Murder in the Merchant City

by Angus McAllister

  It was a good idea. All of the girls looked happier. ‘What name are you going to use?’ asked Annette.

  ‘I havenae decided yet,’ said Edna. ‘What about City Centre Escorts?’

  ‘Boring!’ said Candy. ‘You need somethin’ wi’ a bit more oomph. I’ve got it. Toppers!’

  ‘Not bad,’ said Edna. Then a couple of girls sniggered and she caught on. ‘Very funny. Anyway, we’ll come up wi’ somethin’. The beauty of it is, we can afford tae be competitive. We normally charge double for a visit, to make up for travellin’ time. All the saunas do the same. But what’s the point if you’re all just sittin’ here twiddlin’ yer thumbs? We might as well undercut the others.’

  ‘Does that include your share?’ asked Claudia.

  Edna looked at her coolly. ‘We’ll work oot a deal. One that suits everybody.’

  The meeting broke up. When they re-entered the corridor, Miranda’s customer rushed out from the lounge to meet her, greeting her like a shy schoolboy. ‘Hello, Miranda.’

  ‘Hi there!’ said Miranda. Her enthusiasm seemed completely sincere as she gave him her special smile, the one that promised everything, or nothing at all.

  ‘I’ll say this for the woman,’ said Robert Washington. ‘She’s got some nerve. Doesn’t she know who I am? Or of the campaign we’ve been running against people like her?’ He looked again at the slip of paper, torn from a notebook, that his assistant had given him:

  SINNERS VISITING MASSAGE

  The Relief that Comes in the Night

  287 5511

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said his assistant, a skinny girl in dowdy clothes, who looked as if she should still be at school. ‘I didn’t know what it meant. That’s why I thought I’d better . . .’

  ‘It’s just as well you did, Dora,’ said Washington. ‘And if a nice Christian girl like you had understood it, I’d have been very disappointed.’ In the modest offices of the North Clyde Advertiser, his select staff made up in enthusiasm – and cheapness – for what it lacked in experience. ‘You see, in this progressive age the once-respectable art of massage has become a euphemism for prostitution.’

  ‘Oh no!’ It was surprising that the girl’s slight body contained enough blood to make her face go so deeply red.

  ‘I’m afraid so. It would seem that the suppliers of these services are no longer content to have their public come to them. They want to seek them out in their own homes.’

  ‘But that’s disgusting!’

  ‘Quite. Can you imagine how it would have looked? Our usual editorial, exposing the patrons of people like her, with that advert on the opposite page?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Washington, I’d absolutely no idea.’

  ‘Of course not, Dora. It’s all right. She probably phoned round all the papers on the off chance. I can think of at least one vile rag that will no doubt oblige her. What did the woman say her name was again?’

  ‘Brady. Edna Brady. I said I’d phone her back. But now I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Phoning back would be the normal courtesy, Dora. But in this case we can dispense with it.’

  When his assistant had left the room, Washington lifted the slip of paper containing the advert, about to crumple it and throw it in his waste bin. Then he looked at it again for a moment or two, opened a desk drawer and placed it there instead. Upside down, beneath a bundle of other papers.

  27

  A Suspect?

  DCI MacDermott looked at the anonymous letter and shook his head. ‘I don’t think it means anything. The man’s obviously got enemies. It would be a wonder if he hadn’t.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said DS Madigan. ‘But how many leads do we have?’

  ‘Precious few.’

  The letter was computer-printed, on a single sheet of paper. It could have originated in any one of several thousand offices, or as many homes, in Glasgow alone. The address had been similarly printed, on a sticky label, and attached to a standard white business envelope, which also bore a second-class stamp and a Glasgow postmark. A virtually untraceable communication.

  Its message was succinct:

  The murderer you are looking for is Robert Washington, the owner of the North Clyde Advertiser. He is a lunatic, who hates the clients of prostitutes and wants to kill them all.

