Deep and Crisp and Even

by Peter Turnbull

  'No doubt about who did this, sir?' said Sussock.

  'You know, Ray, I almost wish that the tape wasn't a hoax,' Donoghue mused. 'At least then we'd know he's only got four more to go after this. Ray, this is five murders committed by the same man in nine days and we don't know a single solitary thing about him, Ray, not one lousy thing to set him apart from all the other guys in Glasgow who have light-coloured hair and wear donkey jackets. We're going to find the same thing under her fingernails; see, one of them has been split; she put up a struggle, that coffee table is over, and that poker's away from its fitting, but we are going to be just as much in the dark as we were nine days ago. Forensic will tell us the attacker was male with light-coloured hair and that his blood group is AB-negative.'

  'He must have been big to overpower her,' said Ray Sussock. 'That's a new indication. I mean, she's not a small lassie, and it looks like she had the poker to defend herself.'

  'Probably. I wouldn't put money on it. No sign of forced entry,' Donoghue glanced at the windows, 'she probably knew him.'

  'That's what we thought about Margaret Stewart. It didn't get us very far. Either he knew her or he's got a neat way of getting into people's houses and enticing secretaries on to building sites. The attack in people's homes is a new one. It's bloody frightening; who is this guy, Ray?'

  Ray Sussock shook his head. The dead girl reminded him of Elka Willems. What if she had been knifed? He felt sick. Who was this guy?

  'Who found her, Ray, the cleaner, you say?'

  'Aye,' Sussock nodded. There was a faraway sound in his voice.

  Ellen Murphy was forty-five. She had a red scarf round her head and wore a patterned blue smock and blue slacks. She had tried to drink a cup of sweetened tea which King had made her, but she couldn't lift it to her lips because her hands were shaking too much. She settled for a Three Fives cigarette and King struck the match for her.

  'I'm sorry; it must be hard for you, Mrs Murphy; but you say you came in and found her on the settee?'

  The woman nodded. 'Oh, the poor wee lassie, she was so young and attractive.'

  'You have a key to the house, Mrs Murphy?'

  'Aye.' She pulled on the cigarette and took the smoke deep into her lungs. 'I cleaned for old Mr Balfour before he died… Miss Smith kept me on. She even paid a retainer while the house was being done.'

  'Do you come in every day?'

  'Three mornings a week. Sometimes she'd ask me to do a day if she was going to have a party and I'd also do a day after the party. She had plenty of friends. The men swarmed round her, but I don't think she had a regular man-friend. Sometimes when I called in the morning there would be another car in the driveway and I'd never go upstairs then, but I never saw the same car twice. I think she was a lonely girl, sir.'

  'Sir.' King winced.

  'What time did you arrive this morning, Mrs Murphy?'

  'Eight; no, a bit later. Quarter past eight, sir. Around that time.'

  'There was nothing outside the house to make you think something was wrong?'

  'No, I was the first person to walk up the drive since the snow had stopped falling. I let myself in and saw Miss Smith lying there. I don't remember much after that. I'm sorry, sir.'

  When the police had arrived they had found Mrs Murphy sitting on the stairs with the telephone receiver still in her hand.

  'OK, love,' said King, and patted her hand. 'We're going to take you to the hospital now. This lady is going to drive you there.'

  'No, my workl Monday's the day I do downstairs, it gets filthy over the weekend. I can't go yet.'

  'I want you to go, hen,' said King.

  'You want me to go, sir?'

  King nodded and smiled.

  'If you want me to go then, sir…'

  King nodded to Elka Willems, who took Mrs Murphy by the arm and gently guided her down the trampled snow of the driveway to where an unmarked car waited.

  In the drawing-room the photographer handed a bundle of Polaroid prints to Donoghue and then turned to help his assistant to pack their gear away. 'The rest will be on your desk in two hours, sir,' said the photographer.

  Tine,' Donoghue grunted. He looked at the photographs and reflected that they would be the last photographs ever taken of the legendary Simone, alias Susan Smith, late of Beeston, Notts. Turning to Bothwell he said, 'Anything?'

  Bothwell stood by the fireplace, short-cropped ginger hair, National Health spectacles; he looked to Donoghue more like an awkward fifth-former than a forensic chemist. 'Quite a lot, sir,' he stammered. 'Well, about six sets so far, I think, but one will be hers, though.'

