Witness the Dead

by Robertson, Craig

  Baxter harrumphed loudly, expelling air and disgruntlement. ‘Wonderful. Just wonderful. Take your shoes off, young man. Off, I said. Will someone competent please take prints of this idiot’s shoes for comparison purposes. Heaven help us. Can’t you keep them under control, Detective Sergeant Narey? I thought you knew better.’

  ‘Look, I’m as annoyed about this as you are. I can’t be everywhere at once, though. Don’t worry, Toshney and I will be having words later. Except he won’t be doing the talking.’

  By now, a small army of white-suited troops had assembled at the scene under Baxter’s command, the uniformed constables pushed back to the periphery of the battle. Two Soups continued to grumble under his breath as he patrolled the perimeter, eyeing potential access routes.

  ‘Mr Burke,’ he called to one of this team. ‘Find yourself a clearway. I’d suggest in here.’ Baxter gestured with a wave of his arm. ‘Get us a few shots of the positioning of that shoe, then please remove it for examination. I’m going to get the case notes from the previous scene. Don’t let anyone trample over anything in my absence.’

  Baxter returned to his car, quickly re-emerging with a computer tablet in his left hand. Using the built-in 3G technology, he tapped into the R2S, the Return to Scene software, as he walked. Once he’d bypassed the system’s security he was able to access all the case notes and photographs from Brem Dawson’s team at the cemetery where the second girl’s body was found. In seconds, he had clear, close-up photographs of the single shoe that Hannah Healey was wearing.

  Paul Burke photographed the shoe from various angles, dropping a scale next to it to indicate size, and making sure its precise location and angle were recorded. That done, he slipped a pen under the heel and carefully lifted it into the air before depositing it safely into an evidence bag. Retracing his steps through the scene, he handed the bag over to Baxter.

  Two Soups held the evidence bag up to the light in his left hand, his eyes squinting and his right hand rummaging thoughtfully through his woolly, grey beard. He looked at the markings on the sole: the maker’s logo and the size clear to be seen. Baxter’s mouth tightened, pushing his fat lips up towards his nose in a display of deliberation.

  ‘Clearly, I cannot offer a definitive opinion until we do the relevant tests, DS Narey. However, I will be surprised if those tests do not tell us that this is the partner to the shoe that the victim was wearing. Now, if you will excuse me, we need to get to work. This is, ostensibly at least, a crime scene and we have evidence to find. We will start with the footprints in the area around where the shoe was. Including those of DC Toshney!’

  Narey had barely begun to sigh when she became aware of a commotion at her back. She turned to see Denny Kelbie and Addison both emerging from their cars at the roadside, Kelbie with DS Ferry trotting at his heels. By the look on the DCI’s face, he wasn’t surprised that they were both there, but Addison certainly was. He fired an angry look first at Kelbie and then at her. Great, she thought, it will somehow be my fault.

  Kelbie and Addison both began striding towards the scene as if in a race where neither of them was allowed to run. The diminutive DCI and the lanky DI didn’t look at each other, but Addison was clearly aware of the smug grin on Kelbie’s face.

  ‘You called me here, DS Narey,’ Addison said pointedly when the pair of them reached her.

  ‘And the control office called me,’ Kelbie added without being asked.

  ‘Under whose instruction?’ Addison asked sarcastically.

  Narey looked back defiantly at both men. ‘I’m not getting in the middle of this. With all due respect, sirs, if you want to get into a pissing contest then leave me out of it. We’ve found what looks like Hannah Healey’s missing shoe and most probably the place she was attacked. Mr Baxter’s staff are about to collect evidence from the scene. Other than that, it looks like we might be a bit overstaffed here, don’t you think?’

  Addison and Kelbie glared at each other, their mutual loathing obvious and neither wishing to back down. Narey stepped into the breach again.

  ‘We’re not going to have much success with potential witnesses. Nobody could see anything from that direction.’ She pointed at the bleak solidity of the brick wall across the road under the railway bridge. ‘And the church blocks out the view from the road ahead. It only leaves the houses over there – and they must be two hundred yards away – or the multis back there behind Cumberland Street. And it was pitch dark.’

