Random

by Craig Robertson

  ‘Mr Docherty is, um, an associate but I’ve no reason to think . . .’ Kepple’s voiced trailed off unconvincingly.

  ‘Of course you haven’t,’ smiled Kirkwood. ‘Best not to, don’t you think?’

  Kepple’s head dropped as he nodded again.

  ‘Did Mr Docherty ever meet Mr Ogilvie?’

  ‘No.’

  Kirkwood stared at him.

  ‘No, yes, once. I was having a drink with Wallace when Mr Docherty came in. I introduced them. That was all though.’

  ‘It’s possible that they met after that though, isn’t it? Once they knew they had a mutual business acquaintance? It is possible.’

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose so.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? And you do know that Mr Docherty has a rather . . . unsavoury reputation?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has it never crossed your mind that he might have killed Mr Ogilvie? A man like that, capable of anything.’

  Kepple looked close to shitting himself. He swallowed and shrugged a nod.

  ‘Leaves you in a tricky position, Mr Kepple. You knowing what you know. Mr Docherty knowing what you know . . .’

  So it was that Archie Kepple phoned Mick Docherty. Asked him to meet in the office in Renfield Street after hours. He mentioned a housing association contract on the south side. Big money and a lot of manpower needed. All under the radar for now though. Mick needed to keep it quiet and come on his own. Greedy Mick was happy to agree.

  The details on what happened in that office once Mick Docherty had turned up were few and far between. Suffice to say that Mick was never seen again. Some said he was strangled, others that he was stabbed. There was even talk that he had been given a huge overdose of the stuff that he helped put on the streets.

  Archie Kepple’s nerves and conscience ensured he couldn’t keep his trap shut completely and he let it be known that he thought Docherty had something to do with the murder of poor Wallace Ogilvie. Never any mention of any other prominent Glasgow businessman though.

  Kepple’s trade contacts took a bit of a dunt with the disappearance of Docherty but he found himself a new partner who was happy to pick up the slack and provide bodies to lay the black stuff and the bricks, all foreign and all off the books.

  Together they helped build sparkling new southside housing with a nice little wedge from the taxpayer. Alan Devlin’s boys made sure the building site was safely secured night and day in case anyone came around stealing or snooping. Lovely houses they were too, solid as a rock and built on a very sound foundation.

  Docherty sorted, reputation sorted. Kirkwood wasn’t so daft as to think he had sorted the serial killer too. That box still needed ticking. According to Ally McFarland, Kirky felt he was on a roll and had all sorts of useful information to work with.

  CHAPTER 30

  She’s sleeping.

  I’m downstairs. Television on. I’m staring at the screen. No idea what programme is on. No interest.

  I’ve eaten. Hours ago though, I think.

  I’m thinking. Remembering. Planning.

  I won’t close my eyes. I know I’ll see her. See him. See them.

  Have I put the hall light off? I’m sure I did. I know I did. Better check.

  I check. I had put it off. I knew I had.

  Ideas run round my head. So many thoughts. Can’t stop them, can’t slow them or reduce them.

  I want a drink but won’t do it. I want control. Need it.

  Not being alone but being lonely is a hard way to be. That’s why I sometimes turned to my pal Jack for help. Sometimes my mates Jim or Arthur too. Mr Daniel’s, Mr Beam and Mr Guinness. Best friends a lonely man could have. I liked drinking. It helped.

  But sometimes it didn’t help. Like now.

  Remember when Sarah fell off her new bike and tore the skin off her knee? She refused to cry, just wouldn’t do it even though there was blood running down her leg.

  So many plans to make. Got to make sure things are done right.

  There’s a feeling rooted deep in my gut. An irritation that won’t go away. It nags at me, gnaws at me. It eats me. I try to stop thinking about it but it churns my stomach, beats my head. It’s there, always there. I fret because of it, continually aware of it. I worry because it is always there and it is always there because I worry about it. Can’t break that loop. Not a loop, a spiral. Downward. There is a constant urge to scream.

