Witness the Dead

by Robertson, Craig

  He thought maybe others had noticed that too. Billy Moffat and Geordie Taylor had started giving him knowing glances, sly little smiles that said, I know, and you know I know. Liz Grant had done the same and he was sure Moffat had filled her head full of gossip. That was why he’d had the three of them shifted back onto days. He’d convinced his DI that the same faces were becoming too well known and that it was time for a change in the Disco Dancing Division. He, Brian Webster and Alice McCutcheon stayed and were joined by three more: Kenny McConville, Colin Black and Sheila Mottram. The new Triple D Squad.

  He’d only danced with Jenny once more since that last time. She’d been getting hassle from a wee hard nut in a black pinstripe, the kind who wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’d watched her dance with the ned once in the hope that would keep him happy. It didn’t, and he kept coming back for more, and it was easy to see she was getting sick of it. He’d stepped in, knight-in-shining-armour style, and asked her to dance. The guy was far from happy and you could see he was thinking of squaring up and staking his claim, but he was giving away six inches in height and two or three stone in weight, so wisely thought better of it.

  He liked to think that she’d been pleased to see him and not just because he’d scared off the pest. She’d smiled and said ‘Hi’ even though she knew he wouldn’t hear her above the music. They danced and then danced one more just to be sure. When they were particularly close, she’d shouted and asked how he’d been. He’d said fine and asked the same of her. She’d laughed and said she was fine too. When the second song finished, she’d looked at him expectantly, but he managed only an awkward smile and a bit of a shrug before turning away off the floor. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to.

  She’d left early that night, slipping off with her pals just before the food was laid out, signalling the last hour. Maybe she wasn’t hungry; maybe she had somewhere better to go. Either way, she’d left without a glance over her shoulder. The last he saw of her was her red tresses snaking through the crowds and then disappearing from sight.

  That was nearly a week ago, and he’d looked out for her every night since, half glad when she hadn’t shown, knowing it kept them both safe, albeit in very different ways. He’d been a grouchy, stalking presence in the disco, his mood scaring off would-be dancers even when the slow number came on at the end. Alice McCutcheon had been on duty with him twice and had sidled up to him on the pretence of chatting him up to ask what the hell was wrong with him. He’d said he was just fed up with the dancing routine and that he had been arguing with his wife. Admitting a small lie to cover up a bigger one.

  The baking summer, the hottest and longest spell anyone could remember, had continued without a drop of rain or a drop in temperature. Klass continued to swelter. He’d ditched his tie that night and opened a couple of buttons on his plain, white, cotton shirt but it still didn’t let in anywhere near enough air. Either the disco was having more oxygen sucked out of it with every passing night or else he’d simply been there too long.

  This night was different from the others, though, and he wasn’t sure how comfortable he was with it. He was standing in the queue to go upstairs and into the disco with Frances MacFarlane at his side. Brenda’s sister, the one who had seen her dancing with the bloke wearing the black velvet suit with a red silk handkerchief in the top pocket, was shaking. If it hadn’t been so hot or you hadn’t known what she’d gone through, you’d swear she was shivering because she was cold. She’d agreed to go back to Klass for the first time since her sister was murdered, but it was clear she was thinking better of it. The girl was terrified.

  He put his arm round her, not certain how she would react to it, but they were there on the pretence of being boyfriend and girlfriend, so at least it would look natural to anyone watching. His first touch seemed to produce an electric shock as she nearly jumped out of her skin, but then she sank against his arm and then in close to his side. She still shook but the tremblings were beginning to subside.

  Frances was a small girl, slim and barely five feet tall, with mousy brown hair and large green eyes. He guessed she’d be very pretty if she smiled, but there didn’t seem to be much hope of that any time soon. When they’d spoken about her going in with him to try to identify the man who had danced with her sister, she’d done little other than sob while saying that she’d do anything they wanted, anything that might help. The poor girl was eating herself up with guilt at being the MacFarlane daughter who had walked away from the disco alive.

