by Caro Ramsay
Costello pulled another chair over and put her feet up on it, reading the first line: This profile was compiled in no particular order of priority.
– He knows the victims.
– He’s sympathetic to them; he anaesthetizes them. He kills them quickly and efficiently. No torture.
– He is lucid. He sees perfect sense in what he is doing.
– He murders in the same frame of mind as he shops in Tesco’s.
– He is executing these women. He will have grown up fixated on execution, the elimination of evildoers.
– These killings are not the result of a spontaneous urge; he has been working up to this all his life.
– The geographical profile is small. He lives here. He travels on foot between incidents. He knows the area well.
– We have spoken to him; he is already in the system.
– His job takes him out and about at odd hours.
– He is inconspicuous.
– Women can’t relate to him, yet cautious women trust him (or his accomplice). Is he disabled, or disfigured in some way, so that they feel safe with him?
– As a witness, he will have been helpful and cooperative.
– His upbringing was dominated by a woman.
– There was loss in childhood.
– His age is between twenty five and forty.
– He doesn’t see us as a threat to his liberty.
– He is well educated but not necessarily formally so.
– He is very intelligent.
– He has a religious belief of a kind. It might be an organized religion; it might not.
– He won’t drink to excess. He won’t swear to excess. But he might amend his behaviour to blend with that of his peers.
– He regards women as Madonna-mothers or whores, nothing in between. Note the deliberate pose, in particular the crossing of the legs; he hates women but wants to respect them.
– There is no interaction between Christopher Robin and the victims, no sexual assault. There is no emotional involvement with them; they are almost non-people. They represent what he wants to destroy, and he is the instrument of their destruction.
– He has been sparked by a recent incident. Recently divorced? Has his girlfriend aborted his child?
– He is selecting these girls. From people he knows.
– He is in the shadows, but he is there.
– We will find him.
Costello reread the list. He is already in the system. She sighed. ‘So, Dr Batten, we tick the boxes and arrest the one with the most ticks, is that it?’
‘Some hope,’ said the psychologist. ‘I’m nipping out for chips. Anybody want any?’
‘I’d love some,’ Costello sighed. ‘I need fortifying for a date with the Boss.’
McAlpine lifted a pile of papers from his chair and flicked through them. ‘Irvine?’ he shouted through the open door. ‘We need to wake up Costello. Coffee, please.’
‘I wonder why I look tired. It’s only been a sixteen-hour day. Do I have any chance of getting home before it’s Tuesday?’ Costello licked the salt from her fingertips and wished she had asked for a bigger portion of chips.
‘Not a hope in hell,’ McAlpine answered.
‘Well, tea, for me, if it’s going.’
‘Right, sit down. My face is lowpin.’
‘I have some paracetamol, if you want,’ offered Costello.
‘Not allowed anything till eight. Fucking doctors, what do they know?’ McAlpine touched his jaw cautiously, as if expecting the bone to crumble under his fingertips.
Costello sat down on the edge of the seat, notebook in hand, like a secretary in her first week, hoping this meeting would not take long. Her hunger was sated, but she still longed for a bath.
‘Kick the door shut, will you?’
Biting her tongue, she got up, closed the door and sat back down again.
‘I want you to track down Davy Nicholson, ex-DI, would have retired about four years ago, from Stewart Street.’
‘I remember him.’ Costello tutted. ‘Not the most inspirational boss I’ve ever had.’ She pushed her hair back with her pencil, realizing she had the one with the Winnie-the-Pooh rubber on the end. She stuck it behind her ear.
‘Is that a compliment?’ said McAlpine, ruffling through some papers.
‘No,’ Costello said airily. ‘Are you looking for something, sir?’
He didn’t answer, but instead asked, ‘Would you walk up a dark lane with Christopher Robin?’
‘I might, if I knew him as somebody else. Last night – this morning, I should say – I walked up Whistler’s Lane four times, with four different men. That was Batten’s point. Trust.’
