Random

by Craig Robertson

  They would be calling him a mad bastard again. That was fine. They’d be saying he was just a psycho in a good suit and he could live with that. This time it had all been about getting that message across, not about wee Spud’s killer.

  As Hutton lay blubbering on the top of that hill, Davie Stewart eventually asked him who had killed Spud Tierney. Through his snot and tears, Hutton said he had no idea. Davie Stewart hadn’t expected to hear much else but kicked him in the head anyway. That was for being stupid. You should have said that in the first place, arsehole.

  News of what was done to Hutton was quickly fed to all corners. No point in doing it otherwise.

  Had to make you wonder what he might do to the person who had actually killed Tierney. It certainly made me think. Not scared, not of what he might do. Worried that it might get in the way of my plans. A complication I could have definitely done without.

  Some people asked how it was known Hutton was leaving the house at the time he did. They wanted to know how Kirky’s men knew to have that kettle boiling.

  Some said Hutton was a creature of habit. Others knew that wasn’t true. The smart money said Mrs Hutton made a phone call. Three unanswered rings then hung up. Come on down, the price is right.

  Hutton didn’t go to the cops, of course, and didn’t go to a hospital. He went to the flat where the mother of one of his children lived. She took one look at him and closed the door in his face.

  He went to Mick Docherty’s and didn’t get a much better reception. Mickey stuck a bundle of cash into Hutton’s pocket and sent him on his way. It was the last anyone heard or saw of him.

  Not all my fault. Hutton put himself in that world. I just put him in that situation.

  CHAPTER 26

  My view on other people’s happiness was not what it was. There was a time when I’d have wanted everyone to be as happy as me. As us.

  The day we were married. The day Sarah was born. The first day she went to school. The day she won that poetry prize. I had so much happiness that it burst out of me and there was plenty to share.

  Things changed.

  Other people’s happiness became something I didn’t consider greatly. It became something I didn’t consider at all. My priorities were my own. She was my only concern. Other people didn’t exist. Other people were noises that fluttered at my ears or drifted past my eyes. They were in the world but not in mine. People were obstacles and stepping stones. They thought they were talking to me and that I was listening. They thought I cared. They thought. I didn’t think about them.

  Oh we all live in our own self-centred little worlds but my isolation was more than that. Their selfishness was no match for my obsession. Other people live for themselves but want to be loved by others. I lived only for her and had no need for love.

  I wouldn’t say it was callous. More indifference. Maybe that amounted to the same thing but I didn’t care to hurt. I just didn’t care. Other people’s feelings were as irrelevant as they were, somewhere on my horizon, shadows upon shadows. That is how I could do what I had done and what I was about to do.

  I picked up the Herald. Glasgow Herald as was. I didn’t like it when things were changed without good reason.

  Page 22 is the Gazette page. Why it is called that has never been particularly obvious to me but it didn’t matter. The Gazette page is where they have the obituaries and the BDMs. Births, Deaths and Marriages.

  Except in the Herald it is Births, Marriages then Deaths. They probably consider it a more natural order of things but I was always uneasy with the change from the conventional. The Gazette page is where people celebrate themselves in print. It is where they let their friends and neighbours know of their achievements or failures in genetics.

  Weir

  John and Fiona are delighted to announce the safe

  arrival of their beautiful twin girls,

  Victoria Susan Eilidh (5lbs 11 ozs) and Emma

  Ann Marcia (5lbs 9 ozs) at 34 weeks on

  22nd February 2010. Sisters for Jack. Many

  thanks to Dr James Hines, Dr Ken French

  and all staff at the Royal Alexandra Hospital, Paisley,

  for all their care and attention.

  That was not to be it.

  I felt for John and Fiona though. They were pain waiting to happen. John and Fiona still thought life was fair. Beautiful twin girls. Victoria and Emma. Lovely. Victoria. Emma. Sisters to Jack. Good weight for premature twins too.

