by Gavin Graham
Nobody can save them, nobody can hear their screams…
She tried to look back at him as he released his tool from the bronze lushness of her dead-clutch, to beg for her life as he pulled the knife from her neck and allowed her to slump down on her elbows.
Wham!
He stabbed her again, right into the back of the skull and into the brain.
Her head dropped now, face-down on the bed.
She didn’t scream or cry anymore, he’d put an end to her misery and suffering. He was breathing heavily like a man who’d been jogging, and he looked to the side where he saw his own reflection in a mirror, taking a moment to tidy up his hair with sweat-laced fingers. It reminded him of a scene in his favourite film, American Psycho.
He then looked down at her bloodied dome as he casually undressed, sniggering at what a splendid sight it was, and he prepared himself for her continued defilement and bodily dissection.
She was dead as a do-do…
Chapter 19
A pack of wolves & an ominous warning
Sometimes, wisdom is received from an unlikely source, the trick is in the recognition of a messenger…
The Inspector staggered out the pub just before midnight, steamin’ out of his box in the cold night air.
He lit a fag as he crossed the road, immersed with a dim orange glow that emanated from street lamps, stood tall with defiance and lining the pavement like widely spaced soldiers. If the lampposts could talk, they would have treacherous tales to tell, especially around there.
He stopped to take a piss, by the side of a tree in the local park where the Young Team loitered, looking for trouble; or a victim, rather. They wouldn’t fuck with Mac though, as the gangs knew he carried a piece and was madder than a box of frogs.
He swaggered his way home, drunkenly, when he saw a tall figure, standing at a bus-stop with a hoodie on. He suddenly had a bad feeling so clumsily took his pistol out, holding it by his side as he approached the man, ready to blast him in the face if he had to.
The man sprung to his feet and peeled back the hoodie as he walked right up to the Inspector. It was ‘Razor’ McConnell, one of The Godfather’s three sons. “Put the gun away auld yin’, I’m no gonna’ gee’ ye’ any hassle.” His Glasgow accent was so strong that you could load an M-16 with it and blast a small unit of troops to Kingdom Come. His words sounded guttural and vicious and there was an undertone of violence in everything that he said, reaffirmed by a deadpan stare that was more intimidating than the shimmering steel of a cutthroat razor in the pale moonlight. He had empty eyes that were filled with hatred, hatred for anything and anybody outside of the McConnell syndicate.
“I heard you boys were lookin’ fur’ me? Whit’ is it?”
“Aye, Arthur wants to send you a message.”
The Inspector tensed and re-affirmed his grasp on the weapon, his finger on the trigger. He knew what those words meant.
The mafia man sniggered. “Not that kind ay’ message.”
A message from The Godfather usually meant a straight razor down the side of your face; hence the boy’s nickname - Razor - as he’d long been his father’s number one strong-arm (especially since Mad Dog had been put away). He was a good enforcer and had this creepy, evil way about him that could put the fear of God into the toughest of men; but not McGreavy.
“So, what kind of message is it then?”
“He says, be aware of the two-faced man.”
“Be. Aware. Of the two-faced man,” the Inspector frowned and an awkward silence filled the air. “Is that it?”
“Aye, that’s it.”
“Hmm, OK,” he pondered the riddle with tired frustration. “I hear that ‘Mad Dog’ Murdoch is gettin’ out of Barlinnie in a few weeks, I suppose you’ll be happy to have your old chum back, eh?”
“Mad Dog is a psycho, the spawn of The Devil that one…”
“Well, Razor, if you are saying that, then he must be a seriously deranged individual.”
“Aye. Just, be aware of the two-faced man, got it?”
The Inspector stared at the gangster, looked him dead in the eye as a bottle smashed in the park and some poor bugger screamed as a barrage of boots found a body to kick; the Young Team had found a victim and were ‘doing him’ good-style, like a pack of wolves.
