‘So why are the police after you then? Fuck it, I’m calling 999.’ Three sharp electronic tones sound from the phone as she punches in the number.
‘No,’ I shout. Two steps and I’m beside her. I wrench the phone from her hand and as my thumb presses on the “end call” button she slashes with the knife across the ridge of my knuckles.
‘Owww,’ I howl and drop the phone. ‘What did you do that for?’ The back of my hand feels red hot. I hold it up to look at the wound. Luckily, it doesn’t seem to have cut too deep, but the blood is flowing freely.
‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’ Ruth punctuates each word by taking a step towards me and then taking another step back. She wants to help me and is equally terrified of any retaliation. She looks at the phone on the floor, where it fell from my hand ‘I didn’t mean to…’
I sit on a stool. ‘Have you any plasters or bandages?’
The knife is still on her hand and its point is still aimed at me, but my response is clearly puzzling her. Her mind is beginning to work again. I’m not sure what has calmed her down, the sight of blood or my demeanour. Her eyes stray again towards the phone. She wants to go for it but is afraid to take her eyes from me.
‘Go on then. Call the cops,’ I laugh. ‘Don’t know what’s worse, being wrongly accused of murder or being slashed on the back of the hand by a girl.’
‘So you’re not…’
‘No, Ruth, I’m not the killer. Sadly, and not for the first time, the boys in blue have got it badly wrong.’
‘If your former colleagues don’t believe you, why should I?’
‘Because you’re a good deal smarter than they are?’ I grin. Her arm drops to her side and I judge that this is time to turn on some more charm. ‘Hello. Dripping on your good lino here. Can you get me a cloth or a bandage?’ I lick some of the blood from the wound and wince. ‘And some needle and thread might not go amiss.’
‘God. I’m so sorry,’ she’s beside me now, knife having fallen to the floor while she grabbed at a kitchen towel. ‘Here.’ She presses on to the wound with the cloth. Blood seeps through the material in a growing red cloud.
‘God. The blood. I am so, so sorry. But you did scare the shit out of me.’ Her eyes are large. Fear, grief and confusion swim in the film of unshed tears that line her lower eyelashes. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Her voice is a whisper.
‘Hey, it’s okay. You were quite scary yourself you know. I wouldn’t want to have been the real killer. You’d have made mincemeat out of me.’
She manages a laugh. ‘Yeah, don’t mess wi’ me.’ And leans against the worktop before she keels over. ‘What is happening? The world’s gone pure mental.’
‘I know how you feel. The world’s been pure mental for me for weeks now.’
‘So you think it might be Hutch that’s dead?’ she whispers.
I nod. Time for a little more truth. ‘One of the murders happened to someone who had a link to my past. I hid that link so that I could carry on investigating the case. I got found out, so the police took that as an admission of guilt. The thing is, there has been more than one death. Similar murders have been happening for a few months now and I need to find the bastard who is doing it and put him away for a very, very long time.’
Throughout my speech her eyes remain fixed on mine. When I stop talking the stare continues for a long minute. The silence is begging to be filled, but I ignore the urge to speak knowing that if I do speak first, I lose.
‘Hutch needs to be given a funeral. People need to mourn.’
‘The body needs to be identified correctly first.’
‘How do we do that?’
‘With difficulty. He may have been buried by now. Let’s hope they didn’t cremate it.’
‘It’ll be too late for a visual identification anyway, won’t it? Decomposition and all that.’ As she says this, her hand goes to her mouth. ‘Oh my God. Hutch.’ Tears push out on to the lower rim of her eye. She steels herself. ‘How else can we identify him?’
‘The first thing we need to do is convince the authorities that this needs to be looked into. They’re bound to ignore anything coming from the number one suspect.’
‘Aye, but they’re not going to ignore a hysterical girlfriend.’ Her smile is weak. ‘Besides, technically he’s been missing for over a month now.’ She turns her face up to mine, her eyes lit with false hope. ‘Maybe this is all a dream. We’re… imagining things. Deluded even. He is there. He’s alive and well and he… just doesn’t love me anymore. That’s why he hasn’t been in touch.’ Various emotions vie for space on her face as she works with this notion and simultaneously fights the guilt of preferring him to be dead, to not being in love with her anymore. I put my hand on her shoulder again. I don’t know what to say.
