Witness the Dead

by Craig Robertson

  ‘Ah, but the fun I had in the meantime. And all the fun I had that the likes of you never found out about.’

  ‘Like I said, not yet. There are similarities between the two recent murders and your own… pathetic little attempts at making a name for yourself. They were carried out by someone with a similar need to make up for his inadequacies by proving himself more powerful than a woman half his size.’

  Atto’s dark solar flares surged again and Danny knew he’d found a tender spot. ‘But the person that did this didn’t prove himself more powerful than anyone, did he? He just showed that he was weaker. A pathetic little prick with a tiny little prick. Someone craving attention to shore up their own lack of self-esteem.’

  This time Atto’s mouth tightened into a petulant snarl as his eyes burned into Danny’s. His upper body rocked back and forth, his eyes slowly closing over, the grimace as tight as a heart attack. The prison officer hovering near them strode across, clearly agitated at the sight of Atto. Danny and Winter instinctively knew it was a sign of imminent rage that the guard would be familiar with. As he stood a foot away, seemingly unsure what to do, the rocking slowly came to a stop and Atto re-opened his eyes.

  He shot a look at the officer, who hesitated before walking backwards to resume the spot and stance that he’d had. Atto re-tuned his gaze to Danny, the fires gradually subsiding.

  ‘I can be an angry man, Mr Neilson. Very angry indeed. As to why that is, I’m not entirely sure. And it’s certainly something I’ve considered over the years. I had a good childhood, brought up by loving parents. Loved neither too much nor too little by my mother, before you ask. I was neither beaten, sexually abused nor humiliated by my school peers and I’ve never perpetrated physical harm on a pet.’

  ‘I want to talk to you about the two recent murders in Glas—’

  Atto scowled at the interruption. ‘Patience, Mr Neilson. If you wish to talk about that, then you will indulge me in conversation. As I was about to say, I’ve experienced none of those clichés and yet I fit every accepted definition of a psychopath. I’ve come to the conclusion that there is something wrong with the executive functions of my brain. I think that I’m not quite right in the head.’

  Atto smiled at his own joke, a sneer of a smile that tugged at only one side of his mouth. His eyes didn’t join in.

  ‘Not crazy, though. I’ve done a lot of reading about it. What they call my cognitive processes are well above average, as is my ability for perception and reasoning. But I don’t do so well when it comes to empathy, and I have sometimes lacked in what other people regard as self-control. Are you aware of the paralimbic system? Mine is a bit… wonky.’

  Neither Neilson nor Winter spoke but merely looked back at Atto blankly, one seething with rage and the other with disquieted fascination. Atto took the silence of both as evidence of stupidity.

  ‘The paralimbic system,’ he intoned, ‘is a behaviour circuit of the brain. It includes the amygdala and prefrontal cortex. Have you heard of a man named Brian Dugan? An American, convicted of the murder of three girls. Two of them were seven-year-olds and that’s not right.

  ‘After being scanned, Mr Dugan was found to have extremely low levels of density in his paralimbic system, something the neuroscientists said was responsible for his lack of empathy, guilt or remorse. It’s led to a legal debate about whether the judicial system should accommodate the belief that behaviour such as his or mine is what they call “hotwired”.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘So succinctly put, Mr Neilson. Never mind that my argument was articulate, pertinent and derived from a position of understanding that few people could manage. Still, you sweep it away with a single word.’

  Danny’s grip on the table in front of him tightened, deliberately chaining himself to it in case he got up and went to the other side, aware that the nearby prison officer was eyeing up his whitened knuckles. ‘It’s bollocks because you’re a murdering bastard who is dreaming up reasons you shouldn’t rot in hell.’

  Atto delivered another of his lopsided smiles.

  ‘You know what, Mr Neilson? You bore me. You’re the latest in a tedious line of little policemen demanding answers. Your nephew here on the other hand… he interests me. You don’t need a scanner to see inside me, do you, Anthony? You see it.’

