by Gavin Graham
The man from Aberdeen
“This has been a fucking witch hunt and well you know it,” Mac procrastinated, sat there in a crumpled grey suit, hair amok, black tie crooked. His face appeared flushed and angry. It looked as though a disgruntled woman had pulled him up-close and slapped him hard across the face before kicking him out the door; it may well have been the case too. He was hungover like a bastard and hadn’t shaved. “You know it, Fergus, well you do,” he raised a finger the way a drunk might do to prove a point. “You just need to start talking through your mouth and not your bloody arse…”
The Commissioner smirked and tolerated Mac’s belittling rhetoric as most senior officers did. “My back is up against the wall, Mac, the public need answers and they need to see affirmative action being taken from the top. They need to see change.”
“We both know that’s horse shite. Anyway, why am I even here if you really feel that way, just so that you can gloat? And, who is this character, eh?” Sorry, but, I didn’t catch your name?” Mac made a hand gesture to the other man who was present in the room, a frail figure with a face that was drawn and haunted, freckles and a red beard.
“This is Angus Fairly, he’s from Aberdeen, he runs a covert BPU there.”
“BPU?” Mac frowned with undeniable interest.
“Behavioural Profiling Unit.”
“Never heard of it,” Mac was jolted to life with a spark that was pompous and scolding.
“Well, that’s kind of the point, Angus works under the radar and does the nitty gritty work of investigations that involve the possibility of an active serial killer.”
“We’ve never had any serial murder cases in Aberdeen.”
“I only wish that were true,” DCI Fairly interjected. “Fergus, may I elaborate?”
The Commissioner nodded his approval.
“I’ve been tracking a killer known as The Granite Lane Rapist for some time now. I came an inch away from catching him, but, the vigilantes caught him first. We kept it quiet and out of the media spotlight because we don’t want that kind of thing condoned, yet, if it keeps a serial killer off the streets then we’re willing to turn a blind eye.”
“So, members of the public got to him, and finished him off?”
“He was burned alive and his bones buried in a field.”
“Jesus. Are you kidding me?”
“He was a nasty piece of work, used to drive around the Granite Lane red-light region in his car picking up women so that he could drug them and take them to an abandoned factory, they’d wake up tied to a chair and see him there with a pig mask and a knife. He’d rape them and kill them before dumping their bodies along the side of the road.”
“So how on earth could something like that be kept so hush-hush?”
“We opted for media silence based upon the sensitivity and controversial way that the case got handled, it was agreed with the victim’s families too, they also didn’t want to be reminded of the atrocities on a daily basis whenever they opened a newspaper or turned on the television. His crimes were kept low-key. Serial killers thrive on that kind of attention, they love to be sensationalised in the media just as terrorists do, so a valid weapon in our arsenal is to deny them what they want.”
“Why?”
“To frustrate them, frustration leads to mistakes, it leads them back to the scenes of their crimes as they cannot gloat over what is published in magazines and in the newspapers.”
“The media can be used to our advantage,” Mac agreed having caught a second wind. “I agree with you on that.”
“Yes, indeed, and it’s not just what they report but what they don’t report.”
McGreavy smirked and contemplated the validity of what Red Beard had just said. “Interesting, but what’s this got to do with us here in Glasgow?” he turned his question onto the Commissioner.
“We spoke recently, Mac, about you bringing a new Detective in to replace Siobhan. Tell me about her…”
“What’s the point? I’m finished with all this, my fish has been fried to bits, and the whole house stinks because of it…”
“Just, humour me Mac, tell me more about her…”
“Rose is an Irish lassie and sharp as a butcher’s blade. She was looking for a transfer over here, from the Garda, hoping that we could bring her in as a consultant, an expert on human behaviour and criminal psychology, with specialist knowledge on serial killers and methods of profiling them.”
“Specialist knowledge on serial killers? Profiling?”
“Yeah, look, where is this going because I really need to be getting a drink soon?” he said with a shaky hand.
“For such a crime-solving wizard, Mac, you can be a bit slow on the uptake at times.”
Mac just looked at his superior with dead eyes, not wanting to presume anything, trying hard to hold back the smirk.
“The world spotlight is on Scotland right now, Mac, eyes from all across the globe on us. Forget the COVID-19 conspiracies in China and the BLM riots in America, the world is looking at us now as a nation of sociopaths, not even the police detectives can be trusted anymore. They think we’re as mad as the serial killers and they have every right to think that way too Mac, after what happened with Siobhan and those horrid Christian slayings, you will always be associated with The Unsung Satanist murders and that kind of dirt sticks.”
“You could at the very least give me one more chance…”
“I want to give you another chance…I do…that’s why you are here…”
“It won’t be long before there’s another psychopath out there stalking the streets of Glasgow, like this nutcase in Aberdeen, and I’ll prove to you that we can deliver the goods. There’s no such thing as the uncatchable killer.”
Red Beard laughed, as if to say: “Oh, there most certainly is…”
The Commissioner’s face gave it away though, immediately, as he recoiled to the window and bit into his closed fist like he was gashing into an apple that strained against his front teeth.
