Easy Kill

by Lin Anderson

  25

  RHONA WOKE AT dawn. Sean lay asleep beside her, oblivious for now to his aches and pains. Rousing him would be too cruel. She crept from the bed and headed for the shower.

  She sat down to an early breakfast, Tom on her lap and the files she’d requested from records spread over the kitchen table. Some of her work already involved cold cases. Provided evidence was kept, low copy number DNA could now be extracted from victims’ clothing, sometimes solving old crimes.

  They hadn’t succeeded in matching current trace evidence to entries on the database. But what if she looked for some similarities between the old and the new, rather than outright matches? That would throw up any genetic link between the perpetrators of the previous murders and the current crimes. It wasn’t the first time a case had been solved this way. Joseph Kappen had been identified as the rapist and murderer of two sixteen-year-old girls in Wales in 1973, by sweeping the national database for entries with a genetic pattern similar to the traces he’d left behind.

  There had been no further news on Terri Docherty. Rhona knew Bill was just waiting for her body to turn up. Of course, it might never appear. Given the right time and tide, the river could take it west. If the killer did have access to a boat, he could take it west himself and dump it. But his obsession with burial suggested to Rhona that the body would find its resting place in the earth.

  She had a couple of hours before she was due at Craig Minto’s apartment. Rhona began to read the long, grim reports.

  According to his nearest neighbour, Minty hadn’t been home for three days.

  ‘Thank fuck!’ was the guy’s conclusion. He’d opened his front door as soon as he’d heard their footsteps on the stairs. He was up and dressed, despite it being early on a Sunday. A woman in a dressing gown hovered behind him. ‘My wife phoned the council about the smell, but they just came, knocked on the door and went away again.’ He shook his head in irritation. ‘He doesn’t even pay rent.’

  Bill explained about the warrant.

  ‘About time too.’

  The couple watched from the doorway as the officers positioned themselves. Rhona stood back as Bill knocked, expecting no reply.

  It took three slams of the battering ram before the reinforced metal door gave way. Minty took his security seriously, and it soon became obvious why.

  A strong chemical smell escaped through the open door. Rhona motioned to Bill not to enter.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Whatever it is, it’s probably noxious. I think we need to clear the building. Phosphine gas is one of the side products of making methamphetamine. It’s extremely toxic when inhaled. He’ll also have been using solvents for extraction. We’re lucky there hasn’t been a fire or explosion. I think we need the fire brigade and some breathing apparatus.’ Rhona pulled up her mask.

  ‘Are you sure you want to go inside?’

  ‘The sooner we know what we’re dealing with, the better.’

  The hall was dark and narrow. Rhona ignored the light switch and used her torch. She had no idea if the electrics worked, and she didn’t want a spark igniting any lingering combustible gases.

  There were three doors off the hall. One led to a grubby-looking bedroom. Another to a filthy, rubbish-strewn bathroom. The bath was full of something, she wasn’t sure what. The final door led to a combined kitchen and sitting room, now a makeshift laboratory.

  A number of pots sat on the cooker. Scattered on the counter nearby were matchboxes with the red phosphorus striking panel ripped off. There were rows of empty iodine tincture and solvent bottles, and packets of decongestant tablets. Minty had definitely been trying his hand at making crystal meth.

  Rhona opened all the windows and retreated. The fire brigade would have to declare the flat safe before she could properly examine it. She emerged to find a fire engine pulling in below. Small groups of residents had already gathered in a nearby play area. Pulling people out of their beds and homes on a Sunday morning would hardly endear Craig Minto to his already pissed-off neighbours.

  Rhona went down to meet the fire officer in charge. When she explained what had been happening in the flat, he wasn’t surprised.

  ‘Three call-outs for this kind of thing in a month. In the last one, the guy making the stuff was unconscious from the fumes. One strike of a match and the whole place would have gone up. I’ll give you a shout when we’ve secured the building.’

  Bill and Rhona retreated to a nearby café. The coffee was half decent and strong. Bill ordered sliced sausage on a roll to go with it. Rhona resisted, but not for long.

  ‘Sniffing solvents must make you hungry.’

