Blood and Stone Read online

  Switching off the downstairs lights as he went, McGinley climbed the stairs and searched the bedrooms, but the wardrobes and cabinets were small and contained only clothing and day-to-day items. He was surprised to find a computer in the tiny box room that had been made over into a sort of office, but again his torch picked out nothing of what he was looking for. It was as he was crossing the landing to descend the stairs again that he thought of the one last place they might be.

  Fetching a stool from the bedroom, he climbed up and released the loft hatch, sliding down the integral aluminium ladder. When the beam of light first swooped over the stack of cardboard boxes, he was dismayed by the scale of the task; he would be here all night sorting through this lot. But then it struck him that the arrangement was too neat; the boxes were proper archive boxes that were all precisely labelled in the same careful handwriting. They must belong to the Major. He would have brought them with him when he moved in; yet another way of completely dominating his ma’s life. Towards the back of the loft space he eventually spotted a smaller stack; an odd assortment of cardboard grocery boxes and battered suitcases. That was her stuff. Heaving himself up through the hatch, McGinley picked his way carefully across, treading on the joists. In the second suitcase he found what he was looking for, an envelope of yellowing press cuttings, old tickets and letters, along with one short newspaper report of a death in custody, and the subsequent internal police investigation that exonerated the officers involved. A second cutting, barely two column inches, described a tragic suicide. As a teenager McGinley had once overheard an indiscreet neighbour talking about the ‘bad luck’ that seemed to follow the McGinley family around. The Major no doubt described it as ‘God’s will’. But McGinley knew they were both wrong. Everything happened for a reason. This time, the reason was him.

  Folding away the loft ladder and closing the hatch, McGinley was overcome by sudden exhaustion. Having found everything he wanted, he lay down on the bed in the spare room for a couple of hours’ sleep. As he drifted off he thought about how weird it was that he could be so relaxed with two dead bodies lying in the hall downstairs. These days he was a light sleeper and had no worries that he would wake before dawn. But just in case, he set the alarm of his cheap digital watch for three a.m.

  Mariner lay flat on his back waiting for the sky beyond the curtains to lighten. It had been after midnight when he’d climbed the stairs to bed but, like so many nights of late, his brain had refused to log off. His body felt heavy and lethargic, weighed down by the prospect of the day ahead. But when he could more or less see without the aid of electricity he forced himself to get out of bed and pull on jeans and an old sweatshirt. There were preparations to make.

  Downstairs in the kitchen he brewed a mug of tea, but abandoned it on the worktop, too queasy to drink it. He’d been prevaricating, but could do so no longer. Along the hallway by the front door, Mariner unlocked the half-door that went down to the cellar. Cool, stale air wafted out, and he had to suppress an instant, though fleeting, ripple of fear. Switching on the light, he was presented with nothing more threatening than what looked like a subterranean Oxfam shop; the discarded but ‘might come in useful’ stuff he’d accumulated since he’d moved in here nearly twenty years ago. An old vacuum cleaner, boxes of books and old LPs, pictures and picture frames brought from his mother’s house. But the biggest pile by far was of walking gear; several previous generations of boots, rucksacks and camping stoves, most of it obsolete, along with the equipment he used now. And that was what he’d come down for this morning. On the rare occasions when he was compelled to retrieve anything from the cellar, Mariner’s strategy was always the same: identify what’s needed from the vantage point at the top of the steps, go down to fetch it and return as quickly as possible to the hall, with one eye on the open door at all times, in case it should suddenly and inexplicably slam shut. He was well aware that his fears right now were irrational. But they were grounded in real and terrifying experiences, so recognizing that fact did nothing to diminish their power. Today two forays were enough, and stacking everything in the hall, Mariner closed and locked the cellar door again, before opening his front door on the chill morning air. It took several journeys to load everything into the back of his car bit by bit, arranging his kit carefully as he always did, like a neat jigsaw puzzle, everything in its rightful place. For the first time he allowed himself to think beyond this day. He’d tried to make his escape once before, but had been thwarted. This time was going to be different.

  McGinley woke at the bleeping of his alarm, feeling groggy and sluggish. The sky was beginning to turn grey. Gathering his things and locking the door behind him, he exited the house the way he had come, emerging cautiously, just in case his presence had aroused attention. As he walked away he felt slightly heady, with what he imagined to be the satisfying feeling of revenge. This was how the old geezer at Long Lartin had said it would be. McGinley hadn’t known whether to believe him at the time, but it was true, like a cleansing of the soul. ‘Don’t go out with a fizz, go out with a bang,’ he’d told McGinley. ‘Make people sit up and take notice of you. It’s the last chance you’ll get.’ And this was just the start. If the rest of it worked out as planned, it was going to turn into something monumental.

