Lawless

by Alexander McGregor

  Not that day. The tailpiece item jerked him into full consciousness. Police in Aberdeen are investigating the death of a thirty-year-old woman who was found dead in her home earlier today. She was said to have been the victim of an assault. The voice of the female announcer was flat, unemotional. She might have been running off the local fish prices. It is thought Claire Bowman, a lecturer at Aberdeen University, may have known her killer. A police spokesman said there was no evidence of a break-in to her ground-floor flat and nothing appeared to have been stolen. She may even have shared a drink with the person responsible.

  McBride felt hairs start to straighten on the back of his neck – shared a drink … thirty years old …

  The ‘message’ about the murder of Ginny Williams that had been left in the library for him to find roared into his head – … just one more on the list. Another much further away. So did the note in the white envelope sent to his flat – You will need to pay attention to the news. The writer of the letter could not have been more explicit. He had promised another victim and had just delivered it. McBride did not entertain a single doubt that he was correct.

  He pulled the Mondeo into the kerb and waited for the traffic to clear. Then he swung round in a tortuous U-turn and headed back to the apartment he had left ten minutes earlier. Inside, he went straight to the bathroom where he shaved and brushed his teeth once more. He dressed quickly, this time in a shirt and tie and suit that needed pressed.

  Before leaving the house, he slipped his tape-recorder, a notebook and ballpoint into his jacket pockets, before checking the battery level on his mobile. Then he hurried downstairs and jumped back into his car. The entire operation had taken four minutes.

  McBride drove above the speed limit as he cleared the suburbs. That was his usual practice and he never attempted to justify the fact that he consistently broke the law because he imagined all drivers did the same, except the slow ones who got in his way. But the journey he was embarking on called for haste, he told himself. He turned on to the motorway taking him north to Aberdeen and pressed the accelerator pedal further to the floor. An hour later, he drew into the car park of the headquarters of Grampian Police.

  Instead of entering the building, he noted the force’s telephone number from an information board outside, rang their switchboard and asked to be put through to their press office. An officious constable informed him curtly that the next press conference about the murder was due to be held a short time later. McBride congratulated himself that his instincts had not let him down. Unless a suspect is detained within the first few hours, the police invariably lean heavily on the media to broadcast appeals for assistance. They saw no irony in the fact that, at other times, they treated reporters like pariahs. That afternoon they would be anxious to make the teatime radio and TV bulletins. Unless Grampian Police were different from their colleagues nationwide, they would seek much but offer little in return.

  So it turned out. When the media assembled in the badly ventilated room hurriedly pressed into service for the occasion, they were addressed by a detective chief inspector with the name J. Brewster on a chest badge who looked as though he wished he was anywhere else but there. He was starting to sweat under the white lights of the TV cameras even before he began speaking. After three mouthfuls of water, he read a prepared statement, using the ponderous phrases that only police are capable of. McBride stifled an urge to laugh. Why did police speak in public in a manner they would not contemplate in private?

  ‘At approximately zero nine forty hours today, the body of a female was found in a house at 21a Park Avenue,’ the chief inspector intoned. ‘She has been identified as the occupier, Claire Inglis Bowman, aged thirty years. Her death is being treated as suspicious. There is no evidence that the house had been entered forcibly. We are interested to hear from anyone who may have seen any person or persons entering or leaving the house at 21a Park Avenue between approximately twenty-one hundred hours last evening and zero eight hundred hours today. We would also be interested to hear from anyone who was aware of any kind of disturbance or noise coming from the house in Park Avenue between these hours.’

  The police officer finished reading from the official printout and sat down, clearly relieved to have concluded his message. He drained his glass of water in a single gulp then patted his shining forehead with a handkerchief taken from a trouser pocket. He did not seem to be aware that the cameras were still running.

  A chorus of questions rang out from the two rows of reporters seated in front of him. Most of them asked the same thing. How did Claire Bowman die and what did he mean by ‘suspicious’?

