Lawless

by Alexander McGregor

  McBride tried to soothe her as he departed. ‘Of course,’ he said gently. ‘You’ve been extremely helpful. Thank you so much.’

  As he turned to leave, she suddenly became anxious. ‘I hope you’re not going to put any of this in the paper,’ she said, her voice brimming with apprehension. ‘We’re very private here. We mind our own business, keep ourselves to ourselves. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Don’t worry, nothing will appear. This was just between you and me.’

  His fellow conspirator gave a relieved smile and retreated into the house. As he walked back down the short garden path, he knew without turning that she would be standing at the window watching.

  Like most car journeys, McBride’s return trip through Fife was an opportunity for contemplation and he used the time to idly replay the two conversations he’d had in the tranquil university town. They hadn’t been the most productive, he reflected, but they had reopened a window on a serene way of life that he had almost forgotten existed. He smiled at his memory of the next-door neighbour in Clay Braes. She counted herself as someone who ‘kept herself to herself’ but still had a perfect mental chronicle of every movement Ginny Williams ever made. Douglas Wilson, the chunky golfing journalist, would have been astounded to learn that he probably represented the dream of half the scribes in London – only one deadline a week and the biggest problem in life being whether to go home for lunch or spend the time on the golf practice ground.

  McBride remembered Wilson’s parting words to him and smiled once more at the warning he’d been given – ‘He’ll shit on you from a great height …’ Then he recalled what was said to be the occupation of the man who might carry out the arterial defecation – ‘a cop in New Zealand’. A cop? Just like the father of Alison Brown? McBride swore quietly. How did he miss that first time round? Much more importantly, was that coincidence or an essential part of the selection process?

  28

  Detective Inspector Petra Novak answered her mobile at once. McBride, caught off guard by her speed, was still wondering what ring tone she would have chosen when she spoke. ‘Novak.’ The voice was brusque, clipped, businesslike. It did not sound like her.

  ‘Petra? Didn’t think that was you.’ He neglected to introduce himself, unreasonably assuming that he always sounded like himself.

  ‘Hello, Campbell.’ Her voice softened. ‘Sorry – thought that was one of the guys from work. You must want something?’ She wondered if he would detect the sarcasm.

  He didn’t. His mind was too full of what he needed to discuss for irony to be on the agenda. ‘More questions,’ he said. ‘I’m hoping you’ll provide more answers.’

  She sighed in mock impatience. ‘Unlikely – you probably know more about Alison Brown’s death than I do.’

  ‘It’s not about her.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Ginny Williams.’

  ‘Who? Never heard of her. She sounds like a tennis player. Is she?’

  ‘No. She’s a murder victim.’

  Silence. Her long delay made McBride uncomfortable.

  Finally, she responded. ‘Sorry. Was negotiating a roundabout. And thinking. OK. I know who you mean now. She’s not one of ours. She was the student over at St Andrews, wasn’t she?’

  ‘You’re driving?’ It hadn’t occurred to McBride.

  ‘Yes. Hands-free.’

  ‘Oh, and what do other parts of you cost?’

  ‘My, Campbell, you are a card. They’ll be putting you on television next – An Evening with Campbell McBride, the sensational new humorist!’

  ‘Why not? They’ve been after me for years to act as George Clooney’s stand-in! They can tie that in with me being a replacement for Billy Connolly as well – I’d go down a bomb.’

  She failed in her attempt to suppress a laugh. ‘OK, I give up. Wish I’d never started it. Look, I know even less about Ginny Williams than I do about Alison Brown. There’s no way I can be of assistance. That’s a Fife case. Ask a friendly cop over there. Now, can you let me make my way to the gym in peace?’

  ‘Sure. No problem,’ McBride said, preparing to drop his bombshell. ‘You’re right, Alison and Ginny have nothing in common – except that they were probably killed by the same person.’ It was like rolling a hand grenade slowly towards her feet.

