Witness the Dead

by Craig Robertson

  Ages ranged from distinctly underage up to early thirties. On another night he’d be interested in the underagers, but not tonight. Everybody was glammed up but the styles were all over the place. The Brylcreem boys were still there, refusing to give up their slick. The hippies and the rockers were there, too, mimicking London and New York fashions but doing it their own way with whatever clothes they could lay their hands on. A few of the guys had classy suits but he reckoned his more than held its own. The gold stripes were getting a few looks.

  You’d have thought that maybe people would seem nervous, but it didn’t look that way. Maybe it was all front. Like him. All show. But, inside, hearts going nineteen to the dozen. It would have to be playing on your mind, surely. Especially the girls. You wouldn’t know it, though. If you’d landed from Mars you’d never have thought they had anything more to worry about than when the band would be on and whether they’d pull by the end of the night. Life was in that room and nothing else mattered.

  That night’s band was at number three in the charts and had played at Green’s Playhouse the month before. They’d gone down a storm then but this place would have been full anyway. It was where it was happening, in more ways than one. They came on and played and half the crowd danced and the other half stood and watched or sat at the tables at the side and clapped. He watched too. He watched other people’s eyes and where they were looking. He watched for signs of something wrong, something that didn’t quite fit. And he watched for the person he was looking for, even though he had little idea of what he might see.

  As the hours slipped by, the room got hotter and louder, the walls closing in as the bodies multiplied, hazy mirages under the glitter ball’s shimmer, all wrapped in a fug of cigarette smoke. He got himself a lager to slake his thirst and to make sure he looked right, his back against the wall and everything before him. He checked out the room for the umpteenth time, careful not to catch the eye of anybody who looked likely. The last thing he wanted to do was let them know he was hunting them. It wouldn’t do to scare them off.

  He was aware he was breathing heavier than he should and that his senses were heightened like a wolf ready to attack. He had to calm down. Could people tell that he was like that just by looking at him? Could they sense that he wasn’t the same as everyone else there? It would ruin everything if they could.

  There was a couple standing by the far wall, the bloke a bit too close for the girl’s liking. The fellow was leaning in on her, his face leering just inches from hers. She wanted to retreat but couldn’t, her back against the wall and nowhere else to go. She was uncomfortable. He could see that, even from the other side of the room, and it made his pulse quicken. He saw another bloke circle the room, clearly checking out the talent but making no effort to ask anyone to dance or to chat them up. He was a watcher, too.

  The band had finished their set and the DJ had taken over again: a tall, blond-haired guy wearing an outrageous black leather suit with a red waistcoat and towering platforms. He soon had the dance floor full and the temperatures raised another notch. The dancing was good; it always had been in Glasgow but people were learning new moves now that the old dance-hall steps had had their day.

  He sensed a different movement out the corner of his eye and heard the sound of several pairs of feet moving quickly. The adrenalin pumped through him and his hands balled into fists, his feet ready to run. Just as quickly, however, his eyes took in what was actually happening and he breathed again, hoping that no one had noticed his reaction.

  The flurry of movements was the waitresses, all four of them, hustling round the tables at once. He glanced at his watch and realised the reason for their sudden scurry. It was quarter to eleven and they had to get food on all the tables before eleven o’clock. If you wanted a drink anywhere in Glasgow after eleven — and everybody did — then you had to have a meal. In Klass, the meal was laid on for you and you had to eat it. Every table got paper plates laden with spam and chips. The rule was that everyone had to eat at least one chip. That meant you stayed within the law, that the disco could officially be classed as a function and the booze could flow for another hour.

  The hour flew, the quickest of the night, like a river rushing downhill towards a waterfall. It was nearly closing time and the whiff of desperation was rising above the smell of sweat. The DJ put another record on the deck and, as soon as the first strains were heard, there was no doubt that it was the Last Chance Saloon, the undoubted moment of truth. ‘When a Man Loves a Woman’, the perennial Klass closing number, a guaranteed smoocher.

