Cutting Edge

by Bill Daly

  ‘They chopped his fucking hand off.’

  ‘Shit! Where are you now?’

  ‘I’m at the station.’

  There was a brief pause. ‘Are the police involved?’

  ‘Not yet – but they will be soon.’

  ‘Make yourself scarce. Call me later.’ The connection was broken.

  The guard, who had gone to investigate why the communication cord had been pulled, threw up when he opened the toilet door.

  Mitch Kenicer made a call via a radio link to a fishing boat in the North Atlantic.

  ‘What are you playing at?’ he demanded.

  ‘What seems to be the problem?’ Roman Bespalov asked, a smile on his lips.

  ‘You know very well what the problem is. Someone took out the courier on the train.’

  ‘Did they really?’

  ‘Who the fuck was it?’

  ‘I suppose it must have been our Irish friends.’

  ‘Which “Irish friends”?’

  ‘The Fermanagh Freedom Fighters.’

  Kenicer snorted. ‘The FFF? How the hell would they be in a position to do that?’

  ‘They bought the same information you did – for the same price. I can only assume they managed to organise something.’

  ‘Our deal was that we would take care of Johnston and Salman when Johnson got back to London,’ Kenicer snapped.

  ‘Our deal was that I would provide you with the details of the Iraqis’ courier, his itinerary and his schedule. We had no agreement about me not providing the same information to someone else.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake! Do the FFF have the combination to open the attaché case?’

  ‘Not yet. But I agreed to sell it to them, if and when they managed to get their hands on the case.’

  ‘You’re a bastard, Bespalov!’

  Bespalov laughed out loud. ‘As a matter of fact, Kenicer, that happens to be correct.’

  It was just after one o’clock when Charlie Anderson left Pitt Street by the main entrance and made his way down the hill, stretching and twisting his spine in a figure of eight as he went. The sun was struggling through the high clouds and he could feel the warmth on his face. When he got to the junction with Bath Street he pressed the button on the pedestrian crossing. Waiting until the traffic lights changed in his favour, he crossed the road and headed towards Sauchiehall Street, crowded with shoppers and office workers on their lunchtime break. He joined the queue outside Greggs’ the bakers. No matter what time of day, there always seemed to be a queue. It reminded him of something he’d heard on a television programme recently – that in current Glasgow parlance: “Is there a queue at Greggs?” had replaced “Is the Pope a Catholic?” as a statement of the blindingly obvious.

  The queue moved quickly – it always moved quickly. When he got to the counter he ordered a cheese and tomato sandwich on wholemeal bread and a bottle of mineral water.

  Charlie munched on his sandwich as he walked along the pedestrianised stretch of Sauchiehall Street, mentally compiling a list of everyone who might consider they had a score to settle with him. A few obvious candidates immediately sprang to mind – guys he’d been instrumental in putting away for long jail terms. When he reached an intersection he dropped his sandwich wrapping paper into a waste paper bin and, as he turned the corner, his eye caught an off-licence. On a sudden impulse, he went in and bought a half-bottle of The Famous Grouse and on his way back to Pitt Street, he stopped off at a chemist’s and picked up an aerosol of Gold Spot breath freshener.

  Charlie collected a black coffee with extra sugar from the vending machine before heading along the corridor to his office. Closing the door behind him, he took a few sips of coffee, then unscrewed the cap from the bottle and tipped a generous measure of whisky into the plastic cup. Spinning the cap back on as he walked across to the metal filing cabinet by the window, he secreted the bottle behind the last hanging file in the bottom drawer.

  Charlie turned round with a start when he heard the buzz of his intercom. Crossing to his desk, he pressed the button to make the connection.

  ‘Pauline here, sir. Superintendent Hamilton would like to see you straight away.’

  ‘Isn’t this my lucky day?’ Charlie muttered to himself. He took a few more sips of coffee before making his way along the corridor, stretching and twisting his neck in an attempt to ease the dull ache at the base of his spine. Glancing over his shoulder as he tramped up the flight of stairs, he took the Gold Spot from his pocket and surreptitiously sprayed it around the inside of his mouth.

