‘You’re sure?’
The boy nodded.
‘Good lad.’ The policewoman took the boy out. Paton was shaking his head. The other four men rolled their shoulders and craned their necks, filed out to collect their fee.
So Paton was safely banged up in Barlinnie. But he wouldn’t confess, not to being the Quaker. The only way he could clear himself of being the Quaker was to implicate himself in the robbery. So he did it. He copped to the heist at the auctioneer’s, but denied all knowledge of the Quaker and his works.
After three days Cochrane called a council of war with Goldie and McCormack. In Cochrane’s office they set out what they had on Alex Paton. They had his fingerprints at the scene, but not in the room where the body was found. They had a bloody bootprint in the room to match the size of Paton’s feet (nine and a half), but not the boots that Paton might have been wearing. And they had no convincing answers to a number of obvious questions. Why did Paton kill a woman in the very building where he was hiding? Why did he stick around till the following morning? The defence would waste no time in putting these questions. There was another troublesome fact: they couldn’t place Paton in Glasgow on the dates of the earlier killings.
The papers never doubted that the Quaker had been caught – profiles of Paton, interviews with his neighbours, primary school teachers and childhood friends were running every day in the Tribune and Record – but a jury might be harder to convince.
They all took turns at talking to Paton in the interview room at Barlinnie. McCormack was among the last to try.
His heels rang out as he walked the stone corridor to the interview room. His mind was a blank. This was the time to be marshalling your facts, rehearsing your questions, working out how to catch him off-guard, trip him up, bluff a confession out of the man. Today he had nothing.
How did you interview a man you didn’t catch? A man who just walked in off the street to save you the bother?
The screw outside the interview room stood up from his wooden chair and unlocked the door.
Maybe it came to you in the moment. Maybe it was like preaching, you mounted the pulpit and opened your mouth and the right words started to flow. The door swung open. The good old smell, cabbage-piss-carbolic.
First things first.
‘Mr Paton, I’m Detective Inspector Duncan McCormack.’
‘I know fine who you are.’
McCormack settled at the desk. He rested his hands on the scarred, varnished surface. Again he fought the urge to slide his hands forward and lay his head down on his arm. He had spent aeons, it seemed, whole eras of his life sitting across from men like Paton, trying to build a story out of shrugs and grunts. And this time was worse. This time he had to pretend he thought Paton was the Quaker.
Paton looked surprisingly stylish in his regulation striped shirt and corduroy jacket, as if he’d chosen these items himself. McCormack tugged his notebook from his pocket and slapped it on the desk, chucked his pen down after it.
‘Mr Paton. A man fitting your description was seen running from the tenement block at forty-eight Queen Mary Street in Bridgeton on the morning of 10 August, the block in which Helen Thaney was found murdered. Were you that man?’
‘You know I was.’
‘You were? Good. Your fingerprints were found in the top-floor flat of that building. You had been living in those premises?’
‘I’ve already said that.’
‘How long?’
‘Four days. Five. Something like that.’
McCormack flicked through the pages of his notebook. ‘Mr Paton, why did you kill Helen Thaney?’
‘Next question.’
‘Jacquilyn Keevins. Ann Ogilvie. Marion Mercer. Why did you kill those women?’
‘It’s not me. I’m not the Quaker.’
‘Right. Can you explain then why you were living at that address and why you were seen running from the locus when Helen Thaney’s body was found?’
Paton leaned forward. ‘You know what I do, polis?’
‘You’re a peterman. You blow safes. You were here to do the Glendinnings job.’
‘I’m giving you that. Are you with me? I’m confessing. And you’re trying to put a murder on me?’
‘Four murders.’
Paton laughed. McCormack fought the urge to join in.
‘Four murders? You know where I live, right?’
McCormack nodded.
‘OK. You’re gonnae frame me for three murders when I wasnae in the city? In the same fucking country? When I live in London. This is gonnae be good. Let’s hear it.’
‘You can prove you weren’t in Glasgow on those other dates?’
‘The fuck do I know? I don’t know the fucking dates.’
‘That’s a good start.’
‘Can you prove I was? Can you prove I was here on those dates?’
