He awoke at 7 a.m., which did not surprise him. She was not beside him, which did. He heard a sound and rolled on to his other side to see what had caused it. She emerged from the bathroom wearing a pink towel and a white smile. She allowed the towel to drop to the floor and stood naked at the bottom of the bed. Tiny drops of water shone on her breasts. She brushed a hand lightly over them.
He watched every movement and tried to decide if he had enough time for what she had in mind. ‘I’ll make a deal,’ he said, still gazing at her moist body. ‘You can come back to bed if you put the room on your Courier expense account.’
‘Bastard,’ she replied, stepping up on to the bed and walking towards him. She reached his side and stood over him for a moment, inviting him to admire her dewy body. Then she lowered herself and moved slowly on top of him. ‘Double Dick will never know the sacrifices I make on behalf of the paper,’ she said softly.
32
McBride took the coast road home. The route followed the very edge of Scotland and swooped and turned like a bird of prey in flight as it hugged the shoreline. It attracted the tourists with time on their hands who didn’t want to join the racetrack of the inland motorway. It didn’t matter that it would add half an hour to his journey. McBride needed to think. Not about Kate Nightingale, whose scent still lingered, but about Claire Bowman, whose last smell to the world would be the anonymous, undignified mix of disinfectant and chemical preservatives. The softness of her body that, in life, would have pressed gently against a man, just as Kate’s had done to him hours before, would, in death, be hard and unyielding. On the pathologist’s slab she was no longer a woman – just a carcass to be sliced apart and stitched together again. She was also an enigma.
If he was right, she was the third victim – at least – of the same killer. Yet nothing, apart from how her father earned his living, appeared to connect her to her sisters in death. Nothing to say they’d ever met. Nothing unique but the same. Different cities, different friends, different backgrounds but inextricably bound, he believed, by the greatest similarity of all. Each of them would have gazed in terror into the same set of eyes before taking their unwanted leave of earth.
Maybe he’d got it wrong. If Double Dick’s information was accurate, Claire Bowman’s exit from life was a significant departure from the kind of fate experienced by Alison Brown and Ginny Williams – ‘brutal sex killing’ did not seem to be part of the deal. But what was the deal? It was three dead women. Three women who lived alone. Three women of the same approximate age. Women carefully selected by someone who wanted to drink with them before taking away their existence. Nobody said it had to be neat. That each of the pieces had to dovetail smoothly. There was just one small issue that needed resolving. Why?
McBride pulled into a lay-by just south of Stonehaven and used his mobile to call Detective Inspector Petra Novak. He told her where he was and where he’d been but not with whom. He said he thought his killer had moved north to Aberdeen.
She did not react as he had expected. ‘Absolutely wrong,’ she said as soon as he stopped speaking.
‘Why?’ he asked, surprised.
‘Different modus operandi. Claire Bowman would probably have been very pleased to have been strangled instead of dying the way she did.’
‘And how was that?’
‘Long story. But you’re off beam. This guy was a sadist.’
McBride could barely contain himself. ‘Give me chapter and verse.’
‘Too busy. There’s a three-line whip on it up in Aberdeen and it’s about as bad here. There’s also a big security clampdown. Very little is being put out.’
‘The last bit I know. Can we meet when I get back to town?’ he asked, working hard at keeping urgency out of the question.
‘Too busy,’ she said again. ‘I could be here all night.’
He pressed her. ‘Don’t you want to know why I think you’re looking at the same person for all of them?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Too busy,’ he replied, laughing softly. ‘If you make time, I will.’ He knew she would be unable to resist questioning him.
She thought about it for at least a second. ‘I’ll need to eat in a couple of hours,’ she said, trying to inject resignation into her voice. ‘You can buy me a cup of coffee.’
‘Where? The Overgate Centre?’ He had chosen the nearest place to police headquarters in the hope that she would disagree. Their presence there would run the risk of being observed by other officers and he knew she would not linger long or have much to say if they went there.
‘No.’ She paused, considering an alternative. ‘Make it three o’clock in the Bell Tree.’
‘Great,’ said McBride. They rang off. He was delighted. The place she had named was a restaurant next to a Premier Travel Inn just outside of town where he’d eaten several times since moving from London. The food was good but not expensive and the surroundings were pleasant, if unoriginal. But he knew that was not why Petra had chosen it. The seating arrangements in the Bell Tree were discreet and the tables separated by enough distance for conversations to remain private. It was easy to enter and exit and, on a weekday afternoon, there would be few locals eating there. The other diners would nearly all be businessmen breaking their journeys to or from Aberdeen and other points north.
McBride sat for a few minutes in the lay-by, watching as a rush of North Sea white horses crashed on to an outcrop of rocks extending into the water from a small patch of beach. Contentment washed over him. He was confident the divine Petra had something she wanted to disclose.
He was not wrong. She arrived precisely on time and barely glanced at the menu before ordering an omelette without chips.
‘OK, you first,’ she instructed, ‘then I’ll tell you why you’re mistaken.’
