‘What?’ She was baffled.
‘The Central Library in Dundee – we should have someone down there – NOW.’
‘What?’ she repeated. ‘You’re not making any sense. Calm down, speak slowly and explain.’
McBride struggled with his exasperation. He chose his words and delivered them like bullets. ‘On the basis that you might actually want to catch this lunatic, you should be at the library waiting for him. If he’s true to form, he’s going to leave his calling card by cutting out a message for me. That’s when you nab him. Simple, isn’t it?’
There was a pause, so long that McBride wondered if there had been a loss of signal. When she finally spoke it was to repeat McBride’s own expression of self-anger. She swore quietly but with equal vehemence at their blunder. ‘I’ll get back to you.’ She rang off with an abruptness that matched McBride’s.
Half an hour later she called back. ‘OK, it’s done,’ she told him. ‘Two officers, a male and female, are in place. One was a student until a couple of years ago, still looks the part. The other is from the Drugs Squad. They usually dress worse than the folk they’re after so he’ll look as if he’s there putting off time till his next fix. Both will just be part of the furniture.’
McBride asked softly, ‘Cameras?’
‘Being installed even as we speak – trained on the files of The Courier.’ She answered his next question before he could ask it. ‘No, we weren’t too late. We checked today’s paper which has already been filed and it’s complete – nothing cut out. Don’t worry, we’re there for the duration. If he shows up, we’ll get him.’
McBride’s mind turned to the time of his last visit to the library in downtown Dundee. He thought of the sweating, odious figure of the inappropriately named attendant and his unwillingness to be of assistance. ‘Was a creep called Brad on duty?’ he asked Petra. ‘He’s an unhelpful little shit with a chip on his shoulder. Don’t count on him for much assistance.’
‘Didn’t hear his name mentioned,’ Petra said. ‘From what I’m told, it was a female who was in charge. According to my sergeant, he didn’t notice her face because he was too busy looking elsewhere at her anatomy.’
McBride laughed. ‘If it’s who I think he means, I can understand his fascination.’ McBride might have opened the door of a refrigerator as an icy blast ran down the line.
‘Why are men so prehistoric? Must women always be judged by the size of their chests?’ Petra said. Then, as an afterthought, ‘Besides, the ones who want to show them off are usually pretty thick.’
McBride laughed again, taken aback at her sexism. ‘How unworthy – or do I detect a note of envy?’
Petra spoke again, changing the subject, becoming businesslike. ‘On the subject of messages, I presume you still have the letters which were sent to you by the nutter you think could be behind all this?’
‘Of course. Why?’
‘They’ll have to be checked for prints and DNA. Same as the files in the library. It’s probably hoping for too much that we get a match but we’ll have to complete the process.’
McBride’s muttered response was as much to himself as to DI Novak. ‘Fat chance.’
She went on, ‘We’ll need a fingerprint sample from you, as well as a mouth swab for DNA, for elimination purposes. Same from anyone else you can think of who may have handled the letters.’
McBride thought back to the morning in the Apex Hotel when he returned from an early morning run and smiled at the recollection of the package Janne had sent to him from his publisher’s office. He did not tell Petra of the black, lacy pants she had included but said she was the only person he could think of who might have touched the letters – her and all the postmen involved in sorting and delivering them.
McBride had more urgent matters to discuss. He needed to know the latest developments in the investigation into the savage slaying of Claire Bowman. He needed answers about how she was dressed, what she had to drink. Needed information of sexual contact between her and her killer. Most of all, needed an update on the hunt in Aberdeen for a possible killer cop.
