Hostage to Murder (35 page)

 

Michael hadn't taken his eyes off Bernie's front door since Patrick's departure. He knew his life would be worth nothing if he fucked up now and he was determined not to make a single mistake. Suddenly, he straightened up in his seat. “It's them!”

“The bitch and the boy?” Kevin exclaimed.

“The same.” As Bernie ushered Jack towards her scarlet hatchback, Michael fastened his safety belt and dug Kevin in the ribs. “Start her up, Kevin.”

Startled by the hard edge in his partner's voice, Kevin turned the key and floored the accelerator. The engine coughed and stalled. On the third try, it finally caught. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Just don't fucking lose them.” It wasn't a command to argue with.

Bernie strapped Jack into the child seat in the back of the car, then walked round to the driver's seat. The car nosed out of its parking place and made its way down Kinghorn Drive to the junction.

“But why won't you tell me where we're going?” Jack asked plaintively.

“Because it's an adventure,” Bernie said, glancing in her rear view mirror, not in the least surprised to see a car pull out behind her.

“I don't want any more adventures. I want Tam.” Jack sounded on the point of tears.

“I want Tam too,” Bernie said, her voice trembling. “But we have to learn to manage on our own.”

Patrick's car edged on to the rooftop level of the car park. He cruised slowly from one end to the other, pausing at each parked car to check it was empty. Lindsay crouched behind the bin, the ski mask pulled over her face so nothing was visible in the gloom except the gleam of her eyes. She could feel sweat trickling down her neck and pooling in the small of her back. “Just park, you bastard,” she said under her breath.

As if he heard her, Patrick drew to a halt and reversed neatly into a slot as far away from the other cars as he could get.
Perfect
, Lindsay thought.

As the sound of his engine died in the damp night air, nine floors down Rory was driving up to the car park barrier. She took a ticket and drove in, then stopped. Giles stepped out of the shadows and gave her the thumbs-up sign. Rory flashed a grin at him and drove upwards, heart thudding in her chest. She urgently wanted to pee, but realised it was purely psychological. Almost the last thing she'd done before she left had been to use the toilet. That knowledge didn't stop her feeling desperate, however.

Giles checked his watch. It showed five minutes to eight. He took a deep breath and crossed to the machine that issued the exit permits. He inserted the ticket Lindsay had given him, fed a handful of coins into the machine and took the exit ticket. He walked briskly across towards the barrier guarding the way out and leaned against the wall, trying to look as if he was waiting for someone.

Which of course he was. Bernie turned into the street and checked the dashboard clock. Two minutes to eight. She was right on time. She drove into the entrance, checking her tail was still in place a discreet distance behind her. She took a ticket from the machine, then, as the arm rose, drove hesitantly forward. While she hovered, apparently uncertain of the direction she should take, a Vauxhall Vectra drove into the entrance lane. The driver's arm appeared, taking a ticket, and the barrier rose again. The car drove through and edged towards Bernie.

The moment the entrance barrier returned to the horizontal, Bernie's car leapt forward in sudden acceleration. She pulled hard on the wheel, swinging round and heading fast for the exit. Giles
jumped out of the shadows and inserted the exit ticket as she approached. The metal arm rose and Bernie speeded through, her tyres screeching as she hit the street at thirty miles an hour. Giles took off on foot, running through an alley towards their prearranged rendezvous.

Inside the Vectra, panic was raging. “The fucking bitch,” Kevin screamed over and over again.

“She's set him up,” Michael raged, throwing open the passenger door. “Get after the fucking cow. Don't fucking lose her.” He dived out of the car just as Kevin accelerated and he rolled to the ground, twisting his ankle badly as he fell. He got to his feet, cursing and wincing as arrows of pain shot up his leg. As he stood, he realised he'd also done something to his left collarbone. He could hardly move his arm and every step he took provoked a painful grinding along his shoulder.

Kevin had the engine at screaming point, lifting his foot off the clutch and launching the car at the barrier. He hurtled forward straight into the metal pole, expecting it to snap under the impact. Not for the first time in his life, Kevin had misjudged the situation completely. The barrier, more solid than it looked, rocked and bent slightly. The car was more vulnerable. The windscreen starred as the glass shattered and the car roof crumpled. “Jesus fuck!” Kevin wailed.

He threw the car into reverse then attacked the barrier again. This time, the pillar at the end of the windscreen bent under the impact, but the car's momentum carried it forward, only brought to a halt by the strength of the barrier. The car was comprehensively trapped. It could move neither forward nor back. Kevin struggled to open the driver's door, but it was stuck too. He couldn't squeeze over to the passenger door because the roof was crushed too low on that side. Nor could he stretch far enough to reach the mobile phone which had fallen into the footwell on the passenger side. As the magnitude of the disaster slowly began to penetrate, Kevin started to shake. “Ah, shit,” he groaned.

Meanwhile, Michael had limped across to the lifts, only to discover the “Out of Order” sign that Giles had stuck there. He didn't
even bother to try the call button, settling instead for kicking the door with his uninjured foot. Breathing heavily, one arm hanging useless at his side, he turned towards the stairwell. His good arm reached inside his jacket and reappeared clutching a Glock automatic. “Fucking bitch,” he swore as he began the long descent to the roof.

 

Rory had climbed the levels as fast as she safely could, swerving once to avoid a woman loading her boot with shopping. The red digital display read 7:59 as she turned on to the final ramp. It was still drizzling and visibility was poor on the roof level. But she could make out Patrick Coughlan standing in the shadows by his car. She parked about twenty feet away from him and got out, keeping her hands in sight and well away from her body. Her whole body was tense with apprehension, her blood pounding in her ears like a mad Burundi drummer. She took a few steps towards him.

