The Harlequin

by Sinclair Macleod

  “I’ll dig out how the team handled it ten years ago,” Ingram said. “That should help me understand it.”

  “If at all possible we’d like to avoid any immediate links being made between the incident today and what happened back then. We kept the Harlequin out of it as much as we could but I doubt that will be possible this time round.”

  “No, you better tell me what happened today.”

  As the grisly details of the events of the day were revealed to her, Ingram scribbled furiously on her notepad. Sometimes she would decide that what she had written was wrong and then scrub it out with a series of lines drawn vigorously over the offending words. When McLelland was finished speaking she said, “Mmm… I think we play this very close to our chest and have answers ready should any of them make a connection to what occurred ten years ago. We will give them nothing substantial, just enough to stop the more fantastical and sensational connections being made. How’s that for a strategy chaps?”

  “I’ll be guided by what you say, Kelly.”

  “Excellent. I’ll pull it all together and you pop back in about an hour.” She looked at her watch. “That should give us plenty of time for a rehearsal before we brief at half past five.”

  “I’ll see you in an hour,” McLelland agreed.

  The men left her thumping her computer keyboard as if it were a mechanical typewriter. In the corridor McLelland said, “I’ll go back to my office and check my e-mail. I’d appreciate it if you could head back to Stewart Street. I’ll get the press conference out of the way and I’ll get you back there when I’m done.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see how we’re getting on with the victim profiles and if there has been any progress with the knife or the interviews. What about the P.M.s, have we got a time yet?”

  “Oh damn it. No not yet. Give Dr Thompson a ring and see when they’ll be performed?”

  “Will do.”

  “I’ll get you a car,” McLelland offered.

  “No thanks, sir. I’ll walk, it’s not far and it’ll give me some thinking time.”

  “Ring me when you get the time for the P.M.s”

  “Yes, sir. Speak to you later.”

  ***

  By the time Russell got back to Stewart Street it was three-thirty in the afternoon and the place was a hive of activity. As he headed towards the main incident room, every door he walked by opened on to a crowded office where dozens of people were collating information from witness statements collected by the officers in the square, and then entering them into the computer; others were performing background checks on those involved in the promotions company. He also knew that some would be trawling the HOLMES and Interpol databases for possible links. This was the less glamorous side of policing, the side that you would never see on the T.V. crime dramas, but it was essential to explore every tiny detail and make sense of the enormous amount of data they would be receiving.

  Andy McKinley was sitting in front of a computer in the main briefing room, a phone stuck between his shoulder and his ear as he typed something into the machine. He acknowledged Russell with a movement of his eyebrows while muttering the occasional, “Yes,” or “OK” into the handset.

  When the call was over he said, “How did it go with the press office?”

  “Thankfully, I’m not needed. The chief super will brief the journalists at five-thirty, concentrating on what happened today. If the press make a connection between today and what happened ten years ago, Kelly Ingram’s got a plan to offer them some answers without making it clear that we think it’s the same killer. Have you met Kelly Ingram?”

  “Aye, a couple of times.”

  “What do you think of her?”

  “She comes across as being a bit eccentric, a bit airy-fairy but I wouldn’t want to cross her. I saw her tear strips off a young D.C. who was naive enough to answer a press question with something other than a ‘no comment.’ He caused a minor embarrassment but the way she exploded at him made it sound like he had proposed hanging pensioners who drive too slowly. It was all a bit over the top but I suppose she’s got stress in her role, just as we have in ours,” he said with understanding.

  “Do you think she’s good at what she does?”

  “I don’t know but the braid seem to think she is and that’s all that matters.”

  “I suppose so. What progress - if any - are we making?”

  “A progress of negatives, if you know what I mean. We’ve ruled out seven of the clowns so far. They’re just kids trying to pick up some extra cash while they study at college or university. We’ve not found a hardened criminal yet, nobody that stands out as an obvious psycho.” He cracked a weak smile.

  “And here was me hoping that we’d have one in custody telling us that it was a ‘fair cop’ and asking to be put in the jail and never let out.”

  “Some hope. Somehow I doubt we’ll find the killer among the official participants of the event.”

  “No. It’s all part of his pantomime. What about the owner of the company?”

  “He’s down south at some trade show or something? We’re trying to get hold of him.”

  “Any other connections to April the first?”

  McKinley shook his head. “Nah. Another dead end I think.”

  “It’s still worth a look, but I think you’re probably right. The knife?” Russell tried not to let his desperation show.

  “Nowt so far. We’ve searched the buildings and streets with direct access to the square and now widened it out to include the surrounding streets.”

  “How many officers?”

  “Sixty on the search if you include the forensic techs.”

  “Good.”

  McKinley looked pensive as he said, “What do you think about this? Why would you leave a ten-year gap if you feel you’ve been so wronged that you’re willing to kill innocent people in an attempt to get revenge?”

