Free Murder Mile by Tony Black Page A

her neck; Angela fell forward and landed face down on the mattress. She shot hands up to her throat as she coughed and gasped for breath. She was still spluttering as Henderson loomed over her and inhaled deeply on the cigarette he had threatened to blind her with.
    ‘I’m waiting,’ he said.
    She coughed again, some long trails of spit escaped her mouth.
    ‘I’ve not got all fucking night!’
    Angela forced herself up onto her knees, her thin fingers traced the line of her throat as she tried to massage some of the pain away. She looked ready to fold again, pass out. Henderson reached over and yanked her to her feet; he was surprised by how light she was.
    Angela shrieked again, as she stood, shivering and naked before him.
    ‘Right, talk …’ he said.
    She wiped a tear from her cheek, ‘I-I can’t …’
    Henderson lit up, he drew back a fist.
    ‘OK. OK,’ yelled Angela.
    ‘I’m losing the fucking rag with you, girl …’
    She gripped her waist in her arms, spoke softly. ‘Can I show you something?’
    Henderson’s face shrivelled into confusion. ‘Show me what?’
    ‘It’s just, I’ve never told anyone before.’
    ‘Told anyone what?’
    Rain started to patter on the window; Angela looked away, slowly got down from the mattress and walked towards the other side of the room. By the doorway sat a small coffee table with a drawer in the top; she opened up and removed a
Yellow Pages
. Underneath the directory sat a little mauve-coloured diary. ‘I wrote it in here.’
    ‘Wrote what?’ said Henderson.
    She held up the diary, she seemed to have trouble even looking at it. Some more tears rolled over her cheekbones. ‘What happened … out there.’
    Henderson stubbed his cigarette in the smoked-glass ashtray by the mattress, walked towards Angela. He snatched the diary out of her hand. ‘This is like a fucking notebook.’
    Angela watched him turning over the pages. ‘It’s a journal … I used to keep it, before I met you.’
    Henderson held it up, ‘Well, what the fuck’s in it?’
    Angela looked towards the window, it was dark out and the rain was getting heavier. ‘I need to go. We’ve no money.’
    ‘What about this?’
    ‘You asked what it was about … It’s in there.’
    ‘So I have to fucking read this?’
    Angela nodded, moved away. She pulled on her black mini-dress and stuck her bare feet into her heels. As she put on her coat she saw Henderson flicking through the diary.
    ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
    ‘Tell anyone what?’
    ‘What’s in there.’
    He looked at her, smiled. ‘I haven’t read it yet … so I guess that all depends, doesn’t it?’

Chapter 11
    NEIL HENDERSON WATCHED Angela teeter towards the front door of the cold-water flat in Leith. He didn’t know what to make of her. The tart had gone downhill, rapidly, since he went inside. They were all the same, none of them knew how to look after themselves. She hadn’t even put on a bit of lipstick: what kind of punter was she going to score without even a bit of lipstick? Some of them, he thought, just weren’t worth the bother.
    The door slammed as Angela left; he heard her heels clacking as she descended the steps.
    Henderson drummed fingers on the little mauve-coloured diary she had given him. The girl was next to worthless; how was a man supposed to earn a crust off a wreck like that? He knew she was going to be more trouble. All that time and effort he’d put in on her had been wasted.
    When he had met Angela she was in a bad enough way; crying her eyes out in the street after being stiffed out of her last tenner by some bitch off the Links. They were like a pack of animals those girls; any new meat on display and they fired into it, ripped it to shreds.
    Henderson grimaced, ‘Fucking pack of slags.’
    He’d shown them though; there had been three of them, old boots who should have known better. A few smacks in the face, some bust noses and black eyes were enough to teach them. A couple of