by Rena George
Maidie sighed and rummaged in her bag for another cigarette. 'It's the kid you want to be chatting up, not me. She's the one getting all the tricks.'
'What about her?'
Maidie shrugged. 'Nothing. But if you're looking for a soul to save you could look in her direction. Mark my word, that one's heading for trouble. I've told her to watch herself and got a load of shit for my trouble.' She sniffed. 'She thinks she knows best.'
Drummond doubted if Maidie's concern was as well intentioned as she'd have him believe. Getting rid of the competition was more like it. 'Do you know where she lives?'
'She's got a room next to mine. Of course, you could just hang about here. She'll be back,' she said. 'Evie specializes in quickies.'
Drummond levelled a frown at her. 'You still here?' he said.
'OK, I'm going. Just make sure you chase her too.'
Drummond moved into the shadow of a doorway. He didn't have long to wait for Evie to put in an appearance. He stepped forward. 'You and I need to have a chat, Evie.'
The girl drew back, her eyes flicking over the warrant card Drummond held up. 'What do you want?' Her tone was huffy. 'I haven't done anything wrong.'
'You have, actually, but I'm sure you know that.' He nodded towards his car. 'Let's have a chat over there.'
The girl flashed him a disgusted look. 'You want a freebie?'
'I want a chat, but if you have any objection, we can do this back at the station.'
Evie threw up her arms in a gesture of defeat as she walked with him to the car. She flounced into the front passenger seat and folded her arms. 'Is this going to be a lecture?'
'Would it make any difference?'
'No.'
'So even if a detective police inspector offers you a second chance if you stop soliciting on the streets you will ignore it? Is that what you're saying?'
Evie wriggled uncomfortably. 'I'm not doing any harm. The men like me. It's not my fault if the old hags are jealous.'
Drummond sighed. 'You're not getting it, are you, Evie? It's not about you doing any harm. There's a killer out there and he's targeting girls like you. It's not safe for you, or any of the other women, to be out on the streets at night. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into when you go with these men.'
Evie's expression was still mutinous. Drummond glared at her, trying to control his growing frustration at the girl's blatant defiance. 'How old are you, Evie?'
'Twenty.'
'I'll ask again. How old?'
Evie looked away. 'Seventeen…and don't ask if my parents are trying to find me because they're not. I don't want them to. I don't need them. I can look after myself.'
Drummond's laugh was incredulous. 'This is how you look after yourself? How long do think it will be before the pimps move in on you? You do know what a pimp is?' Evie stared stubbornly ahead. 'Once you're in their clutches they don't let you get away,' Drummond said. 'Where are you staying?'
'I've got a room.'
Drummond nodded. 'OK, here's the deal. I drive you there and you collect your things and I put you on the train home.'
She turned furious brown eyes on him. 'I'm not going back there. I told you.'
Drummond shrugged. 'The other alternative is that I arrest you for soliciting in a public place. Your choice.'
Evie kept up her angry stare. 'No wonder they call you lot pigs. You're a bully.'
Drummond smiled. 'You'll thank me for this one day.'
An hour later they were in Queen Street station waiting for a train to Edinburgh, where Evie assured him, she had family. Drummond felt uncomfortable about not escorting her all the way, but he was a copper, not a social worker. He'd done all he could for the girl. He thrust one of his cards into Evie's hand together with a couple of £20 notes. 'Any problems just ring me. OK?' She gave a grudging nod, but there was no backward glance of gratitude as she boarded the train.
Drummond watched as it moved off and wondered, as he turned towards Pete Mullen's place, if he had just relocated the girl's life of prostitution to Edinburgh.
Six
'How much longer do you think you'll get away with using your fists when you should be using your brain?' Pete's words were cutting.
'I thought you said this wasn't going to be a lecture.' Drummond frowned, lifting a lid off one of the pots simmering on the stove and taking a sniff.
'I lied,' Pete said. 'Sit down, Jack.' He slung a tea towel over his shoulder. 'We're mates, aren't we?'
