Driftnet

by Lin Anderson

  At first he just drove around aimlessly. Driving helped him think. He liked the way both sides of his brain worked at once. One half concentrating on the road, the other busy unpicking knots in the case.

  Since Connelly’s article on paedophiles, there had been an outcry. It had been what the Super called, ‘a good public response’. A lot of folk just didn’t like their neighbours and would report them for anything. And some people had it in for gays, whether they lived decent lives or not.

  The catalogue of complaints had led them nowhere. Whoever the real predators were, they had covered their tracks very well indeed.

  Bill took a left into Maryhill. The traffic was heavy here, all out of town and into the outlying estates. The residents of Maryhill were enjoying the late afternoon sunshine, at least the ones who had no work, and that seemed to be most of them. When he reached Erskine Street, he pulled over and stopped at number 11, scanning the tenement for the window on the second floor. The window was bleary with grime. In the sunshine, the ragged bit of net that covered the bottom half was the colour of a rainy day.

  It was on a day like this, also in June, that he’d left this street for good. His mother had come to that window and waved, determined not to betray a trace of distress. It was what she wanted for him. She’d raised four fine sons in that wee tenement flat, instilling them with a fierce sense of right and wrong. His brother John was in Canada in the police there. William, the clever one, was a lawyer in Edinburgh, as far away from this place as it was possible to imagine. The second youngest, Kenny, had gone to sea like his father. And then it had been his own turn to leave.

  Bill turned round. A wee figure had come out of the close and was eyeing him up and down. The boy was streetwise, six going on thirty. When Bill didn’t roll down the window and say anything, he ran at the car and spat on the window, shoving one finger up in the air.

  When Bill’s mother got ill, she refused to leave Erskine Street and come and stay with Margaret and him, so he got her a home help and they went to see her as often as they could. Bill would sometimes get the police car to go and check on her and she would ask the officers in for a cup of tea. On more than one occasion, weans as young as this one had removed a wheel or a wing mirror while his men sat indoors eating shortbread biscuits.

  Bill started the engine and the kid ran up a close, the single finger still waving defiantly in the air. Bill took one last look and drove away from the broken kerb, glad his mother had never seen things come to this.

  He drove back into town. This time he headed for the Art Gallery. The car park was full so he parked on the long leafy avenue instead. He used to come here all the time. The park and the Art Gallery. The Gallery was traditionally a haven for kids with no cash for going to the cinema.

  He walked down towards the river. At times like this it was impossible to think straight in the office or at home. This was the place he always came when he wanted to climb into someone else’s mind; when he came back out, he wanted to be somewhere that reminded him the world wasn’t all bad.

  Men who killed like that never stopped with one. The likelihood was the urge had developed over a period of time, satisfied at first by small acts of violence; then, as it became stronger, the sexual act was only a part of the pleasure; the satisfaction from the violence was the whole. He knew he was already waiting for the next one. Of the four deaths this year, the last two were unsolved. Martin Henderson the student found in the park, and Jamie Fenton.

  Bill ran the first incident over in his mind.

  Martin had been seen leaving the Union alone about ten o’clock. The doctor put his death at about midnight. That left two hours unaccounted for. There had been signs of homosexual activity and violent assault. Death had come from a blow to the head, possibly from a blunt instrument, or he could have hit a rock when he fell. They never found the instrument or the rock.

  By the time the body was found next morning, the river through the park was topping its banks. Rhona and the scene of crime team had drawn a complete blank. They reached the conclusion that the victim had been cruising for sex and had been jumped. But Rhona had put forward the idea that he might have arranged to meet someone in the park; that the one he had sex with was the one who killed him.

  ‘Remember the thong with the cross on it?’ she had said.

  ‘The Doc said they pulled his head back with it.’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t die of asphyxiation, but there was bruising on his neck consistent with having the thong tightened.’

  ‘So if it’s the same murderer, why didn’t he bite?’

  ‘You and I both know how these acts tend to go through an escalating sequence. Maybe now he needs more.’