The Inspector slowly stuffed his pistol into the front of his belted trousers. He took a deep breath, and then just started to laugh. He laughed and laughed until his laughter was almost uncontrollable, like a hysterical madman. The Young Team’s victim continued to scream for his life, in the shadowy park, adding a creepy dimension to the sound of Mac’s laughter.
Razor McConnell re-capped his cranium with his thick hooded top and stood there watching as McGreavy walked off.
He was a drunken mess with a gun; a dangerous thing by all counts. “Goodnight, Razor,” he said, walking down the road and boisterously waving an unsteady hand in the air. “Goodnight…and beware of the two-faced man!”
He continued to stagger and had a good old laugh to himself.
The Inspector once had a journalist’s legs broken, for bastardising what he said in a local paper. Having took the time to co-operate with the press he’d been left feeling pretty disgusted by the guy’s behaviour. Word soon got around, though, that McGreavy was not just a copper but a man to be feared in the same league as the city’s worst gangsters. McGreavy’s Glasgow was like the Wild West, a city where respect is only attained by the instigation of fear. Good, bad. Right, wrong. Didn’t really matter, you do what you have to do to get things done and achieve an end-goal.
The next morning, after the late-night encounter with Razor McConnell, he met Siobhan for a tattie scone and square sausage at a wee place on Cowcaddens Road. Afterwards, they sauntered up on foot to 50 Stewart Street, CID HQ.
“Is that Ranjit Kapur in the Mondeo over there?” he asked Siobhan.
“Aye, that’s his car alright.”
“Geez’ a wee minute then.”
“No worries, I’ll see you upstairs.”
The Inspector sauntered over to the man who worked as a journalist for the Scotsman newspaper.
The window slid down with a clean mechanical churn.
“Alright, Inspector?”
“Aye, you?”
“No bad, what’s the deal with this sex killer then?”
“Look Ranjit, we don’t need the whole of Glasgow getting into a major panic over this sick bastard.”
“You think it’s a serial killer?”
“Could be, but if he’s the type who thrives on media attention, then you guys will just be encouraging him. Same applies with the terrorists that you so dearly like to play up.”
“Oh, c’mon Mac, I’m just trying to do my job.”
“I know you are, Son…”
“Look, if you scratch my back then maybe I can scratch yours? I can be a real belligerent bastard when it comes to getting information. But, at the same time, I want to keep my kneecaps where they are. So, I’ll never cross you, I promise.”
The Inspector chuckled whilst taking a drag of his cigarette and blowing out a mix of smoke and damp condensation.
“If it’s the same guy then he probably groomed her on the Internet, he probably goes after the more mature lady, ones with a bit of money, who live in nice quiet houses…”
“I thought that husband of the O’Hara girl was the guy?”
“Well, he’s dead now, got kicked to death by the Young Team over in the park last night.”
“And, the Moffat boy, is he clear?”
“He’s got a solid alibi, but I don’t trust him. Maybe you can do some digging around on him, take another look at the disappearance of his parents, if you come up with anything then I’ll make sure you get the full scoop on the Tinder murders.”
“Alright, challenge accepted Inspector McGreavy.”
“But, be careful, I don’t need your blood on my hands as well…”
“Aye, no danger,” the window slid
up again and the engine of the Mondeo stirred to life with a throaty chug before slowly pulling away from CID HQ.
Chapter 20
The call of The Abyss
There was a light, somewhere, and he was ready to be received by the light.
He was standing at the end of a cliff, stood strong against a howling gale-force wind that tried to force him backwards, to stop him from jumping, to save him from his own pitiful demise.
The wind felt good though, whipping and rippling around his shirt as it fluttered wildly. His hair was swept back and pinned to the sky, like a violent tornado was pulling on his scalp and making the skin ripple around his skull.
He closed his eyes and enjoyed the freedom of impending death, his arms hung out to the sides like Jesus Christ on the cross, ready to fly.
