The Initial Blow

by Paul Vincent Lee

  “Young hearts run free

  Don’t ever get hung up

  Hung up like my man and me.”

  Healy’s mind travelled back to Monday nights in The Savoy in Glasgow. Candi Staton; she always filled the floor. He knew he wouldn’t sleep now. He splashed some water on his face, straightened his hair and walked out into the Spanish night.

  ***

  As I suspected, Joe was neither up nor down when I told him I was no longer on his case. In actual court he would have been represented by a Queen’s Counsel anyway, with his lawyer, me, merely assisting but I told Joe that the Q.C. was uncomfortable with me being friends with the accused and had suggested another lawyer.

  ‘No sweat, Ray. I feel you kind of wanted off the case anyway.’

  ‘It’s not that Joe, it’s just.......’

  ‘You think I did it.’

  ‘Did you?’

  Joe looked into the distance ‘Christ, Ray, I just don’t know.’

  ‘And Kate?’

  ‘No way. No. I don’t care if she was shagging the Rangers team, I wouldn’t have killed her.’

  ‘What if it was the Celtic team?’

  Joe stared at me for an instant ‘That’s different, got to draw the line somewhere.’ The ice was broken; I was glad.

  ‘Listen, Ray, I know you’ve been a good friend over the years but the truth is we’re totally different kinds of people. I know you’re finding the whole thing with Kate’s death, and your doubts over me, hard to deal with.’ He held out his hand. ‘Be at the end of a phone for when I might need you, Ray, and we’ll call it quits at that.’

  I shook hands and Joe turned and walked away. I felt like the lowest of the low. Why? Because I was…..and I was about to go even lower.

  ‘Hi darling it’s me. Can we meet for a drink?’

  ‘That would be great. Nothing seems to be happening with the investigation and Matt Healy seems to be un-contactable so meeting you sounds great, and, no offence, a drink sounds even better.’

  We met in the “Rogano” bar which, although always busy, always seems to have enough space for intimate chats. I wasted no time in reverting to Judas.

  ‘Well, I told Joe I couldn’t represent him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was fine.’

  Susan looked at me quizzically ‘and?’

  ‘I think he knows within himself he killed Julie.’

  ‘We know that....and...?’

  ‘I met Joe a couple of days ago. Something odd happened.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When we were going our own ways I noticed something in his pocket.’

  ‘A blood stained knife, I hope.’

  ‘A bible. He says his mum influenced him to use it in times of need.’

  Susan stared at me. ‘Shit. Why didn’t you say anything before now?’

  ‘He was still my client, and my friend.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘And now, Susan? Now I’m a guy who has turned his back on his friend and kicked him in the balls while doing it.’

  I didn’t know at that point that I was about to be offered redemption from the most unlikely of sources.

  ***

  Pete Harris sat in solitary and contemplated his future. He hated Joe Turner but also knew that merely knowing Turner had been found guilty of a crime would not bring him satisfaction. He also had come to realise that there actually was truth in the notion of confessing; clearing your conscience. But will anyone believe me? Confess to who?

  Harris called over a warder ‘On my next telephone call time I want to phone someone but don’t have the number. Could you get it for me?’

  The warder looked at Harris; hesitated. ‘What’s the name?’

  Harris handed him a slip of paper. ‘Thank you.’

  The warder looked at the name: “Change of tack, eh, Peter?”

  ‘Something like that.’

  ***

  Only a few miles away from Harris, Joe Turner was sitting in his own personal prison. He too was contemplating what life had in store for him. The inevitability of a mandatory life sentence; and the subsequent loss of contact with his children, financial ruin. But of more immediate concern to him were the frequent lost periods in his life. He remembered leaving Ray Ford the previous day, having lunch, phoning round his bars in Spain to see how things were, shit obviously, deciding to go for a drink; and then nothing.

  Joe Turner hadn’t cried for many years but knew he was on the point of an emotional breakdown now. He took his wallet out of the inside pocket of his jacket. Opened it, saw the face of Kate smiling back from the photo of her he always carried. You’re the cause of all of this. He closed the wallet and reached for the bible that sat on the bedside cabinet.

  ***

  Martha Reid was walking slowly but contentedly back along Hyndland Road from the Post Office. She had paid her latest gas, electricity and phone bills but had not needed to pay her Council Tax as she had set up a Direct Debit at the bank for that a few years before. The owner of the flower shop had been sad that Martha had decided that the job “was just too much” for her now but knew that the death of her daughter must have taken a heavy toll on her; especially it being a murder. She had insisted on not charging Martha for the arsenic tablets she bought for clearing the weeds on her back patio.

  Martha got back home about 15 minutes later, made a cup of tea and picked up the phone to Directory enquiries.

  ‘Yes, I’d like the number of Buchanan Street Bus Station please.’

  ***

  The strong sunlight piercing the gloom of his hotel room woke Matt Healy. Otherwise, he would have slept on for hours. He went to sit up, “Christ” he said to the empty room before half staggering into the tiny toilet. Healy stood relieving himself and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, “Christ!” again the only response forthcoming.