  ‘We got nothing on that last one, no trace evidence at all?’

  ‘Only a small amount of the victim’s seminal fluid. Nothing from the assailant.’

  ‘If they were having sex that’s unusual.’

  ‘That was my argument last time, Bill. No trace evidence. No sexual encounter. I reckon the boy’s seminal fluid was ejaculated at the moment of death. We both know that’s not unusual.’ She paused. ‘But now I’m not so sure. When I examined Jamie Fenton, most of the seminal fluid was low down on the thighs. The mouth showed small traces. Dr Sissons said the oesophagus was clear and he found next to none in the rectum.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Maybe the murderer has problems climaxing. If it’s the same man, maybe he didn’t reach a climax at all the first time. Maybe that’s why he lost it.’

  ‘And with Jamie?’

  ‘I think he strangled Jamie to help him reach a climax and when that didn’t work, he bit him.’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like a Forensic Psychiatrist.’

  She was silent for a moment. ‘We have to try and understand why, Bill. It’s the only way we’ll get him, before he does it again.’

  Neither of them needed a Forensic Psychiatrist to tell them that. They both knew the next murder could happen soon. That would be a typical pattern. Both victims had been students. That could be their link. There was little else left to check out.

  When the university authorities got back to him, they told him that Martin henderson had also been a regular in the computer lab.

  He walked on, letting the sound of the river drift through his mind. Then he went back to the car and drove to the Station.

  Janice was waiting for him. Something had happened. A raid on a local pornographic video dealer had thrown up an unexpected clue. While the team were going through the routine of observing the stuff and noting down any faces they recognised, they’d found a clip featuring Jamie Fenton. Tied to a four-poster bed, his wrists held by a blue plaited cord with tassels hanging from the end.

  In the background hung familiar curtains, swirling with colour.

  Chapter 21

  Just as Jonathan pulled the front door shut, the phone rang. He swithered on the step, then went back in. If his parents were coming home early, it was better to know.

  He picked up the receiver.

  ‘Jon?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Hey. It’s Mark. Doing anything tonight?

  ‘Can’t. I’m going out.’

  ‘Who with?’ Mark sounded slightly incredulous.

  ‘Sorry, I’ll have to go or I’ll be late.’ For once it was Jonathan’s turn to keep Mark guessing.

  Jonathan laughed at his mental picture of Mark’s face.

  On the road to the bus stop he passed Susan Wheatley. She said said Hi and looked as if she might stop and speak to him, but he walked on. On another day he would have been over the moon to be singled out by Susan Wheatley. But not today. Today he didn’t need Susan Wheatley.

  The vodka he’d downed before he left made him feel he didn’t need anyone. Everything was perfect. The parents wouldn’t appear before tomorrow night. Morag was supposed to be in charge, but she was far too busy being shafted by her new boyfriend.

  Jonathan sat upstairs on the bus, wishing he’d h
ad a smoke on the way to the stop. He wondered if Simon smoked. He’d never said. He didn’t even know what age Simon was. But he wasn’t old, that was for sure.

  They had been emailing each other for weeks. Jonathan felt he’d told him just about everything he could about what he felt, what he thought. He’d made some stuff up as well. It was easy to talk big on email. Easy to say you’d done this and that, laugh about what really frightened or upset you. Simon always understood. Unlike his family, he thought.

  Jonathan pressed his face to the window, fixing his gaze on the pillars and front steps, looking for Simon, thinking he could always sail on by if he changed his mind. But he didn’t.

  He stood up and pinged the bell. The driver hit the brakes, throwing Jonathan forward.

  ‘Make your mind up sooner next time, son,’ he shouted after him.

  A group of goths were sprawled on the steps, soaking up the sunshine. He looked up and down the street. He was dead on time but Simon wasn’t there. Disappointment swept over him. Then a tall handsome figure emerged from behind a pillar. The figure called his name. Jonathan smiled and stepped forward.