  He saw anxious eyes looking around the room in the hope of finding someone who would agree to dance the last slow number. If they failed now, it would be the chippy and the last bus home. Eyes met eyes, lonely desperation met the same. He saw grudging shrugs of acceptance, wide-eyed nods of excitement and drunken indifference to anything other than a pulse as bodies paired off and moved together.

  Female eyes sought out his. He blanked them, watching but dodging calls for attention. They weren’t what he was looking for, not quite.

  As the last few bars of Percy Sledge trailed off into silence, newly formed couples were fixed in fervent embraces, lips locked as if they were the one and only. The lights came on and bouncers called for movement, some smoochers oblivious to the lack of song or the harsher light until they were tapped on the shoulders and told to move along. He watched them leave in their new pairs and as dispirited singles.

  There was nothing doing, not tonight, anyway. He’d be back, though, and he’d get what he wanted. He needed to.

  Chapter 4

  Saturday, mid-morning

  Two hours after leaving the Necropolis, DS Rachel Narey parked up outside the multi-storey in Bridgeton, observing that the tower block’s cream-and-terracotta make-over spectacularly failed to hide the fact that it remained another ugly high-rise.

  The multi — there were three of them in all, each made up of two fifteen-storey, L-shaped towers clutching onto each other for dear life — stood precariously on the corner of Ruby Street and Baltic Street. It looked down on Dalmarnock Primary School and a warren of new-build housing that formed part of the East End regeneration. The high-rises were still there, untidy neighbours that had escaped the ASBO; slumlords of all they surveyed. The multis were supposed to have been communities on stilts but instead they’d made strangers out of people living on top of one another.

  This area seemed to change every time she visited, slowly pulling itself up by its bootstraps on the back of the Commonwealth Games cash that had been invested. There was plenty still to be done but at least more people were getting to live within touching distance of the ground.

  Narey had the new DC, Fraser Toshney, with her and it was the nearest of the tower blocks that interested them. The eighth floor was said to be home to one Robert Wylde, a.k.a. Razor, and their prime suspect as the boyfriend of the murdered girl. He was known to the police and a DS at London Road had offered Wylde up a warning: Wylde was quick on his feet and had been given the Razor moniker for a reason.

  ‘Because he likes to shave regularly?’ Toshney asked with a snigger as they sat in Narey’s car awaiting the arrival of the blue-and-yellows that held their uniform back-up.

  Narey just looked at him, expressionless, until Toshney was forced to swallow and turn his attention to the rain that was beginning to fall softly onto the windscreen. Toshney had been with them for only two months, but it had proved plenty of time for Narey to come to the conclusion that he was a pain in the arse. He was getting assigned to her far more than she liked, and she made a mental note, yet again, to have a word with Addison about it.

  Other officers were also out searching for a clue to the murdered girl’s identity. Teams were knocking up tattoo-parlour owners and asking them to check their records for jobs that matched the one on the girl’s back. Others were working their way through missing persons or going door to door in the area around the cathedral. Something burned in her stomach, praying
that her info on the nickname, slim as it was, was the one that would hit the target first. She wanted this. So much of the rest of her life seemed out of control or simply so messed up that work had become even more important. She was losing more of her dad to Alzheimer’s with every passing day and the pain and the guilt and the practicalities of that had led her to turn Tony away. She’d tried to deal with one hurt and just caused another. Worse still, she knew she was keeping him dangling, unfairly offering him hope of a distant maybe. Her job mattered because it was the one thing she had control over.

  The squad car arrived, pulling up so it was nose to nose with Narey’s Megane, immediately drawing curious, guilt-ridden glances from those on the street. It would take seconds rather than minutes before everyone within the shadow of the tower block would know the cop car was there and so it was time to move.

  Narey slipped out of the driver’s door, leaving Toshney to follow in her wake and knowing that the uniforms would be right behind them. She pushed her way through the red-framed glass door and into the bowels of the Ruby Street multi, seeking out the lifts. She pressed eight and said a silent prayer of thanks when the elevator lurched noisily into life.