The phone rings. It’s Allessandra.
‘Sloppy, Ray. They were sloppy. They couldn’t find anyone to give a visual ID. He was an orphan and there was no other family they could find. He had a wallet on him, with all the personal effects of one James Leonard.’ I can almost see her shrug of explanation.
‘No dental or medical checks?’ I feel relieved to be speaking about work-related matters. There is comfort and a distance in procedure that helps both the loved ones of the deceased and the messenger.
‘None.’
‘Thanks, Allessandra.’ I hang up. ‘Ruth, you need to contact the police. Convince them that the body they have is not who they think it is. They went with the ID in his wallet. Leonard’s wallet. That was DC Allessandra Rossi. I’ll give you her number and you can give her a call. She’ll start the official ball rolling.’
It’s the next morning, I’m back in my hotel room and I can’t shake off this feeling. That somebody is watching me. Despite the room’s thermostat being on full, I can’t seem to heat myself. I’m wearing a big, woolly jumper and my leather jacket and still I feel cold. I’ve got to get out of here. Where the fuck has Calum gone to? Still no sign of him. Gone off chasing pussy? Nah. Doubt it. He always appeared to be a professional. With a capital P. Maybe Kenny has called him in.
I dial his number. Just in case. ‘Kenny. You seen Calum?’
‘No.’ Pause. ‘Sorry, Ray. I’m in the middle of something. Let me get back to you. Soon, okay?’
Fine. I think. Except it’s not just him I’m worried about. The fact that I’m alone in this building crowds in on me. No-one would hear me scream and come to rescue me. Can it, McBain. You’re sounding like an old woman. It must be the room. I’m out of here.
In the passageway my door clicks shut behind me with an air of finality. Like it’s never going to open again. The corridor stretches on either side of me and is empty. And silent. I walk to the lift and feel a spasm on my neck, just where it meets my shoulder, just where a blade would cause maximum damage. I stop and turn. Nothing. The corridor is still empty. Silent. I press the command button for the lift. I can hear its electronic whirr somewhere inside the shaft. C’mon. I press the button again. Hurry. Should I take the stairs?
The door to the stairwell is to my right. Through the small glass section in the door it appears well lit. I take a step towards it, when with a musical ping the lift announces its arrival.
Bracing myself against the back wall of the small metallic box, I will the doors shut. They do and as the box falls I feel my anxiety lessen. On the first floor it stops with a lurch. A young couple get in. Couldn’t you walk down one flight of stairs? I want to shout at them. Instead I take a step towards the corner to my right, so they can have the rest of the space. They don’t even acknowledge me. Joined at the groin, they’re both wearing that “Just Fucked Each Other Stupid All Night” glow. They simply stare into each other’s eyes and all but lick at each other’s smiles. Still. It’s company, of a sort.
That’s what I need. Company. When the lift stops I’m out of the door, almost barging the male out of the way.
‘Arsehole,’ he hisses. Wouldn’t do to appear weak in front of the girlfriend. I turn round and shoot him the finger and wink at hi
s girlfriend. She giggles. I hear him remonstrate with her as I march through the lobby.
A broadsheet newspaper is on display at the door. Free Copy, reads the sign. Let’s see if there’s anything in here about me.
Outside, I breathe deep. Boy does it feel good to be out of there. It felt like the hotel housed my own private haunting. Relax, Ray, you’re thinking nonsense. You're just tired, that‘s why you‘re so spooked. Relax. But I can’t relax. I need to do something. I need to find McCall. I need to find out what happened to Leonard. And where the fuck is Calum, my so-called minder?
Company. I need company. Theresa. What’s she up to today? It would be nice to see her. Wouldn’t be the first time we’d had a mid-morning sexual snack. A Coitus Elevensus, she used to call it. My lips curve in a smile as I hear the little giggle that sugared the comment. But it’s not really the sex I’m after is it? It’s her. Or there’s Maggie. She would be company. Nah. She’ll do all that spooky stuff. Fuck that.
