Bell found she liked Macallan, and that surprised her. She really never warmed to anyone beyond her cat. Liking people got in the way of what she did, but Macallan lacked the drabness that seemed to infect so many public officials. Her intelligence was there without being obvious; she didn’t try to impress – and why should she? Bell knew where this woman had been, and she wanted to know more about her. The most important thing was that Macallan didn’t bore her and that made her a bit unusual.
They avoided business initially and Macallan relaxed in a woman’s company; that hadn’t happened since Belfast in those days when she’d had friends and dreams that didn’t wake her up choking for breath. Those dreams still happened but less often now.
They talked easily and the Talisker added to the relaxed mood. Bell had read up on Macallan and recognised someone who was certainly different from the pack. Bright, surprisingly good company and attractive. It was difficult not to stare at Macallan’s eyes, which were the clearest green, and when she smiled they sparked in a way that disarmed her. This was unusual for Bell, who even by her own admission was a control freak when it came to dealing with potential sources for her stories.
Macallan just let it flow, surprising herself in the way she was opening up to the reporter as if she were her oldest friend. They both let their defences down, and by the time they decided to order a third malt, they knew there was a mutual admiration exercise going on and were content to let it happen.
‘You’re not what I expected. I thought you might be a female version of Ian Paisley, carrying the good book under your arm for God and Ulster.’
Macallan raised her glass. ‘Well, I’m glad I didn’t live up to that image. It was the same for me though. I was told that you would do anything for a story, but I guess that’s your job, so why not?’
Bell put her glass on the bar and tried to ignore the guy leching after her from a few feet away. ‘So we can be friends but we can’t avoid work. How about I do a bit about you and your journey from Northern Ireland to the mean streets of Edinburgh?’
Before Macallan had left Ulster she would have baulked at that kind of proposal, but things had changed. She saw how the world worked on the mainland, and O’Connor was a good example. If you were on the ladder, you might as well try and climb upwards; as far as she could see, self-promotion was part of the routine, and no one seemed to expect anything else. This was a night of surprising herself, and she did it again.
‘You know I had a tough time and there are people I still care about in Northern Ireland, so take it easy if you do it. I’m not asking for favours but let me see the piece before you print it. Obviously you’d be better to run it past the press office first, and I’ll speak to my boss just to clear it with him.’
Bell smiled at the comment. ‘JJ O’Connor. You better watch that one, Grace – he might get jealous if he sees a rising star too close to him. Great guy but definitely knows where he’s going and doesn’t miss a bit of self-promotion himself.’
Macallan looked and wondered, realising that Bell obviously knew O’Connor. ‘You haven’t?’
Bell laughed loudly. ‘Christ no. He’s definitely not my type, and that’s enough information. What about this incident at the hospital? Is it true that the girl who was attacked had a visit? Don’t be surprised that I know about it; you can’t keep something like that hidden. I’m not going on the record, just interested, and I’ll never use anything you don’t want me to.’
Macallan had let her guard down but snapped back to business mode.
‘Look, Jacquie, we hardly know each other and this has been a good night. I don’t want to ruin it, but most of all I don’t want to do anything that will harm that girl. She lived a life that no one deserves, and now she’s trapped in her own little prison. I want to get the bastard that did this, and I’m going to – and I won’t let anything get in the way.’
Bell looked straight into those green eyes and believed every word.
‘You know what, I believe you’ll do just that. We can be friends, help each other at the same time. I’m sure I can do something for you in return.’
‘Okay, let’s do the story about me, and off the record the hospital security issue was a fuck-up. Trouble is we can’t be certain it actually happened. I’m sure it did, but there’s a chance given the circumstances that she’s imagined it.’ She paused, then said, ‘I do think that whoever hurt Pauline has been working up to this for a while though. We’ve got attacks in other forces that look similar, but again we just can’t tie them together. I’m sure we have a pretty sharp serial offender, but because we can’t present clear evidence, the forces are reluctant to go public.’
Bell ran her hands through her hair and considered what this would mean as a story. Normally she would have run with it, but Grace Macallan was different – she would cooperate.
‘Thanks for being open with me. I’ll do nothing other than run the usual stories about the enquiries and any quotes I can pick up along the way from O’Connor, who’ll undoubtedly do a few grim-faced detective conferences to keep us happy.’
Macallan relaxed and decided she was okay with it all. ‘I’m back on the job at the crack of dawn so probably best if I go and get some zeds. I’m going back to see Pauline tomorrow and we’ll evaluate all the leads we have so far to see if we can narrow it all down. We have something on a car, but I’ll come back to you on that later. Let me know when you want to meet up again.’ Bell nodded.
‘Last thing is that if there’s something to give and I think it can help the case then I’ll let you have it. This force is paranoid about the press but they play it the wrong way. I think we might need to feed this bastard some publicity, and I know the force won’t like that so watch this space. You have to protect me though if we go that route, or I think John O’Connor would have me measured for a traffic warden’s uniform.’
