'Where was the meeting?'
'In a house in Highburgh Road.'
'She walked from Highburgh Road to Otago Street last night? Some night for a walk.'
'Not many taxis around. Anyway, someone went halfway with her.'
'Who?'
'Lassie did, some girl called Anthea. Anyway, old Maggie was so desperate to be part of something she'd walk across the North Pole if there was a cup of tea and a chat at the end of it.'
'She'd have to be desperate to want your company, sonny.'
'What do you mean by that?'
'Friendly sort of bloke, aren't you?'
'So, I don't like the polis.'
'Spend a lot of time in, do you?'
'None of your business.'
'We'll see about that.'
'Old Maggie been complaining about me?'
'Should she?'
'She doesn't like my language. I tend to profane, but I've kept it clean with you because I only swear at the people I like.'
'She hasn't been making any complaints. She's dead.'
Grant smiled thinly, and Sussock wanted to put his hand across Grant's face. 'So the old biddy's finally bought it. Who did it?'
'How do you know someone did anything, Oliphant?'
'Well, I…'
'Yes?'
'Don't unnerve me, save your cheap tricks for the thickies, cop.'
'I'm waiting, Oliphant.'
'Mr Grant.'
'I'm still waiting.'
'Shit. I mean, would you come asking questions if she'd broken her neck?'
'Might. Old question, Grant. Did she fall or was she pushed?'
'Someone knocked her off?'
'Uh-huh.'
'So why interrogate me?' He pulled on his cigarette.
'Nice head of hair you got there, Mr Grant. Always been that colour, has it?'
'What do you mean?'
'What happened to your forehead?' Sussock touched his own forehead. 'The scratches?'
'Me and this holly bush had a fight.'
'Tell me about the holly bush.'
'Why?'
'Because I asked you nicely.'
'Who killed Margaret Stewart?' He was suddenly alarmed.
'That's what I'm trying to find out.'
'How did she die?'
'Knifed. Very nasty.'
'Was it the headbanger, Slow Tom? Listen, you don't think I…I mean, my hair. I'm not under suspicion, am I?'
'Damn right you are!' snarled Sussock. 'Tell me about the holly bush.'
'I tripped on the ice a couple of days back and fell headfirst into a shrubbery.'
'Do you expect me to believe that?'
'No, you people believe what you want to believe.'
'Why did you kill her, Oliphant?'
'I didn't kill fucking nobody.'
'You got an alibi: for last night—after the meeting?'
'No. But that means fucking nothing.'
'Profaning, is it? Does that mean I'm growing on you, Oliphant?'
'Fuck off.'
'You have a knife, do you?'
'No. Well I have…a camping knife. I go hiking.'
'Get your coat, Ollie—is that what your friends call you? You and me are going for a chat in a nice cosy pigpen. We'll do our best to make you feel at home.'
'I'm not going anywhere.'
'Yes you are, you're assisting the police with their enquiries like any public-spirited citizen. You're doing it entirely of your own volition. Get your coat.'
'You have to be joking. I'm not shifting.'
'You want me to arrest you?'
'Yes, I want you to arrest me. Then I can sue for a wrongful arrest.'
'Have you got it wrong, Oliphant!'
'Mr Grant. No, I got it right. If I go with you of my own free will there's no limit to the time you can keep me in there, beating me up, kicking me to hell in the cells. You arrest me, pig, and charge me, then we both know the game we're playing.'
Sussock sighed. Grant had a point, he had to concede that, but the boy also had a lot to lose. 'Let me spell it out for you, Grant,' said Sussock, patiently. 'We arrest you because you fit the bill and you can't provide an alibi for last night. Then we charge you with murder. Then you spend the weekend in the cells, then it's the Sheriff Court on Monday and you'll be remanded, and don't even pray for bail; further appearances before the Sheriff, further remand, then it's the trial, if you're innocent then you go free, if not you go up for life. If you can't tell me where you were after ten last night…'
'I can tell you.'
'Where?'
'Here.'