  Kelbie ignored her. ‘Where’s the shoe?’

  Addison brightened. ‘Oh, aye, the shoe. I’m with DCI Kelbie on that one. I’d love to see the shoe.’

  Narey and Kelbie looked at Addison, hearing the sarcasm that was dripping from his voice and seeing the beginning of a smirk appearing on his face.

  ‘I saw you on the telly earlier, sir,’ Addison continued, his grin growing. ‘Interesting theory. About how the shoes were key to this. How the killer had a fetish for shoes. Very psychological, that. You might be on to something there, sir. It turned out to be quite convenient that the papers got that “Cinderella” line, didn’t it?’

  ‘What are you suggesting? You better watch your step, Addison.’

  ‘Oh, I’m watching it, sir. I’m watching where I’m putting my feet. Are you? Because, if you’re not careful, you’ll be putting yours right in it. Which is a wee bit ironic, don’t you think?’

  Kelbie squared right up to Addison, stretching his neck to make any kind of vertical parity that he could, his voice dropping so that he couldn’t be heard by anyone else. ‘You keep taking the piss, Addison, and I’ll have your guts. You’re a loudmouth smartarse and I’m sure there are plenty of senior officers who would be glad to see the back of you. I can make that happen.’

  Addison dropped his head down nearer to Kelbie’s until they were almost forehead to forehead, his voice also softening so that only Kelbie would hear. ‘You can’t make that happen because you are a useless little shite who’s only been a DCI for five minutes and only then because of some clerical cockup. If you were going to have a quiet word in a superintendent’s ear, then you’d need to stand on a chair. And even then you’d need to take your tongue out of his arse to do it. Sir.’

  Kelbie’s lips drew back into one of his canine snarls but Addison beamed broadly at him and moved before the DCI could reply, calling on Baxter to ask where the shoe was. He strode off towards where he was directed, leaving Kelbie seething.

  ‘It’s Hannah Healey’s all right,’ he announced loudly, holding the evidence bag up before him, ostensibly to the light but actually so everyone in earshot could see what he was referring to. Given that Addison was talking at full volume, ‘in earshot’ meant every cop and forensic at the scene.

  ‘It is hers, DCI Kelbie. Wouldn’t you say, sir?’

  Kelbie took the bag from him, examined it fiercely and grudgingly nodded. ‘It certainly appears to be a match.’

  ‘Bit of a pity, sir. In fact I’d go so far to say it’s a great disappointment.’

  ‘Why’s that, DI Addison?’ Kelbie forced the question out through gritted teeth. Addison smiled as if he’d never been so pleased to be asked a question.

  ‘Because I thought we were really onto something with your theory about the shoe fetish. The one that you announced all over national television. That could have been the breakthrough that we needed, but it looks like . . . unless . . . Mr Baxter, you’re an expert on all things anatomical and physiological. In your experience, how many feet do human beings tend to have?’

  Two Soups began to answer the question before realising the nature of it. ‘Two of course. I don’t . . . Really, DI Addison! I’ve got work to do.’

  Addison made a face of exaggerated disappointment. ‘That’s it, then. Our only chance was that Hannah would have worn three shoes, but, seeing as she didn’t, then your theory is a bit, well, fucked.’

  Kelbie’s face was flushed with anger, his ears glowing and the vein on his forehead ready to pop. ‘This disproves n
othing yet.’

  Addison laughed. ‘No offence, but I think it probably does. If I follow your theory right, what must have happened is that our killer with a shoe fetish has taken one of her shoes – not two, mind, just one – and brings it here to dump it rather than getting himself away safely and taking it with him? He really is a twisted genius, this guy, isn’t he?’

  Kelbie tried to get close so he could again speak to Addison without anyone else hearing but the DI backed away on the pretence of walking nearer to the place the shoe had been found, forcing Kelbie to raise his growl. ‘So what’s your bright idea, then?’

  Addison shrugged genially. ‘Well, what we actually have is one victim with shoes and one without. Hardly much of a pattern, is it, sir? I think, sadly, we have to file that theory under “pile of shite”. Should we call the television to tell them?’

