Torn

by Anne Randall

  ‘Their soul?’

  ‘Yes, if I can capture some of their spirit or their soul then the photograph transcends its medium in a way and becomes more than just a photographic representation. It captures the essence of the person.’

  ‘And makes them immortal? Never ageing, never changing? Make me immortal,’ Skye demanded, as he raised his arms and ran around the roof garden like some demented windmill. Di Stefano began snapping. Dougie watched Skye turn on the charm. Skye smiling, kohl-rimmed eyes glassy. Dangerous, sexy, bad-boy Skye, giddy with fame, quickened the momentum, running and pouting and posing. Dougie watched. Too close to the edge, a hell of a drop on to a concrete pavement below, but Skye kept racing, dancing, posing in a world of his own.

  ‘Fuck! Be careful!’ Dougie grabbed him, ushered him roughly away from the edge. Probably secure enough but no point in taking any chances.

  ‘Make me immortal, Paulo!’ Skye repeated, as he raised his arms, looked to the heavens, drank in the bright sunshine.

  Dougie smiled thinly. The band were going to go stratospheric and Di Stefano’s photographs would be part of the journey. The Kill Kestrels would be up there with the Stones and the Who. He watched the photographer capture the moment as Skye ran around the space as if it were a huge arena and he was the only one on stage.

  Dougie settled into the photo shoot. After a few minutes, he saw Harry walk into the shot followed by a tall blonde woman and a dark-haired guy. They were both holding police ID. Dougie glanced at Skye, muttered under his breath, ‘Fuck’s sake, what now?’

  He approached them, hand outstretched. ‘I’m Dougie Scott, the manager. What’s this about?’

  ‘Dougie, the police are here to have a word with the band.’ Harry glanced at Wheeler. ‘Of course I’ll ask my staff if they remember the dead woman being here, but, as I said, I’m sure they’ve all seen the news on the television and radio and would have come forward by now if they knew anything.’

  Wheeler addressed Dougie. ‘We believe that a woman who was murdered had recently contacted a member of the Kill Kestrels.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m not sure who she emailed. As far as we know it was via the online forum.’

  ‘The guys never see that,’ said Dougie. ‘I have a part-time assistant who does all the web stuff.’

  ‘I think our victim was at school with one of the band, Langside Academy?’ said Wheeler.

  ‘Guys, any of you go to Langside Academy?’ asked Dougie.

  ‘I did, for a short while,’ said Josh.

  Wheeler held up a photograph.

  ‘Never seen her before.’

  ‘Her name’s Karlie Merrick. She would’ve been two years behind you at school.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I heard about her,’ said Josh. ‘Didn’t she lie about being bullied and got some kid kicked out of school? Then the kid OD’d?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d left by then but I heard about it. Sounds like Karlie Merrick was a complete fucking brat.’

  ‘She was murdered,’ Wheeler reminded him.

  ‘Still can’t help you,’ said Josh.

  ‘And before you ask, Inspector, we were all together in our hotel last night, all night,’ Dougie lied. ‘I can vouch for all of my boys.’

  Skye looked at the ground, said nothing.

  Wheeler looked at Josh. ‘And you’re sure you never met her?’

  ‘Positive. And we never even see the fan shit. It’s all done in-house.

  ‘Look, Inspector,’ said Dougie, ‘we’re in the middle of a shoot. And time is money. Do you mind?’

  Wheeler turned to go. ‘They’re all heart,’ she muttered to Ross.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Mortuary

  Beth Swinton sat in the waiting room and felt her mouth too dry to speak. Reminded herself that what she was about to do was merely duty. Told herself that there would be no surprise, that she would not be ambushed by shock, she already knew that it was Karlie. She told herself this over and over, as if the refrain might make it better. To her right, Maureen Anderson sat grey-faced and silent; to her left, the FLO, Helen, who had explained the process to her in sensitive, gentle tones. In the Scottish system, identification must be attended by two people, and the FLO had suggested that the process be done via a video link. ‘No,’ Beth had told her. ‘This is the final time I shall actually see her. I want to say goodbye, properly. You told me yourself, there may be a long delay before she can be buried.’