  Toshney stood against the opposite wall, occasionally glancing up as if he were ready to say something but thinking better of it. The constables, Boyle and Murray, were looking at each other as if playing out some silent conversation of their own that involved sly smiles and secret nods. Narey vowed that, if Toshney wasn’t the target of their joke, she’d rip their balls off. She glared at them and they, too, suddenly became interested in the shine on their shoes.

  The lift groaned to a halt on the eighth floor and Narey put a finger to her lips before leading the three men out onto the landing. She and Toshney advanced to Wylde’s door and she positioned Boyle and Murray at either end of the corridor, mindful of the warning from London Road to be careful.

  Narey rapped on the door twice, warrant card in hand, listening intently for signs of movement inside. She heard the sound of feet padding around and knocked again, louder. ‘Robert Wylde. Police. Open up.’

  A shadow passed across the door’s peephole and the door was slowly edged back. The short, fair-haired man in his early twenties who opened it looked half asleep, pulling on a T-shirt above tracksuit trousers and still barefoot. Wylde took a half-step back to allow Narey and Toshney into the flat, then rocked forward again, bursting between the two of them and into the corridor, a pair of trainers swinging from his left hand. Narey managed to get an arm up in time to make a grab at his shoulder but he slipped from her grasp. Toshney hadn’t even moved.

  Wylde looked at both ends of the corridor, seeing the constables closing on him and desperately sizing up his options. Murray, slightly the smaller of the two cops, was at the same end of the landing as Narey and Toshney, so Wylde spun and hared towards the bulkier figure of Boyle. The PC spread himself, arms wide, blocking Wylde’s path as the other cops closed in on him from behind.

  Wylde made a hopeless lunge towards his right, trying to squeeze himself through the tiny gap left by Boyle. The officer moved over to close what little space there was and, as he did so, Wylde spun on his left foot and pirouetted in the opposite direction, leaving Boyle floundering as he flew past him and towards the top of the stairs. As Wylde’s fair hair disappeared from view, Narey screamed at the men who were standing and looking at each other.

  ‘What are you waiting for? Toshney, get down the stairs after him. You two get in the lift. And remember he’s dangerous. Christ Almighty! You’re bloody useless.’

  Toshney bolted for the stairs, knowing full well that his chances of catching Wylde were minimal unless the runaway tripped or fell. Boyle and Murray tumbled into the lift, grateful for the easier task and confident that it would beat Wylde down the eight floors to the street.

  Shaking her head at their departure, Narey knocked on the door of the nearest flat that faced out onto Baltic Street, simultaneously reaching for her Airwave radio. The door was opened by a small, dark-haired woman in her early fifties who recognised Narey for a cop before she’d managed to raise her warrant card to eye level.

  ‘Aye, what is it?’ the woman asked warily, looking beyond Narey’s shoulder.

  ‘I need to use your flat, please. You’re not in any trouble. I just need to look from your window onto the street.’

  ‘Of course I’m no’ in any trouble. What would I be in trouble for? Bloody cheek. Ah suppose you can come in but I’m no’ happy about it. Do you want a cuppa tea?’

  Narey smiled to herself at the woman’s instinctive hospitality despite being put out at the intrusion. She quickly turned down the offer before speaking into the Airwave as she marched across the room, easing open a window and looking down towards the street. ‘I need back-up. The nearest car you’ve got to Baltic Street in Bridgeton. And hurry. A suspect is fleeing on foot.’

  A man’s voice crackled back, asking her to wait while they contacted cars. ‘Sergeant, there’s a car on Swanston Street. It will be there within two minutes.’

  As Narey listened, she looked down to see a figure burst out of the front door to the tower block and race across the street. From her high vantage point she could see the direction Wylde was running in.

  ‘Okay, good, get me another one. Get it to… the end of the street that runs away from the flats on Baltic down past the primary school. I think it’s Albany Street. There’s some old disused red-brick at the end. The street’s a dead end for traffic, so get me a car at the other side.’

