by Anne Randall
Beneath her, he cleared his throat and swayed drunkenly back to his seat.
Holly improvised, she’d been told what his particular interest was. Pain. She began to cry quietly, then to whimper.
‘To the exquisite beauty in agony—’ he raised his champagne glass again ‘—to our shared pain.’
Our shared pain? thought Holly. My pain and your fucking money would be more realistic. But she said nothing and continued to writhe. Later, when she was on the floor, she cried out in pain and pretended to faint. When she came round a few seconds later, he was standing over her, peering into her face. ‘Dirty girls like you love all this, don’t you?’ Again the accent. She’d heard it called ‘received pronunciation’.
‘Don’t you?’ He smiled. A row of small, perfectly straight teeth, except for the pointed incisors.
She nodded.
‘I thought so. I’ve heard many debates and closing arguments over the years suggesting otherwise. But I knew I was right. You’re all the same. Filthy little bitches on heat.’
She watched him leave. Saw him turn left, meaning that he would leave by the side entrance, no doubt to be picked up in a chauffeured car.
Once he’d gone, Jimmy grabbed a robe from behind one of the sofas, quickly crossed the room and began to unhook her. ‘You did well, Holly. All that crying and moaning. He was loving it.’
She pulled the robe around her. ‘Bloody hell, though, that was a tough call. All that fucking peering up at me.’
‘It’s obviously just one of his things. You know the score.’ Jimmy removed the bar. ‘That’s what the big bucks are for. What made you think you wouldn’t need to work for it? Anyway, you get plenty of free time.’
‘I’ll need the bloody time off to recover. I felt like my shoulder was going to dislocate.’
‘You’ll get used to it.’
‘Still hurts though.’ She rubbed her neck.
‘Safety’s built into the system. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Paul Furlan knows what he’s doing when he constructs these things.’
‘Looking at the client’s response when I was dropped, I thought he wanted me to fall completely.’
‘Then that would be snuff.’ Jimmy laughed. ‘And I don’t believe even Paul Furlan would go that far, do you?’
Holly looked at the floor, said nothing.
Chapter Eight
Wednesday 9 July, Glasgow
The Cops
He was late. Either that or he wasn’t coming. Detective Inspector Kat Wheeler glanced at her mobile. No message. She arrived at the café, took a seat outside in the shade. Two days off stretched ahead of her and she’d woken up with a serious headache, had started the day with a black coffee and two painkillers. She scanned the park for him, nothing. So much for him buying her a celebratory breakfast. You beat them at snooker in front of their pals, Christ, in front of the whole fucking pub, and then they renege on the promise of buying breakfast. Sore bloody loser. She took a scarf from her bag, tied her short blonde hair back with it. Scrolled through the local news. A new exhibition ‘GANGS. VIOLENCE. GLASGOW. THE DARK SIDE OF THE CITY’ had been given a five-star review. Great, let’s celebrate gang culture as art. She’d heard about a gang fight in Queen’s Park in the Southside the previous evening. Two dead, others in hospital, fighting for their lives.
She read that a report with the crime stats for 1971 to 2013 had just been published. It suggested that crime in the city had peaked during the early 1990s so people should feel safe. Wheeler scrolled down, read that despite the fall in crime, some institute had ranked Glasgow as the most violent area in the United Kingdom. Fantastic, she thought, on the one hand telling folk that Glasgow’s safe, but on the other?
She heard a scream from the park opposite. Glanced across, only a small child playing water pistols with a friend. Their squeals of excitement carried across the park. She watched a crocodile of small children, laughing and chatting, make their way towards the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum. She knew that, later, there would be a queue to enter the cool of the spacious building. Glasgow was teeming with tourists, many clutching cameras, smartphones, iPads. Click. Click. Click. Memories frozen in time. The city sweltered in the sun. A group of teenage boys ambled by, all shirtless. Three teenage girls, wearing Kill Kestrels T-shirts, trailed behind them, their voices loud, animated.
‘. . . no but Skye said in an interview that . . . “My Desire for You” is really about . . .’
‘I know, but “Death of an Angel” is really about unrequited love and Josh said that . . .’
‘No way!’ argued the third, almost dancing with excitement. ‘Josh said in that interview on YouTube that . . .’
‘I so wish I’d won that competition to meet them face to face. Can you imagine it, being in the same room as Skye Cooper? I think I’d die on the spot.’
‘I know, what a nightmare not winning it, I was absolutely gutted.’
The girls passed by, squabbling about who knew the most about the Kill Kestrels and the meaning behind the song lyrics and what utter hell it was to have missed out on the chance to meet them – the pain of teenage infatuation. Wheeler at least knew the group were in town. You couldn’t miss them, posters everywhere and their songs constantly rotated on the bloody radio. She knew that they were playing the final gig of the tour at the O2 Academy on Saturday. The press had been full of the band all week, moody shots of the four young men peered out of the Chronicle on a regular basis.
