‘You read the reports from Social Services.’
‘Yes, I know, I just…’ She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘What if we’re wrong? What if it’s not him?’
I took hold of her shoulders and gave them a squeeze. ‘He’s got to keep his abduction kit somewhere. He can’t leave it in his room, or housekeeping will find it. He can’t leave it at the station, not even Docherty is that egotistical. So it’s either wherever he takes the girls, or it’s in the car.’ The motorcycle gloves I’d liberated from the traffic office were a bit bulky, but they’d do. The crowbar slapped into the leather-clad palm of my other hand. ‘Anyone coming?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’ The crowbar crunched through the driver’s window, spattering the front seats with glittering cubes of glass. All four hazard lights burst into life, the horn honking, alarm screeching. I ran the crowbar around the edge of the window, clearing the remnants away, before reaching in and pulling the lever to release the bonnet.
Limped around to the front and hauled the thing open, then jammed the crowbar’s forks in under the battery cover and shoved. The red terminal snapped away from the battery and everything was silence again. Five seconds. Not exactly a record, but not bad either. Helps when you don’t have to worry about driving the thing away afterwards. ‘Anyone?’
‘Ash, what if he’s not the Inside Man, we—’
‘Is anyone coming?’
A sigh. ‘No.’
I pulled open the car door and leaned across the seats. Popped open the glove compartment. Maps, half bag of Fox’s Glacier Mints, and the vehicle’s service book. Nothing in the passenger footwell, or under the seat. Nothing in the door pocket either.
The storage compartment between the seats was empty, too. ‘If he’s not the Inside Man, we sod off out of it and no one’s the wiser. He gets back tonight and thinks someone’s vandalized his car. Look on it as payback for him being a dick.’
Driver’s side: a neoprene folder full of CDs – a mix of country-and-western and Phil Collins – sweet wrappers, sunglasses. My gloved fingers brushed through cubes of safety glass under the seat. Found a hard edge. Something there… ‘Hold on.’ I got grip on it and pulled.
A blue folder stamped ‘PROPERTY OF GREATER MANCHESTER POLICE’.
It was full of crime-scene photographs. All women. All lying where they’d been discovered. And not one of them had an easy death. Shootings, stabbings, stranglings, beatings, throats cut, bodies ripped open. Blood and bone and suffering. The last eight in the pile were Inside Man victims.
I handed them to Alice. ‘Still think it’s not him?’ Then opened the back door.
An orange carrier-bag sat behind the driver’s seat, full of something. I peered inside. Tissues – all scrunched up, and a suspiciously bleachy smell.
Alice looked up from the photos. ‘What is it?’
The carrier-bag went back where it came from. ‘Think the technical term is “wankerchiefs”.’
A frown. Then her top lip curled. ‘Ew… He’s been sitting in his car masturbating to photos of murdered women?’
‘Told you.’
I searched the Volvo from nose to tail. Even had the rubber floor-mats up and the spare wheel out. Nothing.
‘Ash?’
Had to be here somewhere.
Somewhere accessible from inside the car. Somewhere he could get to it easily. But where? I knelt on the concrete floor and went back under the seats, inching my fingers along the glass-strewn carpet.
Couldn’t feel a damn thing in the motorcycle gloves. I stripped the right one off replacing it with the last of my blue nitriles.
Alice’s voice was a hissing whisper: ‘Ash!’
There – a little cylinder. Pen top? I teased it out and sat back.
You wee beauty. It was an orange syringe cap. The same kind I’d… Yes. Well, far too late to do anything about that now.
It wasn’t exactly an abduction kit, but it was a start.
Put it back, call Jacobson, tell him to get a search warrant, and—
She grabbed my sleeve and yanked. ‘Someone’s coming!’
Sodding hell.
I grabbed the crowbar. ‘Knew we should’ve worn ski-masks.’
No point trying to hide – if the place had been packed with cars, we could have slipped away between the vehicles. But it wasn’t.
Dr Docherty marched across the concrete, overcoat billowing out behind him. ‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?’