Theresa. We haven’t spoken since she ran away from Kenny’s flat. I shouldn’t contact her. It might not be safe. Maybe it’s seeing that couple together in the lift that’s getting me all antsy. I think if I hadn’t been there they would have joined the lift equivalent of the Mile High Club. It wasn’t their obvious lust for each other that pissed me off. It was more than that. They were so into each other. They looked as if five minutes out of each other’s company would have been too painful to endure. I can’t remember ever having had that.
Good grief, McBain. You are all over the place tonight. First you want to get out of that hotel as if your life depends on it and now you’re standing in front of it all doe-eyed.
The front page of the newspaper has a photograph of some ugly fucker of a politician, hair like my granny’s fur hat and teeth that look like they’ve been surgically enhanced.
Should’ve just got a haircut, pal.
In lined blocks, down the side of the page we, the earnest/ bored/faux-intellectual readers are enticed inside with “Male victims of drug rape” and “Scottish Executive on ID cards”.
“Police admit stalemate in Crucifixion Killer case” is at the bottom of the page. Apparently in an attempt to get into the mind of the deranged ex-CID Detective Chief Inspector Ray McBean (arseholes can‘t even get my name right), 38 (and still getting the age wrong), Strathclyde Police have brought over the big boys from America. On account of serial killers being busier over there, don‘t you know. The story is continued on page three. Big Breasts page in some newspapers.
Except in this rag it’s my old colleagues who are left looking like tits.
I wonder what their experts will say: abused during childhood, deprived of love, all of that kind of stuff. He is a reflection and a product of the society we live in. Blah, blah.
Anyway, back to me.
And Leonard. This new discovery has thrown everything in the air. What is the connection between McCall and Leonard? There has to be something. A body, with Leonard’s wallet is found with all of the usual wounds, pointing to the so-called Crucifixion Killer. How the press boys love alliteration and how convenient for the soulless bastard to make it easier for them.
The police have got a point, I suppose. Doing their research. Knowledge is power and all that. Maybe I should be doing some myself.
The Mitchell Library in Glasgow is an amazing place, and this is probably only the second time in my life I’ve been in it. I’m at a table with a couple of reference books. Felt like a bit of a weirdo when I asked for them, but hey, I’m sure they get even stranger requests.
There was a sign saying that there is a course on today on the top floor. An Introduction to Counselling. Maybe I should try and waylay the man or woman who is delivering the course and bend their ears for an hour or two. Nah. I’ll content myself with cheery tales of the mad and deranged.
The first book tells of a killer who was freed despite his psychiatrist noting that he was “undoubtedly the most dangerous individual to be released to the community for years”.
He was diagnosed with an antisocial personality disorder and schizoid personality disorder with psycho-sexual conflicts. Predictably the man went on to further his career. A so-called expert at his prison is quoted as saying, ‘We hate it when one of our parolees goes sour.”
Tell it to the families.
FBI statistics argue that the majority of serial killers come from “broken homes” and have suffered some form of extreme abuse as children. McCall could certainly come into the first category, but could he come in to the second? The FBI, according to this book, have identified thirteen “family background characteristics”. They have an At High Risk Register for those who display a high percentage of them. Problem is, the killers are usually in custody before the suits can tick all of the boxes. The characteristics include such delights as alcohol abuse, psychiatric history, criminal history, dominant mother parent and negative relationships with male caretaker figures.
Every case I read I interpose with McCall’s face. Did he, like this man profiled here, die emotionally and socially before he was into his teens? Christ, he’s barely out of them. Or is he suffering from XYY abnormalities as argued in another, equally evil fucker’s profile? Apparently there is a link between XYY problems and extreme antisocial behaviour. The good news is that this chromosomal abnormality can only have an impact on a tiny fraction of the population. Apparently these people are tall, thin and awkward: excitable and hyperactive. Their IQ ranges between 80 and 140 and they have a ten to twenty times greater possibility of being sent to prison or a mental hospital.
