Deep and Crisp and Even

by Peter Turnbull

  (1) Body that of young male of European extraction. Apparent age eleven years.

  (2) Rigor mortis established. Clinical signs of early decomposition noticed on extremities.

  (3) Isolated pinpoint contusions to neck. Indicate strangulation.

  (4) Sock found lodged in trachea.

  (5) Tearing of anal tissue. Excessive haemorrhaging in anal area.

  (6) Contusions to buttocks, lower lumbar region, left shoulder blade.

  (7) Abrasions to chest, knees and forehead.

  (8) Time of death approximately four days prior to body being examined. Cold weather arrested rate of decomposition. Was subject to non-accidental death. Was sexually assaulted. Death caused by strangulation and asphyxiation. Blood in anal region indicates assault before death or up to thirty minutes after.

  D. Reynolds Pathologist Richard King drove out to Partick. The roads were deep in slush, snow fell lazily but relentlessly in the still air. Behind him was a transit van in which were two policemen of mountainous proportions. King didn't think he'd need them, but was comforted by their presence.

  He pulled up outside the close in which the McPhersons lived and glanced up the street to the McAlpine household. Their curtains were shut, as were their neighbours' curtains, a mark of respect for the bereaved and the departed. He was pleased they were shut, it reduced the chances of the McAlpines witnessing the arrest. Glassel Road would know about Jamie McPherson soon enough; King just wanted a quick and uncomplicated arrest.

  He went to the door alone and knocked on it, twice. It was opened by Sonia McPherson, sallow and white, who eyed him suspiciously. From the living-room came the sound of a cartoon show on television. So early in the morning for television.

  4 Is your brother in, Sonia?' asked King.

  'Aye.'

  The television was turned down.

  'Who is it?' A rough male voice yelled from the living-room, and then began coughing.

  'Man for Jamie.' Sonia turned and shouted down the corridor, but kept her hand on the door.

  'C'min.' The man yelled in the midst of coughing.

  Sonia let her hand slip from the door and stepped aside. King walked down the corridor and into the living-room. The fire was banked high, the old man sat in a high chair and heaved into a handkerchief. In the corner of the room a muted Bugs Bunny ran into a rock face. Jamie McPherson lay on a sleeping-bag, he was smoking a cigarette and on the floor at his side was a half-drunk cup of tea. He looked at King, curious, frightened. In the sleeping bag he looked like a girl.

  King felt something rise in him. He checked it. He told himself that this was going to be smooth and non-violent, his ideal; like the arrest of the boys who were stripping lead from the roof of Royston Baptist Chapel.

  'Hi, Jamie,' he said.

  'Mr King.'

  'We found the boy, Jamie, young Ronnie McAlpine, and we know about the others.'

  The room was silent. Sonia and the old man looked at Jamie McPherson with wide eyes.

  'I didn't want to kill him, Mr King, not any of them. But they wouldn't keep quiet. I kept asking him for days, just to come for a walk with me, but he wouldn't. I waited for him outside the club and took him with me. I had the lend of a van. After prison, I mean, I had to do it to someone else. . .'

  'Get your clothes on, Jamie,' said King.

  The girl started to cry. The man tried to say something, but he could only cough. Bugs Bunny chewed a carrot and the television screen said, 'That's all, folks.' Donoghue's day started in the Glasgow Sheriff Court at 149 Ingram Street. He had always felt the building to be grim and claustrophobic and he was always anxious to reduce his time there to a minimum. That morning he was giving evidence in the trial of Toby McCann. The hearing was pleasingly short; McCann had entered a guilty plea which was accepted and he was remanded for three weeks for reports. He was taken to the cells to await transport to Longriggend. Donoghue rose, bowed to the Sheriff, and left the building to walk across the city to P Division. He knew that young McCann would spend the next three weeks dressed in blue overalls being marched everywhere. He would mature rapidly.

  That day Donoghue received two telephone calls. Both upset him and one annoyed him. The first call was taken shortly after 11 a.m.

  'Gentleman by the name of Payne on the line, sir,' said the constable on the switchboard. 'Wants to speak to you.'

  'Put him on, please,' said Donoghue, and after the clicking of the line said, 'Sam, hello, what can I do for you?'

