Witness the Dead

by Craig Robertson

  Those who sat on the wall were just a couple of feet from time-toppled headstones or monuments to the departed, framed with trees bent by generations of wind. They were flinty-eyed guardians of the graveyard, looking left and right even though they couldn’t have known what they were looking for.

  Others were milling one way and then the other, rebels in search of a cause. People determined to do the right thing even if they didn’t know what that involved. There were local neds, teenagers in their best tracksuits, older guys wearing anoraks and student types smoking roll-ups. The crowd seemed to be multiplying with every passing moment, a human ring round the old cemetery.

  Addison went up to a couple of those on foot, two broad and bulky guys with close cropped hair who could have been on their night off from bouncer duty in a city nightclub. They eyed him suspiciously as he approached and moved together as if to block his path. For once, the production of his warrant card made members of the public relax their antagonism towards him.

  ‘All right, guys? Listen, I don’t have a problem with you being out here but I’d like to ask you a couple of questions. Okay?’

  They both nodded — an instinctive reticence to talk to the cops.

  ‘What’s going on here? Is this something organised?’

  The two guys looked at each other and made some unspoken deal about who would talk to him. The shorter of the two fired a look in both directions before leaning in and whispering hoarsely.

  ‘We’re kinda guarding the place. We all saw what was said on the telly an’ that. How the bastard was going to kill another girl an’ that. Dump her body here. Well, we were like, “No way, man.” It could be my wee sister or something.’

  ‘Couldnae just sit in the hoose and dae nothing, could we?’ his pal added.

  ‘So is someone organising this?’

  ‘Naw, naw. Well, aye, a wee bit, like. We were coming doon anyways after seeing the telly but we’ve heard that there’s loads of talk aboot it on Facebook and that Twitter. You know, like telling guys to come here and make sure nae cunt gets in.’

  ‘No that we’re saying the polis cannae dae their job but you cannae be everywhere at once like.’

  ‘But is there anyone down here in charge? Someone maybe talking to the polis about what’s happening?’

  ‘Naw. Well aye. There’s a guy roon on Janefield Street near the stadium. Dinnae ken his name but he was telling folk to go here and there like he wis somebody. Wisnae polis, like, just wan o’ us.’

  Addison frowned but nodded his thanks to the two of them. ‘All right, lads, you’re doing a good thing, but watch yourselves, eh? There’s a proper nutcase out there. And make sure you don’t get yourselves arrested. The polis tell you to move, you move.’

  The bouncer boys didn’t look too impressed at being told what to do but they shrugged a tacit agreement and resumed their watch duties as Addison turned and hurried back to the Holywell Street junction on his way to Janefield Street on the other side of the cemetery. As he hustled along, he pulled out his mobile and called Superintendent Jason Williams, the senior officer charged with overseeing the uniformed presence round the Necropolis.

  ‘Superintendent Williams? It’s DI Addison. I’m on the Gallowgate side of the cemetery, sir. I see we’ve got a fair bit of unexpected back-up.’

  ‘Yes, we have. I can’t believe how many of them there are. I’m trying to clear them from this side first but they’re arriving quicker than we can get rid of them.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you, sir. If you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘Not get rid of them? Addison, how am I expected to protect the cemetery when there are so many members of the public milling around? It’s chaos out here.’

  ‘Then let’s organise the chaos, sir. We’ve been worried all day that we don’t have enough cops to protect a place of this size, so now we have all the bodies we need. And it might just be enough to make sure that we don’t get one body extra, if you see what I mean. Let’s get them on our side. Anyway, if you try to clear them out of the area you might end up with a riot on your hands, and that’s hardly going to help.’

  There was silence on the other end of the line as Williams digested what had been said. Addison didn’t wait for a reply.

  ‘I’m on my way over to you now. I understand there’s someone claiming to be acting on behalf of the people that have turned up?’

  Williams sighed. ‘Yes, there’s some self-appointed leader of men who thinks he’s liaising with us. He’s getting right on my tits, to be honest.’

