by Anne Randall
It wasn’t the first time Wheeler had heard an ex-con mouth off about the police procedure. ‘About the night John Merrick was murdered?’ she prompted.
‘Me and my pals were round the back of the car park. We were getting wasted. Merrick got done that night. First I knew of it was when the polis cars came screeching round the corner and Furlan hauled us into the station. Made us sit there for hours, going over our movements for that night. Next thing we knew, Furlan starts telling us we were fucking suspects. It was way out of order, he was just on some mad fucking mission to get someone banged up for it and he reckoned we’d do.’ Moody sneered at her. ‘It was Furlan who put you on to me, wasn’t it?’
‘Inspector Furlan mentioned your name but I just wanted us to have a quiet chat. He’s not working this investigation.’
‘Thank fuck for that or he’d be in here trying to twist my arm into confessing to this one an’ all.’
‘Karlie Merrick?’ prompted Wheeler.
‘I only knew her from being around. She was just a young lassie back then. They never got the guy that did her da, did they?’
‘Not yet. Any ideas?’
‘I can’t help you. Besides, I’m not a grass.’
‘But you have some idea who it might have been?’
‘No.’
‘Anyone in the community have a vendetta against the Merricks? Someone who killed the father and now the daughter?’
‘I never heard anything. Read the papers though – seems he was well into porn. The hard stuff.’ Moody looked at her. ‘You reckon he was grooming Karlie? I read in the paper she was a porn star.’
‘What about the drugs? Was there a bad batch around at that time?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘Nothing deadly?’
‘No.’ Moody studied his bandaged hand, absent-mindedly picked at the dressing. ‘I think I’m going to get set up.’
‘Why would I set you up?’
‘You’ve got my DNA from way back. I know it’s on file. The swab?’
‘When you were arrested, the police had a right to take a DNA sample.’ A mouth swab was standard practice.
‘Where’s it kept?’
‘It’s stored in the Scottish DNA database.’
‘And you can pull it out now and make it fit the crime.’ Moody spat. ‘And I get blamed for something some other fucker’s done? Furlan couldn’t get me for auld Merrick’s murder, so you’re going to stitch me up for the daughter’s.’
Wheeler saw his expression, the wide haunted eyes. Cal Moody was either very guilty or very paranoid. Or both. She knew that any DNA found at Sandyhills on Karlie Merrick’s body would have been collected and would be run through the system. ‘Is there any reason your DNA would be at the crime scene?’
‘I just told you. If it’s at the scene, it’s because you lot have it already.’
‘Do you know anything about Josh Alden from the Kill Kestrels?’
‘I’ve heard of them. Don’t know them, though.’
Wheeler asked a few more questions but Cal Moody’s increasing paranoia meant that he made little sense. She ended the interview.
‘Paranoid or what?’ said Boyd outside in the corridor. ‘He sounded like he was going into meltdown. Does Moody know what happened that night and he’s not saying?’
‘And the twitchy body language,’ said Wheeler. ‘I don’t know if he killed Karlie Merrick but he’s bloody terrified of something or someone. And no one seems to know anything about Josh Alden.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The McIver, Swedish Room
There was the inevitable comedown. The emptiness. He needed the next high. The last time had been OK but way too tame. This time Skye knew that he needed total control.
He was always careful, made sure that it was safe. His experience of the McIver had been good so far; the girls were fine but he needed more. He needed to tailor it to his own exact needs. His preference was erotic asphyxia, and he knew that as he tightened the scarf, his sexual excitement would increase. The high it gave him was more extreme than anything he’d felt. It felt dangerous and scary and sexy. He knotted the scarf. She would only be about three or four inches off the floor. He flicked through the magazine, found a favourite photograph. He’d not known a woman could be bent at such an angle. At least not without extreme pain. He took the magazine and laid it on the table, left it open at his chosen image. Opened the laptop, set up the video.
She came through the door. He watched while she stripped. She had green eyes and her long blonde hair lay smooth and flat. He liked that. She had a tiny scar above her top lip. An imperfection.