  When Charlie walked into the office, Hamilton was sitting with his back to him, working at his screen.

  Charlie stood just inside the door. ‘Pauline said you wanted to see me.’

  Hamilton spun round in his swivel chair. ‘What’s this about another amputated hand being delivered here last night?’

  ‘We don’t have anything to go on at this stage.’

  Hamilton brought his fist hammering down on the desk. ‘Why wasn’t I informed?’

  ‘I didn’t see any point in disturbing you at home.’

  Hamilton’s cheeks flushed. ‘The Chief Constable phoned me at home last night,’ he said, his voice reverting to its customary, measured delivery. ‘As you may know, he’s on holiday in Austria. He heard about a body being recovered from the Clyde on Sky News. He wanted to be briefed.’ Hamilton’s tone became the epitome of sanctimonious reasonableness. ‘Now how am I supposed to brief the Chief when I haven’t been informed that a second amputated hand was sent here yesterday?’

  ‘I was waiting until we had something tangible before I got you involved.’

  ‘How was it delivered?’

  ‘In the same kind of shoe box as before. This time, a guy in Sauchiehall Street paid a kid to bring it here. He told him to say it was a present for me.’

  ‘Which confirms that you’re definitely the focal point for this nutter. Don’t you have any idea who could be doing this?’ Charlie shook his head. ‘This is serial killer country, Anderson. You have to get Doctor Orr involved straight away. We need to use her profiling expertise.’

  ‘She’s involved already. I had a meeting with her this morning. She’s going to analyse the data we have to see if she can come up with anything that looks like a pattern.’

  Hamilton stood up and strode towards his office window, gazing out. Charlie recognised the signal that he was being dismissed. ‘I need to be kept abreast of all developments,’ Hamilton stated without turning round. ‘Phone me at home as soon as anything breaks – any hour of the day or night.’

  Charlie checked his watch as he trudged back down the stairs. Seeing it was almost two o’clock, he hurried to his office where he found O’Sullivan and Stuart waiting for him.

  ‘Did you find out anything worthwhile in Port Glasgow, sir?’ Tony asked.

  Charlie took off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. ‘I spoke to the last person to see Irene McGowan alive – apart from her murderer, that is. A guy called Archie Carter. He told me he saw a man going into Irene McGowan’s caravan around eight o’clock on Monday morning.’

  ‘Was he able to give you a description?’ Malcolm asked.

  ‘He only saw him from a distance – and his eyesight is dodgy at the best of times. The one thing he did notice was that the guy was wearing a cap, on backwards.’ Charlie let out a heavy sigh. ‘How did you make out at the post office, Tony?’

  ‘I didn’t actually get there.’

  Charlie’s brow furrowed. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It was weird. I’d arranged to meet Renton in St Vincent Street at half-past nine, but just before I set off from home I got a call on my mobile from Crosshouse Hospital in Kilmarnock – from a Doctor Wilson. He told me my Mum was in a coma after a hit and run.’

  ‘Jesus – Tony…’

  Tony held up a hand. ‘She’s fine, sir, she’s fine. It’s all been a –I don’t really know. Doctor Wilson told me that a Mrs Dympna O’Sullivan had been brought
into A&E, the victim of a hit and run accident, and she was in a coma. They’d got her name and address from the driving licence in her handbag, and they’d found her address book. My Dad’s mobile was the first number in her book, but they hadn’t been able to get in touch with him. I was the next “O’Sullivan” in her book, so they tried calling me. When I confirmed Dympna was my mother, the doctor asked me to come to the hospital as soon as I could. I phoned Renton and asked him to handle the post office interviews on his own, then I drove down to Kilmarnock like a bat out of hell. But – and this is the bizarre part – when I got to Crosshouse, there was no Doctor Wilson – and no record of my mother having been admitted to A&E. I got the receptionists to phone all the other hospitals in the area that had A&E departments, but no one knew anything about a hit and run accident. Then I called my Mum – and she told me she’d been at home all morning.’