  ‘What?’ It was not a question but an expression of anguish. He enjoyed her discomfort.

  After several moments, he spoke. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said insincerely. ‘Thought that would get your attention. Hope you didn’t hit a tree. Can we speak about this off the phone? I need your full attention.’

  ‘Bastard,’ she replied. ‘Since you’ve been such a shit, you can buy me a coffee and something to eat. You can do both at my gym.’ She gave him directions and told him not to appear for an hour, by which time she would have completed her workout.

  The Next Generation health and fitness centre, just off the highway behind Monifieth, is a squat, functional building made of yellow and grey concrete blocks. It is surrounded by a car park that looks too big but every evening it is full to overflowing. No more strategic spot could have been chosen when the owners looked for a site for their new club in the Dundee area. They built it on the edge of one of the most prosperous, developing townships in the district, where the young incomers had money to spend and prematurely bloated bodies to reshape. The thousands who joined paid the highest gym fees for miles around but, for their money, they received unrivalled facilities. McBride knew from the moment he walked through the door that he would take out a membership – not just for the use of the swimming pools and one of the largest gymnasiums he’d ever seen but also as a launch pad for new relationships with athletic women. He watched an endless procession of them pass by as he waited for Petra to appear.

  When she strode across the restaurant floor to greet him precisely an hour after they had spoken, she was in another new persona. Her hair was still wet, her cheeks glowed and her teeth shone brighter than ever. She wore a close-fitting white, polo-neck jumper and designer denims than looked as though they’d come out of a gun in a paint-shop. To his surprise, she embraced him briefly, turning one of the radiant cheeks to him to be kissed. He complied willingly.

  In sympathy with the surroundings, they ordered sensible food. He added a white coffee and she asked for half a pint of Guinness. McBride’s jaw must have dropped because the request was swiftly accompanied by an explanation that it was required to replace nutrients lost in the workout session. He nodded, unconvinced, but made a mental note to use the excuse the next time he wanted to get pissed.

  Their small talk lasted at least ninety seconds before Petra cut to the chase. ‘OK, give it to me,’ she demanded.

  Although he had prepared what he would say to her while he sat waiting for her, McBride was still uncertain how to start. He began at the end. ‘A year after Alison Brown was murdered in her home, the body of Ginny Williams was found in her house a dozen or so miles away. Both of them were about the same age and both had been strangled.’ He paused and looked across the table at his surprised companion.

  ‘Is that it?’ the wet-haired detective inspector asked, incredulity spreading across her face. ‘That adds up to a serial killer, does it? Let’s get real, Campbell.’

  It was the response he had anticipated. ‘Relax,’ McBride soothed, ‘that’s the easy bit.’

  For the next few minutes, he recounted in detail the series of events that had prompted his move back to Dundee and the growing conviction that a double killer was at large.

  His summary of his initial bookshop meeting with Adam Gilzean, followed by the prison visit to son Bryan, was received with interest but not much else.

  It was only when he slowly narrated the sequence of communications that had come into his possession that he knew he had her undivided attention. He told her of the letter sent to him via his publisher, leading to the discovery of the missing words cut from the court report of Bryan Gilzean’s trial. Then he described
how he had unearthed similar extractions in the library about the death of Ginny Williams and the subsequent arrival of another letter, apparently from the same source.

  She did not interrupt him until he finally stopped speaking. ‘My God, Campbell – this is straight out of a John Grisham novel,’ she said, shaking her head in something approaching disbelief. ‘Who else have you told about this?’

  It was his turn to shake his head. ‘Just you – and I won’t be spreading it around any more either. I want the same promise from you,’ he told her.