‘But you have half a brain cell. On a good day.’ McAlpine scribbled something down. ‘I want you to track down Sean McTiernan, get the details from the record office. Davy Nicholson did the donkey work; he’ll fill you in. You’ll need to go back three, four years. There was something about that case … might be something, might be nothing. But I don’t want this public until we have something concrete to move on.’
Costello shifted uneasily in her seat. ‘Is that wise?’
‘Bear with me. McTiernan is very clever. I want you to dance round him discreetly; I don’t want the likes of Irvine and Mulholland marching in with their size tens. It was Nicholson’s collar, and I’m not going to question that publicly.’
‘Until we have a reason to.’
McAlpine nodded, slowly pressing his hand to his face, confining the pain. ‘Sean McTiernan might have ended up serving three for a culp. hom. when it was actually a premeditated murder.’
‘I didn’t work the case, but I don’t remember any great argument about it.’
‘I don’t think any officer on that case was going to argue. Malkie Steele had walked about Glasgow thirty years, putting knitting needles up people’s noses and fucking non-consenting little boys, and always protected by Laing. We couldn’t get near him.’
‘Oh,’ said Costello.
‘Exactly. So imagine our delight when an unknown squirt appears from nowhere and takes him out of the game.’ McAlpine stopped rubbing his face, suddenly deep in thought. ‘Maybe it was mental sleight of hand – I’m showing you this to stop you looking at that. Review his case in light of what Batten was gibbering on about,’ said McAlpine. ‘There was something about that case that didn’t add up, something about that lad that didn’t add up. Sniff around him, have a good root around. And always remember that Sean McTiernan is one bright cookie.’
Costello heard the door behind her open. Irvine came in with two coffees, dumping them down on the desk and leaving. Costello, a tea drinker, left hers untouched.
‘Find McTiernan, but don’t go near him. You are the most senior female on the team. He won’t fool you. I hope.’
‘What was your version of events?’ Costello prompted with a glance at her watch, still hopeful of a bath.
‘Well, McTiernan phoned himself in, saying he’d had a fight and he thought the guy was dead. He had called the ambulance first of course.’ McAlpine sipped his coffee delicately and cursed at the pain it provoked in his jaw.
‘Hardly the act of a guilty man.’
‘Or exactly the act of a guilty man. It was in Whistler’s Lane; I don’t know if that has any significance at all.’ McAlpine’s eyes scanned past Costello to the map on the wall. ‘Might be significant to Arlene’s murder.’
‘Might just be he was up there with a girl. There aren’t many private places left round here with the smoking ban and everything.’
McAlpine nodded. ‘Keep it to yourself for the moment. If he is Christopher Robin, we’ll have to tread carefully or he’ll run for his lawyer and then we’ll get bugger all.’
Costello realized what McAlpine had given her: the main lead in the biggest murder inquiry of the decade.
McAlpine was talking. ‘… and then McTiernan said a scout from Partick Thistle asked to meet him for a drink because he had
seen him play and wanted to offer a trial. He went along, but the Whistler’s Pub gets very noisy, so they went outside and casually walked up the lane. McTiernan went thinking the lane led somewhere. He said Steele made a pass at him, there was a scuffle, McTiernan got away. He walked towards Byres Road and heard Steele coming up behind him. He lashed out like some kind of Ninja and kicked Steele twice – once backward and once on a spinning turn. Forensic examination of the shoe print proved it: McTiernan was indeed walking away. Steele was hit with some accuracy, once in the stomach, once in the face. Malkie was a hard drinker, his liver sustained too much damage from the assault. Without the pre-existing condition, he might have pulled through, but who knows.’
‘Dead with two kicks?’ Costello was incredulous.
‘Martial arts, don’t know which one. It’ll be in the trial transcript; an expert turned up and explained how an eleven-stone man can take on an eighteen-stone guy and win.’
‘So far I’m convinced,’ said Costello. ‘You said Steele was a known homosexual, with a passion for clean-living thin little boys … legal, but only just?’