  'Evidently,' said Sussock.

  Donoghue just sighed. 'Carry on,' he said, and, turning to Sussock, 'Let's take a sniff upstairs, Ray.'

  To Donoghue's taste the bedroom was too big and the ceiling was too high; it was anything but a cosy, homely room. Donoghue would get lost in this bedroom. The wardrobes were set in the wall and the carpet was a vast expanse of deep white pile, the bottom of the curtains lay on the floor two feet away from the wall, and the bed itself was a large oval piece of furniture with lace awnings and lemon-coloured silk duvet and sheet. There was a lemon-coloured dressing table set in the recess between two wardrobes and on the mirror, written in lipstick in a small, almost unintelligible hand, was THIS Is FOR LlSSU.

  'Better get Bothwell up here,' said Donoghue. 'And the photographers before they go.'

  Sussock turned to go downstairs.

  'Where do you think she kept her address book, Ray?' Ray Sussock left the bedroom. He already felt tired.

  The address book was tracked down in the kitchen. Richard King found it and noticed that the kitchen seemed to be the only part of the house which reflected life, which seemed to have been lived in, it was the only room where there was something unwashed, where there was something waiting to be attended to. It seemed to King to be the only place in the house where Simone could be Susan Smith, free of her role, free to be herself. The address book was an exercise book with a snoopy sticker on the front and it was found in the drawer which contained the carving knives.

  King took the address book to Donoghue, who cross-referred it with her diary which was kept on the telephone table in the hall. According to the diary she had spent the previous night with Jeremy, who had picked her up at 8 for dinner. There was only one Jeremy in the address book, his last name was Alexander and he had an address in G12. 'On your way, Ray,' said Donoghue.

  Donoghue looked back over Susan Smith's last month of life. It had mostly consisted of what she had referred to as 'engagement (studio)' or 'engagement (location)', though he was at a loss as to what possible locations could be offered by the west of Scotland in the grip of winter, unless she was modelling Arctic survival gear, which doubtless would show the sex appeal in her eyes. Her evenings had mostly been spent being taken out to dinner by 'Ron' or 'James' or 'Hamish' or 'Iain', all of whom would be found in her address book and interviewed. He looked forward. The entries for that day, January 25th, read:

  10.00—pick up air tickets.

  Afternoon—pack. Inform police, leave Mrs Murphy's money.

  7.30—Flight from Abbotsinch.

  The days of the next two weeks had been scored out; at the top of each page she had written 'Morocco Engagement'. In the address book Donoghue came across the entry 'Mum and Dad' and took a note of the address against it.

  Jeremy Alexander was a photographer who had rooms on Great Western Road, east of the Byres Road intersection. His 'rooms' were large and there were a lot of them; Sussock wasn't sure, but he reckoned about eight in all. One door had DARK ROOM printed on it, another seemed to be a store room for equipment, a third an office. One was a studio. Sussock hadn't been in a studio before, but he knew that Jeremy Alexander was a photographer and so he presumed that the room with the black Japanese cameras on tripods, with the table top arranged with lenses, with the battery of lights, with odd bits of furniture, like a hammock, and assorted plants like palms in a r
ow against the wall, was in fact a studio.

  Jeremy Alexander was the sort of man who, if he chose not to look through a lense and press the shutter button, could have made an equally successful career on the other side of the camera. He was tall and slim, he had a smooth and balanced face which was pleasing to the eye in the way in which a woman's face is pleasing. He seemed to know it, and Sussock detected a badly suppressed smile and a faint look of contempt as Jeremy Alexander swung the door wide on the policeman. It served to make Sussock feel even more old, overweight and bedraggled. He couldn't even give Alexander a hard time, because the photographer's hair was black.

  The photographer inspected Sussock's ID in a leisurely manner and then beckoned him into the flat. He walked ahead of Sussock and led him into the studio. As they entered the room a red-haired girl glided past them. She walked with her heels raised, evidently used to walking with something under them, even if it was only centrally heated air. She didn't look at Sussock. She was wearing a white towelling robe: Sussock knew there was nothing underneath.

