Murder in the Merchant City

by Angus McAllister

  She was leaving the Trongate Hotel after attending to the needs of a travelling salesman from Newcastle when she noticed, not far from the hotel entrance, a man hanging about the street. It was a Friday evening, around eight p.m., and there was still some daylight left. The man attracted her notice for two reasons. The first was the way he was pacing back and forward, for short distances, as if he could not quite make up his mind, or pluck up the courage, to take a particular course of action. But this would have been only a passing observation had she not recognised him.

  At first she couldn’t remember where she’d seen the man before. The face was definitely familiar, but from a different context, not one where he was lurking in the street wearing a long overcoat buttoned up to the neck. Was he a former customer? She encountered so many men that it was difficult to be sure, but he had shown no sign of recognising her. He might have been deliberately ignoring her, but their eyes met briefly as she passed, and she didn’t see the slightest hint of recognition. Only preoccupation with his impending decision, whatever it was.

  She was almost back at her workplace before she placed him. He wouldn’t have recognised her because they hadn’t met in person before. She had seen him on TV.

  ‘Do you know who I saw just now?’ she said. ‘In the street, outside the hotel?’

  ‘Prince Charles,’ said Cleo. ‘I hope you gave him our business card.’

  Miranda said nothing, but maintained her aloof pose, as if she were a film star waiting for a director’s summons to her next scene.

  ‘No,’ said Annette. ‘It was Robert Washington.’

  ‘Now we know,’ said Cleo. ‘Who the fuck’s Robert Washington?’

  ‘He owns that free paper. You know, the one that takes photographs of the punters coming out of saunas. I’ve seen him on the telly.’

  ‘Fuckin’ hell. Well, he won’t be phonin’ us up. Did he have a camera?’

  ‘Christ!’ said Annette. ‘No, I don’t think so. No, I’d have noticed.’

  ‘What good would that do?’ said Miranda. ‘Photographing people coming out of a hotel. It wouldn’t prove anything.’

  ‘You should’ve bought him a drink,’ said Cleo. ‘Because of all the punters he’s steered our way.’

  ‘He’s a fucking creep,’ said Annette. ‘We could be his next target.’

  ‘We’ve already suffered enough,’ said Cleo. ‘What with all them murders. Anyway, he won’t pick us. He might photo some poor bastard who only came to pawn his grampa’s gold watch.’

  Even Miranda managed a smile. The pawnbroker’s shop below them could be useful camouflage, though it was doubtful whether its owners reciprocated the feeling.

  There was a brief respite from the quiet period and they managed to get a customer each. Then, around nine o’clock, someone else rang the visiting massage line. Annette was at the front desk having a chat when Edna lifted the receiver.

  ‘Sinners’ Visiting Massage,’ she said, in her husky, sexy voice. To Annette it merely sounded tacky, but it didn’t seem to put the customers off. ‘What’s that, dear? I can’t quite . . . You phoned earlier? You’re in the Trongate Hotel? No problem. We can have a girl over there in five minutes.’ Edna slid into her well-rehearsed presentation, as if a tape had been put on. ‘Tonight you have a choice of three lovely young girls. There’s Miranda, the blonde supermodel, a real stunner, or there’s Annette, the nice girl next door who likes to be naughty, or, if your tastes run to the exotic, we have Cleopatra, the African queen.’ She said nothing about the queen’s exotic Manchester accent, Annette noted, though that didn’t seem to put the punters off either. ‘What’s that?’ Edna continued. ‘Yes, dear, no problem. Five minutes. Hang on, hang on, what’s your room number? And your first name? Bye then.’ She replaced the receiver. ‘His name’s John.’

  ‘Now there’s a surprise.’

  ‘Sounds like a fuckin’ wanker. He wants Miranda.’

  ‘You mean there’s a connection?’

  ‘Don’t be bitchy,’ said Edna. ‘You’ve had your turn.’

  Annette went back to the lounge and told Miranda about the visit. Miranda left for the hotel, while Annette and Cleo waited on in the lounge for further business. Fifteen minutes later, Annette saw a customer come down the corridor.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  Five minutes later, the man came through from the shower room, wearing a robe and carrying a towel. He was a slightly-built man about thirty-five. He looked from Annette to Cleo and back again, then he said, ‘Where’s Miranda? Is she . . . engaged?’ He hesitated before the last word, which seemed to have difficulty emerging.

  ‘She’s out on a visit,’ said Annette.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked the man. ‘I phoned earlier. About half an hour ago. That woman at the desk, she said Miranda was here.’ He looked on the point of bursting into tears.

  ‘She was then,’ said Annette. ‘But we do visiting massage. She went out on a visit. About twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘But that’s not fair. She said Miranda was here.’

  ‘She’ll be back soon. She only went to the Trongate Hotel, along the road.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ he said again. ‘I want Miranda.’

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Cleo. But the man ignored her, turned round and walked from the room.

  ‘Charmin’,’ said Cleo. ‘Has he got somethin’ against blacks?’

  ‘No,’ said Annette. ‘Only against any woman who isn’t Miranda.’

