by Bill Daly
‘Sergeant Condron here, sir.’
‘Thanks for calling back, Sergeant. What do you have for me?’
Condron recounted what he’d found out from Lachlan Gunn. ‘Sorry if it’s not much help, sir.’
‘Thanks, anyway.’ Disconnecting, Charlie took a long, slow sip of whisky.
Tuesday 28 June
Charlie again slept badly. He was up, showered, shaved and dressed before seven o’clock. Having decided to skip breakfast, he glanced up at the low clouds as he was locking his front door. At least the rain was holding off. When he turned towards his car, which was parked in the driveway, his eye caught something jammed under the windscreen wipers.
He walked towards the car, then his jaw sagged when he made out the shape of a human hand with a soggy playing card jutting out from between the index finger and the thumb.
CHAPTER 16
Charlie was in his kitchen making a pot of tea when there was a sharp rap on his front door.
‘I’m finished now, sir,’ Sergeant McLaughlin said, stripping off his polythene gloves.
‘What do you make of it, Eddie?’
‘Male, middle-aged. The hand is swollen and badly bruised and at least one of the fingers looks like it’s broken. We’ll remove the wedding ring back at the lab and see if that gives us anything.’
‘When do you reckon the hand was amputated?’
‘More than twelve hours ago, less than twenty-four. Hard to be more precise at this stage.’
‘I’m going into the office this morning,’ Charlie said. ‘Let me know as soon as you can if you find out anything from the ring.’
‘Will do.’
When he got to his office, Charlie found a single sheet of paper lying on his desk. He slipped on his reading glasses and scanned it quickly. Picking up his phone, he called Mhairi Orr’s mobile. Her phone rang out several times before switching to the answering service. He left a message, asking her to come to his office as soon as she could. Replacing the hand set, he summoned O’Sullivan and Stuart.
‘Another amputated hand turned up this morning,’ he stated when they walked in. ‘With another nine of diamonds and another smiley attached – this time, delivered to my front door.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Tony muttered. ‘I thought that would be the end of it – once he got his hands on the anthrax.’
‘I’ve got the initial report from forensics,’ Charlie said, indicating the sheet of paper on his desk. ‘Male, probably in his forties. Third and fourth fingers of his left hand were broken. The hand was amputated using some kind of hacksaw, but the shredding marks on the skin and the wrist bone indicate that the blade had a wider serration than the one used on the three previous victims.’
‘He might have changed his blade because the old one was blunt – or broken,’ Malcolm suggested.
‘Or it could be a copycat killer this time,’ Tony offered.
‘Both possibilities are feasible,’ Charlie said. ‘There was a wedding ring on the fourth finger of the hand,’ he added. ‘It was inscribed inside with –’ He read from the report: ‘From M.B. to H.B. With all my love – 23 10 92.’
‘Were his fingers broken before or after the amputation?’ Malcolm asked.
‘We don’t know at this stage. But “H.B”,’ Charlie mused. He checked a phone number in his diary, then picked up his hand-set to dial, drumming his fingertips rhythmically on his blotting pad as the call rang out. A female voice answered. ‘Could I speak to Harry Brady, please?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘This is Charlie Anderson. I’m a golfing friend of Harry’s dad.’
‘This is Maisie, Mr Anderson. I’m Harry’s wife. I’m afraid he’s not here right now.’
‘When will he be back?’
‘I don’t know – in fact, I’m worried about him.’
‘Why is that?’
‘He was supposed to be meeting his brother in the pub at lunch-time yesterday, but he didn’t show up. He didn’t come home last night and he’s not answering his mobile. I’m sorry to dump all this on you, Mr Anderson, but I’m at my wits’ end.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘If you do manage to get in touch with him, would you please ask him to phone home straight away?’
‘Of course.’
Charlie replaced the receiver slowly. ‘Harry Brady didn’t show up for a lunch-time pint with his brother yesterday – and I know for a fact that he didn’t open up his shop yesterday afternoon – and he didn’t go home last night. His wife’s name is Maisie,’ he added grimly.