  Tive minutes, darling,' said Jeremy Alexander. He was wearing a red T-shirt and had a light-meter slung around his neck. The heating in the flat was turned up high, the lights in the studio made it even hotter, and Sussock was draped in damp clothes; he felt the weight on his shoulders and the beads of sweat begin to run off his brow and down his spine. In a few moments he would be stepping back out into the winter. He knew he was in for a cold.

  'So what can I do for you?' said the photographer in a tone which let Sussock know he was being done a big favour. Jeremy Alexander slipped his slim hips on to the table and lit a Fribourg and Treyer.

  'It concerns a lady called Susan Smith,' said Sussock icily. 'I believe you know her?'

  'Do I?' He blew a thin plume of smoke which didn't quite reach Sussock's face. 'Susan Smith? The name isn't familiar, officer, though I may have her on my books.'

  'You may know her as Simone?'

  'Oh, Simone, of course I know Simone. I'm expecting her some time today. In fact, when you rang the door bell I expected to find her delectable form. I can't say that you're a good swap, Mr Sissock.'

  'Sussock.'

  'Oh,' said Jeremy Alexander.

  'When did you see her last?'

  'Why?'

  'Just answer the question, please.'

  Alexander shrugged his left shoulder. 'Last night. We had dinner. It was a celebration.'

  'Celebration?'

  'Of our first contract. Morocco, don't you know?'

  'No, I don't. Tell me.'

  'She gave her last agent the boot,' said Alexander with forced patience. 'He tried to hold her to their contract but she sat in front of the camera with her tongue out. He got the message. I met her in a London night club and she said she reckoned she was good enough, but she wasn't getting to the top. I mean the top. I told her about the new North and said she could carve Scotland up. Nothing, but nothing, could touch her. We signed a contract, I got a straight ten per cent. We did a lot of modelling work, and we shot her nude, it's good enough for the top-flight glossies. She stands to net eighty thousand pounds, that's eight Gs for me. Few weeks ago I worked her first international contract with Emile Celave. You know him?'

  Sussock confessed he didn't know Emile Celave, nor had Sussock heard of him in any context whatsoever.

  'Mmm,' said Alexander. 'Well, he's one of the best. He was shooting her in the coming season's beachwear in Morocco.'

  'Cold, this time of year.'

  'Simone stands to get a few goose-bumps but the sea is blue and the sky is bluer, even in January. It looks OK on celluloid. You've also got the advantage of deserted beaches. Even better on celluloid.'

  'Did you take her home?'

  'Last night? Uh-huh. We had dinner to celebrate her going away and then I took her home. We ate at Fabrizio's. Why?'

  'Because she's dead.'

  The man's jaw dropped. He gripped the table top with both hands. The cigarette smouldered away in his right hand. He said, 'The silly cow.'

  'You don't seem too upset.'

  'Upset! Christ, man you don't know how upset I am. What about my contract? Dead…'

  'Tell me about taking her home.'

  'Sod that, what am I going to do? She was my future.'

  'When did you arrive at her house?'

  'Why is that important? I haven't got anything to replace her. I mean anything.' His voice dropped to a whisper. 'That female there, she's the nearest I've got and she hasn't got the right proportions. She'll turn heads in Sauchiehall Street but she doesn't have what it takes to be in front of a camera. We're doing a composition for a down-market men's mag and she's getting a reduced payment 'cos I strung her along and said it was her entry into the big time. That's the level I'm down to.'

  'What time?' There was an edge to Sussock's voice.

  'What time? Who cares what time?'

  'I care what time.'

  'I can't even sell her nude slides—they won't print posthumously. Did you know that? I could have made eight, maybe ten thousand.'

  'Alexander, we could do this the hard way.'

  'I could sell down-market…'

  'Christ's sake!'

  OK, OK'

  'What time did you take her home?'

  'Early, why?'

  'Because she was killed just after she entered her house. What time would that have been?'

  'Ten-thirty. Bit later, probably. Early, anyway. She had to be up in the morning. What shall I do now, take wedding photographs?'

  'That's your problem. Did you go in with her?'

  'Just inside.'

  'Did you see anybody?'

  'No. I followed her in after she bent down and opened the door.'

  'She bent down?'