  The FLO had reluctantly agreed and explained some of what to expect. Beth had been surprised to learn that they wouldn’t be alone at the mortuary, that others would be there, so many protocols, so many rules and instructions. She’d heard terms and abbreviations she’d never heard before. It felt like there was too much to remember. She looked around the room. It was cool and she could hear the air-conditioning unit hum quietly. She’d been grateful for the FLO’s support, especially around the press. She replayed one of the conversations they’d had when Graham Reaper had called for the fourth consecutive time. The phone had been ringing constantly since Karlie’s name had been released.

  ‘How did they even get my number?’

  ‘They would have been digging from the moment her name was released. It’s what they do. DI Wheeler should have warned you this might happen. But remember, if you want me to deal with the press, I can take over. Reporters and journalists can be very persistent and, in some cases, invasive. And in the case of Graham Reaper, he can be completely tactless. This whole process, between myself and DIs Ross and Wheeler, is all about supporting you. I realise too that DI Wheeler isn’t always the most sensitive person around bereavement. She can be a little abrupt.’

  ‘Maybe. Just doing her job, I suppose.’

  ‘If you did think she was a little too sharp, you can always offer a feedback comment. I’m happy to facilitate it for you.’

  ‘I can’t really remember much of what she said.’

  ‘Have a think later on,’ the FLO said smoothly. ‘You tell me and I’ll contact DCI Stewart. You know, sometimes it can be really helpful to get feedback, however negative it may sound. Makes them better cops in the long run. Kind of doing them a favour. And, of course, I’d have a very discreet word.’

  Beth looked up as an attendant came into the room.

  ‘We’re ready now.’ Her voice, soft, low. Respectful.

  Beth stood, felt the sweat on her palms. Wanted for a split second to turn and walk away. To keep walking and to get as far away as possible from the horror of what she was confronting. She thought of earlier that morning, before the police had arrived, of how simple her life had been. She’d been thinking about her recent exhibition at the CCA, how well it had been received. Simple, happy thoughts. And now darkness and evil had bled into her life. An uncharitable thought about Karlie came into her mind. When things were going well for Beth, Karlie would kick off. Now this. The exhibition had been a triumph but Karlie had somehow stolen the show. Beth hated herself for thinking it.

  She allowed herself to be led through to a room with a glass window. On the other side, the blind was drawn. The assistant left them. ‘Are you sure you’re ready?’ asked Helen. Beth nodded, felt her heartbeat quicken. Watched while the blind was raised.

  Karlie’s eyes were closed and she looked at peace. As if she were only sleeping. A white sheet had been drawn over the body, and only her face was visible. ‘Yes, it’s her. That’s Karlie.’ Beth stared at the body, remembered going to the chapel of repose and viewing her cousin Mary’s body. Karlie looked so like her mother. Beth’s memory flashed back to John’s funeral. Now there would be another gravestone to be engraved. Too many deaths, too much loss. She stared at Karlie’s face, saw it morph into Mary’s and then John’s. Beth felt herself sway. She thought of how Karlie had wanted to be on the television, for her name to be known, for her to be famous. She had achieved in death the fame that had eluded her in life. Beth closed her eyes. A slide show of Karlie’s life began as if i
t needed to exist in the final moments before her body disappeared: Karlie at secondary school, smiling slyly; Karlie casually throwing a brick at a duck in the pond in the park; Karlie leaving school at sixteen, triumphant and grinning. Beth shivered, felt the damp of sweat on her back, on her scalp. She felt faint. She opened her eyes in time to see Helen move towards her but she collapsed on to the cool of the floor. Then, welcome darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Reporter

  Graham Reaper finished one story.

  CARNAGE!

  Fatal Gang Rampage Leaves Two Dead

  and Four Fighting for their Lives

  But the two losers were no longer on the front page; Reaper slotted them into third. Southside police had arrested two men in their twenties in connection with the deaths and there was an ongoing investigation into the other gang members. Nothing more he could do to sex it up. Instead, Reaper concentrated on the story for the first page.