  The street door flew open again and Narey watched Toshney run across the road in futile pursuit of Wylde. She knew she could have saved him a bit of sweat and worry by letting him know the cavalry was on its way, but she was rather enjoying watching him huff and puff in Wylde’s wake. Moments later Boyle and Murray appeared and they, too, took off after the runaway, both quickly gaining ground on Toshney but not the suspect.

  ‘Get the Swanston Street car onto Albany Street. Suspect on foot. Tell the drivers to avoid hitting officers in pursuit. Well, the uniformed ones anyway. They can hit the detective constable if they want.’

  She heard the patrol car before she saw it. The blaring siren cut through the morning air and drifted up eight floors a good bit before the car arced round the corner at speed, instantly overtaking Toshney and then Boyle and Murray. Wylde heard it coming and was looking left and right, desperate to seek a way off the road, but there was the red-brick to the left and new-build houses to the right. He zigzagged one way, then the other, trying to buy himself enough time to get to the end of the street, where the concrete bollards would knacker the patrol car.

  Just as it looked as if he would make it, the second cop car roared into view, screeching to an immediate halt at the other side of the bollards. The two cops inside were on the street in seconds and, with the Albany Street car squeezing Wylde towards the wall, there was nowhere for him to go.

  Wylde braced himself with the railings and overgrown weeds of the old red-brick school at his back, bending at the waist and sucking up lungfuls of air. The patrol-car cops approached, Boyle then Murray not far behind. Wylde seemed to have given up the flight, bent double.

  ‘Just watch him,’ Narey murmured from the window.

  As the two uniforms reached out to grab him, Wylde straightened and made a swift crisscrossing action with his arms in front of him. Both cops staggered back, one of them clutching at his cheek, the other grabbing at an injured shoulder. Wylde was named Razor for a reason.

  Narey, cursing loudly, instinctively knew that both men had been cut with blades, double-sided razors that were probably hidden in his trainers. She saw that neither of them was fit to tackle Wylde, who was about to leg it past their car and onto Dunn Street and away. Boyle was only a yard behind and Narey wanted to scream out a warning.

  Boyle had seen the other cops fall, however, and had sussed the reason. He could see the bright flash of red that was already scarring one officer’s cheeks and had b
een round long enough to know the cause. In his final stride, he’d withdrawn his baton and lashed out as soon as he was within arm’s length of Wylde, sending it crashing into the man’s right wrist.

  Wylde shrieked and turned towards Boyle, his left arm arcing through the air armed with a razor blade. Boyle swung again, missing and sending nothing but air past the razor’s edge. He brought the baton back up as quickly and as hard as he could, hearing the satisfying crunch of metal on bone and Wylde screaming.

  Murray and Toshney were there now and they bundled on top of Wylde, pinning his arms and making sure he’d dropped his blades. Narey watched them haul Wylde to his feet, seeing him dance furiously like some demented puppet on a string.

  Narey got back onto control and ordered an ambulance for the two injured cops and someone to take their patrol car back to base, before speaking to Toshney.

  ‘Get Murray and Boyle to take him on to Stewart Street. And get yourself a gym membership. You sound knackered. And ask those other two muppets how Wylde got to the bottom before the lift.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge,’ Toshney panted into his Airwave. ‘And I already asked them. They said the fly bugger pressed the lift call button on the sixth floor and the third. Meant the lift stopped on both floors when they were going down.’

  ‘Yeah, well, those other two cops paid the price. Don’t mention the murdered girl whatever you do. For now, we charge him with resisting arrest and two counts of serious assault on a police officer. Once we get him into Stewart Street, we’ll see what else he knows.’

  Chapter 5

  Saturday afternoon

  ‘So why did you run?’

  Robert Wylde’s eyes were scrunched angrily into little balls of defiance, the scowl on his face a statement of intent. Whatever it was, he didn’t do it. Except of course that he did. They’d all seen him cut those cops, the blood still staining Albany Street.