‘One I’ve already answered.’
‘Indulge me.’
‘I am doing. I don’t feel sorry for him. I don’t feel anger towards him.’
‘He killed your daughter.’
‘I don’t need you to remind me of that. I remember.’
‘I didn’t mean to be insensitive. But you take my point.’
‘Do I?’
‘A man gets drunk and gets in his car and knocks down an eleven-year-old girl and kills her. I think her father is entitled to be angry.’
‘Are you always so aggressive towards the families of drink-drive fatalities?’
‘I am sure I would be angry.’
‘You said that.’
‘I’d maybe be angry enough to kill the person responsible.’
‘You have a lot of anger. You should see someone about that.’
‘Did you want Ogilvie dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘No.’
‘Did you have someone kill him?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know who killed him?’
‘No. Detective Sergeant Narey, I think you just accused me of being a serial killer. Of murdering four people.’
‘Did you?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’m sorry for the insinuation. As I said, we have to explore every avenue. We have to speak to those connected to every victim whether they are connected to the others or not.’
‘I do understand that.’
‘Did you know any of the other victims?’
‘No.’
‘Had you ever heard of any of them?’
‘No.’
‘We are trying to establish a pattern. Trying to see if there is any link, however small, between the victims.’
‘If there is I’m unaware of it. Ogilvie was the only one I had heard of or met. The papers said they were random killings.’
‘They appear that way. They most probably are but we . . .’
‘Need to explore every avenue.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t think I am one of those avenues, DS Narey. I can’t help you.’
‘Would you help me if you could?’
‘Of course I fucking would. I once wanted Ogilvie dead but that doesn’t mean I’d do something to protect the maniac that killed him or the others.’
‘I’m sorry for the insinuation.’
‘So am I.’
‘We would be grateful if you would agree to provide a sample of DNA. It’s a matter of procedure.’
‘Is it?’
‘We are asking a number of people. It is so we can rule you out of the investigation. It is quite voluntary.’
‘It would need to be, wouldn’t it?’
There were some obligatory pleasantries then she left, saying she’d be back when my wife was in, leaving a number and an assurance she’d be in touch if she learned anything. I wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a warning.
I watched her back as she and the DC walked down the path to their car which was being guarded by two kids and the black Lab cross that had been hanging around again the last few days. Dawson, the DC, got into the driver’s seat and Narey went round to the other side. Before she got in, she looked back, saw me standing at the window and smiled.
CHAPTER 24
They were all talking about it now. Every single one of them. It had been two weeks since Wallace Ogilvie’s death and everyone had joined up the dots. All of Glasgow knew there had been four of them. Four slain by a single hand. All of Scotland knew. Everyone in the UK too and quite a bit beyond.
There was barely a soul got into my taxi cab that didn’t mention it. I always stopped short of pointing out the irony to them. They still talked about the weather and the football and argued about the quickest way to wherever they were going but now they talked about him. The killer. Me. The one they were calling the Ripper. Stupid bloody name. I didn’t mind the Ripper bit so much but this ‘Jock’ nonsense, it really riled me. The London papers and the news had picked up on it too. The way they said the word Jock with a sneer, that pissed me off.
‘A twisted psychopath nicknamed Jock the Ripper has been responsible for four brutal murders in Glasgow.’
I cringed every time I heard the word. Jock. The people in my taxi didn’t use the word. They probably hated it as much as I did. They said killer. They said Ripper.
Have you heard? What’s the latest? I used to live near the third one. I don’t walk anywhere now unless I really need to. What are the cops doing about this? I can’t sleep for thinking about it.
Gallus Glasgow was still not supposed to show fear. I think they were afraid to be frightened. So instead they were funny, or at least tried to be. Some succeeded, some failed miserably. Jokes about serial killers were risky things.
I picked up four young guys from Esquire House on Great Western Road near Anniesland Cross to take them into town. All early to mid twenties. They spilled out of the pub, boisterous and loud, and clambered into the cab. Three of them fell into the back seat and one got onto the bucket seat behind me.