  So many bad things could happen to Victoria and Emma. A world of bad possibilities. That was a fact. I almost despised John and Fiona for their ignorance. How could they be so unaware of fate, so naive, so stupid to think otherwise?

  McGowan

  At the Southern General Hospital on 28th February

  2010, to Neil and Polly McGowan (née Rawstone)

  a son Angus Michael, a little brother for Claire.

  Not the one.

  Angus, a good name but anachronistic. Parents really had to be more considerate when naming their offspring. We had taken two months to settle on Sarah’s name. Sarah was a princess, wife of Abraham and mother of Isaac. If it was a boy it was to have been David, the beloved one.

  Two columns of births. One and a half of marriages. Four and a half columns of deaths. Three of acknowledgements which was really just another three of deaths.

  I looked carefully at the last seven and a half columns. Why so many more deaths than births and marriages? The population was dropping but not that quick.

  If deaths were more worthy of noting in a national newspaper then that sounded more like guilt to me than honouring those that had gone. Anyway, deaths clearly didn’t suit my purpose. That would have been impractical on so many levels.

  It was to be the last marriage. I’d settled on that before picking up the paper. No reason. Just a random choice. Those at the end of the alphabet were at a distinct and dangerous disadvantage but that was life.

  Sinclair

  Gardiner

  The marriage took place at Iona Abbey on

  20th February 2010 of Brian, son of the

  late Archibald Sinclair and of Elspeth Sinclair,

  Arran, and Mary Anne, daughter of

  Ian and Anne Gardiner, Inchinnan.

  The newly wed Brian Sinclair and Mary Anne Gardiner. Brian and Mary. Mr and Mrs Sinclair. By the time the glorification of their union appeared in the Herald they had enjoyed thirteen days of wedded bliss.

  It struck me that the right thing to do would be not to separate Mr and Mrs Sinclair. Wherefore they are no more twain, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder. Matthew 19:6.

  The thought struck me but I dismissed it. God and I were no longer on speaking terms. Mr and Mrs Sinclair together would pose far more problems. The rights and wrongs of separating them paled beside the practicalities of what had to be done. Brian and Mary were both obstacle and stepping stone.

  So, Brian or Mary? Husband or wife?

  I was ambivalent but thought I should redress the unfairness of the alphabetical disadvantage.

  And behold, there are last which shall be first, and there are first which shall be last. Luke 13:30.

  God and I did not speak any more but I still remembered his words. It would be Brian. Mrs Mary Sinclair, wallowing in the blissful ignorance of the newly wed, would soon be a widow.

  These days I had only misery to share. It burst out of me now.

  CHAPTER 27

  Brian Sinclair was a runner. Twice a day, every day, he left the house at Inchinnan overlooking the White Cart and headed onto the hill behind it where a path cut a trail through the woods. I didn’t know how far he ran but he was gone a good hour each time and seemed to pick up a very decent pace. He was very fit, which was a bit of a worry. Not necessarily a major problem but definitely an issue.

  Thankfully the new Mrs Sinclair was not a runner. Their inseparability did not seem to extend to staying fit together.

  I’d parked half a
mile away and positioned myself in the shadow of a tree that let me view their house without being seen.

  I waited. And waited some more.

  I was wearing jeans and walking boots, a shirt and waterproof jacket. In the back pocket of my jeans was a rolled-up newspaper. I didn’t care much for papers or the people who wrote them. I’d known journalists. I hadn’t liked them. Pretending they are your friend. Just there to help. Only wanting to tell your side of things. Then when they write stuff you didn’t say, put it in ways that you didn’t mean, then it isn’t their fault. The editor wanted it that way, the sub-editor wrote the heading, nothing to do with them.

  But, of course, once it is in black and white it is gospel. Once it is plastered across the columns of a newspaper everyone believes it to be fact. It is so true that the pen is mightier than the sword but it’s not the only way a newspaper can be a weapon.

  I felt the weight of the rolled-up paper in my back pocket and was reassured by it.

  I waited.

