Stranglehold

by Rena George

  Gail squinted into the distance. 'Got it,' she said as they both instinctively slid down out of sight. Someone was pushing a bicycle along the pavement. And they were coming in their direction.

  'Sit tight,' Drummond hissed as the figure got closer. Both of them held their breath, watching the biker as he stopped in front of number 87. He propped his bike against the low wall and looked around him. Apparently satisfied there was no one in sight, he took a bag from the cycle's pannier, dipped into it and pulled out a balaclava and a pair of gloves.

  'Wait!' Drummond put a warning hand on Gail's arm as she reached for the door handle. 'Let him get inside.' They watched, fascinated as the man tugged on the balaclava and took a tool from his pocket. He approached the front door and began to poke at the lock. The door opened. The man paused, took another look around and entered the house.

  'Now we go,' Drummond said. 'And if there's any justice in the world we'll catch this wee bugger in the act.'

  And they did.

  Colin Urquhart was now locked up in a police cell having admitted five counts of burglary that night and asked for a further thirty-five offences to be taken into consideration.

  Drummond found himself in the novel situation of being flavour of the month at the station. But there was no time for complacency. The strangler was still out there and until he was caught no woman in the city was safe.

  Eleven

  It was almost light when Drummond let him himself into his flat. His feeling of satisfaction that events had gone so well for them that night was beginning to be tinged with growing disgust for the way Colin Urquhart had persuaded vulnerable old people to trust him while his only intention had been to rob them.

  He knew the girl had gone even before he entered the flat. Evie never had a lot to say for herself at the best of times, but it was never this silent. Glancing into his small sitting room it was clear she hadn't taken time to tidy up before she left. But it was the state of his bedroom that pissed him off most. It looked as though it had been ransacked. Drawers had been turned out and their contents left in heaps on the floor. The jackets and shirts that had been on hangers in his wardrobe were strewn about the bed. It looked like Evie had gone through every pocket she could find. He cursed. The emergency stash of £500 that he'd kept zipped into the inside pocket of his leather jacket had gone. His own fault for leaving any money at all about the place, but still he swore. So much for trying to help her. He shouldn't have fallen for her hard-luck story when he found her waiting for him after work that night. Her disrespect for his home and his property was like a physical slap in the face.

  He'd done his best to look out for her and now this. When would he learn that you can't help people who don't want to be helped? Well, damn her. She was on her own now. He wasn't going out to search the Glasgow streets for her.

  Drummond thought she would have used his money to score by now anyway and had probably been robbed of the rest of his money. He tried not to think about the state she would almost certain have got herself into. He poured himself a stiff whisky and threw it back before crashing out on the sofa.

  It was 6 a.m. when the buzz of his mobile woke him. He squinted at the name of the caller as he reached for it. DCI Joey Buchan. Shit! This wouldn't be a social call, not unless she'd been hitting the gin bottle. She had a habit of turning up at his door when she was pissed and feeling sorry for herself. But his boss sounded stone-cold sober. 'We've got a body, Jack,' she said. 'Gail Swann's already at the scene. She says it looks like another hooker. You'd better get yourself down there.'

  So much of Glasgow had changed over the years, most of it for the better. The crumbling, insanitary tenements, where three families shared a single toilet on the stair head, had gradually been replaced with new flats, green spaces and flower displays. But here and there the old city could still be found if you knew where to look. The cobbled lane at the bottom of Buchanan Street was one of those places. Drummond had a bad feeling as he approached it. The girl's body was sprawled amongst the overspill of rubbish from a pub bin, her sad slim frame discarded like just another pile of trash. Drummond could feel the bile rising in his throat. Before he even looked at the victim, he knew who she was. The last time he'd seen her she was smiling up at him from the sofa in his front room. It was Evie.

  'What d'you think, boss? There's no scarf. Maybe our man ran out of stock,' Gail Swann said.

  The look Drummond gave left her in no doubt he didn't appreciate the comment. 'We have no evidence that she was a hooker,' he said sharply, but he knew that's exactly what Evie had been.

