Witness the Dead

by Craig Robertson

  The queue shuffled its way slowly inside the building and edged up the stairs an argument at a time. The bouncers must have been in an even tougher mood than usual because a succession of dejected young guys came back down, muttering about the bastards on the door, the volume of their protests getting louder the further they got away from the doormen. The crowd on the stairs were still chirpy though. It had been a full week since the last incident and that was a lifetime ago.

  The reminders were still there though. At the top of the first landing was a big poster: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN? Under the words were an artist’s impression of the only description that the police had. Not that it was worth much. It could have been anybody. It could have been him.

  At the top of the second landing, there was another copy of the same poster plus three that had been made by the Daily Record. Each one had a sketch of one of the three women with the words DID YOU SEE HER? in large lettering. Under the drawings were the words ‘RED SILK’ MURDERS and two telephone numbers to call. Red Silk, he thought, what a stupid name. Half the crowd didn’t even bother looking at the posters but some of those who did, particularly the girls, shivered and turned away as quickly as they could. Better not to think about it.

  He looked at the posters, though. He stared at them. He stared and tried not to be seen to be staring.

  The queue snaked its way higher, the stairs becoming hotter and stickier as it neared the entrance. Those let in by the bouncers tried to look cool as if they fully expected it, but he knew that inside they were swimming in relief. Others weren’t faring so well, but some of them had a few tricks up their sleeves. Two girls, whom he could see only from the back — but one was a tall brunette and the other shorter with long, bright-red hair — were on the top step before the door and the bouncers were shaking their head at them. One of the girls, the redhead, told them that they were friends of the DJ. The guy on the door didn’t look convinced but he went inside and, two minutes later, the blond-haired DJ appeared at the door, dressed in a yellow suit with blue stripes and enormous red platform shoes. He looked the two girls up and down and winked at them before telling the bouncer that, sure, they were with him. In they went. A couple of other girls cottoned on quickly and shouted up the stairs. ‘Hey, us too. You do remember us, don’t you?’ They also must have been good-looking enough, because the DJ grinned and said yeah, and they were allowed in the door.

  It didn’t go down too well with the blokes in the queue. There was a lot of grumbling, but they couldn’t afford to do it too loudly or else there was no way they were getting past the bouncers. He’d be fine, though. Top of the stairs and, sure enough, the bouncer just looked him in the eye and signalled him inside with a backward movement of his head.

  It was already pretty busy, murder clearly not being bad for business. Klass had been in every newspaper in the country for three weeks and it did look like there was no such thing as bad publicity. The thought both bothered him and encouraged him.

  The DJ was back behind his decks, no sign of the supposed friends he’d invited in, and he had the dance floor almost full already. Foreheads glistened as people moved to the beat, record immediately following record as the DJ made them work. The guy was full of himself, jumping up and down, pointing to girls in the crowd and acting the big man, but he could make them dance.

  After a bit, he slid the volume down on Elton John’s ‘Rocket Man’ and spoke over it. ‘Awrite there, people. Welcome back. I’m Jumping Jimmy Steele and this is Klass, the best disco this side of New York City. I’ll have you groovin’ and movin’ again in two seconds flat but first a few announcements. Next Friday night is Red Silk Lookalike night. You’ve all seen the posters and there will be a very special prize for the guy — or gal — who looks most like Mr Red Silk. An’, as if that wisnae enough for youse, on the following Saturday we are having Glasgow’s very first Be Red Silk for a Night night. Guys, youse are no’ getting in unless you’ve got yoursel’ a red-silk hankie in your top pocket. Youse have been warned. And, as if that wasn’t enough, next week’s band is currently in the top twenty and will be here live on stage. It’s the Sweet! We’re Klass and it’s all happening here. I’m Jumping Jimmy Steele and this… is the Sweet themselves with “Poppa Joe”.’

  He felt a rage building as the crowd cheered the DJ’s nonsense. It was Glasgow all over, gallus as anything, but it wasn’t excuse enough. It wasn’t right, nowhere near it. If only they knew.