  ‘I’ll be there in two minutes. Can you get one of your guys to keep a hold of him for me?’

  ‘Will do. I have to say I don’t like this, Addison. I don’t feel we’ve got control of the situation.’

  ‘I know the feeling, sir.’

  The crowd was sparser on Holywell Street because it didn’t border the cemetery, but there were still plenty of bodies walking along, presumably heading for a vantage point on Janefield Street. The familiar red railings that ran along the left-hand side of the road reminded Addison of so many walks along there en route to Celtic Park, the stadium large in the near distance. He’d gone that way as a kid with his old man and then later with his pals, taking up a spot on the terracing known as the Jungle before it was replaced by the towering North Stand.

  Memories flooded back of dodgy pies from the stall in the top corner near the Celtic end, everybody smoking, cans of McEwan’s Export and finding yourself twenty yards away from your mates after a goal was scored. And the noise. Jesus, he remembered the noise. So much of that died when they knocked the Jungle down.

  The rear of the North Stand and the border wall of Janefield Cemetery stood back to back, so much so that the top eleven rows of the stand were cantilevered over the cemetery. This led to the bizarre situation of Celtic having to buy the air over the graveyard from the council after locals complained about the shadow cast over the Necropolis. It cost the club £10,000 in compensation because those buried there had the right to free air space ‘from the centre of the earth to the sky’. Only in Glasgow.

  The left turn into Janefield Street was always the one that gave him goosebumps when he was a kid, the sight of the stadium and the massed ranks in green and white outside. This time it was slightly different. There wasn’t a Celtic scarf in sight. Instead there was a mass of grey humanity, a well-meaning mob. He made his way along to the centre of the crowd, seeing them lined up along the low cemetery wall on the scrubland to his left, the sprawling green expanse of the graveyard beyond.

  He couldn’t see Williams but grabbed the first cop he came across and asked where the superintendent was. The constable looked and pointed and Addison saw Williams’s tall frame about forty yards away through the failing light, a couple of other officers at his side. It would be dark within twenty minutes and at that point the natives were likely to get increasingly restless.

  ‘Addison.’ Cruikshanks sounded weary and wary. ‘Good of you to join us. Tell me again why it’s a good idea for us to have all these mentalists running round the place.’

  ‘Look, I know it’s not ideal, sir, but they can do a job for us. Have you seen the size of that cemetery and how much boundary there is to cover? And you’ve got how many officers?’

  ‘Not enough. I know that and it’s been bugging me all day. You’ve been nearer to this than I have — you seriously think this guy will try and leave a body in there? He’d have to be off his head?’

  ‘I generally find that’s the case with most psychotic serial killers, sir. But, yes, I do think he’s going to try to do that. This rent-a-mob might be our best chance of stopping him.’

  Cruikshanks shook his head despairingly. ‘Okay, tell me what you want and I’ll get it done.’

  ‘There’s a bunch of them sitting on the wall on the Gallowgate side and we need to get them down and keep them down. If they protect the perimeter, then fine, but if they infiltrate it then they become a threat. We also need to make su
re none of them is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Your guys need to keep an eye on them, big time. They will also need to cover the end next to the creamery building on Holywell Street, as that’s the only bit of boundary wall that can’t be accessed from the road. No one is getting in here unless they parachute off the roof of the fucking stadium.’

  Williams and Addison turned and looked up at the roof of Celtic Park as it peeked down into the cemetery below, and both wondered just for a second if that was actually a threat before shaking their heads at each other and returning to the equally ridiculous situation in front of them.

  ‘Where’s this seeker of truth and justice that reckons he’s speaking on behalf of the mob?’

  Williams pointed. ‘The guy over there with the ponytail. His name’s Callum McGann and he’s a pain in the neck.’

  ‘Well you know what they say. Under every ponytail, there’s a horse’s arse. I don’t suppose that goes for schoolgirls but it sure as hell goes for guys old enough to know better. I’m going to speak to him.’