  She added tomato ketchup to the thick slab of square sausagemeat and took a bite. They munched together in silence. The café was rapidly filling up with refugees from Minty’s building. The neighbour appeared with his wife. He spotted Bill and Rhona in the corner and came across.

  ‘That bastard could have killed us all. What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘He’ll be charged, Mr …?’

  ‘Jackson.’

  ‘You’ll be asked to give a statement. I take it you’ll be willing to give evidence in court?’

  Mr Jackson looked perturbed. Craig Minto wasn’t a man to cross.

  After a moment, though, he seemed to master his fear. ‘Aye, I will. You cannae let scum like that rule your life. My wee granddaughter comes to stay with us. The bastard could have killed her.’

  When they were finally allowed into the flat, the air was a good deal fresher. Rhona insisted Bill wear a mask anyway. The fire team had removed the flammable material, properly logged as evidence.

  ‘Iodine crystals and red phosphorus.’ She picked up a sheaf of printouts and glanced through them. ‘It’s all here. How to source your ingredients. How to mix them.’

  ‘And here’s me thinking Minty was stupid.’

  They had plenty of evidence with which to charge Minty, if they could find him. Although with a gap of three days between Minty’s disappearance from the flat, and the police raid, forensics would have to provide a direct link between the suspect and the apparatus.

  Rhona began to take samples from the crude laboratory. Bill hovered nearby, obviously wanting to say something, but having problems coming out with it. Rhona stopped what she was doing to give him an opening.

  ‘You spoke to the professor about the online auction?’ he asked.

  ‘I went by his place last night and showed him the photographs.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He pointed out something I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The most recent victim has six stab wounds, the one from a month ago five, the one before that four.’

  ‘He said nothing about Terri being the same physical type as the others?’

  ‘He suggested all prostitutes fall into a similar type and age range. And level of vulnerability,’ she added.

  Bill pondered this. ‘I hadn’t noticed the increase in the number of stab wounds.’

  ‘Neither had I.’

  ‘And he thinks that’s significant?’

  ‘He was proving a point. Demonstrating how what’s significant may not be the most obvious.’

  ‘Dazzling us with his psychological insight.’

  Rhona wanted to reassure Bill she was on his side, that she knew police procedure and forensic evidence provided the best possibility of catching a killer. But in this case, the killer had left traces of himself behind, confident they would lead the police nowhere. Trying to understand him and to anticipate his next move might be the only hope they had.

  Rhona switched her mobile to silent while she worked. Bill had departed soon after their conversation about Magnus, declaring his intention of going back to the station. He could have asked McNab or another junior detective to handle the search at Minty’s flat, and spent Sunday with his family, but Rhona suspected a day watching Margaret suffer was a prospect Bill didn’t relish.

  Craig Minto’s f
lat continued to yield interesting results, but nothing obviously linking him to Lucie’s murder. Trace samples taken from the bedclothes would probably be a match for the dead girl, but Lucie’s relationship with Minty was already established. Craig Minto might have been Lucie’s pimp, but it seemed unlikely he was her killer. When Rhona left the flat, the fingerprint team were still hard at work. No doubt Minty’s laboratory would produce a rogue’s gallery of prints.

  On reaching the car, Rhona checked her mobile and found a message from Chrissy. When she tried to call back, she was switched to the messaging service. She decided to go around to Chrissy’s flat in person.

  It took three rings on the buzzer before she got an answer.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Chrissy answered sleepily, when Rhona apologised. ‘I was getting up anyway.’

  The flat was as messy as usual. Chrissy, though meticulous at work, lived in a pigsty at home. It was a sign of her determination not to end up obsessed with housework like her mum.

  ‘Sam’s place was always tidy.’ She gave Rhona a rueful grin as she ushered her through. ‘God knows what he thinks of this place.’

  ‘How is he?’

  A shadow crossed Chrissy’s face. ‘He’s … thin.’ Her mouth trembled a little. ‘I told him about the baby.’

  They stood in silence for a moment.

  ‘I’ll never forget his face when he felt it move. He says it’s a girl.’