‘Ah, the burden of proof. Technically, yes, it rests with the prosecution. But in this case? With all the publicity?’
McCormack had a Record in his jacket pocket. He took it out now, unfolded it, placed it on the desk. Paton’s photo and the artist’s impression side by side on the front page.
‘If it wasn’t you, Alex, then what were you doing in Mackeith Street? Why didn’t you go home to London? Why hang around Bridgeton for four or five days? It’s not exactly the Riviera.’
Paton was twisting one of the buttons on his corduroy jerkin. ‘It’s all in the fucking notes, polis. I’ve been through all this.’ Somebody passed in the corridor, whistling badly. Paton pushed up the sleeves of his jacket. ‘Look. OK. In my line of work, there’s a routine you follow. Right? You do a job, you need to get off the streets. That’s the priority. You don’t get out of the city, not right away, cause maybe they’ve got road-blocks on the motorway slip-roads. Maybe they’re watching the train stations. You need a place you can get to quickly, but far enough away from the target. Hole up for a few days, let it all blow over.’
‘That’s very interesting, Alex.’
‘So that’s where I was. Holing up. Waiting it out till it was safe to move. Then, the day I’m planning to leave, I wake up with someone shouting blue murder. There’s a woman lying dead in the ground-floor flat. What would you do?’
‘I’d like to think I’d be home in bed, Alex, to be honest. Tell me whose flat it was.’
‘It was no one’s flat. It was empty – what do you call it, condemned.’
‘How did you get the key to the flat?’
‘Guy set me up with it.’
‘Set you up’s right. This guy got a name?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Cos that’s working out really well for you, Alex, isn’t it? That code of honour bullshit.’
Paton shook his head. He folded his arms, recrossed his feet under the desk.
‘You see my problem, Alex? Your alibi is that you were hiding in the building where the murder took place. It’s not what you’d call cast-iron, is it?’
Paton shrugged. He was tracing patterns on the desk with his thumbnail. He didn’t look up.
‘You say you did the Glendinnings job.’
Paton nodded.
‘Can you prove it? Can you prove you did the Glendinnings job?’
Paton looked at him for a long time. Finally he said, ‘Aye, because there’s a really long line of people who could do that. People who could blow that safe.’
‘I’ve got a sceptical frame of mind,’ McCormack said. ‘Comes with the job. Humour me.’
‘You mean describe the place? I can tell you what was taken, details of the pieces.’
‘Yeah, I can read the papers too, Alex. You’ll need to do better than that.’
Paton sat up and jerked his chin at McCormack. McCormack dug his smokes out of his jacket pocket and passed one to Paton and sparked his lighter. Paton took a couple of drags and started to talk. He described the décor of the building down to the colour of the curtains, the pistol-whipping of the watchman, the watchman pissing his pants, the spilled cup
of coffee, the make of the safe, the contents of the safe.
‘Where’s the jewels, Alex? Where’s the money?’
‘Fuck you, copper.’ He nicked the cigarette between his finger and thumb, stuck the dowt in the pocket of his shirt. ‘You’re getting greedy now. You’ve got me. That’s enough.’
McCormack consulted his notes. ‘You got away with jewels and cash in the region of a hundred and twenty grand, Alex, but I’m the greedy one. OK. Did you know Helen Thaney?’
‘Never seen her in my life. Not till that morning.’
McCormack loosened his tie, rolling his shoulders and working his neck. ‘You walk under ladders, Alex? Go round smashing mirrors?’
Paton looked around the room, looked through McCormack, shaking his head.
‘You must have a low opinion of the polis, Alex. Or maybe just of me. Maybe I’m a big stupid teuchter so you’ll need to bear with me here, explain it to me again. It’s a coincidence? That’s your explanation? Out of all the vacant tenements in Glasgow, he picks your one. Kills a woman and leaves you to carry the can.’
Paton said nothing.
‘We can place you at the scene, Alex. Known criminal. Someone who knows the city well but doesn’t live here, which would explain why you were never interviewed until now. You fit the age range. Physical description. You want to keep up the Silent Sammy routine, be my guest. We’ll see you down the Saltmarket at the next circuit.’