'Alone?'
'All alone.'
'Not good enough, Mr Grant. How about the nights of the 16th, 17th and 18th of January?'
'Do you know, I can't remember?'
'Anyway, if you come with me we'll scratch your back, nice ride home in a car, for instance.'
'If you let me go.'
'Aye. If we let you go. Listen, you'll never sue us for wrongful arrest on this one and either way you're coming to have a chat with my governor. So why don't you make it easy on yourself?'
'I've a lecture at three.'
'Are you coming or am I going to arrest you?'
'You're going to arrest me.'
Sussock pulled his radio out of his coat pocket and requested a car in connection with an arrest. He sat down, Oliphant Grant sat down opposite him and lit another cigarette. The two men sat staring at each other and Sussock noticed that the skin on Grant's hands was wrinkled and mottled like those of an old woman. Oliphant Grant was twenty-two and fate hadn't been kind to him.
Two constables arrived ten minutes after Sussock had radioed in. Sussock stood as they entered the room. 'Oliphant Grant,' he said. 'I arrest you for the murder of Margaret Stewart on or about the night of the 21st of January. You are not obliged to say anything but anything you do say will be taken down and may be given in evidence.'
Grant sat silently and motionless. The two constables picked him up and bundled him down the stairs into the area car. Sussock got in the front seat.
Sussock knocked on Donoghue's door and walked into his office. His jaw dropped. Sam Payne took the headphones from his head. 'Incident room,' he said with a smile. Sussock found Donoghue sitting on the table leafing through the post-mortem report on Margaret Stewart. Sussock told him about Oliphant Grant.
'Where is he?' Donoghue put down the report. The duty constable looked up with interest.
'Cells,' said Sussock.
Oliphant Grant was sitting on the bunk with his knees held together. There was a toilet without a seat in the corner.
'I want my trousers,' said Grant.
'Sorry,' said Donoghue. 'It's in case you hang yourself. We have to take care of you. We'd've had your tie if you'd been wearing one.'
'So when does the heavy stuff start?'
'Don't know what you mean, son,' said Donoghue.
'You know, lead shot inside hose-pipes, kneeling on the spleen.'
'You've been reading too many story books, son.'
'He's been cautioned,' said Sussock.
'Excellent. I like to do things by the book. You're allowed one phone call, Grant.'
'Who do I call?'
'I thought you knew the rules,' Sussock said with malice.
'Anyone you like, Grant,' said Donoghue. 'But most people call their solicitor.'
'I don't have one.'
'We have a list upstairs. Do you want to make a phone call?'
Grant nodded.
'Sergeant, please give the prisoner his trousers and escort him upstairs to the front desk where he will make one phone call to a solicitor which he will choose from the list you will make available to him.'
Sussock said, 'On your feet, Grant.' He flung the man's trousers at him.
Donoghue didn't like cells and he stepped outside when Grant had left. He stood next to a young constable, but moved off when he noticed the young man fidgeting nervously, and waited at the entr
ance to the cell corridor. Grant returned, escorted by Sussock. He was looking sullen and arrogant. Donoghue heard Sussock yelling at Grant to get his trousers off and when he saw them being flung into the corridor he entered the cell.
'What did your solicitor say?' asked Donoghue.
'He asked me if I was guilty.'
'What did you say?'
'What do you think I said, piggy?'
'I think you probably said yes, and if you said no then I'd say you were lying.'
'He said no,' said Sussock.
'Did he, indeed?'
'Why did you say no?' asked Sussock.
'Why the hell do you think I said no?'
'Like killing, do you?'
'Flies and the like, aye.'
'Tell us what you were doing last night after the meeting.'
'Charge me, pig.'
'Patience. We have to question you first. Don't rush your fences, laddie.'
'Like a game, is it?' sneered Grant.
'Oh, aye,' said Sussock, clenching his fist.
Donoghue tapped Sussock on his arm and indicated the corridor. They walked out of the cell. Grant started laughing and making an oink, oink sound.