  Although he’d started young and had built up an impressive record, McGinley had always been small time, a tiny cog in someone else’s machine. He’d snatched at opportunities as they were presented, and he’d relied on other people to create them for him. With the occasional exception of petty offences he’d never felt secure enough to go it alone, or to engage in any long-term planning, but he couldn’t get over how well this was playing out – better than he had a right to expect. Now he began to wonder if, with a bit of effort, he could have been more ambitious with other enterprises. Some of this new-found confidence of course came from knowing that now he had absolutely nothing to lose. Ironically the onset of physical weakness was making him strong. No one could touch him and that feeling of power was extraordinarily potent; he felt invincible.

  His only tiny regret from last night’s episode was that the moment of execution had been so short-lived. It made him wish that he’d filmed it, if only on a mobile, so that he could replay it and enjoy those few seconds all over again. But common sense told him that success depended on keeping things simple. In many ways the anger had gone out of him by now, too. Ma wasn’t a bad person, not in the way that some people are, but she had let them down. If she had done her job properly, things would have turned out differently, and for that she’d had to be punished. No, it had to be enough for him that she would be denied a peaceful old age. And he’d have to content himself with the images that lived on in his head.

  There was more to do, and right now he had to focus and make sure his getaway was as clean as the operation. Once the bodies were discovered it wouldn’t take long for the police to work out what had happened or who was responsible. But by the time they’d joined the dots they wouldn’t stand a hope in hell of catching up with him. Duck and cover. He’d been learning about that for most of his miserable life. Retracing his steps along the streets, keeping to the shadows, he came to the row of lock-up garages. The up-and-over door seemed to roar and clang in the quiet night as he opened it on the old generation puke-green Astra. It was perfect; average enough not to draw attention, and before he set off he carefully checked the tax disc, plates and all the lights, reassured that she’d kept it all up to date. With luck it would be a while before there was any police interest around here, but he had form, and the last thing he needed was to get caught out and be pulled over for a minor traffic offence. The adrenalin spike was starting to flatten now and the pain in his side was coming up to meet it, but he had to keep his wits about him for just a few more hours until he could relax.

  FOUR

  Day Two

  It was still early when Mariner had finished his packing so he made another mug of tea in the hope that it might settle his stomach, then f
orced himself under the shower. Glancing down he saw a crimson spot drip on to the pristine white floor of the shower cubicle, a pinkish rim spreading out from it and making it look like a small fiery planet. It was joined by another, then another to form a whole miniature solar system. In reality it was a nose bleed. He’d been plagued with them lately, though luckily so far they were mostly first thing in the morning. Stress-related, the doctor told him when he’d casually mentioned it at his last medical. Stress from what? Mariner had almost asked, before realizing what a stupid question that was. Stepping out of the shower, it took him several minutes to stem the flow enough to be able to shave properly, and he left his white shirt on its hanger a while longer.

  He was knotting his tie when he heard the sound of a car engine and glanced outside to see Millie Khatoon and Tony Knox, arriving exactly on time. So this was it. The discomfort grumbling away in his belly suddenly bubbled up into his throat in a bitter surge, and with the repeated and insistent chiming of his doorbell ringing in his ears, he ran for the bathroom and consigned the mug of tea to the toilet bowl. When the retching subsided he swilled his mouth out and splashed cold water on his face. It was a white, gaunt visage that stared back at him from the mirror. He’d never had much colour but the strain of the last few weeks was showing in the pallor of his skin. The white flecks in his hair were on the increase too and even the blue seemed to have drained from his eyes, leaving them hollowed, with dark shadows underneath. Not for the first time he considered feigning an illness, thinking that perhaps if he refused to acknowledge today it might seem less real, less final. But common sense told him that in time it would be something he’d live to regret. The doorbell rang again, more insistently. Resolute, Mariner dried his face, jogged down the stairs and, grabbing his overcoat from the hook he strode out of the house, slamming the door shut behind him. ‘Come on then,’ he said, tossing his car keys at Millie. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘And good morning to you,’ said Knox, throwing his colleague a glance. ‘I’ll see you down there.’

  McGinley had driven carefully out of Liverpool via the Mersey Tunnel and on to the Wirral under cover of the breaking dawn, acutely aware that once he got beyond the large conurbations he would be increasingly conspicuous. He was making excellent time through the Cheshire country lanes, and what he thought might be a tricky piece of navigation was turning out to be surprisingly easy. Although he’d ceased to believe in ‘the big man’ many years ago, suddenly McGinley had the sense that some greater power really was on his side, helping him along.

  He’d learned about computers while he was crashing at Froggie’s place in between stays at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Apart from the porn on tap (Froggie’s mouse was always suspiciously sticky) his mate had banged on about Friends Reunited. McGinley didn’t have the faintest desire to be reunited with anyone he’d been at school with, not to begin with, anyway, and within a few short minutes he’d decided that the whole concept was total bullshit. Just an excuse for the successful wankers of the world to show off to everyone else about how wonderfully their lives had turned out, while, at the same time, rubbing the noses of people like McGinley into the shit that was their wretched lot. But when McGinley stumbled across the name ‘Lindsey Appleby’ he couldn’t resist a peek.