The hotel manager was at his heels, all wringing hands and shiny bald spot. And behind him: Rhona. She scuffed along at the back, mouth pulled down at the edges, hands in her pockets.
He’d brought reinforcements. Of course he had. Little sod must’ve got a lift to the station this morning, how else was he going to get back here?
‘GET AWAY FROM MY BLOODY CAR!’ Face flushed, eyes wide.
I let the crowbar’s tip clank against the floor and leaned on it. ‘Where are they?’
He stopped four feet away, arm raised, finger pointed at the middle of my chest. ‘Detective Sergeant Massie, I want that man arrested! He’s broken into my car, and… WHAT DID YOU DO TO THE PAINTWORK?’
A little squeal from the manager as he surveyed the damage, and the hand-wringing intensified. ‘While the Pinemantle Hotel carries out every reasonable safety precaution I have to remind you that we’re, unfortunately, unable to accept any liability for damage—’
‘THAT WAS BRAND NEW!’
Rhona held her hands out. ‘All right, let’s all calm down.’ She looked from the crowbar, to the scrape along the car, to the snowfall of broken glass, then up to me. Bared a line of thick teeth. ‘Guv?’
‘It was like this when we got here, wasn’t it, Alice?’
‘Like…?’ The veins in Docherty’s neck looked as if they were about to pop. ‘I WANT HIM ARRESTED, RIGHT NOW!’
‘Yeah.’ I reached in and grabbed a handful of the photographs. ‘Then we can all go down to the station and chat about why you’ve got a collection of murdered women to masturbate over.’
‘I have no idea what you’re—’
‘These.’ The photos thumped against his chest and fluttered down around his feet. ‘Care to explain?’
He didn’t even flinch. ‘I’m a forensic psychologist. Those are research.’
‘And the carrier-bag full of wankerchiefs – that research too?’
‘What I do in the privacy of my own vehicle is of no business of yours.’ The nose went up. ‘Frankly, Dr McDonald, I expected slightly better of you. Though I’m not sure why, given what you let happen at Victoria Cunningham’s house.’
Alice nodded, then put a hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry about your parents. It can’t have been easy growing up in that kind of environment.’
His mouth tightened. Then he brushed past me and slammed the Volvo’s back door shut. Leaned against it. Folded his arms. ‘I’m going to make damn sure neither of you are allowed to consult on any investigation ever again. You,’ his finger jabbed at me, ‘are going back to the dank cell you came from.’ Round to Alice. ‘And you have no business calling yourself a psychologist. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘Nothing you ever did was good enough for them, was it? You tried and you tried, but they just kept on hitting you. It wasn’t your fault.’
‘WHO HAVE YOU BEEN TALKING TO?’ Spittle arced from his lips. He reached out, as if he was going to grab her. Then stopped. Curled his hand in to a fist and settled back against the car door. Sniffed. ‘Detective Sergeant Massie, I want to press charges against both of these individuals for breaking into my car and vandalizing it. If you’re not prepared to arrest them, I’ll be making a formal complaint about your conduct as well.’
Something wasn’t right.
Why the car’s back door? The front door was lying wide open, photographs of dead women all over the seat, but he hadn’t slammed that one shut and stood in f
ront of it. What was in the back? What had I missed?
Rhona grimaced for a beat. ‘Let’s just take some deep breaths and—’
‘I should’ve known it! This is why you insisted on coming with me, isn’t it? Your deeply unprofessional behaviour is clearly motivated by some twisted sense of loyalty. Well, I will not put up with it!’
Glass crunched under my feet as I went back to the Volvo.
‘I want him arrested now, DS Massie.’
Rhona pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I know you do, Doctor, but I’m sure if we all calm down we can sort this out.’
But there was nothing in the back. I’d been through it twice already.
Why would he guard it if there was nothing there?
Alice tilted her head to one side. ‘Is that why you set fire to the old house? Taking your frustration out on a world that never cared about you? I mean, it must have been wonderful to feel in control like that. To have power over something for a change, after all those years of being powerless.’
