His heart pounding, he climbed the steps on to the carriage two down from the coach Dent had chosen. He rushed through the buffet car, where he attracted a stare from one of the train crew before walking through an empty first-class compartment. When the door slid open and he stepped into the final coach, he could see a lone figure. Dent looked up from his bag and straight at the detective. Russell thought he could sense a little bit of disquiet in the pathologist’s glance but it was replaced by a strained smile as the detective approached. The smile was the clue that Dent was both surprised and disturbed at the sight of Russell bearing down on him.; Dent smiled very rarely.
“Detective Inspector Russell, are you off on a trip?” he said as he sat down.
“No, doctor. We need to talk.”
“I’m off to Birmingham for a conference. If it’s about the post mortems from Tuesday you will have to speak to Dr Thompson, I’m afraid?”
“I don’t think that anyone can answer these particular questions other than you.”
“Take a seat, we’ve got fifteen minutes before the train is due to depart,” Dent said reasonably.
“I’d rather we did this back at the police station, if you don’t mind. I’m afraid you won’t be going to any conference this weekend.”
“It all sounds a bit ominous, inspector. Have I done something wrong?” Russell was impressed at how well Dent had regained his composure but he did notice the smallest of tremors in the physician’s right hand.
“Please, doctor I don’t want this to be difficult. I think you probably know why I need to talk to you. I’ve spoken to someone who was a member of the Jester’s Balls’ club. Someone who was there in 1983 and they’ve told me what happened at the hotel.”
“Ah, yes.” His poise disappeared and a momentary look of rage crossed his face.
“I’d like you to accompany me back to the station and we can talk about what happened to you. What transpired that night was truly awful and I’m sure you would like to tell your story.”
“I’m sure you’d like that, inspector. Listening to my tale of humiliation and pain.” His bitterness was no longer rippling below the surface; it was beginning to swell into something menacing.
“Not at all. I want to hear your version of events.”
“I’m sure.” Dent stood up and Russell was relieved to see that the doctor seemed resigned to his fate.
“I’ll need to get my case.” He pointed to the end of the carriage where the luggage was stored.
Russell led the way towards it and waited at the door while Dent lifted his bag from the rack and placed it on to the floor. The detective stepped on to the platform and turned to help the doctor with his case. Dent launched the luggage at him and it knocked an unsuspecting Russell to the ground. Leaping over the prostrate man, Dent turned and ran towards the end of the platform in the direction of the tracks.
Russell, feeling both angry and embarrassed, pushed the case aside and got to his feet. The pathologist had a thirty-yard start and Russell was horrified to see him running towards the expanse of track that led away from the station. With no other option he ran after the man he now believed to be a killer.
The station is the main terminal for a number of services to and from the city, including the mainline trains to London. Russell chased Dent out on to the busy matrix of interconnecting tracks. Slow moving trains rumbled to and from the station as Dent ran out on to the bridge across the Clyde. Russell tried to keep sight of his quarry while worrying about the deadly engines and wheels that would slice him to ribbons if they caught him during their journey over the rails. He followed Dent across three sets of parallel tracks and watched in horror as the killer raced in front of an oncoming multiple unit painted in the blue and purple livery of ScotRail. The driver blew the horn and Russell turned away expecting the worse. When he looked back the train was rolling past. He stood within the safe haven of one of the pillars that held the signal gantry; his view of Dent was blocked. When the train had finally rolled by, he could see Dent running towards the edge of the bridge. With a quick glance to either side, he ran after the doctor, lifting his feet to clear the rails and being careful not to put them down where points might close on them. Every breath was painful as the fear and effort threatened to overcome him.
When the detective looked up once more he could see Dent climbing the ironwork at the edge of the bridge. He stood briefly and glanced back at his pursuer before jumping off and into the River Clyde some way below.
“No,” Russell shouted in vain. He reached the point from where Dent had leapt, clambered up the iron structure and tried to see into the dark waters. The river was being rippled by the strong breeze that was blowing, as well as the constant rhythm of the rain. Russell wasn’t sure whether some of those ripples were the result of Dent’s plunge, but what he knew for sure was that there was no sign of his prey.
“D.S. Clarkson,” he shouted into this radio.
“Sir, where are you?”
“Out on the bridge, Dent jumped into the river, I’m going after him. Ring McLelland and get the boat out and as many officers as possible along the banks.”
“Into the river?” she asked.
“Yes, just do as you’re told.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the conversation finished, Russell took off his jacket - which held both his radio and phone - climbed the iron lattice and jumped into the black depths thirty-five feet below. The chilling water shocked his body and he struggled not to take a breath that would have resulted in a lungful of river. He was momentarily disorientated, not sure which way was up. He relaxed enough to let his buoyancy take hold and he then kicked his legs to take him to the surface. He gasped in a welcome breath of air and tried to get his bearings. The combination of the railway bridge and the George IV road bridge robbed that part of the river of any illumination. He used his arms to propel him in a circle as he searched for any sign of Dent. The short waves in the river lapping against him added to his problems as he tried to pick out any sign of the doctor. He swam for a short time downriver but it was obvious that Dent was nowhere to be seen. As the cold began to overcome him, he swam to a jetty and hauled himself out. As a result of the entertainment he had provided, the people who lined the banks greeted him with cheers but he didn’t feel like responding in a positive way.