It had started to drizzle outside so they decided to share a taxi. It stopped outside Macallan’s block of flats and she pulled up her coat collar. ‘I didn’t realise how much I needed that – and how much I needed a bit of female company. See you soon.’
Bell wondered how someone could have lived through, and achieved, what this woman had and yet be so entirely vulnerable at the same time. Before meeting Grace Macallan, she would have said that it was impossible to be a senior detective and yet display the raw wounds she saw just beneath the surface of Macallan’s character, but the inspector had proved her wrong.
She leaned over and kissed Macallan’s cheek. ‘I could see how much you needed it. By the way, I don’t normally kiss police persons goodnight. Definitely see you soon.’
Inside, Macallan got ready for bed and burrowed herself under the sheets, completely exhausted. She ran the night and the taxi ride through her mind a dozen times before falling into sleep.
She was walking through the Markets in Belfast. It was dark, but her footsteps sounded like gunshots and every light in the place came on. Women screamed at her from every window – ‘Murdering Special Branch bastard bitch.’
She started to run towards the centre of the city, but the screams of the women seemed to be right behind her. The streets were dark and wet, and she moved on lead-weighted legs. The shadows were everywhere, and as she ran past the old Belfast Gasworks Tommy Doyle stepped out in front of her. She crashed into him and they fell onto the wet pavement. He was laughing and calling her the RUC bitch. His hands were everywhere, and she could feel his teeth bite into her neck.
She sat bolt upright in the bed and gasped in cold air as she looked around the room for Tommy Doyle. She shook her head and calmed her breathing as the fear passed. Jesus, Grace. You’re fine and Tommy’s in the big Maze Prison in the sky. You’re okay. You’re okay now.
She fell asleep again; she was learning to deal with the dreams.
The last image she saw before she slept was Bell smiling at her.
35
Harkins had discovered his recently acquired influence with senior analyst Felicity Young to be g
ratifying in more ways than one. He found it hard to believe that it had turned into more than a one-night stand, but if opposites attracted then they were a match made in heaven, and he’d learned in the process that he wasn’t as smart as he’d thought he was. He’d always believed he could read people, but that definitely didn’t apply to Miss Felicity Young.
Despite their new-found attraction, Harkins had pushed hard at Young and the other analysts and researchers to look for patterns in the attacks or something from the past that might give them a steer. They had the possibility of a Merc in good condition and that was something.
The other certainty was that the killer hadn’t just popped out of a Christmas cracker. There had to be signs in the past. It might not have been a full-blown attack but something that had been recorded on the vast array of intelligence systems operating throughout the country. That’s what the exceptional analysts could find, and Young was in that range; she thought differently from the rest of the pack and saw the patterns, the flashing light in the morass of reports that gave the detectives the leads.
The old days of instinct and a hard time in the cells were just a memory for the veteran detectives on their way to the knacker’s yard. In this day and age, a confession on its own was about as much good as a bottle of malt to the Ayatollah Khomeini, and they would need people like Young to have any hope of a conviction.
36
He’d followed the press coverage closely. He was by nature a careful man, and it made sense to see what the plods were doing. Jacquie Bell gave it good coverage, and a special press briefing had been announced for the next morning.
The timing was perfect as he’d left another whore down by the seaside, and he guessed that an early-morning dog walker would get the surprise of their boring lives. That should make their press conference worth watching. The girl was alive, tied up and should survive to the morning – but it was touch and go given what he’d done to her.
He wanted them to live and suffer, but it was a difficult art, and if he lost one or two then so be it. He hadn’t got it right with Johansson, but this one wouldn’t be telling tales to anyone. Not without her tongue anyway.
37
Macallan was trying to shower some enthusiasm into her bones when she heard the phone ring. She cursed whatever it was she was about to learn.
Harkins was in the office already and told her the story. ‘Another girl found this morning in a disused quarry in West Lothian. The girl is alive but apparently in a mess, and unless I’m mistaken her head injuries mean she’s unlikely to recover consciousness. On top of that, he took her tongue this time. The press are going frantic, and I think JJ is probably going to age ten years today with the problems building here. We need to get to this fucker soon before the press turn us into human turnips.’
Macallan sat on her bed, ignoring the fact that she was still dripping wet. ‘Jesus, what are we dealing with here? He’s playing with us. There’s cops everywhere covering the street girls and he’s managed to do this. How the fuck did we miss him? I’ll be there as soon as.’
When she tried to put the phone back in its cradle, it rang again. Bell said good morning and took Macallan completely by surprise.
‘Take it you’ve heard the news, and I know you’ll be racing to get into the office, but I need a quick word.’
‘Go ahead, Jacquie. It’s good to hear you but I wish it was under different circumstances.’
‘We’ll catch up soon, and I’m looking forward to that, but look, this attack raises the game on this fucking beast. I’ve got my boss kicking my arse for an angle, and I wanted to speak to you first. I know O’Connor is doing his press conference, but we have to start asking the awkward questions now – that’s what we’re here for.’