Petra listened without interrupting, then replied. She could have been marking a tick sheet. ‘She was well made up, well dressed – smart. She and the killer had apparently drunk wine, quite expensive stuff – both glasses are being checked. The matter of sex is less straightforward. Because of the internal injuries and all the blood, we’ll probably never know for sure if intercourse had taken place. But there was some sexual activity.’ She hesitated, picking her words. ‘Semen was found on her face. By the looks out of it, the killer may have stood over her, masturbating – probably after she was dead.’ Petra paused once more. ‘Depending on how long he had been with her, it’s probably unlikely that he would have had the desire, or ability, to ejaculate twice within a short timescale. That changes the profile of the bastard. It elevates him to the weirdo category. Sex with corpses – not nice.’
McBride had listened in silence. He started to speak but once again Petra anticipated what he was about to say. ‘Yes, in addition to checking the usual databases for a DNA match, steps are being taken to get samples from every officer in Grampian Police,’ she explained. ‘Some of them are already on record, the ones who’ve been processed before for elimination purposes. Most of the others should volunteer. The politically correct types, who decline on the ground of an infringement of their human rights, will still be checked out – covertly. In fact, the ones who refuse will be given priority. The forensic science squad will follow them round for sweat traces on canteen cups etc. It might be a slow business but it will be completed eventually.’
McBride spoke at last. ‘Impressive,’ he said. ‘What about the baton? Anything on it?’
‘You won’t be surprised to hear that, Claire Bowman’s blood and gore apart, it’s as clean as a whistle. Worse, it doesn’t carry any numbers linking it to an individual officer.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means it’s a needle in a haystack,’ Petra said. ‘If it had been officially issued, it would have had an identification number. But anyone as bright as our killer appears to be would hardly have left a murder weapon that virtually bore their name.’
‘Where does that leave us?’
‘Up shit creek – that’s where. Maybe the person who used it to such sadistic effect on Claire is a cop. Then again, an ASP baton isn’t exactly the most difficult thing to acquire. You’d manage to get one in five minutes off the internet.’
‘So, it’s back to square one?’
‘Worse.’
‘Can’t be – but tell me anyway,’ McBride said.
‘When Claire Bowman’s father was informed of her death, he couldn’t take it in. Not because it was so shocking but because he’s doolally – Alzheimer’s. He’s never going to be able to explain why him having been a policeman might have had something to do with her losing her life.’ She paused, then added slowly, ‘Come to think of it, for him, that’s a blessing … definitely.’
35
The detective sergeant did not like McBride. He made it obvious as soon as they looked into each other’s eyes. He didn’t smile at the reporter. Didn’t attempt small talk. Just introduced himself in a voice that froze in his mouth. ‘My name’s Sergeant Rodger,’ he said. ‘DI Novak says you have letters I need to collect.’ Icicles hung from every word.
McBride looked at the figure standing on his doorstep. He wasn’t short, wasn’t tall – just somewhere in between. Good shoulders. Intelligent eyes. Nice face. If he learned how to smile, he’d be attractive.
McBride was tempted just to leave him out in the rain while he went for the letters that needed to be examined in the science lab. Instead, he beckoned him in.
‘Nice to meet you, Sergeant,’ he pretended, offering a hand. ‘Come in. Dry off. Cup of coffee?’
Detective Sergeant Rodger even managed to make the handshake cool. He looked as though he would have preferred to remain outside but politeness force
d him over the threshold. He declined the coffee and the offer of a seat and made the same excuse for both refusals. ‘No thanks – in a bit of a hurry.’ Still no smile.
McBride abandoned the struggle. He left the room without speaking and went to collect the letters the frosty cop had called for. When he returned, DS Rodger was holding open a transparent, polythene sample bag and making it clear he expected McBride to drop them into it without his own cold hands having to touch them. McBride silently complied and said nothing until he was showing the sergeant out.
‘Give Petra my love and tell her I’ll ring this evening,’ he said, trying to imply an intimacy.
Rodger said nothing. His nod of agreement was practically imperceptible and, if McBride had blinked, he would have missed it. But the policeman’s reaction answered McBride’s question to himself. Detective Sergeant Rodger didn’t like him because he believed Petra Novak did. McBride felt reassured and unexpectedly possessive.