‘Telling you,’ the one nearest me was saying. ‘Best thing that happened to Glasgow this guy.’
‘Away to fuck, ya muppet,’ laughed one of his mates. ‘How the fuck is it?’
‘Dazza, you are a sick bastard,’ howled another one. ‘The fucker’s killed four people.’
‘No the point,’ came back Dazza. ‘It’s all publicity, isn’t it?’
His pals laughed. Dazza wasn’t deterred, he was loving it.
‘Look, Glasgow is all over the telly, right? London and everything. America, Japan, the lot. Fucking everywhere. No such thing as bad publicity, right?’
‘You’re a fud, Daz.’
‘Should put you in charge of tourism at the council chambers, Dazza.’
‘Telling youse,’ said Dazza with a cackle.
‘Yer baws, man,’ shouted another. ‘Good crack, right enough. Tell you what I heard though . . .’
He paused for effect.
‘Spit it oot, big man.’
The big man laughed.
‘Well, way I heard it, it’s some mad Tim that’s doing the killings,’ conspired the big man.
‘Ah, for fuck’s sake, big yin. You’re making Daz sound like a genius.’
‘Blacky, I’ve heard it all now, man. A fucking Catholic conspiracy. Yer arse.’
‘Just telling youse what I heard. That lawyer was a Rangers season ticket holder, right? Cops said so. Everybody knows that Tierney worked for Alec Kirkwood an he’s a big Bluenose. And that last guy, Wallace Ogilvie, come on. A Hun name if ever I heard one.’
‘Bollocks. My old man knew that Billy Hutchison and he was a Thistle man. How’s that fit into your theory?’
‘Aye, but who did he really support?’
They all laughed. Funny guys.
‘Here, Neilly. Tell them what you did with wee Janice.’
‘Aw, fuck off, man,’ said Neilly.
‘Spill, ya bam. What did you do?’
Neilly laughed.
‘She was over at mine and I was getting nowhere fast. She was for the off so I started laying it on thick about the Ripper and all that. Didnae actually say she’d get murdered if she walked home but I think she maybe got that impression.’
‘Genius, man.’
‘I was giving it, “Oh the cops have no idea, could strike anywhere at any minute, wisnae safe for someone as nice as her, would hate it if anything happened to her.” She caved, stayed the night at mine and I pumped her rotten.’
‘Sweet. Was she safe walking home the next morning?’
‘Oh aye. Sound as a pound.’
The four of them were still sniggering like halfwits when I dropped them on Bath Street. Talked about nothing except the killer. Said nothing to me except ‘Kushion, driver,’ and ‘Cheers, mate.’
The same night two girls got in. Late twenties maybe. Obviously had a good night. Picked th
em up outside the Garage on Sauchiehall Street. I was third in the rank when I pulled up and saw the queue shivering in late October chill. Doesn’t matter what time of year it is, Glasgow clubbers wear as little as possible. I got to the front and they tottered over in high heels, holding hands.
It took all of two minutes for the conversation to turn to the serial killer. I seemed to hear the word and read it from the blonde’s lipglossed mouth at the same time. Ripper. The words before it didn’t register but that one did. I heard from that point on.
‘. . . Ripper, don’t you think?’
‘Nah, he didn’t look like he could rip open a packet of crisps. That creep in the yellow shirt though. Definite candidate.’
‘God, aye. He was a freak. Weird eyes, right stare on him.’
‘I think that might just have been your tits.’
‘Well true, he wasn’t the only one having difficulty looking at my face when he spoke to me. Disnae mean he wasn’t a weirdo though.’
‘Place was full of them the night.’
‘No change there.’
‘Ah know, but I didn’t use to think there was maybe a psycho serial killer among them. Just thought they were chancers and pervy bastards.’
‘Scares the shit out of me, Mel.’