  'Hello, Inspector. I think I've found Lissu for you.'

  Donoghue's heart stopped. He picked up his pen.

  'Where?' he asked.

  'Devon.'

  'Devon?'

  'It's a beautiful county.'

  'I know. Where in Devon?'

  'Exeter.'

  'Do you have an address?'

  'No.'

  'How did you find him?' Donoghue was by now more curious about the lack of urgency in Sam Payne's voice than he was excited at the prospect of receiving invaluable information.

  'Through a friend of mine, Inspector. I told him about Lissu and he said it sounded Oriental. He asked a friend of his who's at Exeter University. This guy at Exeter is a Chemistry teacher by trade, but he just happens to be an expert in Chinese history. Ancient Chinese history, that is.'

  Donoghue thought he detected a faint grudge in Sam Payne's voice. He hoped he was wrong.

  'Anyway, this guy phoned up this morning and tells us that Lissu is probably spelled L-i, one word, capital S-s-u, second word. Li-Ssu, you see, two words.'

  'Go on,' said Donoghue scribbling.

  'Li-Ssu was the chief Minister of the Emperor Chi'in and he trod the boards around 230 BC. Anyway, Li-Ssu spent a lot of time destroying the cultures of other dynasties. He was a bit of a Goebbels in his day.'

  'Trust you to come up with a Nazi, Sam.'

  'Speaking of which, would you help us out, Inspector?'

  'If I can.'

  'We have meetings, we plan, we try to keep it secret, but the law's always one step ahead of us. Do you operate phone taps on political organizations, Inspector?'

  'Sam, I don't know, and I couldn't tell you if I did know what the South Yorkshire Police do.'

  'Don't expect you could, Mr Donoghue. Well, I'll see you around.'

  The tone in Sam Payne's voice was stronger and Donoghue knew that Sam Payne was telling him something. He was telling him that their collaboration was over, that once again they were on opposite sides of the fence. Donoghue wanted to say, 'Wait, Sam. I don't think that way, all police are not like that,' but it all seemed so useless. It seemed that Sam Payne wanted him in that role and Donoghue could do nothing about it.

  'So long, Sam,' he said, and put the receiver down. He felt a sense of something lost.

  He recorded the content of the telephone conversation in the file and from the file he removed a photograph of the mirror in Susan Smith's bedroom. The photograph was in close-up and clearly showed the words 'This is for Lissu.' He slipped the photograph into an envelope, lit his pipe and left the office, to keep an appointment he had made with Mr Simpson of the Applied Psychology Department of Glasgow University. He was heavy-hearted; the telephone conversation with Sam Payne had upset him.

  'I should have done this earlier, sir,' said Donoghue. 'Even though we only found this yesterday. I should have approached you yesterday.' He was sitting in front of Simpson's desk. Simpson had a small office which was untidy, and cluttered. It offended Donoghue's sense of orderliness. Donoghue took the photograph from the envelope and handed it to Simpson. 'The samples you first saw, Doctor Simpson, proved to be the work of a hoaxer; everything you said about him proved to be correct. He went up before the Sheriff this morning.'

  'Really?' Simpson looked up, he had a wide, puffy face.

  'Yes, sir. He was young and immature like you indicated. He was remanded for three weeks for reports before sentencing.'

  'What will happen to him?'

  'He'll proba
bly get a few months in a Y.O.I.'

  'Y.O.I.?'

  'Young Offenders' Institution.'

  'Ah.' Simpson bowed his head and looked at the photograph. 'Well,' he said. 'This is more like it. You're certain about the authorship of this?'

  'Yes, sir. It was written by the killer.'

  'Well, this was certainly written by someone who is mentally disturbed.' He held the photograph sideways at the desk so that Donoghue could see it. 'See how the writing is bunched up, how it resembles a piece of string that's tightly wound round itself, how tiny it is, how he's used only a small area of the mirror surface, right at the bottom. Notice also how the words are disjointed; letters of the same words have a big gap between them and in other parts letters of different words run into each other.'

  'What does it say about him?'

  'It's an awfully small sample and I also can't help going on what I've been reading in the papers, but I would say he's a schizophrenic, the splitting of the words indicates that, also, because of the smallness of the print, I'd say he was paranoid.'

