“Aye, he looked a bit shell-shocked when we arrived.” Newman’s observation could equally apply to him.
“We need to get a team together right away.
***
The mortuary was grimly quiet as Professor Marriot and Dr Dent conducted the post mortems. There was nothing unexpected in their observations and deliberations; the two bodies told the story of their deaths in exactly the manner that the detectives expected. The pathologists confirmed death as being sometime on the Saturday, which at very least gave them a timeline to begin the investigation. Russell noted that despite Marriot’s obvious distress, Dent continued to work as if the murder of a child and her mother was simply part of the routine. There was an undeniable gap in Dent’s character.
It was five-thirty when the police officers returned to their base. Thomas Nichol had been told of the deaths and had agreed to come to the station.
Mark McLelland insisted on doing the interview, not that Newman put up much of a fight. Some of his usual arrogance and stubbornness seemed to have been knocked out of him by the revelations of the day. McLelland gestured with his head, indicating to Tom Russell that he should join him.
The interview was to be conducted in the less intimidating atmosphere of the family room that had been created recently in the station. The pastel-decorated space had Monet prints on the walls, two low couches and a plain coffee table with a small vase of flowers. There was still the hint of the smell of new paint and wallpaper paste in the air.
Thomas Nichol was a thin, bespectacled man who looked to be approximately the same age as his ex-wife. Russell thought he looked fragile and wondered if the bereaved man was up to the questions that were about to be asked.
“Thanks for coming in, Mr Nichol. We’re very sorry for your loss. I know how difficult this must be for you but if we’re going to get the person who did this we need to move as quickly as possible.”
“Did they suffer?” was the worried response.
“No, it was over very quickly we believe.” McLelland told a customary lie that was used to spare the feelings of grieving families. It was a small crumb of comfort to people who feared that their loved ones had died a long painful or terrifying death.
“When did you last see your daughter and your ex-wife?”
“I dropped Charlotte off about nine-thirty on Friday at Deirdre’s house. It should have been earlier but Deirdre’s flight was delayed. She had been at a meeting in London.” His voice was flat, almost monotone. He appeared to be in the numb stage of grief before anguish and anger would grip him. Russell had discovered that no one was capable of dealing with their emotions in the period immediately after they discovered their loved ones had been murdered; they simply disconnected from the emotional reality.
“Was that a regular arrangement?” McLelland kept his voice modulated and steady. Providing an anchor for Thomas Nichol to fix on.
“Charlotte was with her mother every other weekend. She stayed with me the rest of the time.”
“So you had custody?”
“Yes, it made more sense. Deirdre worked long hours and I can do a lot of my work from home.”
“Your divorce was amicable?”
“Yes, we just drifted a part. We thought that Charlotte might have brought us closer together but a child can only paper over the cracks for a short time before they begin to show again. We were still friends,” he said softly.
“Was there a third party involved?”
“No.”
“What is it you do for a living?”
“I’m a computer programmer.”
“Do you know of anyone who would want to harm your ex-wife? Had she received threats or abusive mail recently?”
“No, she was a very kind person. No one would want to hurt her. Even if she had received anything like that she would probably have kept it from me. She wouldn’t have taken it seriously.”
“Thanks Mr Nichol. I have one last question, does the April 1st 1983 mean anything to you?”
Nichol looked confused. “No, why?”
“That’s fine, it’s just something that has come up during the investigation.”
Russell led the little man out of the room. “Do you need me to get someone to run you home?”
“No it’s fine. My sister is waiting for me.”
The detective thanked him for coming and expressed his sympathy once more.
Back in the C.I.D. room the detectives gathered round McLelland to hear what had happened. He went over the details of the crime scene for those who hadn’t been in attendance. He told them that there was little or no chance that Nichol was the guilty party. He believed that Nichol’s grief was genuine. Ruth Stephens suggested that he may have hired someone but McLelland was convinced that he had nothing to do with the murder. However, he did agree that Thomas Nichol’s financials should be checked just in case.”
“Where’s D.I. Newman?” the senior officer asked having just realised that Newman wasn’t present.
“Went into see the chief super about an hour ago. I’ve not seen him since,” Stephens said.
“Did Mr Nichol know anything about the date?” Gary Magowan asked.
“No. Any ideas?”
There was a period of quiet but no one had any concrete suggestions.
“It’s obviously relevant to the murderer. It also explains the drugs in the cakes. Ten years to the day.” McLelland was vocalising his own thoughts.
“Was the killer hoping that the scandal would break the bakery or get Ms Nichol the sack?” Russell said.
“I think you’re right but this escalates it way beyond death by remote control. I can’t quite get my head around what’s happened, what the hell way does the killer think?” McLelland asked.
Ruth Stephens threw out some rhetorical questions.
“If it was simply revenge, why wait ten years? Why not take revenge on Ms Nichol directly?”
There were nods of agreement around the table but no offers of possible answers.