  He sat back down on the edge of the bed. Contemplated, then dismissed, the notion of breakfast and reached for his phone. Alistair Dorado answered on the first ring.

  ‘Matt , bon dia. I’ve got a little stuff for you but not much and I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to spend much more time with you on it.’

  ‘Oh, why’s that?’

  ‘We had a murder last night. Young British girl, over here with friends on, what do you call it, a chicken night?’

  ‘Hen….. a hen night.’

  ‘Well her friends say they somehow all got split up and this one, Claire Strong, didn’t arrive back at the hotel.’

  ‘Are you at the scene now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I meet you there? I might be able to add something, help in some way.’

  ‘Matt you have no authority here and unless your friend, Turner is it, flew over here during the night then you have no interest in this case.’

  ‘It’s just.....’

  ‘No, Matt. Sorry. My boss would not like it. When is your flight back?’

  ‘Tomorrow. The budget only stretched to a couple of days. I could stay on, I suppose, at my own expense.’

  ‘No Matt, don’t cancel your flight. I will meet you this afternoon once I’m finished here but, like I said, I don’t have much for you.’

  Healy walked back into the toilet, knelt down at the toilet bowl and vomited out the previous night’s excesses.

  Chapter 23

  On first seeing Alistair Dorado coming through the door of the small interview room in Lloret de Mar’s Policia Local station, one the Mossos had requisitioned after the murder, Healy was disappointed that he was only carrying one file. But as Dorado soon explained ‘What would be the point of bringing everything? They’re in Spanish.’ Healy had to admit he had a point.

  ‘I’ve taken notes as best I could, Matt, but as I said some files are minimal or don’t exist at all. We might not even have all the unsolved murders on computer. People did go missing in Spain during all the political upheavals, I’m sorry to say. Anyway, the more recent murders are covered as well as you would
do in Scotland, I’m sure.’

  ‘What is the oldest case you have?’

  ‘Well, I went back 30 years and we do have an unsolved murder from 1980. A British girl, stabbed. No mention of rape but back then.....who knows?’

  ‘After that?’

  ‘Like I said, we have another 13 approximately but it’s impossible to link them.’

  ‘Approximately? Christ, Alistair, don’t you know?’

  ‘Some of the bodies weren’t found for a while. Two had been dumped in the sea and, again, like I said, Spain took a little while to catch up with modern policing techniques.’

  ‘What about the unsolved murder? Was it Sally somebody?’

  ‘Yes, I have her name here. Sally Johnstone from Coatbridge in Scotland.’

  ‘Was Turner questioned?’

  ‘No record of that. Why would he be?’

  ‘Been in his pub maybe?’

  ‘Matt, she had probably been in a lot of people’s pubs. Along with a lot of other people as well. Should we have questioned them all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Matt, maybe in Glasgow you have the man power for such things but here, in Lloret, we do not.’

  ‘A girl is murdered, Alistair. You should get them in. Anyway, let’s move on. How many of the victims were stabbed?’

  ‘Six definitely.....’

  ‘All British?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All Scottish?’

  ‘No....two from England and one from Ireland.’

  ‘All raped?’

  ‘Can’t say...two were in the sea too long.’

  ‘Were all the bodies found away from Lloret?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So the killer had a car?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘How else could he get the bodies to where they were found?’

  ‘OK.....but he could borrow a car from a friend, or maybe he’s a truck or tourist bus driver.’

  ‘Does Turner have a car?’

  ‘Two actually.’

  ‘Did he have a car back in 1980?’

  ‘We have no record of it but.....’

  ‘Where was her body found?’

  ‘Fenals beach. It’s not far from here. Ten minute walk over the hill. Deserted in those days, built up now though. Nice little secluded bay there; popular with lovers.’

  ‘So no car required to get there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any note of where else she had been to that night, who she was with etc?’

  ‘Funny enough, there is. She was in the only disco that was there in those days and is still in business.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘“The Londoner.”’

  As Healy walked back along the sea front towards the town centre, he phoned Robbie.

  ‘Robbie, remember you said to me last night that when you came here at first Joe Turner was already here?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did he have a car?’

  ‘God, are you kidding? We were all broke even him. Lucky to have a bed…. never mind a car!’

  ‘Do you remember where he worked then, what he did for a living?’

  ‘That’s easy. He gave me my first job. He worked here in “The Londoner.”’

  Healy decided he had garnered all the information he was going to get, or need, in Spain. He changed his flight to that day and got Dorado to arrange for him to be taken to the airport by police car; just making the Ryanair check-in limit by a few minutes. He had phoned Dornan before boarding the plane and she was waiting for him at Prestwick Airport when he came through the Arrivals doors. God she’s looking good. Cow.

  They exchanged small talk about tans and stuffed donkeys while waiting to get out of the car park but Healy wasted no more time once they got on the motorway.

