‘Can you escort me to the sheriff’s chambers? I know they’re somewhere behind Court One but it’s a proper labyrinth back there.’
‘This way,’ he said, summoning one of his clerks to continue where he’d left off. Eventually after a disorienting number of twists and turns, Farrell found himself in Sheriff Granger’s private chambers, which led directly, via a short corridor, onto the Bench in Court One. As he stood on the threshold and slowly looked around, he could see no signs of a struggle. He was sure that Sheriff Granger would not have gone willingly to his death. How had the attacker managed to overcome such a powerful man and string him up in that fashion? Of course, it was possible he’d been dead before he was hoisted, but it would still have taken considerable strength. He noticed that there was a jug of water on the table with a half-filled glass. Could he have been sedated or poisoned? Could the murders be linked? Farrell sighed and rubbed his gloved hand over bleary eyes. Where was it all going to end?
Chapter 52
It was some hours before the crime scene was processed and the sheriff was zipped unceremoniously into a black body bag and stretchered downstairs to the waiting vehicle from the morgue. Farrell followed behind and was disturbed to see that in the interval the crowd numbers had swelled, their faces distorted by anger. As the vehicle was obliged to stop on the slope at the side of the court before turning out into the traffic, it was surrounded by the angry mob, shouting ‘Burn in Hell, you bastard’ and other choice words as they thumped angrily on the vehicle. A number of women ran out of the crowd and spat on the van. Farrell was shocked to see Beth Roberts among them, her face contorted in hate as she too spat on and thumped the van with her fists. Their eyes met and the connection seemed to shock her back to her senses as she dropped her eyes and melted into the crowd.
The van was being rocked from side to side now and Farrell could see the eyes of the driver, white with terror, and the fear in PC Joanne Burns’s face beside him in the passenger seat. Frantically, he radioed for backup and a number of constables came running to join him as he plunged into the fray. Eventually, after a tussle that felt like Glasgow on a Saturday night, the worst offenders were cuffed and led away still screaming obscenities at the now-departing van. Farrell stared after it, breathing heavily. His brow beaded with sweat. That was some last journey, he reflected. Sheriff Granger had been a cruel and miserable man who got his kicks from hurting others. You reap what you sow in life. An ignominious end to an oppressive rule. The town’s criminals and a few criminal defence lawyers would sleep easier in their beds tonight.
He recalled the fury and pent-up emotion of Beth Roberts. She’d had more cause than most to loathe Sheriff Granger. Could she have snapped and murdered him? Probably not without help. Mind you, in her line of work she no doubt had connections that would have been happy to commit murder for a price.
Mhairi pulled up beside him and he slipped in to the passenger seat. As she was driving away, he noticed Gabriel Ferrante and Joe Capaldi watching events from the window of their first-floor office opposite. Ferrante raised his glass in an ironic salute and Farrell nodded at him. It was a bit early to be knocking back the amber liquid, but never say never. If events continued to spiral he might be breaking out a hip flask of his own soon.
‘That was intense. Are you all right?’ asked Mhairi scrutinizing her boss with her usual forensic glare. ‘Do you really have to wade into every street fight going? Your suit’s got a rip in it.’
Farrell squinted over his shoulder. Dammit she was right.
‘So it has. Are you offering to mend it?’ he said, with a wicked gleam.
‘Bollocks to that, sir,’ she laughed. ‘I’ve been known to take a man down for suggesting less.’
‘I never thought I’d be pining for Glasgow,’ said Farrell. ‘At this rate we’re going to be stuck down here for months.’
‘Tell me about it. Another court-related death. Do you think it’s linked to the others?’
‘At the moment I can’t see how,’ said Farrell. ‘My gut is telling me there’s some kind of bigger context here, but while we’re bogged down in the detail, it’s hard to get a feel for what is driving these murders.’
‘Maybe the ten-year anniversary of the death of Colette Currie in Jedburgh is the trigger,’ said Mhairi. ‘You said that Fergus Campbell had been harbouring his own secret guilt about that night, thinking he had accidentally sealed her fate. Maybe they all have secrets from that night and someone found out about them?’