  'A paranoid schizophrenic.'

  'Yes, acutely so. He's probably quite normal at his home or his place of work and then a change comes over him; something will be the trigger and then he goes out and kills. He probably thinks he's doing the right thing, acting in his victim's best interests. Psychopath is a lay term, it has no clinical meaning, but I would use it to describe the person who wrote this and is committing these murders. Off the record, of course.'

  'Of course,' Donoghue nodded.

  Just looking at this writing makes me go cold,' said Simpson.

  The second telephone call which upset Donoghue was the one which also annoyed him and it came at 5.45 that afternoon, shattering the one brief period of pleasure in Donoghue's day. He had read a communique from the Scottish Office in Edinburgh addressed to Chief Superintendent Findlater. Findlater had written on it 'Handle this for me, will you, Fabian?—F.' The communique was notification that approval had been given for Frank Sussock's service to be extended. Donoghue looked forward to telling him. He had also just read Richard King's report on his arrest of Jamie McPherson and was not unimpressed. King had been a Detective-Constable for eighteen months and Donoghue pulled on his pipe, mentally composing a memo to Findlater advising that King be promoted to Detective-Sergeant after completion of another six months' satisfactory service. He couldn't finish the memo, he was disturbed by his telephone ringing.

  'Gentleman on the line for Mr Sussock, sir,' said the switchboard operator. 'I think he said his name's Alf Honso.'

  'Alphonso,' said Donoghue, sitting forward and opening his notebook. 'Put him on, please.'

  'Eh, Raymond,' said the voice, 'Sammy here, I've got something for you, Raymond. I've got the killer.'

  'Who is it?' asked Donoghue excitedly.

  'Eh, wait a minute. Who is that?'

  'Inspector Donoghue, Mr Alphonse.'

  'Where's Ray?'

  'He's ill. I can take the information.'

  'No. I talk only with Ray.'

  'Mr Alphonse, if you know anything about this killer you must tell me.' Donoghue gripped the receiver but tried not to sound agitated. He didn't think he was being wholly successful. 'You are obliged by law to inform the police if you have knowledge of this sort and you can get into serious trouble if you withhold information.'

  'Who's withholding information? I'm telling Ray.'

  'I think you'd better tell me. What do you know about this man?'

  'I know everything. I know who he is, I know where he lives, I know I'm right. I seen him, he looks the part, he sticks them in the stomach first.'

  'Mr Alphonse…'

  'Alphonso.'

  'Mr Alphonso, I give you solemn warning that if you don't tell me, I shall prosecute you, I'll throw the lousy book at you, Alphonso.'

  'OK, so throw. I still only tell Ray.' Then he hung up.

  Donoghue telephoned Ray Sussock's home. His wife answered. Donoghue asked for Ray. 'He's not here,' said Mrs Sussock in a thin, high-pitched voice. 'He's not been in for weeks. He's out catching robbers.' She hung up. Donoghue pressed the button for the desk sergeant on his internal phone.

  'Sergeant Dover,' said the voice, calm, relaxed.

  'Donoghue. I want Constable Willems in my office now.'

  'She's off-duty, sir. She went off an hour ago.'

  'Christ. Send a man to my room.' He banged the receiver down and scribbled a note on his memo pad: 'headbanger. Tell Ray to contact Alphonso a.s.a.p. Also to contact me a.s.a.p. Donoghue.' He tore off the memo and pushed it into an envelope, and was sealing it as a young constable knocked and entered his office.

  'Do you know where WPC Willems lives?'

  'I can find out sir, Sergeant Dover keeps…'

  'Yes. Find out, then go there and give her that. If she's not in push it through her letterbox. It's an emergency. Off you go.'

  Elka Willems had accepted a lift to the South Side. She had washed and changed and packed an overnight bag and walked back out to catch a northbound bus. Ray Sussock had that day taken a flat in the West End and she was going to spend the night there. She sheltered in a shop doorway on Pollockshaws Road, waiting for a bus. She saw a police car with a blue flashing light speed south. She thought nothing of it.