  It had been weeks since they'd pulled Lena Murray out of the River Kelvin. Like Maggie Burns and Bonnie Brennan, before her she had been strangled with a scarf. There were no obvious signs that Evie had been strangled. Maybe this was a tragic accident after all, but Drummond didn't think so.

  Gail had gone back to watching Nell Forrester working with the body. The pathologist shook her head and stretched her back, turning to Drummond. 'These street girls get younger all the time. This one looks like she should still be in school.'

  Drummond swallowed back the lump in his throat. He was aware of her curious glances. No doubt she was wondering why they weren't sharing their usual flirty banter, but he was in no mood for wisecracks. He looked away. This was his fault. If he hadn't left that money for Evie to find she would still be safe back at his flat. He stepped back, trying not to throw up in front of Nell and his DC.

  As he moved away, something at the back of the lane caught his eye. He pointed. 'What's that? Look! Over there!'

  A scene of crime officer in his white forensic coveralls moved carefully to the object Drummond was indicating and raised his camera. He snapped a number of pictures in situ before bending to pick it up. Drummond's insides made another alarming lurch as he recognized the cheap red simulated leather shoulder bag. It was Evie's. He'd seen it often enough lying around his flat. He said nothing as the forensic officer opened it and took out the roll of notes. His heart skipped a beat. Seeing his cash made Evie's killing all the more sinister. Why had the killer not taken the money? If his first thought had been right and Benny Saul was involved, then he would definitely have taken the money. Even so, it didn't let him off the hook.

  Drummond glanced back to the body. He didn't know why he had singled out Evie Walker to take under his wing, except that she hadn't been much older than Sarah, his brother, Daniel's sixteen-year-old daughter, and he felt responsible for her.

  Evie wasn't a real hooker. She was educated enough not to be plying her trade in a seedy city backstreet. He'd also credited her with enough sense not to have got involved with Saul – and yet she had. She'd snatched her phone away one day when it rang, but Drummond had already seen the caller's name. It was Benny Saul. Drummond was furious with her. She'd let him down. The only reason he'd allowed her to stay was her assurance she was living on benefits, and not turning tricks.

  Saul specialized in getting his girls hooked on drugs. Their dependence was what kept them in line. They needed him and he exploited that. Evie had been doing well in her fight against smack. Maybe not great because she had the odd lapses, but Drummond had been hopeful the real Evie would win through. No chance of that now.

  Nell Forrester was gathering her things together and standing up. Her eyes were still on the body.

  'Anything for us yet, Nell?' He'd been expecting her usual cocky answer, telling him to be patient until the PM, but she looked up at him.

  'Don't quote me, but there are marks around her face and neck. I don't think she was strangled, Jack. I think she was suffocated to death.'

  Drummond stared at her. 'So not our serial killer?'

  'It's far too early to say. This one looks different.' She glanced back to Evie's body. 'She also has needle marks on her arms.'

  'You mean it could have been an overdose?'

  'Don't push me, Jack. I've already given you too much information. You know as well as I do that nothing is definite before the
post-mortem is completed.'

  'But you think she was murdered?'

  Nell gave him another look and sighed. 'We'll see.'

  Drummond's eye was on the CCTV camera he'd spotted at the back of the pub. 'Find out who the key holder is for this place, Gail, and get him out of bed. I want to see those CCTV tapes.'

  Gail moved away, her mobile phone at her ear.

  Drummond's gaze went back to Nell, who was taking one last look at the body. His face was a grim mask. Seeing a scene like this was never easy, but it was even worse to see a young woman's life thrown away, especially one he'd been trying to help.

  He was thinking back to the last time he'd seen her. She'd been curled up on his sofa watching some rubbish quiz show when he'd walked in. He'd asked if she had eaten. 'I'm fine,' she'd said, hugging a cushion, her eyes still fixed to the TV screen.

  'That's not what I asked.' Drummond had looked down at her, frowning. 'When was the last time you had a decent meal?'

  'I've had cornflakes. I'm not hungry.'