Drummond squinted at him. 'Not if this is going to be one of your good advice sessions.'
Pete Mullen was the best friend Drummond was ever likely to have, next to his old man, who ran a corner shop in Garnethill and complained that he never saw him. Nobody cared as much as Eddie Drummond whether his son lived or died, with the possible exception of Drummond's brother, Daniel, and his family. But then they were just that…family. And family didn't count. They had to love you.
Pete was still talking. 'You have to start trusting people, Jack. Some of us are on your side, you know.' He paused. 'Do you regret joining the polis?'
Now, there was a question. Did he regret it? He would never have been a copper if it hadn't been for Pete. He'd been well on his way to becoming a young thug when Pete yanked him up by the scruff of the neck and made him listen to a few home truths. They both knew he'd planted the evidence that got the Blades gang banged up in Polmont, Scotland's young offenders' institution. They deserved it. They killed his boyhood pal, Jemmie Khan…callously knifed him because he was black.
Drummond sighed. 'Do I regret becoming a copper?' He was still thinking about that. 'I don't really know…maybe.'
'Your trouble is you can't walk away. You take it all personally when you should be standing back to get some perspective on things.'
Drummond pulled a face. 'Maybe, but it's different for me. You're a community copper on the beat, Pete. I'm a DI on the murder squad. And right now, there's a nutcase out there murdering people.' He looked up, frowning. 'It's my job to stop him and I can't bloody do it.'
'That's not all on your shoulders,' Pete interrupted. 'Quit beating yourself up. You'll catch this guy; you know you will.'
'Yeah, but when? He's already killed two women, maybe more. He's out there doing whatever he likes and I…we…don't seem able to do a bloody thing about it.'
'Is that why you punched Wattie Bremner?' He frowned. 'I know he's got a face that just begs to be slapped, but you're the polis, Jack, and we're supposed to be above stuff like that.'
'He picked a fight.' Drummond held up his hands. 'OK I know I should have walked.'
Pete was shaking his head. 'What was it he said that got your dukes up?'
Drummond grimaced. 'He was taunting me, shouting about how useless the polis were. He said a five-year-old bairn was more capable of catching the strangler than me.'
'You punched him for that?'
'His cronies were all there egging him on. He was loving it; said he was thinking of giving the strangler a hand killing the prossies because with me on the case there was no chance of them ever getting caught.' He looked up. 'That's when I punched him. He made a swing back at me and there was a struggle. We were both put out the pub.'
'And did the fisticuffs continue out in the street?' Pete asked.
'No, Bremner didn't have his mates with him out there. I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and told him what would happen if he ever tried to pull a stunt like that on me or any police officer again. He got the message.'
Pete pulled a face. 'So, you threatened him?'
Drummond grinned. 'You might say that. I couldn't possibly comment.'
Pete shook his head and turned to the cooker, tipping the pasta into a colander.
Drummond produced the beer he'd brought and took a couple of glasses from the drainer.
'What you need is a steady relationship,' Pete said, pointing his fork at him. 'And I don't mean one of your chaotic affairs with some poor woman who lets you treat them like
a doormat.'
Drummond looked away. The memory of being unceremoniously bundled out of the lovely Megan's flat, followed by two black bin bags of his clothes, was flashing through his mind. His feelings were still bruised about that. She was nobody's doormat, but she had wanted a steady relationship, he hadn't.
'What about that nice lassie you work with?' Pete wasn't giving up. 'Now she would be a good influence on you.'
'Gail Swann?' Drummond stared at him. 'I don't think so.'
'What's wrong with her?'
'She's a colleague. She's ambitious. She has a son. And besides, we don't fancy each other. Need I go on?'
Pete pressed his lips together. 'Doesn't stop you fancying that Nell Forrester.'
Drummond blinked. His old friend's ability to see right through him never failed to surprise. There was no point in denying it, but how did he know? He had to admit that he did fancy the delectable Nell, even if she showed no signs of reciprocating the feelings.
