‘Is it true that you’ve retained Dr MacDuff as a consultant?’
‘No, it isn’t. We already have psychological consultants and our own profiles of the killer. Several alternative ones. I’m not able to say any more at the moment.’
That should keep them confused, he thought. It might even do the same for the killer. It was worth a try.
Claudia arrived at Martin’s house exactly on time. By then he was in a condition of high sexual excitement and terror, uncertain which was which.
In the days that had followed their phone conversation, his feelings had pulled violently in opposite directions. At times caution prevailed and he became appalled at his recklessness. Several times he almost phoned Claudia to cancel; on two occasions he actually did call her, but her phone was switched off again. Then he thought of his encounter with her at the Candleriggs Sauna, and the prospect of Sunday filled him with an excitement more intense than he’d ever experienced before.
And yet certain fears remained. What if Rose changed her mind about the trip, or postponed it, or decided to leave Sheena behind? What if he couldn’t get in touch with Claudia to call it off? How would he handle a confrontation between Claudia and Rose? By flight, probably. A pity, as it would be a well-matched, heavy-weight encounter.
But Rose had left on time, taking Sheena with her. With some reservations, he could see, about leaving him so much unaccustomed freedom.
‘Take good care of the house while we’re away,’ she had said. ‘Though I suppose there’s a limit to what even you can do to it in two days.’
What did she think he might get up to? That he might invite a few male friends round for drinks, risking a few wet, circular stains on her antique sideboard? She wouldn’t credit him with any more imagination than that. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘The house is safe in my hands.’
‘What are you smirking at?’
‘Sorry.’ He made an effort to appear solemn.
‘Remember to set the alarm if you go out. You know how to do that, don’t you?’
‘I think you care more about this house than you do about me.’
‘You don’t want me to answer that, Martin. Come on, Sheena.’
She had phoned at two p.m. on Saturday to confirm they’d arrived safely and to check whether he’d gone out. She rang again at ten p.m., at nine thirty the following morning, to see if he was out of bed, and again just before lunch. He’d told her that he’d probably be playing golf on Sunday afternoon, in case she should phone while Claudia was there.
And now Claudia was here, with Rose and Sheena safely at the other side of the country.
She was dressed plainly enough, in sweater and jeans, and carried a small holdall. Martin looked anxiously out at the empty driveway as he let her in. ‘Where are you . . . ? How did you . . . ?’
‘I came in my car,’ said Claudia. ‘And I’m parked at the end of the road. Don’t worry, Martin. This is a discreet service.’
‘Of course.’ He closed the front door behind her and stood awkwardly beside her in the hall. Claudia, with her usual self-possession, appraised her surroundings.
‘This is a really nice place you’ve got, Martin.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I couldn’t help noticing that it’s a bit isolated. At the end of the road, well away from your neighbours.’
‘Uh, yes. We like our privacy.’
‘That’s good. We may need that. Just in case your pleasure gets a bit noisy, I mean. We don’t want the neighbours prattling to your wife.’
‘I said I didn’t want anything too . . .’
Claudia gave her sexy laugh. ‘Don’t worry, Martin. I’ve left the whip and the thumbscrews at home. I know just what you need.’ She looked at the stairs, which led from the large hall to the floor above. ‘So are we going to stay here all day, or are you going to take me to the scene of the action?’
‘Of course.’ He led her up the thickly carpeted stairs.
‘Nice pictures you’ve got. Is that one an original?’
‘I think so.’
They went into the master bedroom. The covers were folded back on the large double bed, the central heating radiator turned on. Claudia walked around the room, stopping at the window, where she looked out at the long back garden and the empty field beyond. She opened the window, inspected the double glazing, then closed it again.
‘I thought the main bedroom would’ve been at the front.’
‘No, it’s at the back.’
‘So I see. Very nice. When did you say your wife was coming back?’
‘Tomorrow night. Don’t worry. We won’t be disturbed.’