‘Ah know. Didnae think something like that could happen here. It’s no New York.’
‘Has though. Four times. Christ.’
‘Mental.’
‘Ah know. My old man has an Annie Rooney every time ah go out. Would be staying in till this freak’s caught if he had his way.’
‘Right, we’ll get the driver to stop at yours first so you’ll no be left on your own.’
‘Naw, naw, it’s cool. You get dropped off first. I’ll text my dad and he can meet me at the door to the close.’
‘No, I’ll just be worried. Drop you off first. Then I’ll no worry.’
‘Yeah, but then I’ll be worrying.’
‘Well, why don’t we both just get dropped off first and you can stay the night at mine.’
They giggled.
‘Aye, your Raymond would love that.’
‘Aye, he probably would actually.’
They both burst out laughing.
In the end, some sort of sense prevailed. The one whose dad could come down to meet her got off last. Didn’t seem to occur to her that the danger she was so worried about was sitting right in front of her. Not that she was at any risk whatsoever, either of them. Probably safer than any other two girls in the city that night. Safe as houses.
I breathed hard after the second one got out. Their words sticking in my head. Freak. Psycho. Mental.
Sticks and stones. Girls that age, though. Made me think of my own. Some judgements hurt more than others.
It was harder now. Wallace Ogilvie was dealt with and I could feel some of my hatred going with him. But there were still things to do. Still a plan to stick to. Had to go on. Much harder now. Had to be harder to deal with that. Hard as Glasgow. Hard as those who joked to me about a killer that sat in front of them.
They wanted this Ripper to kill football managers, politicians, and celebrities. They seemed sure I’d want him to kill traffic wardens or managers from the roads department. Hard people with ready black humour. People with no understanding. They didn’t know me. They didn’t know why. Never would if things worked out right.
My plan. My daughter.
Didn’t, couldn’t, care for their opinions. Only one thing mattered. Only one person mattered.
Had to shut them out. Had to turn a deaf ear to them again. They weren’t hard, they were stupid. Stupid and dull. Only thing hard was my heart. Hardened against their jokes and fears, their theories and bleatings. They weren’t gallus, they were just in the way.
Fuck Glasgow. Job to do. Job to finish.
CHAPTER 25
The thing with sending out messages is that if they are not received and understood then you have to keep sending them out until they are.
Alec Kirkwood had clipped Jimmy Mac’s finger and dumped him in the street with a hole in his eye. It hadn’t been enough. He had broken the arms of two neds who had acted the big-man when they were asked for info. It hadn’t been enough. He had had a bullet put through Mick Docherty’s front window and it hadn’t been enough. He had put the frighteners on everyone he could and no one had coughed with a name. It wasn’t good enough.
The newspapers said it was a serial killer. Said it was a random hit. Kirkwood wasn’t so sure and didn’t care anyway. He had let half of Glasgow know that he wanted to know who had claimed Tierney and someone had to know. He’d made it the talk of the underbelly. The talk of the steamie and the steaming. The chattering classes like Ally McFarland spread the gospel according to Alec Kirkwood to anyone who would listen.
Yet still he didn’t have what he wanted. Did they think he wasn’t serious? Could they be that fucking stupid? It left him boiling that they were going to make him prove himself all over again. If he had to demonstrate to these arseholes that he was not to be disrespected then they would only have themselves to blame.
He offered them the easy way or the hard way to do things and they made the choice. They gave him no option but to behave like the bampot that fought his way out of Asher Street. He had left that slum behind years ago and knew there were other ways of doing things, but they kept dragging him back there. Well, fine.
An example had to be made and Alec Kirkwood knew just the man. There was a guy by the name of Hutton who hurt people for Mick Docherty. Billy Hutton, a violent type who liked being a bit of a name. He was flash with his cash and his mouth and had a reputation with the women. He was maybe six four with slicked-back hair and gym muscles. He thought himself a looker and by some miracle his face had escaped a doing over the years.