  The detective chief inspector looked uncomfortable. He struggled with his words. ‘We are awaiting the result of a postmortem but her death may have been the result of an assault upon her. That is why it is being treated as suspicious.’

  The journo sitting directly opposite the DCI was forced to state the obvious. ‘So, if the PM shows the assault killed her, it’s murder, isn’t it?’

  ‘It would be fair to say that,’ the policeman replied, his serious expression unchanging.

  The reporter continued to press him. ‘What kind of assault was it?’

  The sweating cop shook his head. ‘We’re not prepared to disclose that at this stage.’

  And so it went on.

  ‘Was anything stolen?’

  ‘Not that we’re aware of.’

  ‘Did she have any enemies?’

  ‘Well, somebody obviously didn’t like her.’

  ‘Any suspects?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Is an arrest imminent?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Verbal jousting going nowhere. The media pack pushing. Brewster resisting.

  After twenty minutes the exchanges had become pointless and the reporters began speaking among themselves.

  Brewster welcomed the opportunity to wind it up. ‘Thank you very much for your attendance and assistance,’ he said, convincing no one.

  The disgruntled hacks filed out, muttering about the impossibility of getting a front page out of all the evasions.

  McBride did not go with them. He had long ago learned that more could be gleaned from a two-minute informal chat on the way out than from the set-piece interviews.

  A female journalist with brown hair that was too long and lipstick that was too dark thought so too. She pretended to be completing her notes while the room emptied and hung back for the opportunity of a one-to-one with Brewster. She and the chief inspector obviously had history. She tried the old-pals act and used his first name. ‘Jim,’ she said sweetly, doing her best to sound conversational, ‘would it be fair to say a weapon had been used?’

  The officer appeared to soften. He smiled at what he was about to say. ‘No joy, Joy!’ He chortled at the joke she had heard a thousand times. ‘We’re not saying anything about any of that. If we change our minds, you’ll be the first to hear.’ It was difficult to know if he was being charming or sarcastic.

  Joy did not care either way. ‘Tosser,’ she said. She tried again. ‘What about sex?’

  ‘OK but not here.’ DCI James Brewster laughed uproariously – he loved his own humour. ‘But, even if you’re really good, I still won’t tell you!’

  ‘Double tosser! And you’ve no chance.’

  ‘Only joking. Wouldn’t want to be done for Joy-riding, would I?’ The chief inspector was practically rolling on the floor. He put a friendly arm round her shoulder and attempted a charming smile. It materialised as a leer.

  Joy gave an exaggerated shake of her head. ‘You’re pathetic, Jim,’ she said. ‘When you meet your usual brick wall, don’t come begging me to use your crappy witness appeals.’

  She walked away, leaving only a local TV station team in the room. They persuaded DCI Brewster it would be a good idea to do a short piece to camera on the headquarters steps outside.

  McBride was pleased at their persistence. It would give him the chance he wanted to speak to Brewst
er alone. The camera crew departed with their reporter to set the interview up, leaving McBride and the police officer together.

  ‘That was great stuff, Chief Inspector,’ McBride said, hoping to appeal to his vanity.

  The officer’s face brightened. ‘Glad you enjoyed it. Hard as nails is Joy. But she can take a joke – and probably a lot else besides.’ He was moving back into comedian mode.

  McBride responded in the same vein. ‘Just a quickie – sorry, must be infectious – a quick question. I heard on the radio that Claire Bowman might have had a drink with her killer. Any truth in that?’

  The detective suddenly became serious again. ‘I heard that too. But they didn’t get it from me.’ He turned and walked from the room.

  McBride went with him. ‘I thought that – but is it true?’ he asked.

  ‘Sorry, can’t say. You know the story – evidential and all that. We’re not even saying murder until the PM is complete.’

  ‘Do you have any doubts?’

  Brewster said nothing but slowly shook his head. His brow had begun to glisten again. TV interviews were evidently more intimidating than female journalists.

