I held up Alice’s phone in my bandaged hand, screen filled with the map of Kingsmeath. ‘Way I see it, she could go two ways to her appointment at Burgh Library,’ pointing at the massive roundabout it sat in the middle of, ‘one: you go down to Montrose Road, back to the bridge, then up King’s Drive. Two: you cut through Kingsmeath. Banks Road, straight through to McNamara Row, then left onto Glensheilth Crescent.’
Shifty pulled a face. ‘What about Denmuir Gardens?’
‘They’ve dug it all up in front of the primary school, after that sewage-pipe leak.’
‘Still doesn’t explain where her car is. She’d—’ His phone launched into the theme tune from Mastermind, and he pulled it out. Checked the caller ID. Answered it. ‘Rhona?... Uh-huh... Uh-huh... OK... No, thanks anyway... Yeah, I will. Thanks. Bye... OK, bye.’ Puffing out a breath as he slid the phone back in his pocket. ‘Henry’s not at your flat.’
Maybe he was still in the car? Because the alternative didn’t really bear thinking about.
But one thing was certain, Chris McHale was about to have a very bad evening.
I struggled my right hand into a nitrile glove — not easy with the left all clarted in bandages, climbed out of the car, and limped over to number sixteen. No names on the intercom. The services button had been taped over, so I tried ‘FLAT ONE’ instead, leaning on the buzzer until an irritated voice crackled out of the speaker.
‘What? Jesus. I was on the bog!’
‘Got a chicken vindaloo, lamb biryani, steamed rice—’
‘I didn’t order a curry. You’ve got the wrong flat, muppet.’
‘Yeah, but the guy’s buzzer isn’t working, and if I don’t deliver his meal they’re going to take it out my wages. Come on, be a mensch.’
‘Gah... Fine.’ A grumbling metal noise, then click, the door was unlocked.
Worked every time. Well, almost.
I pushed inside, Shifty following me up the dark winding stairs to the first floor.
Flat Four had a bicycle chained up outside it, seat and handlebars removed. A small plastic plaque on the scuffed brown door: ‘C MCHALE ESQ’ so an even bigger prick than he’d sounded on the phone.
Shifty pulled on his own pair of nitrile gloves. ‘What if he’s got someone living with him, or a visitor?’
‘Then they get to have a horrible evening too.’
‘Fair enough.’ Shifty put one fat thumb over the spyhole and knocked with his other hand. Raised his voice for, ‘Deliveroo!’ Knocked again. ‘I wasn’t kidding, by the way, that jacket’s hideous and it stinks of weed.’
‘My own coat’s covered in blood, OK? It was this or looking like something off the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.’
Shifty gave the door another knock, louder and harder this time. ‘Not sure it’s much of an improvement.’ Deep breath, another thumping knock. ‘DELIVEROO!’
A thin metallic rattling noise, then the door popped open a crack and a sliver of puffy face glowered out at us. ‘You’ve got the wrong—’
Shifty rammed his shoulder into the door, ripping the security chain from its moorings, as he lumbered in over the threshold.
The man stumbled back, one hand clutching his face. A short bloke, pale and overweight, hair swept up at the front into a greying quiff, wearing tartan lounging trousers and a faded ‘STEAMPUNK SEX TOY ~ WORLD TOUR 2013!’ T-shirt. ‘You can’t—’
A right hook to the uncovered side of his head sent him crashing against the wall, then slithering down till he was slumped against the skirting board. Shifty stood over him, flexing that big fist.
‘Chris McHale?’
He wobbled where he sat. No reply.
‘Fine.’ Shifty grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him upright. ‘Let’s find your bathroom, shall we? See if you float.’ Opening doors at random, then shoving McHale inside.
While the sound of water splashing into the bath echoed out into the hall, I checked the rest of the flat. It had the clinical tidiness of a neat-freak who lived alone and didn’t get out much. A big collection of vinyl records, all in alphabetically labelled shelving. The same with DVDs. Widescreen TV and a turntable. Bedroom was every bit as neat, and so was the kitchen. A selection of coats and jackets on hangers in a hallway alcove, shoes and boots lined up in pairs beneath them. Which only left the bathroom.
Not quite so tidy in here. Not with Chris McHale cowering next to the toilet, while Shifty filled the bath.
I leaned against the doorframe. ‘You’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you, Chris?’
‘You can’t... I didn’t...’ Deep breath. ‘Please! This isn’t—’
‘Going to give you one chance, then it’s face down in the bath you go.’
‘Please! I don’t know what she’s told you, but I never touched her, I swear! She’s a lying bitch, you know that. All she ever does is lie!’
‘You greasy bastard.’ A nearly-full bottle of Alberto Balsam Sunkissed Raspberry shampoo didn’t weigh all that much, but if you hurled it with enough force, at someone’s face...
McHale shrieked, flinching back against the cistern, hand coming up to cover his left eye. ‘I didn’t touch her! She was playing on the swings and she fell off and I helped her up, that’s all! I didn’t mean to see her knickers.’
Ah. So he wasn’t talking about Alice, then?
The matching raspberry conditioner felt as if it had a bit more heft to it. ‘Dr McDonald. She interviewed you this morning: one o’clock.’
‘Doctor...? This isn’t about Tracy Fordyce?’ A small laugh. ‘It’s not about her. I didn’t—’
The conditioner battered into his forehead, hard enough to split the plastic and send a gush of sweet-smelling pink out across his chest and the wall behind.
‘Aaaaaaaargh!’
‘You followed Alice after she left here, didn’t you, Chris?’
‘Please, please I don’t—’
‘You followed her and somehow you got her out of her car, and then you ran her over.’
‘That’s not—’
‘She’s in Intensive Care, you little shite!’
Shifty turned off the taps and hauled Chris McHale from his hiding place. ‘Time for swimming.’ Then whacked him against the side of the bath and shoved his head under the steaming water.
Arms and legs thrashing, or at least until Shifty knelt one leg across the guy’s calves.
‘Think that’s enough?’
I held out my good hand, fingers counting down to a clenched fist.
McHale surfaced, bringing an arc of raspberry-scented water with him. Coughing and spluttering between the sobs.
‘What did you do with her car, Chris?’
‘I... I didn’t... didn’t do... anything... to her! I... I swear! On... my mother’s... grave... I never... touched her.’
‘Under you go.’ Shifty put his weight behind it this time, grinding McHale’s face into the bottom of the tub. ‘What if the wee shite’s telling the truth?’
‘Alice said there might be a paedophile ring operating in Kingsmeath. Can you think of a better cover than being a Court-Appointed Mentor? Your charges come pre-messed-up, who’s going to notice them going slightly further off the deep end, because you’re fiddling with them too?’
‘And he’s seen this Tracy girl’s knickers.’ A frown. ‘That’s probably enough.’ Shifty hauled him back above the waterline.
‘AAAAAARGH!’ More coughing, followed by a lot of retching.
‘Quiet!’ Shifty slapped him, hard. ‘Want me to give you something to scream about?’
‘Please!... I swear... she... she came and... and asked her... questions... and wrote it all down... then... then she left!’