  I can’t tell you who I am but, believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Look into it and you’ll find that I’m telling the truth.

  A Public-Spirited Citizen

  ‘I think it’s worth having a word with Washington,’ said Madigan. ‘It can’t do any harm. Did you see that interview he gave on TV? He more or less said that the victims deserved to die.’

  ‘If he was the murderer, do you think he’d make a public statement like that? He’d have to be really stupid.’

  ‘But he is crazy. Whoever wrote the letter’s right about that. And the murderer must be a nutter. All the indications are that he’s—’

  ‘You mean she?’

  ‘Aye, maybe. That he or she’s on some kind of moral crusade. Just like Washington.’

  ‘So the murderer’s a nutter?’ said MacDermott. ‘That’s a big help. Maybe we should close all the pubs in Byres Road and throw their customers in jail. Hundred to one the murderer would be among them. No, I’ll tell you who wrote this letter. Some businessman whose wife opened the North Clyde Advertiser and saw a nice clear snapshot of her husband leaving the Rosevale Sauna.’

  Madigan sighed. ‘That sounds plausible.’

  ‘On the other hand, it can’t do any harm to have a word with Washington. As you say, what other leads do we have? You could also pop in and see the owner of the Rosevale Sauna. He’s got reason enough to have it in for Washington. Though I doubt if he can afford a computer any more.’

  ‘It’s worth a try,’ said Madigan. ‘Maybe I’ll get offered a freebie.’

  28

  Becoming Restless

  It’s been far too long.

  Reliving the last murder kept me satisfied for a long time. Or almost so. It was definitely the best one so far. To be able to take my time, talk to the subject, explain myself to him, without fear of interruption – all of that added the element missing in the previous killings. I can’t go back to risky street attacks, or any other sudden assault, where he’ll never know what happened to him. In future they must all know in advance that they’re going to die, and why. I’ve been spoiled by perfection.

  But how can I do it again? The show flat was a unique opportunity. The subject couldn’t have made things easier if he’d deliberately surrendered to me.

  It was also necessary to show caution for a while, now that the police know the connection between the killings. Better to hold back for a while until things got back to normal. Just as well that the last murder was so satisfying.

  But now three months have passed and memories are no longer enough. I need fresh blood.

  I’ve been busy enough in the interim. Maintaining my charts, updating the list, is almost a full-time job. But watching the list grow longer only adds to my frustration. I need to find a way to shorten it again.

  Actually, I already know the answer. It’s just that it presents some practical difficulties. But I’ll find a way around them.

  Basically, the concept is very simple. Visiting massage. The subject is able to indulge his disgusting vice in the privacy of his own home, or in a hotel bedroom. Instead of seeking out the girl at her place of business, the girl goes to him.

  And so do I.

  29

  A Return Visit

  On the same day that Justine returned to work, the man who had assaulted her reappeared. It was an unlucky coincidence that shattered her faltering confidence. While sitting opposite the door to the corridor, she suddenly gave a cry and ran off to the far corner of the room. Annette followed her, concerned.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Justine was crouched, with her back to the wall, in a defensive posture. Her eyes were wide with fear and her body
was trembling all over. ‘It’s him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Him. The one that . . . He just came doon the corridor.’ She grabbed Annette and held on to her, as if she were a life raft in the middle of the ocean. ‘Oh, Annette, what am I gonnae dae? It’s him. He’ll kill me!’

  ‘What the fuck’s goin’ on?’ asked Claudia.

  The three of them were alone in the lounge. Business had picked up, but they still had quiet periods. ‘The customer who beat Justine up,’ said Annette. ‘She says he just came in.’

  Claudia took the news with her usual calm. ‘He’s got some fuckin’ nerve.’

  Justine was becoming hysterical. ‘What are we gonnae dae, Annette? What are we gonnae dae?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Annette. ‘You’re all right. We won’t let him anywhere near you.’ Justine began to calm down a little. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’

  Justine nodded vigorously. ‘Oh aye. Aye, it is.’