‘Harry Brady? Isn’t he the guy who came to see you last week?’ Tony said.
Charlie nodded. ‘He told me Terry McKay was putting the squeeze on him for protection money. He said he was prepared to take the stand and testify, but when I spoke to him yesterday morning, he told me he was backing off.’
‘Do you reckon Brady could’ve run foul of McKay?’ Tony asked.
‘That has to be favourite.’
‘Do you think McKay could be the serial killer?’ Malcolm asked.
‘That could make sense. He’s a vicious enough bastard.’ Charlie shrivelled his brow. ‘I sent him down for ten years for GBH, so it’s perfectly possible that he wants to get his own back on me. But as far as I know he’s never had any connection with paramilitaries. And I couldn’t imagine what would link him to Irene McGowan or Zoe Taylor. Neither of them is even a remote candidate for his protection rackets.’
‘What about the Tinker, Tailor, Soldier pattern?’ Tony asked.
‘Coming up with something like that would be out of McKay’s league,’ Charlie said. ‘I doubt he could recite two lines of a nursery rhyme, never mind being au fait with the works of John le Carré.’ Charlie rubbed hard at his chin. ‘And the nine of diamonds is still bugging me. There must be a reason for it.’
‘Should we tell Maisie Brady we think we’ve found her husband’s hand?’ Malcolm asked.
‘God only knows!’ Charlie said ‘I’ve seen people faint when they’ve been asked to identify a dead body. I can’t begin to imagine how Maisie Brady would react if we were to ask her to identity her husband’s severed hand. I’ll need to take advice on how to handle this. I’m hoping to see Doctor Orr this morning. I’ll bounce it off her.’
As Tony was leaving the office he checked his mobile and saw he had received a text from a number he didn’t recognise. As soon as he read the message, he called the number.
‘I tried phoning you a couple of times yesterday,’ he said, ‘but all I got was a message saying your number was no longer in service.’
‘I’m getting more scatter-brained by the minute,’ Sue said. ‘I was wondering why you hadn’t called. It completely slipped my mind that I’d changed my mobile number. I was starting to think that maybe you didn’t want to…’ Sue’s voice tailed off.
‘Are you kidding? How could think for one minute that I wouldn’t call while I’m still in the running to beat Willie Sharp’s all-time scoring record?’
Sue smiled. ‘It’s good to hear your voice.’
‘And yours.’
‘By the way, I checked it out on Wikipedia,’ Sue said. ‘Willie Sharp’s scoring record was only two hundred and twenty nine.’
‘You can’t trust everything you read on Wikipedia,’ Tony said. ‘To be on the safe side, I think we should stick with five hundred and twenty seven.’
‘Behave yourself!’
‘How are you bearing up?’
‘I’m okay. Sarah’s been a great help. And Jamie’s as happy as a sandboy as he’s got Sean to play with all day. It’s my Dad I’m worried about. How is he?’ Sue asked.
‘The frustration of battering his head off a brick wall is getting to him. Especially as everything’s so close to home. By the way, have you said anything to him yet about… you know… us?’
‘There hasn’t been a suitable opportunity,’ Sue said.
‘I think it might be better to leave it like that for the time be
ing.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s got more than enough on his plate right now. Another hand turned up this morning. Your father found it jammed under the windscreen wipers of his car, outside his house. And this time we think it might belong to someone your Dad knows.’
‘Jesus!’
Mhairi Orr declined Charlie’s offer of a coffee as she shrugged off her jacket and draped it over the back of a chair in his office. Sitting down, she opened her brief case and took out her iPad.
‘Thanks for coming across,’ Charlie said. ‘The reason I wanted to see you is that another amputated hand turned up this morning – again with the nine of diamonds and a smiley attached. It was delivered to my house. By the way, one of my guys came up with an explanation for the smileys.’
‘Which is?’
Charlie recounted Malcolm’s theory.