He peered into the water, hoping that Dent’s body would float to the surface but in his heart he knew another chance had gone. There were now several police cars, an ambulance and a fire crew on the quay above the river. The paramedics came and offered him a blanket and asked him if he wanted to go with them to the hospital to be checked out but he refused. A few minutes later he was joined by McLelland who had been directed to where he was by a combination of the emergency service personnel and the gawping Glaswegians who had watched the drama unfold.
“What the hell happened, Tom?’
Russell recited the story through chattering teeth as the cold continued to penetrate into his bones. As he told the whole sorry tale, he was both resigned to, and frustrated by his failure.
“We’ll keep searching, he can’t have got far,” McLelland said by way of encouragement.
A systematic search was organised along the riverbanks but there was no sign of the doctor, neither alive nor dead. The fading light meant that the diving team could not be deployed that night and they would have to wait until the following day to make a detailed underwater survey.
Ellen Clarkson arrived carrying his jacket; an officer from the British Transport Police had retrieved it from the bridge. The group stood huddled on the quay for an hour, hoping that some sign of Dent would appear somewhere along the great stretch of water but their wait was in vain.
Bitterly disappointed, the senior officers returned to Pitt Street. Russell was still wrapped in the blanket from the ambulance as they briefed an extremely annoyed A.C.C. Dunsmore.
“I know sir but I didn’t have much time to make the call,” Russell said defensively.
“Let’s hope that we find his body because I doubt we’re going to catch him alive, do you?”
McLelland felt protective towards Russell and he was tempted to tell his superior where to go but instead he muttered, “We’ve circulated his picture to all forces across the country, sir, so there’s still a chance.”
“That’s twice he’s slipped away. We’re in for a time of it from the press.”
Russell was feeling cold, miserable and angry but he bit his tongue, the obsession with the press really rankled when there were victims families who were the ones that the senior officers should be focusing on. He simply said, “Yes, sir.”
“I think you should take a little time off D.I. Russell, while Chief Superintendent McLelland and I clean up your mess.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get out of my sight.” He dismissed Russell with a wave of his hand.
Russell thought about throwing his warrant card across the desk and walking away from his job but being a detective meant too much to him. Instead he slammed the door and retreated down the corridor and into himself.
Chapter 18
The following days got even worse for Russell. The search for Dent proved to be fruitless, both in the water and on land. Some of the detective team were of the opinion that Dent must have drowned but as he had once been on the university swimming team, that seemed unlikely. It was impossible to say whether he had drifted downstream, swam upstream to a quieter area of the city or if he had climbed out of the river before the police could react but it amounted to the same thing, he had escaped justice once again.
The press were all too aware what had happened as there were plenty of passengers on the trains who had witnessed the chase and Dent and Russell jumping into the river. Police competence was questioned and analysed by the broadsheets, the tabloids gloried in the failings and called for heads to roll. Questions about Special Branch’s role in diverting resources of the investigation for no good reason were never asked because no one was ever told.
One week after Dent had escaped, Russell was called to an enquiry to identify what went wrong. A panel of three senior officers from Lothian & Borders put his decisions under close scrutiny. McLelland and Clarkson were also put in the spotlight for their part in the failure to catch the Harlequin. Russell had warned Ellen Clarkson that she should tell the panel that she was following orders and although she argued the point with him, she finally gave in. It was two weeks before the report came back. McLelland was censured for failure to control an officer under his command. Ellen Clarkson was excused of all blame although she was warned to ensure that she worked within standard procedures. Russell was heavily criticised for poor decision-making in light of flimsy evidence and was told that he would be ineligible for promotion for three years. The report did admit that he was probably correct in his identification of the culprit but believed he had handled it badly. He was withdrawn from the pool of officers dedicated to murder investigation and reassigned to the squad that looked into illegally imported, and fake goods. It was a demotion in all but name but he didn’t care, no punishment they could have suggested would have been as bad as knowing that he had failed to capture the killer.
***
Over the next ten years, Russell’s thoughts would drift to the Harlequin every time the first of April came around, dreading what might happen but as time slipped away, a hope that it was finally over began to take root in his thoughts. He had no idea how wrong he would be.
Part Three
April 1st 2013
Chapter 19
Karen Russell looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror, adjusted her hair one more time and then straightened her skirt. She was ready for her big day.
