Murder Mile

Chapter 28

Neil Henderson stood outside the gates of Edinburgh High and watched as the last of the school’s pupils headed for home. He had watched the succession of family cars, saloons and 4x4s, coming to collect the pupils and felt something like envy creep into him. Everyone, it seemed, had a comfortable place in the world, except him. When he weighed his lot — thought of the grimy flat in Leith that he shared with Angela — he felt left out. The game of life had short-changed him.

How could it have been any different though? he wondered. As a boy, Henderson had followed his mother around the town like a beaten dog; she had no interest in him, he was merely an inconvenience — something that got in the way of drinking bouts and boyfriends. He didn’t like to be reminded of those days, tried never to think of them, but the visit to the school grounds had brought them back. He was spending a lot of time looking into his past now and it did nothing but make his heart pound and head hum.

Henderson lit a cigarette, his first since arriving at the school — the rain had prevented him from smoking for the best part of an hour. He was wet, his hair sitting in dark rat tails above his damp collar. He let his fingers linger over the lighter flame for a moment, then quickly buried it in his pocket. The tobacco tasted good, calmed him. The smoke seemed to swirl around his head, block out his thoughts. He took some more deep inhalations, filled his lungs on every gasp.

Henderson knew there was a risk attached to what he was about to do. He had just left prison; if the filth were to hear of his actions, he’d be looking at another stretch. Would that be so bad though? he wondered. His life hadn’t exactly played out as he’d hoped since he got out. It was early days, of course it was, but his appraisal of the future didn’t look any brighter. Angela was in no shape to be walking the Links, she was an overdose waiting to happen, couldn’t be relied upon. And his debt to Boaby Stevens was being called in. The passing image of Shaky’s pug-faced enforcer felt like a dig in the ribs. The next encounter would be worse, he knew it, and the picture it put in his head played as clearly as a movie now. Henderson felt a quake pass through his body, shook him to the bones. He brought the cigarette close again, snatched three quick draws and exhaled the white trail of smoke through his nostrils.

At the time the debt had seemed manageable to Henderson, and it was — with two girls on the Links every night. But not now, not with Ange in her advanced state of atrophy, with her mind and body shot. It was a miracle she was bringing any money in at all; he shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t fucking pay for that,’ he muttered to himself.

Henderson knew he needed to find Shaky’s money, fast. The film spooled in his mind again, showed him lying beaten and broken, bones poking through his skin. He’d had beatings before, for a time when he was a youngster they were a daily occurrence, but he’d moved on from them quickly. As a bullied young boy, Henderson had learned that if he couldn’t beat the bullies, he could join them; and he dispensed a more brutal form of beating than he’d ever been exposed to himself. He smiled as he remembered the torture he’d doled out as a youngster, and later, to the women on the Links.

‘The fucking tarts.’ He wasn’t going to be brought down with Ange, or snuffed out by Shaky. ‘No fucking danger.’

Henderson started pacing the gates; he was growing impatient, wanted to get it over with. He always felt this way before an act of violence, it was as if the impending thrill built up in him and then it could only be released by committing to the damage he had promised to deliver. He scented the blood, he was sure of it.

At the school the cleaning staff started to arrive, old women in tabards with water-bag legs pushing mops and buckets around the place. Henderson sneered at them, they were trash. His mother had cleaned offices in the city, she had worked her fingers to the bone for a pittance; he wasn’t going to follow her. He’d had it good before and he would again; all he needed was a break.

He knew the minute he had started to read Angela’s diary that there was a chance for him to make a few bob for himself. This was a teacher she was going on about, a square peg. Henderson remembered the teachers from his school days: they were all full of themselves, thought they were better than him, thought they were better than everyone. He still despised them. The same social worker that had described him as ‘self-loathing’ had also detailed his ‘reluctance to accept authority’ — he agreed with her. He didn’t like being told what to do by stuck-up twats who looked down their noses at you. And here was one of them, trying it on with a schoolgirl. Even though it was only Angela, and in Henderson’s eyes she was worthless, the teacher, Crawley, had no idea about that. As far as Henderson saw it this was a square peg acting out of turn and he was going to have to pay the price for it; his price.