Mac knew it, he wouldn’t have to wait at all, there was already a new case that he wasn’t even aware of. “There is something, isn’t there? Well, you must be very confident in the abilities of your newfound prodigy, this DCI Willy Irvine from Edinburgh, because right now I think you are walking on thin ice pal.”
“What if we were to establish a BPU here in Glasgow, under-the-radar, a covert unit. You’ll take a secondary lead on cases and be answerable to me and me alone. Angus will give you a few pointers on getting the team established.”
“A Behavioural Profiling Unit? And you want me to head-it-up?” Mac couldn’t keep the smug grin off his face and Red Beard was leering at him like he was a bad smell. So, it seemed, for Inspector Mac McGreavy his days of hunting evil was far from over.
“That’s right, Mac, are you on-board?”
“Aye, I’m on-board, OK? Now, are we going to do this dance all day, or are you going to tell me about the thing that you are deliberately choosing not to tell me…?”
“OK, Mac,” the Commissioner shook his head. “You win, but I’m going out on a limb here, I hope you won’t let me down…?”
“You have my word.”
“Good, then I suppose you should know about the missing girls…”
“Missing girls? What missing girls?”
“How about lunch, Mac, I know you like a drink…so…let me take you for a nice lunch and we can have a chat about it over a pint and a few drams.”
A brief moment passed before they were on their feet and grabbing their coats.
Chapter 7
The scent of prey
Where is she?
My next victim?
She’s out there.
I can smell her.
The Candy Man is here now.
Isn’t this fun?
Another one to kill, arousing her to shivers in the darkness of my basement as she begs for violent punishment, then squelching the life from her neck.
They want thrill
s of the flesh.
The crack of whips.
The thrash.
The sting.
The blade.
Biting chills will move her to shudder as I caress her bruised loins and take my piece of her flesh. Vividly I can hear the clinks and clanks of the chains that will enslave her, right here, in my own world of torment and punishment. The tension of the clamps, like sharp little teeth biting upon her nipples, and she will scream for Spector’s game. “Give it to me! Harder! Hurt me! Kill me!”
She will stand up and bow down.
Just like they all pay, she will pay, for they all choose to play this way.
The corrupt policeman; he too will pay.
He will soon watch my grand gallery of death in a small collection of snuff films that I made especially for him, so that he may indulge in my sweet Death Candy, and dance like a puppet upon the snapping click of my fingers.
DCI Mac McGreavy.
Scotland’s most illustrious Detective?
Hah!
What a joke!
He had killers in his own ranks and has moonlighted with mafia men and the utter filth of our society. His time is over, and, I will be the final nail in his coffin as Glasgow gets to see the ultimate face of murderous justice. They will know, once and for all, that nobody can protect them and not one of them is truly safe.
They are all potential victims and the only thing on their side might be luck.
McGreavy will see me in the shadows of his demented nightmares, soon invited to sit at my table, waltz in my inner circle of chaos. He will see me feast and gorge on the cadavers of sinful harlots. It shall arouse his own dark cravings, too, for strong liquor and the sweet taste of corruption.
I am worse than Satan, believe this, because The Devil reigns in fear of me and trembles when he hears my name.
The Candy Man.
The Candy Man.
The Candy Man.
I am real.
Soon, you will all know it, and like Satan you shall breath to fear my shadow.
There’s nowhere to hide.
The Almighty cannot save you; no goodness or empathy exists in my world.
One-by-one.
Name-by-name.
Victim-by-victim.
Their sins shan’t be forgiven.
Their sins shan’t be forgotten.
Justice will be done in ungodly ways; sometimes the ungodly way is the only way. My message will soon be known. The law shall belong to me, as puppet master, as inglorious High Priest. I’m your worst nightmare. The stars are aligned. Watch as they line-up in droves, giving themselves, as sacrificial lambs to the slaughter. Watch them die. It has to be played out like this, for promises made, for dues to be paid. Blessed they are not, chosen by me, to rise and fall in a malicious paradise. I destroy the select few, for playful times, and their terrible crimes.
The realisation of it all may come with the bitter taste of rotten fruit, yet, I shall explain it justly and as clearly as I explain it to you now.
Just remember, girl, that you wanted this.
Don’t forget that.
Your wish was to be the purest form of submissive, to bend to my will, to be taken and imprisoned, to be owned, controlled, dominated and tortured, and to be treated as you deserve to be treated. This shocking brutality, the violent ending that awaits you, it was all what you asked for. A mere object is all that you ever were, one and all, whether living or dead. You are now just a book, worn and torn, to sit in my library of madness, eroticism and murder; the pages are tarnished, turned and stained with muck.
You are my pornography.
You are my Death Candy.
You are here as a willing participant.
You were desperate for the extremities, eager to be my actress, and to flourish as my exotic play-thing. When you see your own blood spill you will know my true agenda, no more games, when I rip you open sternum to pubis it will be totally clear. No more confusions or delusions, that you are destined for the slumber of an earthy grave, open to the elements. Skull and bone. My pleasure would have been had from your every zone. Organs harvested. Flesh butchered. Your filleted breasts mutilated so that they hung from an inch of grainy flesh, only bone left, I’ll take my piece of you.