  She took a No. 56 to George Street and crossed into George Square, head down against the snow. At Queen Street Station she stopped for a coffee in the buffet and looked out on to the forecourt of the station, where a young man with a ginger beard was sifting through the rubbish bins and a policeman was moving along a drunk. People stood waiting for trains. They looked wet and cold. Elka Willems drained her cup and, fortified, took a No. 16 bus to the bottom of Byres Road. She walked up Byres Road close against the buildings for shelter.

  Ray Sussock opened the door at her second ring. He was dressed in pyjamas and dressing-gown. Elka Willems stepped inside quickly and took his arm.

  'Poor Ray,' she said.

  In the bedroom Sussock slipped off his dressing-gown and climbed back into his bed. Elka Willems poured a stiff shot of whisky, added some lemon and honey and topped it up with boiling water. She handed it to him. 'Drink up,' she said. 'It'll blow your head off.' She looked around her; the room was small, the furniture was old but warm-looking and solid. 'Cosy' was the word which occurred to her, as she took it in with a sweep of her eyes. 'Not bad, Ray, not bad, old Sussock. How much do you pay?'

  'Fifty a month plus gas and electric' He sipped at his toddy.

  'Knock it off, Ray, don't sip at it.'

  'It's hot.'

  'Just drink it.' She began to peel her clothes off. 'Did you see your solicitor today?'

  'I went this afternoon, just after I picked up the keys for this place. I should have stayed in, I only made my cold worse. I'll go in tomorrow, though. Anyway, I told him the situation, and he said that we should separate and raise an action for division and sale, which could take years.'

  'So it takes years. Don't you feel better now that you're free of the bitch?'

  Sussock sniffed. 'Anyway,' he said, braving the hot water and taking the toddy down in mouthfuls. 'About the house. I have to continue the mortgage payments until the separation papers come through, which only takes a matter of weeks, then I have to instruct him to raise this action for division and sale in the Sheriff Court, that could take years before it's finalized. In the meantime the Building Society will freeze the asset. When the hearing's over we sell the house, which she won't like, but the mortgage is in my name, we sell the house and pay off what we owe the Building Society and divide the residue. My solicitor is always on about raising actions.' He put the empty glass on the floor.

  She unhooked her brassiere and stepped out of her panties. 'Mmm, will you be raising any action tonight, I wonder?'

  Sussock grinned, 'Tell me the news from the office, worthy one.' He looked at her, blonde-haired, firm-breasted, wide-hipped.

  4 The big news from the station is that the ageing Det
ective-Sergeant Sussock has had his request for extended service approved.' She wriggled under the sheet and lay beside him. 'Where are you?… ah, there, nice and hard, goody.'

  'How did you find that out?' He lay on his side, enfolding her in his arms, pulling her breasts against him.

  'One of the cadets told me. He doesn't know about us, he just mentioned it in passing, over coffee.'

  'One of the cadets! Is nothing sacred?'

  'One of the secretaries told him. They read all the memos, the secretaries, especially the ones marked confidential, and they spill the beans to the cadets. They try to get off with the cadets, you see, because they all want to marry a policeman with a truncheon.' She began to unfasten his pyjamas. 'Now listen, old Sussock, I know that you are an ageing and tired and sick policeman, but this calls for a celebration, lie over on your back, good; now straighten your legs, that's it; now I'm going to make love to you and you are not allowed to move, not one muscle, not one inch… now, like so…'

  Sussock groaned.

  Three miles away, at the Social Work Department Offices in Parliamentary Road, the killer was murdering his social worker.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sadie McCafferty sat on a chair in the corridor, sobbing into a red handkerchief. A policewoman tried to comfort her. A policeman stood in front of a closed door. There was another policeman outside the building. Malcolm Montgomerie tried to work the strange switchboard, listening to clicks and buzzing and Mrs McCafferty before he finally heard the soft purr of an outside line. He dialled an Edinburgh number. It was 7.40 a.m., the 27th of January.

  'Montgomerie here, sir, he's struck again.'

  'Where?' Donoghue wiped the shaving lather from his chin and indicated to his wife to get his car from the garage. She ran from the room.

  'Social Work Offices, Parliamentary Road.'

  'When?'

  'Last night. The cleaner discovered the body this morning when she arrived for work, the body's that of a social worker, the cleaner remembers this lady working late last night, she thinks she was interviewing someone.'

  'What have you done?'

  'Secured the building.'