Maybe this Lewington guy would have known Rachel got the letter, maybe not. But either way it was her who would have got on to Tesco.
Narey was good. It wouldn’t have taken her long. One phone call to the store to determine if any of their staff had gone missing, or worse. She would have been told of course that nothing had been reported. All was well. The receipt would have been sent immediately to the lab for fingerprint tests and whatever else they could get from it. That was the clever bit, my smart arse solution. I couldn’t give her a finger so I gave her a fingerprint. I liked to think she would have appreciated that later.
Narey would have told the store manager to have a word with all his staff, urge caution, impress on them just how serious this was.
Imrie didn’t phone her or Lewington but headed to the shop to snoop around on his own. The cops could wait, he wanted to be ahead of the game yet again. Had there been a murder, was there going to be one? His source had never let him down before. Whoever that source was, of course.
He’d still have been hanging around when the liquid nicotine kicked in and Raedale kicked off. He might even have seen it. He’d certainly have heard the commotion it must have caused and been there when Strathclyde’s finest came rushing to the door with sirens blaring.
The cops wouldn’t have been best pleased to see Imrie there before them. Not pleased at all. He’d have got an angry earful. He got a quote about his Cutter right enough, his story in the Record on the Monday confirmed that, but I was pretty sure Narey in particular also said a few things that couldn’t be printed. She wouldn’t have missed him.
She’d have found the soaked, stinking body of Fiona Raedale. She’d have known who any fingerprint on the till receipt from the Thursday was going to match up to. She’d have made sure they wrung every piece of evidence they could from that receipt. Every print, every bit of DNA, everything that might have passed for a clue.
I knew they’d have studied the CCTV tapes from the store, maybe as much as an hour or two before and after the 14.23 that was shown on the receipt. Everyone who entered and left. Looking for whoever might have purchased a six-pack of lager and a half bottle of whisky from Fiona Raedale’s till in two separate transactions.
They wouldn’t have seen me though because I was never there. Not that day at any rate. If they could have known then they might have seen a jaikie in a dirty, worn overcoat enter the shop about 14.09. They might have seen him leave about 14.24. Maybe if they concentrated on the exit time then they’d have spotted him as the buyer of the lager and the whisky. It still wouldn’t have helped them much though.
I had found my alkie accomplice at a piece of waste-ground five minutes’ walk away from Tesco. He wasn’t hard to convince that he should help me. I gave him a tenner to buy the drink, making it quite clear that he had to buy from the till with the fat woman wearing a badge that said her name was Fiona. He had to buy the drinks separately so that he would have two receipts. When he brought the receipts back to me he could keep the drink and get another tenner for his trouble.
He was already pretty wasted on Buckfast and methadone when I went to him and he’d have been off his face within half an hour of me leaving. There was no way he could remember me even if the cops did track him down.
Anyway, I’d sworn him to secrecy under pain of reprisals and I knew he’d keep to his side of the bargain. He was full of bravado and Buckie but something about me frightened him. Maybe the jaikie could see things that others couldn’t, maybe living on the streets just meant that he scared easily. Either way, he would stay drunk and silent.
The police knew. Imrie knew. Before long all of Glasgow and Scotland and beyond knew too. The Cutter had killed again.
The news couldn’t keep. Imrie being there ensured that. There was no way that they wanted him to claim another scoop and Lewington was in front of TV cameras within an hour. No explanation of how they could be sure, no missing finger, no names, no pack drill. But confirmation all the same. Victim number six. Cue hysteria.
The news had travelled all the way to an empty house somewhere about five minutes from Possil where Alec Kirkwood held seven men in hoods and was halfway through extracting whatever he could from them. Killing Raedale by remote control, being miles away when it happened was supposed to be my alibi when Rachel inevitably came calling. But it turned out to be my alibi to Kirkwood.
I couldn’t know if he’d got a phone call, heard from a rogue cop, heard it on the radio or had been watching Sky News. Didn’t matter. All that mattered, all that saved me and a couple of others from extreme pain was that he found out.
The Cutter had struck again and it could not be any of the poor saps he had lined up tied to chairs. Whoever it was it wasn’t any of them. We were kicked onto the streets without explanation and expected to be glad to be alive.
The next day I was visited at home by Arthur Penman, the accountant that fronted Kirky’s takeover of the taxi business. I was told that it had been a mistake, an unfortunate understanding but that no more was to be said about it. Nothing said to anyone. I didn’t have a job any more though, there had been a couple of redundancies, credit crunch and all that. An envelope was shoved into my hand containing twenty grand in cash. I didn’t need to go in to pick up any of my stuff. My taxi-driving days were over.
CHAPTER 44
Daily Record
4 May 2010
EXCLUSIVE
CUTTER USED NICOTINE POISON
Record reveals method to cops
By Keith Imrie, Chief Reporter
The Cutter brutally killed victim number six using a deadly poison called pure liquid nicotine. The Daily Record can exclusively reveal that the callous serial killer murdered 47-year-old shop worker Fiona Raedale from Summerston using a huge dose of the lethal poison which can kill within minutes. The Tesco sales assistant died in the supermarket giant’s Maryhill store on Saturday in full view of horrified customers.
