The Harlequin

by Sinclair Macleod

  “What’s going to happen to us?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t know Joe, but we have to stay strong for each other.”

  “He’s going to kill us,” Hayley McLelland shouted.

  “You don’t know that,” Karen replied firmly.

  “I do, he’s a psycho. He’s killed loads of people, my father told me all about him.”

  “Who is your father?” Karen asked.

  “Mark McLelland, he worked this case when he was still a policeman.”

  “My ex-husband is Tom Russell, he used to work with your father.”

  “See, it’s revenge, he’s going to kill us.” The younger woman was now crying hysterically. Karen wondered if she should slap her but decided against it.

  “Is that true?” Joe asked. He was too young to know much about the previous crimes, although he did remember that the police had visited his mother ten years ago.

  Despite her pounding head, throbbing back and racing heart, Karen was determined to be the one to offer some sense of calm and reassurance. “First of all, this might be a copycat. Secondly, even if it is the original Harlequin, maybe he’s trying to draw out my ex-husband, your father and your mother. He knows how they will react and he wants revenge on them, not us.” Although she managed to say it with real conviction, she knew her words were hollow.

  “You think so?” Joe asked.

  “Yes but we have to help ourselves. We need a plan.”

  Hayley dismissed the idea with a derisory laugh.

  Karen remained positive and said, “There are three of us and only one of him. We need to be ready to take advantage of it if he lets his guard down.”

  “Aye, we could jump him,” Joe said with enthusiasm.

  “You can’t just rush into it, Joe. We’ll need to have a plan.”

  At that moment the room was flooded with light again as the door opened.

  “We’ll talk later,” Karen whispered.

  The door of the cage was unlocked and a tray was propelled onto the floor between them. A weak-looking porridge slopped over the sides of three metal bowls, the kind that were used to feed pets.

  “Eat,” the man commanded as he locked the door. When he was gone they were back in their twilight world. There was no cutlery on the tray but the three of them were so hungry they shovelled the watery food into their mouths with their hands. They were all famished and would need what little strength the porridge offered.

  ***

  As requested, the Major Incident Team officers were back in the briefing room at eleven, but it was another fifteen minutes before the meeting could start.

  With Baxter at his side, Russell was about to begin when the entrance of the Procurator Fiscal, Jacqui Kerr, delayed him further.

  “I thought the Fiscal should know what’s happening too,” Baxter said.

  “Take a seat,” Russell said to the woman. The last thing he needed was Ms Kerr and her superior attitude, but he had to be polite.

  One of the detectives rose from his chair but she said, “I’ll stand here if you don’t mind.” She took up a position close to the door, leaning on the wall. Her face was set in its customary expression of disdain as she turned her attention to Russell.

  The detective superintendent ran through the events of the day, mainly for the sake of Baxter and Kerr.

  “This Karen Russell, is she related to you?” Baxter asked.

  “In a manner of speaking, sir. She’s my ex-wife.”

  “Ah. Do you think you should be leading this inquiry?”

  When Alex saw Russell bristle she was about to speak, but he beat her to it. “With all due respect sir, I am the senior officer left on the job who has dealt with this case from the start. I know more about this man than anyone else on the force, there is no way that I will stand aside willingly,” he said with barely controlled fury.

  “I think that decision is mine to make, detective superintendent,” Baxter responded.

  Alex decided to mediate. “Sir, I feel that it would be better that the detective superintendent lead the team. His insights into this man would be invaluable to the investigation. I think continuity will help to short cut some of the procedures as we won’t need to dig into files for information.”

  There was a positive mutter in the room, as the general consensus seemed to be with Russell being the S.I.O.

  “Very well,” Baxter said.

  “We can’t afford any further failures on this like last time, Detective Superintendent. We don’t need your emotions getting in the way,” Kerr added.

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Russell said sarcastically. “Can we get back to the case?”

  Baxter nodded while Kerr ignored him.

  “At the moment we don’t have a lot to go on. We need to establish how he managed to grab all three of them. I need a team to look into the movements yesterday of each of the captives.” He laid out what was required and teams were assigned to each of the three people involved.

  “Next, we need I.T. to be on the ball. If possible, I want one or two of them to move here to facilitate easier communication.”

  “I’ll speak to Roger Green and ask him to send a couple of folk over,” Alex said.

  “Good, get on that. Is there anything on that video that might help us? For example, can we isolate some sounds that might give us a clue to where they may be held?”

  “It’s worth a try. They’ve got an audio specialist in the team, I’ll ask Roger about that as well.”

  “Next, if this is Dent rather than someone taking on the mantle, where the hell has he been for the last ten years? Obviously he’ll be older now but he might have had plastic surgery to change his looks, and he will have changed his name. D.S. Craigan, I want you to form a small team with a D.C. and a couple of uniforms to try and trace what happened to him after he went into the river. Check bank accounts, family property, private cosmetic clinics, basically anything that will piece together where he’s been and how he got back.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied.