  He'd taken the fish suppers he'd bought into the kitchen and put them on plates and then carried one through to her on a tray. 'Don't expect this kind of service all the time.' He'd grinned down at her.

  She had made an effort to sit up, but the look she gave the fish and chips was disinterested. 'I said I wasn't hungry.'

  Drummond had collected his own tray and sat on one of the two armchairs, tucking into his chips. 'Starving yourself is not negotiable. If you want to stay here, you eat. It's a rule of the house,' he'd said through a mouthful of food.

  Out of the corner of his eye he'd seen her pick up a chip and put it into her mouth. It was a reluctant gesture, but at least she'd been eating, and he'd wondered if this was progress.

  Letting her stay at the flat was meant to be a strictly temporary arrangement but he'd seen no signs that Evie was planning to move on. He'd been planning to give her one more day and then she would have had to find somewhere else. She hadn't been his responsibility.

  But he'd known she was heading for disaster. Why hadn't he taken her to a professional, someone who could have helped her? Why had he been so arrogant to assume that she only needed a roof over her head and a kind word now and again? He was just as much responsible for Evie's death as the bastard who gave her the drugs. But who had that been? The first name that flashed into his head was Benny Saul. He needed to speak to his informer.

  Slimy Sammy Turk had got himself a job as glass washer and general dogsbody in exchange for a meal and a bed in a dingy back room in a pub off Gallowgate. Hostelries in this area opened early and a couple of drinkers were already at the bar when Drummond walked in. He ordered a whisky and looked around him. There was no sign of Sammy – and then he spotted him through the back of the bar. The look of shock when he spotted Drummond left him in no doubt that he shouldn't openly approach him. The man jerked his head towards the back of the pub. Drummond finished his whisky and went out. Sammy was already in the lane behind the pub. He looked twitchy.

  'If anybody sees us, I'm a dead man, you do know that, Drummond?'

  'I needed a word.'

  'If you're here to thank me for tipping you off about the pensioner robber, you shouldn't have bothered. The cash will do.'

  'It's not about that,' Drummond said. 'I need information about something else.'

  Slimy Sammy was throwing uneasy glances around him. 'Well, say it fast and get yourself the hell out of here.'

  'What do you know about a young hooker called Evie?'

  'Nothing. Who's she?'

  'Think again, Sammy. She's about seventeen, had long dark hair until she chopped it all off and dyed it blonde. She might have been in trouble with Benny Saul.'

  Sammy was hopping nervously from foot to foot. 'Jesus, Drummond. You don't mess about.'

  'What is it?' Drummond hissed. 'What do you know?'

  'I heard there was a wee lassie trying to do her own thing.'

  Drummond moved his face closer. 'Yes?'

  'She was what you might call an entrepreneur, you know, working on the streets but not handing all her earnings on to Saul. They don't like that.' He glanced at Drummond. 'What's happened to her?'

  'She's dead.'

  'The strangler strikes again, eh?'

  'We don't know that, not yet.' Drummond had a strange feeling. Evie's body hadn't looked right. She hadn't looked like the strangler's other victims. There was no scarf, and no taunting cat and mouse card. And her body hadn't been moved.

  Sammy blew out his cheeks and looked back to the pub door, still anxious to make sure no one was showing an interest in them. 'I don't know any more than that. I can't help you, Drummond.'

  Drummond pushed a £20 note into the man's hand. 'Find out what you can. There'll be something more in it if you dig anything up.'

  The man stuffed the note into his trouser pocket. 'Clear off now. If I'm seen talking to the polis I'll be for the chop.'

  Drummond pulled a face, watching him as he scurried back into the pub. His phone buzzed and he snatched at it.

  'Bad news, sir,' Gail Swann said. 'The pub's CCTV is broken.'

  Drummond's initial feeling of despair was being replaced with a growing rage. He wanted to throw Benny Saul against a brick wall give him a good kicking. But for the moment he would settle for just finding the man. He knew Saul was only a link in the chain of evil, the go-between before you got to Big Mal McKirdy - and it was him, the main man, not the monkey, that Drummond was after. However, he would have to start somewhere, and the monkey would do.

