Free Murder Mile by Tony Black Page B

nights in dock till the bruises subsided and a few quid out their takings and they didn’t think about messing with Angela again.
    ‘Easy money,’ said Henderson. He grinned to himself.
    There had been times when it really was easy money, he’d had three of them on the go, all bringing in a pretty penny. Then one of them shot herself an overdose and that was her. The other got stiffed by a guy who worked at the bookies – a week of hand jobs went unpaid until Henderson made a visit, followed him home and leathered him in the street. How was he to know there was filth living in the same row? She’d been a good earner though, Casy, until she fucked off when he went inside.
    ‘Never had a fucking day’s luck,’ said Henderson. ‘Not a fucking day of it.’
    He was turning the diary over in his hand when he decided to take a look inside, see what all the fuss was about.
    ‘Stupid bloody bitch,’ he said as he opened the slim volume.
    On page one was written: Angela Mickle, Porty Acad.
    ‘Jesus, she was still a schoolie.’
    He read on. There was a lot of puerile nonsense about boys in her class, pressure from her parents to study for exams and falling out with friends.
    ‘Bloody daft lassie,’ said Henderson as he skimmed the first few entries.
    He skipped back and forwards, looking for the part that Angela had made such a fuss about but couldn’t find anything. It was all about school and stealing money out her dad’s jacket to buy cigarettes. It was inane. Nothing to cause the reaction of the night before.
    Henderson was beginning to think he’d been had. It seemed the diary covered a period of about six months. After a month or so, she’d joined the gymnastics team, had a new coach who had said she had promise. There were a lot of entries about the gymnastics classes, the training and the after-school club. It bored Henderson.
    He got up and took a cigarette from his packet of Club, sparked up.
    What was she going on about with this diary?
    Was she taking the piss?
    He thought Angela had pulled a fast one; that she had used the diary to shut him up, to get away from him. She was probably at the bus station now.
    ‘The fucking bitch!’
    He returned to the small book, scanned it faster, looking, searching for whatever it was that might have happened to her. His attention was roused now, because if there wasn’t something there – something worth his while wading through all this schoolie nonsense – then he’d been had.
    Near the end of the diary Henderson noticed the handwriting had changed. It stopped being florid, it lost the big looping curls and smiley-faces above the ‘i’s. It became a scratch, sloped hard to the left and failed to keep a straight line, even though the diary had lined pages.
    The entries changed too.
    He read:
    It was gymnastics class again today. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up, the Creep has started to act very strange since the night he tried to kiss me. I told him I didn’t want to do it, but he’s said that if I don’t then I won’t be on the team any more and he’ll tell everyone that I am a slut
.
    Henderson’s eyes roved over the page, tried to find another mention of the Creep.
    He told me that I was the best gymnast he had ever coached and it would be a shame to throw it all away just because I was being immature. I’m not immature, I just don’t want to let him touch me. He said I wouldn’t know what I was missing and that all the other girls in the squad would think they were lucky to be in my position
.
    Henderson found himself tensing up as he read the diary entries. He crossed his legs, watched his ankle sit at a jagged angle to the rest of his body.
    ‘The dirty old fucker,’ he said.
    Who was this Creep? he wondered. He’d heard about pervs, they called them beasts inside. They were scum, the lowest of the low. Beneath contempt. Hated. This guy was a teacher as well, a square peg … the thought mangled Henderson’s mind.
    He raised