McBride gave her a rundown on his theory that he had received a coded message hinting that the killer’s next victim could be in Aberdeen. ‘His phrasing – “just one more on the list. Another much further away” – didn’t make all that much sense at the time but, if you read it as meaning Aberdeen, it hangs together perfectly,’ McBride said. ‘Give me a better explanation. And tell me why I’m mistaken.’
Petra took a long breath before she answered. ‘She wasn’t strangled like the others,’ she said, speaking very quietly. ‘Claire Bowman was murdered by someone who had completely lost the place – a pervert who gets his jollies from brutalising women. The place was like an abattoir. If he hadn’t already killed her by what he did, she would have bled to death.’
It was not what McBride had anticipated. He said nothing for a few moments while he wrestled with the mental images her revelations conjured up before he finally asked, ‘So, what did he do?’
Petra pushed away the half-eaten omelette. She took another breath. ‘He knocked her unconscious then penetrated her repeatedly using the same weapon. They’re still trying to count but they reckon he’d thrust it into her vagina at least a dozen times – maybe twice that.’
McBride looked stunned.
Before he could reply, Petra spoke again. ‘He did the same in her rectum.’ She was starting to stumble with her words. ‘They’re not sure of the exact point at which she would have died – probably halfway through the ordeal.’
The detective inspector’s poise was disappearing with every word. Her eyes were starting to mist. She was the schoolgirl who needed protection again. He covered the back of one her hands with his own.
She spoke once more but, this time, so softly that her words were only just audible. ‘She wouldn’t even have been able to cry out in her agony. The bastard had made sure of her silence by putting a scarf round her mouth first. So, you see, Campbell, strangulation would have been an act of mercy.’
McBride felt her hand tremble. He had no idea how to respond. He was torn between spitting out his disgust and reaching out to take the crestfallen woman opposite in his arms. But he had no opportunity to do either. Before he could speak, the silence was broken by the m
uted ringing of what sounded like an old-fashioned phone.
Petra reached into the bag at her feet and picked out her mobile. She checked the caller’s identity, pressed the talk button and spoke quickly. ‘Novak.’ The authority in her voice took McBride by surprise. Her composure was back. She listened for several seconds then said, ‘There was? What kind? Expensive?’ Another pause while she received an answer. ‘Any request to send someone up?’ Pause. ‘OK. I’ll be back inside an hour.’ She rang off and placed the BlackBerry back into her bag. McBride was impressed – both by her recovery rate and her choice of mobile.
She was first to speak. ‘I may have humble pie for dessert,’ she said with what seemed like sheepishness.
McBride gave her a questioning look.
‘Seems Claire Bowman and her killer probably did share a bottle of wine. My sergeant doesn’t know if it was expensive but he says he’s never seen it in Tesco so it probably is.’
McBride was on the point of delivering his gem about the occupation of Claire Bowman’s father but did not get the chance.
She spoke again. ‘I’m going to tell you something which I know you’re going to ask me but which you must promise not to write about.’ It was a question as well as a statement.
He nodded his acceptance of the condition.
‘The weapon – it was a police baton.’ She watched his face for reaction.
He did not disappoint her. His mouth opened almost as wide as his eyes. ‘Give me that again. A baton? A police baton?’
‘Yes, an ASP retractable, the kind practically every force in the country uses.’ She was almost apologetic, as though she was personally responsible for the choice of weapon the monster had used.
McBride whistled silently. He remained silent for several seconds then said, ‘There’s something else – Claire Bowman’s father was a police chief inspector. Three dead women, all the daughters of police officers.’ Before Petra could speak he added, ‘And don’t say “coincidence”.’
She stared back, shook her head. ‘No – I don’t think so either.’ Bewilderment filled her face.
McBride paused and then, as much to himself as to the watching woman sitting opposite, he said, ‘We’re into a different ball game. Are we looking for a killer cop? Is that why the bastard always seems to be one jump ahead? Or are we after someone who just happens to hate them?’ They weren’t really questions.
Petra didn’t try to provide answers. She lifted both shoulders in a shrug. She wasn’t indifferent. Just baffled – like him.
33
High above the city, Richard Richardson stood at the long window of his flat and gazed absently down at the early evening traffic heading out of the centre of town. He took in the familiar panorama for several minutes, looking but not seeing as the usual tailback of cars built up on the road bridge stretching over the river. Finally, he turned away.
First he went to his bedroom where he selected a fresh shirt and trousers. He dressed quickly and entered the room at the rear of the apartment which had been converted into an office. Sitting at his laptop, he moved his fingers rapidly across the keys, opening up a familiar internet site and accessing a life that existed only within the walls of the room and boundaries of his mind.
He remained hunched over the keyboard for almost an hour. For much of the time, he breathed normally but, when his fingers were at their most animated, he inhaled sharply and a small hammer beat out a quickening rhythm in his chest. Sometimes the saliva dried in his mouth but he was unaware that such a thing had occurred for he was not required to communicate vocally but with keystrokes. When the strokes became sensual, his breathing, like his desire, was urgent. His composure returned only after he had removed his hands from the scrambled alphabet of plastic letters to place them upon himself. His satisfaction invariably came swiftly.