  The statement threw Winter completely. He knew he must have been staring at Atto throughout the self-serving explanation about brain activity. He was morbidly fascinated by the monster who sat before him so blithely warbling on about the reasons that led him to rape and butcher. But he hadn’t meant that interest to be so transparently obvious. He said nothing, determined not to give Atto something to work with.

  ‘You know what it’s like to see death, don’t you, Anthony? You must have seen even more of it than I have.’

  The tension between the three men crawled like ants over damp skin. Danny tried to take control of the conversation back from Atto.

  ‘You know more about these recent killings than you are telling us, don’t you?’

  ‘Tell me, Anthony, what do you feel when you photograph a body?’

  ‘What do you know, Atto? Who is doing this and why?’

  ‘Do you ever tire of it? Ever lose that thrill that you had when you photographed your first corpse?’

  ‘Atto, these murders have your signature all over them. You know it and I know it. What’s your involvement with this? Or is it just another pathetic bit of playing with yourself because you can’t actually do what you want to do?’

  ‘I don’t think I’d ever get over that first rush of excitement, Anthony. Every time would be like the first. Is it like that with you?’

  Winter’s gut churned and he wanted to smash his fist through Atto’s face but refused to give him anything in the way of a reaction. The trouble was that Atto didn’t seem to need him to react.

  ‘You must have seen the look on the faces of the dead, the ones that were terrified. The ones that had just crossed over when they least expected it. It’s quite something, isn’t it?’

  Winter stared back at Atto, desperately trying to keep him out of his head. Danny tried again.

  ‘Do you know something about the killings in Glasgow? I’m asking you.’

  Atto’s head snapped to Danny. ‘Yes, I do. I know rather a lot about them. Now shut up. I’m trying to have a rather more interesting conversation with your nephew.’

  Danny’s eyes widened briefly before darkening, his face scowling fiercely and his voice gruff and low. ‘What do you know, and how? Atto, if you want another fifteen minutes of fame then you will need to talk to us.’

  ‘I don’t need to do anything. The need is yours. The power is mine. And I choose to speak to Anthony here. Tell me, why do you think men kill, Anthony?’

  Winter still hadn’t spoken but felt exhausted by the conversation that he was and wasn’t part of. He just stared back at Atto, trying to keep his face blank but fearing he was failing. Atto didn’t need an answer: he came back at him as if he’d received one anyway.

  ‘Come on, now, indulge me. You and PC Plod here are keen to pick bare the bones of my knowledge and yet you’re not prepared to offer me even a conversation in return? That seems a bit rude, don’t you think?’

  Winter and Danny looked at each other, swapping resigned shrugs. A pact with the Devil was something that Winter was very reluctant to sign up to, but the look on Danny’s face told him he had little choice.

  ‘Okay…’ he began slowly and hesitantly. ‘I guess men kill for lots of reasons. For money, for survival, for revenge.’

  ‘No,’ Atto sighed, a look of disappointment on his face. ‘That’s why men have to kill. I’m talking about why men want to kill. Like me.’

  Winter looked back at him for an age, disturbed that he was to have a seemingly logical conversation with a man like Atto. A beast who revelled in killing innocent women. His own messed-up fascination with death did not extend to an interest in the motivations of a murderer. Or
did it?

  ‘Men who want to kill…’ — Winter saw Atto hanging on his reply — ‘they clearly have something wrong with them. It is unnatural to want to take someone else’s life for no reason.’

  ‘It might not be natural for you, Anthony, but it is extremely natural for me.’

  Danny’s face contorted but he took another grip on the table and stayed on his side of it, making no effort to disguise his contempt.

  ‘It is unnatural,’ Winter continued, ‘for the vast majority of people. It’s something they couldn’t even contemplate. So I suppose the question is whether people like you are born with something wrong that makes them act in that way or whether something happens that fashions them into a killer.’

  ‘Okay — nature or nurture. That, as you say, is the key debate. In fact it’s much more relevant than you might think. But that’s just going for the obvious. I’d hoped for better from you, Anthony. I could have received that sort of superficial response from anyone.’