There is also a chemical imbalance that can cause problems. Kryptopyrrole is the fucker we have to be aware of. High amounts of this stuff are a marker for psychiatric dysfunction. A metabolic defect can occur, called pyroluria. Apart from turning your piss mauve it can cause extreme mood swings, poor colouring and a diminished ability to deal with stress. Quite a mix.
I close the books with a thump. What did I hope to find? Some sense would have been nice. Some explanation of why people do the things they do. You could litter the world with theory but only know for sure yourself when you are at that point, the edge of your knife pressed into someone’s flesh. Do you let go, or do you push? Do you have the will to stop? Or do you thirst to see what happens next?
Looking around the room at others hunched over their books, I wonder how many of these fleshy husks house the mind of a killer? How many would register highly on the FBI checklist? How high would I rate?
Throw a couple of cats in a sack and they will fight to the death. Is that what is happening to society? We’ve been thrown too tightly together? Seems to me we might have been a whole lot safer from our own as a species if we’d have stayed in the caves and instigated a breeding programme.
Okay, so you’re now a more erudite hunter of a serial killer, McBain. But ultimately, your hands are empty. In the absence of a miracle, all you have is yourself. Time to actually do something. I push my chair back, lift up the books and carry them back to the counter. With a nod of thanks and a smile designed to display my very strong links with sane society I leave the room.
Walking down the stairs I see a couple of women ahead climbing towards me. Their chatter is indistinct but wears a high note of excitement. The outline of one of them and her voice registers on my recognition radar.
‘Theresa,’ is out of my mouth before I can edit my reaction. She stops as if hitting a wall and turns to face me.
‘What are you…?’ We both ask at the same time. Her companion nods at me, smiles awkwardly at Theresa and then leaves us together.
We both laugh self-consciously. Her hair is a little shorter and her face a little thinner, but she looks well on it. I would be happier, mind you, if she didn’t look so determined to keep her distance. I test it and move towards her. One of her feet strays on to a lower step.
‘How are you, Ray?’ Her eyes finally alight on my face. ‘You know… with the…’
‘Any better and
I’d be twins.’
She laughs and I want to weave the sound into cloth and wrap it around my shoulders.
‘Aye right,’ she says with a smile. ‘Really, though, how are you?’
‘Enough about me,’ I cough. The least she knows the better. ‘What brings you into this fine establishment?’
‘I seem to remember a certain not so young man trying to encourage me to get a life. I heard there was an introduction to counselling seminar on in here. So here I am.’ She busies herself with her handbag, correcting its perch on her shoulder. ‘You know me. A problem shared is… gossip.’
‘Good for you.’ I move a little closer. She moves her other foot on to the lower step. I put my hands in my pockets, in lieu of a hug. Who do you want to hug, a voice asks. Her or you?
‘So how are you?’
‘I’m fine, Ray.’ She looks away down the stairs.
‘I miss you, Theresa. Can I…’
‘No, Ray. Don’t. I… I'm a married woman.’ She recoils as if I spat at her feet. ‘My husband has to come first.’ She shakes her head, turns and walks downstairs.
I want to follow her. I want to take her by the hand into a quiet corner and hold her. And never let her go. But I just stand there.
A big unmoving lump of silence.
Chapter 39
In my own wee fog of self-pity I leave the library and walk towards the centre of the city. Theresa and I are finished. No way back there. She seemed so uncertain that time in the flat, but this time she was quite definite. A married woman. Didn’t stop her before did it? But the minute I want more than a casual fuck it’s the Big Elbow. Just who’s the one with commitment issues here?
Admittedly, there is a certain issue of a number of murders that might conceivably put her off. I guess it makes me less than eligible in most women’s eyes.
My path takes me past the King’s Theatre and with great delight down past Police HQ in Pitt Street. I want to wave and shout “Fuck You” into the small windows, but I have a shred of sanity that demands I keep my gaze on the pavement, my mouth closed and my hands very firmly in my pockets.
Blood Tears Page 28