Macallan was easy with that; she wanted this animal cornered more than anyone. She knew the force lived in permanent terror of the headlines, and she just didn’t get it. They operated by fear of criticism. Her background was to use the press and manipulate when necessary. She knew the killer was vain and engaged in some sick crusade, but she wanted the tabloids to start making up banner headlines declaring him as just another sick fuck that needed locking up. Maybe, just maybe, it would upset him enough into making a wrong move. It might not work, but she knew that unless she got to him soon, another street girl was living her final days.
‘It’s okay, and sometimes we need those questions. What can I do for you?’
‘Is there anything you know that might be worth highlighting?’
Macallan took a breath and closed her eyes. Once a detective crossed the line with the press, they were in a swamp. Lifelines were few and far between, and in any case, no one from the job was going to throw you a rope unless it was to hang yourself. In this instance, what was important was preventing another girl being attacked and to have any hope of that, they needed to use the press.
‘Mention the hospital visit and the fact that we fucked up on that,’ she told Jacquie. ‘Second thing is that this girl has had her tongue removed. Third thing is that we think the guy is using a Merc.’ The line went quiet. ‘Jacquie?’
‘I’m here. Jesus, this is getting out of hand.’
‘You have to protect me, Jacquie, and don’t call this number again. I’m going to get a pay-as-you go mobile and will use that to contact you. JJ would crucify me for talking to you, but I think we need to start getting this bastard’s attention. He’s clever, this one, and will be following it all. Make sure and rub it in that he’s a prime-time sicko. That okay with you?’
‘You’ve got it, and needless to say I’ll ignore you at the press conference, hard as that might be.’
Macallan half-dried herself and pulled on her clothes. Breakfast would have to wait. The case had caught national attention and the press conference would be a scrum for the hacks both north and south of the border. The police powers hated this because it drew attention and resources away from the image they all wanted to present, which was leafy streets with a friendly bobby there to reassure the natives. This sort of shit made the old ladies of the parish think they were all under threat and the chief constable was a failure.
It was well known to all detectives that the first law of physics meant that shit fell downwards, and O’Connor would have been told loud and clear by the executive floor that this was his problem.
The girl who had been attacked and dumped died before Macallan managed to get to the office. The profile was so similar that it depressed the detectives listening to the hurried briefing from O’Connor before they faced the press scrum banging at the gates of Lothian and Borders Police.
The girl’s name was Dawn Mason, although hardly a soul knew who she was. She’d told people her name was Amber and had used that one since her better days working in the saunas. A drug habit and world that didn’t care had relegated her to the streets, where she’d be lucky to even find punters considering she’d given up completely on hygiene. What family there might have been had spent their lives pissed on cider and probably wouldn’t remember that they’d had a daughter in the first place, unless it meant receiving compensation from her death.
The HQ conference room was packed out, and their whole morning had been taken up preparing for the difficult job of fielding questions that in many cases they couldn’t answer.
It pissed off Macallan and the working parts of the investigation. Instead of following leads, they were bending the knee to a press lynch mob assembling in the heart of their own HQ.
The assistant chief constable entered the room, followed by O’Connor and Macallan, with the force press officer fluttering nearby in case anyone got into difficulty with the questions. The press officer was sure O’Connor could handle it but knew from bitter experience that the ACC was a true thicko who’d carried his bosses’ bags for years, selling his soul to gain a rank he didn’t deserve.
There was a tension in the room and no one could deny that this was turning into a headline writer’s wet dream.
The ACC op
ened the proceedings and extended his deepest sympathy to the families, ticking all the appropriate boxes so he could get back to worrying about the parking problems in the centre of the city, which had been aggravated by the fucking trams fiasco.
The fact was that he knew next to nothing about the case. He was only there to show the uniform and give that little bit of reassurance to the terrified citizens of the capital that all was well and a friendly bobby was just round the corner.
He did his bit and handed over to O’Connor, who would take the questions that everyone wanted to ask. Macallan tried not to look at O’Connor while he was talking, but she had to give him his due – he was good, calm, assured, looked the part and introduced Macallan as the lead officer on the investigation team. He knew there would be interest in her given her background, but she was more than capable of handling the press.
The reporters lobbed the questions O’Connor had expected, hunting for a bit of gore to feed their hungry readers, and he threw them the Merc and told them they were interested in speaking to the driver. It went as planned, they managed to stay on message, then Macallan took a couple of questions and handled them like a pro.
Bell waited her turn and let the other reporters get their fill before she took her shot. The room was losing its tension and the ACC thought they might soon be able to draw the conference to a close.
Bell lifted her hand to get the attention of the panel and the ACC gave her an impatient nod, wondering what was left to ask.
‘Is it true that that the killer managed to get to the first surviving victim in hospital, and is this a terrible failure in that there was no police guard there at the time?’
The ACC couldn’t stop the red tinge flooding his face, and O’Connor didn’t move a muscle, though he had the luxury of leaving it to the ACC. What not one of them expected was the second question.
‘Is it also the case that the latest victim had part of her tongue removed, and what should we be telling the women of this city?’
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