This seemed like a reasonable approach. The only apparent flaw in the arrangement was the concept of Edna phoning the police; here Annette’s imagination failed her.
Madigan did not like being told how to do his job by a hooker, but he thought the matter worth mentioning to the chief inspector.
‘We seem to be acquiring an odd group of consultants,’ said MacDermott. ‘Shrinks, whores and comic singers.’
‘Who’s the singer?’
‘I’m expecting one to show up any minute. Anyway, maybe the psychologist was right after all. What do you make of Miranda’s story? Do you think she’s our man, if you know what I mean?’
‘She was absent from the sauna for well over an hour,’ said Madigan. ‘She says she was so disgusted by the punter that she went for a drink.’
‘Poor, sensitive wee lassie. That should be easy enough to confirm. That she went for a drink, I mean. She’s not exactly the type to go unnoticed.’
Madigan smiled lasciviously. ‘I have to keep reminding myself that I’m a married man.’
‘I know,’ said MacDermott. ‘And I’m old enough to be her father. She’s not worth losing your pension over.’
‘Why does a girl like that do it?’
‘Probably from some deep Freudian need. Like wanting the money.’
‘While we’re on the subject of psychology,’ said Madigan, ‘the TV shrink did say that the killer was a woman, a hooker. But he also said she’d be older, beginning to lose her clients. Doesn’t sound like our Miranda.’
‘If that wanker got anything right,’ said MacDermott, ‘it was purely by accident. But you’ve put your finger on it, if you’ll pardon the expression. What possible motive could Miranda have?’
‘A subconscious hatred of her job and her clients?’
‘Give us a break. We’ve already got one fucking shrink too many.’
‘So how did the killer know the room number? If it wasn’t Miranda, that is.’
‘By phoning the hotel, maybe. We’d better check that out. Would they have given out that information? Did anyone actually call?’
‘I’ll get on to it.’
‘And while we’re talking to the hotel staff, make sure they’ve got the message. Anyone who breathes a word to the press gets thrown in jail. The same goes for the sauna team. We don’t want a media circus like the last time. If we can keep a lid on it, maybe we’ll just be able to flush our man out.’
‘Or our woman.’
‘I hope not,’ said MacDermott. ‘If only to prove that bloody psychologist wrong. Anyway, check out that bar she says she was in. That should settle the matter.’
‘What about this guy the other one mentioned? The one who hates Miranda’s clients?’
‘You did the right thing,’ said MacDermott. ‘I don’t think there’s anything in it, but make sure everyone in the Candleriggs Sauna knows to phone us the minute he shows his face. And have another word with Jack the john. Maybe he’s been having a fling on the side with the blonde superhooker and his girlfriend doesn’t know about it.’
‘We must be in the wrong business,’ said Madigan. ‘How much do they pay barmen these days?’
‘Did you see tonight’s Times?’ asked Les.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve started buying your own papers,’ said Jack. ‘Or did someone leave it in the bar?’
‘That’s just the point. I wouldnae bank on gettin’ a free one this week.’
‘What do you mean?’ Jack took the tabloid paper from Les, then abandoned the customers to him as the front page captured his attention:
NEWSPAPER OWNER BUTCHERED
IN HOTEL ROOM
RETURN OF THE SAUNA SLAYER?
Police and hotel staff remained tight-lipped today about the death of newspaper man Robert Washington, found murdered in his room at the Trongate Hotel this morning. They refuse to speculate about whether it is the work of the sauna slayer, the unknown killer of three massage parlour patrons earlier this year.
It can surely be no coincidence that the Trongate Hotel is located only a few yards from the Candleriggs Sauna (formerly the Merchant City Health Centre). That sauna became the focus of attention for the earlier killings, when it was revealed that all three of the victims had been its regular clients.
Yet Robert Washington does not seem to fit the profile of the earlier victims. He was not a patron of the saunas, but their declared enemy, regularly publishing photographs of their customers in his free newspaper, The North Clyde Advertiser.
Police today refused to speculate about why Mr Washington, who lived in Glasgow, had booked a room in the Trongate Hotel. Staff at the hotel and the Candleriggs Sauna have also refused to comment.
Mr Washington (35) was unmarried and leaves behind an elderly mother.
‘What do you think?’ asked Les. ‘Really weird, eh? If you ask me, the sauna owners clubbed together to hire a hit man. They probably got a few of their customers to chip in.’
‘You never know,’ said Jack. ‘Well, at least you don’t need to worry about getting photographed any more.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘If you still fancy Can . . . I mean, if you’ve still got your eye on that blonde, you don’t need to worry about your picture appearing in the paper. All you need to do is find the money.’
‘Fuck off,’ said Les. ‘I’d never pay for it.’
‘It doesn’t stop you being obsessed by the subject.’
But Jack wasn’t able to stay on the offensive for long. Shortly afterwards, when the local news came on the TV, the programme makers pulled out the library picture of Annette leaving her place of work, just after the previous murder. Les, already stationed beneath the screen while thirsty customers waited, looked momentarily startled, then watched the item to its end. ‘I know her. Wasn’t she . . .’