  When Jonathan woke next morning, Amy had already arrived. He could hear the sound of the hoover droning across the hall carpet. Amy had the radio turned up and she was singing loudly and tunelessly along.

  Jonathan rolled out of bed, waiting for the familiar stab in his head from too much drink, then remembered he hadn’t drunk much, after all. Simon hadn’t been into getting smashed.

  He headed for the shower, thinking he would borrow the Hoover after Amy was finished and tidy his room. He would even open the window and let in some fresh air.

  He stood in the shower, letting the water pound on his head, allowing the pleasure to soak through him. Last night had been great. For once he felt like he was actually in the right place, with the right person, saying the right things.

  He turned off the shower and rubbed himself dry. When his mum and dad came back they would find him out in the garden, mowing the lawn. That should be good enough for a fiver. As he got dressed, what he would email Mark. Mark should get a life. There might even be an email from Simon. Jonathan’s chest tightened at the thought. Simon was cool.

  When the car purred into the drive an hour later, Jonathan had started on the lawn. The effort was definitely worthwhile. His father’s face was a picture when the chauffeur opened the car door to let him out.

  ‘Well I never. What’s got into you?’

  ‘Mum said the grass needed cut. So…’

  ‘Your mother’s always talking about the length of the grass. It’s never spurred you on before.’

  ‘Edward. Don’t discourage Jonathan.’

  ‘Oh and Mum. I’ve cleaned my room. I borrowed the Hoover from Amy.’

  ‘My God. Now I have had a perfect weekend,’ said Edward.

  ‘Nice time then?’

  ‘Very nice. Is your sister about?’ Edward glanced about as if Morag would suddenly emerge from the shrubbery.

  ‘She’s out with Anthony,’ said Jonathan, thinking he’d have to extract a little working capital from Morag later, for not telling them she’d never been ‘in’ since they’d left.

  His father grunted and went inside while his mum slipped him a ten pound note for cutting the grass.

  ‘I hope you had a nice weekend, Jonathan,’ she said, and he wondered if she was going to ask him what he’d done. It didn’t matter if she did. He had his story ready.

  After dinner, Jonathan took himself off to his den. He’d endured his father’s endless anecdotes long enough. Sir James said this, Sir James said that. Who cared?

  Now he was lying, his head propped against the grassy slope, having a cigarette. He watched the smoke rise and dissipate in the thick foliage. He was thinking about what had happened.

  They’d talked for hours. Jonathan was amazed at how much they’d found to say to one another, especially after all the emails. Simon was older than he’d expected but it didn’t matter. He was funny. They’d had a good laugh about school and girls and Jonathan’s family. Talking with Simon seemed to stop him feeling so angry about everything.

  They’d gone to three different clubs. Everyone seemed to know Simon. Lots of people called out ‘Hi’ and asked to be introduced. Some came over and sat at their table for a while.

  Back at Simon’s flat it had been a bit awkward. Simon had asked outright if Jonathan wanted to go home and offered to call a taxi right away. But he didn’t want to go home.

  Jonathan stubbed out the cigarette. He raised his hips and upzipped himself, pulling down his jeans and pants to circle his hips. His cock, released, sprang up. He rolled over, pressing himself hard into the earth. His cock fattened, fighting the pressure. His brain was filling with images of fucking. He drove himself up and down against the ground, breathing heavily in time to the rhythm. He imagined he was shoving it into Shona Seaton. She was shouting to make it harder, deeper, faster. Now he was watching the soft blonde hairs of Simon’s hand as it lightly brushed his knee and slipped between his legs, cupping his crotch. He burrowed his face in the fallen leaves, sucking the hardness of Shona’s nipples even as Simon sucked at the straining shaft of his cock. Then it came, spurt after spurt exploding. His long groan of pleasure died in the earth and his nostrils filled with the smell of rotting vegetation, sweat and spunk.

  When Simon had finally called a taxi around midnight, he’d thrust two twenty pound notes into Jonathan’s hand and told him to buy himself a new CD with the change from the taxi.