‘Sounds plausible,’ Mhairi mused. ‘It’s compatible with his egotistical profile.’
Mhairi closed the cover of her iPad and sat up straight in her chair.
‘So we’re asking ourselves if the latest murder is a continuation of the same series or something else entirely?’
‘The pattern has changed. This time the victim was probably someone I know – a guy called Harry Brady.’
‘Does he have any connection with sailors or spies?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘How confident are you that’s it’s him?’
‘To all intents and purposes, I’m certain. Brady has been missing since yesterday. There was a wedding ring on the amputated hand and there are initials and a date inscribed inside the ring. The initials tie up with Brady and his wife, Maisie, and the date is more or less right for their wedding day.’
‘But you haven’t found his body?’
‘Not yet – and I’d appreciate your advice as to whether or not we should break the news to his wife at this stage?’
‘I’m not a behavioural psychologist, Inspector. My expertise is in analysing data and establishing patterns, not anticipating how people will react to any given set of circumstances.’
‘I’d still value your opinion.’
‘My gut reaction is that you shouldn’t contemplate going down that road. Not until you’re one hundred percent sure. Ninety-nine point nine percent isn’t good enough. You’re talking about unimaginable trauma for his wife. People react in different ways when they find out a loved one is dead but, by and large, they find a way to cope with it. For some, it’s immediate hysteria, for some it’s floods of tears, for others it’s introversion and denial. It can take time, but as long as there’s a body that can be identified, there’s an element of closure. However, in this case, all you’ve got is an amputated hand. If you were to show Maisie Brady her husband’s wedding ring, of course, she’d be able to identify it. But where do you go from there? She’d want to know where you got the ring. Can you be absolutely sure it was Harry Brady’s hand? Is it possible that someone could have taken Brady’s wedding ring from him and put it on another victim’s finger? That’s what his wife will want to believe. And to prove to her that’s not the case, you would have to show her his hand.’
‘She’ll have to find out the truth sooner or later.’
‘Are you absolutely certain she could identify her husband’s hand?’
‘Surely?’
‘Are you sure you could identify your wife’s hand, Inspector? Are you even positive you could recognise your own?’ Charlie stared at the back of his liver-spotted hand. ‘It’s not like recognising a face,’ Mhairi said. ‘Many hands look similar. Of course, you could be reasonably sure – but one hundred percent? Remember, Maisie Brady will be in denial. She won’t want it to be her husband’s hand, so she’ll try to convince herself it isn’t. Is there some way you could get a DNA sample of Harry Brady and match it with the hand?’
‘That would be difficult without collecting something from their house.’
‘And even if you did manage to establish that it is his hand, the problems don’t end there,’ Mhairi continued. ‘The next stage of Mrs Brady’s denial would be to refuse to accept that he’s dead. You may be convinced that he’s dead, but it’s perfectly possible for a person to have a hand amputated and still be alive. That’s the straw she would cling to.’
‘What’s the bottom line?’
‘My advice would be to say nothing to her until you find her husband’s body.’
‘And leave her hoping he might walk through the door at any minute?’
‘It’s either that or run the risk of her having a breakdown. Once you’ve got a body she can identify, she can start to come to terms with her husband’s death – but only once you have a body.’
‘Thanks for the advice.’ Charlie drummed his fingertips on his desk. ‘Do you think this is the same killer, doctor?’
‘I don’t have an opinion on that. If you could let me have all the data you have, I’ll update my computer module and see what that throws up.’
Mhairi got to her feet and slipped her jacket over her shoulders. As she was leaving the office, Pauline buzzed through. ‘Fran Gibbons from the BBC called while you were in your meeting, Inspector. She said it was urgent. She asked if you would phone her back as soon as possible.’
Charlie dialled Fran’s number. It was answered on the first ring. ‘Ms Gibbons?’
‘Thank you for calling back so quickly, Inspector. I need to talk to you urgently.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Not on the phone. Can I come to your office?’
‘Er, yes… I suppose so.’
