Murder in the Merchant City

by Angus McAllister

  ‘I don’t believe it. You want me to go into a cabin with a man you think might be a murderer?’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, Miranda. You’re the last person in the world he’d want to kill.’

  Annette was being sarcastic, but Miranda seemed to take some comfort from her words. ‘All right,’ she said, with an expression of martyrdom. ‘But only because I think you’re wrong. It’s all been some horrible mistake. He’s completely harmless. I can tell.’

  ‘There should be no problem then.’

  All the same, Miranda made her way to the cabin with some reluctance. ‘How can I look him in the eye, knowing what you’re going to do?’

  Annette felt confident that Miranda would find some way of holding the customer’s attention without having to look him in the eye. She followed Miranda out of the lounge and tried the door of Edna’s office. It was locked. At least Edna wasn’t around, and there was no need to overcome the biggest obstacle of all.

  She approached the front desk, where Moira sat, staring at the closed front door. ‘I’ll need to use the phone.’

  ‘What for? Edna doesnae . . .’

  ‘I need to phone the police. That man with Miranda, he’s the murder suspect.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ There was no further argument.

  She dialled the number Madigan had given her and got through to him straight away. She quickly told him of the suspect’s reappearance.

  ‘All right. Keep him there. We’ll be right over.’

  And they were, almost, though the wait seemed interminable. Another customer arrived, and went off with Justine, who had just become free, without Annette having to tell her about the crisis. With any luck, the police would have come and gone before Justine and the customer reappeared.

  She waited with Moira at the front desk until the police arrived. They both jumped as the doorbell rang, but it proved to be another customer. Moira took his money and sent him on his way to the changing room. He was a regular, who often chose Annette. She hoped he wouldn’t be scared away. Maybe the police would manage a quick arrest while he was in the shower.

  Madigan, along with a detective constable, arrived about ten minutes after Annette’s call. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In Cabin Two, with Miranda.’

  But Madigan, showing unexpected tact, didn’t seem inclined to burst open the cabin door. Edna would be grateful for that at least. ‘Is there a phone in there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give her a ring. Tell her to wind up the . . . ah . . . proceedings.’

  Annette did as she was told. Miranda said little, but sounded relieved. A few minutes later she hurried out of the room alone. The customer wasn’t far behind her, but found his way blocked by the two policemen.

  ‘Police,’ said Madigan, showing his warrant card. ‘Would you mind getting dressed, please, sir, and coming with us to the station? We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘What’s it about? Where’s Miranda?’ But his beloved had disappeared, no doubt reluctant to face the consequences of her betrayal.

  The constable accompanied Miranda’s customer to the changing room. ‘When your lovely colleague deigns to show her face,’ said Madigan, ‘I’d like the pair of you to come down to the station. I think you both know where it is by now.’

  Annette repressed her impulse to make a suitable reply, knowing that it would do no good. It would have been nice, though, to get some thanks for her public-spiritedness.

  The constable returned with Miranda’s customer, now in his street clothes and looking subdued, and the policemen took him away.

  Annette sighed and went to look for Miranda. How long would they have to spend at the police station, enduring insults and not earning? It looked as if Justine would have a good day. At least the other customers seemed to have missed the show and might come back another time.

  ‘It’s no good,’ said MacDermott. ‘We can’t hold him. We’ll have to let him go.’

  ‘But he’s our man,’ said Madigan. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  It was now mid-evening and the suspect had been detained in police custody for more than five hours.

  ‘You may well be right,’ said MacDermott. ‘But what have we actually got on him? Two witnesses saw him acting suspiciously in the West End of Glasgow. Are we supposed to arrest everyone in Byres Road who looks suspicious? Talk about prison overcrowding!’

  ‘Morag Brown put him at the location of the third murder.’

  ‘And he doesn’t deny it. Archer spent the whole evening showing people round his show flat. The suspect admits he was one of them, claims he was looking for a new house in the West End.’