  Mr Ponytail had a uniformed cop either side of him but it didn’t stop him from directing human traffic this way and that, lording it with personal bodyguards courtesy of the Force. He was about five foot ten, lean and wiry, dressed in blue jeans and a brown leather jacket. The ponytail itself was black with a hint that it might have been dyed. The guy was in his early to mid-forties without a hint of grey.

  ‘Mr McGann? I’m Detective Inspector Addison. Can I have a word?’

  The guy looked pained at the interruption, the way Michelangelo must have done when he was trying to paint the Sistine Chapel and people kept asking for his autograph. ‘Can’t it wait? This is important.’

  ‘Right… it will only be important if you continue to be allowed to do it. And the decision on that is down to me.’

  McGann stopped waving his arms and looked at Addison, trying to suss him out. ‘You do realise that there’s a life at stake here?’ he argued. ‘We’re all here to stop anyone getting in that graveyard. I’m organising them.’

  ‘Yeah, they all look very organised,’ Addison offered with more than a hint of sarcasm. ‘And what about you, Mr McGann. What’s your interest in this?’

  The man seemed taken aback at the question, surprised that someone could question his motives.

  ‘I just… I’m a concerned citizen.’

  Addison laughed, not caring if it offended and largely hoping that it would.

  ‘That’s what we need more of, Mr McGann. Concerned citizens. If there were more people like you then there really wouldn’t be a need for people like me, and I could go get a job as David Cameron’s butler.’

  ‘Are you…? Do you think this is some kind of joke?’

  Addison could see real anger rising behind the man’s indignation and toyed with the idea of pushing his buttons further before deciding that he didn’t have time. ‘No, Mr McGann. No joke at all. Tell me, what do you do for a living?’

  ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything, but I’m a geography teacher. I work at Whitehill Secondary.’

  ‘Uh huh. And were you involved in encouraging people to come down here?’

  ‘Yes, I put a message out on Facebook and Twitter and asked people to pass it on. Are you saying I shouldn’t have?’

  Addison just shrugged. ‘I’m not sure that too many of the people here are on Facebook. I think they came because of word of mouth. The community rallying to the cause and all that.’

  McGann pouted a bit. ‘Maybe. But some of them are. And I’ve been round the rest. They’re listening to me. I have guys at various points round the Necropolis waiting for my word.’

  ‘Really? Mr McGann, you want to help and you’re organising people. That’s good. But I need you to organise them a bit differently. Can you do that?’

  ‘Of course.’ The man seemed eager to help. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you to get them to hold hands.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hold hands. I want them in a ring round the cemetery, arm’s length apart. No gaps. No one on the walls or next to it. Form a human ring round the place and no one breaks it. Can you sort that?’

  ‘Um, yes. I don’t know how many guys will be keen on holding hands, though.’

  ‘Tell them to get over it. And I want you to form part of the ring.’

  ‘What? Would I not be better going round and—’

  ‘No. I’d like everyone that’s down here to help to form the ring. No exceptions. It’s either that or you go home.’

  ‘No… I’ll organise it.’

  ‘Good. Leave me your mobile number before you go, will you? Just in case I need to get in touch with you.’

  ‘Um… okay.’

  Phone number handed over, McGann looked to Addison expecting some thanks for the endeavours of his concerned citizenship, but it wasn’t forthcoming. He backed off before turning towards the crowds, melting into them and the gloom. Addison waited until he couldn’t see the man any more and leaned back till his head was staring up at the parapet of the stadium above him and spoke to it.

  ‘What can you see from up there, auld yin? Can you see what’s going to happen? See if you can, gonnae tell me because I’d really like to know.’

  Chapter 55

  The light was falling by the time Narey and Toshney got to Tobago Street, Narey parking her Megane under the pseudo-safety of the lamppost outside the remnants of John’s Bar. Looking up, she saw a light on in Stark’s flat, presumably meaning that his girlfriend, Faith Foster, was in there.