The shop on Maryhill Road was closed for several hours after Ms Raedale died a horrible and very public death while sat at her till serving Saturday afternoon shoppers.
The Cutter has now killed six times. His victims are Glasgow lawyer Jonathan Carr (37), bookmaker Billy Hutchison (58), gangland underling Thomas Tierney (26), businessman Wallace Ogilvie (52), dentist Brian Sinclair (32) and Ms Raedale (pictured above).
Baffled police have no idea how The Cutter administered the deadly toxin to the shop worker. Unbelievably, officers leading the investigation did not even know that she had been poisoned until informed by the Record!
Forensic scientists had been frantically analysing samples of the victim’s blood and other vital fluids to establish a cause of death. However, one officer close to the investigation admitted that they had no clue as to how she was murdered – or even that she had been murdered.
Pure liquid nicotine is sometimes used in anti-smoking products but was given to the victim in such a high dosage that death was almost instant. Shocked shoppers watched as Ms Raedale vomited, and lost control of her bodily functions before dying in front of them in excruciating agony. Although deadly, liquid nicotine is incredibly difficult to detect and can easily be overlooked during forensic blood examinations. Strathclyde Police successfully ran tests for liquid nicotine after being advised to do so by the Record. They have thanked us for our public assistance in this matter. We cannot reveal the source of our information but can say that it was from an informed party.
Startled shopper James McLenaghan (37) told of his horror at seeing Ms Raedale die.
‘It was terrible. The poor woman started moaning something awful then started shaking. She fell off her chair then there was stuff flooding everywhere. The smell was just horrendous. It only lasted a couple of minutes, maybe less. I was just a few feet away from her. Unbelievable. I know it sounds terrible but it was as if she had exploded.
‘There were people screaming and nobody really knew what was going on. You could see she was dead though. It was obvious. I think a
couple of people threw up just looking at her.’
Another customer, Candice Ross (19), was in Ms Raedale’s queue when she died.
‘It was unbelievable. Totally frightening. She just went into this sort of fit and she was throwing up and I think she must have messed herself as well. I was like, this can’t be happening. I was just glad I didn’t have my wee girl with me. I wouldn’t have liked her to see that. It was like something right out of a horror movie. I’ll no be able to sleep for ages.
‘I can’t believe this has happened here. Everybody’s been talking about The Cutter but you don’t think it’s going to happen on your own doorstep. You don’t expect this kind of thing round here. I can’t believe he was here and did this. It’s totally scary.’
The murder of Ms Raedale is the first time that the killer has failed to carry out his trademark barbarous act of severing his victim’s little finger. However, there is no doubt that it was The Cutter that killed her. Instead of sending police a chopped-off finger, the evil killer has sent a chilling and mocking message to bewildered detectives. The Record can exclusively reveal The Cutter posted a Tesco till receipt to DS Rachel Narey, the beleaguered officer who was formerly in charge of the case, and tests on the receipt revealed it bore a fingerprint belonging to Ms Raedale.
The murderer is clearly taunting police as he plays a twisted game of hide and seek with them. At the moment, there seems to be only one winner – the evil Cutter.
The police have established no link between The Cutter’s victims and are convinced that he has killed indiscriminately. It is also understood that they have found no significant or useful forensic evidence that connects the murders.
DI Frank Lewington confirmed that Strathclyde Police are treating the murder as part of The Cutter investigation.
‘We are in possession of information which leads us to believe that Ms Raedale may have been killed by the same person responsible for other murders currently under investigation. We are awaiting a full forensic report but until then we are treating Ms Raedale’s death as highly suspicious. It will be investigated both on its own and also as part of the inquiry into five murders in the city.
‘We urge anyone with any information about the death of Ms Raedale to contact the incident room at Stewart Street, their local police station or Crimestoppers. We know there is a widespread element of fear about this series of killings but we can assure people that everything that can be done is being done to apprehend the person or persons responsible.
‘Finally, we would ask again that anyone with information about the death of Ms Raedale, or other deaths, should contact the incident room and not make contact with media outlets as this can seriously impair the police in their attempts to protect the people of Glasgow. This is an ongoing inquiry and it is vital that certain elements of the investigation be treated discreetly and not be put in the public domain before my officers have the opportunity to evaluate its worth.
‘My door is always open, my telephone line is always manned. If anyone has pertinent information to this terrible case then I urge them to deliver it to me.’
CHAPTER 45
I sat at home with the television on. Not watching, not hearing a word. She sat to my left, not talking. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.
My mind was on a lock-up garage in Springburn. Keith Imrie would be arriving there now. He’d be excited, maybe a bit scared. He’d be seeing his scoop, his reporter of the year award. He’d be reaching inside the box in the corner and fumbling for the brown envelope. It would be there, just as I’d promised him.
Later I wasn’t sure how much of it I’d imagined or how much of it was the stuff I’d read in the papers or heard from the people who knew people. It was the talk of the steamie obviously.
