Random (17 page)

But, of course, once it is in black and white it is gospel. Once it is plastered across the columns of a newspaper everyone believes it to be fact. It is so true that the pen is mightier than the sword but it’s not the only way a newspaper can be a weapon.

I felt the weight of the rolled-up paper in my back pocket and was reassured by it.

I waited.

Eventually the door opened and I saw Brian Sinclair wave before closing it behind him. He began to run. He didn’t have the dog with him. That meant it was time.

I gave him fully five minutes then made my way away from the house and circled it before joining the path and walking deep into the wood.

It was a fairly steep climb but I was fit enough. I’d already worked out that I wanted to be far enough in that only one person was likely to pass me. Not so far that it would take me too long to get out again.

When I got to the point I’d picked out, I sat and waited. It wouldn’t be long.

My timing was good. I’d been sitting no more than three minutes when I picked up the sound of running. He was on his return route.

It was a scratch that became a roar. Feet through leaves. Feet across packed ground. Getting closer. Louder. Scrunching towards me.

My heartbeat matched his stride as it closed in on me. I felt cold. No, hot. Heart thumping. Blood pumping. Hot through the ice that filled my veins and froze my heart. I was hot cold. Freezing hot.

Then there he was. He rounded a corner and was no more than ten yards in front of me. I hadn’t seen him so close up and he was taller than I’d thought. Maybe six foot two. Cropped, fair hair. Honeymoon tanned. Happy.

He smiled when he saw me. That threw me but only slightly. For a long time now, strangers smiling at me had struck me as odd. Strangers were strange to me. I knew it was just me though. I’d lost my reason to smile. Lost my reason.

But Brian Sinclair didn’t think like me. He liked people. He smiled at strangers. Or perhaps I wasn’t completely unfamiliar to him. He had a look that suggested he might have seen me before. And of course he might have.

I had watched him for a month. Watched from afar. I had seen him leave the house over the river. I had seen him arrive at his dental practice. I had seen him set out on his run. I had seen him return.

I had seen them walk, hand in hand, whispering, laughing. I had seen them walk the springer spaniel. Sometimes it was Brian, sometimes Mary. Most often it was Mr and Mrs Sinclair together. They liked togetherness. They were wrapped up cosy in it.

But then I knew what they didn’t.

As Brian Sinclair stood there, the look on his face was one that said ‘Hey, I know you. I’m not sure where from but I do know you, don’t I?’

I wasn’t particularly pleased about his recognition but soon it wouldn’t matter.

Sinclair saw me holding my ankle. I was sitting on a boulder, the right leg of my jeans pulled up to the calf.

Of course, I hadn’t sprained it. Brian thought I had.

Are you OK? he asked. I said I was – in a voice that said I wasn’t.

He looked around. What did he expect to find? A crutch, a doctor, an ambulance? He wanted to help. Brian was a nice guy.

I’d already taken the newspaper from my back pocket. It was rolled-up tight but I wrapped it tighter still. Brian might have seen it but thought nothing of it. He couldn’t see that the paper was weeks old.

He kneeled by me and said he’d take a look at my ankle.

He was talking. Words about help. About being careful. About ankles. I didn’t take them in. I only heard noise.

My eyes were on him. On his throat. I gripped the newspaper tighter. Then even tighter.

My breathing was heavy, I knew it. I was sure he’d just put it down to my supposed fall. I hoped he couldn’t hear my heart.

He was closer, trying to lever me up. His head was by mine now. It was nearly time but I couldn’t rush it. I would only get one chance. If I messed it up it was all over.

The newspaper was hot in my hand.

He took hold of my ankle, checking it for me. He was about to find out that it wasn’t swollen. I saw the puzzled look on his face. He was about to ask, about to doubt.

I knew it was as much about accuracy as strength. I would get as much force behind it as I could but it was more important that I caught him in the soft of the throat. It is all about tensile strength. It makes a newspaper as good as a hammer. It makes it near lethal.

His eyes were just turning up towards mine when I stabbed at his throat with the paper. It caught him full and hard, driving against his larynx. It knocked him off his feet. If he’d looked puzzled before then he was bewildered now. His eyes streamed, he clutched at his throat, he gulped and coughed.

I got above him quickly and placed the end of the paper a couple of inches off his forehead. I used the flat of my hand as a hammer and drove the paper against his skull. He passed out with nothing more than a groan.

I was over him then. A newly gloved hand pinching his cheeks and encouraging his mouth to open.

I carefully forced the end of the paper into his mouth and turned it slowly as I fed it to him. Three, four, five inches of it disappeared easily. Easily for me.

Then it hit the back of his throat and went no further. Until I used my hand as a hammer again and hit it hard.