  “It’s like I said earlier Andy, there’s something about it being a ‘big’ anniversary. I can’t think of anything else.”

  “It’s just bloody weird if you ask me.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me on that score.”

  Russell found an empty desk and rang the mortuary. Dr Thomson confirmed that the post mortems would begin the following morning at ten o’clock. Russell thanked her and turned his attention to the computer where he read through his e-mails. This had turned into the worst ‘day off’ he had ever endured and he would be glad to see it come to an end. The afternoon drifted into early evening and the station began to empty. Russell waited until McLelland returned from the press conference.

  “How did it go?”

  “Not bad. No one had made any connection back to ten years ago but it probably won’t be long once they find the leaked story. Even some of the old hands were shocked by what happened but they’ll soon fit the pieces together and begin asking questions. Anything happen while I was away?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning. Hopefully things will start to move in a more positive direction.”

  ***

  Russell finally got home at seven-thirty, feeling the strain of an investigation that had already opened old wounds.

  “Is he back?” Karen asked when he walked into the kitchen of their two-bedroomed flat.

  “Looks like it,” he replied placing a kiss on her cheek.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Not really, I’ll just have a sandwich.”

  He walked through to their bedroom, stripped off and showered under a very hot flow of water. He allowed the powerful jets to massage his shoulders; pounding away some of the knots that were already beginning to appear. Although it was the first day of the case, he felt as if suddenly the weight of ten years was on him; the pain of seeing that little murdered girl had haunted him long after it had happ
ened and now it was back. Guilt was now piled on guilt as more people had died because he and the team had failed to catch the Harlequin first time round.

  He finished the shower, dressed in some casual clothes and walked back to the living room where Karen had laid out a couple of sandwiches and a cup of tea. She talked incessantly about the search for a dress and Tom tried to respond appropriately in the right places but his mind was elsewhere. His only distraction came when the news began on the television. The majority of the broadcast concentrated on the bombing of Iraq by Allied Forces. The Americans had coined the term ‘Shock and Awe’ for the huge bombs they were dropping.

  “Shock and awe is just another way of saying terrorising,” Russell observed.

  “That man needs to be removed, Tom,” Karen replied.

  “Maybe, but a lot of innocent people are going to die because the real reason is, we need their oil.”

  “He’s got terrible weapons and is willing to use them,” she argued.

  Russell kept his own counsel and continued to watch the bulletin. The three murders in Glasgow got a very brief mention; there wasn’t even time for McLelland’s press conference.

  Talk about a good day to bury bad news Russell thought.

  McLelland did appear on the local news, serious and articulate but looking strained. The reporter delivered her piece to camera from in front of the crime scene in a sensational way, claiming that the citizens of Glasgow were now living in fear. It was typical of the increasingly opinionated news style that was replacing well-reported facts. Russell sighed in disgust and wished his wife good night as he headed for bed.

  Chapter 13

  Another day, another briefing. There were now nearly forty detectives assigned to the case and it looked like the vast majority of them were attending the morning meeting. Russell had once again joined McLelland in front of the incident board. It took some time for the room to fall into near silence.

  “Good morning, everyone,” McLelland said, stilling the last few murmurs.

  “We’re going to go through our tasks from yesterday. I’d like to start with the search for any similar crimes. Who was looking into that? If you could give your name and station before you report, I know some of you but it would help me if you could introduce yourself.”

  A female detective raised her hand. “D.S. Ellen Clarkson, Maryhill, sir.”

  “Ellen would you like to come forward.”

  She stood up and made her way to the front of the room where she opened a notebook. “Myself, D.C.s Shaw and Mulgrew looked into some one hundred and fifty three murders that occurred on 1st April over the past twenty years. Six of those were in the U.K. only one of which remains open but it was related to a robbery. The Interpol database produced the rest of the results, with the vast majority of them in the U.S. There was only one open case that might fit with what we’ve seen in Glasgow. The ritualistic murder of a fifty-two year-old man in Denmark. The victim was Klaus Eriksen and he did have a connection with Scotland; he had worked here for two years in the nineties. The Danish police said that his body was laid out in a clearing in a forest with pagan symbols carved into the surrounding trees, they have been unable to find the culprit.” When she was finished she snapped the notebook closed.

  “Thanks Ellen. Tom?”

  Russell shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. If he had been here in 1983 then maybe, but it doesn’t feel like our man.”

  “I think you’re right. Are we agreed that we can put this aside?” McLelland asked the team.

  Everyone nodded or mumbled their agreement.

  “Right, next up any luck with the murder weapon, Andy?”

  D.S. McKinley responded, “Yes, sir. A forensic technician found it around seven last night in an industrial bin in North Court, a lane just off St Vincent Street.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Fingermarks,” a youthful-looking man at the back of the room said.

  “Sorry?”

  “If they haven’t been identified, they are fingermarks rather than prints, sir.”

  McLelland’s face flushed but he kept his voice steady when he asked, “And you are?”