  He pushed his way through the punters near the bar and ordered himself a pint of lager. It poured fast and fizzy, turning golden before him. He handed over a fifty-pence coin and had a large mouthful of the lager down his throat before the barman came back with his change. The liquid was gassy, tepid and already a bit stale, but it washed away a nastier taste that had gathered in his throat.

  Feeling slightly better for it, he turned away from the bar, pint glass in hand, and, as he did so, his elbow clattered into that of a girl standing behind him. Half of her glass splashed onto the floor at her feet. She just looked at him in mild astonishment, but her friend, a tall brunette, didn’t hold back.

  ‘That wis a Martini and lemonade. Now it’s jist half a Martini and lemonade. The bar’s ower there.’

  He didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. He spun on his heels and queued at the bar again, returning minutes later and proffering the glass towards the redhead, who was draining the last of the glass he’d spilled. He’d seen her only from behind as he’d queued to get in, but it had to be the girl who had said she was friends with the DJ. Hair as red as that wasn’t very common, even in Scotland. She wore black, fake-leather hot pants, brown, knee-length suede boots and dark nylons. Her top was the same colour as her boots and seemed to hug a good figure. Her eyes were a vivid, lively green.

  ‘Sorry,’ was all he managed to say. Hardly the sharpest of patter but, then, he wasn’t there to talk. He would have come armed with snappy chat-up lines if that had been his purpose, but he had something more serious in mind.

  ‘Not much of a talker, are you?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He said it again, regretting it immediately. He wasn’t there to chat her up but he didn’t want to sound like an idiot, either. The snigger from her pal, the brunette, suggested he’d failed.

  ‘Aye, so you said.’ The redhead laughed as she pushed her hair back out of her eyes. ‘Do you just go around elbowing women and saying sorry?’

  ‘Not at all. Sometimes I don’t say sorry.’

  ‘That’s not very nice, is it? Did your mammy not teach you any manners?’

  ‘She taught me to be wary of girls with red hair.’

  ‘Ah. A wise woman. Did she teach you how to dance as well?’

  ‘No. My big sister taught me that. She wasn’t very good, though.’

  She looked at him as if waiting. Her eyebrows rose in part exasperation and part amusement until she finally sighed in frustration.

  ‘So… are you dancing?’

  This wasn’t quite in the plan. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. That would be far too risky. But was it more risky to dance or to refuse? There was no doubting that she was very easy on the eye, the flames of her hair shimmering under the glitter ball and her green eyes sparkling with the capacity for mischief. To hell with it, he’d dance. Just the one, though.

  ‘Aye. I’m dancing.’

  They placed their drinks on the nearest table and took to the floor. He knew the song, Jo Jo Gunne with ‘Run, Run, Run’. Could he dance to that? He’d just have to. He was a big guy but he was light enough on his feet and had done enough ‘proper dancing’ in his day, and this couldn’t be that different. He just had to move, whether it was to follow her or do his own thing.

  She was into it; he could see that right away. The bright-green eyes closed over and a smile spread wide across her face as her hips swayed and her feet danced. Her arms were above her head and then by her side, the leather-look hot pants shimmying and her slim legs always on the move. She looked goo
d and she danced well.

  He looked beyond her as well, though, taking the chance of being on the dance floor to look and to watch. The dancers round him were into their moves and their partners and so not paying any attention to where his eyes were going. It was too good an opportunity to miss. He saw where they were looking and read what he could into their clothes, expressions and mannerisms. And then he looked back at her.

  When the song faded, segueing into America’s ‘Horse With No Name’, she smiled coyly at him, looking him straight in the eyes. Before they had started, he’d decided it would just be the one dance but, when she said thanks and turned away, something still stung. She took a couple of steps, then looked back over her shoulder.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  He hesitated, wondering whether to make something up or give her his real name. What harm could it do? Anyway, something inside him wanted her to know.

  ‘I’m Danny. Danny Neilson.’

  Chapter 17

  Monday. Noon.

  The lurid pink shop sign on Alexandra Parade read SCISSOR SISTERS in a large florid font. Just in case the pun wasn’t crushingly obvious enough, there was a huge pair of silver scissors underneath the lettering and a pair of identical blonde manes, one at either end.