  Kelbie advanced halfway to where Addison stood before halting, acutely aware of every eye on them, his finger twitching to point at Addison but somehow stopping himself. ‘I want a full report on every bit of evidence found at this site on my desk by the morning. I want every house over there door-knocked for witnesses and the same with the flats back there. And you’ – he jabbed his forefinger at Addison – ‘and I are going to have words.’

  Kelbie spun on his heel, DS Ferry falling into line behind him, and marched back towards his car. As he stormed away, Addison made a mock salute. ‘Yes, sir. Looking forward to it. We can work on some more theories.’

  Narey walked to Addison’s side and they both watched Kelbie’s car drive off.

  ‘Sir?’ she asked quietly. ‘You do know that he’s a DCI, right? And you’re not.’

  ‘Is he? I hadn’t noticed. But I did notice that he’s a wee shite and I’m not.’

  ‘Well . . . you’re not wee, sir. I have to give you that.’

  ‘Insulting language to a senior officer, Rachel? I can’t be having that. C’mon, let’s see what Baxter’s boys have found. The key to this case is here. I can smell it.’

  ‘Aye, okay, but you do know that if you keep poking the fire like that you’ll eventually get your fingers burned?’

  ‘Ach, dinnae worry. I’ve got asbestos fingers, Rachel. Asbestos bloody fingers.’

  Chapter 20

  Monday evening

  At rush hour, it was a ten-minute walk or a twenty-minute drive from his office in Pitt Street to his flat in Berkeley Street, but sometimes Winter still took the car. It depended on how much gear he had with him – camera equipment was heavy and cumbersome – or simply whether it was raining. It rained a lot.

  That evening he walked. It was just after eight, he had his rucksack over his shoulder and everything that he was likely to need was inside. He was walking down Bath Street, dodging his way through other late workers with their noses glued to the screens of their mobile phones. One or two were caught accidentally on purpose by the corner of his bag, justice for not looking where they were going.

  After his morning fall-out with Danny, the day hadn’t got much better, being long on routine and short on excitement. The investigation into the two murders whirled around him but, today at least, he couldn’t reach out and touch it. He’d already photographed all that there was to see in relation to the killings and had processed it all by mid-afternoon. The remainder of the day was spent catching up on more mundane filing: a stabbing from Bilsland Drive and a hit-and-run at Anniesland Cross.

  A few times, when the monotony of the electronic paperwork got the better of him, he’d brought up photographs from the two cemeteries onto his screen, fighting off a fit of guilt as he did so. There was no sense of titillation or rubbernecking. Instead, it further tested his admittedly skewed theory that there was a beauty in death. Two young women, having done nothing more than go for a night out, brutally murdered. How could there possibly be any beauty in that?

  Winter’s unknowing mentor was the Mexican tabloid photographer Enrique Metinides, the man who had spent fifty years taking extraordinary pictures on the violent streets of his capital city. Metinides chased police cars, ambulances and fire engines to capture the results of shootings, road accidents, suicides and stabbings. Despite the inevitable horrors that he had to photograph, Metinides contrived to show a grace and dignity in the bleak. His work was unsettling, intimate, and had an exquisite, irresistible attraction. Death isn’t beautiful but it can be made to look that way.

  Metinides once said that he ‘got to witness the hate and evil in men’. That was what Winter was seeing when he viewed his own photographs of Kirsty McAndrew and Hannah Healey. Not beauty but hate.

  He shook the images from his head as he headed down Bath Street to walk the bridge across the M8 towards Berkeley Street, the domed splendour of the Mitchell Library on the other side and nose-to-tail traffic on the motorway thirty yards below. He glanced at his watch and made an instant decision to have a quick one in the Black Sparrow before going up to his flat. The pub was only yards from him but he didn’t drink in it too often. It was a cracking little boozer but, if anything, it was just too close to home.

  Tonight, however, it did the job just fine. A pint of heavy was in front of him within seconds and he savoured the sight of it for as long as he could bear before washing the dust of the day down his throat. Winter looked around, happy not to see anyone he recognised in the bar, but observing that one or two others had already assumed the position of solo drinker. He joined them in their splendid isolation.