Had to be something incriminating…
Docherty brushed his hands down the front of his overcoat. ‘Spare me your attempts at analysis, Dr McDonald. It’s not amateur hour.’ He pulled out his phone. ‘Well, Detective Sergeant, if you won’t do your job, you leave me no choice.’
‘Oh shut up.’ I pushed him out of the way and wrenched the door open.
‘Get away from my car!’
He clutched at my jacket. I put my hand in the middle of his chest and shoved. Hard. He landed on his backside by the rear wheels, spluttering. ‘He assaulted me! You saw that!’
What had I missed?
Under the seats. In the seat pockets. In the door pockets. Under the mats…
Where the hell was it?
He’s sitting in the back seat, with his collection of dead women spread out on the seat next to him, carrier-bag of tissues at his feet.
Had to be the centre arm rest.
Docherty scrabbled to his feet again.
I pulled it down. Just a couple of cup holders. Sodding hell.
Hands grabbed my back.
I threw an elbow. The impact jarred. Someone grunted.
It had to be here…
Hold on: the recess the armrest fitted into had a fabric backing. It looked cheap. Rough around the edges. As if it hadn’t come with the original car.
A little loop of black poked out from the top left corner.
‘GET OUT OF MY CAR! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!’
I took hold of it and pulled.
The sound of Velcro tearing filled the back seat as the lining came away, revealing a leather folio about the size of an A4 envelope. Tan leather, tied with scarlet ribbon.
Bingo.
‘I DEMAND YOU GET OUT OF MY CAR!’
I stood. ‘Rhona: get a pair of gloves on and come open this.’
Blood oozed from the corner of Docherty’s mouth. He grabbed me again, shoving me back against the bodywork. ‘YOU PLANTED THAT, IT’S NOT MINE!’
‘Get off me, you moron.’
He swung a fist at my head.
Might as well have stuck his knuckles in the post, they would’ve got here quicker. A quick bob right and they went singing past my left ear. I grabbed the arm and twisted. Then slammed my elbow into his face again.
He went skittering back and landed sprawled on the concrete, scarlet bubbles popping from his nostrils. Lay there, moaning.
‘Any time today would be good, Rhona.’
She squeezed past me, snapping on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Pulled the folio from its hiding place and laid it on the seat.
Docherty’s arms and legs flailed as he struggled over onto his side.
Behind me, Rhona whistled. ‘Guv? You really need to see this.’
Docherty made it to his knees. Stopped there, one hand leaning on a support pillar.
I took a step towards him. ‘Come at me again and I’m going to break your arm. Clear? You stay where you are.’
Alice shuffled over, peering past Rhona into the Volvo.
And then she was off, making for Docherty. Three paces away she sped up and slammed a little red shoe right between his legs.
He folded over, both hands clutching his groin, a silent scream pulling his bloody mouth wide. Backside in the air, knees clamped firmly together.
‘Guv?’
I turned.
Rhona pointed at the folio.
A scalpel sat on top of a stack of yellow paper, along with a baby-doll key ring, a little plastic container with what looked like dead spiders in it, a heart-shaped locket, an engagement ring… Everything missing from the archives was here.
No wonder Alice had kicked him in the balls.
She turned her back on him and launched herself at me. Wrapped her arms around my chest and hugged, her face buried in my shoulder. ‘We got him!’
Rain hammered the driveway that led into the hotel car park. It made little rivers between the thick dark rhododendrons, hissed against their leaves. The concrete entrance smelled of mould and dank earth. I leaned against it and listened to the phone ring.
The pool car Dr Docherty had arrived in purred past – Rhona in the driving seat, wearing a grin full of thick grey teeth. The psychologist sat in the back with his hands cuffed. Blood caked the lower half of his face, spreading out from his battered nose. He glowered out at me. Turning so he could glare through the back window as well.
I gave him a smile and a little wave.
Then Wee Free McFee’s voice rasped in my ear. ‘What?’
‘We’ve just arrested someone.’
A small pause, then: ‘Who.’