‘There’s another reason I need to get back to Glasgow. I need to visit Lind.’
‘Frank, you can’t! At least, not yet.’
‘I’m not planning to. But what if he floats up to full awareness and nobody’s even there, Mhairi?’
‘It doesn’t work like that. DCI Buchanan is being kept in the loop. She’ll let us know the minute there’s anything more concrete. Whatever happens, he’s not just going to bounce back from this, Frank. It’s going to take months of physical therapy. He may not be the same person. You have to prepare yourself … for all eventualities.’
‘He’ll make it through,’ said Farrell, his lips a tight line. ‘I know he will.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Mhairi sighed, shooting an anxious look at him.
Chapter 53
Farrell and Mhairi slipped into the station at Loreburn Street via the back entrance as the front desk was under siege from reporters. She headed straight for the MCA room to post a briefing for 2 p.m., and Farrell made for his office. He wanted to get his thoughts in order in relation to the various cases, before the briefing. The investigative team was now stretched past breaking point. He had to focus on the most productive lines of enquiry. His phone beeped to remind him to take his daily dose of lithium. He felt his pockets before realizing he’d forgotten to put the packet back in to his suit. Oh well, a couple of days wasn’t going to hurt him. He’d sort it tonight. Right now he had bigger fish to fry.
His phone rang, breaking his concentration and he snatched it up in annoyance.
‘Moira Sharkey on the line, sir.’
‘Put her through,’ he said with gritted teeth.
‘DI Farrell,’ said the gravelly voice,’ I have information that I might be persuaded to share with you,’ she said. ‘Meet me in The Globe Inn in ten minutes’ time.’
‘Ms Sharkey, can’t you just tell me now? I really don’t have time to—’
She hung up. Farrell slammed down the phone and picked up his jacket. Infuriating though Moira Sharkey might be, she’d never steered him wrong yet. She was a talented reporter, although there was something about her that made his skin crawl. He couldn’t miss hearing what she had to say, but, as usual, she’d extract a high price for her cooperation.
***
Five minutes later, he was walking up a close to the historic pub. He nodded to the barman as he went in and found Sharkey inside a small wood-panelled alcove drinking whisky. She’d bought him one too, her malicious black-button eyes glittering with glee, as if she knew just how badly he wanted to down it.
‘Thanks, but I can’t on the job, as I’m sure you know,’ he said with a tight smile.
‘All the more for me then,’ she smirked, considering him with one head to the side.
‘I have to say, DI Farrell, you’re looking a bit rough. Maybe you need to take better care of yourself. All that clean-living gone by the wayside?’
She was toying with him like she always did. He had no alternative but to play her twisted game. Quite why he held so much fascination for her, he had never been able to figure out.
‘Ms Sharkey, Moira, I’m flat out busy today given recent events. Now, if you could just tell me the information you wish to impart, we can both be on our way.’
‘I didn’t say I wished to impart it,’ she said. ‘I said I might be willing to impart it. There’s a difference.’
Farrell could feel his temper start to flare and bit down on the inside of his lip.
‘What is thi
s information in relation to?’ he said, trying another tack. The temptation to down that whisky was building inside him. He was determined to resist at all costs.
‘Sheriff Granger,’ she said.
‘Go on,’ urged Farrell.
‘I’d want my usual terms. A nice juicy exclusive before the rest of the press get a look in, especially that bitch, Sophie Richardson.’
‘Agreed,’ said Farrell. ‘I’ve always kept my word.’
‘Yes, you have. Quite the boy scout until recently.’
What the hell did she mean by that? What did she know?
‘And I’d want something else too.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘I’m doing a feature for one of the Sunday supplements on modern policing. I’d like to follow you for twenty-four hours.’
Farrell stood up. It was too much; he couldn’t agree to this. He valued his privacy more than most.
‘It can wait until these cases are concluded. The timing is flexible,’ Sharkey said, seeking to reel him in with her predatory black eyes.