That evening, the two women who sat at home computers in other towns sharing his silent conversations had no idea who their communicant had been. Like him, they also used assumed names to explore their fantasies.
When he had finished, the occupant of the top-floor flat on the slopes of the Law carefully closed the lid of the electronic box that stored his best and worst dreams and returned to the bedroom. He changed clothes again and walked back to the long window of the sitting room.
Once more Richard Richardson stood looking out over the city without absorbing much of what was before him.
After ten minutes had elapsed, he called Campbell McBride with the casual suggestion that, if he had no better way of spending his evening, they should meet a short time later in The Fort. McBride, who had been contemplating ringing Richardson, agreed with the same pretence of nonchalance.
When they met, their conversation was only briefly light-hearted. Richardson made a few desultory attempts at humour but gave up before he had finished his first drink. It was apparent the topic foremost in his mind was the death of Claire Bowman. McBride felt the same but hoped he was being less obvious.
‘How did things go in Aberdeen, then?’ Richardson asked, trying to make it sound like an afterthought. ‘Kate says you bumped into each other.’
McBride wondered if he was being uncharacteristically euphemistic but immediately dismissed the thought. When it came to discussing sex, Double Dick was never anything less than direct. He appeared not to know where his female reporter had spent the previous night – either that or he did not care.
Before McBride could respond, he launched forth, ‘Funny business by the sound of it.’
McBride assumed he meant the murder of Claire Bowman. He nodded in agreement and wondered just how much his drinking companion knew about the precise circumstances of the lecturer’s demise. ‘You could say that,’ he replied noncommittally. ‘It’s anybody’s guess what it was all about.’
Richardson drained his glass and called for another round. ‘I hear it was pretty messy,’ he said, looking directly into McBride’s face for a reaction. ‘A lot of blood, by all accounts.’
‘You’re well informed,’ McBride replied. ‘The cops weren’t saying much in Aberdeen. So, how did she die?’ He wanted to test the man seated next to him.
‘God knows. Stabbed, probably, if it was as bloody as some are making out.’ It was impossible to tell if Richardson was being disingenuous.
McBride said nothing but waited for the chief reporter of The Courier to continue.
Richardson stayed silent for a few moments before changing direction. ‘I was a bit surprised to hear you were up in Aberdeen, actually. Good to see we provincials still have the kind of murders to excite the hotshots from London.’ Coming from anyone else, it might have sounded like a compliment – from Richardson it was unquestionably sarcasm.
McBride shrugged it off. ‘Always happy to help the local press,’ he said.
Richardson did not smile or respond with a smart crack. Instead, he said quickly, ‘I’ll be happy to take you up on that. What about keeping me posted with anything decent you turn up? We won’t give you a byline but we’ll pay you … quite well.’
McBride laughed. ‘Sure you will. If memory serves, “quite well” is Courier code for a pittance. I’ll probably just about manage to survive without it.’
Richardson tried again. ‘OK, for old times’ sake, then?’
McBride made no attempt to keep his face straight. ‘Like that, is it? Desperation must be setting in.’
He was wondering how to get off the subject when John Black called out to him from behind the bar. ‘A friend of yours was asking for you a few nights ago,’ Black said, trying to sound mysterious. ‘Said her name was Carol.’
McBride looked blank.
Black paused, enjoying the thought of what he was about to say. ‘Well, she described as herself as “Christmas Carol”, to be exact.’
The memory of Christmas Eve and the soulless sex he had shared with the woman he met in the bar returned to McBride. It was the first time he had thought about their encounter since walking out of the home of the small blon
de who wore too much make-up. Unexpectedly, he felt a small surge of affection for her, more than he had experienced at the time.
Black held up a piece of paper with her phone number on it.
McBride waved it away. ‘Give it to Richard,’ he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of Double Dick. ‘He looks as though he can do with it more than me.’
‘Arrogant bastard,’ Richardson said without smiling.
McBride deliberately turned his back to the bar so he would not see whether his old friend took the scrap of paper.
34
McBride cursed repeatedly, spitting the words out so loudly he turned his head to be sure he had not been overheard. It was an unnecessary gesture. In his irritation he had forgotten he was still at home, alone and cursing over the sound of an Elton John track playing on the CD player in the corner. He could not believe his stupidity or the slowness of his thought processes.
He moved swiftly from the chair at the window where he had been contemplating, crossed the room in two strides and grabbed his mobile from the table where he had emptied his pockets the night before. He stabbed in DI Petra Novak’s number and drummed impatient fingers on the wall as he waited for her to answer. She did so within ten seconds but McBride was already starting to transfer his guilt.
‘Christ sake, Petra,’ he said testily, ‘don’t hurry.’
She was taken aback at his ill temper. ‘Campbell?’ she asked, the curtness of his voice making her unsure it was him.
He did not apologise or explain. ‘Yes, who did you think?’ he said loudly, without trying to conceal his annoyance. ‘Look, we’ve boobed.’ He had convinced himself the mistake was partly hers. ‘We haven’t staked out the library or put cameras up.’
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