  ‘Come off it,’ said Madigan. ‘That stinks.’

  ‘But we can’t prove it. We don’t have any forensic evidence worth a damn. Not at any of the murder scenes. Whoever our man is, he’s been very careful.’

  ‘Why was he following Jack Morrison about, taking his photograph?’

  ‘You know what he said. He’d been house-hunting and fancied a pint afterwards. Thought he’d try one or two pubs, see what would be his best local. He didn’t take a photo, the girl must have been mistaken.’

  ‘The pubs couldn’t have been up to much,’ said Madigan. ‘Seeing as he still lives in the South Side. For Christ’s sake, you can’t believe that shite!’

  ‘No, but it’s all possible. What have we got that would prove otherwise? Besides, any case against him is based on the supposition that the targets are all customers of Miranda. Jack Morrison says he hasn’t been with her for months and I’m inclined to believe him. He seems genuinely attached to Annette Somerville.’

  ‘More fool him. Anyway, we’re talking about several months ago. He was a customer then.’

  ‘Briefly. But we can’t even prove that the victims were all Miranda’s customers. We think they were, but Madam Edna’s books tell us nothing, since half the buggers use pseudonyms. And Miranda doesn’t know, she’s had so many men.’

  Madigan sighed. ‘All that shagging. I knew somebody was getting my share.’

  ‘I wondered why you seemed so bitter.’

  ‘Not half as much as I will be if you let him go.’

  ‘I told you, we’ve got no choice. We’ve got nothing tangible on him and we don’t even have grounds for a search warrant of his house. Anyway, we can put a tail on him. He’s not going to rush out and commit another murder – not now that he knows we’re on to him. He’d have to be mad.’

  ‘If he’s the one,’ said Madigan, ‘then he is.’

  ‘Mad maybe, but not stupid. Otherwise we’d have got him by now.’

  ‘I suppose so. Anyway, you’re the boss. If we find another mutilated corpse tomorrow, it’s your responsibility.’

  ‘That’s what they pay me for,’ said MacDermott.

  38

  Sufficient Evidence

  They thought they had me, but I’ve been too clever for them. All my careful planning has paid off. I’ve had to take some calculated risks, but they proved to be justified.

  The session at the police station wasn’t pleasant, but I managed to keep my head. When they asked me to take part in the identity parade, I was tempted to refuse, but that would have looked suspicious. Besides, what can their witnesses testify to? No one saw me actually do the murders. Apart from the subjects, but they won’t be testifying.

  One issue has still to be resolved. What do I do next?

  The safest course would be to retire. At the moment I’m in the clear because they don’t have enough evidence. If I stop the executions, they’ll never convict me.

  But stopping is out of the question. I couldn’t bear the frustration, seeing so many guilty men go unpunished. It would be as if I had never acted in the first place.

  The other prudent course would be to lie low for a while, suspend my activities. They won’t keep a tail on me for ever, it wouldn’t be an economic use of their scarce resources. After one, maybe two months, I’ll have more freedom to act.<
br />
  But I’ve already had a three-month break. I couldn’t stand another one, not so soon. And how can I abandon Jack Morrison when my scheme is so far advanced, when I’m ready to strike? Besides, I won’t just be administering justice, I’ll be removing a witness.

  A compromise. A quick dispatch of Mr Morrison, as planned, followed by a cooling-off period.

  First, I’ll have to shake off the police tail. It shouldn’t be too difficult, as they won’t be expecting me to act so soon. What I need to do is lose them without making it look deliberate.

  At eight thirty next morning, right on schedule, I ungarage the car and head for the city centre. I’ve already identified the police car, a grey Ford, parked at the end of the road. This is soon confirmed when I see it in my mirror, following me at what he thinks is a safe distance. I make no effort to elude him, keeping to the main roads all the way.