  After leaving Sandyhills that morning he’d returned to his office at the Chronicle and selected four photographs to run with the article: one of the police cordon, two of the SOCOs scouring the area and one of the mortuary van containing the body, being driven off, DIs Wheeler and Ross in the background. Readers needed to get a flavour of the crime scene and a few photographs hooked them in. Later, the cops had released a name – Karlie Merrick – but they’d been tight with any other information. No matter, he’d done his own digging and the updated headline was more specific. Then he’d added a strategically cropped shot of a naked Karlie Merrick on the front page, not clear nudity but enough to suggest that somewhere just out of shot she was starkers. A further trawl through the online archives had given him a rich seam to mine – the victim’s father had also been murdered and some very dodgy porn discovered in his home. The story would run for a bit now it had legs. Now it had been sexed up. Reaper typed quickly.

  BRUTAL SLAYING OF SULTRY

  PORN STARLET

  The body of the twenty-eight-year-old porn star was discovered this morning by members of the public. The gruesome discover was made by four friends out for their morning run. Ms Merrick’s body was found in a secluded area in Sandyhills Road and police have confirmed that they are treating her death as murder.

  Detectives from Police Scotland are anxious to ascertain the final movements of the porn star. DCI Craig Stewart, from Carmyle Police Station, said: ‘We are appealing to anyone who may have known Karlie Merrick, or who may have any information about her movements over the course of the past few days, to get in touch. It is extremely important that we trace her final movements. Did you know Karlie, or did you see someone acting suspiciously in the Sandyhills area of the city? Was there a car near the scene? Did you see or hear anything that might be helpful? If so, please contact us immediately.’

  Reaper continued typing:

  Sandyhills Road remains cordoned off while police search for further evidence. Police Scotland did not supply information about either Ms Merrick’s injuries or reveal how she was killed.

  DCI Stewart added, ‘The area around where the body was discovered is particularly well used by runners and dog walkers, and the nearby sports field is well attended. There is also a golf course and a local pub nearby, both of which are often busy. I would urge everyone who was in the area yesterday to think back. Did you see anything at all that may help us? Any information, however small, may help us piece together Karlie Merrick’s final hours.’

  At the time of going to press, officers have also cordoned off the entrance to a flat in Glasgow Harbour Development.

  Reaper added another picture of Karlie, pouting provocatively at the camera, and then continued typing:

  A grisly twist in the tragedy is that Karlie Merrick’s father was also murdered, twenty years previously. No one has ever been charged with his death.

  Reaper finished the article and sat back in his chair. There was enough out there to sate interest in the Merrick story. He needn’t add the detail about the father’s porn stash until later. Drip-feed the readership the salacious detail. Keep them happy. Sex. It always sold.

  He glanced again at the photographs of the two dead gang members, Davie Ward and Chris Wood. They looked like losers. They’d been killed in a stupid gang fight over what? Disputed territory, one of the gang had told him. Did they not realise the council owned all of the territory? It had fuck all to do with them and their petty, imaginary boundaries. Already the public was losing interest in them.

  Reaper felt the tremor in his hand. Christ, he needed a pint. His divorce had come through that morning and he’d been on Tinder all last week. He was hooking up with a woman called Jacqui later. He checked his watch; they were due to meet at the Victoria Bar in the Bridgegate in an hour. If he left now, he could get in early, have a couple of pints beforehand. If she didn’t work out, he could always call a halt early and cross over to the Scotia for a couple more. He wavered for a spilt second before he reached over and shut down his computer, grabbed his jacket, headed out.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Braveheart Ducks

  The man stood at a safe distance from the red sandstone building and watched. Karlie Merrick’s flat was on the second floor of Glasgow Harbour Development, situated on the banks of the River Clyde. He saw the police cars, the cordon. He’d watched the SOCOs and assorted personnel go in earlier and now the two detectives had arrived. The man knew that they would be combing the flat for his DNA. Perhaps they were looking for signs of forced entry? There were none. Karlie had opened the door to him just after midnight. He’d been casually dressed, gloved hands in pockets. All smiles. She’d turned back into the hallway. It wasn’t until the last minute that she’d been aware of the belt. She hadn’t had time to struggle. At only five foot four and certainly under a hundred pounds, it had been one of his easier tasks. Inside, the cops would find a sterile flat with pathetic images of the dead woman, lifeless ghosts haunting the place, unable to repeat what they saw that night, forced to stare mutely into eternity. The man turned away and began walking towards the city centre and the crowds and welcome anonymity.