  A few minutes later, she saw the man, fully dressed again, stride down the corridor. The front door banged.

  Edna came through to the lounge. ‘What’s the matter wi’ him? He never even asked for his tenner back.’ Obviously she rated the visit as a partial success.

  ‘He’s in love with Miranda and she’s away two-timing him.’

  ‘Christ almighty!’ said Edna. ‘You don’t half get them. She’ll be back in half an hour, for fuck’s sake. Where’s he aff tae?’

  ‘Who knows? Probably down to the Trongate Hotel.’

  ‘Bloody hell, he’d better no’ cause any trouble. We’re supposed to be runnin’ a discreet operation. Why the hell did you tell him where Miranda was?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Annette.

  But if the man did go to the hotel, he must have missed Miranda, for she returned an hour later without reporting anything untoward. Nor did the customer return that evening. Miranda, however, accepted the loss much more calmly than he had. She also failed to explain why she’d been away so long.

  32

  Room 123

  When it comes to actually walking through the hotel entrance, into the front lobby, I find I’ve become extremely nervous, and hesitate for some time. So far my rage has driven me, but now it’s checked by caution. This isn’t like the show flat, a perfect location that will never be repeated. A hotel is such a public place, and this one isn’t quite big enough for complete anonymity. And I don’t like having to act on impulse: the forward planning that went into the last two killings was what made them so successful, so enjoyable. Since then, the wisdom of my tactics has been confirmed by three months of police bafflement.

  Three months during which I’ve lost some of the momentum generated by the first three killings.

  This time I’ve got no choice. The hotel location requires a quick reaction as soon as the opportunity arises. And this latest affront is too great to ignore.

  I take a deep intake of breath, then exhale slowly. Stay calm. Look casual. To the staff I’ll seem just like any other guest, one who checked in before their shift began. I walk into the recessed entrance, through the revolving door.

  I don’t seem to attract any attention as I cross the small lobby. The woman behind the desk is attending to a guest, a couple with their back to me are entering the bar. Resisting the temptation to use the stairs, I press the button that will summon the lift. I’m only going to the f
irst floor, but don’t want any observers to notice that.

  The lift has been sitting at the ground floor and the door opens immediately. It’s empty. I walk in and press the button for the first floor.

  My luck holds out as I step into an empty corridor. All hesitation has now gone as I walk quickly along and knock on the door of Room 123.

  No answer. Where is he? I wait for what seems like an interminable time, growing nervous again in case someone should come along the corridor. If I’m seen at this stage, I’ll have to abandon the whole thing. Why doesn’t he answer? The corridor is still empty. I knock again.

  ‘Who is it?’ The voice is hesitant, surprised.

  ‘Message from the front desk.’

  There is a further delay, then the door opens a fraction. Time to use the surprise element again. I quickly push the door open, putting all my modest weight behind it. It cracks him on the forehead and I jump on him as he falls back. I sit astride him, banging his head repeatedly on the floor. The blows are cushioned by the carpet, but he is stunned long enough for me to get the chloroform out.

  My attack may have been planned at short notice, but my essential equipment is quite portable, carried about in readiness. It includes a knife and a length of strong cord.

  As soon as he is supine, I drag him away from the door and close it upon the still-empty corridor. I’ve been lucky – that part was risky. Another guest could easily have seen everything on the way to the lift.

  I find that the danger has added an extra excitement, one that helps make up for the lack of detailed preparation.

  But now the most dangerous part is over. The situation is under my complete control. When he regains consciousness he is tied to the bed, his mouth taped.

  When I surprised him, he was fully dressed. Now I’ve removed his clothes, so that he can be found in his full shame. However, I’ve left on his socks. There’s something endearingly sleazy about that.

  I leave his mouth taped while I explain what is to happen and my reasons for doing it. Then I remove the tape, having first put the knife to his throat and told him what will happen if he tries to shout for help. In this respect the location is much less ideal than the show flat: ungagged, he could probably summon help very quickly. It would only need an adjoining room to be occupied, or a hotel guest or staff member to be walking down the corridor. But he shows no inclination to make a noise. He seems resigned to his fate, not even in a mood to argue or plead. He’s probably in shock, but there seems to be more to it than that. Almost as if he accepts the justice of what’s happening to him.

  I suppose that’s something I should welcome, but somehow it spoils things a little.

  I take off my outer clothes and fold them neatly over a chair, where they’ll be well clear of any spurting blood. I keep on my underclothes. Must have some decorum. ‘It’s all right,’ I assure him, ‘I’m not after your body.’ Then I realise the humour of this and laugh. ‘Well, I am, I suppose, but not in the usual way.’ He doesn’t respond. He may have accepted his destiny, but not enough to see the funny side.

  After this anticlimax, I have to work at summoning the necessary fury. But then I remind myself, over and over again, of why he has been chosen, and soon the job is done.

  I take a leisurely shower in his en suite bathroom, cleaning up after me with a thoroughness that will shame the hotel maid; just as well, as she’ll have her hands full with the rest of the room. After putting my clothes back on, I wipe every surface where I might have left prints. I have to walk carefully to avoid stepping on blood. After all my trouble, I don’t want to leave a clear red footprint on the carpet.