  Did I put that light off? The hall light? I know I did but maybe I better check. I know I did. Check anyway.

  I check it. It was off.

  Glass of Jack Daniel’s. Just the one. Driving later. Largish one though. Beyond caring.

  The newspapers have been full of things I’ve done. This street too with all its talk of killings. Kids write stuff on walls. That dog has been hanging around again as if it is stalking me. Not a happy place.

  What’s happy?

  So much planning to do. So much to remember. So much to forget.

  I want to wake up in the rain with her sheltering beneath my arm, raindrops falling off her smile and her feet shaking with the fun of it. I want her to rain-dance and twirl. I want her to pretend she is showing off. I want to open my eyes and see her looking up at me then looking down at rain dripping off her nose, her licking it the way she does. Did.

  It is hours since I’ve eaten. Hungry now.

  No time though. I’ve got to go out soon. How long is it since I had that glass of Jack?

  Punters in the taxi been talking of nothing except him. The Cutter. Him not me. Kept going on about the dentist. Sinclair. Saying what a shame it was. Sin for his wife, they said.

  What did they know about sin? Sin everywhere.

  Woman actually cried in the back of the car. Husband had to hold her. Crying for a woman she didn’t know. I caused that. Wallace Ogilvie caused that.

  No more Jack. Haven’t eaten. No more Jack on an empty stomach.

  Shit. Have to shake that gnawing. Stomach all over the place. Maybe a glass of Jack would sort it.

  They were saying that Sinclair was the worst one yet. Just married. Said surely if killer had known that he wouldn’t have done it. How could anyone do that? they asked.

  Pour another glass.

  Might not make work. Don’t want to hear them talking. Could phone in sick. True enough anyway. Sick in the stomach. Sick in the head.

  Sarah was off school for nearly two weeks with chicken pox once. Poor wee thing was covered in spots and had the cough and a really bad headache. Plenty of fluids and calamine lotion. Don’t scratch.

  Taxi passengers been boring into my head. Harder and harder to shut them out. Why couldn’t they just shut the fuck up?

  Not going in. Decided. Need to phone before having another glass. Keep voice together. Cammy doesn’t sound best pleased. Feels sorry for me though. Know that. Still not happy.

  No work though. No passengers. Why do they keep asking if I have heard anything? Just because you drive a cab doesn’t mean you get loads of gossip. No, heard nothing. Shut the fuck up.

  Seemed to be more people taking taxis. No one wanted to walk anywhere any more. People were scared. Even in Glasgow.

  Did I put the light off in the hall? Sure I’d checked that already.

  Sat back down. Last Jack.

  Still got to plan. Still lots to do. Dice move next.

  Maybe not best time to plan. Mind full of Jack. Mind full of Sarah. Mind full of Sinclair.

  I keep hearing Sarah’s voice. Always been the way. Would hear her in shopping centres or calling to a pal in the street. Would be sure it was her. And every time I remembered it wasn’t, couldn’t be, it was like her dying all over again. But now I hear it without anyone talking.

  She was talking through Jack. I was thinking through Jack.

  Man gave me a ten-pence tip last week. Fare came to £6.95 and he handed over seven pounds and a five-pence piece. Why do they bother doing that? I threw the coin out the window behind him. Shouldn’t have done that.


  Jesus, my guts were churning. Not nerves, just everything. All the shit rolled together. Should have been at work by now. Should have been on the street. Couldn’t now even if I wanted to.

  Not going to check that light again. Know I’ve checked it.

  I miss you. I say it out loud. I really miss you. Am I saying it out loud to prove it in case she’s listening? Don’t know. Shouldn’t have to prove it. She knows I love her.

  Don’t feel guilty. Doesn’t matter how many people say how bad it all is. Just because he was recently married. So what? Random. Way it has to be.

  The woman who was crying was doing so for herself. Not for the widow. Her own fear of being alone. Selfish bitch.

  Glasgow was full of fear. Could smell it from them. All their talk, all their gallusness meant nothing. All worried about their miserable little lives. Five fucking deaths and their front disappears like snow off a dyke. Could see the strain in their eyes, hear it in their voices. Smell it, see it, hear it, taste it, touch it.