  He hadn’t thought about her for years, but once he did, it became obvious to him that, like his mother, Lindsey Appleby (or Daker as she was now called) had also let him down. Badly. She’d done all right for herself of course, he could see that from the profile – married to Tim, a property developer – with an address on the footballer territory of the Wirral. It was all so disappointingly conventional. Would love to hear from anyone who knows me! screamed the blurb. McGinley took that as a challenge and got Froggie to show him how to send an email, typing it out painstakingly with his two index fingers. He was fully prepared for it to be ignored, but Lindsey had confounded his expectation and responded almost straight away as if they really were old friends. He was immediately sceptical. Doubtless she just replied in the same vein to everyone who contacted her, which simply confirmed for McGinley what total bollocks it all was. So he emailed a question to try and catch her out: remember the sparrow? He never got the response because days later he was arrested for breaking and entering (well if people would leave their bathroom windows open when they went out) and social networking isn’t exactly encouraged in Strangeways. But that encounter across the interweb had stayed with him and it was when he was planning his escape route that McGinley had happened to notice how close he would be passing to where Lindsey Daker and her perfect life existed.

  It made complete sense that he was going to cross this area, of course, and time was on his side. There was going to be a lengthy wait at his destination anyway, so why not make a short detour? What did he have to lose? He quite literally had time to kill. That had made him chuckle, and it was disappointing that he couldn’t share his wit with anyone. It was altogether possible of course that Lindsey no longer lived at the address posted on the website, but on balance McGinley thought it more likely that she would, and he saw it as an opportunity; some might even see it as an intervention of fate. He had no idea about the minutiae of Lindsey’s life, though he could take an educated guess. He’d assess the situation, and if it looked as if it would be too complicated then he would just drive on. Lindsey was only a bit-player; an optional extra. There were bigger fish to fry.

  The detour had brought McGinley, as expected, into a very affluent neighbourhood. These were the homes every tart on Merseyside aspired to. The houses, if that was what you could call these palatial structures, were built with privacy in mind, and often could barely be glimpsed behind the tall trees, thick shrubs and long driveways. But privacy cut both ways, with a handy flip side called concealment, and the further he drove into these privileged country lanes the more McGinley warmed to this part of his adventure. Finally he came to the address scrawled on the torn-out notebook page. Jesus it was a big bugger; modern and angular from what he could see behind the screen of conifers. Must be six or seven bedrooms. What the fuck did they do with them all? It was a little after five in the morning now and McGinley was banking on Tim the property developer being a workaholic. A couple of hundred yards back he’d passed the entrance to a water processing plant. He drove back there and parked up behind cover of some dense bushes to wait until a more civilized hour.

  By secondary school McGinley had already been marked out as a weirdo. Everybody seemed to know about what had happened to his dad, but far from being sympathetic they treated him with suspicion. Probably the old git’s fault in the first place. Had to be some truth in it. That family’s trouble. Stay away from them. Then, soon after they moved to Kirkby, Ma got religion. Not any old religion but the sort that comes with maximum potential for humiliation, so there were suddenly plenty more reasons to ostracize him. It spread like wild fire that he was in ‘the army’ and taking the piss out of a McGinley became a new curriculum subject, especially if they were seen up at the shopping centre in uniform at the weekend. It was something else to add to the growing catalogue of shame, from his old-fashioned clothes and hair cut, to his crap school bag, to his family history. When he wasn’t being taunted, mostly he was ignored – until Lindsey Appleby came along. Lindsey was on the outside too and went her own way. She was well-off and lived in a big house that wasn’t technically even in Kirkby, but her mum and dad were social workers or something and thought it was character building for her to go to school with council estate scum. They were opposite ends of the spectrum. While McGinley was really desperate to blend in, Lindsey went out of her way to be different. It was the start of punk and she dyed her hair and put safety pins through her ears. She chose not to hang out with the cool kids, which in itself made her cool. But because of her mum and dad, she also had to be nice to everyone.

  McGinley rode to school every day on an old second-hand pushbike with a torn saddle and no mud guards. One day, as frequently happened, the ch
ain came off. Usually he could put it back on, but on this day it was so tangled it got jammed and he was forced to walk. He saw Lindsey up ahead some distance away, crouching over something. As he got up close he saw it was a sparrow flopping around on the pavement unable to fly. She enlisted him to help carry it the rest of the way to school. For the remaining time that his broken bike forced him to walk to school, he found her waiting for him by the same garden. The first time he nearly pissed himself with fear.

  ‘Where’s your bike?’ she asked.

  ‘I couldn’t fix it.’

  ‘All right, I’ll walk with you.’

  Terrified, McGinley wondered what the hell he would say to her. He didn’t have to worry. Lindsey did all the talking, questions mostly, along with comments on their classmates and teachers that were savagely funny and observations of the world in general.

  McGinley didn’t know why she was interested in him. It would have been different had he been anything like his kid brother, Spencer. Spence was beautiful. People had been saying that since the day he was born. He didn’t have McGinley’s frizzy hair or bucked teeth (back in the days before braces were the norm). Spence had a sweet disposition too, and that, ironically, had been his undoing.