  Annette turned to Claudia. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘You know the cunt?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Annette. ‘I know him.’

  ‘Better take a look, just tae make sure.’ Claudia returned her attention to the TV programme she’d been watching. Annette wondered what it would take to really shake her, to dislodge her from the cool contempt with which she greeted the world in general and her customers in particular. If the Yorkshire Ripper had just walked in, she would probably have reacted no differently.

  And she was right. Justine was likely to see her attacker’s face on just about any man who walked in the door. She’d had two customers so far, and Annette had almost needed to take her by the hand and lead her to the cabin. Luckily they’d both been well-known regulars, with no history of problems.

  Annette found it took an effort for her to leave the room and investigate. As she walked down the empty corridor, there was a dryness in her throat and her heart was beating faster. She approached the front desk, where Moira was now back in place after her temporary lay-off. ‘What’s the name of that guy who just came in?’

  ‘John, why?’

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Annette went back down the corridor, feeling her tension ease. Then the customer, dressed in his robe and carrying a towel, emerged from the changing room, heading for the shower area. He nodded to her curtly as he passed.

  Annette hurried back to the lounge. ‘It’s him. He’s in the shower. We’d better phone the police.’

  ‘You aff your fuckin’ head?’ said Claudia. ‘You want the sack again?’

  ‘We’ve got to do something. That bastard beat her up. He raped her. Look at the state she’s in.’ Justine was sitting silently on the chair furthest from the door, looking terrified and miserable, a steady stream of tears playing havoc with her make-up.

  ‘You two go through tae the changin’ room. I’ll deal wi’ him.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I’ll say you’re both workin’. Just hide till I’ve got him in the cabin. Quick, on you go, before he gets oot the shower.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Don’t worry. He’ll no’ beat me up.’

  Annette believed her. And she herself was almost as reluctant as Justine to meet that particular customer again, especially after what Sylvia had told her. She didn’t argue further, but took Justine, who had almost to be dragged, out of the lounge and into the corridor. It was still empty. They made their way quickly into the small room – or large closet – that the girls used as a changing room, and sat down on the only two seats.

  ‘I cannae believe it!’ said Justine. ‘On my first day back!’

  ‘I don’t know how he’s got the nerve to show his face. He must be really fucking stupid.’ Annette nearly told Justine about Sylvia, then thought better of it.

  ‘I should never have come back here. I never meant tae. But I need the money. And then Edna phoned me. She was that nice. But I shouldnae have come back.’ She began to cry again.

  ‘It’s all right. You’ve been dead unlucky. It won’t happen to you again.’

  Several months had passed since the last murder and business had revived. With the visiting massage venture still on the go, they were doing almost as well as before. But word of their slump had got around and Edna had been finding it difficult to get good girls. Hence the recall of Justine, whom she’d otherwise have given up on. She had entrusted her to the care of Annette, who had been asked ‘tae knock some of the rough edges aff her’. An unfortunate way of putting it.

  The project had got off to a very bad start.

  Justine gradually calmed down again and they sat in silence, listening for sounds outside. Five, ten minutes passed and they heard nothing.

  ‘What’s happenin’?’ asked Justine. ‘Dae ye think Claudia’s all right?’

  ‘Oh aye.’ Annette laughed, a little hysterically. Justine’s mood was catching. ‘She’ll be fine. I wouldn’t worry about that at all.’

  Martin Kane hadn’t intended to return to the Merchant City Health Centre, but he’d felt like a change and was curious to see what the place was like these days. For a while he had indulged his new taste for violence upon street girls. It was too risky in a sauna: there were other people around, and the impracticality of escaping to the street in a bathrobe prevented a quick getaway. It was much better to pick up a girl in your car, then drive to somewhere quiet. Besides, these street hookers were just vermin, asking for it.