Down the corridor, away from the cell, Donoghue said, 'He's not our man.'
'How no'?'
'Wrong voice. Even allowing for accidental or deliberate distortion on the tape, he's not the same guy that sent us a rendering of his song. He's innocent anyway—he doesn't feel guilty. I can sense guilt, Ray, no matter how a person is acting or what he's saying, calm or panic-stricken, the guilt comes out. Grant is not our man.'
'He fits the description, he's a right-hander with light-coloured hair and there's scratches on his forehead. And he can't give an alibi.'
'And he's got a king-sized chip on his shoulder. Careful how you go in there, Ray, he wants you to lay one on him. He wants to be victim to some police brutality; he's doing his best to get under your skin.'
'He's succeeding.'
'Don't let him. You'll just make him a martyr. Have a constable in the cell with you, remember he's there, that'll be enough to stop you bouncing Grant's head off the wall. You have enough to keep him, Ray, and I'll back you as far as you want to take it. You have to follow it through, anyway, until he realizes he's going to lose his game and he gives you an alibi. He'll have one and we can't let him go until we get one that can be verified.'
'Little bastard.'
'Easy, Ray. Did you tell him what you were enquiring about?'
'We got round to it eventually.'
'So he knows we're after Slow Tom?'
'Yes.'
'Did you ask him for alibis for the other nights?'
'Yes.'
'He couldn't give an alibi?'
'He wouldn't. It wasn't so much what he said, more his manner.'
'I've noticed. Anyway, you've won. We haven't got the headbanger but you've a cast-iron case for wasting police time. Keep that at the back of your mind, Ray, and don't let him get the better of you.'
'He won't. Not now.'
'Let him stew for a couple of hours, Ray. Go and take a rest before you go out again, you're probably dropping. You out with the delectable Elka tonight?'
'If I don't fall asleep.' Sussock smiled his appreciation and called the constable out of the cell. He locked Oliphant Grant inside and went to the canteen. He fell asleep at a table with his head resting on his arms.
In the cell next to Grant was a man called Owen Morgans. He was fifty-three, he came from Senghennydd and had lived as a sales representative in Glasgow for three years. Owen Morgans was whimpering. Upstairs Elka Willems and a fourteen-year-old girl called Tracy Mortimer were talking about Owen Morgans.
'There weren't any witnesses, Tracy. How do we know you're telling the truth?'
'I am, I am.' Her handkerchief could have been wrung dry.
'Girls who've been attacked don't calmly follow the man and take the number of his car.'
'I did it because I thought you'd help me.'
'He could get into serious trouble, Tracy, he hasn't done this before.'
'He's probably not been caught before.'
'Tell me how it happened.'
'I've told you three times.' Tracy Mortimer blew her nose.
'Tell me four times.' Elka Willems sat back in her chair and showed no emotion.
'It happened so quickly.'
'We have all day. Have you seen the man before?'
'No, never.'
That might be lie No. 1 of an adolescent fantasy. Owen Morgans sold a quarter of a million pounds' worth of office equipment to Tracy Mortimer's father and had been invited to the Mortimer household for drinks. Tracy had been there, he said, it was just a tale told by a schoolgirl, he said, she may as well have fingered her dentist or maths teacher.
But alone in the cell he began to wring his hands.
'You've never seen him before?'
'No.'
'Think!'
Tracy Mortimer began to cry again. When her father had brought Owen Morgans home it had been late at night. Tracy had been riding all day and had put in extra hours at the stable, she was tired and about to go to bed. She might have said a bleary-eyed 'hello' without really looking at Owen Morgans, she might never have seen him at all, or she might have seen him and taken a strong fancy to him because he was not an unsightly figure of a man by any means. Owen Morgans's highly successful life might be about to be ruined because of Tracy Mortimer's wishful thinking.
'Tracy, I'm waiting.'
'What for?'
'For you to tell me what happened.'
'I can't, I can't.'
'You will!'
'I've told you already, I thought you'd help me, I thought the police were my friends.'