He could smell death, so glorious…
He could smell the dead, beautiful and seducing…
She was waiting for him, on the other side, like a stone…
He exhaled slowly, ready now, and put himself on a forward pivot. He was giving himself to gravity and giving himself to God, on his own terms.
He didn’t jump, he just fell forwards, downwards to what lay below.
It felt like he was flying, as gusting winds trampled beneath his wings. But, there was no graceful flight, just falling, and there would be no light. He heard the voice of his wife now, standing above, on the edge of the cliff and looking down at him with despair. ‘Come back, Mac, come back…’
It was too late though, there was no going back now.
He opened his eyes and he saw what lay down there - The Abyss.
Yes, he was staring into The Abyss and all the men, women and children that had died on the streets that he policed, on his watch; at the hands of rapists, paedophiles and serial killers.
Blue and mottled, fresh and old, the skeletal and the rotting.
A sea of the dead…
His eyes were wide, he couldn’t breath and sucked for air as he sprung to life. The wakeful state that would be his realest nightmare gripped him by the throat, strangling him. He looked around in a dry-mouthed, hungover panic.
He was in the living room.
He’d fallen asleep on the couch, again.
Something vibrated beneath a crumpled copy of the Daily Record and a headline that read - NED BEATEN TO A PULP AND REPEATEDLY STABBED IN THE ARSE, GLASGOW STYLE, ATTACKER STILL UNIDENTIFIED - aside empty cans of extra-strength lager.
A ringing phone...
A ringing phone has to be answered.
He checked the caller ID and took the call. “Ranjit, what have you got fur’ me, Son?”
“Some pretty weird shit, actually, that Moffat Boy was shagging his Mum.”
“Whit’?”
“Yeah, delivery driver from the Shanghai Dragon rocked up at the front door one day and saw them through the window, he was doing her good-style apparently and had his fist locked around her neck. Right fuckin’ weirdos.”
“You think he was raping his own mum?”
“Fuck knows Inspector, that lad is just all kinds of wrong, the whole family was fucked up it seems. The mum was a hooker and the dad was her pimp.”
“You should have been a cop, you know that?”
“Funny you should say that as I’m thinking about going into Private Investigations.”
“Good for you, Son. Now, what’s the other weird shit?”
“Moffat’s a dealer, been buying product from the McConnell brothers and punting it to local members of the Polish community.”
“What? He’s still got all that lottery money, what does he need to deal fur’? And, what connection does he have to the Poles?”
“Don’t know, there’s a shop on the corner of Byers Rd., that’s where he moves the product, cocaine and hash.”
“Right, good work…”
“Aye, hang on a minute, what do I get in return?”
“You’ll get your scoop, Son, don’t worry.”
“Aye, well as long as it’s not Ben & bloody Jerry’s.”
The Inspector chuckled and hung up the phone.
He had a shower and a shave and brewed up some strong coffee when the phone rang again. It was Siobhan. He had a heavy feeling in his chest as he took the call.
“Boss, there’s been another body found.”
“Ah Jesus…where?” he was sobering up now and adjusting his awareness to his own dire reality, which would soon be more haunting than any fucked-up nightmare.
“Out by Kilmardinny Loch in Bearsden, can you be ready in ten?”
“Aye, I’ll be ready. Come and pick me up…”
“Right you are, Boss.”
The black Land Rover pulled up on the kerb and the Inspector approached it like man on a mission - a man on a mission who’d also been dragged through a hedge backwards, then slapped in the face a few times for good measure.
He climbed into the passenger seat where a Police-issued i-Pad was attached to a metallic frame on the dashboard, which allowed him to self-brief on the move.
“You look like shit,” Siobhan said, like it was a Glaswegian way of saying good morning. She pulled away quickly and was tapping her fingers on the steering wheel to the sound of a track called Flesh and Bone.