Paton was picking lint from the sleeve of his corduroy jacket. ‘This is where I break down, is it? Spill my guts? Beg for mercy.’
‘You do what you fucking want, Alex. I don’t give a fuck. I’m driving home in five minutes. You’re never going home again, probably.’
‘But why would I do it, though?’ There were white flecks of spittle on Paton’s clenched teeth. ‘Jesus Christ. You’ve said it yourself, there’s hundreds of empty tenements in the city. I kill a woman in the one I’m fucking living in? My prints are all over the flat! Why would I hang around? I’m still there at ten in the morning when I’ve left a fucking body there for everyone to see?’
McCormack was nodding. ‘Thing is, it’s not me you need to convince. It’s my boss. It’s the jury. It’s the public, the Record, the Daily Express.’
‘It’s you that needs to prove it.’
‘We don’t need to prove anything, Alex. The papers have done it for us. You could walk out of here right now, take a bus to Sauchiehall Street, and not find a single soul who doesn’t think that you’re the Quaker.’
‘Is that right? I think I’m looking at one right now.’
McCormack laughed. ‘Fairs dos, Alex. Hands up. You’re right. You’re spot on. I do believe you. But like I say, mine’s a minority view. But let me ask you this: why did you hand yourself in?’
‘Clear my name.’ Paton shrugged. ‘I’m a peterman. Not a beast. Not a fucking nonce.’ He sat up in his seat, unfolded his arms. ‘You can place me in the building. Fine. Can you place me in the room? Got my dabs in the room? I can see by your face that you havenae. But you don’t need to tell me that? Know how? Cos I was never in the fucking room. You’ve got no prints. You’ve got no semen stains. You’ve got no blood or fibres on my clothes unless you planked them. You’ve got fuck all.’
McCormack stowed his notebook in his pocket, rubbed his palm along the bristles on his jaw.
‘What size of shoe do you take, Alex?’
‘Come again?’
‘Shoe size, Alex. What size are your feet?’
‘Nine and a half.’
‘There was a footprint in the room. In the victim’s blood. Workboot, an Irish Setter they reckon. Guess what size?’
Paton was nodding slowly. ‘Right. Good. I left a footprint at the scene. Was that after I carved my initials on the lassie’s stomach and dropped a monogrammed hanky?’
‘Aye, jokes are good, Alex. Keep them coming. I’m sure the judge’ll appreciate them. Gallows-humour. Laughing all the way to the rope.’
‘They’ve suspended it, polis – did you no hear? Capital punishment’s been suspended.’
‘Till thirty-first December. You better hope your trial goes lickety fucking split, mate. Tick-tock, Alex. Tick-tock.’
Back at the Marine, McCormack packed up his stuff. There wasn’t much to pack – a few papers and folders, they fitted into his briefcase with room to spare. Around the Murder Room clerical staff were toting cardboard boxes along the corridor. Box files were going into crates for storage. The pictures and maps had come down from the walls, leaving snowy white oblongs. In the car park McCormack was closing his boot when he saw Farren pulling away in his Rover 2000. The car stopped beside him, Farren rolling the window down.
‘You’re off, then, Duncan. Back to St Andrew’s Street?’
‘Looks like it. You?’
‘Fucking C Div, again. Bandit country. Still, we got him, eh?’
McCormack shrugged.
‘Listen.’ Farren’s hand was reaching out the window. ‘We got off on the wrong foot back there. This whole thing. No hard feelings.’
McCormack grasped the hand. ‘Break a leg,’ he said. ‘Just not your own.’
34
‘I won’t tell if you won’t.’
DCI Flett had produced a bottle of Red Label from the brushed-steel cupboard beside the window. He set out two shot glasses and tipped the whisky, splashing it over the sides. Clutching his own glass he leaned across the desk, wheezing with the effort. McCormack lifted the other glass and clinked it against Flett’s and set it back down on the desk. Flett drank.
‘To a job well done. It’s good to have you back, Dunc. And listen, I know why you’re here. I know what you’re going to say. And you’re right. I gave you my word and I’ll keep it. I just need time to set things up.’