He fastened the restraints securely. Slipped the scarf around her neck and adjusted it. Watched the action on the screen, glanced at the photograph, tightened the scarf. Held it steady. No point in going too fast. Kept himself engrossed with the screen, forced himself to think of the production. It was good. Premium rate. The women were beautiful, that was the difference. With cheap porn, the women were so obviously flawed. Never beautiful but sometimes just the right side of depraved. Or really fucked up. A glance at the photograph, the painfully contorted body. Pain. Sex. Beauty. Pain. Sex. Slow down. Slow it down.
Death. It was present in the room with them, its nearness was intoxicating. So close, so close. He couldn’t go there. Not here. But it was so fucking tantalisingly close. Hands damp, he worked quickly. He placed the ball gag into her mouth, strapped the collar around her jaw and secured it behind her head. It was breathable; tiny holes were visible in the metal ball, so oxygen could flow through. It was adjustable so he could control how much or how little air she could access. He would be God. He was a rock God. He was immortal. His hand trembled as he closed it. He heard her gasp. Watched her nostrils flair in an attempt to breath. He peered at her, reached over and placed his thumb and forefinger on either side of her nose, squeezed. ‘No,’ he whispered, ‘no air.’ He watched her thrash, her head twist and jerk. Ignored the guttural noises. Sat back.
He felt his arousal, moved towards her again, adjusted the ball, let her breathe fully, heard her suck air before he closed the ball again. He leaned back, felt his heart hammer. Took his time, delayed the moment. Forced himself to look away, to study the room, to really notice the detail. The predominant white of the room, the exposed brickwork. Back to the rush. Pain. Sex. Beauty. Pain. He pulled the scarf tight around her neck. Felt his body respond. The increase in pleasure was sublime. A little more. The action on screen intensified; he mirrored the intensity and the vigour. Tightened the scarf further. The photograph. The woman’s contorted body swam in front of his eyes, his vision blurred. So close, so close. The scarf was taut. He leaned forward. Forward. Forward. He was dizzy. Disorientated. Strained to breath. Gasped. Sucked on jagged mouthfuls of air. His head felt like it was ready to explode. He came hard. Shuddered. Gasped. ‘Fuck!’ Opened his eyes. Felt his heartbeat return to normal. Took a deep breath. Calm. Calm. Reached across and released the ball gag.
Nothing.
She wasn’t breathing.
Shit, it had only been three or four minutes.
He had a fucking problem.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Old Patterns
Wheeler hoisted the box of files out of the boot of the car and hauled them up the stairs to her flat. Thought about Eddie Furlan’s conviction that John Merrick had been murdered by either Cal Moody or Keith Sullivan. She wondered about Moody’s paranoia. And Keith Sullivan? What if he had murdered John Merrick, and, now that he was dead, it may never be proven? But her gut instinct told her that John and Karlie Merrick’s murders were connected somehow. And were the Kill Kestrels involved? Once inside the flat, she dumped the box on the coffee table in the living room. Put on a CD. Straight, No Chaser by Monk.
Ross arrived as ‘Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea’ started. She collected plates, cutlery and carried them through to the sitting room. Ross opened the wine, poured two glasses. Old patterns.
/> ‘Sure you don’t want to talk about things?’ she asked as the buzzer sounded.
‘Positive.’
She went to the door, took the food delivery, brought it through. Spread the contents on the table.
‘What are we having?’
‘Italian.’
‘From the place across the road, with the jasmine plants?’
‘Yep.’
They both began with the bruschetta.
‘Get me up to speed on the case,’ Ross said before sipping his wine. ‘Anything more about the group?’
‘Nothing. I dug into Josh Alden’s background. He grew up in a home, a bit of minor trouble. Nothing on the others. Looks like they’re all clean.’
‘What did Eddie Furlan say about the John Merrick case? Are you still convinced they’re related?’
‘There’s something in it, Ross. It can’t be coincidence. Eddie thought John Merrick’s killer was drug and gang related; heroin cocktails were around – cocaine and heroin, or cocaine and morphine. Folk were injecting heroin with very erratic combinations of other drugs, like sedatives and painkillers.’
‘He thought it was a robbery gone wrong?’
‘He suggested that the killer was a druggie who was desperate. In particular, he had two guys down for it – Cal Moody and Keith Sullivan. Both guys were users. Sullivan’s dead. I had Moody in earlier.’