  Winter’s desire to punch Atto in the face burned again, as he imagined the satisfying smack of flesh and bone on the patronising, sneering, smug features opposite him. Maybe the prison officer would be so pleased to see him do it that he’d conveniently look the other way. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. Somewhere deep inside himself, he sighed.

  ‘Well, if we assume for a moment that it is something you are born with, then the question would be whether that’s genetic, like an inherited trait or characteristic. Or whether it’s like you were talking about, a deformity in your brain. Something… biochemical. That you’re wired up wrong. I can see how that would explain it.’

  Atto nodded thoughtfully, saying nothing. Winter went on.

  ‘But, then again, perhaps more people than we know of are born with this — what did you call it? — low-density brain area in the para-whatever. But maybe these people don’t ever kill anyone. Maybe it takes something else to trigger it, to turn people into—’

  ‘Cowardly murdering bastards.’ Danny finished the sentence for him.

  ‘Yeah, that. Maybe it’s nature and nurture,’ Winter continued. ‘Maybe you always had it in you and something happened to bring it out. What was it?’

  Atto gave another of his ill-fitting, high-pitched chuckles. ‘Good try, Anthony. But we aren’t talking about me: we are talking about people like me. So… if such people are born the way they are, with some brain deformity, as you put it, how should that reflect the way that they are sentenced and treated?’

  Danny could restrain himself no longer and leaned forward, his jaw jutting right at the prisoner.

  ‘How would it affect sentencing? Atto, I would chop your balls off with a pair of rusty knitting needles and then stuff them down your throat.’

  Atto smiled disdainfully. ‘It’s amazing, Mr Neilson. Civilisation has advanced through five thousand years and yet the caveman still walks among us. Darwin would look at you and shake his head in disappointment. Evolution’s passed you by.’

  ‘Civilised? You think there’s something civilised about the things you’ve done? Because you are badly mistaken if you do. You are the lowest of the low, the scum of the earth, and, if there is a Hell, then you’ll surely burn in it. Something wrong with your brain? No shit.’

  The prison officer near them was getting agitated again, glancing at his watch and obviously hoping that visiting time was nearly over. ‘Quieten it down there. I won’t tell you twice.’

  Atto looked at Danny for a while, condescension writ large, then switched his gaze back to Winter.

  ‘So, Anthony, what would be your approach to sentencing and rehabilitation of such killers if it’s proved that something like an irregularity of the paralimbic system is the root of psychopathic behaviour? If someone like me was a natural-born killer?’

  Winter weighed it up for a while, staring into Atto’s dull, soulless eyes and wondering what they’d seen. Scenes far worse than anything he had photographed, he was sure of that.

  ‘If someone was born with that kind of defect… you’d have to take it into account. Rehabilitation wouldn’t be an option, though, not if you were born that way. And as for sentencing…’ He paused and looked deeper into the black pools of Atto’s eyes. ‘I think I’d go for Danny’s suggestion: rusty knitting needles.’

  Atto’s face tightened and Winter saw the fury flame in his pupils before his eyes slowly closed over and he began to rock back and forth again, gradually increasing in speed and intensity. He was still rocking when a bell abruptly shrieked through the room, signalling the end of the visiting session.

  Prisoners at the other tables got to their feet, saying their goodbyes, but Atto remained rocking until the officer walked over and put his hand on his shoulder. Atto shrugged it off and sat for a few moments before he deigned to stand up, his newly opened eyes never leaving Winter. He eventually stood and was pushing the chair neatly back into the place that it had been in when he arrived, when Winter broke the silence.

  ‘Mr Atto, one last question. Why is the debate about nature or nurture more relevant than I might think?’

  Atto stared back before giving a final lopsided smile and turned away.

  Winter and Neilson were at the back of the small crowd of visitors making their way down the narrow corridor that linked the visiting room with the holding room. They all trudged slowly behind the officer at the front leading them back towards fresh air and open space.