Farrell sighed and sat back down.
‘I take it you have information crucial to the case or cases?’
She nodded, licking her dry lips, sensing his capitulation.
‘Fine,’ he sighed. ‘I’ll do it, but not until after the cases are concluded. Now spill, I seriously do have to get back to the station.’
‘I’ve been looking into Sheriff Robert Granger for some time,’ she said. ‘Some of my sources at the Glasgow Bar were very unhappy about his behaviour. That’s how he fetched up down here. A young male solicitor hanged himself after months of constant bullying. They launched an investigation into his conduct and that’s when I got wind of it.’
‘I know all that already,’ said Farrell.
‘It wasn’t just bullying, there was more of a stink to it than that. He was rumoured to be a sexual predator. A young lawyer claimed he had drugged and raped her. There were other rumours of groping and inappropriate behaviour.’
‘He was never prosecuted?’
‘Insufficient evidence and a lack of corroboration. Semen samples were taken from the complainant … but the evidence went missing.’
‘That’s gross incompetence, if true,’ said Farrell. ‘I’m surprised I haven’t heard about this.’
‘It dates from well before your time,’ said Sharkey. ‘I had to dig deep and I mean real deep to find it.’
‘Is the woman still alive?’ asked Farrell.
‘No, she died in a fire,’ she said, watching his expression closely. ‘According to those who knew her, she’d been going to try and mount a civil claim for damages.’
‘And the fire?’ asked Farrell.
‘It was in a block of flats in Glasgow. She perished along with an elderly couple, and a middle-aged man. It was ruled accidental. The blaze started in her flat and spread. It’s thought she’d left her hair tongs on.’
‘You think it was him, don’t you?’
‘I do, but I doubt it can ever be proven now, unless he’s left something behind in his papers.’
‘I’ll look into it, I promise,’ said Farrell.
‘He might have been an arsehole, but he had friends in high places,’ she continued. ‘He went to Morrington Academy and so did a lot of other powerful people in Scottish society.’ She leaned in closer. ‘There was rumoured to be a decadent and extravagant secret society there among the wealthier and most privileged boys. If there was such a thing, Sheriff Granger would have been right in the thick of it.’
She slumped back in her chair as though exhausted with the telling and sipped her whisky. A few sunbeams shone in through the small window, causing the dust motes to dance and illuminating Moira Sharkey’s corpse-like pallor and the dark circles under her eyes. Underneath her trademark shaggy coat, which she had opened but not removed despite the warmth of the day, he could see that she had lost weight. Her collarbones jutted out and the collar of her blouse hung loosely.
‘Moira, are you OK?’ he asked gently.
He should have known better. She lurched to her feet and scowled down at him, black eyes fierce.
‘Never you mind,’ she muttered. ‘Look to yourself. I’ve heard you’re going to rack and ruin. You’ll never find what you’re looking for in the bottom of a glass.’
Startled, he stood up as well.
‘I don’t know what you mean … I only …’
‘Save it for someone who cares,’ she snapped. ‘Now get the hell on and solve these cases. I can’t do all the work for you. Oh, and don’t forget, I’ll be coming to extract my pound of flesh when you’re done,’ was her parting shot, as she lurched off in a toxic cloud of whisky and nicotine fumes.
Nothing like selling your soul to the devil, thought Farrell, as he slowly followed her out, giving the whisky on the table a last lingering glance.
Chapter 54
Farrell stood in the packed lecture theatre and held up his hand for silence. The ripple of voices died away. He could feel a twitch pulsing under his right eye and while his brain felt charged with adrenalin his body lagged behind. His team, together with the Super, DI Moore and Byers, were all seated in front of him looking as tense as he was.
‘I’ve recently come across information in relation to Sheriff Granger that could suggest his murder was motivated by offences he committed in the past. These may go back as far as his schooldays at Morrington Academy. I need someone to speak to people who knew him there. See if they recall anything smacking of sexual harassment, severe bullying or the ilk.’