'Stop trying to play Cupid,' he said, pointing a forkful of spaghetti at him. 'It's not sorting out my love life that I need. It's a breakthrough in these murders.'
'That might take more thinking about,' Pete agreed.
When they'd finished eating it was Pete who suggested a trip to the pub. Drummond needed no persuasion.
'Mine's a dram,' Pete Mullen said as they walked into the Hauf and Hauf public house.
Drummond signalled the barmaid to give them both a double Famous Grouse.
'You've had a face like a slapped backside all night. My cooking's not that bad, is it?' Pete said.
They moved away from the bar and sat down. 'You take me too seriously, Pete. Misery is my middle name.'
'Yeah, I know. You have to do something about that. Why are you letting this case worry away at you? Things will get better; it's bound to start going well soon.'
Drummond sat back, sighing. 'I wish I had your confidence, but this guy just seems to disappear into the ether. I've never known a case like this.' He took a swig of whisky. 'Two women murdered and we're no closer to catching him.'
'That's not true. Every killing takes you closer to catching him. You need to stand back and look at it all from a different viewpoint.'
Drummond laughed. Pete Mullen was the cop who pounded the beat and listened to locals' problems over cups of tea in their kitchens. The cop who dished out sound advice instead of threatening people. The cop who had saved him from a life of crime and thuggery on the streets of Glasgow. 'Are you telling me to think outside the box, Pete?'
'I'm telling you that you probably know a lot more about this killer than you realize.'
Drummond drained his glass. 'I'm listening.'
'The first question to ask is why he's killing prostitutes, blonde prostitutes.'
'The criminal psychologist woman Buchan has drafted in tells us he's basically killing his mother.'
'Is she suggesting the mother is a prostitute?'
'Who knows? I'd trust a witch doctor's mumbo jumbo before believing anything a psychologist said.'
Pete shook his head and tutted. 'Still that chip on your shoulder. Don't be so hard on psychologists. They're just a tool the polis use. Sometimes they help, sometimes they don't.'
Drummond gave an impatient glance to the bar. 'This must be one of the times when they're useless then.'
'What if it doesn't point to the mother being a hooker? What if she just had an affair and that affair split up our killer's happy home? Maybe he's never forgiven his mother and now he's taking his revenge on her by killing these other women?'
'And there are fairies at the bottom of my garden,' Drummond said, collecting their glasses and making for the bar. He watched his old friend as he stood there, wondering how he coped on his own. It wasn't something he'd considered before. Pete and his wife, Rose, had split up years ago. The demands of the Force did that to so many couples. Their daughter had gone to live with her mother and although he knew the divorce had been amicable and Pete regularly saw them both, it was obvious how desperately he missed his family. That wasn't going to happen to Drummond. Serious relationships were not for him.
'So, what else have you got?' Pete asked, when he got back with the drinks.
'Not a lot. We don't even know if the killer lives in Glasgow, although he does seem to know his way around.'
'What about the time between the murders? Why isn't he being more consistent with the killings?'
'I'm not sure what you mean.'
Pete leaned in closer. 'Maybe he once worked here in the city and then moved away but returns to Glasgow for meetings, or whatever.'
'It's a theory, Pete. I don't see how it helps us any. The killer's clever, too clever to leave clues. We got some DNA from the scarf he used to strangle the first victim, but it didn't match anything on our database. The second time it was raining, so we lost what evidence there might have been.'
Pete was thinking. 'Do you suppose that was on purpose? Maybe he knows water washes away clues.'
'I considered that,' Drummond said. 'Even if it's right, it doesn't help. I've also been wondering if he likes to hang around the body until it's found.'
Pete looked up. 'Why would he do that?'
Drummond shrugged. 'No idea. Maybe in his mind he's looking after the body, making sure she's found and treated with respect.'
'Respect?' Pete blinked. 'If he cares that much then why is he killing these women in the first place?' He took a long, slow sip of his Famous Grouse. 'Although thinking about that, what does it suggest? Who treats women badly but likes to believe he respects them?'