'Tracy.'
'All right, all right…' she blew her nose again. 'I told you, I was walking home, about three o'clock, I'd been at the stables with Veronica, I walked through the woods between Bearsden and Milngavie.'
'The woods would be thick with snow, Tracy. You walked home on the road and this is a pack of lies.'
'No!' Tracy Mortimer thumped the table with two clenched fists, her cheeks shook. 'No, no, we'd been riding in the woods, the paths were trampled clear and it wasn't snowing. There wasn't any snow until today.'
That was true. She'd said that the last time and Elka Willems hadn't been able to shake her.
'Why weren't you at school?'
'I told you, I told you. I was dogging, truanting…'
'I know what dogging means.'
'I was dogging to go to the stables. Some of us do it every few weeks. We get bored with school. My parents both work and leave before I do and if I'm back before them I change into my uniform and they don't know any different. I rang up the school and said I'm Veronica's mother and that she's ill and Veronica did the same for me.'
'Why did you wait until this morning to tell your mother about it?'
'I don't know, I don't know! Last night I went to bed. I said I was tired. I had a nightmare and started crying. My mother came to my room and I told her about it. I showed her the piece of paper with the car number and she phoned the police.'
That was plausible. Reaction delayed by shock, and Mrs Mortimer corroborates the story.
'So you were walking back through the woods?'
She nodded and pressed her handkerchief against her nose. 'I was about halfway home. There was somebody behind me, I think he must have followed me all the way from the stables…'
'Why?'
'Well, because, like I said ten times, there were…I didn't see any footprints going off the track and into the woods as I walked up the path.'
'All right.' Tracy Mortimer couldn't be shaken. But it still wasn't clinched.
'I heard a branch break behind me but I didn't turn round, I wanted to run but I was afraid to, for some reason I couldn't run. I did start to walk faster. I've told you all this.'
'Tell me again.'
'Please, do I have to?'
/> 'Yes.'
'Well…he must have come up fast because the next thing I knew he's running up behind me, I could hear his breath, panting like a horse, I turned and his coat was open and his thing…'
'Thing?'
'You know, between his legs/
'It's got a name, Tracy. Come on, you've managed it before.'
'Penis.'
'Good girl.'
'Well, it was there and he pushed me on my back into the snow at the side of the track with his hands round my throat so I could breathe a bit but not scream and his other hand tried to pull my riding-trousers down. I was struggling but he was heavy.'
'How did you know it was who you said it was?'
'I just got a glimpse, I thought it was him, that's why I followed him down the track when he was running away. I thought I had to see where he went so the police could catch him. I saw him get into a car, an estate car and I wrote down the number.'
'That was a calm thing for someone who's just been attacked to do, to say nothing of great presence of mind for one so young.'
'Well, I did it.'
'And you just happened to have a pen and notebook on you?'
'Yes; no. I had a biro and some old cloakroom ticket that had been in my jacket pocket for years.'
'But you didn't see him clearly?'
'No.'
'Not clear enough to identify him?'
She shook her head. 'He was pushing my head back most of the time, I could just see the sky through the trees.'
'Go on.'
'It's not easy.'
'Go on!'
'Well…he pulled my trousers down a bit but he couldn't get far, I'd crossed my legs, you see, then he sat on me, further up and shoved his hand inside my vest, squeezing really hard…' she blew her nose. 'Then he pulled his coat up around him and pulled my head up inside his coat and his thing, penis, was in my face…'
'Was it erect?'
'Erect?'
'Limp or stiff?'
'Stiff, hard, I thought I was going to be sick inside the coat, the smell…'
'All right, Tracy, that's all, it's over.' Elka Willems reached across the table and squeezed Tracy Mortimer's wrist and pushed a box of tissues over to the girl. Human beings have five senses, some say six, but only fantasize about four. An unsolicited mention of smell was what Elka Willems was waiting for. 'All right, Tracy,' she said again. 'It's over, I'll write this down and you'll have to sign it and then you can go home. Your mum's still outside.'
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