“We’ll get the full team assembled tomorrow and take it from there.”
Harry Newman arrived and walked to his desk. He took a polythene bag out of one of the drawers and began to put items from the surface and the drawers into the bag.
“What’s up?” McLelland asked him.
There was no reply and when he was finished packing the bag, Newman walked out without a word.
“What the hell was that all about?” Ruth Stephens asked.
“Harry’s going to be taking some leave.” Chief Superintendent Woods answered as he entered the room.
“But we’re going to need as many bodies as possible for this harlequin thing.” McLelland said.
“Harry feels responsible for what’s happened and he’s asked to be put on sick leave. He wanted to resign but I persuaded that he maybe just needs some time to think it through. I’ll get another D.I. if you need one but I’d rather you lead the team and I can bring in another D.S. or two. If you think you’re up to it?”
“Eh… of course. If you think it’s for the best.”
“Keep Harry out of it. You all know the background, we don’t need anybody pestering him for further information,” Woods warned. He returned to his own office leaving his team both shocked and silent.
Chapter 9
The full investigation began the following morning. A team of thirty detectives was assigned to investigate the death of Deirdre Nichol and her daughter, as well as taking another look at the original crimes. With the horrific murder of the child at the forefront of their minds, the coppers were primed and eager to get started.
Among the early tasks were forensic checks on the Nichol house and comparisons with Petterson’s home; they were the two places that the killer would definitely have visited.
The neighbours who had properties adjoining the Nichol hou
se were quizzed but it was the kind of street where people kept to themselves which, combined with the size of the grounds, meant that no one had seen anything that was relevant.
Deirdre Nichol’s phone records, office computer and correspondence were all subject to thorough checks but once again there was nothing significant.
Tom Russell joined Mark McLelland when he visited the secure psychiatric unit to tell Nicky Petterson that he wasn’t mad and that he was now facing charges of culpable homicide that would probably see him jailed for a significant chunk of his life. Petterson greeted the news with relief and did all he could to remember exactly what the Harlequin looked like but the disguise was near perfect. All he could tell them was the killer’s height and build. Petterson’s lawyer wasn’t so pleased to hear the news and was quick to point out how cooperative his client had been and how she hoped that it would be taken into consideration. McLelland told her that was a matter for the Procurator Fiscal and the court. They took Petterson into custody from where he was transferred to a remand centre awaiting sentencing. There would be no trial, just an appearance before a judge to confirm the time he would spend in prison.
“I wonder if he still thinks that it was worth £250?” Russell asked after they had handed him over to the custody sergeant.
“I’ve never seen anyone so happy to hear they were going to jail,” McLelland observed.
“Aye, so much for the expert psychiatrists.”
When they returned to the office, Ruth Stephens gave McLelland the toxicology report. He read the findings with horror. It confirmed that Deirdre Nichol had been injected with the same hallucinogens as the earlier victims. The pathologists and forensic technicians reckoned that the little girl had been killed first while her mother watched. She had been wrapped in the cellophane and then injected with the drugs. She would have suffered a horrific period of terrifying visions before the killer finally put her out of her misery.
“Poor woman,” he commented when he finished reading it.
“What does it say?” Stephens asked.
McLelland read the details to those present. It served to strengthen their determination to find the killer but in truth there was little in the report that would move the investigation forward.
***
Despite the best intentions, vigilance and dedication of the investigation team, the days passed and the inquiry began to stall very quickly. The press was all over the story and when someone leaked the information about the mask, the newspapers had a field day.
On the Friday after the discovery at the Nichol household, one paper focused on the failure of the earlier investigation and in particular the role of Harry Newman. It was as comprehensive a hatchet piece as anyone had ever seen; it even included an interview the woman who had been upset by Newman in the supermarket.
Although Tom Russell didn’t rate Newman as a detective or even as a human being, he felt the attention he was getting was unfair. The failures weren’t only his, everyone in the team had to take responsibility for the inability to find the real killer. When his shift was finished, he decided to visit the D.I. to make sure he was alright.
He drove to Newman’s house in Clarkston. The Mondeo was parked in the drive, so it looked like Newman was home.
Rain was pattering down on Russell’s head as he stood knocking on the large brass letterbox. He knew that the older man was divorced and lived alone. He had rapped the door a couple of more times with no reply. The D.I was not a man who was fond of exercise and Russell couldn’t imagine him leaving the car to walk anywhere. He made towards the window, inside the curtains were closed, but there was a gap that allowed Russell a view into the interior. In the dim light he could see a figure in an armchair, head back, arms hanging limply.
“Crap.” Russell ran back to the door but there was no way he would be able to break the substantial storm door on his own. He ran down the drive and managed to vault over the fence between it and the back garden. The back door was double glazed with a PVC surround. Russell thought that he would need to break the glass but was surprised when the handle moved and the door swung open.