Jack looked up from the pint he was pouring. ‘What are you havering about now?’
‘That girl fae the sauna. I thought she looked like . . . No, it cannae be.’
‘I wasn’t watching,’ said Jack, though he had been. ‘I was too busy serving. I could do with a hand here.’
Les said nothing further and took an order. The evening had got off to a bad start, Jack thought.
Fifteen minutes later, he felt it deteriorate further when he saw DS Madigan enter the bar. ‘Could you hold the fort for a bit?’ he said to the intrigued Les. ‘I think this man wants a word with me.’
34
Claudia’s Vault
For several weeks Martin Kane kept Claudia’s business card carefully hidden, occasionally bringing it out for inspection when he felt completely safe from discovery. Usually that was in the car, when he was stopped in traffic, and he could retrieve the card from beneath the crack in the glove compartment lining. Then he would remind himself of what was on it, and of Claudia. Not that this was really necessary, but just seeing the card brought everything back even more vividly.
He was fairly sure that his hiding place was secure. Nowhere in the house, or on his clothing, or in his wallet, would have been safe from Rose. It might have taken her some time, but eventually the card would have come to light. He tried to picture Rose’s reaction if she found it. But he was a man of limited imagination, and in this he was defeated. He wouldn’t like it, he was certain of that.
But the car was – almost – out of her jurisdiction. She had her own car and normally would only be in his when they were going somewhere together. It wouldn’t be beyond her to give his vehicle the occasional going over, with the thoroughness of a customs officer searching for drugs, just on the off chance that she might find something incriminating. But her opportunities to do this were limited.
He had already memorised the card’s contents. Soon he could dispose of it, but for the moment he still liked to have a look at it now and then.
He still hadn’t decided whether to phone Claudia. She represented new territory, unknown and possibly dangerous. But that was what made it exciting. That was why he couldn�
�t get her out of his head.
Meanwhile the situation at work had deteriorated further. His father had actually carried out his threat and made that little bastard Anderson a director of the company. Then their next decision, easily outvoting Martin and deaf to his protests, had been to discontinue the manufacture of Kane’s Krisps and Kane’s Kola. ‘We need to stick to the business we know,’ Kane senior had said. ‘The one that actually produces a profit. And that’s making lemonade and the other drinks in our original range.’ And the upstart Anderson had smirked his agreement, leaving Martin powerless to intervene. The contraction would take place gradually, to minimise disruption. The workers involved in the discontinued products would all be redeployed or given voluntary redundancy; his father took an old-fashioned, paternalistic view of business and liked to look after his people.
For the time being, that also included his son Martin, whose role in the company had virtually been obliterated by the decision. Gone were his ambitions to penetrate further into the licensed trade business; instead they had turned their back on that market, to concentrate on their traditional retail outlets. After the last stocks of crisps and cola had been shifted, Martin would be back trying to sell lemonade to corner shops, if he had any job at all. Anderson was probably already plotting to get him voted off the board of directors.
At the first opportunity, Martin resorted to the usual outlet for his frustration. This came on a Saturday, on his way back from the golf club, when there was a temporary gap in Rose’s surveillance. He picked up a whore in Waterloo Street, drove to a quiet place and gave her a good battering. He felt he might have overdone things a little this time, but it made him feel a lot better.
Afterwards, he decided that he had better block off that particular avenue of satisfaction for a while. There had been press stories about violence against prostitutes and the police were on the alert. You’d think the police had enough real crime to deal with, without bothering honest taxpayers who were helping to clean up the streets, but that was the cops for you. It would be safer to withdraw his pest control services for a little while.
His immediate craving for violence assuaged, he began to calm down a little. His thoughts quickly returned to Claudia. Should he phone her? To hell with it, why not? He needed some kind of excitement in his life.
First, he needed to achieve the necessary combination of money and time. Funds he wouldn’t have to account for either to his father or to Rose, coupled with a period when both of them had temporarily released him from custody. Claudia’s vault, he reckoned, would require a sizeable amount of each commodity. It wouldn’t be enough to leave work an hour early with a few pounds skimmed from expenses.
Ironically, the winding down of the crisps and cola business provided the finance. He was able to divert some slush money, intended for the bribery of pub managers, entirely his own way, instead of merely taking his usual percentage. Then Rose unwittingly completed the conjunction.
‘I’m going to stay with Mother next weekend,’ she said. ‘She hasn’t been keeping well. I’ll take Sheena with me. The schools are on holiday the week after, so we don’t need to hurry back.’
‘Am I not invited?’ Martin asked. He knew he was asking for trouble as soon as he opened his mouth, but sometimes he couldn’t help it.
‘Do you want to go?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, don’t ask stupid questions. Mother always likes to see Sheena; it’ll make her feel better. In your case . . .’
There was no need for her to say anything more. As usual, Sheena endured her father’s humiliation in silence, steadfastly looking down at the breakfast table throughout the exchange.
But while outwardly assuming martyrdom he was inwardly triumphant. Rose’s mother lived on the east coast, in a small Fife fishing village, several hours’ drive away. She and Sheena would be staying overnight on Saturday and Sunday. It was still only Tuesday. There was time for him to organise something.