  Danny was staring at his feet while shaking his head, obviously still fuelled by anger. Winter saw his hands balled into fists and knew that the prospect of punching a hole in the corridor wall appealed to him.

  ‘Good call, though, son,’ he finally said as they emerged into the next room.

  ‘What was?’

  ‘Going for the rusty knitting needles. Good call, Anthony.’

  ‘Danny?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do me a favour and never call me Anthony again.’

  Chapter 28

  Wednesday afternoon

  Narey’s attempts to get some kind of line on the mysterious perv known as Mr Grey were proving less than successful. All they had to go on was a ropey description of an early forties male with grey hair and dark eyebrows. Needless to say, he hadn’t been back to Scissor Sisters since the murder of Hannah Healey.

  Almost the only productive part of the investigation, although not in a good way, was Toshney’s seemingly endless series of awful puns. Each was delivered with the adolescent hope that it might be the one greeted with laughter rather than scorn. It never was.

  New strands of the investigation. Mr Grey being on the fringe of the case. Mr Grey being hair today and gone tomorrow. Wondering what lengths they might have to go to find him. The cutting edge of policing. On and bloody on. If Addison didn’t get Toshney out of her hair soon… Oh, bloody hell.

  She spoke to her contact in London Road but no one there had heard of Grey. It was the same in divisions all over the city. Maybe not surprising if he’d never actually committed, or been caught for, anything. Leering and the possibility of a bit of undercover fiddling were offences that didn’t generally get as far as the police.

  Along with Rebecca Maxwell, she visited the city-centre salon where Kirsty McAndrew had her hair cut, but none of the staff there had any tales of dodgy customers, never mind anyone who fitted the description of the man who called himself Ronnie Dance.

  She pulled records on sexual harassment, indecent exposure, voyeurism, indecent communication, whatever she could think of. Nothing. Was she wasting her time? There wasn’t that much reason to like the guy for the killing, given what he was said to have done in the salon, but the fact that he’d lied about his identity changed things big time. Addison was keen for her to push it, his nose twitching as much as hers at the fact that the perv felt the need to create a false name and address.

  In the end she had no option but to fall back on the tried and tested. Talk to people. She got as many officers as she could into hairdressing salons, t
aking Scissor Sisters as a starting point and working out in a circle from there. Although she hated herself for it, almost to the point of hearing Addison’s chauvinistic chuckling as she did so, she got female cops to visit the shops wherever possible. She needed gossip, she needed girl-talk. Jesus, she needed whatever she could get.

  If Addison said it was woman’s work he’d run the risk of a kick in the balls.

  The word back from her hairdresser scouting patrols came in slowly, but then, as Toshney was quick to remind her, there were no shortcuts in this kind of case. Just about the only kind of business that Glasgow had more of than hairdressers was pubs.

  She let it do its thing in the background, confident there was nothing else she could do to rush it. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t have enough to be getting on with.

  The first tickle came after Rebecca Maxwell visited a salon on the Gallowgate, no more than a quarter-mile from where Kirsty McAndrew lived. She came into the operations room, dropping her coat and bag into a chair and making her way towards Narey.

  ‘I might have something on your Mr Grey, Sarge.’

  Narey looked up, noticing something different about Maxwell’s own fiery red tresses. ‘Yeah, you might have had a haircut on his account by the look of it.’

  Maxwell grinned and ran her hand through her hair. ‘Seemed the best way to get the conversation started. Anyway, it was only thirty quid and I reckon expenses can stand that.’

  ‘If you’ve got something out of it, then maybe.’

  ‘Well, it’s something. I’m just not sure how far it will take us. The girl who did my hair said that another member of staff, a Lorraine Victors, had been complaining about some guy who kept eyeing her up. Seems she’s a pretty girl and it’s not that unusual with male customers but this guy just struck her as creepy. Thought he might be touching himself under the robe but could never be sure.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And the description given was about six foot, early forties, dark eyebrows, grey hair.’