He ran through the large kitchen into the hall and then into the living room. Harry Newman was prone on the chair; two empty bottles of whisky and an equally empty bottle of prescription drugs lay on a small table. Below one of the whisky bottles was a hand-written note that, in a jittery hand Harry Newman had managed to write, ‘I’m sorry. H.N.’
Under the table was a copy of the newspaper that had so savagely destroyed him as well as a postcard. His name and address was typed on one side, but there was no stamp.
Russell placed his fingers at the man’s throat but the temperature of Newman’s skin and the lack of pulse proved his worst fears were correct. He reached for his radio and called in the tragedy. When the call was over, he opened the front door and walked back to his car where he lifted a pair of crime scene gloves from the boot.
Back in the house, he pulled on the gloves and lifted the postcard. On the other side was a single word with the now familiar Harlequin mask in the corner. The word was printed in a large typeface and in capital letters; it read simply, ‘FOOL’.
Within fifteen minutes the house was crawling with technicians, uniformed officers and the detectives from Partick as well as the local station. There was anger in the air but Lionel Marriot could only say that he believed it was suicide and that no one else had been involved. It did little to dispel the fury and frustration the detectives were feeling.
***
The following week all the evidence backed up Marriot’s assessment. When the note was compared to Newman’s handwriting it was obvious that it was his despite the lack of control brought on by the alcohol and fear he was feeling. Everything pointed to a combination of guilt at the Nichol deaths, the humiliation of the newspaper and the killer’s postcard had pushed the distraught detective over the edge.
Within another week the leads in all cases dried up. There were no fingerprints on any of the items the killer had left at the crime scene, there were no eyewitnesses to the delivery of the postcard, there was nothing new and the chances of catching the murderer seemed more distant with every passing day.
After four weeks the team was scaled down as the criminal element of Glaswegian society continued to go about their trade and officers were needed on more pressing cases. When the case was officially declared cold six months later, Tom Russell was one of only two detectives who were still officially assigned to the Harlequin deaths.
On April 1st 1994, Detective Constable Tom Russell arrived at Partick police station aware that one year had passed since the first bizarre deaths. He walked into the C.I.D. room, before he could sit down his eye was drawn to a billboard across the street at the back of the station. A grinning Harlequin mask stared back at him and under it was a sign which read ‘IT’S NOT OVER YET’.
Part Two
April 1st 2003
Chapter 10
At midday, they began to emerge like butterflies spreading their wings to soak up the rays of the sun. They came in pairs, running joyfully from the streets around George Square to assemble at points across the wide expanse of public space at the heart of Glasgow. They were dressed identically; loose one-piece costumes that were patterned with pastel-coloured diamonds. On each head was a three-point fool’s hat with that same pattern and on their feet a pair of oversized white shoes. Every face wore an identical clown’s makeup of white greasepaint with spots of black and red to emphasise certain features. Some of them juggled, others performed gymnastics while the rest just clowned with buckets of water and other props. The office workers, students and shoppers began to form small crowds around them, watching with delight in the warmth of the spring sunshine. The mood was festive and the banter that the city’s natives are renowned for bounced around the little groups as they heckled the performers with good humour.
The atmosp
here shattered in an instant when a scream crashed through it, laced with fear and shock it travelled across the large open space and bounced in multiple echoes from the buildings. The performances stopped and people began to congregate in one corner of the great square where three men lay in an ever-extending puddle of blood. On top of one of the bodies, a small white piece of card was gradually being turned a deep crimson but the design and text remained visible. Printed in the middle were two words and a simple graphic that would bring chills to the city’s detectives. The Harlequin was back.
Chapter 11
Tom Russell sat outside the changing room, failing hopelessly in his attempt to not appear too bored. He knew what kind of day he was in for when Karen had told him that she wanted to go shopping and he had to go with her. An invitation to a wedding in June had prompted the trudge around the shops as Karen searched for the perfect dress for the occasion. Russell thought there was plenty of time to get what she needed, but his wife was insistent that she could never be sure when the two of them would be available on the same day between now and the day of the wedding. So Russell had applied obediently for a day off and was ‘enjoying’ it by visiting every dress shop in the city. The trip had begun at nine that morning and by half past twelve his stomach was telling him it was time for some lunch, and a break from the endless parade of designs and colours.
Karen came out of the changing room wearing a cerise dress that was fitted around her bust and torso before flaring out at her hips.
“Well?”
It was the tenth dress she had tried on so far that day and with the exception of one, they had all looked fine to her husband. “It’s nice,” he said for the ninth time.
“You can’t just keep saying that. Help me out. Do I suit it?”
“Aye, I like the colour,” he replied with as much enthusiasm as he could summon.
She walked to the mirror, turned and looked over her shoulder. “No, it makes my hips look too broad and I don’t think that it’s right for a wedding. You need to be honest with me, Tom.” She walked back into the changing room and Russell groaned; he knew all too well the perils of being honest with Karen when it came to helping her choose clothes.
The Harlequin Page 7