  Of course, the beer wasn’t capable of washing away thoughts of the Necropolis or its southern neighbour and, if anything, standing drinking alone simply gave him more time to contemplate it. Addison had hit a nerve when he had accused Winter of relishing the prospect of having plenty of sick pictures to take. Winter wanted to think that his mate was wrong but he couldn’t easily convince himself that that was the case. If there were more killings, God forbid, then he knew he’d want to be at the front of the queue to photograph them. It was the way he was made.

  This wasn’t doing him any good. He forced the remainder of the pint down his neck and made for the door. He was bad enough with one drink inside him and more was only going to make matters worse.

  It was a murky night and the gloom was already beginning to settle as he pushed his way back onto North Street, ignoring the spicy temptations of the Koh-i-Noor, and ambled the last few yards towards his flat. At the corner, he was struck, not for the first time, by the sandstone splendour of the Mitchell Library and the contrast with his own modern apartment block directly opposite. The Mitchell was lit up in its evening finery, making the Berkeley Street building seem even more clinical in comparison.

  Winter let himself in and took the stairs up to his flat, the weight of his camera reassuringly heavy on his shoulder and every whack against his side an urgent reminder to download what was inside. As he reached his landing, he threw the camera bag onto his other shoulder and reached for the lock with his key, only to stop dead in his tracks. The door was closed over but already open.

  He froze, his heart clattering into his ribcage as he came to a sudden halt. He pushed gently at the door with his fingertips, feeling it float away from him. He was as sure as he possibly could be that he’d locked it that morning before going to meet Rachel in Hyndland. His mind raced up and down the stairs, wondering about the noise he’d made climbing them, wondering whether there was someone inside who may have been alerted by the clang of his feet.

  The only thing that he had that resembled a weapon was the bag on his back. He’d often carry a tripod that would have delivered much more of a blow, but that lay in his office back in Pitt Street. If he needed to, he’d have to rely on the bag plus the staple Glasgow stand-by of fist, feet and head. He feathered the door open and stepped inside, cursing the squeaky laminate flooring as he did so.

  One more step and he was on the silent safety of the hallway rug, the strap of the bag gripped tight and ready to be turned as shield or blunted sword. His breathing was loud in his ears, drowning
out even the pounding in his chest. Conscious of leaving his back unguarded, he pushed open the door to the living room and stepped inside, seeing no one and nothing out of place. Wait. There was a coffee cup sitting on the table in the middle of the room. He knew it wasn’t his, because he never drank the stuff and kept the cups only for the very occasional guest.

  He turned so as to avoid backing out of the room and stood in the hallway again, listening and looking. The door to the bathroom was open and that, as best as he could remember, was the way he’d left it. The kitchen door was closed and that, too, was how it should have been, even though the rogue cup gave the lie to the suggestion that it hadn’t been entered. The spare bedroom, the room whose walls were lined with his photographs, was also ajar and there was a light on inside. He never left the door open in case he returned with an unexpected visitor. The wall was his own business and not something he wanted to share. The light he couldn’t remember leaving on or not.

  There was a pool of shadow visible on the floor inside, something he’d never remembered seeing before. Shit. Whatever he was going to do, this was the time to do it. He slowly took the bag from his shoulder and placed it in front of his chest. His plan, such as it was, was simple. He was going to barge the door and, if there was someone standing inside, hopefully it would take them clean off their feet. He braced and breathed deep, taking a step back, ready to put everything he had into the door frame. As he did so, a familiar deep and gruff voice came at him from the other side of the bedroom door.

  ‘You really are one sick puppy, Tony. How the hell can you sleep at night with this stuff on your wall?’

  The air leaked from Winter like a punctured tyre, relief and nerves escaping through his lips.

  ‘Uncle Danny, what the fuck are you doing in here? And how the bloody hell did you get in?’

  Winter pulled back the door and saw Danny standing with his back to him, his gaze fixed on the wall of framed photographs.