‘I’ll jump in a taxi. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’
Charlie was nursing a black coffee when Fran Gibbons rapped on his office door and walked in. ‘What’s the panic?’ he asked.
Fran closed the door behind her and pulled a playing card from her handbag. ‘This was delivered to the BBC half an hour ago. A young boy walked up to the reception desk in Pacific Quay and handed it over. He told the receptionist it was for Fran Gibbons, then ran off. By chance, I happened to be in the building, preparing an item for a programme next week. See what’s written on it,’ Fran said, placing the card on Charlie’s desk.
Charlie’s bushy eyebrows merged in a frown as he fished in his shirt pocket for his reading glasses. Slipping them on, he studied the hand-written words scrawled across the face of the nine of diamonds: Ask Charlie Anderson if he knows what I’m going to do with the anthrax.
Charlie whipped off his glasses. He stared at the card, then at Fran.
‘What’s this all about, Inspector? Do you understand the reference to anthrax?’ Charlie licked hard at his lips, but didn’t respond. ‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’
‘I am not going to tell you anything.’
‘It’s only a matter of time until the story breaks.’
‘You cannot use this!’ Charlie flung his glasses down onto the desk.
Fran raised both arms in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Browbeating me is not the way to keep the lid on this, Inspector. Two BBC receptionists have already seen the card and read the message, as well as the kid who handed it in. It would make a lot more sense if you were to cooperate. That way you could be sure of getting a sympathetic hearing.’
Charlie crunched his closed fist down on the desk. ‘You do not seem to appreciate the seriousness of this, Ms Gibbons.’
Fran met Charlie’s glare full on. ‘I will, once you explain it to me,’ she said, sitting down on the chair opposite Charlie’s desk. Crossing her legs, she smoothed down her short, denim skirt.
Charlie stared into the probing hazel eyes. ‘This is a matter of national security. I’m not at liberty to discuss it with you.’
‘Let’s start with an off the record briefing and we can take it from there.’
‘Off the record or on the record, the answer’s the same.’
‘You haven’t thought this through, Inspector. I didn’t have to bring that card here. Whoever sent it
to me clearly wants to get the story into the public domain. For all we know he might have sent the same message to STV, and perhaps to the newspapers. If we don’t run the story, it’s perfectly possible someone else will.’
‘I need to discuss this with my boss.’
‘Superintendent Hamilton?’ Charlie nodded. ‘So he can assign two officers to work out the statistical probability of STV running the story before we do?’ Fran shook her head dismissively and picked up the pen lying on Charlie’s desk. She scribbled on his notepad. ‘This is my mobile number. I’ll expect to hear from you as soon as you’ve spoken to Hamilton.’ Fran got to her feet and stretched across the desk for the playing card.
‘I’ll hold onto that, if you don’t mind,’ Charlie said, placing a restraining hand on top of hers.
‘Be my guest.’ Charlie lifted his hand away. ‘Just so you know,’ Fran said, tapping her handbag. ‘I have a photocopy.’
Charlie took the stairs two at a time. He strode into Hamilton’s office without knocking and pulled the door closed behind him.
Hamilton spun round from his screen. ‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘We’ve got a serious situation on our hands. Fran Gibbons has been tipped off about the anthrax.’
‘Fucking hell! How much does she know?’
‘Someone handed this nine of diamonds into the BBC within the last hour, Charlie said, placing the card on Hamilton’s desk. ‘Gibbons came to see me to find out what’s going on.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘That I’d discuss the situation with you and get back to her.’
‘She mustn’t be allowed to break this story under any circumstances.’
‘I realise that, but she did make the relevant point that if the BBC’s been tipped off, then who’s to say the other TV channels and the newspapers haven’t as well?’
‘We have to nip this in the bud. Organise communiqués to all radio, television and press contacts and instruct them that this story’s off limits.’
‘It goes wider than that. We can’t be sure the English nationals haven’t been told. We need to let SO15 know what’s happened and get them to issue a nationwide D-notice.’