The long, vertical neon sign that hung outside Klass was like a signpost to his conscience, looking tackier and cheaper than he’d remembered. Much of West Nile Street that surrounded it was long gone just like the sign, torn down and thrown away to make room for something newer. Some things couldn’t be got rid of so easily, though, no matter how hard you tried.
The photographs of Brenda MacFarlane, Isobel Jardine, Mary Gillespie and Christine Cormack were images that he was never likely to forget. He’d mocked Tony often enough for his fascination with photographing the dead, and he’d meant it, but these images would have been his nephew’s rebuttal if he’d known how familiar Danny was with them. Stark black-and-white shots of the four victims, not from a hundred and one angles, as Tony did these days, but just two or three of each.
The lack of colour in the photographs made him feel old and the events seem even longer ago than they were. His memories were all in colour, though, and his brain was pinning the monochrome horror of Isobel Jardine’s bulging eyes onto a Technicolor recollection of the green of Govanhill Park and the red brick of the bandstand wall. Past and present wrapped up in a bow. The grey tones of Mary Gillespie, exposed by the ripping of the short skirt she’d worn, were similarly fastened onto the reds and oranges of an alley wall and the clear blue sky of a July morning long ago.
Being visited by the dead that you’d known was no more peculiar than welcoming the new dead. Beverley Collins and Emma Rutherford were strangers united in garish, inglorious colour. Beverley wore the gaudy hues of a blue-and-green dress on the white of her bones while Emma was dressed in the bloody reds and earthy browns of the recently buried. The forest greens of their shallow graves were peopled by the blues, yellows and whites of attending officers.
There were pictures of Atto, too – not just the familiar post-arrest photographs that had adorned so many newspaper and television features, but also rare casual snaps that had been found in his flat. Of him posing, sickeningly, with a teenager who might have been a neighbour or a student, a smiling, wide-eyed girl. There was no accompanying note to the photograph to say whether she was a victim or had a lucky escape. Long after it was too late to change anything, Danny still found himself praying it was the latter.
Atto didn’t look too different from the way he did now. Same unremarkable features and middling brown hair, a smile that might have been taken for shy if you didn’t know better and dark, soulless eyes that hid secrets. He wore a bland brown jumper whose dull tones were enlivened only by a badge of some sort over his black heart. Mr Anonymous, dressed to be forgotten.
In another, Atto was pictured in the back garden of a house, the semi-detached visible in the background as he and a woman sat raising glasses to the camera on a summer’s day. Atto, dressed in a light-blue shirt and jeans, was smiling more broadly than usual. Danny had no idea whether the woman was smiling or even how old she was, as her face had been scrubbed over in black biro, seemingly obliterated by a furious hand.
There were also images from inside Atto’s flat, taken by the team who had finally arrested him. It was a disconcertingly ordinary home, painstakingly tidy for a single man and no hints of the devil’s lair that it had been. Maybe that was what made it so disturbing: photographs of glasses lined up on a kitchen shelf, a toothbrush still damp in its mug holder and a newspaper neatly folded on a coffee table in front of the television. The message was that it could have been any man’s home; it could have been anyone who did what Atto did.
For Danny though, most haunting of all were the images of Atto’s collection. Officers had found a drawer full of jewellery, twenty-six items in all, including brooches, ladies’ watches, pendants and necklaces. They clearly weren’t his, nor were they claimed by any of the former girlfriends who had reluctantly come forward to admit they’d been in a relationship with the monster. Piece after piece spoke of a former owner from whom it had been taken: bracelets that had been worn on unknown wrists; rings that had been slipped on unidentified fingers; trophies that had been stripped from the dead.
Some of the pieces could have come from more than one victim; others could have been stolen from someone fortunate enough to have survived. That was the straw to be grasped at, the lingering hope that the collection didn’t mean quite all that it seemed. If each piece represented a dead girl, then the world was lost and the Devil had won.