  She’d put on a check, flared mini-dress and enough makeup to cover the tears, and had screwed up whatever courage she had left, making him promise that he’d never leave her side. Not that he had any intention of doing so. He hugged her slightly tighter, feeling her relax as he did so. It was for him as much as for her: he had his own guilt at being part of putting her through this.

  Frances had somehow managed to evade the newspaper photographers who had wanted her picture for their front pages and had told the police that neither she nor Brenda had known many people who went to Klass, so the chances were good that she’d go unrecognised inside the disco. Whether she would recognise anyone there was the question that was keeping them all awake at night.

  The bouncers gave them the nod, their eyes on Frances, who could only look at her feet, finding fascination in her platform sandals. They crossed the threshold into Klass, the stifling heat immediately a contrast to the relative cool of the stairs, yet it set off another bout of trembling, and Frances tottered into the disco supported by his arm.

  Her eyes were wide, trying to take everything and everyone in at once. For a moment he thought she might back out again, but there was stern stuff inside her tiny frame, even though she announced that she needed it fortified by something else.

  ‘I need a drink.’

  He daren’t leave her alone while he went to the bar, so steered her towards it while asking what she wanted. ‘Anything. Rum and pep. Or martini. Anything, though. Could you . . . can you get me a large one?’

  He could see the benefit of the booze making her relax but he couldn’t afford for her to get drunk. He leaned in towards the barman and ordered a single rum and pep in a tall glass and got it topped up with ice. Her first nervous gulp emptied a third of the glass.

  They moved away from the bar and took up a position on the edge of the dance floor, Frances moving from one foot to the other, the glass never far from her mouth. She was scanning the room like a mother looking for a lost child. He put his head close to hers and made sure no one else heard.

  ‘Okay, I know it’s difficult but you have to try not to look so obviously. Just look at me for now and have a conversation. Then, when you’re ready, take a look over my shoulder at guys walking past. Try not to stare. Just look naturally. Can you do that?’

  She nodded, doubtful but determined.

  ‘I know it must be hard coming back in here but you’re doing great. It takes a lot of guts to do it and Brenda would be proud of you.’

  There was a little involuntary gasp at her sister’s name but she held it together, breathing deep and swallowing hard.

  ‘I’d do anything, Mr Neilson. Brenda would have done anything for me and I’ll walk to hell and back if it finds the . . . the . . . person that hurt her. Must admit I’m a bit scared, though. Being in here it . . . it’s strange.’

  ‘I know you’ve been asked lots of times but can you think of anything else about the man she was dancing with? Or anyone else who was paying her attention?’

  Frances’s eyes wandered across to the other side of the dance floor, staring at a spot between two tables. He instinctively knew she was seeing Brenda standing there.

  ‘He wasn’t particularly tall, just kind of average. I couldn’t even say if he was good-looking or ugly. They were over there when I last saw them. Dancing. It was the Nilsson song, you know the one? “Without You”, that’s it. He had on this black velvet suit. Brenda was smiling like she fancied him. I think it was a red silk ha
ndkerchief but I can’t be sure. What if I’m wrong?’

  ‘Other people remember the red hankie too. Don’t worry about it. You’re doing fine.’

  ‘You think so? I don’t feel fine.’

  They danced. The cop and the dead girl’s sister. Moving together yet rarely looking at each other. He saw McConville and Sheila Mottram, the other two members of the Triple D who were on duty, their eyes holding momentarily. She seemed to see shadows, ghosts and memories. He occasionally saw her blink and stare as if there was a familiar face, a likely lad, but then her face would crease in disappointment and she’d move on.

  Frances asked for another drink and he agreed, getting himself a second lager while he was at it, she fretting slightly as he left her by the edge of the bar area. The beer was tepid at best but it still felt good, washing away some of his doubts at letting her be there. His DI had shared his worries but said it was all they had and that the chief superintendent had pushed for it. The top brass were getting it hard because the killer hadn’t been caught, although they didn’t feel the hurt any more than the cops on the ground.