  The corridor is still empty as I leave the room. I pause only to wipe the door handle before taking my leave. This time I use the stairs, and soon I’m casually walking across the vestibule and out the front door. As far as I can tell, I’ve attracted no attention.

  As soon as I’m well clear of the hotel I stop to take a deep breath. I almost shout aloud in elation. I’ve done it again.

  And I’ve got away with it. I’m sure of that.

  33

  Helping with Inquiries

  Another request for a hotel visit came through about ten o’clock. Again it was for Miranda. Business had remained slow and the girls had been hoping to leave early. But Miranda seemed reluctant to make the visit for a different reason.

  ‘I’ve already done one,’ she said. ‘Why can’t one of the others go?’

  ‘He asked for you,’ said Edna.

  ‘He wants a member of the master race,’ said Cleo.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Annette. ‘Young, blonde and Caucasian.’

  ‘What the fuck are youse two talkin’ about?’ said Edna. ‘He specifically asked for you, Miranda. He’s met you before.’

  ‘I don’t want to do another visit,’ said Miranda. ‘Not after the last one. You don’t know what that man was like.’ She shuddered. ‘What a creep!’

  ‘But this one’s a pussy cat. You’ve had him before. Go on, it’ll be a dawdle.’

  It took a little more persuasion, but Miranda eventually complied. ‘The rest of you might as well pack it in,’ said Edna. ‘The night’s dead.’

  On the way to her car, Annette pondered over Miranda’s unusual desire to turn away business. Was it possible she had just a little of the good taste that ought to have accompanied her classy looks?

  By next morning another possibility had arisen.

  Annette met Miranda at the police station, after they had both been called in for interview. Annette was waiting to be dealt with as Miranda was on her way out.

  Her colleague seemed to be in some distress. ‘It’s awful,’ she told Annette. ‘Would you believe it? They seem to think I might have done it.’

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘Murdered that man. The one I visited at the hotel last night.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ said Annette. ‘You mean there’s been another murder?’ Until then, she had thought she’d been called in about the previous one, though it had seemed a little odd after all this time.

  ‘It’s preposterous. You should have heard the way they spoke to me. As if I was nothing but a . . . but a common . . . Who do they think they are?’

  Annette wondered what had offended Miranda more, the suspicion of murder or the damage to her middle-class self-esteem. The latter, by a convenient exercise in doublethink, had no doubt been kept segregated from the part of Miranda’s mind that acknowledged the nature of her profession. And there was nothing, as Annette knew, like a police interview to bring the two crashing together.

  ‘Are they letting you go?’ Annette asked.

  ‘Of course. Why should they keep me here? I haven’t done anything, except what he paid me for. He was still alive when I left him.’

  Annette was interviewed by DS Madigan, along with a policewoman. As before, though there was nothing specific that could form the basis of a complaint, she felt she was being regarded as a member of some sub-human species; this impression, she now suspected, derived mainly from Madigan, rather than the police in general. However, on this occasion she didn’t seem to be the main focus of attention. She told Madigan about having seen Robert Washington outside the hotel earlier in the evening. She also gave her best estimate, under Madigan’s insistent questioning, of the period during which Miranda had been gone on her first visit. Madigan seemed anxious to determine, as precisely as possible, exactly when Miranda had left the sauna and when she had returned. After that, he seemed to be finished with her.

  Annette told him about the customer who had been looking for Miranda. At first Madigan seemed uninterested, impatient to interrupt her, as if she were wasting his time.

  Then she said, ‘He sounds a bit like the man Jack Morrison saw, the one who was following him.’

  ‘Jack Morrison?’ said Madigan. ‘Oh, of course. The barman. Your friend.’

  Annette tried to ignore the innuendo. ‘The guy I’m talking about, he’s a regular customer. He’s obs
essed with Miranda. If he sees another customer with her, he looks as if . . .’

  ‘As if what?’

  ‘As if he’d like to kill the other guy.’

  ‘Does he really?’ said Madigan. ‘And what’s this aggressive wee man’s name?’

  ‘I don’t know. He calls himself Johnny.’

  Madigan laughed briefly. ‘That figures. I suppose there’s no point in asking if he gave you his address. So you think this might be the same man who was following your friend Jack?’

  ‘The description sounds similar.’

  ‘One thing about Glasgow,’ said Madigan, ‘is that it’s full of funny wee guys, quite a few of them aggressive. And before you decide to give up your . . . profession . . . and join the police force, there’s one thing you seem to have overlooked. You say this man you saw last night is obsessed with Miranda, that he hates her customers?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So why would he be interested in your friend Jack? Has he been two-timing you with Miranda? Did he ever succumb to her undeniable charms?’ He smirked at the policewoman, but she remained impassive.

  ‘No,’ said Annette, a little flustered. ‘Well, not for a long time. Maybe at the beginning, before we got friendly.’

  ‘I think we’re on to a red herring,’ said Madigan. ‘But if this man shows up at your sauna again, phone us right away. And tell your boss and the other girls the same.’