Ritchie Stark was much calmer than his boss. Whereas Barclay ranted and raved and demanded a lawyer, Stark sat quietly and seemingly patiently. He wasn’t best pleased about having to spend a Saturday in the cop shop but he didn’t moan and instead just asked when he’d be interviewed. Narey explained that they had something else to attend to but that they’d get to him as soon as they could. Stark just shrugged resignedly and said nothing.
They left him on his own for as long as they could, occasionally watching unseen as he sat listlessly, until Narey reckoned she couldn’t leave him much longer before he too would begin demanding legal counsel. She and Toshney entered the interview room, Stark looking up expectantly as they did so.
‘Mr Stark, thank you for being so patient. As I explained, it’s been a busy day. Three murders tend to increase the workload. We’ve got a lot to get through and I’m sure you’re as anxious to get on with it as we are. Are you happy to chat or would you like us to get you a lawyer? That may take some time.’
‘No. It’s fine. I’ll talk to you.’
‘Great.’ She turned to Toshney and nodded, he turning on the recording equipment at her signal.
‘I am DS Rachel Narey and also present is DC Fraser Toshney. We are conducting an interview with Ritchie Stark. This interview is being recorded in video and audio. Mr Stark has indicated that he is happy for this interview to proceed without the presence of a lawyer. Is that correct, Mr Stark?’
Stark coughed and announced loudly, ‘Yes.’
‘Thank you for attending Stewart Street police station, Mr Stark. We’ll try to keep this brief as I’m sure you are in a hurry to get out of here.’
Stark looked curious. ‘A hurry? Well, I’ll gladly get out as soon as I can but I’m not in a hurry as such. I just need to get back to the shop.’
‘And what are your plans for tonight?’
‘Um, I’m seeing Faith, my girlfriend. We’re going out. Cinema, I think.’
‘What are you going to see?’
‘I . . . I don’t know. We’ll just see what’s on when we get there. Probably some vampire thing if it’s left to her.’
‘Yeah? You not so keen?’
‘Not really. Not my kind of thing.’
‘You not into all that biting and blood?’
‘No. Guess not.’
‘Is she?’
‘She likes the films, that’s all.’
‘I see. Why do you think you’re in here, Mr Stark?’
He looked confused, maybe thinking that she should be telling him that.
‘Um, I don’t know. Because the girl had her tattoo done at our place, I suppose. I thought I’d told you all I knew, but if there’s anything else . . .’
Narey nodded thoughtfully, looking at him for an age and waiting for a reaction. All she got was more confusion. She picked up her notes and made a show of reading them, even though she knew everything that was written there.
‘So you didn’t do her tattoo and you weren’t in the shop when she had it done. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re sure you didn’t see her in the shop at any other time?’
‘No. I mean yes, I’m sure.’
‘What about when she came in to book her appointment and choose her design?’
‘I didn’t see her.’
‘But you might have been there?’
‘I guess I might but I didn’t see her.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Well, maybe I’m not. But I don’t remember ever seeing her.’
Narey pursed her lips, running her hand through her hair. ‘So it
was just Mr Barclay alone with Kirsty, then, you think. Tell me, did he talk about her after she was in? Maybe after he tattooed her?’
Stark took his time, weighing up his answer, obviously deciding whether or not to say something. ‘Yeah, he may have done. I think he might have mentioned that she was attractive.’
‘May have done or he did?’
‘I think he did. We get a lot of clients. I couldn’t be sure.’
‘Suddenly you can’t be sure about very much, Mr Stark. Was it your impression, from memory, that Mr Barclay was interested in Kirsty McAndrew?’
Stark’s eyes slid over and he breathed out hard. ‘Yes. I think so, yes.’
‘Okay, thank you. I understand from my colleagues that Mr Barclay has a bit of a temper. Is that right?’
Stark looked as if he’d been placed somewhere he didn’t want to be. ‘Sometimes,’ he gave up reluctantly. ‘But so do a lot of people. He wouldn’t have hurt that girl. Any of them. He’s not like that.’
‘Hmm. So he fancied Kirsty McAndrew. He has a violent temper. And on the night she was killed he admits he was blind drunk. Doesn’t look good for him, does it, Mr Stark?’