  “I’m going to have a word with somebody who might know who could have forged documents for Dent and what name he is going by now. Anybody got any other suggestions?”

  The room stayed silent and a few shook their heads.

  “Sir?” Russell asked the A.C.C.

  “Make sure that your time is allocated properly on this investigation. I don’t want any holes in the budget.”

  Fuck me, Russell thought, three people kidnapped and all he’s worried about is his spreadsheets.

  He didn’t vocalise his opinion, instead he said to the team, “I want anything, and no matter how trivial it might be it’s to be reported to a central communications team here in the incident room. Frank, can you please organise the comms hub. Make sure all phone numbers have been collated.”

  “Aye, sir. No problem.” D.S. Weaver said.

  “Get to it. Let’s bring those people home, safe and sound.”

  The room was filled with a hubbub of chairs being pushed back, footsteps and voices. It dissipated into near silence as the team members went about their tasks. A small queue formed at Frank Weaver’s desk as everyone checked with him that he had their mobile numbers. With mobile contracts changing due to the reorganisation, some of the detectives had been given new phones and the contact list was far from one hundred per cent accurate.

  Russell made his way back to his own office to collect his coat. As he was about to leave, Alex appeared at the door.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” she asked.

  “Alex, you don’t need to babysit me. I’m not going to do anything stupid. I’m going to Nitshill to meet an old adversary of mine and then I’ll come straight back. You get the I.T. stuff organised and when I get back we’ll decide what to do next.”

  “If you’re sure?”


  “I’m sure.”

  A uniformed sergeant appeared behind Alex.

  “Donnie, what’s up?”

  “Sir, I thought you should know that the press are outside. They know that your ex-wife is involved.”

  “Shit, so much for keeping them out of the way. It’s OK, I’ll deal with it.”

  “I’ll make an appearance on the street and distract them while you get to the car,” Alex offered.

  “Not a bad idea, give me a sec.”

  He moved to the computer, logged in and found what he was looking for. The printer on his desk whirred and a picture of Roy Dent was deposited in the tray, which Russell folded and then put it in his pocket.

  “I’m set.”

  While her boss went to the car park via the door at the back of the building, Alex strode purposefully to the gatehouse where the press were gathered; she called to them to walk round to the pavement on Helen Street. Once they were in place, T.V. cameras were hoisted onto shoulders, microphones, digital recorders and mobile phones were thrust in her direction while a variety of questions were asked about how Detective Superintendent Russell was dealing with this crisis. She let them shout for a bit longer than she would have normally, allowing Russell time to get into his car.

  Over their heads, she could see his Insignia pulling away from the gates as she told the press to direct all queries to the press office in Pitt Street. There was a groan of annoyance and disgust from the journalists as they realised that she had denied them the chance to grill Russell. As far as Alex was concerned, being based at the most secure police station in Scotland definitely had its advantages.

  Chapter 24

  During the drive to Nitshill Road, Russell fought the urge to think too much about the situation Karen was in. He had to work this exactly as he would any other case if he was going to be able to help her; overly emotional distractions would only harm his chances of saving her.

  His destination was a row of shops where Michael Kenny had a little watch repair business. The tiny space was cramped between a bookmakers and a sandwich shop. In the short line of buildings there were another two bookies, a pharmacy, a newsagent, and at the very end a pub that looked about as welcoming as a starved Rottweiler.

  Michael’s relationship with the law was based on the idea that it was more a set of guidelines, rather than hard and fast rules. He believed that as long as no one was hurt and he didn’t get caught, anything was permissible. He had a reputation as a forger of incredible skill and had served five years for his troubles, but he was a slippery character. The watch repair business was a front, but he did have the skills required; the smaller the item the better he was at manipulating it. He could have made a real career for himself with a proper jewellers but he liked the game; skirting around the police with the same skill and dexterity that he used to fix watches and forge documents. The problem Russell had was that he couldn’t help like the wee man with the milk bottle glasses, squeaky voice and insolent smile.

  That grin was in full glow when Russell walked into the shop.

  “Mr Russell, long time no see,” Kenny said. He put down a watch and the cloth he was using to clean it, removed a pair of loupe lens glasses and put on his own spectacles.

  “Michael, how are you?”

  “Ah’m good, thanks. Yirsel’?

  “Not so good. I need some help.”

  “Noo, Mr Russell, Ah hope ye don’t think that Ah’m involved in any nonsense,” he said seriously, although Russell could still see the glint in his eye.

  “Michael, I’m not here to cause you any trouble and I need you to be honest with me. This is about murder and kidnap, so anything you’ve been up to is irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.”

  Kenny realised how important this was, Russell’s face showed the kind of strain that the little man had never seen before on any cop’s face.

  “Aye, nae problem. Whit de ye need?”

  Russell told him a shortened version of the long story of the Harlequin. When he told the forger about the latest stage in the two decades of madness, Kenny’s demeanour changed.

  “Ah’m sorry fur yir troubles, Mr Russell. Whit cin Ah dae that will help ye?”