Henderson watched as the teaching staff started to exit the school building. They were just as he remembered them, just as they always had looked. It was all jackets and ties, pinafores and packed-lunch boxes tucked under the arm with a copy of the Guardian. They all headed off to their Volvos and their Audi estates, some clutching armfuls of exercise books that they’d spend the night poring over with a red pen. He remembered the way they went on about that, the marking. How they’d spent their whole night on it and how disappointed they were with some of the work. They always meant him, thought Henderson. They always hated him. He smiled, it didn’t seem to matter that much now. It might have then, years ago, but things were different. He knew what they were really like, he’d seen through them.

As he stood at the gates he felt a speck of rain fall on his face, he looked up to the sky. Dark clouds had gathered over the roof of the school and perched there like gargoyles; there was another downpour on the way. He put up the collar on his denim jacket, it felt cold and damp against the skin of his neck. He didn’t want to get another soaking but Henderson knew he had to see this job through now. He couldn’t wait any longer, he had waited long enough. There was the problem of people losing interest too; he hadn’t seen or heard any more on the television or in the newspapers about the murder out at Straiton. People were funny these days, they had short attention spans. All it took was a new signing at Hibs, or someone to make an arse of themselves on Britain’s Got Talent, and the news was full of nothing else. He shook his head at the idea of more middle-class men in suits from the press attempting to thwart his plans.

He leaned in closer to the wall, tried to shelter himself as the rain picked up its pace, fell harder. He had asked Angela for a detailed description of Crawley. She had been reluctant at first, even the thought of it seemed to rattle her out of her wits, but she conceded in the end, with some encouragement. He hadn’t even needed to take his belt off again.

Angela said Crawley was a games teacher, always wore a tracksuit and was lanky. He had large hands that looked too big for his long arms and they flapped about when he spoke and when he walked. He sounded odd, like he would stick out.

Angela had said, ‘He is — he looks like a rat — he’s got a rat’s face, pointy.’

Henderson replayed her description now, tried to make sure he had all the information in place. He couldn’t afford to mistake him for someone else, or, worse, miss him entirely. There was too much at stake for that.

‘He’s got pale hair, it’s thin and wispy, and sits low on his forehead. And he sweats a lot, like he’s just been out for a run. His hair’s always sticking flat to his forehead too, when he’s sweating…’ She trailed off then.

Henderson had watched her start bubbling with tears, and when he asked her for more of a description she folded over on the mattress and held her sides. He realised that was his lot. It would have to do.

The main door of the school building opened and a man carrying a gym bag appeared; he wasn’t wearing a tracksuit but Henderson was sure of his identity at once. He dropped his cigarette on the ground, crushed it under his foot, and started to cross the car park in pursuit of the man. He put his hand in his pocket, gripped the Stanley knife’s haft. He watched his subject pitch up on his toes to manoeuvre himself around the wing mirrors of two closely parked cars, then he placed his bag on the ground in front of the driver’s door of a silver Corolla.

Henderson watched and followed in silence. He let Crawley open the door, shove his gym bag over to the back seat, and then get inside the car. He broke into a jog as he heard the ignition being turned. As he reached the side of the vehicle he grabbed the handle of the Corolla’s passenger’s door and stuck in his head.

‘Mr Crawley?’ he said.

A wide-eyed stare greeted him. ‘Yes.’

Henderson had the Stanley blade out of his pocket as he jumped into the front seat. He took the blade, forced its edge into Crawley’s line of vision — made sure he had a good look at it — then rested it on the pink flesh of his neck. ‘We’re going for a wee drive, Mr Crawley.’

The teacher’s face lost all its colour, his thin lips began to tremble. Henderson noticed he did indeed sweat a lot, a line of perspiration rolled towards the Stanley blade.

‘ W-what?’ he said.

‘You fucking heard…’ Henderson drew back his fist, put the butt of the knife into the cheekbone. Crawley yelped in pain and dropped his head towards the wheel. ‘Now get fucking moving before I take your throat out with this.’ Henderson shook the blade before the teacher’s face.

Crawley settled his hands on the wheel, engaged the clutch.