Delicious.
Your horrid demise was my sullied prize so enjoy this rotten crossing.
Into The Abyss you go, to find the darkness, the curiosity of your dead eyes.
It’s time for you now to say your goodbyes.
Chapter 8
The ‘dance around death’ pantomime
The Old Scottish Traveller wasn’t a place Mac would choose for a drink, it was more Professor Sinclair’s type of place, and they were both of well-to-do stock; he could always tell those sorts of men, who’d never been properly punched in the face, or, booted hard in the balls.
It was pretentious, disgustingly so, trying to be all jazzy and American.
It seemed to be adjoined to a fancy boutique hotel and had private booths, warmly bathed in dim orange lighting, and banker-style lamps of polished gold fixated at the side against each wall, the sharpness of each bulb tempered by emerald green glass that offered an expensive-looking marble effect. The seats wear finished with deep brown leather that appeared new and untarnished, the type you might sink into and never want to get out of, melting into it like a fat kid in a beanbag. It was a New York kind of bar, not a Glasgow kind of pub, with extortionately-priced steaks rather than stale Scotch pies; Mac didn’t mind a stale pie. Modern art-deco paintings were hung upon the walls, with heavy gilt frames, of coloured folks playing musical instruments and the odd skyline to boot. Jazz music played from micro-technology speakers that were seemingly strategically-placed, in every corner, high-and-low, to the effect that trombones and trumpets would reverberate to the very seat of the pants.
It was all pretentious.
Even the leather-clad menu was an obnoxious show of up-market vulgarity. He frowned as he opened it up to peruse it as if it might contain a rancid and foul smell. The prices were quite repulsive and he felt suddenly revolted by the entire façade of modern-day gourmet dining. Small portions that were arranged in artistic form like it was really supposed to impress. I mean, it was different when he’d been to places like this with Professor Sinclair, because that was more about the company than the food (or, so he told himself) and he entertained the eccentric man’s flamboyancy when it came to choices of eatery because they were somehow connected, kindred spirits, strong professional allies into the bargain too.
“I’m paying, Mac, what do you fancy?”
Many would have been offended by the way that he said it, implying that Mac perhaps couldn’t afford it, or didn’t waste money on decent food.
But, not Mac, apparently…
The bent copper raised his head as if a celestial ray of light had shone down from the heavens above and an apparition of the Holy Ghost had formed in the room right there before him. His dark and brooding eyes immediately lit-up, seeming momentarily more boyish and mischievous, as if he clearly wasn’t so disgusted by it all as long as somebody else was paying. Perhaps, that was the real truth of the matter as the old mate he referred to as ‘posh pants’ - Professor Sinclair - was always the one to front the tab and, in all honesty, he never held-back on those occasions; as long as Mac didn’t have to pay. “Pie and chips, please, and a pint of lager. Fosters, Stella, whatever’s on draft…” he clearly didn’t want to sound too eager and played down his newfound streak of opportunism.
“Why don’t you have a steak, I recommend the Chicago-style bone-in ribeye, if you like pie and chips you’ll enjoy that. I promise Mac, it’s a belter, a real belter…”
Mac smirked at the way Fergus said the word ‘belter’ with such a pronounced lilt of his Bearsden brogue. “OK, fair enough, I’ll have one of those then,” he rubbed his hands together with gusto. After all, Mac may have been brought up on a working man’s diet of stale beer and potatoes, but, he was also brought up to kick
a freebie in the balls if it came dangling its knackers in your face.
“A glass of vino? A nice red perhaps? They have a good Argentinian Malbec on the menu…”
Mac laughed the way he might do if it were his old mate Alistair sitting across the table; perhaps he was warming to the toff senior after all. “No, just a beer, thanks,” Mac resisted the urge to ask for a never-ending replenishment of double-whiskies to go along with it as well.
Fergus got another round of drinks in and took the liberty of ordering steaks for them both.
“How would you like them cooked?”
“Medium,” said the Commissioner.
“Bloody,” Mac spoke to the young girl with an affection that came from having worked too many cases of abduction, rape and sexually-motivated murder against young Scottish women. He had a daughter of his own. She was young, tender and impressionable. So, whenever he saw these youngsters, in that marvellous bubble of ignorant innocence, he felt a deep-rooted urge to protect them; it was more than just a fatherly instinct.
The young girl smiled back warmly before shooting off in a brisk walk.
“Are you flirting with that girl, Inspector?” Fergus had a twinkle of badness in his eye at times.
“No, Commissioner, I wasn’t,” Mac responded as though he felt genuinely sorry for the man and pitied him for his lack of empathy and zero of what he would call the common touch – that ability to connect with the people and understand. “I don’t care for the accusation either.”
“Not an accusation, as such, it’s a free world. You just need to be discrete about your affairs, Mac, you know what I mean?” he winked at the notorious drunkard.
The Inspector shrugged him off with a dismissive gesture, clearly losing his patience, the dance act was well-and-truly over now. “Can we fast-track this little pantomime to the point-of-business in hand? Missing girls, maybe? A murder case, perhaps? A potential serial killer?”
“Not a potential serial killer, Mac, a confirmed serial killer...”