‘Let me guess, he denied it?’ said Ross.
‘Of course. Furlan had another theory, that someone in the community decided not to bother reporting the killer.’
‘And let them overdose on a bad batch cut with something fatal?’ said Ross. ‘That would do the trick. What about the other gang members?’
She read through the notes. ‘Apparently they had all been shooting up.’ She sat back. ‘Furlan’s notes are meticulous. He asked all the right questions and complied with standard operational procedures.’
‘You sound surprised.’
‘There’s something about him, Ross. I don’t like him. At one point he got very bloody irritable. He bristled when he thought I was somehow questioning his work. It reminded me of the Paul Furlan I knew in the army, who could turn from reasonable to vicious in a heartbeat.’
‘Are they related?’
‘Definitely, they’re the spit of each other. Plus, Eddie mentioned a son, Paul, who had anger management issues, and Eddie certainly has a short fuse.’
‘He’s probably still angry that the killer got away. You know from experience, it happens. Then you go around and bring it all up again. His failure. He might’ve been more annoyed with himself than you.’
‘He was pissed with me.’ She made a start on the pizza. ‘I’ve seen that expression before.’
‘Care to enlighten me about Paul?’
‘He’s a fuckwit.’
‘Charming.’
‘He was an absolute bully.’
‘Towards you?’
‘No, but we were under a lot of pressure. There was this younger guy, Colin Jenkins, he was doing his best but was obviously struggling. Furlan just kept at him. Kept repeating that he had to man up, man up, like it was some kind of a fucking mantra. He just kept up with the sarky comments and I could see that it was badly affecting Jenkins. It wore him down and he got depressed, but Paul Fucking Furlan just wouldn’t give it a rest.’
‘What happened?’
‘On the second last day of the tour Jenkins was killed.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It was a tough time. Anyway, it’s over. We need to concentrate on the case, forget Paul Furlan.’
‘What else do we have?’
‘These.’ Wheeler looked at the copies of the images found in John Merrick’s home. Teenage girls, all naked, stared back at her with large, soulless eyes. They lacked the vibrancy of their years, had probably been drugged. She understood Beth Swinton’s belief, that after finding these disturbing images, the cops had lost some of their energy to find the killer. She held them up to Ross.
‘Revolting,’ he said. ‘Was Karlie groomed by her father? No wonder the police went on a go-slow to find his killer. What sort of a man looks at filth like this?’
Wheeler lifted photographs from the two post-mortems. ‘John Merrick’s attack was frenzied, his face bruised and beaten. Other than the ligature marks around her neck, Karlie looks like she’s sleeping.’
‘Frenzied attack versus a contained approach. A different killer?’ asked Ross.
‘Or a different approach,’ said Wheeler.
‘Suspects?’ asked Ross.
‘For Karlie? Pierce, Ashton, Reid. Someone she worked with? Someone she knew vaguely? Someone she’d never met? One of the Kill Kestrels? At this stage, bloody everyone.’
‘Ashton certainly has a temper.’
‘He threatened to kill Karlie. And Pierce had a thing for her. Unrequited. He’d no alibi.’ She reached for another slice of pizza. ‘Bellerose, the life coach, was rankled when asked where he was that night. Had a thing for her and also no alibi.’
‘Could be any of them.’
‘CCTV came back from Glasgow Harbour Development showing Karlie going into the front entrance to her flat at 7.15 p.m.,’ said Wheeler. ‘She didn’t come back out again, at least not by the front.’
‘Car still out front?’
‘All night.’
‘Back entrance?’ asked Ross.
‘Not covered.’
‘You reckon she knew her killer?’
‘You saw the flat, there was no sign of a struggle or a break-in, she opened the door to whoever killed her.’
‘What about neighbours?’
‘We’ve taken statements from all of them. No obvious suspects yet.’ She brought out the list of John Merrick’s appointments. ‘But, look here, see these cancellations. All these clients just didn’t turn up for their appointment on a regular basis. I don’t know, it feels like there’s something wrong.’
‘Clients get to cancel,’ said Ross.
‘But every week? Eddie said that he’d checked out all the clients, but—’ she shook her head ‘—there was something about his defensiveness.’