‘Yes, but it would be obvious within two minutes of conversation that Malkie was no more a scout for Partick Thistle than I am for the Royal Ballet. McTiernan was young but too old to be a bright young talent. McTiernan cut his hand and cancelled the first meeting at a game in Ayr. He grew up at the Good Shepherd Orphanage, so he would have known damn well the lane went nowhere, but that wasn’t mentioned at the trial. He had been training hard … practising … getting fit. Glasgow hard man taken out of the game. He serves three years. What way round do you want it?’
‘Entrapment comes to mind,’ said Costello slowly.
McAlpine nodded. ‘Maybe. Steele was an evil bastard. So if McTiernan had a private score to settle, fair enough, we weren’t going to dig too deep. But if he’s evolved in prison to this, we need to be on him. McTiernan is nice, pleasant, articulate and intelligent. Charming, even. However, capable of great violence when sparked.’ McAlpine stopped swinging in the chair. ‘He grew up in the area. He’s been away. Now he’s back. And he’s a carpenter, handy with a chisel. A knife? Who knows?’
‘But wasn’t he in jail when Lynzi was killed?’
‘Penningham is an open jail. He would have been out at weekends. Lynzi was killed on a Saturday night. Find out what you can and report back to me. And Costello, never forget, he’s clever. Don’t go near him.’
‘Not likely to, sir. I saw Arlene’s face on the slab.’
‘I thought you would be here,’ Anderson said, dipping under the canopy of the Three Judges. ‘Are you coming in for a pint or are you going to stay out here and get drowned?’
‘I thought you were going home,’ replied McAlpine.
‘I went home for fifteen minutes, and Brenda didn’t stop nagging to draw breath. It’s ten o’clock at night, and the kids took no notice of me saying it was bedtime. So Clare will still be practising her ballet in the front room and Peter will still be having too-tired-to-sleep tantrums upstairs. I knew the lads would be in here. You’ll have to come in; I can’t afford to get a round in.’
McAlpine popped his cigarette into the bin on the wall and followed Anderson through the lounge. ‘I went home, but there was nobody in. No idea where Helena is.’
‘At the gallery, I presume. She does have her big exhibition soon.’
‘I hate the house being empty. So I walked round here. Byres Road is like Sauchiehall Street. Where do all those students get the money to drink like that?’ There was a burst of laughter from Littlewood, who slapped the puny Wyngate on the back, nearly knocking him over. ‘Where do they get the money to drink like that? Wyngate should be saving up to get married.’
‘They seem to be having a good chinwag about something. Batten’s over there too, bonding with the troops. Did you find his stuff helpful?’
‘I grudgingly admit I did. It focused their thoughts.’
They found a table against the far wall. ‘What do you want?’ Anderson stuck his hands in his pocket, fishing out a fluffy blue hippo and a Mysteron hat before finding his last fiver.
‘Here. I’ll get it. Helena makes a fortune.’ McAlpine pushed an empty pint glass away and held out a note to Anderson. ‘Get me a Macallan.’
From the bar, Anderson looked back at his boss. There were winos on the street outside who looked better than the DCI did at the moment. He seemed thinner, the bruising emphasizing the gauntness of his face. Batten, however, looked relaxed and confident. He didn’t fool Anderson for a minute. He caught the psychologist looking at McAlpine, apparently a casual observation, but an observation it was. As Batten turned back to the bar, emptying some Tennent’s 90 Shilling down his throat, he caught Anderson looking and raised an inquiring eyebrow.
McAlpine didn’t look up when Anderson put the glass in front of him. Anderson sipped his tomato juice and pulled a face. They’d put Lea & Perrins in it, even though he’d asked them not to.
McAlpine downed the Macallan in one.
‘You’d better be careful,’ Anderson warned, nodding in Batten’s direction. ‘I think somebody is noticing how much you’re drinking. I know it’s your way of working, but – ’
‘But what?’ The almond eyes narrowed dangerously.
‘But nothing,’ Anderson said, not wanting a scene.
‘What are they talking about anyway?’ McAlpine growled, noticing that Wyngate and Littlewood had now been joined by Burns. ‘Have they got nothing better to do with their time?’
‘Women. Wyngate’s getting married, or might not be, if he signs up for any more overtime. His fiancée has the hump.’