It had been odd to come back. A hero’s welcome, of sorts, as if he’d returned from a voyage. The backslaps and handshakes, the pints in the till at the Grapes. It was easier just to nod and grin than explain it anew to every person in the building. But Flett: you had to explain it to Flett.
‘I’m not sure you do know, sir.’ McCormack ran a hand down his tie. ‘I don’t think you do know what I’m going to say.’
‘You want to go after McGlashan. I promised you a crack at him and you’ll get it. You pick the team, you play it how you want. But I’m short-handed, son, just this minute. I’ll need a bit of time.’
McCormack stared at the bottle before him. The slanting label and the raised gold lettering, the jaunty striding figure with the monocle and cane. Keep Walking.
‘I want to go after the Quaker. Sir.’
The words drained something from the room. Flett’s whole face sagged and he grimaced at the desk as if his whisky had turned sour. There was no surprise in his eyes, which meant that he’d already spoken to Cochrane. McCormack watched as Flett poured himself another dram, slower now, setting down the bottle with exaggerated care.
‘Can you help me out here, McCormack? Can you explain to me what the problem is? Because I can’t see it. You fucking aced it. We sent you over there to shut the thing down and what do you do? You nail the fucking Quaker. No one gave you a prayer – me included – but you did it. They don’t come often, son, moments like this. You savour it. Don’t question it.’
‘I didn’t nail the Quaker.’
‘Now come on.’ Flett held up a hand. ‘I’ve spoken to Cochrane. The breakthrough was the hideout. That was you. Everything followed from that. You did it. It’s out of your hands now, it goes to trial. Let it lie.’
‘What I mean, sir; Alex Paton’s not the Quaker.’
‘Well, let’s see what the jury says about that, will we?’
‘We know what the jury’ll say. The jury’ll find him guilty. Like the papers have. Like you have. But he’s not the Quaker.’
‘Sweet Jesus.’ Flett squeezed his eyes shut and let out a pained exhalation. He might have been asleep. He opened his eyes. ‘But you know better. Duncan McCormack knows better.�
��
‘I know he’s not the Quaker, sir. I know that much. I know it’s not him.’
The grinding gears of a bus rose from the street to the open windows. McCormack shifted in his seat and started to make his case. He could sense Flett withdrawing as he spoke. The more he talked, the more Flett withdrew behind his flat grey eyes, pursing his lips and breathing through his nose. But McCormack couldn’t stop.
‘And then,’ he was saying, ‘why does he kill her in the same building where he’s squatting? Why’s he hanging around in broad daylight the following day? Why leave your prints all over the hideout? He gives us nothing for the first three murders and it’s Christmas on the fourth? It makes no kind of sense.’
‘It’s sex murders, McCormack. It’s not supposed to make sense. The man’s deranged. You want consistency? He’s a maniac. The normal rules don’t apply.’
A dark flush had risen up Flett’s neck, and his fists were fat round paperweights on the desktop. He seemed to notice them then, and unclenched them slowly, pressing his palms down flat like sheets of paper.
‘You want a maniac?’ McCormack spread his hands as if checking to make sure; he was a salesman now, he could provide a maniac – an assortment of maniacs – at the drop of a hat. ‘Nancy Scullion,’ he said. ‘The sister? The man she sat with at the Barrowland, the man who shared her taxi: he’s a maniac. He’s a zealot. “Adultery, sinful women, dens of iniquity.” Alex Paton’s never been to church. Put a gun to his head and ask him to quote the Bible, you’ve got brains all over the floor.’
Flett scoffed. ‘Come on, Duncan. You said it yourself in your report. They set too much store by the testimony of the sister. That was a blind alley.’
‘I said they gave it too much emphasis! I never said she made it all up! How did you see the report?’
Flett shook his head. He was fiddling with his shot glass, rolling it round on the rim of its base. ‘You know Levein’s retiring?’ he said. ‘End of the year.’
‘I don’t want it.’ The words came out crisply, too loudly. ‘I don’t want your fucking job. That’s the last thing I want.’
‘Is that right? You’re sure about that? I move upstairs, you write your own ticket, son, the man who caught the Quaker. I’ve already spoken to Cochrane and Levein. It’s your name on the door, Dunc, if you want it. Head of the Flying Squad. Want to piss that away?’
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