“Oh, thank you very much, Siobhan. Can you put the music down a bit? I’ve got a right banging headache over here. What garbage is it you’re listening to anyway?” he asked, with a distasteful frown.
“The Killers.”
“Did you just say, killers…?”
“Yeah, you don’t know them? Jesus Boss, I think we need to bring you out of the dark ages, do we not?”
“I’ve known and locked-up more real-life killers than you would care to imagine, young lady…”
“So, what music do you like then Boss?”
“I like real Scottish singers, like Calum Kennedy.”
“Calum who…?”
“Calum Kennedy, The King of the Highlands, greatest Gaelic singer who ever lived. He played for Khrushchev in 1957 at the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow.”
“The Killers played at Glasgow Green in July, I went to see them.”
“Did you, very good. Who do you like, Colin?” the Inspector asked the Detective Constable, sat obediently in the back seat.
Colin Dougal was an erudite sort with hair that was redder than a sun-burnt can of Iron-Bru, fiery and scorched. He was an introvert, always thinking, and he always picked his words carefully. “The Proclaimers,” he said loudly in his well-to-do Bearsden brogue. He wasn’t like the others in the team, sort of the ‘odd-one-out’, certainly in the sense that there were no rough edges on him and he had no particular vice that anyone else knew about.
He could handle himself though, so much so, he’d become nick-named as the Baby-faced Assassin.
McGreavy chuckled with delight. “That’s my boy…”
“So, what’s the latest gen on the Tinder murders, then?”
“We got the results back from the lab with regards to Moffat’s semen analysis, it’s not a match for any of the murders, Boss. He’s well and truly in the clear, that with his alibi for the night of the O’Hara murder, he can’t be involved.”
“Well, if he is involved, then he must have some kind of magical powers. Perhaps he’s the re-incarnation of Peter Niers, The Serial Killer Magician.”
“Who?”
“You don’t know about Niers? The German Beast who killed over five hundred bloody people in 16th Century Europe? He was one of the most prolific serial killers in history - a master of disguise and escapology - a magician, for all intents and purposes. The people of that time believed he was a real-life demon, granted powers of invisibility and magic by The Devil himself.”
“Jesus Christ, Boss, what are you saying?”
“I don’t know, something is afoot though. You know what happened when they captured him and brought him in?”
“What?”
“He just walked away. Slipped right out of their hands…”<
br />
“Moffat?”
“Perhaps, you know the boy was a mother fucker?”
“I would say that he still is…”
“No, I mean quite literally, he was having sexual relations with his own mother. And the dad had been pimping her out at a whore-house in the City Centre.”
“You have got to be kidding me?”
“Nope.”
“The plot thickens.”
“Indeed, I reckon he killed his parents and made them disappear.”
“OK, Thomas Moffat discovered that his prostitute of a wife was having sex with their son and that’s where it all went downhill.”
“Yes, punters are fine, but incest is a no-no.”
“So, John Moffat killed his dad to allow their incestuous affair to continue. He starts to have increasingly violent sex with his mum, she protests and struggles, and the Moffat boy kills her too.”
“Yes, and he likes it, because he’s a twisted wee bastard.”
“Indeed, so to replicate all these pleasurable memories of raping and killing the parents, he kills these women and dresses them up in his mum’s clothes.”
“Charming, absolutely bloody charming.”
“Isn’t it just, I say we bring him in again and this time we go hard on him.”
“Listen up. He’s dealing as well, apparently. So, the plan is - to get the brief on his drug-related activities first, so we can use that against him should the case not add up. He’s a slippery sort, this Casanova. He’s a classic fit for an ‘organised’ serial killer. He plans. He covers his tracks. He’s manipulative and has exceptional social skills. The exact opposite of his ‘disorganised’ counterpart and the most difficult to pin down. This guy is right along the lines of Ted Bundy, who also picked women of a certain ‘mould’, all quite similar in appearance. He’s doing the same thing, age-wise and by looks.”