  I join the motorway and cross the river by the Kingston Bridge, then take the Charing Cross exit. After that, even by the easiest route, the one-way traffic system ensures many detours and doubling back; if I lose him in the process, it could look accidental.

  As I enter the multi-storey car park, there is no sign of the police car, but I have to assume that it may still have me in view, or that it may not be the only one following me. It has still not appeared, nor has any other car, by the time I have parked and reached the exit that leads to the shopping centre below.

  I take the lift down to the shopping centre. It’s now nine o’clock and the centre is open, though there are few people about yet. I go into the toilet and sit in a cubicle for ten minutes.

  I leave the shopping centre by the front entrance, cross Sauchiehall Street, and walk down Cambridge Street towards Cowcaddens underground station. I have no sense of being followed, but it’s difficult to be sure; if my pursuer is still there he’ll now be on foot, and I wouldn’t be sure of him, even if I dared to look round. During the five-minute walk to the station I feel exposed, but it can’t be helped. I’ll soon be able to check the position.

  I reach the end of the street and go through a pedestrian underpass to the tube station. I buy a ticket at the automatic machine, probably an unnecessary precaution, but it gives the woman at the ticket window the least possible opportunity to remember my face.

  I find the platform empty, but while waiting I am joined by half a dozen other people, none of whom looks like a plain-clothes police officer. It’s only a quarter past nine, I’m in good time, so I decide to take out one last piece of insurance. My destination is only four stations away, but I decide to take the other line and go the long way round the circle; the underground system is a small one and this will only add about fifteen minutes to my journey. The other train comes first and four people get on it. The remaining two, who board my train, are a man of about sixty and a teenage girl. One of them gets off at St Enoch Square and the other at Shields Road. Unless the police technique is extremely subtle, it looks as though I am definitely free of pursuit.

  Where did I lose him? I’ll need to get my story right because, even if my plan works perfectly – and it will – they are sure to question me. I must have shaken him off before I entered the toilet, otherwise he could easily have followed me to the tube station. So, shopping in Sauchiehall Street it is. I’ve already been round the various stores, noting the items I want; on the way home I can pick them up very quickly, obtaining receipts with the right date. Not a perfect alibi, but the burden of proof will be on them. Another example of the careful planning that will continue to keep me out of their grasp. Free, in due course, to dispense further justice.

  I get out at Kelvinhall Station, near Partick Cross. Here I am only a few minutes’ walk from the home of Jack Morrison, a barman living in a small tenement flat. A nobody. A third-rate person, who thinks he can have his way with my Miranda and walk away unscathed. Now he’s about to learn otherwise.

  At nine thirty-five I arrive outside his building, part of a long block of identical structures, sandblasted to a mottled, damp-stained yellow. Right above me, on the first floor, is his small cell in this workers’ hive. There are a few people on the street, but I’m not dressed in a way that will attract attention to myself.

  A modern security door has been grafted to the end of the old close, like a new label on second-hand goods. I press the metal button below his name and wait.

  No reply. Have I miscalculated? I was sure he’d be in. I phoned his bar last night, on the way home from the police station, pretending to be a friend. They told me he was due on duty at eleven o’clock this morning. Where would he go before that? He’s probably still in bed, after a night out. His last night out. I hope he enjoyed it.

  I’m about to ring again when I hear a crackling of static from the little grille. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Police. Detective Constable Watson. Can you let me in, sir?’ I am standing close to the door, out of sight, I hope, of his window.

  A brief pause, then the buzz of the lock being released. I enter and quickly make my way to his flat, already half way up the first flight of stairs when the security door clicks shut behind me. If possible, I want to be at the front door when he opens it, to preserve the advantage of surprise. I arrive there just in time, as the door begins to open, and slam against it with my shoulder, the whole weight of my body behind the assault. As I hoped, he is pushed off balance, falling backwards on to the hall floor. I am ready to straddle him and apply the chloroform, but it proves unnecessary. He has hit his head on the edge of a radiator and is unconscious. Have I killed him? I hope not. I would really miss our chat.