The little people crossed the road to stay out of Hutton’s way. He was always given room and he loved it. He had three kids by three women. None of them to his wife. Hutton had been inside twice and had put his share of people in hospital. He liked his work.
He was close to Docherty and there were even those who thought Mick was afraid of him. That seemed unlikely but you could bet Hutton was happy with the idea.
Same thing with Spud Tierney. There was some talk that Hutton had stuck Spud but Kirkwood doubted it. The knife wasn’t Hutton’s style. A baseball bat maybe, a drop off a tall building or simply beaten to death. Not the blade though.
Still, Hutton knew folk had made the whisper about him doing Spud and he did nothing to stop it. He knew his name was floating but he didn’t sink it as he should have. It was part of the game that sometimes you took credit for things you hadn’t done, add a notch to your score and a boost to your rep.
The trick though was to pick and choose your moments. Playing the smart arse and letting people believe you had offed one of Alec Kirkwood’s boys was stupidity. Kirky was still very unhappy. He was convinced someone had murdered Tierney to taunt him. That someone had cut off Tierney’s finger as a sign.
Every time I caught the tail end of a whisper put out by Kirkwood, I shuddered. It wasn’t the way it was meant to be. It had nothing to do with him.
But the word kept coming. He was saying that it wouldn’t end, wouldn’t be forgotten. No one would be allowed to take the piss out of Kirky. It seems he thought Hutton was doing just that.
Hutton had a council house in Christie Street in Shettleston with his wife. A typical sixties dump from the outside but inside it was kitted out with the flashiest gear that shady money could buy.
Tuesday morning and Hutton had left that council house and began to walk down the street. He had turned just one corner when an unmarked white van pulled up and three men got out.
They grabbed Hutton and threw him into the back of the van. The big man didn’t put up much of a fight.
Of course, nobody in Christie Street was able to describe the men when the police came asking. Of course, no one saw anything they could tell the cops.
It was
Davie Stewart and the Grant brothers, Charlie and Frank, each as mental as the other.
The white van drove out of Christie Street at a good pace but not racing. There was a kettle full of boiling water sitting in the front seat and you don’t want that spilled on your upholstery.
They drove no more than two minutes to the hill known locally as The Womb on account of the number of kids conceived there. There are few places in suburban Glasgow that are very far from bits of green that could be used by desperate teenagers.
Hutton was marched to the top of the hill at gunpoint, his hands tied behind him. Frankie Grant carried the kettle.
They kicked his legs from him until Hutton was on his knees before them. They cracked the side of his head with the gun barrel and forced his mouth open.
Frankie poured half the kettle of near-boiling water down his throat then covered him in the rest.
Hutton screamed.
He did the same again when Frankie smashed the empty kettle off the side of his face, leaving a red welt that stained him from his cheek to his forehead.
Charlie Grant tore the trousers off him and forced Hutton to bend over, spreading his legs wide.
Davie Stewart went behind him and shoved the barrel of the gun up Hutton’s arse. He forced it roughly into his hole and spiralled it as deep as he could inside him.
Hutton still played the big man. He told them to fuck off. Told them to do it. Told them to go ahead and pull the trigger. So Davie Stewart did.
There was a click and nothing else. The gun had never been loaded in the first place.
That was the point when Hutton began to cry. He sobbed a bit and laughed out of relief. Just before Davie Stewart raped him.
Charlie Grant did the same but Frankie settled for kicking Hutton hard in the balls. Each to their own.
They left Hutton on top of The Womb, bleeding, blistering and greeting his eyes out. He’d thought they were going to kill him and chances are he ended up wishing they had. The message was that were some things worse than death for a Glasgow hard man. There were worse things that Alec Kirkwood could do to you than that.
Everyone who lived and breathed in the inner city knew the value of image and dignity. Lose those and you’d be as well losing your balls. Hutton had tried to be smart with the wrong guy. Anyone else fancy trying that? Thought not.
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