  ‘I’ll email you tomorrow. That is, if you want us to meet up again?’

  Jonathan had nodded, his heart leaping with the thought that Simon wanted to see him again.

  Jonathan sat up and wiped himself with some grass. He pulled up his pants, then wriggled out of the den, brushing the dead grass from his clothes, and headed back to the house to check his mailbox.

  When Jonathan pushed open the front door, the good-natured atmosphere had evaporated. He could hear his father’s voice in the study, sharp with annoyance, and his mother’s replies were tense and short. Morag threw him a warning look from the top of the stairs. Jonathan felt sick. What if his father had found his vodka bottle, or worse, the pictures he’d hidden in the jotter?

  He stood like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Should he go upstairs and pretend to be out, or just go out again? Then he realised it couldn’t be anything to do with him, or his father would have been out in the garden yelling for him before now.

  Something else had happened. Something serious, by the sound of things. He looked up. Morag was leaning over the banister melodramatically mouthing ‘phone’ at him. He looked over at the hall table. The green message light was flashing on the ansaphone. Fuck! What if Mark had phoned and left one of his stupid messages?

  Jonathan went over and quietly shut the sitting room door. The study was off the sitting room and his parents wouldn’t hear anything. He pressed the play button.There was a buzzing silence, then a woman cleared her throat and began to speak in a voice that cracked like she was angry, or had been crying. She was asking his father to phone her immediately about the paperwork he’d given her. She needed to discuss it with him as soon as possible. The only other thing was Amy saying she would be back on Tuesday. Nothing else.

  They were still at it, his father trying to cajole or explain. Jonathan crept through the sitting room and stood motionless behind the partially open study door and listened.

  That was how he found out that somewhere out there, he had a brother.

  Jonathan could tell that his father was shaking with rage inwardly, although outwardly he looked calm. He watched through the crack as the tall blonde figure walked slowly to the drinks cabinet, opened it, poured two whiskies and handed one to his mother.

  She took the glass.

  ‘Can we rely on this woman to keep her mouth shut?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Rhona has principles.’

  ‘And I don’t?’ Fiona came bac
k sharply.

  ‘I didn’t mean…’

  She cut through his apology.

  ‘Why contact you now?’

  ‘It was that murder. Rhona was the Forensic Scientist on the case. She said the boy looked incredibly like her.’

  ‘God!’ Fiona was really rattled. ‘You don’t think…?’

  Edward shook his head vehemently. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then where is the child?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know. But that wasn’t him.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The dead boy has been identified.’

  ‘Then why did this Rhona phone again?’

  Edward walked over to the window, leaving Jonathan’s line of sight.

  ‘Well?’ Fiona’s voice was impatient.

  ‘She has decided to try and make contact with… her son.’

  Jonathan heard his mother’s intake of breath.

  ‘That would be a bad idea, especially now.’

  ‘Do you think I’m not aware of that?’ Edward sounded furious. ‘I thought I’d capped this, but it seems I haven’t.’

  Fiona mother digested that for a moment, ‘If she were to go to the papers…’

  ‘You don’t have to spell it out. Connelly could blow the election for me.’

  ‘That won’t happen.’ His mother’s voice had taken on the decided tone Jonathan knew so well.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If necessary, I will speak to… this woman. I’ll explain that our son would be seriously distressed to find out he has a half brother. I’ll ask for her support, woman to woman.’

  Chapter 22

  A low mist flirted with the waters of the loch, swirling upwards in a freshening breeze. At the far end of the loch, the Cobbler dozed on, his outline sharp against the blue sky.

  It would be easy to believe they were safe here. Too easy. The breeze was chill on Chrissy’s face. She shivered and pulled the tartan rug tighter round her shoulders.

  She was sitting near the water’s edge, her back to the shore as it rose towards the grass of the camp site, a straggle of touring caravans and small tents spaced well apart. Their tent was pitched on a carpet of springy grass around an old rowan.