‘Oh, I’m not worried,’ said Claudia. ‘Right, I’ll go and change. You take your clothes off and get comfortable.’
She made for the door. He made to follow her.
‘Where the fuck are you goin’?’
‘To . . . to the toilet.’
‘You never asked permission. I’m in charge, remember?’
‘Sorry. Can I go to the toilet, please?’
‘OK, but make it quick.’
She waited in the bedroom until he left. When he returned, she was gone. He took off his clothes, lay down on the bed and waited.
And waited. This was Claudia’s style, of course, what he had expected, but wasn’t she overdoing it a little? He was about to put on his dressing gown and go looking for her when she returned.
She still carried the holdall, though its zip was now open. Her appearance didn’t come as a surprise, though he relished it all the same: black PVC underwear, matching stockings and boots, and her white-skinned body was as firm and voluptuous as before.
‘Lie on your back.’ She put the holdall beside the bed, within easy reach, and crouched over him, her cleavage a few inches from his nose. His interest was growing.
She stroked his right arm, gently prising it outwards from his body. Then, before he had quite taken in what was happening, she had brought a piece of cord from the holdall and was tying his wrist to the bedpost.
‘Hey!’ he said. ‘What’s going . . . I didn’t . . .’
He tried to get up, but she was sitting on him, pinning him down. ‘Sssh!’ she said soothingly, stroking his hair. ‘It’s all right. This is just what you need. Trust me.’
He hesitated, relaxing a little, temporarily overcome by her perfume, the warmth of her body, her overpowering presence. In a moment his reservations had returned, but by then his other wrist was tied. He pulled on each bond, but without success. The cord was soft, but strong, her knots just tight enough to do their job without impeding his circulation. He was comfortable, but he was her prisoner.
His momentary panic subsided. To hell with it. He was going to enjoy this.
She tested the bonds herself, making sure they were secure. Then she got up and stood beside the bed, hands on hips, looking down at him triumphantly. ‘Now I’ve got you where I want you.’
She turned and walked from the room, closing the door behind her.
Martin lay naked in the middle of the wide double bed, his arms pulled apart, like a horizontal crucifixion victim. Then he had a long wait, compared to which the earlier delays seemed like nothing. Where was she? From time to time he pulled on the cords, but they held firm, clinging snugly to his wrists. He tried to manoeuvre himself to each side of the bed in turn, attempting to reach the knots that secured him to the bedposts, but the bed was too wide and the rope had insufficient slack. His sexual excitement, which had reached a peak while Claudia straddled him, had now waned. He began to feel the need to urinate, a condition aggravated by his inability to do anything about it.
Outside the room there was silence. What was the bitch up to? Suddenly there came into his mind a half memory, from a few nights ago, of a news programme to which he had only partly been listening. Further speculation about the murders of sauna customers, a theory that the killer might be a woman, a prostitute. Hadn’t one of the victims been tied to a chair and stabbed to death? Jesus Christ! Fuck it, fu
ck it, fuck it! Why hadn’t he paid attention? But the murders had been months ago, the speculation sparked off again by a more recent, seemingly unconnected killing. He hadn’t thought that it was anything to do with him. Not then.
But he certainly did now. Christ! What a fucking idiot!
No, it had to be a coincidence. Hadn’t it?
He could still hear nothing. Then, after a while – maybe ten minutes after Claudia left, though it seemed like longer – he heard a noise outside the house, behind him, on the other side of the outer wall. He tried to identify the sound. It couldn’t be what it appeared to be. It couldn’t possibly.
Then, faintly, from downstairs he began to hear further sounds, which he first sought to identify, then to disbelieve. They went on for a long time – at least half an hour, possibly more – sometimes from near at hand, sometimes from more remote parts of the house.
From time to time he struggled again with his bonds. But Claudia had done her work well. All he succeeded in doing was chafing his wrists.