  They sat in the kitchen, nursing mugs of tea, while Chrissy told Rhona a little of what had happened. Sam had been deliberately vague about his return journey to Britain. His passport was still valid and no one had questioned his entry. There was no mention of the CD in the story and Rhona didn’t ask. If Sean was right and the CD’s arrival was the work of the Suleimans, Rhona didn’t want to give Chrissy anything more to worry about.

  ‘Is he coming back?’ The million dollar question.

  ‘He’s going to try.’

  Rhona didn’t envy Chrissy. Had Sam died she would have mourned, then faced up to a life without him. A halfway house, where Sam, Chrissy and the baby lived in constant danger, might be even worse.

  26

  MINTY’S FLAT LAY in the criss-cross of streets north of London Road, opposite Glasgow Green. That morning, the Green was sprinkled with family groups enjoying the sunshine, a far cry from its Saturday night clientele. Bill had left the car outside Minty’s with a uniformed officer, rather than take a chance and park it near the Barras.

  He took a turn into Terri’s lane. He had a team looking through the CCTV footage from the entire safe zone. It was remarkable how many punters knew just where to draw up to avoid their number plates being registered on camera.

  The alley lay in shadow. No sunlight found its way between the high buildings. The silence was eerie, although not far away he would find the streets near the Barrowland weekend market teeming with people.

  A broken pipe trickled water in a continuous stream down a wall green with mould. If Bill half-shut his eyes – the cool shadow, the sound of water, the smell of damp and growing things, the coo of a pigeon – he could imagine himself in what Calton once was. Coilldum – Gaelic for ‘wood on the hill’.

  His eyes sprang open at the clip of heels on the cobbles. A woman in knee-high boots was coming towards him. There was nothing overtly sexual about her approach, merely purposeful. In the shadow, Bill couldn’t make out her face.

  ‘Looking for me?’ she said softly.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Whoever you want me to be.’

  ‘I’m looking for Terri Docherty.’

  She sighed. ‘Who the fuck isn’t?’ Her face emerged from the shadow. She looked him up and down. ‘DI Wilson.’

  Bill smiled in recognition. ‘Cathy McIver. Long time no see.’

  They made a right pair, middle-aged policeman and middle-aged hooker drinking tea together in a Barrowland café. None of the other customers gave them a second glance. That was Glasgow for you.

  In full daylight, Cathy didn’t look too good, although Bill didn’t like to pass judgement. He was no spring chicken himself. Not that long ago, a BBC Scotland news report had placed life expectancy in Calton lower than the Gaza Strip or some areas of Iraq. Males were expected to live until they were fifty-eight. Women in Cathy’s line of work, especially if they had drug problems, were lucky if they reached thirty. Cathy was a survivor.

  Bill had met Cathy through her second husband. Mikey McIver had the Glasgow banter – they said he could sell a crucifix to an Orangeman. His two stalls on the Barras made him a decent living, though most of the money went down his throat. But the days when wide boys ruled the Barras were over. The secondhand goods and banter had been replaced by businesses selling counterfeit DVDs, CDs and smuggled tobacco, run by serious criminal gangs.

  Mikey had died in a drunken knife fight. When Cathy came to the mortuary to identify him, she’d cried on Bill’s shoulder. He realised later that they were tears of relief.

  ‘Two wasters for husbands – but thank God, no kids,’ Cathy toasted that with her tea mug, then asked Bill about his own children. He was surprised she remembered.

  ‘Teenagers now. Robbie’s into computers and the cinema. Lisa’s … she’s the same age as the missing girl.’ Bill didn’t mention Margaret, because the words stuck in his throat.

  Cathy gave him an appraising look. ‘You’re a lucky man.’

  Bill didn’t feel it.

  ‘Thought you would have retired by now.’

  She exposed a row of nicotine-stained teeth. ‘Give up sex, you mean?’ A laugh set her off coughing. ‘I should. But I don’t like to let my regulars down.’ She sounded as though she meant it. ‘I don’t do the streets much any more. My flat’s safer and I only invite the ones I know.’

  ‘D’you know Brendan Paterson?’