  Can’t make plans with all this Tennessee firewater in me. Drunk plans are bad plans. Need to do things right. Owe it to her to do it properly. Getting caught would blow everything. Shame her. Shame both of them. Can’t do that. Can’t have that.

  Need control.

  Put half glass of Jack aside. Not finishing that.

  Rachel Narey is suspicious. Maybe she is just suspicious of everyone. Maybe half of Glasgow thinks she suspects them. They had nothing to hide though. Nothing to protect. She is getting a hard time on telly and in the papers. Scared people demanding answers. Police getting called for everything in taxis and on the street. Feel sorry for her. Not her fault. Their Cutter is too clever for them.

  A wee bit more of the Jack. Just what’s in that glass though. No more after that.

  Wonder what the cops really think. Must be saying lots they aren’t letting on to the press. Must have theories. Must have leads. Must be fucking furious that the piss is being taken out of them. Must be doing so much that I haven’t got a clue about.

  Getting tired.

  Sarah once said she wanted to be a policewoman. And a lawyer. And a pop star. And a nurse. And look after old people. She was really bright. And so kind. A warm heart.

  She and her pals found some kittens in the river when she was about seven. Some farmer had tried to drown them in a sack. She took the two surviving ones from house to house for hours until she found a home for them. It didn’t matter how many times people said no, she just moved on to another house with big eyes and a soft sell until the cats had good homes.

  Last drops of Jack clinging to the side of the glass. The rest deep inside me. No more.

  Tired.

  Just going to close my eyes for a second. Rest them. Need rest.

  Sarah. Narey. Sinclair.

  Traffic lights. Traffic jams.

  Wallace Ogilvie. Ogilvie. Ogilvie.

  Fighting back.

  Car door slamming shut somewhere. Black dog barking.

  So tired.

  Is the light switched off in the hall?

  So very tired.

  CHAPTER 31

  The Daily Record. Wednesday, 25 March 2010. Page 1.

  CLUELESS

  ‘CSI’ psychologist admits Cutter cops are baffled

  EXCLUSIVE by Keith Imrie, Chief Reporter.

  The forensic psychologist assisting Strathclyde Police with The Cutter murders has admitted that the force have ‘no worthwhile leads’ in their hunt for the killer. Dr Paul Crabtree, a consultant on US drama CSI, said that officers were out of ideas and resorting to ‘hoping that something would turn up’.

  A week on from the vicious murder of Cutter victim number five, Inchinnan dentist Brian Sinclair, the revelation will be seen as a devastating blow to the police investigation. Criticism has continued to mount against the police as the hunt goes into its thirteenth month without any tangible success. There are believed to be deep rifts within the investigation team and there are widespread rumours of officers from an outside force being parachuted in to ‘assist’ with the case.

  Speaking exclusively to the Daily Record, Dr Crabtree gave a remarkable insight into the profile he has drawn up for officers as well as a depressing assessment of their progress. ‘I am firmly of the opinion that this killer is striking randomly and that there is no discernible pattern to either when or who he strikes,’ he said. ‘That makes him extremely dangerous and, by extension, extremely difficult to apprehend. However there are certain characteristics that we can confidently assign to him and these can form a basis of elimination as well as inclusion.

  ‘I believe that the killer is a man, aged between 18 to 50 and with his own car. He seems to have issues with men rather than women and may well have close ties to a female figure in his life, probably his mother. This has manifested itself in deep-rooted hatred of men and it may be that his significant female figure may have been significantly abused or hurt by a male figure.

  ‘It may be too that he has a grievance against the city of Glasgow and that is an avenue worth exploring.

  ‘He is also likely to have issues with authority as he seems to be taunting the police over their inability to catch him. He sees himself, quite wrongly of course, as omnipotent and far smarter than the police. Indeed I fear he is possessed of what we term Roman Emperor Syndrome, the quest in the killer for something even beyond omnipotent control, for the complete subjugation and slow destruction of others.