  Twelve

  The call came in as Drummond and Gail were heading back to the station. It was DCI Joey Buchan. 'We've got another one, Jack,' she said. 'At a church in South Portland Street. The strangler has had a busy night.'

  Drummond swung the car round and they sped off in the direction of the Gorbals. 'All we need now is a drive-by shooting,' Gail said.

  'That's exactly what we don't need,' Drummond hissed. His head was not in a good place for investigating another strangler killing. His mind was still hovering over Joey's comments. She had clearly decided Evie was also one of the killer's victims. Drummond thought otherwise.

  A woman was in the back of the police patrol car that was parked outside the church. She stared at them as they passed.

  'She's the church cleaner. It was her who found the body,' the young uniformed officer who met them said.

  'We'll have a word with her in a minute,' Drummond said. 'Where's the body?'

  'It's round the back. Forensics are on their way.' The PC pulled a face. 'The cleaner was emptying the rubbish and says she almost tripped over it.'

  'Poor woman,' Gail said, glancing back to the patrol car.

  Even though it was now well past 8 a.m., the sky was heavy with rain clouds and daylight was still in short supply. A single lamp bolted to the building, presumably to illuminate the bins' area, cast a pool of depressing yellow light over the scene. The woman was on her side, her long ash blonde hair spread across the damp concrete path, a crimson-coloured scarf twisted around her neck. They kept their distance from the body, mindful of the need to preserve any evidence. Drummond averted his glance from the horror of the woman's staring eyes.

  'Has the body been touched?' he asked.

  The uniformed officer shook his head. 'Not by us. I don't know about the witness back there; she says not but she's in such a state I don't think she knows what she did.'

  They all looked up as two vehicles arrived in convoy. Forensic officers jumped out of the first and Nell Forrester's cocky sidekick, Martin Sinclair, got out of the second car. 'Good morning, Inspector.' He nodded to Gail. 'Busy morning, eh, folks?'

  'So it would seem,' Drummond said flatly, watching as the pathologist crouched beside the body. He could see the corner of a calling card in the top pocket of the victim's red jacket.

  Sinclair glanced back to Drummond before carefully sliding it out. He held it up between gloved fingers so they could see the familiar silhou
ette images of the cat and mouse. 'We seem to be amassing quite a little collection of these,' he said, dropping it into an evidence bag.

  The killer was getting his message home loud and clear. He was playing with them. But five killings and only four cat and mouse cards. There was a sick feeling in the pit of Drummond's stomach as he turned to his DC. 'Stay here, Gail. I'm going to have a word with our witness.'

  Gail raised an eyebrow. Drummond knew she was surprised that he wasn't delegating the task to her, but he needed to be personally involved in every aspect of this investigation now. Psychopaths like this killer just kept pushing the envelope, taking more brazen risks with each victim, but that's how they got caught. The cat and mouse cards wound him up, but their man was getting too cocky. Eventually he would run out of luck.

  The woman in the police car was still visibly shocked as Drummond got into the front seat and swiveled round to face her.

  'I suppose she is dead?' she said flatly.

  'The pathologist is with her now,' Drummond said.

  The woman was shaking her head. 'Poor Carol. She didn't deserve that. What will her two wee bairns do now?'

  Drummond blinked. 'You know her?'

  'Aye, I do – and her mother. They live in the next block tae us.'

  Drummond pulled out a notebook and pen. 'What's her name?'

  'Carol Nicholson. She's a barmaid at the Drouthy Duck. My Sam and I go there every Wednesday for the quiz night. We like a good pub quiz.'

  'You said you also know her mother?'

  'Aye, that's right. Moira. Carol and the bairns live with her.'

  'Is there a Mr Nicholson?'

  'No, Moira's been a widow for years.' She looked at him and frowned. 'Oh, I see what you mean. You're asking if Carol has a husband. She doesn't. I don't know anything about her men, except that the bairns had different fathers.' She shrugged. 'But they are long gone. Carol never talks about them.' She met Drummond's eyes. 'She was a lovely lassie. Who would do such a terrible thing to her?'