  “D.C. Jackson, sir.”

  “Just finished your forensics course, detective constable?”

  “A month ago, sir.”

  “Let’s just presume that those of us with more experience than you know the difference between the definition of fingermarks and fingerprints and that we use the expression prints as a shorthand.”

  “But sir…”

  McLelland raised his voice slightly as he warned, “That’s enough, detective constable. At this moment we have more important things to worry about than semantics; like the fact we are chasing a killer who is responsible directly or indirectly for the deaths of twelve people.”

  Although he was now red faced with embarrassment, the younger man would not back down. “But sir, it’s important to use the correct nomenclature to avoid confusion or miscommunication.”

  The younger man had succeeded in erasing the last of McLelland’s patience. “Constable, get out of my fuckin’ sight before you find yourself busted back to uniform.” He pointed at the door. The fact McLelland had reacted so vehemently to the young man was a sign that he was definitely feeling the pressure of the Harlequin’s reappearance.

  There was a ripple of laughter from some of the older officers as the persistent young detective learned a harsh lesson and was forced to leave the room with his tail between his legs.

  “Bloody hell,” McLelland sighed. “Sorry, Andy you were saying?”

  “The knife’s clean, nothing that forensics could use. In the same waste bin we also found the clown costume the killer was wearing, it’s on the way to the lab to be checked for DNA.”

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose. Cheers Andy. Victim profiles. Let’s start with Mr Jenkinson.”

  An overweight man with a thick moustache came to stand beside Russell and McLelland. “D.S. Ben MacDonald, Govan station,” he introduced himself before continuing, “Martin Jenkinson wis fifty-four. He wis married to Sharon Jenkinson and has two grown up daughters who live down south. He wis originally fae Sussex and he moved tae Glesga for work twenty-two year ago. Nae criminal record and nae obvious connection to 1st April ‘83. That’s all ah’ve goat at the moment, sir.” His speech was delivered with gruff efficiency.

  “Thanks, Ben. Has his family been interviewed yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Can we have the report on the young man, Jordan wasn’t it?”

  Another female detective made her way to the front. “D.C. Amanda Robertson, Shettleston. Jordan Callender was twenty years of age. He was studying Web Design at the College Of Building and Printing. He received a caution last year for possession of a class ‘C’ controlled substance but no other record. He lived with his family in Dennistoun. Initial interviews with his folks have found no significance in the date April 1st 1983.”

  “Thanks Amanda. Last up Mr Ashad.”

  A young male detective stood up. “D.C. Ally Tyler, Stewart Street, sir. It’s a bit of a mystery. I contacted the Turkish Embassy in London and on their initial investigations they couldn’t trace any contacts for Mr Ashad. From what they discovered in their records the only Mehmet Ashad they could find who was born on the date that was shown on the passport, died of leukaemia when he was two. They think there may be a gap in their records and are going to investigate further. The only thing I can tell you is that he arrived in the U.K. three months ago according to immigration, and that he has been staying in the Holiday Inn for a couple of weeks here in Glasgow.” He returned to his seat.

  “Thanks for that, Ally. Very mysterious but he’s unlikely to have direct connection to the killer, so make sure you stay in touch with the embassy to ensure that the poor guy’s family are informed.”

  “Will
do, sir.”

  “We seem to have nothing that would connect any of these people with the significant date and the killer. There’s obviously another level to this and it would seem to point to the promotions company. How are the interviews with the staff going?”

  D.S. McKinley answered once again, “We’ll finish them today but I don’t think any of the performers have anything to tell us that will help. They were hired specifically for that job, they don’t really know much about each other and if I’m being honest, the majority of them aren’t the best witnesses, shock I suppose.”

  “Have you spoken to the owner yet?”

  “He’ll be back in Scotland tomorrow. He said the promotion was booked a few months ago and he’ll have to check the records when he gets back.”

  “That’s a priority for tomorrow. Let’s get as many witness statements checked today. Someone might have seen something that will help us. He’s taken a huge chance doing this in such a public place.”

  Russell agreed. “I think it seems like he was trying to make a bigger statement. We didn’t allow him too much in the way of publicity last time and I think he feels that his grievances - whatever they may be - need to be aired in public this time round.”

  “So let’s hope he’s slipped up. We’ll need the CCTV checked as well. D.S. McKinley, can I ask you to sort out the allocation of tasks once again?

  McKinley nodded.

  “You going to the mortuary?” the chief superintendent asked Russell.

  “Yes, sir. I’d like D.S. Clarkson to accompany me.”

  “Ellen, you’re with D.I. Russell.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get to work and bring me some results, please.”

  As the detectives began to funnel out of the room, McLelland turned to Russell. “I don’t imagine there’ll be anything we can learn from the P.M.s but keep me informed. I’ll head back to Pitt Street and brief the A.C.C. and then we’ll prepare a press statement.”