  Narey had for once managed to ditch the insufferable presence of Toshney and instead had the much more relaxed presence of DC Rebecca Maxwell, who had not long moved over from uniform but could be relied upon not to stick her feet in her mouth. Almost as one, they turned to look at each other on seeing the sign and raised their eyebrows in disapproval. This was going to be good.

  The sisters in question were Melanie and Maria McAllister — M&M’s, as Maria had blurted out before Melanie had glared at her to remind her why Narey was there to visit them.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. Oh, ma Goad. Ah’m sorry. We pure loved Hannah, so we did. She was a great wee worker and never any bother. Brilliant wi’ highlights, so she wis. Ah’ve been greetin’ my eyes oot since we were telt. We both huv. Ah didnae mean—’

  ‘Oh, zip it, Maria, for God’s sake!’ her sister ordered her. ‘Stop babbling oan. The sergeant’s no here to listen to you talking rubbish.’

  The Scissor Sisters were in danger of giving hairdressers a bad name. Matching big blonde cuts that were a dare away from platinum, fake bakes that might have been browned in a Greggs oven and teeth so white you needed shades. With matching green eyes and dolly smiles, they could have been twins, but Melanie was clearly the elder of the two, even if only by a matter of minutes. She was the one in charge and wee sister Maria knew her place.

  ‘Sorry, Mel. It’s just that ah get nervous, you know that. An wi’ wee Hannah getting… Oh, ma Goad, ah cannae say it. I cannae even say it.’

  Melanie’s eyes closed over briefly and she shook her head at her sister for what Narey guessed to be the millionth time in her life. ‘Oh, shut up, Mar. Seriously. You’re showing us up. Again. Sorry, Sergeant. What can we dae for you?’

  Narey smiled gratefully while sighing inside. She needed an easy one, just a simple ‘here’s what you need to know’ all wrapped up in a pretty piece of ribbon. Mel and Mar didn’t seem to represent a great chance of her getting that.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me. I know it’s a difficult time.’

  The Scissor Sisters nodded in unison.

  ‘How long did Hannah Healey work here?’ Bog-standard technique. Start with questions you already know the answer to and work your way towards those that you don’t.

  ‘About a year and a half?’ Melanie looked towards her sister, who nodded. ‘Yeah, about a year and a half.’

  ‘And how would you describe her?’

  ‘Brand-new.’ ‘Great.’ ‘All the clients loved her.’ ‘She was a star.’

  The replies spun one over the other and Narey wasn’t entirely sure who said what, but she got the idea. Hannah was well liked. More than that, she had her ‘in’ for the question she really wanted to ask.

  ‘So she was popular with the customers?’

  ‘Oh, aye, definitely.’

  ‘So I suppose some of them would be regular clients? Booking their appointments with Hannah?’

  The sisters with the scissors nodded enthusiastically. ‘Oh, yeah. She had her regulars. We all do,’ Melanie agreed.

  ‘Just women, or men too?’ Narey steered them where she wanted to go.

  ‘Men anaw,’ Maria answered proudly. ‘We’re unisexual.’

  Narey did her best not to catch DC Maxwell’s eyes, instead forcing herself to remember why they were there. Melanie McAllister tutted at her sister. ‘Hannah had male clients as well. We dinnae get as many men as women, but there’s a few. Guys who like to look good, like.’

  ‘Anyone in particular ask for Hannah?’

  Melanie and Maria looked at each other.

  ‘Well… aye,’ one of them started. ‘There’s—’

  ‘Ronnie,’ the other one answered.

  Bingo. Narey made sure she didn’t respond too quickly.

  ‘Who’s Ronnie?’

  Maria did an exaggerated shudder. ‘Ronnie Dance. He ayeways asked for Hannah and if she wisnae available he’d just go away and come back another time.’

  ‘Was ayeways glad he did,’ Melanie agreed. ‘Wouldnae have wanted him to get me to do him.’ The sisters looked at each other and shuddered again.

  ‘Oh, Goad, me anaw,’ blurted out Maria. ‘Pure weird, so he is. Ah wouldn’t trust him alone in a room with a rubber doll.’