When it didn’t budge, I hit it harder. His throat opened and the newspaper moved down it.

His eyes suddenly opened, bulging wide. They strained down, trying desperately to see what was being forced into his mouth. As if seeing the intruder would free it. It wouldn’t. It didn’t.

I pushed further.

Sinclair waved his arms like a drunk. No power and no direction. They barely flapped. He was choking. Slowly. Hopelessly. It was fascinating to watch.

His eyes watered. His cheeks strained red with effort. His neck was swollen, muscles stretched tight.

Then there was blood at his eyes. Amazing. He cried blood.

The strangest thing was his throat where I could see the outline of the paper. It thrust against his tight skin, trying to burst free.

I hit the top of the paper again. I forced it. I pushed down on it. I literally rammed it down his throat.

The process was incredibly simple if not particularly pretty.

He choked to death in front of me. Silent all but for a few pathetic gasps and a scream that stayed deep down inside him, strangled at birth.

I worked the newspaper back out, a far easier job than putting it in. Wet with saliva, blood and traces of vomit, it slid along his surrendered throat and out.

I sat it on the rock I’d been sitting on and took a cigarette lighter from my pocket. One spark was enough for the damp paper to light and burn and dance and disappear before my eyes. One murder weapon gone.

I swapped the lighter for the secateurs and severed his pinkie.

That and because he hated the fucking name Jock.

Alec Kirkwood had changed tack. Ally McFarland told me so.

Number five had changed his thinking on the whole issue. Seems he now accepted that the killing of Spud Tierney was not done to taunt him. Realized that Tierney’s finger wasn’t a great big Get it Right Up You to him.

That was the good news.

The bad was that Kirky was still hell-bent on finding out who murdered his dealer. Maybe more so than before. He had put the word out that he wanted Spud’s killer. Made sure everyone knew just how much. Kirky was used to getting what he wanted so was not a happy man when it didn’t deliver. And because he had made his wishes so public, it was left all over his face when he got nothing. That just made him angry.

What bothered Kirkwood most was that people, the people that mattered, might see this as weakness. Being top dog in a world where one ate the other was always a precarious business. If they think you are on the slide then they boot you up the arse to help you on your way.

One opening, that was all that they were looking for. Searching for a wound where they could stick a knife and twist until it was left wide and festering.

Well Kirky wasn’t about to give them an opportunity. He’d fuck every one of them over before he let that happen. He needed to re-establish his authority. Smack some heads together, break some legs.

That meant finding the cunt that had killed Spud and took the piss out of him and that was what he was going to do. Maybe it wasn’t all about him but that wasn’t going to stop him from finding whoever shanked Spud.

This serial killer wasn’t the only one that had taken the piss. Mick Docherty, still blazing about Jimmy McIntyre, the bullet through his window and the torture of Billy Hutton, hadn’t missed his chance. He let it be known what a joke Kirkwood had become. How everyone was laughing at him for not being able to look after his own. How he had made all this big noise about making someone pay and then doing sweet fuck all about it.

That would have been enough to make Kirkwood furious but Mick had also been getting a bit naughty. Two pubs in Cowcaddens had been turned over. Bottles, beer and cash taken and both places trashed. Two pubs in Alec Kirkwood’s pocket and under his protection. Penny stuff really but it was cheeky.

Everyone knew that it was kids who worked for Docherty who had done it. They had been selling the booze cheap and knocking back a fair share of it too. Cheeky little bastards, Kirky had said.

They were sorted without too much fuss. Three doors kicked in at the same early hour of the morning. Three disrespectful wee shits beaten about the knees with baseball bats. One of them would never walk unaided again but the other two would be back on their feet in a few months. Lesson learned.

But the boys that had robbed the boozers weren’t the issue. Mick Docherty was. He might not have given them the word to plunder the pubs but he didn’t stop it or turn them over to Kirky once he knew the score. That was out of order. That was ripping the pish.

Kirkwood said it was simple. His reputation. The serial killer. Mick Docherty. All three needed sorting. He figured that by doing one he could maybe do all three. It was all about coming up with a plan.

He had advantages when it came to catching a killer. Kirkwood could send his guys to talk to people that the cops couldn’t. He could get answers where they would only get knock-backs or no comments. Kirky’s people played by different rules.

Davie Stewart and Charlie Grant spoke to Jack Fyfe, a partner in Salter, Fyfe and Bryce. Jonathan Carr’s boss. Seems Fyfe had more than a few clients on his books that were known to Kirkwood. Criminals needed lawyers like anyone else – more than most – and there were always lawyers more than happy to take their coin. Jack Fyfe was one of those.