  I pull him into the hall, clear of the door, and shut it behind me. Examining him more closely, I see that he is still breathing, though there is blood seeping from a cut on the side of his head. His shirt looks as if it has been put on hurriedly, and his face is damp, his overnight growth of beard half removed. I have interrupted him in the process of shaving, hence his delay in answering the door.

  He shows no sign of regaining consciousness and his condition remains the same as I drag him through to the living room and tie him to a chair. He is still out when I return from the kitchen with a cloth soaked in cold water. I gently bathe his forehead, and the still-bleeding wound, being kind in order to be cruel. No response.

  If he doesn’t wake soon, I’ll just have to finish him off as he is. But that would be a pity. I’ll give him a little longer. I pass the time by taking a look around. Cheap furniture and carpets, pictures that are merely inexpensive prints. Some paperback books to give a pretence of learning, but I’m not fooled. It’s the house of a man with limited means, who misspends his scarce resources going where he shouldn’t. My hatred is coming nicely to the boil.

  Obligingly, he co-operates by beginning to stir. I bathe his forehead again to help him on his way. He groans and opens his eyes.

  A few moments pass before he takes in what is happening. I wait patiently. I know how to do that. The violence of my fury will be all the greater when I finally let it loose.

  Better not give him a chance to shout for help. In this warren there will be neighbours above, below and through the walls. I stick my knife to his throat. ‘Make a sound and I’ll kill you. I’ll tape your mouth if I have to, but I’d rather we had a chat.’

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ he says. How inept. He is probably frightened, still a little groggy, but surely he can do better.

  ‘I thought that would be obvious, Jack. I’m going to kill you.’

  At last, fear in his eyes. Also puzzlement. Is he stupid?

  ‘What have you got against me, for God’s sake? What have I done to you?’

  ‘What have you done to me? You know damn well. Let me put in one word. Miranda.’

  Now it ought to be clear, he should be starting to understand the nature of his offence and the reason for his punishment. Instead, he continues to look confused.

  ‘Miranda? What about her?’

  ‘Do you deny that you’ve . . . that
you’ve . . . that you and she . . .’ I can’t put words to the desecration.

  ‘That I’ve had sex with her?’

  I am almost overcome by rage and can hardly speak. ‘You admit it?’

  ‘Yes. Once or twice. A long time ago. So what? I was one in a long line. She’s a prostitute, for God’s sake.’

  It takes all my waning self-control not to let go and butcher him right then. But it’s not yet time. I make do by slapping his face several times, hard, with the back of my hand. Then I quietly explain to him what Miranda means to me, what we mean to each other. How something so beautiful, so precious has been soiled by him and his like. My face becomes soaked in tears, this time not generated by rage. Can’t he see what he’s done, what he’s put me through? What they’ve all put me through?

  He quietly hears me out. Then he says, ‘Look, I’m sorry if you’ve been hurt. How was I to know? I’d never met you, I’d no idea how you felt. But killing me, killing all those other men, that can’t do any good. Quite apart from anything else, the police are on to you now. You can’t get away with it.’

  How reasonable they all become when they’re fighting for their lives! ‘Can’t I? I’ve done all right so far.’

  ‘They probably followed you here. Why else would they let you go?’

  ‘They tried to follow me, but I lost them. And they let me go because they don’t have any evidence. And now you’re going to die, but they still won’t be able to prove anything.’

  ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I think I understand how you feel. But you’re not seeing things straight. You’re not well. You need help. Why don’t you . . . ?’

  The patronising bastard! Does he think I want his pity? I slap him again, several times.

  Enough of the talk. It’s catharsis time. So far he hasn’t yelled, but he’s likely to start soon, so I cut a section of tape and stick it over his mouth. I pick up the knife again and draw my hand back, ready for the first plunge.