Looking back it’s as if it was all playing out in front of me in high-definition 34-inch plasma grotesque. I stared at that television and watched my play unfold, seeing it, remembering it, imagining it, feeling it.
Imrie arrived bang on cue at quarter past eight, just as the light was beginning to go on that cloudy May night. He had parked up a street away and walked over to the lock-up, furtively looking around him in case he was being watched. Oh he knew the game all right, he could keep his sources sweet and discreet.
He pulled up the sliding door and slipped inside with just one backward glance at the falling gloom. Every step to the back of the garage took him a step nearer London, the metaphorical Fleet Street and a job on one of the national dailies.
He’d worked for this. It was his due. From council minutes and court reports in the early days, through tip-offs and lifts from local papers to crime tidbits and page leads, from hard days’ nights drinking with arseholes and villains, keeping people sweet and keeping the whole thing discreet. He’d played the fucking game and it was his time now. He was the best there was in this wee pond and this was going to be his chance to show the big boys what he could do.
The game was the same wherever you played it. You just had to know when to kick arse and when to kiss it. When to slap someone on the back and when to stab them there. When to write the truth and when to write what suited you. Simple as. He knew the game inside out.
The Cutter stuff hadn’t fallen into his lap as some of them said. Things didn’t work like that. You make your own luck even if those jealous fucking idiots couldn’t understand it. The Cutter could have picked any journalist in the city but he hadn’t. He picked Keith Imrie because he was the best that weegieland had to offer. He’d worked for it and he’d earned it. Nothing at all to do with luck.
He made for the back right corner of the lock-up, just as instructed. The information had never been wrong before and nor would it have been. The muffled voice on the phone had never identified itself, the letters were always unsigned but he knew, of course he knew. It was straight from the horse’s mouth. Everyone was desperate for a line on The Cutter and he had the best contact of them all. Of course he did.
The battered cardboard box was half-covered by an old carpet, as inconspicuous as it was insecure, the safety of its contents all but guaranteed by its unguarded shabbiness. Inside was his passport to Fleet Street. Sure, the big papers had moved out to Docklands and Broxbourne via Wapping but it would always be Fleet Street to him.
He reached under the carpet, keen not to actually touch the thing, and groped in the half-light for the envelope. Sure enough his fingers settled on it and with a satisfied smile he eased out the prize. A plain brown envelope, thinly bulging with hidden promises. All his.
Smug? So what. Show him a good loser and he’d show you a loser. Same goes for good winners. If the rest of the Glasgow meedja was looking on he’d give them a big Get It Right Up Ye to the lot of them. Come on down, the prize is right.
He carefully tipped the contents of the envelope onto the carpet draped over the box and eagerly examined his haul.
There was a glossy white business card. Jonathan Carr. Salter, Fyfe and Bryce Solicitors. 1024 Bath Street.
There was a newspaper cutting. Brian Sinclair’s wedding announcement. Bingo.
There was a man’s chunky gold necklace. Blingo.
There was a betting slip marked Hutchison’s Independent Bookmakers, a till receipt from Tesco and a credit card in the name of Wallace R. Ogilvie.
House!
Fucking hell, it was even better than he’d hoped. His editor could kiss his golden arse. Never mind the series of front-page exclusives that this would serve up, it would get him so much pussy it was beyond belief.
Grisly Treasure Hoard From The Cutter’s Lair. Open Says Me, Record Reporter Uncovers Killer’s Cave. He could only think in headlines, could only see his name up in lights and in glorious 20-point byline.
He slipped the envelope and its prize papers into his inside jacket pocket, all except the chunky piece of manbling which he put snugly into his trousers, enjoying the feeling of it rubbing against his golden balls. Fuck, he was the man.
He eased up the door to the l
ock-up and, with barely a glance to the waiting night, he left as he came, striding like a prince among papers back to the Saab convertible that would take him to London. He had gone all of five feet when he heard the footsteps behind him that sent his spider sense into overdrive and his sphincter shutting like a clam.
Despite every instinct telling him just to run, he spun to see what was behind him. As he took in the two very large men moving towards him, he heard more footsteps, this time from the direction he had been heading. He wanted to speak, to bluff it out, to talk his way out of it but no words would come. A boot from the guy nearest him crushed his golden balls and put him squealing onto his knees. He hadn’t even begun to recover from that when something, a fist, a boot, a baseball bat, crashed into the side of his skull and he could taste his own blood as he sank onto the waiting concrete. His head rang, he’d bit his own tongue and his brains rattled against the side of his head.
Voices came at him as if someone was phoning him from inside a bathroom or underwater. Feet crashed against his knees and ankles, encouraging him to listen or stand. When he failed to do either he was hauled to his feet and his vision settled enough for him to recognize the face directly in front of his. Alec Kirkwood. Fuck.
Hands were rifling through his pockets, maybe Kirkwood’s maybe not, finding and removing the envelope and then the necklace. Spud’s necklace, he heard someone say. That revelation was followed by a punch to the stomach that blew away whatever little breath he had left. He was being held up like a rag doll.
We need to talk, wee man man man man. I’ve been waiting a while for this this this this. Kirkwood’s words reverberated round his bruised skull.
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