  As well as going dancing with Frances, he’d had to visit Isobel Jardine’s mother and explain how she still couldn’t bury her daughter. Explain how they still hadn’t caught the bastard who did it. The woman had been drinking heavily, he could see that. Couldn’t blame her, though. She ranted and raved at him a bit, cried on his shoulder, too. She clutched a framed photograph of her daughter to her chest until he thought that the glass might break the way her heart had done. He’d left thinking that the odds of Mrs Jardine killing herself were better than even.

  When he wasn’t on disco duty, he was poring over case files, and when he wasn’t doing that he was knocking on doors and interviewing potential witnesses. He was either working the case or asleep dreaming about it. Every name that appeared on any copper’s notebook, every date and every possible sighting, was imprinted on his brain. He ate it, drank it, slept it. Fourteen hours a day with pay and ten without.

  It wasn’t about clear-up rates or promotion or avoiding bad press. It was about keeping the city safe. About making sure that wee lassies could go to discos and get home alive. About making Frances MacFarlane stop shaking. He couldn’t bring her sister back but he sure as hell could catch the bastard who did it.

  Then he saw her.

  Jenny. Her two friends came through the door first and he recognised them, just as he recognised the missed beat at the realisation that she might be there too. She looked stunning in a maxi-length halter-neck catsuit, a brown creation covered in bright pink flowers that pulled tight at the waist and showed off her figure. The outfit floated as she walked, making him think it was airy and light and with little underneath it. Her friends were decked out in long Laura Ashley-style dresses; one of them, the brunette Cathy, now had a huge Afro perm like the singer Marsha Hunt. The three of them caused a bit of a stir as they came in, causing blokes to nudge each other and nod in their direction.

  She saw him, something that he was sure was a smile beginning to spread across her face until she saw him dancing with Frances. The smile dropped slightly but she still nodded in his direction. The song finished then and he was still looking towards her as he walked off the floor with Frances, back to where their drinks sat on the table.

  He could see that Frances was fidgeting nervously after the dance, no doubt mentally exhausted after processing so many faces that had spun round the room as they’d moved. She was shaking the remains of the ice chinking against the glass. He hesitated but reached out and placed a hand on her arm, calming her. Frances smiled up gratefully and nodded.

  He looked up to see Jenny staring over. Her friends were nattering in her ear and leading her away towards the back of the room. They didn’t get there uninterrupted, though, as a tall fair-haired guy in a beige suit stopped the three of them and gave them some chat. Whatever patter he came out with must have done the trick, because Jenny turned away from her friends and back towards the dance floor with a fleeting sideways glance in his direction.

  Frances was saying something about another drink but he barely heard as he watched Jenny and Mr Beige Suit dance to a Sweet song. Then to a Johnny Nash number. She smiled at the guy as she left the floor after the second dance, but almost as quickly she was back on again, this time with a stocky, dark-haired chap in a bright-blue shirt. Blue Shirt was a good dancer, showing off his moves, and Jenny seemed to be impressed. She laughed and moved, the maxi halter-neck dress floating yet tight to her.

  ‘. . . another rum and pep? I know I probably shouldn’t but I’m . . . finding this really difficult.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll get you one in a minute . . . Just keep looking around.’

  Blue Shirt was chatting to her real close and he didn’t like the look of him at all. A definite air of something suspicious about him. Maybe a bit of a resemblance to the Red Silk description too. He was going in to find out. Before he could, though, Blue Shirt headed for the bar, making hand gestures to Jenny to stay put.

  ‘Frances, there’s someone I have to speak to. She’s . . . a possible witness. I won’t be long.’

  The girl’s eyes widened with worry. ‘No, but I—’

  ‘You’ll be okay. There are two other officers in the room. They’ll be watching you. And I really won’t be long. I promise. Don’t move from there.’