Stark’s mouth opened and closed again. He said nothing.
‘And yet Mr Barclay has an alibi for the night of the second killing. He says he was with you and your girlfriend when Hannah Healey was killed. And you confirmed that, didn’t you?’
Stark’s head fell forward and he stared at the table in front of him.
‘Didn’t you?’ Narey repeated.
‘Yes.’
‘And was he with you?’
Stark didn’t look up but he shook his head.
‘Could you speak please, Mr Stark? For the benefit of the tape.’
Stark stared contemplatively at the table for an age before clearing his throat. ‘Stevo wasn’t with us. He came to me and asked if I’d say he was. He was just worried that you’d think it was him. He said he was out on the booze again and couldn’t remember what pub he was in at what time. Said it would be better if he just said he was with me and Faith. So I agreed.’
‘You lied to the police, Mr Stark. That’s a very serious offence and you may be charged.’
Stark’s head slumped again before rising in half-hearted defiance. ‘I still don’t think he did it. He was just scared.’
Narey’s face was right in his. ‘He’s got good reason to be scared. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go speak to your friend. Make yourself comfortable, Mr Stark, we may be some time.’
Chapter 51
‘Right, Mr Barclay . . .’ Addison swept through the door of the interview room, catching Stevo Barclay by surprise and speaking before the tattoo artist had registered that he was in the room. ‘Let’s talk.’
‘Look, I told you I—’
‘Mr Barclay, this is James McEwan, your solicitor.’
A short, tubby man clutching a briefcase followed Addison through the door and behind him was DS Andy Teven. The solicitor shook Barclay by the hand and took up a seat next to him, beginning to arrange some papers from the briefcase in front of him.
‘About time,’ Barclay muttered.
‘DI Addison, I’d like some time alone with my client, please.’
‘Yes, of course, Mr McEwan. In a bit. Let’s chat first. Andy, get the tape, will you?’
‘No, I’m sorry I—’
‘This is DI Derek Addison. Being interviewed is Mr Steven Barclay. Also present is DS Andrew Teven and Mr James McEwan, solicitor.’
‘For the record, Detective Inspector, I would like to state my dissatisfaction at the length of time my client has had to wait for legal representation. And that—’
‘Duly noted, Mr McEwan. Thank you. Now, Mr Barclay, can I refer you to witness statements you gave to officers when spoken to after the murders of Kirsty McAndrew and Hannah Healey? You told them that you were drinking heavily on the night Kirsty was killed. Is that correct?’
Barclay looked at his newly appointed solicitor before answering. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And you have little or no recollection of your events of that night?’
‘I know I didn’t kill anyone.’
‘Hmm. And regarding the murder of Hannah Healey, you told officers that on the night in question you were with your work colleague Richard Stark and his girlfriend Faith Foster at their flat. Is that correct?’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘Hmm. I think we have a problem, Mr Barclay. I don’t think you were with Mr Stark and Ms Foster. Are you sticking to your story that you were?’
‘It’s not a story. I was. Ask them.’
Addison spread his arms wide as if enjoying an epiphany. ‘Ah, of course. Why didn’t we think of that? Actually, we did. And do you know what Mr Stark said?’
‘DI Addison, I think I ought to speak to my client at this—’
‘I’ll save you from guessing, Mr Barclay, because your solicitor doesn’t seem to know the answer either. Mr Stark has told us that you weren’t with him that night. That you asked him to lie to the police on your behalf.’
‘That bastard—’
‘Mr Barclay, Mr Barclay.’ The tubby lawyer looked sweaty and agitated. ‘I must caution you not to say anything that—’
Barclay clamped his mouth shut, but the damage had been done.
‘Go on, Stevo. Tell me. Why is Ritchie Stark a bastard? For not keeping his side of the bargain? Letting a pal down?’
Barclay stopped and started, fury building in him, wriggling in his seat and impervious to his lawyer’s attempts at shushing him.