  At the door entrance on Stevenson Street, rather than push the intercom button for Stark’s flat, Narey hit three others and one of them duly obliged by releasing the entry catch without bothering to ask who was there. They climbed the gloomy concrete stairwell to Stark’s flat in silence, not pausing when they passed a door that creaked open just long enough for a shadow to check them out then close again.

  At Stark’s door, Narey stood for a few moments, listening for movement inside or the sounds of a television. There was nothing. She rapped on the door, not too loudly and trying not to pull off the practised authoritative knock of a police officer. There was no response, so she chapped again, louder this time.

  Another door creaked at the other end of the corridor, throwing a shard of light into the hall as someone else wanted to know who the visitors were. Narey held out her warrant card and it was evidently recognised even from the length of the corridor, as the other door promptly closed again. As Narey knocked the door for the third time, Toshney dropped down to crouch by the door. He dipped his finger on the landing and brought it up to his face to examine what he’d found.

  ‘It’s blood, Sarge.’

  ‘Great. Kick that door open, Fraser.’

  ‘We don’t have a warrant, Sarge.’

  ‘That blood means we’re in hot pursuit and have reason to believe a life is in danger. Kick the bloody thing open.’

  It took Toshney three attempts, twice ramming the heel of his shoe against the lock before finally crashing his shoulder into the door and it gave way. It fell back against the far wall and Narey and Toshney walked into the narrow hallway before pushing the door over behind them again, seeing dots of blood on the beige carpet.

  ‘Miss Foster?’ Narey called out. ‘Faith? It’s the police. If you are there, please come out and show yourself.’

  She didn’t particularly expect an answer but had to go through the process. She followed the trail of blood to the end of the hall, where they knew the living room was, opening the door and seeing the light on but no other sign of life. The black leather sofa sat unoccupied in front of the window looking onto Tobago Street, and the television was switched off.

  ‘Check out the other rooms, Fraser. I’m going to look round here.’

  The blood came to an end in a pool below one of the framed posters on the wall, a replica of a Nirvana gig in New York in 1994. Whatever caused the bloodstains had started here and led to th
e front door and presumably down the stairs, even though they’d missed it in the gloom.

  ‘Sarge!’ Toshney’s voice signalled urgency and alarm.

  Narey went into the hallway, seeing the second of the other two doors being wide open, and followed him in.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  The walls of what was obviously a bedroom were outlandishly, wildly, maniacally decorated. They were daubed in garish Gothic swirls of red and black like some lunatic, nightmare vision of Hell.

  One wall was blood red adorned with paintings of gravestones and crosses, plus the scrawled letters of ‘RIP’ and ‘Memento Mori’. Lines had been drawn linking the painted headstones into triangles.

  A second wall was dominated by a tall, slim figure in a white gown, a human form but with a ram’s head and cloven hooves, the background streaked in Satanic reds and blacks. The third wall was a hellish montage that included suffering, screaming angels caught up in an intricate spider’s web; blood and bones resting below the salivating mouth of some devilish creature; and babies, four of them, sitting blank-eyed and staring straight into the room.

  On the final wall, there was a single image. In broad strokes, someone had painted the full-length form of a woman, seemingly ordinary compared with the abominations around her, dressed as if ready for a trip to the shops or to take a child to school. Except that where her eyes ought to have been were opal pools of jet black and at her feet was a pool of blood that could be seen to have run down her leg from somewhere under her black dress.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Narey repeated.

  ‘What the hell is this, Sarge?’

  ‘What Hell is this, you mean? Someone’s crazy idea of it. Check out the other rooms but try to avoid touching anything you don’t have to. This is likely to be a crime scene.’

  Narey put her hand inside her coat pocket and grabbed hold of the handles to the tall, black-pine wardrobe and opened it up. It was split left to right with male clothes, then female. Stark’s side had shirts and jeans, while his girlfriend’s half contained mainly dresses, all in either red or black or a combination of the two.