  Russell took out the photograph of Dent and pushed it over the thin counter.

  “This is Dr Roy Dent, we believe he is the Harlequin. He disappeared ten years ago, completely off the grid. He could only have done that with the help of somebody like yourself. I need to know if you recognise him or if you know who might have helped him.”

  Kenny took the photograph and peered intently at it.

  “Ah don’t remember the face. Ten year ago…” he was making a genuine effort to remember.

  “That was about when the Iraq war started, if that’s any help.”

  “Oh wait… aye, there wis somethin’. Ah remember noo. There wis a big rush joab roon that time. Some guy wis offerin’ a fortune for a full set o’ papers, passport, drivin’ licence, the works.”

  “Sounds like it could be him. Do you know who did the work?”

  “It wisnae me. This guy wis wantin’ a rush joab and that’s no’ me, Mr Russell. Ah know ye don’t approve but when Ah dae work, Ah dae it right. Ah heard that it wis Gerry Halkirk that did it. Second rater in ma opinion but it wid’ve passed muster. Just.”

  “This Halkirk, where is he based?”

  “He wis oot Motherwell way but ye’ll no’ be able tae talk tae him, the cancer took him a couple year back.”

  “Shit. Is there anybody who might remember what name was used?”

  “Naw, it’s no somethin’ ye tell other folk. We didnae keep records either, afore ye ask.”

  “Michael, if you could do some digging, just in case somebody knows what Halkirk did for him or maybe Dent’s had to get other documents, anything you could find might help.”

  “Ah’ll dae whit Ah cin, Mr Russell, Ye know Ah don’t like any o’ that violence pish.”

  “Thanks Michael.” They parted with a handshake.

  ***

  Karen Russell lay on her side trying to ignore the excruciating pain that seemed to engulf her. Hayley and Joe had succumbed to exhaustion despite their own agony; the tiredness in every bone and sinew had won. Karen’s fear of what the Harlequin would do while she was unconcious was another reason that she refused to succumb to the need to sleep.

  As she watched the two younger people rest, her thoughts turned to her own legacy. She and Tom had never been able to conceive, baffling the doctors as every test told them that it should have been possible. Karen had gone through a period of blaming Tom, believing the pressure of his work, his irregular hours and erratic eating had all contributed to their lack of children. However, after they were divorced, Karen began to re-evaluate. She realised now how unreasonable her behaviour had been; she could see a rival in every woman that he ever came into contact with. Her lack of trust had worn him down and when he told her he wanted a divorce, her first thought was that he must have somebody else. At the time she was so angry that the only thing she wanted to do was to punish him and with her lawyer’s help, combined with Tom’s reluctance to put up much of a fight, that was what she had done. It had taken some time but with no sign of another woman in his life and the mellowing of her own opinion, she had slowly come to realise just how poorly she had treated him both during and after their marriage. If she had been more understanding, more ready to trust him, they would still have been together today - they may have even been parents. She wondered what he was thinking about their relationship now. Did he just see her in the same light as the two other victims, that it was just another case to solve? Did he care if she survived, as long as he caught the Harlequin? She hoped that he did but she wouldn’t have blamed him if he didn’t. All she could do was try to survive and help the two young people to do the same. Maybe that would be a fitting legacy.

  ***r />
  It was half-past one by the time Russell arrived back at the station. He had driven past the waiting press pack, whose members were in the middle of the biggest story of their careers and no one would talk to them. The fact Russell had sped past without so much as a pause had just added to their annoyance. Some of the T.V. crews had taken to interviewing other journalists in an effort to have something to offer their producers at the news channels. Those interviews were interspersed with discussions with psychologists and criminal ‘experts’ pontificating in the studio.

  In the incident room, Alex was sitting with Roger Green and they were both peering at a laptop. Beside them were two other people that Russell didn’t recognise; one of them was wearing a pair of headphones.

  Alex introduced them, “Sir, this is Roger, the head of the Forensic I.T. team, this is his colleague Hugo Elgar and the audio technician is Stephanie Jensen.”

  All three acknowledged the detective; Elgar stood and shook his hand while the other two nodded. Russell was shocked at how young Elgar looked. He had heard about the hacker turned cyber cop but he hadn’t expected him to look about twelve years of age. He wore his hair long and his clothes were shabby chic, at best. The rumour was that Elgar had cracked the police human resource database and created a record for himself. He then informed the security team what he had done and asked for a job. His unusual approach proved successful and he was given the job of tightening the security of the database he had just hacked. Having completed that task, he was moved into the forensic I.T. team.

  The young woman looked a little more soberly dressed than her colleague. Despite her scarlet red hair - her muted pink blouse and simple blue jeans made her a closer approximation of Russell’s idea of what a member of the force should look like.

  “How are you getting on?” Russell asked Green.

  “We’re trying to map how he’s organised the site but it seems to be using multiple hosts across the world. It’s a very sophisticated piece of software that is behind this.”