  ‘The sending of the victim’s finger to police is a clear indicator of his belief in his own invulnerability and his desire for publicity. He believes he is untouchable but moreover he wants everyone to know about his power.

  ‘These particular murders are unusual because they are crimes with no obvious indication or links as to why they would happen. In most cases there are clear connections but not in these.

  ‘I have to say that police are at the stage where they have exhausted all logical lines of possibility and are simply hoping that something will turn up or that the killer will make some fundamental mistake. There are no worthwhile leads and they are praying that one surfaces before he strikes again.’

  Dr Crabtree, who was brought into the investigation after the third murder, that of Thomas Tierney, has been critical in the past of the force’s reluctance to use forensic profiling techniques. There have been persistent rumours of friction between Dr Crabtree and DS Rachel Narey, the officer in charge of the investigation. Sources suggest that the two have argued in front of other officers on many occasions with DS Narey openly critical of the psychologist’s assessments. It is thought that she disagrees with his opinion that there is no connection between the victims.

  While not confirming those suggestions, Dr Crabtree said that there had been some disagreements over strategy.

  ‘Differing members of an investigation team often take differing approaches,’ he said. ‘This is not unusual and may even be seen as constructive. It is important that everyone keeps an open mind on all avenues that may be conducive to bringing this case to an end.’

  CHAPTER 32

  A time will come when a person will be declared insane when they believe that ‘I am he who is X, Y and Z, and X, Y and Z only.’

  It’s a line from a book called The Dice Man by a guy calling himself Luke Rhinehart. It was a cult novel written at the height of the hippy revolution and featured free sex, rape and murder. The dust cover said it was subversive, controversial, and dangerous. Banned in several countries, it promised to change the reader’s life whether he liked it or not. It was about a bored psychiatrist who spiced things up by letting his entire life be ruled by the roll of the dice. No going back, no changing the rules, just follow the dice and let chance sweep away what he said were the illnesses of reason and seriousness created by modern society. It championed freedom over free will, chance over choice. It took away the moral or ethical responsibility that came with choice and replaced it with risk, variety and impermanence. You couldn’t be held accountable for
something that happened at random and there was no point in worrying about the consequences of any action when the next throw of the dice took you in an unrelated direction.

  It was of course a massive piss-take.

  All that mattered though was the premise and the premise was simple. The dice decide. Or the die decides. Die is the singular of dice. Die, die, die. For my purposes, it was all rather neat. The die decides who dies. Homicidal tongue-twisters r us.

  The line about he who is X, Y and Z means that it’s crazy to believe a person is just what he is and nothing more or less. We are all more than we seem, even to ourselves. We are all capable of much more than we or others might think.

  None of us can be sure of who we are or what we are, far less of what we might do. One event, one roll of the dice, one chance happening, one flutter of a butterfly’s wing and all that we think is set and sure is suddenly very different. Your world is arse over tit just like that. Chaos rules. Your X, Y and Z is gone and you find that you are X, B and W. You are more and you are less.

  My instruments of chance were a pair of dice liberated from an old Monopoly set. Rhinehart’s nonsense is no way to live a life but it seemed a perfect way to orchestrate a random death.

  The dice man cometh.

  I split Glasgow into two areas, north and south of the river. An odd number meant north, even was south. A four and a six. South.

  Wikipedia lists sixty-two districts south of the Clyde in alphabetical order from Arden to Tradeston. I split them into five groups of twelve with two left over. I threw a single die and threw a one.

  That left me with Arden, Auldhouse, Battlefield, Bellahouston, Cardonald, Carmunnock, Carnwadric, Castlemilk, Cathcart, Corkerhill, Cowglen and Craigton.

  Leafy suburbs, skyscraper hellholes, Victorian villas, tenement graveyards and conservation villages. Rat runs, estates, schemes and bombsites. Someone in one of them would fall into in the crosshairs of the dice.

  I’d need to throw a pair of dice so that left only Arden as being safe. Perhaps a first for anyone living there.