The Super raised his hand.
‘I wouldn’t normally involve myself directly in investigative work, but as I’m a former pupil there, people are perhaps more likely to open up to me. I’ll dig around.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Farrell; though, truth be told, he worried about a possible conflict of loyalties. The ties to a school like that ran deep. ‘Jack Kerr went there too,’ he added, ‘though they wouldn’t have been there at the same time. I hate to say it but another valuable source of information might be Gina Campbell’s father, Mario Lombardo. It might be an idea to look back into any prior criminal investigations against him that went to court and see whether any of them came in front of Sheriff Granger. It would be quite an asset to have a tame sheriff in your corner. DI Moore, given that you’ve had a previous connection with him, can I leave that with you?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘The post-mortem for Sheriff Granger has been scheduled for 9 a.m. tomorrow morning. DS Byers, can you and DC Thomson cover that?’
Both men nodded.
‘The way that the body was staged doesn’t make a great deal of sense. Why not make it look like a suicide rather than signposting the way with the paint and the hanging judge hat? DC Thomson, have you looked into the quote? “Pronounced for Doom”?’
‘Yes, sir. It dates back to the old days of hanging and was said by the judge to the accused on passing sentence.’
‘The elaborate staging of this death suggests a revenge motive,’ said Farrell. ‘It’s also a possibility, given the strength it would have taken to get the victim to the Bench and string him up, that this time there were two killers not just one.’
‘Do you think that this death is the final killing?’ asked DI Moore.
‘Honestly? I have no idea,’ he said.
‘These murderers, whoever they are, have gone unchecked too long,’ said the Super. ‘We’re being crucified in the press for not having had the gumption to make a single arrest. It’s time we called in an expert to give us some insights into what might be driving the killer or killers, so I’ve asked forensic psychiatrist, Clare Yates, to consult. Please ensure that she has your fullest cooperation.’
Farrell felt the inside of his mouth go dry, as Clare Yates rose to her feet. She’d been sitting off to one side and he hadn’t even noticed her. The thought that she’d been observing him without his knowledge made him feel exposed. He forced a welcoming
smile on his face just a beat too late.
‘Excellent, I’ll make sure that all the salient information is placed at your disposal, Dr Yates. I’m sure I speak for the whole team when I say we’ll welcome your insights.’
Mhairi rolled the whites of her eyes at him. Fiercely loyal to her friends, Mhairi wasn’t a fan of the psychiatrist after she’d burned him so badly in the past.
‘Moving on to Gina Campbell’s murder. Toxicology confirmed she’d ingested enough barbiturates to render her unconscious. It seems likely that she was unconscious when she was stabbed and then simply bled out from her wounds. However, the killer then appears to have applied a transfer of a Panopticon on to her body just above her heart under her left breast. This detail is what leads me to consider whether there is something seriously aberrant in the psyche of the killer? It could also function as a link between the killings, as Aaron Sullivan had a different version of the Panopticon tattoo.’
‘His wasn’t a transfer though, was it, sir?’ said Mhairi.
‘No. It looked to have been done fairly recently.’
‘I don’t suppose Sheriff Granger had one as well?’ asked DI Moore.
‘We’ll find that out at the post-mortem,’ replied Farrell.
‘I’ve looked in to the nanny’s background,’ said DC Thomson. ‘PC Green managed to get a copy of her CV from Fergus Campbell and I started with the references she gave. It turns out this isn’t the first time she’s formed an attachment to a child’s father. In her last job, she had an affair with the husband. The wife caught them in bed together, but he begged her to take him back and she relented. Pearson didn’t react well. She cut up their clothes and they believe she poisoned their dog.’
‘I can’t believe they gave her a reference,’ said Farrell.
‘Apparently, they didn’t. She must have forged it. The time before that she was working for another family and again developed a crush on the child’s father. This time it wasn’t reciprocated. She was convinced that he was madly in love with her and kept bombarding him with letters and gifts. It got so bad that they moved house to get away from her.’
Avenge the Dead Page 19