When the bedroom door finally opened, he had entered a lethargic state, lying flat on the bed as Claudia had left him. He jumped at the sound and instinctively brought his knees up, the only defensive posture of which he was capable, a useless attempt to distance himself from the intruder.
A man entered the room. He was tall, just under six feet, and muscular in build. He looked in his mid-thirties, had short-cropped dark hair and wore a grubby shirt and jeans. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms covered with blue and red tattoos.
He gave Martin a friendly smile. ‘Hello there, pal. How you doin’?’
Martin felt unable to reply. Another man appeared, differing from the first only in points of detail. He also smiled at Martin, but said nothing. They both walked past the bed where Martin lay, and took an end each of the Victorian dressing table, one of Rose’s most precious family heirlooms. They lifted its solid mahogany frame as if it were balsa and carried it out of the room.
A short while later they returned for the matching wardrobe. This proved to be a little more heavy.
‘Better empty it.’
‘OK.’
The wardrobe’s contents, mostly Rose’s clothes, were thrown in a pile on the carpet. They carried the wardrobe to the door, then stopped for a rest.
‘Bloody hot work this. I could dae wi’ a drink.’
‘Don’t drink that cola that’s in the fridge. It’s fuckin’ pisswater.’
They resumed work and soon the wardrobe had left the room also. Through the now open door, he could hear their good-humoured comments and curses as they carried it downstairs.
At last Claudia reappeared, dressed in her outdoor clothes again. She smiled at him. ‘Hi there, Martin. How’s it goin’?’
‘How the fuck do you think?’
‘Mind yer language.’
‘Fuck my language. What the fuck’s going on?’
‘I thought you might have twigged by now, Martin. How fuckin’ stupid are you?’
He was silenced again, as Claudia continued the work of her companions, concentrating on smaller items – chairs, bedside cabinets, bed lights, rugs, clock radio, pictures and mirrors from the walls. The men returned and removed the mahogany chest of drawers. The heap of clothes from the floor and the contents of the fitted wardrobe were bundled by Claudia into large plastic bags. Then she went over to the bed.
‘Oops-a-daisy,’ she said, yanking the bedclothes from under him and the pillows from beneath his head, leaving him lying on a bare mattress. Another plastic bag was filled and duly removed.
One of the men brought in a stepladder, took down the curtains and pelmet from the window, and unscrewed the curtain rails. While Claudia took these away, he moved the ladder across the floor and removed the bulb and shade from the ceiling light. Then all three of them set about unfitting the fitted carpet. This went smoothly enough until they reached the part under the bed.
‘Look, he’s pissed himself.’
‘Big fuckin’ wean.’
Martin was tossed about as they lifted each corner of the bed in turn, to remove the carpet from beneath it. Only the ropes prevented him from falling on to the floor.
Then the carpet was rolled up and gone. Martin was left alone in the room again, lying naked on a bare mattress, on a bed that sat on bare floorboards, in a room stripped of all furniture and fittings. The rest of the house, he now realised, had already been subjected to the same process. He tried to avoid thinking of other items that would be gone: Rose’s prized rosewood cabinet, her grandfather’s grandfather clock.
Presently, he heard voices out on the landing.
‘Is that us done, Agnes?’
‘Shut yer mouth, ya daft bastard! I’m Claudia, remember?’
‘Sorry, Ag . . . Claudia.’
A chuckle from Claudia/Agnes. ‘I wouldnae worry aboot it. He’ll no’ be tellin’ the polis.’
What the hell did she mean by that? His earlier terror, in abeyance while the gang’s apparent intention had been downgraded from murder to larceny, now revived. When Claudia/Agnes reentered the room, now alone, and walked over to the bed, he resumed his defensive posture, cringing to the maximum extent that his bonds would allow.
‘Don’t kill me!’
Claudia/Agnes looked puzzled for a moment, then she laughed. ‘Kill ye? I’m no’ gonnae kill ye. I’ll leave that tae yer wife.’
Considered from this point of view, the threat was not very much less.