‘You think he’s holding back information?’
‘I don’t know.’ She stared at the crossed-out appointments. ‘Some names have been completely obliterated. There’s something about the desk diary, something’s amiss.’
* * *
It was late when Ross finally left, but she couldn’t sleep. Talking about Paul Furlan had brought it all back. She thought that when she’d left the army, she had successfully buried the memories. She thought of Colin Jenkins and his death, of Paul Furlan and his continual taunts. She knew that she needed to let the memories go, but when she closed her eyes she was back in the army, watching Furlan bully Jenkins. Heard him use his most often repeated phrase. Man up. Just man the fuck up. She felt the bile rise in her.
Chapter Forty
The Security Guy
Paul Furlan had arrived in minutes. He quickly closed the door behind him. Locked it. Recognised the signs. Knew that Holly Lithgow would have fought for breath, but the restraints had been secure. Her mind and lungs would have scrambled furiously to search for a source of oxygen. Any at all. Any way of breathing. She had died from suffocation. Erotic asphyxiation had its downside. He opened his bag, took out the tarpaulin, put it to one side. Took out the fresh bar of soap, unwrapped it. The medicinal smell hit him and he was instantly transported back to the family house, his mother complaining to his father about him. His father reaching for the soap. His mother turning away, symbolically washing her hands of him. He crossed to the body, double-checked for a pulse. Nothing. But she was still warm. He removed the restraints and the ball gag. Her eyes were open, her long blonde hair was damp and lay in disarray. The scar above her top lip quivered as he sat astride her, opened her mouth, pushed the bar of soap inside. Began working it into a lather. Felt his arousal begin. He’d take his time, there was no rush, he had all the time he needed. ‘Do
n’t we, Jean?’ he asked the corpse. ‘What do you say, Jean?’
When he’d finished, he spread the tarpaulin over her body. Wrapped it. Tied it securely. Threw what was left of the bar of soap into a bin bag. Heard her mobile ring, glanced at the screen, the name Nikki flashed up. He shoved it into his pocket, locked the door securely behind him. He’d be back later.
In the Braque Hotel, Skye reached for the bottle of Merlot, opened it. Didn’t bother with a glass. Put the bottle to his mouth and took a long, long drink. He was on fire. Felt immortal. He carried the bottle to the desk, sat.
Began with the lyrics.
‘We were meant to be together . . . a love so strong, you couldn’t speak . . . so much between us . . . so much to say . . . I wanted to tell you that us being together . . .’
He picked up his acoustic guitar, fingered an open C chord, strummed, let the notes ring out. Tried a couple of melodies for the first line, ‘We were meant to be together . . .’ Carried on composing. This was what he was meant to be, this was who he was.
This was his destiny.
Chapter Forty-One
Horses in the Forest
Owen had never had the money to have it properly framed. Thought he’d wait until he had a wall to hang it on. The cardboard backing he’d put in place to keep it upright was now buckling and the plastic cover was peeling. He stared at the card, willed the fairground horses to move. Knew that they were trying but the poles that should have connected them to the carousel, connected them instead to the darkness in the forest. The branches of the trees wove around them, kept them stationary as they tried to prance. The tiny horse, now he was looking closely, looked more like a little pig. It looked off into the darkness, ready to run to its death. The horse in the foreground, the one with the pink saddle— Oh for fuck’s sake! Why hadn’t he seen it before? What was wrong with him? The big horse, its pink mane long and flowing, a pink tail, three golden stars on her rump, pranced and dominated. He could see it now. The horse with three stars had a horn. It wasn’t a horse. It was a unicorn. It had a long tail and a horn in the middle of its forehead. A fucking unicorn. The other horse, the one with the blue saddle, was stepping out, legs high. A purple plum on its head. A male? No stars on its rump, only a series of circles, nine in all. Did they mean something? Where they runes? Could they tell Owen his future? Above the horses, strung through the trees, were lights to illuminate the darkness. But how long would they last before the darkness would engulf them? If there was music, would that help? Carousels always had music. They needed music. He reached forward, switched on the radio. The Kill Kestrels’ ‘Death of an Angel’ was being played.