This day was important because she had an opportunity to sell a substantial property that would net her the largest commission she had ever received from a single sale. In the six years since she had become an estate agent, she had done fairly well selling the family homes and flats that made up much of Glasgow’s housing market, but today was different. The property she was going to visit was a substantial old farmhouse that had been renovated and modernised, it was surrounded by a large tract of land and could sell for a seven-figure sum. When the client called the office he had asked specifically for Karen and she was desperate to ensure that she would be the one who would complete the deal. It was unusual to have to work on Easter Sunday, but the client insisted it was the only day he was available. From what she could gather he was an Italian property developer who had been in Scotland for a short time. His name was Ruggero Pagliacci and Karen hoped that he would have those classic Italian looks. In her fantasy she thought that maybe she could be more than his estate agent, but she knew it was only wishful thinking. He was probably balding, fat and in his sixties.
With one final glance in the mirror, she picked up her handbag and mobile phone, locked the door of her flat and headed to her car.
***
The house was out in the shadow of the Ochil Hills in Stirlingshire, a forty-minute drive from Glasgow city centre. Despite April being only a day away, small flakes of snow were falling in occasional flurries as she drove out to the house. All across the country, winter was still holding spring at bay as trees remained bare and the daffodil flowers were still tucked up in the warmth of their buds.
She had left herself plenty of time to make the journey, worried that work on the roads or the weather would delay her. She was desperate to be on time to make sure that her relationship with the client didn’t get off to a bad start. A slight delay on the M80 due to workers filling in potholes was all that hampered her and she turned into the drive of the house five minutes ahead of schedule. The drive was lined with large pine trees and when she pulled up in front of the house, she could see that the description of the property she had been told to expect was on the modest side. This was no farmhouse, but a glorious villa in the Scottish Baronial style. She was already calculating a possible selling price and the commission she would earn from it.
At the door of the house there was a gloss black BMW 5 series, but there was no sign of the owner. She crunched her way across the gravel in front of the house and rang the doorbell. The old-fashioned bell rang faintly somewhere deep in the house. There was no reply, and she tried once more but there was still no sign of life in the great building. She stepped back on to the gravel and made her way around to the back of the house. There was a garage and a small block of stables at the rear and she shouted, “Hello, Signor Pagliacci. Is there anyone here?”
Once again there was nothing to suggest that there was anyone else on the property and a little flicker of fear made its way into her mind. She walked closer to the stables and called out once again. When there was still no sign that the client was going to appear she turned with the intention of waiting in her car, suddenly she heard the sound of another foot on the gravel. Before she could turn to see who it was she felt a hand grab her around the waist and another was clamped to her mouth. Her nose was engulfed in a smell that was both sweet and antiseptic, and caused her to feel light-headed. The Chloroform fumes soon overtook her and her legs folded. As she was about to lapse into unconsciousness she realised that Signor Pagliacci was not who he claimed to be; instead of her Italian fantasy, she was staring up into a cruel mask. The Harlequin’s face grinned back at her and then the world turned black.
***
Hayley McLelland was puzzled when she received a mysterious e-mail from her father; it wasn’t like him to be so spontaneous. It read:
Hayley,
Meet me at the graveyard at Cadder Church in Bishopbriggs at 7pm. I’ve got a surprise for you. No questions.
Dad
She knew that since he had retired he ha
d become passionate about tracing the family tree and she could only imagine that he had found something significant in the old churchyard. Why he couldn’t wait until tomorrow when they were due to go for lunch she couldn’t imagine. She knew there was no point in phoning him to see what it was all about; ever since she was small he had loved to delight her with something new and exciting, he would never tell her what this mystery was. Although she didn’t share his enthusiasm for the ancestry project, if it kept him happy it would be worth the trip.
Due to the holiday, the traffic was relatively light as she made her way out to the suburbs. Only five miles from the city centre and she could see the Campsie Hills and surrounding countryside. She thought that living in a huge city where you could drive for hours without seeing a field must be awful.
The sun was beginning to set between the clouds that carried wintry showers across the landscape and there was a pink tinge to the light. She turned into Cadder Road, made her way over the Forth & Clyde Canal via a narrow bridge and found her way to the church. The Easter services were obviously over, as the only car she could see was a black BMW. She checked her watch it was five-past seven. It wasn’t like her father to be late. Having never visited the church before she decided to wander around while she waited for him. The ancient gravestones were uneven and on many of them the engraved text had been worn away by rain, wind and time. She had been walking for about five minutes and there was still no sign of her father. As she reached the point of the graveyard furthest from the entrance she felt that there was someone watching her. She turned to see a man wearing a mask, a manic grin painted on it. She was about to scream when he punched her hard in the solar plexus. The wind rushed from her lungs and her scream died on her lips. His hand covered her mouth and she slipped into a deep sleep.
***
Joseph O’Donnell was ready for a party. He had spent the afternoon with his mother and his sister having Sunday lunch. His mother had insisted he be there as it was Easter Sunday, but he had no idea why that made any difference; his mother hadn’t been in a church since she was divorced from his father and it seemed weird to celebrate when she no longer believed. He had been the dutiful son and stayed until the meal was over and hung around reluctantly for a short time to keep his mother happy.
The Harlequin Page 15