  ‘It’s Turner alright. Fourteen unsolved murders in the area since Turner turned up there. The first definitely linked to the place he worked in at the time. Almost all of them definitely stabbings. Common knowledge he, and probably her, shagging on the side. He’s well known for having a violent side. Whoever dumped bodies needed local knowledge; he fits the bill.’

  ‘There’s more.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ray Ford’s not representing him anymore; he told me Turner’s prone to reading a bible, on his mother’s advice apparently.’

  ‘Well, that’s that. Pity the Marbella things off; us being so near an airport and all.’ Dornan did not miss the bitterness in Healy’s tone but outwardly ignored it.

  ‘Right, tomorrow morning we put everything we have on Turner together. We then try as best we can to link him to the other murders, then we pick him up.’

  ‘Should put him under surveillance as well. I’ll do it.’

  ‘You have to remain detached, Matt.’

  ‘I am detached. I’ll do it.’

  ‘I’ll review things in the morning, Matt; take it from there. Get some sleep. You don’t look great to be honest.’

  Neither Dornan nor Healy knew that the morning would change everything.

  ***

  Jack T’Baht was taken aback by what he had just seen. He sat in his car across and slightly down from Jill French’s house in Bishopbriggs, a few miles outside Glasgow. He had been sitting for half an hour watching to see if French would go back out again or was in for the night when Rab Brown had driven up and gone into French’s house. French had answered the door holding what looked like a glass of wine in her hand, wearing a short skirt and low cut blouse. T’Baht couldn’t decide if she was wearing a bra or not. So, I was right. A harlot. And Brown? His wife who has just given him the joy of children is betrayed in favour of a temptress at her husband’s work. A she-devil. We’ll this will not go unpunished. He switched on his engine and drove off. Brown did the same some ten minutes later.

  ***

  My secretary buzzed through to tell me there was someone who was on the phone who insisted on speaking to me but who wasn’t a client.

  ‘Yes, Ray Ford speaking. Who is this?’

  ‘Peter Harris.’

  The name was familiar but I couldn’t quite place it. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Peter Harris, phoning from Barlinnie Prison, Mr Ford. I have some things to say that will help your client Joe Turner.’

  The penny dropped. Harris. Charged with killing Kate Turner. I was just about to say that I no longer represented Joe Turner but my curiosity, and possibly my guilt, held me back.

  ‘And what would that be, Mr Harris?’

  No. I want you, Dornan and Healy to come out here today.’

  ‘You’ll need to do better than that, Mr Harris. We are all busy people.’

  ‘I’ll prove Turner didn’t kill Julie Connor. Is that enticement enough, Mr Ford?’

  A few minutes later I was on the phone to Susan. She said she would get Healy and meet me at the prison in an hour.

  We all sat waiting for Harris to be led into the room; but only I was hoping that Harris would bring my own, as well as Joe’s, salvation with him. When he came in he looked drawn but not distressed. If anything, he looked content.

  ‘So, Peter, what is it you want to tell us?’ It was Susan who started the conversation off.

  I interrupted: ‘Can I just say for the record, Peter, that I am not here to represent you. You do understand that?’

  ‘Perfectly. I don’t need a lawyer.’

  ‘Get on with it, Harris.’ Healy’s annoyance about being there obvious.

  ‘Joe Turner did not kill Julie Connor.’

  ‘Right, and you know this how exactly?’

  ‘Because I did.’

  There were five people in the small interview room counting Harris and the warder but the silence was profound.

  ‘You killed your own daughter?’ It was Healy, but even he was thrown. ‘I asked you about this before and you forcibly dismissed the notion as I recall.’

  ‘No, Healy. You asked if she was my girlfriend.’

  ‘Why are you telling us this now?’
said Dornan.

  ‘I don’t want an innocent man found guilty and you can only serve one life in prison. I want to clear my conscience.’

  ‘You’ve found God?’ Healy’s said with derision.

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Why did you kill her?’

  ‘I went to her, my own daughter, to tell her I did not kill or rape Kate Turner; that I loved her. She had no time for me. Then Joe Turner turned up and I saw that she seemed pleased to see him. Him! That arsehole. She dismissed me. Told me to “Go away.” Sad little man she called me.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I followed the two of them to some shit hole of a pub. I went into the lounge. I could see them in the bar though. They argued, he hit her. She went into the toilets. When he left, I followed her into the toilets. Tried to comfort her. She waved me away. I cut her throat.’

  ‘What with?’ asked Healy.

  ‘A scalpel.’

  ‘Where did you get a scalpel?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m a nurse, Mr Ford, remember?’

  Silence again filled the room. I looked at Susan for confirmation that the story fitted the evidence. She seemed to understand and nodded slowly. I looked at Healy but he was just staring at Harris.

  ‘But she wasn’t your daughter at all was she Peter?’ said Healy, dragging us all, confusedly, into the present.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘That’s why you killed your first wife. Your daughter wasn’t your daughter after all. So you killed your wife and now you’ve killed her. Is that the truth of it, Peter? You’ve killed your shame.’