Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [80]
Jesus Christ. It made sense. At the same time as not making any sense at all. Whoever heard of a psychopath who was squeamish?
Tommy kicked him a few more times while he decided what to do. Then he wiped his nose with Smith's shirt. The flow reduced to a trickle.
He looked across at the laptop. Fraser's house was dark. Nothing moved. It was as if no one had ever been there.
He didn't know if Jordan was alive or dead. The cops' arrival had stopped him finding out.
Tommy stuck his hand in Smith's pocket. Got a phone. Wrong one, though. Tried the other pocket and found the one he was looking for: his own.
His nose was still bleeding a little but he sniffed the blood back. Spat it out. God, it tasted good.
He ignored the pain in his gut and dialled Jordan. No answer. Damn phone went to voicemail. He hung up. Tried again.
Not Jordan, for Christ's sake.
Effie had Jordan's phone. Tommy had seen her take it from him.
Pick up.
She answered, finally. "Who is this?"
He waited. His teeth hurt. He was about to speak to the woman who'd killed his son. What could he say that would sum up how he felt?
"You fucking know, bitch." It was the best he could do. He kicked her father again.
She swallowed. He could hear her. Not so tough after all. "Where's Dad?" she asked.
Good. Concern. He'd wondered if she was human. "What did you do to Jordan?"
"I want to speak to Dad."
"I want to speak to my son." Oh, he was so fucking in control now. He'd beaten Smith. The daughter and her boyfriend were next. He felt the elation in his shoulders like balls of flame.
"No," she said, voice cracking. "You can't."
"I can't? If you've harmed him—"
"He's alive. He's here. In the van."
He wanted to believe her. Christ, he wanted to. "Put him on the phone."
"I can't do that."
He heard a voice in the background. A man's voice. Martin Milne, no doubt. Tommy didn't want them talking. Didn't want them scheming. He said, "If you don't prove to me that Jordan's alive, your dad's dead." He meant it.
No reply. She didn't hang up, though. Must be thinking.
Tommy said, "I know what you did to Phil and Fraser." Just in case she didn't know he'd been watching.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr Savage," she said.
But she knew his name. Mister fucking Savage, too. Why was she denying it? In case the call was being traced? Maybe it was. In which case, he ought to spell it out. "Want me to tell you about the tub? About the hacksaws? About you and loverboy all naked and covered in my family's fucking blood?"
He thought he could hear her breathe, thought he heard her sniff. "Where are you?" she said. "Maybe we can do an exchange."
"What about Phil and Fraser? Who are you going to exchange for them?"
Another pause. Then: "I don't know who you mean. But even if I did, there's nothing we can do about what's already done." He didn't know what to say to that. Maybe he should just play along. Take what he could get.
"Okay," she said, interrupting his thoughts. "Where do you want to meet?"
"Parking lot at the East Calder entrance to Almondell Country Park," he said. It was close and it seemed appropriate. "Bet you know where that is."
"I'll find it."
He hung up. He felt calm. Tasted blood on his lip, smelt the blood in his nose. It was all good. Meant he was alive.
He knew he should have called the police. He could still call them. But he'd have to explain what was going on and there wasn't time for that. He'd also have to explain why there were two dead policemen downstairs. And there definitely wasn't time for that.
Fuck, no, he felt great. He felt strong. He'd just taken out Smith, hadn't he? Shit, there was no messing with Tommy Savage. He wasn't going to sit around and let someone else do his dirty work for him. Anyway, Effie and Martin would have nothing to lose. The bastards wouldn't leave Jordan alive if they could avoid it. No, Tommy had to take care of his own. Hell, he wanted to take care of his own.
Grant's voice in his head: A father's