  ‘Mar!’ Melanie tutted again. ‘But she’s right, though. Pure weird.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Just kinda… sleazy. Pervy sleazy. When Hannah did his hair he wis always just, like, staring at her in the mirror. Ugh.’

  ‘So what does this Ronnie look like? What can you tell me about him?’

  Mel and Mar looked at each other, confused and a bit scared.

  ‘Ronnie? You think…?’

  Narey turned her mouth down at both sides, making a show of looking doubtful that there was likely to be anything at all in the route she was taking.

  ‘We’re just checking everything out. We have to consider all possibilities in a situation like this.’

  ‘Oh… okay.’ Melanie took charge. ‘He’s quite a big guy. About six foot. Maybe early forties. Grey hair. No’ really the kind that would come in here normally. More of a barber’s kind of man. He’s got these dark eyebrows, bushy things. Would be awrite-looking if he wisnae so creepy. He said he was a painter. No’ a decorator, like. A proper artist painter.’

  ‘I didnae believe him,’ butted in Maria.

  ‘Me neither. Full of shit if ye ask me. I’ve got an address for him if you want.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. We keep a list so we can send out Christmas cards at the end of the year. Somewhere in Dennistoun, I think. I can get it for you.’

  ‘Hang on, sis. Is that no’ breaking that client privy… privy… um, thingy.’

  ‘Naw, Mar. We’re no’ bloody doctors. Hang on, Sergeant, I’ll get it.’

  A couple of minutes later, Melanie McAllister returned, a vivid pink leather book in her hands, thumbing through its pages.

  ‘Here it is. Ronnie Dance, 103 Roslea Drive, Dennistoun. Flat 3/1.’

  Narey and Maxwell were there in less than ten minutes. They’d have been there even sooner but they had to go through the process of asking the Scissor Sisters some more questions that they were barely interested in the answer to. They were interested in Ronnie. Mr Grey.

  A hundred and three Roslea Drive was a blond sandstone tenement behind a robust hedge, the street-level windows protected from view, one by vertical blinds and the other by net curtains. Up on the third floor, Flats 1 and 2 had their windows topped with dark stone lintels, curtains open and a light shining on each side.

  ‘You think this guy might be our man, Sarge?’ Maxwell sounded hopeful and anxious all in one go.

  ‘One way to find out. But he’s a definite maybe,
I’d say.’

  She pushed the button for 3/1 and waited. A few moments later a gruff male voice answered.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Mr Dance?’

  ‘Who? Naw.’

  They heard the intercom close and Narey buzzed again. The voice was more irritable now.

  ‘Whit is it?’

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Dance.’

  ‘Piss off. There’s no Mr Dance here. Gie’s peace.’

  The intercom died again. Narey buzzed long and hard.

  ‘Whit the fu—’

  ‘This is the police. Open the door. Now.’

  Silence. Then a heavy sigh. ‘Prove it.’

  ‘Jeezus. Look out the bloody window.’

  Narey backed away from the door looking up at the window and holding her warrant card up by her head. She saw a figure by the window, flashes of a grey hoody coming close to the glass, then disappearing. The intercom crackled and the latch dropped.

  When they got to the third floor, the hoody was waiting for them by the door. Inside it was a young guy, early twenties maybe, with a thick head of dark hair, looking half worried, half angry.

  ‘DS Narey. DC Maxwell.’ Narey introduced them and offered a closer inspection of her ID.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’re looking for a man named Ronnie Dance. We are led to believe he lives here.’

  ‘Well he disnae. Never heard of the guy.’

  ‘What’s your name, sir?’

  ‘Aaron Pearson. And I’ve lived here for nearly a year. The guy before me was called Davis or Davidson, something like that. You can check with my landlord.’

  ‘We will, thank you. The person we are looking for is about six feet tall, with grey hair and dark eyebrows. Early forties. Ring any bells?’

  ‘Naw. Whit’s this all about?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that, Mr Pearson. Now, can you give me a contact number for your landlord?’

  Pearson sighed and nodded.

  Narey and Maxwell knocked on every door in the block, getting answers from three out of the other five, but no one knew of anyone ever living there who fitted the description of Ronnie Dance. Mr Grey, whoever he was, had given the sisters a false address.