  ‘Any idea who could’ve been playing games?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Not a clue,’ Tony said.

  ‘There are plenty of morons out there who get their kicks out of wasting police time,’ Malcolm suggested.

  Charlie shook his head in frustration. ‘Did you at least get the lease for your flat sorted out, Malcolm?’

  ‘No problem on that front, sir.’

  ‘Did you find out anything about the significance of nine of diamonds?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘There’s a lot about it on the Internet,’ Malcolm said, ‘but nothing that strikes me as being in any way useful. As you know, it’s called ‘The Curse of Scotland’ because of the role it played in the Glencoe Massacre in 1692, and the ongoing feud between the McDonalds and the Campbells at the time.’ Malcolm referred to the Wikipedia article he had printed out. ‘The McDonalds had looted the Campbells’ land and stolen their livestock, so, when the Campbells were billeted in Glencoe, ostensibly to collect taxes, they were out for revenge and they murdered thirty-eight members of the McDonald clan in their beds.

  ‘There are two theories about the nine of diamonds. The popular one is that the order to carry out the massacre was written on the card itself, the other one is that the coat of arms of the Earl of Stair, the Scottish Secretary who ordered the massacre, bears a close resemblance to the nine of diamonds. But what connection either of those theories could have with the murder of an old woman and a young girl is beyond me.’

  ‘I got the initial forensic report on the second victim this morning,’ Charlie said indicating the document in his in-tray. ‘This time it was a particularly violent attack, though there doesn’t appear to have been a sexual motive.’

  ‘Any chance of a DNA identification from the victim’s body or her clothes?’ Malcolm asked.

  ‘We’ll have to wait for the post mortem for confirmation, but as the body was in the Clyde for more than twenty-four hours, I wouldn’t pin my hopes on it,’ Charlie said. ‘She shared a flat in Hill Street with her boyfriend, but the uniformed boys haven’t managed to track him down yet. Handle this between you. Start by checking out her apartment. The report says her house keys were in her handbag, so you’ll be able to pick them up from the mortuary. While I remember, Tony,’ Charlie said, ‘did the forensic boys manage to come up with anything on the shoe boxes?’

  ‘Both as clean as a whistle. Identical boxes – Clark’s, size nine, men’s slippers – no fingerprints. I asked a salesman in the Sauchiehall Street branch if anyone had been in asking for old shoe boxes or buying up slippers in bulk. He took me out back and showed me the bins behind the shop. They were piled high with empty boxes waiting to be collected for recycling. Anyone could have helped themselves.’

  ‘And the playing cards?’

  ‘Bog standard. Literally dozens of outlets in the city.’

  ‘Document everything you’ve got and send a copy to Doctor Orr,’ Charlie said.

  ‘How did your meeting with her go?’ Malcolm asked.

  ‘She seems a nice enough wee lassie – and very keen to help. She’s gone off with a pile of data to analyse, but I wouldn’t bet my pension on her coming up with anything worthwhile. We have to keep her in the loop, but first and foremost we need to –’

  Colin Renton’s rap on the door interrupted Charlie’s flow.

  ‘Any joy at the post office, Colin?’ Charlie asked as Renton walked in.

  ‘Not a lot, sir. I spoke to all the counter staff who were on duty on Monday morning, but no one remembers taking the parcel.’

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ Tony said. ‘They must handle dozens of packages like that every day.’

  Charlie’s desk phone rang and he picked up.

  ‘News just coming through from Motherwell Station, sir,’ the duty officer said. ‘A man has been murdered on the Glasgow to London train. His left hand has been cut off.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Charlie switched the phone to loudspeaker so the others could listen in. ‘Could you please repeat what you just told me.’

  ‘I said there’s news coming in of a murder on the Glasgow to London train, sir. Someone pulled the communication cord while the train was standing in Motherwell Station and when the guard went to investigate, he found the victim – a middle-aged man – in a toilet cubicle. He’d been stabbed several times – and his left hand had been cut off at the wrist. The severed hand hasn’t been found on the train.’

