing the truth. The intense pain in his head wouldn’t allow him to nod again.

“Ah encountered my friend Duguald in Liverpool. My employer had no immediate work for me, so Duggie arranged passage on the same freighter. Ah’d never been ta sea. Aye, it was boring as shite. Thought ah’d come along ta take in the local sights here in bonnie Dundurn till my call came.

“I liked Duggie well enough, and everything would have been fine, except ah picked up a short-term contract to do some local security work. Ah will na say who my employer was or what, if any, instructions he gave mae ta act as ah ave.”

But Bishop did insist it was only after many complaints about the “thieving mick bookie” went unheeded that Bishop responded, and then only reluctantly. “Duggie was a good lad, eh. Irish ta the core, mind ye—needed a chin smackin after a few pints—but a good lad.”

Still, he had a job to do. “Ah bought anchors to sink Duggie, but when ah arriv’t tae pick him up in ma rented truck, he was walkin’ out with Anniken. Ah offered them a lift home and saw immediately tha Duggie knew home was not the destination.

“Ah parked out by Princess Point, a bonnie place to die. Getting outta the truck, ah drew ma weapon … this one.” He reached under the T-shirt to reveal a large calibre semi-automatic. “We went inside the cargo area and ah closed the door.”

The cargo space was empty but for the anchors, the line and the packing tape. Duggie tried to talk him out of it. Seeing that was futile, he switched tactics and begged Bishop to let Anniken go. “It dinnae please me ta refuse him, but there ye have it. Ah couldna let her go, now could ah?”

Bishop carried on with his narration. “Ah knew he hadn’t touched her yet, and so ah says, ‘Duggie, that’s a beauty right there, a true, untouched beauty. Ah want ye tae at least see her.’ Ah told Anni to take off her clothes, and when the lass refused, ah smacked Duggie with mae weapon. She was shiverin’ with fear but started ta undress. At first, Duggie was wiping away the blood pourin’ from the top of his haid, but then he looked over at her. She was a beauty indeed.

“Ah snapped her neck—she felt only a heartbeat of pain. Then, and only because he was behavin’ very badly, screamin’ and lunging at ma, ah garrotted poor Duggie. Ah used an anchor for each and tied them with clever knots, assuming tha would do the trick. Alas, the creatures of your dusky bay got the better of mae.”

Bishop and Duggie had gone fishing in Byrne’s boat; he knew where it was moored and that the key for the motor was on Duggie’s Irish harp key-chain. When he took them across to Cootes, it was well after midnight; and when he dumped them over the side, he thought he’d said goodbye forever.

Smoke was starting to come out the sides of the oven door, but the fire alarm had not been triggered. “Sherry … Auch, ah have ta admit, ah lost it there. We made spectacular love on
her bed and when ah awoke, she was on top of me, running her fingers over ma tattoos. That’s when it started.”

Interpreting the confusion on MacNeice’s face, he mimicked her, hitting a squealing falsetto. “ ‘Oh my God! Like that is so fab! Like really! Like awesome, like-like-like-like really—oh … my … God.’ ” He shook his head. “Ta ma mind, Detective Superintendent, ye have serious problems with your education in Dundurn. There was a university diploma on the wall of her boudoir. And yet, for a half-hour or more after I woke, she continued ta blather. Ah couldnae stand it and couldnae shut her up. My head was poundin’ from so many blue drinks and ah snapped. Ah felt like a right shite about it, but there it is.”

He reached over and pulled the cord from MacNeice’s mouth. “Ye ave questions, MacNeice?” He dropped it under his chin and waited.

MacNeice cleared his throat. “Why the tape on the girls’ eyes?”

“Oh aye, the tape … pure superstition. Ah’d a fixer in Afghanistan who said it released the soul from the body … or some such thing. Ah’m not normally given ta such twaddle, but ever since, ah’ve taped them. Not for Duggie, though. By the time ah had him on the bay, his face and eyes were so black and swollen, ah just wanted ta be done wie him.”