  There was just one more thing McBride wanted to know. ‘Oh, by the way, Chief Inspector,’ he began, ‘Claire’s father – do you happen to know what he worked at?’ He tried to make it sound unimportant, an afterthought to help pad out the limited information issued at the press conference.

  Brewster scowled but replied quickly. ‘A cop – retired chief inspector from the Northern force next door. Poor bugger,’ he went on, shaking his head in sympathy, ‘he’s seen his share of bodies and now his own daughter’s one of them.’

  McBride nodded in agreement, saying nothing but his mind was moving into top gear.

  Back in the car park, McBride was heading for his Mondeo and contemplating his next move when a horn urgently sounded three times. He looked towards the noise and saw a small, black hatchback coming from the entrance and moving towards him at speed. The woman behind the wheel was waving frantically in his direction. When it pulled up, Kate Nightingale got out. She almost ran to his side. In one hand she carried a bulging bag and in the other a small tape-recorder. She was stressed.

  ‘That bastard traffic,’ she said by way of explanation. ‘The press conference? I’ve missed it, haven’t I?’

  McBride nodded. ‘By ten minutes. But you can relax. You missed nothing. I’ll give you all there was – and it won’t take long.’

  ‘One of those, was it?’ The tension lifted from her shoulders. ‘Christ, I don’t know why they bother with them. They’re all the bloody same these days. You get a prepared statement that says almost nothing. Then they throw it open to questions but refuse to answer them.’

  McBride nodded again, this time vigorously. ‘You could have been there!’ He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Actually, why are you here? It’s a long way from Dundee for what looks like a routine murder.’

  She stared back at him and attempted a sardonic smile. ‘That’s a bit rich coming from you, isn’t it? I could ask you the same question. In fact, I am asking. What in God’s name are you doing in the Granite City? This is pretty small beer for a big-time investigative reporter. Why are you slumming it?’

  He had been prepared for the interrogation. ‘Got to eat, even when I’m in Scotland,’ he said easily. ‘The corpse is – was – a university lecturer. Nobody in the pokey for it yet. That gives it a bit of legs. A couple of the nationals will take a few pars. Besides, it will help me keep my hand in. That’s my reason for being up here. What’s yours?’

  She seemed happy to accept his explanation. ‘Double Dick,’ she replied. ‘He sent me. Seems to think it could be a bit of a runner as well. That apart, not much is happening in Dundee.’

  She asked McBride for a quick take on the press conference, telling him she had been instructed to call Richard Richardson with a rundown before he went into The Courier’s evening news conference.

  McBride obliged, nodding in approval when she took notes in flowing shorthand. ‘I’m impressed,’ he praised. ‘Good to see they still have some standards at The Courier.’

  She made a face. ‘Nobody gets to work for Double Dick without it.’

  McBride listened as she called his old friend and colleague with what he had just given her. He knew Richardson would not be satisfied. Even by hearing only one side of the conversation, he could sense the outrage of the Dundee newspaper’s chief reporter.

  She did not make it worse by admitting that she had missed the conference. ‘No. That’s all the cops are saying,’ she replied in response to what seemed like the same questions being repeated at least three times. ‘What? Nothing like that. They wouldn’t go into any of the details. Yeah, bastards. They’ll be back grovelling to us for help in a couple of days if they don’t get a quick result. Bastards with two faces right enough.’

  She listened intently while Richardson appeared to be passing information and instructing her on what she should do next. She rang off without mentioning McBride’s presence in Aberdeen. ‘Interesting,’ was her only comment as she squeezed the mobile back into her bag.

  McBride realised she was deliberately stringing him along – that she had some nuggets to impart but was savouring having the upper hand for a few moments.

  ‘What is?’ he asked, knowing he would have to play the game.

  ‘Don’t think I can tell you,’ she replied solemnly.

  ‘I’ll tell Double Dick you were late,’ he threatened. ‘I’ll let him know you had to be bailed out. He’ll kick that glorious backside of yours. Your expenses will be chopped.’

  She laughed at his light-hearted blackmail. ‘OK, you have me over a barrel.’

  If only, McBride thought.