  ‘Has he been identified?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Not so far, sir.’

  ‘What’s happening now?’

  ‘The three rear carriages of the train have been cordoned off until the forensic boys arrive and interviews are being organised in the station waiting room to take statements from all the passengers who were travelling in those carriages. We’re also checking out the station CCTV footage to find out who got off the train.’

  ‘Thanks for letting me know. Keep me posted on any developments.’ Charlie cut the connection.

  O’Sullivan, Stuart and Renton all looked at each other. It was Tony who broke the silence. ‘Where do we go from here, sir?’

  ‘We maintain focus. This murder may or may not be related to the others. There’s been a lot of press coverage of the gory aspects of the first two murders, so we might have a copycat situation on our hands. For now, we’ll stick to the plan. You and Malcolm go across to the mortuary and pick up Zoe Taylor’s house keys. Check out her apartment and find the boyfriend. And Colin, I want you to get in touch with Central Station and find out if they have CCTV footage of the people getting on board that train. If they do, get it over here.’

  When everyone had left his office, Charlie picked up his desk phone and called main reception. ‘If anyone turns up at the front desk with a package for me, hold them there. And if a parcel arrives by post, addressed to me, let me know straight away.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Charlie took Mhairi Orr’s business card from his pocket and dialled her office number. She answered on the second ring. ‘It’s DCI Anderson, Doctor Orr.’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got anything for you yet, Inspector,’ Mhairi said. ‘My module hasn’t established any link between the two murder victims – nor has it come up with a significant probability that the murderer was associated with any of the other recent assaults.’

  ‘You might have to update your system.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘There’s been another murder – and another hand amputation. But this time the victim was male.’

  ‘When? And where?’

  ‘This afternoon. On the Glasgow to London train, at Motherwell Station. A middle-aged man. The victim’s left hand had been cut off – and the severed hand wasn’t found on the train.’

  ‘We can’t be certain this is related. It might be a copycat.’

  ‘That was my first reaction, but I dare say we’ll know soon enough.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll be waiting in for the postman,’ Charlie said grimly.

  Malcolm Stuart took the wheel and drove Tony O’Sullivan to Jocelyn Square, waiting in the car while
Tony went into the mortuary to pick up Zoe Taylor’s house keys. From there, they crossed the city to Hill Street where they found a parking spot not far from Zoe’s tenement block. Tony led the way up the staircase. On the third floor landing they saw a name plate bearing the name Zoe Taylor in typed capitals, with Ryan Ferrie scrawled in pencil underneath. Tony pressed the bell push. There was no response. He rang twice more before using the house keys to unlock the door.

  Moving slowly down the hall, Tony nudged the lounge door open with his toecap. There was no one there. When he pushed open the kitchen door he saw a man tied to an upright chair in the middle of the room. His head was slouched down on his chest, his swollen face a mass of bruises. His mouth was gagged with a tea towel, held in position by several strips of heavy-duty, adhesive tape lashed around his head. His dressing gown was caked with dried blood. Tony hurried across and felt his wrist. He thought he could detect a faint pulse.

  ‘Call an ambulance, Malcolm,’ Tony said. ‘As quick as you can. I’ll try to find a pair of scissors to cut this poor bugger free.’

  Within ten minutes, three paramedics, carrying a stretcher, came running up the staircase. Having quickly examined Ferrie, they fitted an oxygen mask to his face before strapping him onto the stretcher.

  ‘What do you reckon? Tony asked.

  ‘He’s not in good shape.’

  ‘Where will you take him?’ Tony asked.

  ‘The Southern General. Are you guys coming with us?’ one of the paramedics asked.

  Tony turned to Malcolm. ‘Assuming this is Ryan Ferrie, someone will have to be there to break the news to him about his girlfriend, if and when he comes round. No telling when that might be. There’s no need for both of us to spend half the night hanging around the hospital. I can handle it on my own.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Tony nodded. ‘Take the car. I won’t need it.’

  ‘How will you get back?’