  Eventually the door opened and I saw Brian Sinclair wave before closing it behind him. He began to run. He didn’t have the dog with him. That meant it was time.

  I gave him fully five minutes then made my way away from the house and circled it before joining the path and walking deep into the wood.

  It was a fairly steep climb but I was fit enough. I’d already worked out that I wanted to be far enough in that only one person was likely to pass me. Not so far that it would take me too long to get out again.

  When I got to the point I’d picked out, I sat and waited. It wouldn’t be long.

  My timing was good. I’d been sitting no more than three minutes when I picked up the sound of running. He was on his return route.

  It was a scratch that became a roar. Feet through leaves. Feet across packed ground. Getting closer. Louder. Scrunching towards me.

  My heartbeat matched his stride as it closed in on me. I felt cold. No, hot. Heart thumping. Blood pumping. Hot through the ice that filled my veins and froze my heart. I was hot cold. Freezing hot.

  Then there he was. He rounded a corner and was no more than ten yards in front of me. I hadn’t seen him so close up and he was taller than I’d thought. Maybe six foot two. Cropped, fair hair. Honeymoon tanned. Happy.

  He smiled when he saw me. That threw me but only slightly. For a long time now, strangers smiling at me had struck me as odd. Strangers were strange to me. I knew it was just me though. I’d lost my reason to smile. Lost my reason.

  But Brian Sinclair didn’t think like me. He liked people. He smiled at strangers. Or perhaps I wasn’t completely unfamiliar to him. He had a look that suggested he might have seen me before. And of course he might have.

  I had watched him for a month. Watched from afar. I had seen him leave the house over the river. I had seen him arrive at his dental practice. I had seen him set out on his run. I had seen him return.

  I had seen them walk, hand in hand, whispering, laughing. I had seen them walk the springer spaniel. Sometimes it was Brian, sometimes Mary. Most often it was Mr and Mrs Sinclair together. They liked togetherness. They were wrapped up cosy in it.

  But then I knew what they didn’t.

  As Brian Sinclair stood there, the look on his face was one that said ‘Hey, I know you. I’m not sure where from but I do know you, don’t I?’

  I wasn’t particularly pleased about his recognition but soon it wouldn’t matter.

  Sinclair saw me holding my ankle. I was sitting on a boulder, the right leg of my jeans pulled up to the calf.

  Of course, I hadn’t sprained it. Brian thought I had.

  Are you OK? he asked. I said I was – in a voice that said I wasn’t.

  He looked around. What did he expect to find? A crutch, a doctor, an ambulance? He wanted to help. Brian was a nice guy.

  I’d already taken the newspaper from my back pocket. It was rolled-up tight but I wrapped it tighter still. Brian might have seen it but thought nothing of it. He couldn’t see that the paper was weeks old.

  He kneeled by me and said he’d take a look at my ankle.

  He was talking. Words about help. About being careful. About ankles. I didn’t take them in. I only heard noise.

  My eyes were on him. On his throat. I gripped the newspaper tighter. Then even tighter.

  My breathing was heavy, I knew it. I was sure he’d just put it down to my supposed fall. I hoped he couldn’t hear my heart.

  He was closer, trying to lever me up. His head was by mine now. It was nearly time but I couldn’t rush it. I would only get one chance. If I messed it up it was all over.

  The newspaper was hot in my hand.

  He took hold of my ankle, checking it for me. He was about to find out that it wasn’t swollen. I saw the puzzled look on his face. He was about to ask, about to doubt.

  I knew it was as much about accuracy as strength. I would get as much force behind it as I could but it was more important that I caught him in the soft of the throat. It is all about tensile strength. It makes a newspaper as good as a hammer. It makes it near lethal.

  His eyes were just turning up towards mine when I stabbed at his throat with the paper. It caught him full and hard, driving against his larynx. It knocked him off his feet. If he’d looked puzzled before then he was bewildered now. His eyes streamed, he clutched at his throat, he gulped and coughed.

