Deep and Crisp and Even

by Peter Turnbull

  Elka Willems turned from Argyle Street and into Buchanan Street for the fifth time since the snow had stopped falling. Her legs were very sore. She was feeling very tired; she no longer bothered that this was one of the parts of the route which worried her the most: when she rounded the corner she would be out of sight of Phil Hamilton for twenty seconds. She was too tired to care any longer. Buchanan Street was quiet, with a shroud of snow lying evenly over the pedestrian precinct.

  When the stiletto plunged into her stomach she was so tired that her first reaction was to look down at the man who was killing her and grin at the absurdity of it all. Then she went cold, a chill shot down her spine. The knife was pulled out of her, she fell forwards and saw the knife coming upwards. She deflected it and fell to the ground, grabbing the arm holding the knife, a small, strong arm, which continued to pull and lunge for her throat. The man had a fierce Viking face, brilliant ginger hair and beard, he danced round her, snorting like a pig, trying to pull his arm free. She wanted to say 'police' but there was blood in her mouth. Finally she screamed.

  Phil Hamilton's heart seemed to explode when he heard the scream. He grabbed his radio and said, 'Control. Fox. Contact. Contact. Buchanan Street, Argyle Street. Assistance required.' Then he ran, ran with clumsy ungainly steps slipping outwards in the snow. The night was suddenly pierced by two-tone klaxons, and Hamilton saw a blue flashing light racing through Anderston Cross towards him. He slid round the corner and into Buchanan Street, he said, 'Christ' and then yelled, 'Police!'

  He saw the figure kick away from Elka Willems, who sagged to the ground. The figure ran across the snow in a curious leaping gait, it was small and round, black against the whiteness. Hamilton chased the man, running past the groaning policewoman. He heard a car turn into Buchanan Street and follow him. Hamilton didn't turn: he knew instinctively that it was Ray Sussock.

  The figure ran to the sculpture and Hamilton lost sight of it momentarily among the benches and evergreens and waste-bins. He stopped and pulled his truncheon from his pocket. The car behind him stopped, Sussock got out and stood beside him. Two patrol cars, lights flashing, drove down Buchanan Street abreast. Halfway down they stopped and four policemen got out of each car and stood in a row across the street, in front of the cars. Behind the cars Hamilton noticed a green Rover slow to a halt. He smiled.

  Lowly as he felt himself to be, he was glad Donoghue was going to be in at the finish.

  Hamilton and Sussock walked towards the shrubs. Behind them a transit van pulled up. Police officers jumped out; two ran to where Elka Willems lay and six and a sergeant formed up behind Sussock and Hamilton.

  The figure broke from the bushes and ran diagonally across Buchanan Street. Hamilton ran after him; behind him he could hear the panting breaths and the heavy footfalls of eight men running. The officers at the top of the street ran down towards the figure.

  The figure turned and stopped. He looked up and down the street and laughed. The laugh echoed off the buildings and stopped the policemen in their tracks. For three seconds, perhaps five, the figure held the police at bay, just by standing in the snow laughing, and holding a bloody knife above his head.

  Sussock pulled the .38 from his coat pocket.

  The figure turned and ran into the alley. Hamilton held up his hand. 'That's a blind alley', he announced. 'No way out.' Hamilton and Sussock walked to the entrance of the alley. They were joined by the officers who ran from the top of the street. Three policemen stood in a line, Sussock, Hamilton, and another constable Hamilton recognized as Piper, the confident Constable Piper, who had walked with him to the top of a derelict tenement and who had shone his torch unflinchingly on what they had found there.

  In the alley the quarry turned to face the hounds. He stood and laughed his icy laugh, which Sussock knew would stay with him for the rest of his life, another noise to haunt him in the small hours. Hamilton wondered if he laughed like that at his victims? Was that laugh the last thing they heard before he reached down and cut their throats? The man threw the stiletto; it flew wildly through the air and bounced off Piper's tunic. He laughed again, drew another knife from the pocket of his donkey jacket and in the same movement pulled the blade across his throat. His breast flushed red and he collapsed in the snow.

  The three men looked down at the figure lying in the snow. It was barely four feet long.

  Donoghue put the phone down and sat behind his desk. He smiled at Ray Sussock who sat opposite him. 'She's going to be all right, Ray,' he said, and reached for his pipe.

  'Thank God,' sighed Sussock.

  'Aye.' Donoghue put his pipe in his mouth. 'She was nearly No. 7, and I was nearly a traffic warden. I still may be. Anyway, the raid on El Greco's is fixed for seven tomorrow morning. It was heavy, sadistic stuff, you say?'

  'Yes,' said Sussock. 'If that was a sample it was as heavy as we've ever had.'

  'OK We have the building under surveillance, so they can't shift it without us knowing. I've talked to Prosecution about Alphonso and they reckon we've got a case, if you'll tell us where we can collar him.'

  'He has a single end in Maryhill. But you never know where he's likely to be.'

  'Give the address to Montgomerie, he can bring him in this afternoon.'

  'I still think you're fighting a difficult case that will be embarrassing to lose. And I'm losing a good grass.'

  'The case will be open and shut. He'll likely get three years. Look, Ray, he phoned in with the information at a quarter to six on the night McWatt killed his welfare officer. If he had given me the information, how long would it have taken for us to get to his mother's house?'

  'Fifteen minutes.'

  'Less. Then we find the list inside that book; he wrote his orders down before he fulfilled them, so we would know where he was; there's only one welfare office he could be in, they operate a patch system in this city. By this time it's a few minutes after six so we radio the nearest mobile to get there fast. We know the welfare officer was alive at six, because that's when the cleaner left. We might have made it in time, Ray, but we'll never know, Alphonso didn't give us or Mrs Sommer a chance to find out, because he thought he was important. He's going to do time.'

  Sussock was silent. Then he said, 'But he found the headbanger, sir.'

  'I don't think he did. I think the underworld found him. They sent Alphonso on errands and gave him support when he needed it and they accepted him as mediator. If you're still upset about it, look upon it as protective custody, because when it gets around what a mess he made of the transfer of information, then,' Donoghue waved his palm, 'if he wasn't inside he'd be at the bottom of the Clyde.'

  'OK,' said Sussock. 'I won't argue any more. Now it's the more difficult call, I suppose?'

  'Aye.' Donoghue sucked his pipe. 'How do you think he'll take it?'

  'I think he'll flap like a turkey that's just found out about Christmas. What are you going to say?'

  'Tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but. What else can a policeman say?'

  'Some would argue that one. You'll be disciplined. You'll lose rank.'

  'Probably.'

  'Would you like me to go?'

  'Not unless you want to, Ray. I won't be implicating you in any way. The buck stops here.'

  'I'd like to stay.'

  'As you wish.' Donoghue reached for the telephone, turning as he did so, and glanced out of the window. It was ten after nine, and the dawn was an awe-inspiring crimson cloudbank, streaked with black bands. Donoghue knew then why primitive people worshipped the sun. The line clicked, and he said, 'Chief Inspector Findlater, please.'

  ABOUT PETER TURNBULL

  Peter Turnbull was born in Yorkshire, England, in 1950. He was educated at local schools and at Richmond College of Further Education, Sheffield, before going to Cambridge Technical College, where he gained a London University External Degree, and he later attended Cardiff University for a Diploma in Social Work. He has had a variety of jobs, including steelworker and crematoriu
m attendant, but for many years he has been a social worker, working in Sheffield, London, Glasgow, and—under an exchange program—Brooklyn, New York. He lives in Edinburgh.