  Cathy tilted her head, thought about it for a moment, then said, ‘I know Brendan. He’s okay.’ Coming from Cathy that was high praise. ‘Why?’

  ‘He was one of Terri’s regulars.’

  She nodded, not surprised.

  Bill wanted to ask what the word on the street was about the killings, and about Terri, but he didn’t want to push it. Cathy had to live there. She’d survived because she didn’t piss anyone off.

  Cathy fingered the handle of her mug. ‘You lot have Terri’s handbag, money and bank card. Minty’s been around looking for what he’s owed.’

  ‘Leanne?’

  Cathy nodded. ‘She’s got to pay him off.’

  ‘When did he show up?’

  ‘Last night. Scared the lassie shitless. That’s why I came by the alley – I thought Leanne might still be working. The sun brings the punters out,’ she added by way of explanation.

  ‘I’ll talk to Leanne,’ Bill promised.

  ‘Talking won’t help.’

  ‘We’d lift Minty if we could find him.’

  Cathy knew what he was asking her. She shot him a shrewd look. ‘Streets would be safer without him.’

  Bill slipped her a card with his number on it. ‘Call me. Any time.’

  Cathy made no comment, but put the card in her pocket.

  A young man came in and glanced their way. Bill deliberately didn’t look around, but Cathy did.

  ‘Hey, Brendan, come and meet a friend of mine.’

  Brendan placed his mug of coffee next to Cathy’s and pulled out a chair. He sat down, avoiding Bill’s eye. Cathy did the introductions.

  ‘Cop?’

  Cathy nodded. ‘He needs to talk about Terri.’

  Brendan suddenly looked queasy. ‘I don’t know anything.’ He rose as if to go. Cathy put her hand on his arm.

  ‘Better to talk to the DI here, than at your stall.’ She didn’t need to add that the stall would be open to prying eyes.

  ‘Or at the station,’ added Bill.

  Brendan sank back in the seat, a sullen, resigned expression on his face. His eyes darted between Cathy and Bill. Cathy smiled encouragingly. ‘You want Terri found,
don’t you? Otherwise you might end up with an old bird like me on a Wednesday night.’ She finished the rest of her tea and stood up purposefully.

  ‘Good luck,’ were her parting words to Bill.

  Bill gave Brendan a few moments’ respite, before he cut to the chase. ‘Your number was on Terri’s phone. Her partner says you were a regular. She knew your name and that you have two children.’

  Brendan assumed a defensive air. ‘I never hurt Terri. And I always paid – and gave her and her pal freebies.’ He stuttered to a halt, realising mentioning the CDs might be a mistake.

  ‘Tell me everything you know about Terri. That’s all I’m interested in.’

  Bill stood in front of the distinctive neon sign. Barrowland. Recently voted by bands as the best venue in the UK, and second best in the world. Not bad for a Glasgow ballroom with a modest capacity of 1,900 people. Famous for its great acoustics, magic atmosphere, and for the long list of famous musicians who’d graced its stage.

  But that wasn’t all it was famous for. Bible John, the last serial killer to roam Glasgow’s streets, had operated from around there. Three women, all picked up at this ballroom in the late 60s. All strangled and dumped nearby. The last one, Helen Puttock, was seen with a tall, slim, red-haired man, who called himself John, spoke politely and liked to quote from the Bible. The police never found him. No one arrested, no one charged, at the time.

  They thought they had him in 1996 and again in 2004. Bible John, for ever Glasgow’s bogey man. Already the papers were retelling his story, having noticed the similarities in location and method of these new murders. If Bible John was still alive, he’d be in his fifties. Not too old to kill.

  Bill looked up at the famous sign, as the crowds of shoppers divided around him. He was just a teenager when Bible John killed his last victim, and now he remembered his mother’s shock and distress as she listened to the news. The whole of Glasgow was talking about Bible John. The tabloids already had a name for their latest city killer, The Gravedigger.

  Cathy had told him nothing, but he’d got the message. When she knew something, particularly about Minty’s whereabouts, she would be in touch. Cathy was willing to put herself in danger to help Leanne.