Two hours later, he called Petra for a progress report on Claire Bowman. But first he asked about her detective sergeant to tease her and because he wanted to be sure he understood the relationship between her and the unfriendly visitor to his home. ‘Thanks for sending round the iceman,’ McBride said. ‘I’ve received warmer receptions in the mortuary. Joke-a-minute, isn’t he?’
She laughed softly. He could imagine her lips parting and her eyes crinkling at the corners. He wondered how her head looked on a pillow.
‘Gavin? He’s just suspicious of reporters – especially flash gits from London. Tries to protect me from your unscrupulous methods.’ She laughed again.
‘If he thinks I’m the enemy, he can’t be very bright,’ McBride said.
‘On the contrary,’ she countered, ‘he’s accelerated promotion too. Social and management sciences graduate – first-class honours.’
‘Oh, a right clever Dick. Actually, I think that’s his problem.’
‘What is?’
‘His dick. He seems to want to hold it in his hand when he thinks about you.’
This time Petra’s giggle told him it was not something she had ever witnessed or even contemplated. ‘Hmm – now, that might be interesting.’ It was her turn to tease. She laughed again. ‘You can be very basic, Campbell. At least Gavin’s refined – and not some kind of machine out to shag the entire female population of the world. Just a pity he’s so young. I prefer my men with a few more cobwebs. Besides, I outrank him. It would be a right wham, bam and thank you ma’am with him. On the other hand, he might stand to attention all night!’
McBride snorted. But he was satisfied that, whatever the bond was between Detective Sergeant Gavin Rodger and Detective Inspector Petra Novak, it was not physical.
He changed the subject and asked about the progress of the stakeout at the Central Library in the centre of town.
‘Still nothing happening,’ Petra said. ‘The usual regulars have been reading The Courier and the other dailies but, so far, no one has shown up with a razor – beginning to think no one will.’
McBride shook his head dismissively. ‘He’ll turn up. Put money on it. It’s part of the little games the bastard is playing with me. He won’t be able to stop himself.’
Petra was not convinced. A doubtful look, which he could not see but felt, passed across her face.
‘He must know that sooner or later – later, as it happened – we’d get round to staking the place out,’ she said. ‘Whatever else he may be, I don’t think an idiot is among them. Why would he walk into a trap he knows is there?’
‘Because he’ll be driven to it. Same as he is driven to kill young women who are the daughters of policemen. Being intelligent doesn’t preclude a person from being unable to resist acting compulsively. There wouldn’t be many smokers if that wasn’t the case.’
Petra did not reply.
McBride gave up trying to explain the urges which can persuade otherwise rational males to commit irrational, self-damaging acts. He could have used himself as an example but didn’t. Instead, he changed the subject again, ironically turning to the theme which had punctuated his own life with episodes of foolishness. He spoke of a woman. ‘What of the stunner at the library? Is she still behind the counter?’ he asked.
‘Seems so – much to the delight of some of my hormonally challenged officers. Your friend Brad is on holiday, apparently.’
McBride tried to imagine the odious library assistant lying in the sun somewhere but was unable to. Sun cream being applied to the sweating little man’s face and body was not a vision he could comfortably conjure up.
Petra spoke again – this time to impart information that gave her control of the conversation. ‘Forensics have made some progress up in Aberdeen. Amidst the blood and semen, they found a pubic hair on Claire Bowman – on her face. Not her pube but his. It’s a perfect DNA match with the semen.’
‘Great,’ McBride said.
‘Yes and no,’ she replied. ‘We know the source is the same but we’ve no idea who he is. He isn’t on the database.’
‘At least we’ll know him when we find him,’ McBride said.
‘Will we? We have three corpses, apparently linked in death. Each of them had sex before they died but, according to the checks we’ve run, not with the same man. Helpful, isn’t it?’
Neither of them spoke for a few moments.