  He didn’t give her time to protest and spun on his heels to make for the part of the dance floor where Jenny stood. She saw him coming and raised her eyebrows questioningly before looking over to the back, where her pals were, shrugging at them.

  ‘Hello, how are you?’ he asked her.

  ‘I’m fine. Should you not be with your friend?’

  ‘My fr— She’s not. She’s . . . my niece.’

  ‘Your niece? She doesn’t look all that much younger than you.’

  ‘She’s not. Her mother is much older than me. I’m just taking her out for a night. She’s . . . had a hard time of it recently and I’m looking after her.’

  Jenny looked doubtful but nodded.

  ‘That’s nice of you. So are you coming on Saturday, to the big Be Red Silk night? Surely you will, you being Red Silk and all . . .’

  She was joking again, of course she was, but the Red Silk jokes had been coming thick and fast of late. Nothing’s too much for Glasgow humour, nothing goes too far. He’d heard them down the station, too: What’s red and silky on a Saturday night? A girl’s thighs after a night in Klass.

  He was struggling to see the funny side, though. Still, he smiled, not least because she looked so good when she said it, and he forced a half-joke back.

  ‘Och, it would hardly be fair Red Silk entering a Red Silk Lookalike contest. Now would it? There would need to be a steward’s enquiry.’

  ‘True enough. But you will be here, won’t you? For the Saturday night?’

  Would he? He worked most shifts but, then, that wasn’t the issue. He had to remember that she was asking him as a . . . well, as a what? As a guy she’d danced with? As a guy she liked? Fancied? He didn’t know the answer to any of the questions and yet he heard a reply coming out of his own mouth before he’d finished thinking.

  ‘I’m . . . not sure.’

  ‘Should be a good night. But remember, you’ll need a red silk hankie to get in. Well, don’t suppose it has to be actual silk. But red, though. Unless you know the guys on the door.’

  ‘No. I don’t. Know them, that is. I might be here. Will you?’

  She smiled, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. ‘I might be.’ She meant yes.

  ‘I’ll maybe see you here, then.’ He meant yes, too. ‘Look I’ve got to go. I need to—’

  ‘—look after your niece. Yes, I know. Maybe see you Saturday.’

  Frances was fretting when he got back, her eyes flashing left and right, a look of near panic on her face that made him immediately guilty.

  ‘You okay? Sorry I was so long but it was important. You see anyone that looked like
it might be him?’

  Frances shook her head mournfully and he turned to see Jenny’s dancing partner talking to her again.

  ‘What about that guy over there in the blue shirt? The one with the dark hair.’

  She looked at him curiously but shook her head again. ‘No, not him.’

  ‘Pity.’

  Chapter 40

  Friday evening

  Winter watched the news programme in the Station Bar, a place not normally guaranteed to have the telly at full volume unless there was a football match on the box. However the words ‘cemetery killings: breaking news’ and the look on the presenter’s face had the regulars shouting at the barmaid to turn the sound up. In moments, the entire pub was glued to the screen.

  They cut from the studio to a live broadcast on the doorstep of Stewart Street, a grim-looking Alex Shirley reluctantly holding court to a forest of microphones. The station was just a few hundred yards away from the pub and a couple of smart guys slipped out the side door, intent on seeing it for themselves.

  Winter knew pretty much what Shirley was about to say but he still felt strangely nervous waiting to hear the words and the reaction they’d cause. If there were pigeons, this was about to put the cat among them. There was definitely a fan, and the shit was about to hit it.

  The Station Bar televisions were up high, causing necks to strain and mouths to drop in equal measure as the punters heard what Shirley had to say.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending this press conference. As you are all aware, we are continuing to investigate the killings of Kirsty McAndrew and Hannah Healey. There has been a significant development in the case and I wish to share some of that with you this evening. I hope you will understand that there is some information that I cannot pass on for operational reasons. However, I will tell you all that I can.