  She affected the stern look of a schoolmistress. ‘Right. Pay attention. Claire Bowman may have been the victim of a brutal sex killer.’

  McBride was paying attention all right. And there was nothing affected about it. Her carefully chosen words left him stunned. ‘Brutal sex killer’ wasn’t part of the scenario.

  ‘What?’

  The force of his question surprised Kate Nightingale.

  So did the urgency of his next question. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Double Dick – he got it from some contact. Says the killer apparently made a bit of a mess of her but he doesn’t have full details. Still, not bad to be going on with, is it?’ She smiled broadly, enjoying her triumph.

  31

  They went together to inspect the ground-floor flat at 21a Park Avenue where Claire Bowman’s life had expired. McBride had dropped his car at the motel where he’d booked a room and travelled with Kate Nightingale in her over-powered hot hatch. He told her he was hitching a lift because he didn’t know the area and because she did since she’d once been based in the city.

  His explanation was true but it was a lie. He knew she’d have to drop him back at the motel later and he’d invite her to eat with him and then convince her to stay over.

  Their investigative mission to the crime scene was about as fruitful as the press conference. The short street of middle-priced houses leading towards a park was taped off at each end, with bored policemen standing guard to prevent everyone but residents from passing through.

  McBride remained in the car. Past experience told him that, in these kinds of situation, it was always more productive if a female reporter tried to charm her way through the tapes. Cops with nothing to do could never resist a pretty face, especially if it was accompanied by a magnificent posterior. Kate Nightingale possessed both but they got her nowhere.

  Her conversation with the overweight constable in his mid twenties lasted long enough but it was one-sided. She tilted her head, gazed into his eyes and did her best to smile demurely. McBride could not hear what she said but knew she was being flirtatious and engaging. It was how she was.

  The constable was unimpressed. He did not say much. Just shook his head. Didn’t smile back.

  Furt
her down the street, McBride could see six other officers inspecting the footway on both sides of the entrance to the flat where Claire Bowman had lived and died. Two were on their hands and knees, minutely examining the gutter. A female constable, looking even less interested than the guys manning the tapes, stood by the doorway. She was doing her best to suppress a yawn when a team of scene of crime officers emerged from the entry. They carried metal cases that shone and were still wearing their white paper suits, masks and overshoes. McBride looked again at the search team of cops in their all-black uniforms and idly thought a good cameraman could have secured a neat front-pager out of the scene of contrasting colours.

  He was starting to mentally place the human chess-pieces in artistic composition when Kate arrived back at the car. She was no longer smiling.

  ‘Waste of bloody time,’ she said with unexpected venom. ‘He wouldn’t give an inch. Never mind get through the tapes, he wouldn’t even give me a couple of scraps off the record. Tight as a bloody nun’s backside.’

  McBride thought her disgust probably owed more to the fact that her charms had not worked rather than any lack of information. He decided not to press her.

  ‘Nothing strike you as odd?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ She looked blank.

  ‘The search teams and the SOCO squad – eight hours after the body was found and they’re still going over the place and in detail. They’re usually away home long before now.’

  Kate said nothing.

  ‘What about your friend manning the barriers? Don’t tell me you didn’t get his juices going, even just a little bit. Yet he wouldn’t give you as much as a morsel. I don’t think you’ve lost your touch, do you?’

  She stared back, still puzzled.

  ‘OK, enlighten me,’ she said.

  ‘I wish I could. It just a feels a bit big time, that’s all.’ McBride shrugged. ‘Maybe my imagination,’ he said without conviction.

  Kate Nightingale did not seem convinced. ‘That’s the trouble with you London reporters,’ she said, her face brightening. ‘You think, if you’re working on something, it can’t be ordinary.’ She shook back her brown curls and allowed herself a soft laugh. ‘Small things happen, even to big-timers.’ She started the car. ‘So, are you buying me supper before you attempt to get lucky?’ She laughed again, this time because she wanted to let him know that, even if she couldn’t charm policemen, she could read minds.