Patrick remained motionless, his eyes watchful, his hands in his overcoat pockets. He said nothing until Rory was about six feet away from him. Then he spoke. “Who are you?” he said.

“I'm Lindsay Gordon's business partner.”

Patrick's lip curled in a sneer. “Lindsay Gordon. The woman who can't take a telling.”

Rory licked her dry lips, “Bernie asked me to come. You know she can't let you have the boy.”

It felt like a long silence, but it was only a matter of seconds. “I wish you hadn't said that,” Patrick said.

“Why? Because you'll have to deal with her the same way you dealt with Tam? And then me? And then Lindsay?” Rory's voice sounded far more defiant to her than she would have believed possible.

“You don't know me well enough to heed my warnings. Bernadette should know better, though.”

“What Bernie knows is how her son would end up if she handed him over to you. A cold-blooded killer, fighting a pointless war, just like his daddy.”

“A boy should know who his father is. I have a right to my son.”

“And Tam? Didn't he have any rights?” Rory stood her ground, her eyes never leaving his face.

“He had no right to my son.”

“He risked going to prison to get your son back to his mother,” she pointed out.

“I've risked at least that much to put the boy where he belongs. In my house.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. Murder.” It was, she knew, the key moment. She had to get the admission on tape, had to forge a weapon strong enough to keep this man at bay forever.

Patrick shook his head. “It wasn't murder. It was punishment. For taking what wasn't his.”

“She won't let you have Jack. Not after what you did to Tam.”

A cold smile, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. “Dead women don't have choices.”

Rory started at the sound of a door smacking open against a concrete wall. She whirled round to see a figure silhouetted against the harsh fluorescence of the stairwell. An unfamiliar voice shouted, “Patrick! She's set you up! She's got away with the boy. We lost them!”

Rory's hand instinctively flew up to protect the microphone in an ambiguous gesture. Assuming she was going for a weapon, Michael's gun hand came up and he moved into the firing position. But before he could shoot, from behind the grit bin came the flash of gunfire and the backfire boom of a shotgun. Michael, blasted at point blank range, crumpled to the ground without a sound. Shocked at what she'd done, Lindsay stood looking down uncomprehendingly at the still form at her feet.

She was brought back to reality by the sound of shots. Suddenly alert, she took in the scene. Patrick was waving a handgun around, shooting wildly in her general direction, his panic the reaction of a man who hasn't seen active service for a very long time and is unaccustomed to taking responsibility for his own protection. Lindsay didn't think he could see her and had no conviction that he could hit her even if he could.

But as she stood motionless in the shadows, she saw Rory whirl
back round to face Patrick. As if in slow motion, she saw Patrick's gun hand waver towards Rory. Lindsay roared, “No,” and left the shadows at a sprint, the shotgun held at waist height, her finger on the trigger.

Patrick's hand jerked and Rory staggered before crashing to the ground. Lindsay felt her chest constrict as she charged across the roof, screaming unintelligibly. Patrick turned back towards her but before he could fire again, Lindsay's finger tightened implacably.

The blast caught him full in the chest and he collapsed, blood pouring from a hole the size of a football. Lindsay barely paused, knowing he was beyond help and not caring. She dropped the gun and fell to her knees beside Rory. Blood soaked her shirt and jacket, spreading from a wound high on the right side of her chest. Rory's face was parchment in the sodium lights, her eyes closed. Tears spilled from Lindsay's eyes as she checked for a pulse in Rory's neck. It was there, faint and thready, but it was there. She gently touched Rory's face with one hand, while putting pressure on the wound with the other. “Rory? Oh God, Rory, say something. Don't do this to me, don't die on me!” Her voice was agonised, mirroring the desperation she felt as Rory failed to move.

Lindsay pulled out her mobile phone and dialled the emergency services. “Which service do you require?” the anonymous voice asked kindly.

“Ambulance. My pal's been shot,” Lindsay gabbled. “On the top floor of the Charles Rennie Mackintosh car park. You've got to hurry, she's bleeding badly. There's two other people hurt as well.”

“That's the Mackintosh car park in Garnethill?”

“Yeah, yeah. Get somebody here, please.”

“The police and ambulance will be with you shortly. Can you . . .” Lindsay cut off the call. She didn't have time for anything except Rory. She leaned over her to check she was still breathing. This time, her eyelids fluttered and opened. Rory looked dazed and bewildered.

“Rory?” Lindsay said, hardly able to believe her eyes.

“Lindsay?” It was a croak, but it was her name, unmistakably.

Lindsay suddenly remembered she was wearing the ski mask and
yanked it off. “It's me, Rory. Listen, there's an ambulance coming, you're going to be OK. Just hang in there.”

“Hurts . . . Did we get enough?” she groaned.

“It's sorted,” Lindsay said.

“You look . . . You never said . . . a gun.”

“You'd only have worried.”

Rory coughed. “Cover your back . . . you need . . . cover your back.”

“Never mind me.” But nevertheless she took heed of Rory's concern. Lindsay slipped her hand inside Rory's bra, made even more fearful by the marble coldness of her skin. She pulled the mike clear and stuffed it into her pocket.

“Please,” Rory whispered. “Gun. Get rid.”

“OK.” Lindsay didn't care about the consequences for herself, but being scared for her wasn't helping Rory. She grabbed the shotgun and stood up. “Fucking carnage. How do you explain fucking carnage?” She raced down a level to her own car and wrenched the door open. She lifted the bench seat and threw in the gun, the spare cartridges and all the electronic equipment. Then she pulled off her waxed jacket and tossed it on top.