Drummond closed his eyes and let the possibilities scroll through his mind. Were they looking for a professional man? Doctor? Teacher? Police officer?
Pete nodded to the clock behind the bar and finished off his drink. 'Sorry, Jack. I need to get off. I need my beauty sleep.'
Drummond got up too. 'Thanks for everything tonight, Pete,' he said as the older man put an encouraging hand on his shoulder. They parted outside the pub and Drummond walked back to his flat with the word 'respect' rattling around his head. He was wondering if he'd done the right thing bundling young Evie off on the train. As far as he knew, the killer hadn't murdered anybody in Edinburgh, not yet.
Seven
There was an urgency about DC Gail Swann's stride as she crossed the incident room to where Drummond and Joey Buchan were talking. He looked up. 'What?'
'It's a body…in the River Kelvin. Uniforms are there now.' They were both giving her a hard stare and she nodded. 'Looks like she's been strangled.'
'Shit!' Joey Buchan whirled round. It had been months since the last strangling and they were no closer to nabbing the bastard. Now here they were again. 'You two better get over there.' She was punching out a number on her phone. 'And don't think you're off the hook, Inspector!' she called after him as he strode off, Gail Swann hurrying along beside him. 'We'll talk about this again.'
He gave her a backward wave.
'What have you done now, sir?'
'Nothing. It's just the DCI getting her knickers in a twist again.'
'Maybe if you didn't wind her up so much…' She was running after him down the stairs.
Drummond scowled. 'There would be no fun in that,' he called back, tossing her the keys of a pool car. 'You drive. I need some thinking time. What else did uniform say about the body?'
'Only that it was spotted by a jogger. They managed to get it up onto a bank.'
'How did they do that?'
'Don't know. I think they found a branch or something.'
It was just after nine and the city centre traffic was beginning to ease off slightly as they sped along Dunbarton Road.
They pulled in behind the patrol car on Kelvin Bridge as a middle-aged PC hurried to meet them.
'She's just there, sir,' he said, leaning over the bridge and pointing.
Drummond looked down and cursed. Another blonde! And the black scarf she'd been strangled with was still tight around her neck.
They would have to pull her further up the bank before any initial forensic examination could be carried out, although he doubted how much, if any, useful evidence that would throw up. Having been in the river wouldn't help.
DCI Buchan had called out the troops. Other police vehicles were arriving, but there was no sign of Nell Forrester. A stern-looking young man he didn't recognize had been pulling on his whites at the rear of a vehicle and was now walking towards them with the familiar bag.
'Martin Sinclair, forensic pathologist,' he said. 'What have we got?'
Drummond stopped himself asking where Nell Forrester was. The stab of disappointment that this man had turned up in her place had surprised even him. 'It's a body in the river,' he said. 'Down there where all the activity is. You can't miss it.'
Martin Sinclair gave him an unamused sideways look. Gail said nothing as they followed him down to where the body lay.
'What about this one, sir? Do you recognize her?' Gail asked as they stood looking down at the scene.
Drummond pursed his lips and tilted his head. 'Not sure.'
'But she's a prostitute? Right?'
'We don't know that, not yet.' But he knew everything was pointing in that direction. Unless, of course, this was the work of a copycat killer, which was highly unlikely unless there was a mole on the team. No details had been released about the scarfs. He turned away; his face tight. What kind of twisted bastard killed women like this? And why prostitutes? Why blondes? It looked like a pattern. The choice of victims couldn't be a coincidence. So many questions, so few answers. He needed time to think.
He caught Gail's eye. 'Wait here and get the genius down there–' he nodded to the pathologist '–to tell you all he knows. Tell him to check the pockets. I want to know if the killer left his calling card. And have a word with that jogger who found her. I'll catch up with you later.'
'Where are you going?' Gail asked.
Drummond wished he knew. He'd seen all he needed to for now. He had to get away from the crime scene. It was doing his head in. 'I have a few things to check out. Let me know if anything turns up here.'