‘We’re not allowed to say, yet. But he had trophies from the victims in his car. I just wanted you to know before it was on the news.’
‘Where’s Jessica?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’
Clunks and rattles came down the line, as if Wee Free was grabbing something. ‘You get that bastard and you take him somewhere nice and quiet. And I will—’
‘We can’t. It’s not the wild west, Mr McFee. There’s not going to be a lynching party. We’ve got him, and we’ll break him.’ Deep breath. ‘But it might take a bit of time.’
Rain rattled the naked beech trees.
I shifted my feet. ‘Hello? You still there?’
‘You thought I’d be so grateful you’d caught him that I’d just let you have your fat mate back, didn’t you? Just like that? OK, which bit would you like – how about that ear I promised you?’
‘I just need more time.’
‘Tick-tock, tick-tock. You find my daughter, or I start slicing.’
47
‘… completely unacceptable.’ Superintendent Knight jabbed a finger into the boardroom table. ‘That poor little lad’s mother, is devastated.’
I stared at him.
He tugged at the tails of his dress uniform jacket, stretching the gap between the buttons. ‘Clearly the Lateral Investigative and Review Unit is unfit for purpose, and—’
‘Oh really?’ Jacobson was on his feet, fists pressed against the polished wood. ‘I don’t know if you noticed, but LIRU just delivered the Inside Man into custody! If that’s not fit for purpose, what is?’
Alice sat at the far end of the table, hunched over a sheaf of paper, twiddling with her hair. Ignoring everyone.
Knight puffed out his chest. ‘That doesn’t excuse the revolting lack of common sense displayed in leaving a known paedophile alone with a small child! For God’s sake, Simon, what were you thinking leaving someone like him,’ the finger jabbed at me this time, ‘in charge of a team?’
‘He’s—’
‘At the very least they should have had a police officer with them. Someone who could follow bloody operational procedures!’
Jacobson bared his teeth. ‘Charlie Pearce’s death—’
‘Was entirely preventable!’
Si
lence.
Alice looked up from her papers. ‘I can understand your need to lash out, Superintendent Knight, it’s a perfectly normal psychological defence, but counter projective identification isn’t healthy.’
He blinked at her. ‘What?’ Then threw his hands in the air. ‘You see, this is exactly what I was talking about!’
‘Your anger over what happened to Charlie Pearce helps reduce the anxiety you feel about hiring Dr Docherty to consult on murders and abductions he was actually responsible for. Going on the offensive, instead of accepting the blame for your actions.’
Knight opened his mouth a couple of times. Pink rushed up his neck and into his cheeks. Burned at the tips of his ears. ‘I hardly think that’s the same thing.’
Jacobson grinned. ‘Oh, I think the high heedjins will think it is. Actually, they’ll probably think it’s a lot worse.’
‘That’s not—’
‘Alice was standing up to Docherty, questioning his judgement, and there you were: backing him up and shouting her down.’
‘That’s a gross misrepresentation of—’
‘Hold on.’ I dunked the head of my cane off the tabletop a couple of times. ‘What was it you said about Frederic Docherty being what a professional forensic psychologist looked like? Then something about amateur outfits and Police Scotland not tolerating incompetence?’
Knight shut his mouth. Licked his lips. Took a deep breath. Then marched to the end of the table and stuck his hand out for shaking. ‘I owe you an apology, Dr McDonald … Alice. Obviously Docherty had everyone fooled. I would never have involved him if there’d been the slightest hint of malfeasance.’
Alice put down her highlighter pen and took his hand. Which was big of her. I’d have snapped the thing off and rammed it down his throat. She nodded as they shook. ‘Thank you.’
‘He’s been manipulating the investigation ever since the beginning. Even Henry Forrester was taken in by him. Really, no one could’ve known.’
My unofficial phone chimed in my pocket. Text message.
Boxer – reel name Angus Boyle
Flat 812, Millbank West, Kingsmeath
And a mobile number. Noel Maxwell wasn’t quite as big a waste of skin as he looked.
A Song for the Dying Page 39