  She raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a reporter,’ he explained. ‘Mention it in the wrong place and there will be a big splash in the tabloids about a mad strangler on the loose. The fact that it’s my story is only the half of it. If I’m right that Alison and Ginny shared the same killer, then the murderer and the message-sender would have to be the same person. Who else would know? Who would be able to make the link? But start to make that public and he could take fright and vanish as quickly as he seems to have come to the surface. My guess is that this has some way still to run. This isn’t a guy who is in hiding and keeping quiet about what he’s done. He wants us – me – to know about his murderous activities. God alone knows why. But he can’t tell me straight out. He’s some kind of fruitcake getting a kick out of spinning me out. He has to drop clues for me to follow up. What sort of psychotic is that? Whatever else he is, he’s a control freak. So far, the only way we’ve any chance of finding out who he is, is by keeping him interested. He’s still in charge of the game and that’s the way he likes it. Scare him off and he’ll drop right out of sight, probably for good.’

  Petra absorbed every word, nodding occasionally. When McBride stopped speaking, she remained silent for some time, looking deeply into her nearly full glass of Guinness.

  It was only after two hyper children had shrieked their way to the games room that she finally spoke. ‘You know you’re putting me on the spot, don’t you? If there is someone out there who’s killed two people, I have to do something about it. I can’t pretend it hasn’t happened.’ She looked concerned.

  McBride was prepared for her conclusion. ‘In your own words – show me the money,’ he said. ‘Where’s the proof? All we have is some madman sending me notes. He could be stringing me along, just making the whole thing up. Having a quiet laugh. What’s to pass on to your superiors? They already have someone banged up for one of the killings.’ He smiled at her, delighting in playing her at her own earlier game.

  Petra did not return his smile. ‘You don’t believe a word of that.’

  ‘No – but that’s not really the point, is it? That’s how it stands. You’re the one who dismisses hunches and wants evidence. And meantime, there’s very little of that.’ McBride wanted to put an arm round her. She looked confused and unexpectedly defenceless. She was no longer the confident, high-flying police officer on accelerated promotion. She was the uncertain teenager visiting London for the first time. ‘Look,’ he went on, ‘if I’m right, this isn’t going to go away unless something chases it. Let’s play it out my way and see what happens. No need for the cavalry just yet.’

  She gazed back at him, anxious for reassurance.

  He provided it. ‘OK, think about this. The messages are being sent to me. There’s nothing that says I have to pass any of this on to the police, for the reasons I’ve just given you. It’s my ball and, unless we play by my rules, I can just go away and play by myself. Then where would the police be?’ McBride knew the logic of what he had just said was undeniable.

  It was also the clincher she desired. Her expression changed to relief. ‘Makes sense,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘So, where do we go from here?’

  ‘We look for what links the two victims, that’s where,’ he responded. And we look for what links them to the last person they ever saw on this earth.’

  29

  McBride toyed with the remnants of his coffee. He stirred the last half inch in the cup for the third time and pondered over his next move. It was still early evening, Petra’s hair had dried and the scent of her perfume drifted over him. He wondered what her plans were for the rest of the night and whether he should become part of them.

  It wasn’t the first time he had entertained such thoughts and the dilemma was the same. If he blundered in without finesse, he would probably be dismissed as some kind of prick-in-hand merchant – a sexual opportunist with testosterone for brains. Although it might have been a fair description of his approach in other liaisons, it didn’t altogether fit with the way he viewed the detective inspector – not that he was entirely certain of the exact shape of that. What he was convinced of was that he wanted to do nothing to jeopardise the relationship – personal and professional – that was developing between them. The truth was that he was also growing afraid of getting too close.

  Life after Caroline had been complicated but simple. Lots of women attracted him but he pursued the ones who shared his needs. Some company. Some conversation. And sex, always sex. But no commitment, never commitment. Easy come, easy go. The guys who marked him down as having a high success rate didn’t understand the game. The trick was to know when a woman was interested. That way you didn’t waste time. Funny thing was that some of the women who wanted the same didn’t know it or wouldn’t admit it to themselves. It was easier for them to pretend their desires were less basic.