Wheeler felt a welcome breeze as she watched a group of joggers in Day-Glo outfits snake their way through the park, while cyclists overtook them. Glasgow had changed over the last few years. Maybe it was the effect of the Commonwealth Games but there was a new excited commitment to exercise in the city. She checked the menu; lunch options included quinoa salad with peppers, cranberries and flaked almonds or salmon with broccoli, watercress, pumpkin and pomegranate seeds, all listed with a little smile motif as superfoods. Wheeler remembered growing up in the city, when broccoli and watercress were just plain vegetables. She glanced up, saw DI Steven Ross dart across the road. A few seconds later, he stood in front of her, took off his sunglasses, glanced at the menu. ‘Morning, Smiler, what are you having?’
Wheeler grinned. ‘Thought you had reneged.’
‘Slept in.’
‘Egg sandwich and iced coffee.’
‘Since we’re on holiday, I’ll have the large iced coffee, waffles and syrup.’
‘The healthy option then?’
‘I’ll run it off later.’
‘Well, you can start by running inside and ordering at the counter.’ She ignored the harrumph.
When he returned with the tray of food, she heard the inevitable. Ross complaining.
‘The whole city has gone nuts,’ he said, starting on his waffles. ‘A bit of sunshine and it’s like we all have heatstroke.’
‘Because?’
‘The radio was on inside, there’s been two fatal stabbings over in the Southside last night. A couple of guys lost their lives. Rival gangs. Community’s gone quiet. No one saw a thing.’
‘So I heard.’ She started on her sandwich, felt the band around her skull tighten like a tourniquet.
‘You OK?’ said Ross ‘Only you look pale.’
‘I’m fine.’
Her mobile rang. She checked the number – Carmyle Police Station. ‘Wheeler.’
She listened to the scant detail. A woman’s body had been found in the East End.
‘Let’s go. I’ll fill you in on the way.’
‘So much for a couple of days’ holiday and a bloody leisurely breakfast.’
Wheeler was already ahead of him. ‘Runners discovered the body in the undergrowth up by Sandyhills Road.’
Ross drove through the city. When he accelerated to overtake a bus, she saw another poster advertising the exhibition. ‘GANGS. VIOLENCE. GLASGOW. THE DARK SIDE OF THE CITY’.
Twenty-five minutes later, they parked up. ‘Given it’s such a busy ar
ea, maybe we’ll get lucky with CCTV,’ said Ross. ‘What do you reckon are our chances?’
‘We might,’ said Wheeler. She knew how valuable closed-circuit television could be, both as security and surveillance. A recent case in the Southside had been solved within forty-eight hours when a local shopkeeper had handed over his CCTV. Luckily, he had invested in a top-of-the-range, 360-degree system, but she knew that across the city CCTV quality was variable and there were the inevitable blind spots. She saw the press grouped together, heard a reporter call out, ‘Can you tell us if the body found this morning is female?’
‘At least confirm if it’s a murder?’
Wheeler ignored them. Walked on. She heard the nasal whine of Graham Reaper, chief crime reporter with the Chronicle, call after her, ‘Can you confirm if the victim was sexually assaulted?’
‘Fuck,’ muttered Ross, ‘we haven’t even had a chance to see the body yet.’
She heard the whine close behind her. Reaper had peeled off from the press pack. ‘DI Wheeler, can you confirm reports that a woman’s body was discovered in the undergrowth earlier this morning?’
She tut-tutted. ‘When I know what’s happening, Grim, I’ll let you know. Thought you’d have grasped that by now.’
‘’Mon, Wheeler. Give me a wee bit of info about the body?’ he persisted.
‘As I said, Grim, when there’s a statement prepared for the press, you’re welcome to report it. Until then . . .’
‘All I’m sayin’ is—’
Wheeler cut him off. ‘In the meantime, get out of my way.’
The reporter stayed put.
‘Shift,’ she growled.
He stepped aside. ‘Bloody police cooperation is zero in this city. It’s all cosy when you lot want us to help you publicise a case but when it comes to a heads-up there’s never any help. Christ, I can actually see the crime scene from here, yet not a bit of info.’
Wheeler ignored him but Ross rose to the bait. ‘Just because you can see a part of it, Grim, doesn’t mean you get to wade your size tens through it. You’d sell your granny for a story.’
The reporter didn’t contradict him.
Wheeler strode on towards the police tarpaulin, on past a group of parked vehicles, saw a red BMW car with personalised number plates which meant that her friend Callum Fraser was already on site. She ducked under the cordon and spoke to the uniformed officer. ‘What do we have?’
‘Morning, DI Wheeler. A woman’s body was discovered this morning at—’ the young officer glanced at her notes ‘—eight-fifteen. It was partially concealed in the undergrowth in the wooded area over at the back there. Four men from a local running club were following their usual route around the perimeter of the golf club when they saw her.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘After the paramedics checked them over, they were taken to the station. One guy in particular was desperate to get away from the scene, said he couldn’t stand to be here any longer. He’d already thrown up.’
‘Now the SOCOs have to eliminate their DNA,’ said Wheeler. ‘Not a lucky break. Any identification on the body, tell me we have a name?’