‘You may as well tell me, Stevo. Ritchie’s made a statement. He says you told him you were blind drunk again and needed an alibi.’
‘Bastard! I gave him a job as well.’
‘Hardly a way to repay you, was it? So where were you that night?’
‘DI Addison—’
‘Where were you, Stevo?’
‘I was drunk. I was out my face.’
The solicitor’s head fell into his hands before he threw them up in despair. Barclay again ignored him.
‘I knew you wouldn’t believe me, so I asked Ritchie to cover for me.’
‘You asked him to give you a false alibi. Why did you need one?’
‘I didn’t! I did but . . . I didn’t kill her.’
‘Innocent men don’t need false alibis. You are in serious trouble, Stevo. Did you murder Kirsty McAndrew?’
‘No.’
‘Did you murder Hannah Healey?’
‘No!’
‘Did you murder Ashleigh Fleming?’
‘Who? No!’
‘I don’t believe you, Stevo. You have lied to us. You have tried to cover your tracks. Did you kill those women?’
‘No!’ Barclay was out of his chair, roaring, his eyes wide. Addison sat calmly and watched him.
‘Terrible temper you have, Mr Barclay. Terrible.’
McEwan looked very nervous, his eyes going from his client to the cop. ‘DI Addison, I really must insist—’
‘Of course, Mr McEwan. Why didn’t you say? I think we’ve heard enough from Mr Barclay for the moment. A self-confessed liar who fabricated an alibi for the time of the murder. Let’s take a little break, shall we? Interview suspended.’
DC Fraser Toshney had spent most of the time in the operations room at a bit of a loss, hopping from one half-completed task to the next, opening folders, pulling up spreadsheets, looking at photographs and generally trying to find something worthwhile to do. He had the distinct feeling that there was something there for him; he just didn’t know what it was.
He knew what most of the team thought of him. An arse. He irritated them and they didn’t rate him. He knew he was a better copper than most of them gave him credit for, but showing that to them was another matter. He’d been in the squad for less than two months, dropped straight into one of the biggest murder investigations they might ever tackle. So what was he doing? Trying too bloody hard to fit in
and prove himself.
So he made stupid jokes, he played the idiot. Maybe he was just an idiot. He was worse with Narey, he knew that. Maybe it was just because he fancied her. Maybe it was because she so obviously couldn’t stand his being there. Or because she was always so on the ball that he couldn’t help but feel useless in comparison.
She’d been rattling through task after task with effortless efficiency all afternoon: checking witness statements and ordering more, calling psychologists to test her ‘red’ theory, running profiles from other forces and screening everyone who was on their radar.
He knew that the three necropolis locations were bugging her: she was seeing them as the centre of the investigation but not knowing why. If he could work that out, or even just give her the key that might let it happen, then surely she’d stop thinking of him as a complete waste of space.
So he spent a lot of time online, searching everything he could about the cemeteries, looking for some link, no matter how random or offbeat, that might tie to what was in front of them. What he came up with was mostly a whole load of history.
He learned that the first burial in the newly created Glasgow Necropolis in 1832 was that of a Jew, Joseph Levi. The first Christian burial was a year later, Elizabeth Myles, the stepmother of the park’s superintendent, George Mylne. He knew that 50,000 burials had taken place and that most of the 3,500 tombs were up to 14 feet deep. The tombs at the top had been blasted out of the rock face and there were monuments built by the likes of Alexander ‘Greek’ Thomson and Charles Rennie Mackintosh.
He could tell you that the Southern Necropolis was a rectangle laid out in three sections, those built in 1840, 1846 and 1850. It held the remains of 250,000 people across 21 acres, including Thomas Lipton, the tea man; Agnes Harkness, the heroine of Matagorda; and Greek Thomson the architect. The Western held Sir William Smith, the founder of the Boys’ Brigade, and Will Fyffe, the music-hall entertainer. The Glasgow Necropolis was the final resting place of generations of the Tennent brewing family, all having to be buried facing the Wellpark Brewery at the rear of the cemetery.
Witness the Dead Page 34