  But after a while the novelty wore off a little, and with it revived the notion of extramarital sex for its own sake. He didn’t like using street girls for that: you never knew what you might catch from them, even wearing a condom. The girls in the saunas at least had the appearance of a little more class.

  There were plenty of saunas to choose from but, after sampling a number of them, he found that none suited him quite as well as the one in the Merchant City had done. Not all of them were in such discreet locations: it made him nervous to ring a doorbell then hang about in a busy main street waiting for an answer. In some the choice of girls was poor, like that place on Argyle Street that its rivals called the Boiler House. He’d never seen such a collection of hags past their sell-by date. He’d have been better off with his wife, for Christ’s sake! His favourite for a while had been a little place in the back streets of Partick. It had several nice girls and, for some reason, was never too busy. Then he had found out the reason, in a free newspaper which he picked up in a pub. He hadn’t featured in that particular issue, but might well have been a past victim of the paper’s ludicrous campaign, which had apparently been going on for months. If so, at least neither his father nor his wife Rose had seen the incriminating issue. Otherwise he would definitely have known about it.

  For a while he had still hesitated to return to the Merchant City. He might still be recognised and, apart from that, there had been something about it in the news, something about a series of murders. But all that had blown over, and the place had changed its name to the Candleriggs Sauna. It was probably under new management and, even if it wasn’t, the girls would all be different by this time. There was always a large staff turnover in these places. And in any case there were only a couple of girls who could have identified him in connection with the assault; even if they were still around, even if he was unlucky enough to pick a shift when one of them was on, they probably wouldn’t recognise him. Not whores like that, when you considered the number of men they met every day.

  He turned out to be wrong on all counts. Who should he run into on his way out of the shower but that bitch called Annette. And, judging by the way she looked at him, she’d recognised him all right. He’d almost got dressed and walked out, but then he’d thought, fuck it. What could she do about it? She wouldn’t call the police; that would definitely be fouling her nest, especially after all this time. And there would be other girls to choose from.

  But when he arrived in the lounge there was only one person
there, a hefty woman, dark-haired, dressed entirely in black. He remembered having seen her before, but had never fancied her. She had always been a dour bitch and wasn’t exactly a teenager.

  This time she seemed much friendlier than usual. Getting desperate, he supposed. ‘Hi there,’ she said. ‘I’m Claudia. What’s your name?’

  ‘Mar . . . John.’

  ‘Marjon?’

  ‘No. John.’ As an extra precaution, he had adopted a pseudonym.

  ‘Would you like a drink, John? We’ve got tea, coffee, juice. Or would you like a glass of wine?’

  ‘Have you any white wine?’

  ‘Certainly.’ She went up to the drinks table and poured two glasses of wine. She sat beside him on the sofa, pressed closely against him. He felt her body heat and smelled her perfume, a musky odour, faint but pleasant. ‘Have you been here before, John?’

  ‘Oh, no. No, I haven’t.’ Turning his head towards her he found himself looking down a cleavage like a small crevasse.

  ‘You don’t know what you’ve been missing.’ She took a slow drink of her wine, in a meaningful manner.

  ‘Are there any other girls on?’

  That was a bit blunt, he realised, but her smile never faltered. ‘What’s the matter, John? Am I not good enough for you?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t mean that. I just . . . You know . . .’

  She laughed. A husky, sexy laugh. ‘I know. You want to know more about the field before you play it. Like all real men, you like a bit of variety. Yes, there’s two other nice girls on today, Annette and Justine. They’re both working just now, doing a two-girl massage. They’re booked for an hour.’

  Two girls for an hour? Obviously some bastard had more money (and more stamina) than anyone deserved. And he’d seen Annette on the way in. They must have just started. And Justine? He’d caught a glimpse of another girl, but hadn’t got a proper look. Wasn’t she the one that . . . ? Fuck!

  Claudia put her hand on his thigh, began to stroke it lightly. ‘You shouldn’t waste your time with these young amateurs, John. Experience is what counts. What you want is a woman with years of practice in the art of pleasing men.’