‘Bloody women. Look at us – the three of them over there, miserable as sin, and the two of us over here. Not a decent woman between us. They do one thing, say another. Brenda wants you to earn more, then bites your balls at the first hint of overtime. Helena says she loves me, then keeps secrets from me and gets mad just ’cause I smash her car.’
‘How much did you have to drink before I got here?’ asked Anderson. ‘Look, mate, I’ve known you a long time and it’s none of my business, but it’s usually Helena who has her head screwed on, and if she is keeping something to herself she’ll have her own good reasons. Women do.’
‘You’re right; it is none of your business. And stop being right, Col, it’s fucking annoying.’
‘Helena is a good woman. You should be more careful where you lay your head.’
‘And when did you become the Yoda of love? You’re sitting here on your arse as well as me, you know.’
Anderson conceded his boss had a point and let the silence lie.
‘Helena knows I would never leave her, never. And that’s enough for her.’
‘Is it?’
‘That’s the way our marriage works. She’s not like other women; she’s strong, she’s independent, she knows the job I do, what I am, and lets me get on with it. She never interferes with my work or complains about the hours I put in.’
‘Sounds bliss,’ muttered Anderson.
‘But this is –’
‘But this is what?’
‘A matter of life and death.’ McAlpine spoke very quietly. ‘I’m supposed to be the most important person in her life, but she doesn’t confide in me. How do you think that makes me feel?’
Anderson remembered Helena’s red-rimmed eyes, the pallor on her skin he’d thought was tiredness.
‘My mum died of cancer,’ said McAlpine suddenly, the Macallan in his voice making it sound as though he was proud of it. ‘Well, that’s not true. She killed herself once Robbie had died, but I had to watch her being eaten away. Her pain was unbearable. Helena knows that.’
Anderson read between the lines and trod carefully. ‘Maybe it was because of your mum that she didn’t tell you. Poor Helena, I didn’t know … So she’s struggling with that –’
‘Why’s it always poor Helena? It’s worse for those watching it than it is for those going through it.’
> Anderson doubted that, but said, ‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve no experience of either.’
McAlpine stared deeply into his glass. ‘I couldn’t carry on if it wasn’t for her,’ he said quietly. ‘And she knows that too. I was a mess when we met. And I’ll be a mess if she … goes.’
‘I know what you mean. She’s the kind of woman that holds mere men together.’
‘I couldn’t face life without her, and she just …’ McAlpine sighed and shook his head slowly, then asked for another Macallan. Suddenly his mood shifted. ‘You know, Colin – you know that ability some women have, to appear to be one thing but be another? I think Christopher Robin’s right – why not just slice the bitches up?’
‘Christ, Al!’
‘No, listen … women are the root of all evil.’
‘Isn’t that supposed to be the love of money? That’s the popular theory anyway,’ Anderson answered carefully.
‘No, seriously. How would you feel if Brenda left you? Left wee Paul and Clare too? Left you for another man after years of accusing you of being unfaithful?’
‘His name’s Peter,’ Anderson corrected. ‘I’d feel a thousand times worse if she took the wee man with her.’
‘So, we have Lynzi, a two-faced cow, leaving her kid and shagging everybody in sight. The girls in the disco with Arlene told us she was coming off the game, to get a flat, to get her kid back, to get respectable. From O’Hare’s report, it seems she was making a good go at being clean.’
‘I don’t know how much credence we can give to those girls. We need to talk to one of them sober. Tracey nearly blurted out something about the stupid cow being caught. So we’re leaving her to stew for now, and then we’ll nail her. Leopards don’t change their spots.’
‘So, say Arlene’s still a streetwalking pro. Lynzi fucks off with another man but doesn’t tell anybody. Elizabeth Jane’s all sweetness and light but has no friends to speak of. There’ll be a pattern to all that if we can find it.’ McAlpine steamrollered on. ‘But I’m not seeing it. It’s like a bad smell – the smell of morality – and I don’t know where it’s coming from.’ McAlpine began to push his fingertip on the top of the table, drawing a convoluted pattern. ‘I can nearly see it.’