  I got above him quickly and placed the end of the paper a couple of inches off his forehead. I used the flat of my hand as a hammer and drove the paper against his skull. He passed out with nothing more than a groan.

  I was over him then. A newly gloved hand pinching his cheeks and encouraging his mouth to open.

  I carefully forced the end of the paper into his mouth and turned it slowly as I fed it to him. Three, four, five inches of it disappeared easily. Easily for me.

  Then it hit the back of his throat and went no further. Until I used my hand as a hammer again and hit it hard.

  When it didn’t budge, I hit it harder. His throat opened and the newspaper moved down it.

  His eyes suddenly opened, bulging wide. They strained down, trying desperately to see what was being forced into his mouth. As if seeing the intruder would free it. It wouldn’t. It didn’t.

  I pushed further.

  Sinclair waved his arms like a drunk. No power and no direction. They barely flapped. He was choking. Slowly. Hopelessly. It was fascinating to watch.

  His eyes watered. His cheeks strained red with effort. His neck was swollen, muscles stretched tight.

  Then there was blood at his eyes. Amazing. He cried blood.

  The strangest thing was his throat where I could see the outline of the paper. It thrust against his tight skin, trying to burst free.

  I hit the top of the paper again. I forced it. I pushed down on it. I literally rammed it down his throat.

  The process was incredibly simple if not particularly pretty.

  He choked to death in front of me. Silent all but for a few pathetic gasps and a scream that stayed deep down inside him, strangled at birth.

  I worked the newspaper back out, a far easier job than putting it in. Wet with saliva, blood and traces of vomit, it slid along his surrendered throat and out.

  I sat it on the rock I’d been sitting on and took a cigarette lighter from my pocket. One spark was enough for the damp paper to light and burn and dance and disappear before my eyes. One murder weapon gone.

  I swapped the lighter for the secateurs and severed his pinkie.

  CHAPTER 28

  The Herald, 18 March 2010

  Newlywed found murdered in woods

  Has Ripper killed again?

  The Daily Record, 18 March 2010

  NUMBER FIVE!

  Ripper kills again

  EXCLUSIVE by Keith Imrie

  The body of a Glasgow dentist was found in woods near Inchinnan yesterday – the fifth victim of Jock the Ripper. Brian Sinclair (32) had been on his daily run through the woods when the killer struck.<
br />
  It is not yet known how Mr Sinclair was murdered but police have confirmed that his right little finger was severed. Officers are bracing themselves for the finger to be posted as has become the norm after the Ripper has killed.

  Mr Sinclair had been married for only six weeks and his devastated wife Mary was last night being cared for by her family.

  The brutal murder will bring even greater fear to a city already haunted by the shadow of the Ripper.

  Full Story on pages 2 and 3.

  The Courier, 18 March 2010

  Dentist murdered as police fear serial killer has claimed new victim

  The Daily Express, 18 March 2010

  RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN

  The Daily Star, 18 March 2010

  RIPPED

  The Daily Record, 19 March 2010

  THE CUTTER

  EXCLUSIVE by Keith Imrie

  The infamous Glasgow murderer who struck for the fifth time on Wednesday has revealed himself to the Daily Record as The Cutter. The serial killer sent a harrowing package to this reporter containing a house key belonging to murdered dentist Brian Sinclair. It was accompanied by a ‘business card’ adorned by the printed words ‘The Cutter’.

  The package and the printing were identical to a previous envelope from the killer which contained the finger of slaughtered businessman Wallace Ogilvie.

  Police have confirmed that the key was for the front door of Mr Sinclair’s Inchinnan home and that he always carried it with him while out running. Strathclyde officers have also confirmed that they took delivery of a package which held the severed right little finger of the victim.

  Psychologists have told the Daily Record that by allocating himself a nickname, The Cutter was affirming his ownership of the killings. They say that it was his method of declaring that he was in control of the situation, not the police or the media.

  That and because he hated the fucking name Jock.