McBride broke the silence. ‘You’re not going to like this,’ he said, ‘but a little theory has been pushing its way to the surface with me.’
‘And?’
‘And think about this – we’re not looking for one man but two or three, acting as a small team.’
He could hear the disbelief in the thunderous hush coming down the line.
When, at last, she did reply it was to ridicule him. ‘Get real, Campbell! You’re starting to grab at straws. A team? For God’s sake!’ She repeated it in capital letters. ‘A TEAM?’
‘Why not? And here’s something else for nothing – the team is made up of cops.’
McBride did not permit her an opportunity to mock him further. Before she could unleash another shaft of derision, he pressed on. ‘You guys always go about in pairs. You have to hold hands in everything you do. Gets to be a habit. Why not extend that to perversions? And don’t tell me none of you entertain impure thoughts when it comes to sex and violence. If you accept my scenario, it answers some of the questions.’
‘Such as?’ The detective inspector was unable to keep a scornful note out of the two words.
‘Such as the ease with which the killer seemed to get in and out of the murder scenes. When people are asked if they’ve seen anybody acting suspiciously, no one thinks of replying, “Oh yes, officer, it was that other nice officer I saw in the area.”’
She was not convinced – not nearly. ‘What else does it answer?’
‘Why they are all the daughters of policemen – that may be a big part of their perversion.’
‘What else?’ Petra asked, sounding as though she was doing nothing more than going through the motions.
‘It helps explain how they could have been admitted to the victims’ homes. If a cop comes calling, you’re happy to invite them in. You sure as hell don’t call the police!’
‘Oh, right – and then you ask them to sit down and have an expensive glass of wine with you? You’re in fantasy land, Campbell.’
‘Cops drink,’ McBride said defensively.
‘OK, if you’re right, we’ve got them,’ Petra said, her voice starting to mock.
‘How do you mean?’ He was wary.
‘All we have to do is take DNA swabs from every policeman in the country. Unless, of course, your team of perverts are just pretending to be cops – then we’re back to square one.’
McBride was deflated but not defeated. ‘So, smarty-pants Detective Inspector, what’s your theory? You’re not exactly Sherlock Holmes on this, are you?’
She ignored his petulance. ‘Unless you’ve forgotten, the first person to be swabbed in al
l of this is you. We need to eliminate you from any traces on the letter and envelopes collected by the warm-hearted Gavin Rodger, the detective sergeant with the impeccable taste in senior officers.’
36
The wind was blowing out of the west so McBride headed into it. He would fight it for a few miles then turn for home so it would be at his back just as fatigue was setting into his legs.
He decided against his familiar route along the edge of the river where the gusts were snapping the flags on the lifeboat shed and, instead, turned off the Esplanade and headed at an angle towards the main road taking the early morning traffic into Dundee. Even at 7.20 a.m., the cars from the eastern suburbs were hanging on to each other’s bumpers.
As he ran, McBride thought of two things. Why did so many people who drove off-road vehicles only ever use them to go to the office or supermarket? And why did a killer or killers take the lives of their victims by different methods? The whole point about sequential homicides was their similarities, not their differences.
He was no nearer a solution to either of the riddles when the mobile he carried in the front zipped pocket of his running jacket chimed rhythmically to life.
McBride did not carry the phone at that time of day to receive messages. He did not know more than a handful of people who would be conscious at that hour and none of them would be alert enough to want a conversation. He took the mobile with him in case he lost an argument with an off-road monster and needed to call an ambulance. Besides, he did not permit a wide distribution of his number. That someone should interrupt him in the middle of his training unreasonably irritated him. Every run he ever undertook, even the ones that did not matter, was precisely timed and the full details written into a running log. It was of no relevance that he never looked at the entry again.
He drew reluctantly to a halt and extracted the mobile, touching the green answer button and pressing a finger against his spare ear so he might have some chance of hearing the caller over the cacophony of traffic noises surrounding him.
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