  'She had a lovely bum. Even under a fur coat she had a lovely bum. Her key was under the mat.'

  'Under the mat!'

  'Would hardly credit it, would you? And she had to dig it out.'

  'She kept the key under the mat?'

  'In front of the door, under the snow was a mat. Under the mat was a key. The key fitted the lock of the door.'

  'Was the snow disturbed when you reached the door?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did you reach the door together?'

  'No. I had to negotiate a snowdrift. The car… anyway, when I got to the door she was already in the house. That's why the snow was disturbed when I got there.'

  'Was the snow disturbed when she got there?'

  'Can't say.'

  'How long did you stay with her?'

  'Couple of minutes.'

  'Go anywhere in the house?'

  'Hall. Through to the kitchen. Noticed she seemed to like the kitchen. Funny, you'd think she'd want to get away from all that domesticity thing,'

  'And you didn't see anything?'

  'I told you once.'

  'You didn't hear anything as you were walking away?'

  'No.'

  'She was fully dressed, outdoor clothes I mean, when she was killed. She couldn't have been in the house more than a couple of minutes before she was attacked, and we think she put up a struggle. You certain you didn't see or hear anything?'

  'Like I said, man. Listen, what about my future? I had the big time in my hands… Who did it?'

  'The headbanger.'

  'Slow Tom?'

  'Well, you could say that.'

  'What do you mean by that?'

  'You'll find out soon enough.'

  'Who is this guy?'

  'If we knew that we wouldn't be here stopping your reentry into the glittering world of showbiz. Think back, Alexander.'

  'I'm thinking.'

  'Hard!'

  'Listen. I parked the car and walked up her driveway.'

  'How many sets of footprints in the snow leading to her door?'

  'One. Hers. It was snowing hard. By the time she had reached the door the prints she had made on the roadside had disappeared. I've never seen snow like it.' He drew on his c
igarette. Sussock noticed his hand was shaking. 'Anyway, I followed her in; I hardly saw anything, my head was down against the snow. I went into the house, through to the kitchen where she was. I stayed for two minutes. I pecked her on the cheek once, you know, we ■ ia strictly professional relationship. She said thanks the evening and what time should she bring her car round? I was going to look after her car for the fortnight, get it serviced, you know. So I said it was my pleasure and any time after ten-thirty. Then I left and pulled the door shut behind me. I saw and heard nothing unusual. The mat was standing against the wall. I put it back and went into the snow.'

  The mat?'

  'She kept the key under it. I told you.'

  'Yes, yes,' said Sussock to himself. 'That explains how he got in.'

  'Good. That's your problem solved. So what about mine?'

  'Call round Sunday, we'll see what we can find in the poor-box.'

  On the stairs Sussock felt the sweat on his brow and between his shoulderblades begin to freeze. By the time he reached the close mouth he could feel the first trace of shivering. On the street he joined the line of people walking near the walls. The other line was walking near the gutter. The day had brought a watery sun and the sun was causing a thaw. During the morning snow slipped off the roofs and crashed sixty feet to the ground to lie in a long moraine down the centre of the pavement. Sussock walked between the long mound of snow and the shop fronts; he was shivering and his legs began to feel weak.

  At 10.30 a.m. Malcolm Montgomerie was loping down Byres Road with a copy of the Daily Record under his arm. He had just been in telephone contact with Donoghue who had told him about Susan Smith, alias Simone. He had recovered from his Sunday morning hangover (which had lasted well into Sunday afternoon) and he could now look at the Rubaiyat without feeling sick. He would be out for a bevvy the night, but right then he suddenly had things to do. Right then he was acting on suspicion.

  Right then there was a man walking in front of him. The man was wearing a kaftan, he had long golden hair and was carrying a guitar. Montgomerie pulled his collar up against the cold and plunged his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and increased his pace until he was twenty feet behind the man, then slowed and matched the man's pace. The man had a slow, casual walk, his head was high and he seemed to be savouring the air. Some air to savour, wispy snow and windblown drops of melting ice. His kaftan wasn't any cheap imitation, it was heavy and thick and swayed gently from side to side as he walked. He went into the University Cafe. Montgomerie waited in case the man was only buying cigarettes, but when he didn't reappear Montgomerie too entered the cafe.