  McBride was not required to wrestle with his thoughts for long. As he lifted his cup to drain the dregs, a voice sounded behind him. It was quiet, feminine and warm and the accent was neutral. It made a statement and asked a question at the same time. ‘You’re here – and with company,’ it said, the last three words an enquiry.

  He turned to look into the face of a blonde who was speaking to Petra but gazing directly back at him. She was about the same age as the policewoman but taller. Her hair was not wet but blow-dried and carefully brushed back. She was wearing an Adidas stretch top and expensively cut casual bottoms that did everything for her athletic figure. If she wasn’t one of the club’s tennis pros, she worked out and regularly, McBride thought. Either way, he was impressed. He was invariably drawn to women who looked after their bodies – for what they achieved as well as what the discipline said about them. When they also possessed neat noses with nostrils that flared, McBride liked them even better.

  Anneke Meyer did not play tennis but she most certainly worked out. Two evenings a week, after thirty minutes on a treadmill and a session with loose weights, she attended body combat sessions. Petra was among her classmates but that was not their only contact. Anneke Meyer’s day job was in the laboratory of Tayside Police where she was a senior forensic scientist. Beauty, a little brawn and brains – like a moth being pulled towards the flame, McBride found himself irresistibly drawn.

  He was pleased when she accepted Petra’s invitation to join them, sitting on his other side in the curved dining booth and ordering mineral water and a smoked salmon sandwich. A sandwich – McBride repeated the word to himself and smiled inwardly. That was how he felt. In his occasional dreams, he’d imagine himself as the filling in an American sandwich, when he would be placed in bed between two outstanding examples of the female form. It had happened only once, in Northern Ireland, but that didn’t count because the amount of drink the three of them had consumed to get them there had produced only incompetence, impotence and somnolence. Now, seated between two perfect specimens, he pondered on how differently he would react if given a second opportunity – in his dreams.

  The conversation he had with the two of them was light, impersonal and sporting. They spoke of a forthcoming 10k women’s road race and the closest they came to mentioning a threesome was when Petra and Anneke discussed the viability of them joining with a third runner to form a team. When more water was ordered, he knew it was time to depart with his fantasies intact.

  He took his leave with the promise to Petra that he would follow up on their earlier dialo
gue and hoped she would do the same, trying to sound vague enough not to prompt interest from Anneke.

  McBride was barely past the reception desk on his way out when the exchange between the two women swiftly altered direction.

  ‘Nice.’ The body combat instructor nodded her head in approval as she watched his retreating figure.

  ‘Him or his bum?’ Petra asked, light-hearted but curious.

  ‘Both.’

  Petra smiled but made no reply.

  ‘So, what’s the state of play between you? Sorry if I broke something up by gatecrashing your meal.’

  ‘No – nothing like that. Just a kind of friend,’ Petra said by way of explanation. ‘I’ve known him since I was at school – sort of.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. That’s it. He’s come back to town and we’ve met up a couple of times. No more – zero, zilch.’

  ‘Whose idea is that?’

  Petra felt her cheeks flush once more, this time without the assistance of a gym workout. ‘Mine … his … both of us, probably. He’s just a friend. Besides, he’s a serial shagger.’ She surprised both of them with the strength of her comment.

  ‘Oh, like that, is it?’ Anneke laughed, loudly enough to attract glances from a group of silver-haired aqua-aerobic enthusiasts in the adjoining booth. ‘Is that a complaint or a compliment?’ She giggled again.

  Petra’s flush deepened. She struggled to find a suitable response but failed. Her customary poise had disappeared.

  ‘OK, relax. Just wanting to know how interested you are. Wouldn’t want to tread on any toes.’

  30

  The news bulletin washed over McBride. More terrorist activity in Iraq … a drive-by drugs shooting in Manchester … four dead in a motorway pile-up … the usual stuff. Sure, it was serious but who really cared except those involved – and their families? For the rest it was acoustic wallpaper. Two minutes after the car radio got back to playing music, you’d forgotten all about it.