‘Nothing I’m afraid, no bag or purse has turned up yet. No credit cards or phone either.’
‘Car?’
‘Not parked nearby. We’re still searching the wider area.’
‘OK,’ said Wheeler. ‘So, other than the body, we’ve nothing?’
‘Looks that way.’
Wheeler walked on. ‘We’re quite close to a pub, the Coach House. It’s a bit of a dive, isn’t it?’
‘Known as the Cockroach,’ said Ross. ‘Bikers’ bar. It’s had its fair share of trouble.’
They made their way towards the forensic officer waiting to hand out the overalls, bootees and masks. Everyone on site had to be swaddled in appropriate clothing. Wheeler could see a group of scene-of-crime officers already working the scene. She hoped that they would be fastidious about maintaining the integrity of the site. There had been a recent case where DNA evidence had been contaminated by a newly qualified SOCO. The crime-scene manager had erupted in anger. Wheeler noted the CSM directing the SOCOs a short distance from her – some of the SOCOs were searching the ground, others were taking photographs of the scene, while another was videoing it. Tread plates and markers had been placed in specific areas. The body would have already been photographed. Wheeler knew how helpful it was to see pictures of how the body appeared in situ and the layout of the crime scene. Later, the images would be pinned to the board, so everyone at the station would be familiar with the information.
‘Morning, DI Wheeler.’
She recognised the strong Aberdonian accent; she’d worked with Jim Watson on other cases and knew him to be one of the most experienced SOCOs in Glasgow. A man who lived for the job, he’d once told her. ‘This here is not what I do, this here is who I am. It defines me.’ Never the most cheerful of men, Jim was, however, the consummate professional. At least when he was on the job – she’d heard rumours about the excessive drinking. ‘Anything so far, Jim?’
‘Nothing of any great interest. Yet. At the best of times, reducing background DNA from the site is difficult. Add to the mix the bloody runners who came over and stuck their noses in,’ he grumbled. ‘So a load of different footprints contaminating the place. Have they never even seen an episode of CSI? You’d think they would have had more bloody sense. And then one of them threw up. Can you bloody believe it?’
‘I heard.’
‘It must have been a bit of a shock for him,’ said Ross.
‘Damn right it must have been, but it meant we had to get samples from all of them, including their sodden footprints, in order to eliminate them. And anyway,’ he muttered, ‘it’s not good for the joints.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ said Wheeler.
‘All that running, senselessly pounding the pavements and roads. I don’t understand folk. But as usual I’ll be thorough and I’ll let you know if I get lucky.’ He sounded doubtful.
‘Let’s stay positive.’ Wheeler walked towards the clearing, saw the bulk of the forensic pathologist, Professor Callum Fraser, crouched beside the body. Two mortuary attendants waited in close proximity.
The pathologist glanced up. ‘Beautiful morning,’ he said by way of introduction. ‘Glorious weather.’
‘For us, yes, it is.’ Wheeler looked at the corpse. ‘But not, I’m afraid for this poor soul.’ She saw that the woman was of slim build, with dark hair. She was wearing a pale blue T-shirt, jeans and gold sandals. Her toenails were painted a dark red to match her fingernails. There was a rose tattoo on her ankle. ‘Looks to be in her mid to late twenties and those ligature marks around her neck are pretty dramatic. What can you tell me, Callum? Was our victim strangled?’
‘You’ll get my report in good time but preliminary findings suggest that the cause of death was strangulation. ‘Look here—’ he pointed to the bruises ‘—these are not manual chokeholds. The marks weren’t made by fingers.’ He put his fingers close to the woman’s throat. ‘It’s too broad an outline,’ he continued, ‘perhaps a belt or some kind of collar?’ He gestured to the chafing. ‘When someone is strangled by hand, it can leave an exact outline of their fingertips, certainly their shape, which can be most useful.’
‘And if they’re a really helpful killer, they’ll leave DNA traces in the slight hollows of the flesh,’ added Wheeler.
‘Indeed.’
‘Could she have been hanged?’ asked Ross.
‘If she had been hanged these imprints would be raised.’ Callum pointed to the bruising. ‘And these would be heading in an upwards direction.’
‘Because?’ asked Ross.
‘Gravity would bring the body down, so the imprints would point in the opposite direction. I’ll have a better opportunity to examine the larynx and tongue during post-mortem. If they are enlarged, it will indeed confirm strangulation, but I won’t know for sure until I examine her.’
‘Did she hav
e a chance to defend herself?’ asked Wheeler quietly.
‘No defence wounds. Our killer, whoever he or she was, made a clean job of it.’
‘Estimated time of death?’
‘Difficult to know for sure.’
‘But if you had to hazard a guess, Callum?’ said Wheeler.
‘I’ve taken a reading of her temperature and lividity is present in the back of the body, so I’d suggest that she’s been dead for roughly six to eight hours and was killed elsewhere and her body brought here.’
‘Somewhere between midnight and two o’clock in the morning?’
‘Around about then.’ He stood back and gestured to the two attendants who had been patiently waiting to transport the body back to the mortuary.