  * * *

  Inside the flat, Wheeler and Ross found a modern, open-plan arrangement. In the living room, light from three full-height windows flooded the space. Professional photographs of Karlie lined the walls.

  ‘She certainly had enough images of herself,’ said Ross.

  ‘There’s no sign of a struggle,’ said Wheeler. ‘If she died here then she let the killer into the flat. She knew him or her. I’ve ordered a copy of CCTV from the entrance; there’s nothing covering the back. Uniform are still interviewing the neighbours.’

  In the kitchen each of the surfaces was clear, the chrome taps shone and the wooden floorboards were highly polished. On the wall was a canvas print of flowers, around their petals, glitter. She walked into the bedroom – the bed was made up, with the duvet cover and pillowcases neatly aligned; the curtains were open and light filled the room. ‘Everything’s white,’ said Wheeler. ‘The bedlinen, the curtains, the carpet. All white. The monochrome photographs of Karlie are the only contrast.’

  ‘It’s sterile,’ said Ross. ‘Soulless. There’s no personality, no colour.’

  ‘Clinical, I’d say.’ Wheeler pulled on a pair of gloves and opened a drawer. It contained matching sets of expensive-looking underwear, all neatly paired and folded. A second drawer held jewellery, neatly boxed or stacked. Karlie had favoured loud, statement jewellery.

  Ross peered at it. ‘She liked her bling, but why did someone with a bit of money even go into this sadomasochistic stuff? Why not wait for mainstream roles?’

  ‘Beth insisted that Karlie was ambitious. Maybe she thought she’d make a fortune? Some of the big porn stars do get rich, so perhaps she thought it was a way in and that she’d get exposure? If the documentary about her dad was ever made that might’ve been the transition to mainstream.’ Wheeler opened the wardrobe. On the top shelf was a collection of old dolls, stained and
ragged. She carefully took one out. ‘Look at these, they’re grubby and stained, they don’t reflect the OCD feel of this place.’

  ‘Which tells us what?’

  ‘They might be symbolic of the cosiness of her childhood before it all got very messy? And OCD tendencies could have been a way of Karlie trying to control her surroundings when her reality was very painful or out of control. I wonder if the lack of a relationship was about control too?’ Wheeler glanced at the photographs of Karlie, saw the pout, the provocative pose.

  Ross flicked through the stack of DVDs. ‘Geordie Shore, Keeping Up with the Kardashians, Made in Chelsea, The Only Way is Essex – she wanted to be a reality TV star. There are no bookshelves, no magazines, no newspapers – she wasn’t much of a reader.’

  ‘And no CDs or anything about the Kill Kestrels,’ said Wheeler. ‘Then again, Maureen said that Karlie hadn’t been a fan, that she’d only contacted the group to further her ambition.’

  ‘Their manager has them covered for the night she died.’

  ‘Your take on the Kill Kestrels?’ Wheeler asked.

  ‘At the very top of their game, so why fuck it up?’

  Wheeler crossed to a shelf. On it were three small bears dressed as pipers. They wore tartan and held bagpipes. A blue and white Saltire was printed on one foot.

  The bathroom was equally clinical, the only exception being a row of plastic ducks. Ducks that were also decked out in tartan.

  ‘Braveheart ducks,’ muttered Ross.

  In the hall cupboard Wheeler saw the opened jiffy bag. ‘This might be what Beth sent.’ She saw a series of old photographs – one of them had Karlie Merrick as a small child, standing between her parents, holding hands. She was grinning, not a care in the world. Unaware of how her life would unfold. Beth had been right – Karlie was the spit of her mother. Wheeler walked to the window, glanced out, saw the neatness of the communal garden, and, beyond, the River Clyde meandering through the city.