Claudia/Agnes looked him up and down with an expression of utter contempt. ‘What you did tae that lassie,’ she said, ‘was right out of order. An’ from what I hear you’ve been makin’ a habit of it. So you had it comin’, ya bastard.’
A moment later she left, banging the door behind her. Soon the large vehicle, which he’d earlier heard being parked at the side of the house, started up again. It was, he now guessed, a large removal van, probably the largest size available. There would have been just enough room for it, provided that the driver wasn’t too concerned about the health of Rose’s rose bushes or the condition of the grass on the side lawn. Throughout the removal process, the van would have been hidden from the view of neighbours by the trees lining the front drive.
The bonds held well, and Martin was found by his wife and ten-year-old daughter, naked and lying in his own excrement, when they returned late the following afternoon. They had come home early, after Rose’s repeated failure to raise Martin on the phone; he hadn’t even known about these attempts, as all the phones had been removed.
But his family didn’t return quite early enough. By that time, Martin’s bank accounts had been emptied, his credit cards used up to their limits and the house’s contents distributed among dealers throughout central Scotland.
35
Sex and Violins
Jack wanted to see Annette again, but for some time held back from doing anything about it. On several occasions he was on the point of phoning her at home, but his nerve failed him. A few months earlier he would have lifted the receiver and dialled her number without hesitation. But now there seemed to be an impenetrable barrier between them.
He told himself that he was being stupid. They had not parted on bad terms. There had been a certain awkwardness, but no animosity. She might decline to see him, but she wouldn’t snub him. Then there was the message from Candy. Had it been sanctioned by Annette? Maybe not, but Candy probably knew Annette well enough to correctly assess her feelings on the subject. The way was probably clear if he could only make the first move.
On the other hand, there was still the problem of Annette’s profession. That was still the biggest obstacle, and his mind hadn’t yet worked out a way round it. This consideration and the desire to see Annette again continually pulled him in opposite directions.
The latter impulse finally prevailed late one Saturday afternoon. It was one of his few Saturdays off work, and the pleasure he took in this break was tempered by the fact that he had no idea what t
o do with it. After a morning spent studying in the local library, he was at a loose end. Saturday was meant to be a time for relaxation, for socialising, and if it was normally spent running around after other people in a bar, it was even more important that it should not be wasted on his Saturdays off. Provided that he had someone to relax and socialise with.
He spent most of the afternoon half-heartedly watching football on television and thinking about phoning Annette. She too would be free on a Saturday, stuck at home with her children. But it would probably be too late for her to arrange a childminder. Would she welcome him visiting her at home after all this time?
By four thirty he could see his evening stretching before him, still stuck at home in front of the TV, perhaps with a few beers to dull the feeling of isolation. He went to the phone and dialled Annette’s number.
A young girl’s voice answered. It sounded like Linda, Annette’s regular childminder.
‘Could I speak to Annette, please?’
‘She just left for work. Who’s that speaking?’
‘A friend of hers. Jack Morrison. I didn’t know she worked in the evenings.’
‘She does sometimes.’ Did the girl know what Annette worked at? After the publicity following the third murder it would be difficult for her not to.
‘Could you tell her I called?’
‘Yes,’ said the girl. ‘What was the name again?’
Jack told her and they rang off. So the matter was settled, for that night anyway. It would have to be a Chinese takeaway and a few cans of lager. He could always have a pint or two at the Centurion and annoy Les while he was serving. But that meant admitting that he had nothing better to do on his night off. Maybe he could hire a video.
At least Annette would now know that he had got in touch. It would be easier to make a follow-up call. She might even phone him.
Then a new thought occurred to him. Annette had never worked in the evening before, either on Saturday or any other. Maybe she had a new job. Could she have gone back to nursing?
There was one way to check. After some hesitation, he dialled the number. A British Telecom voice told him that it had changed and gave him a new one, which he tried.
Murder in the Merchant City Page 19