He tried to phone Claudia three times that day before he got through. The number belonged to a mobile phone, which was switched off on the first two occasions. On his third attempt, a gruff voice answered after several rings.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that . . . Is that Claudia?’ His throat was dry and he found it difficult to speak without stuttering. He was using his own mobile, from his car, which was parked near the premises of a customer he had just visited. He didn’t trust himself to handle this call while driving or stopped in traffic.
‘Yes. This is Claudia.’ The voice had now changed, transformed at the use of her name into its polite, professional mode.
‘I . . . I met you at the Candleriggs Sauna. You gave me your card.’
‘Oh yes. When was that?’
‘About three weeks ago.’
‘Three weeks? You took your time. You’ve been a bad boy.’
‘Uh, I didn’t have a chance before. But my wife’s going away this weekend. I don’t know if that’s . . . Is that too soon?’
‘I’ll need to look at my diary. What did you say your name was?’
‘Uh, John.’
‘Oh yes, I think I remember you. Hang on till I check.’
She kept him holding for so long that he thought they’d been cut off. But of course that was her style, keeping men waiting. He was beginning to worry if the battery in his phone would last out when she returned.
‘Yes, I’m free on Saturday.’
That should do. But what if Rose was late in leaving? Couldn’t risk it. ‘Saturday’s not so good. What about Sunday?’
‘Really, John, you’re a terrible nuisance. Hold on.’
Another interminable wait. Then, ‘Yes, Sunday’s OK. I’ve had a cancellation.’
‘That’s . . . That’s great. Where is . . . I mean . . .’
‘Where’s what?’
‘Your place. Your . . . your vault.’
Claudia chuckled, and her accent lapsed for a moment. ‘I cannae afford a real vault. The rent would be too high. This is a visitin’ massage service.’
‘Oh.’
‘So I’ll need your address, John. And your real name.’
‘Oh.’ Danger signals sounded. This would mean losing control, exposing himself too much. But Claudia had to be the one in charge, that was what she was about. That was why he had phoned her in the first place. All the same . . .
‘Or I could meet you in a hotel. It wouldn’t be so private though. When you scream out in ecstasy, they might call the police.’ She was back to her professional voice, low, husky, persuasive. And very sexy. He conjured up her image and could almost feel, almost smell her presence.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Yes, you are, John. You’re a man who isn’t afraid to reach out and take what he wants. I can tell. And you’re not the kind of man who needs to hide behind a phoney name. What’s your real name?’
‘Uh, Martin.’ There was no great harm in telling her that much. What about the rest? No, it was unthinkable. But while his brain clamoured for caution, the lower part of his body was promoting an alternative view. And the thought of doing it in the marital home, in Rose’s territory, in the bed he shared with her . . . What an adventure! And forever afterwards he would know, could conjure up the memory, and Rose would have no idea. He almost laughed aloud at the thought.
‘Well, Martin, what do you say?’
Fuck it. ‘Yes, why not. I’ll go for it.’
‘Great. You won’t regret it, Martin. I’ll make sure of that.’
‘How much will it cost?’
When she told him he almost called it off. But the project was now flying at full speed, out of control, and it was too late to apply the brakes. His illicit fund was large enough to cover it. In a moment she had his full name and the address of his house in Newton Mearns. Claudia, with her travelling vault, would be calling at two p.m. on Sunday.
It was the planned desecration of Rose’s personal space that persuaded him to go ahead. For the house w
as indisputably Rose’s territory: his name beside hers on the title deeds, his financial contribution to the expensive fittings, were only formalities. It was Rose who had chosen the house, the heirlooms were from her family, it was she who had bought (though partly with his money) the many expensive antiques. He was a mere lodger in a private museum. Having sex in the house with Claudia would be like shitting on Rose’s Persian carpet. Undetectably. That was the best thing about it.
DCI MacDermott wondered why he’d let himself be talked into the press conference. There was so little information he was prepared to divulge that it might be difficult to keep the proceedings going for any length of time. He successfully fielded questions about whether the murder of Robert Washington was linked with the three earlier ones; so far the exact circumstances of his death and his reason for being in the hotel had been successfully withheld from the public. Whether this would achieve anything he still wasn’t sure. The police knew it was the same killer, and the killer, unless he was completely stupid, knew that they knew. And if the murderer had been completely stupid they would have caught him by now.
But his instinct told him that they should avoid conducting the investigation in public, as they had last time. The more it was deprived of facts, the wilder the press speculation grew. Creating in the process, he hoped, camouflage that would hide the police’s real activities. At least that was the theory.
Unfortunately, at that moment, he was having to confront their speculation in public.
‘What about the theory that the killer is a woman?’ asked a female reporter.
MacDermott smiled patronisingly. ‘I support equal opportunities in all walks of life. But there’s really no evidence for that.’
‘Dr MacDuff of Strathkelvin University says that the killer is a prostitute – an ageing one, who’s beginning to lose her clients. That, as a child, she—’
‘I’ve heard Dr MacDuff’s theory.’
‘What do you think of it?’
‘We haven’t ruled out any possibilities.’
Murder in the Merchant City Page 18