Bishop stood up, glanced back to the kitchen, where the smoke was billowing above the stove. Samantha was also looking, her eyes welling with tears. “It appears, miss, ye didn’t install a smoke alarm near your cooker. Ye better hope this one is working.” He pointed to the detector in the living room ceiling. He tried to shove the cord back in MacNeice’s mouth, but MacNeice jerked his head away.

“One more question: Why did you come here to tell me this? You could have just left.”

“Aye, but as ye can see, ah don’t lack for confidence. Ah’m also a wee bit fatalistic—we have ta be in our line of work, do ye na think?”

Seeing the surprise on MacNeice’s face, he added, “Ye and me are like rugby players. You’re city, ah’m international. There’s more at stake in my game—failure is fatal—but the pay packet’s thicker.” He smiled like a man who liked his chances. Putting on his coat, he added, “Ah honestly feel terrible about Anni, a bonnie wee girl, and Sherry too. Actually, MacNeice, to be truthful, ah just wanted to confess my sins to a fellow traveller.”

He shoved the cord back in MacNeice’s mouth, then winked and headed for the door, where he stopped to say, “Don’t bother looking for me on the motorways or waterways. Just imagine ah was the grim reaper tha’ came ta town, then left. We won’t meet again, MacNeice.”

The fire was now crackling in the kitchen. The moment Bishop stepped out to the landing, the smoke curled into the living room and travelled swiftly across the ceiling toward the door. Bishop leaned back into the apartment and gave a casual salute to Samantha.

As the door closed, the smoke detector came to life with a painfully loud
blurp, blurp, blurp
. MacNeice shoved his head back against the wall, trying to get the chair onto its back legs so he could use his feet. It was to no effect—the chair legs were too close to the wall. Finally, he managed to get the sole of his left shoe, then his right, flat against the wall. He pushed off sharply, forcing his head and shoulders forward for momentum. The chair tipped and fell, smashing his knees, then his forehead, on the floor. He was face down on the carpet with no ability to move to either side. The blood rushed to his head, into his mouth and out his nose. He was going to suffocate if he didn’t do something fast.

On top of that, smoke was curling around MacNeice’s head. He used whatever lung capacity he could command to exhale, sending spittle and gore whistling past the cord and onto
the floor. But when he attempted to inhale, he took in smoke and choked, which left him with no capacity to breathe in or out. He blinked hard, the smoke searing his eyes. The last thing he saw were the flames rising in the kitchen. Then it hit him: he’d always wondered how his life would end, and here he was, upside down, literally out of breath, choking on his own blood.

Bright … so bright. So cold … it’s freezing
. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed, but his thoughts searched for Kate. He imagined blinking—but was he blinking? The light was so intense.
Why would God take me away only to blind me, and why is it so bloody cold?
Kate hated the cold; her request to be cremated was, in part, a final claim on warmth.

Beyond a mechanical wheeze, he couldn’t hear anything, but he felt no pain and his body felt weightless. He assumed he was floating upwards.
Kate … Kate, I’m here
. He was certain she’d hear him, but he couldn’t feel his mouth move—was this how it worked? You think you’re speaking, but you’re not. He blinked several times because he didn’t want to miss the first sight of her—she’d be wearing white. She always chose white. A summer dress, French and flowing.
But it’s so cold here. And that wheeze—is that me?
He held his breath, listening. The noise continued. Was he actually holding his breath? He couldn’t tell. Were his eyes open? He thought so, but when he blinked, it was the same: white, very white.

“He’s suffered heat and smoke inhalation damage to his upper respiratory tract,” Dr. Munez said to Aziz as he looked into the ICU cubicle where MacNeice lay. A breathing tube was inserted in his mouth and down his throat, the other end attached to a respirator. He had IVs in both arms. “Clinically, he was dead when the firefighters arrived, but the scans indicate there’s no brain
damage. He’s heavily sedated so he will tolerate the respirator, and he’s on antibiotics and cortisone—steroids—through the intravenous drips.” The immediate concern, he said, was not brain function, though there was evidence that he’d received a concussion either due to the fall or a blow inflicted prior to it. “The very real concern now is clearing the carbon monoxide built up in his lungs.”