The Harlequin

by Sinclair Macleod

  “Thanks for your time, Mr Davies. If Mr Hastings gets in touch would you ask him to call me? Here’s my card.”

  “I will. After what happened on Tuesday, we’re all worried about him.”

  “I understand. Thanks again.” Russell walked back through the office, thanked the receptionist and pressed the button to call the lift.

  When he stepped out into West George Street, he immediately dialled McLelland’s number.

  “Tom?”

  “Sir, Gregor Hastings is missing. He hasn’t turned up at the office and the staff can’t get a hold of him.”

  “He’s definitely back from London?”

  “No one knows for sure, he could be in the air I suppose but something tells me that’s not the case.”

  “Get on to the airline and find out if he was on that flight. If he was, we’ve got a problem.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll let you know.”

  He walked back into the building and asked the security guard on duty at the desk if he had a phone book.

  “Naw, Ah cin look up the number on the computer if ye want.”

  “Yes please. It’s the British Airways desk at Glasgow Airport.”

  The man moved the mouse hesitantly and clacked slowly on the keyboard. Russell was frustrated at the delay but he had to acknowledge to himself that he would not have been able to use the computer any more efficiently.

  “Got it,” the guard said. He wrote the number on a yellow notepad and handed the page to Russell.

  “Thanks.”

  Back on the street he started walking in the direction of Pitt Street as he dialled the airline.

  “British Airways, Glasgow Airport. Simon speaking, how can I help?”

  “My name is Detective Inspector Tom Russell. I was wondering if you can help me regarding a passenger who was due to fly to Glasgow last night from Heathrow?”

  “I’m not sure if I should,” the man said sounding perturbed.

  “I understand your reluctance but this is very important. We need to know if this gentleman was on the flight as his life may be in danger.”

  The stress in Russell’s voice was enough to convince Simon. “Oh… what is his name?”

  “Gregor Hastings. He should have been on the last flight, I’m sorry I don’t know the exact time.”

  There was a short period where the noise of a busy airport was all that Russell could hear before the airline employee said, “Mr Hastings both checked-in and boarded the flight which arrived in Glasgow at 11:40 last night.”

  “Thanks for your help, Simon.”

  “You’re welcome, I hope the gentleman is OK.”

  “So do I. So do I.”

  By the time the call was over Russell was turning into Pitt Street only fifty yards from the entrance to the headquarters building.

  McLelland knew before Russell spoke that their worst fears were beginning to be realised.

  “We need to tell Special Branch to take a hike, we need bodies on this to find Hastings before it’s too late,” Russell said forcibly.

  “I know. Give me a minute and I’ll speak to the A.C.C.”

  McLelland rang Dunsmore’s office. When he was put through he laid out what Russell had discovered and what he believed needed to happen.

  “I thought D.I. Russell had been reassigned,” Dunsmore observed.

  “Sir, that was my decision. I didn’t believe that the version of events being spun by Special Branch was likely, and I felt Tom was the best man to keep investigating the real crime.”

  “Let me make a few phone calls.” Dunsmore hung up.

  McLelland and Russell sat in contemplative mood as they waited on the word from the top. They both knew that the A.C.C. would have to speak to the chief constable and then maybe Whitehall to get the case reallocated. The decision may have to come from the Home Secretary. Russell hoped that whomever took the decision would do so quickly.

  After twenty minutes the call finally came. “You’ve got agreement, Mark. The chief constable wishes to be kept informed, so let me know of any developments immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll speak about you disobeying orders when this is all over.”

  “Yes, sir.” McLelland hung up and said to the handset, “Arsehole.”

  “Let’s go, Tom. We’ve got a case to run.” He called Andy McKinley and told him to collect as many of the team together within the hour for a briefing. McKinley sounded delighted to hear that they were back in control of the case.

  ***

  Coldfield was clearing papers from the desk at Stewart Street Station when McLelland and Russell arrived.

  He didn’t bother with a greeting, instead he warned, “You better be right about this, McLelland.”

  “Oh we’re right and we’ve always been right.”

  Russell was even more blunt. “You’ve cost us valuable time on this investigation and your fannying about playing spy has possibly cost an innocent man his life. So get out of our way and fuck off back to London. Maybe you’ll listen to the people on the ground before you barge in and lay down the law.”

  “We were acting in the interests of national security.”

  “No, you weren’t. You were acting in the interests of national paranoia. Keep us scared and we’ll stay in line. Well this is Glasgow and we don’t scare easily.”

  “Tom,” McLelland warned.

  “We’ll be keeping an eye on you, Russell,” Coldfield warned.

  “Look at me; I’m quaking in my boots.”

  Coldfield lifted the box of papers and walked quickly out of the office.

  “That might not have been too wise, Tom.”

  “I don’t give a shit. These halfwits are so full of their own importance, they didn’t have the sense to listen to us and look what’s happened. They wasted resources chasing ghosts while the real killer slips under their radar.”

  “I know but they can make life really difficult for you if they want.”

  “Aye, right.”

  “We need to get a search organised for Hastings. Andy should have the troops organised within the next half hour or so.”

  That half hour dragged and Russell occupied himself by calling Gltz followed by Hastings’s home and mobile numbers. Hope of finding him safe and well diminished with every negative result.

  Finally they were ready to go to the incident room. McKinley had managed to pull together about half the team of detectives and there was an almost celebratory atmosphere when Russell and McLelland were greeted with a round of applause.

  ‘Let’s get back to some real police work,” McLelland said by way of introduction. He allowed Russell to tell them all that had happened earlier in the day and the concerns that the killer had been active once again. Assignments were given to check CCTV and interview Hastings’s neighbours, family and colleagues.

  “It’s vital we find Mr Hastings as quickly as possible. Report anything you discover to D.S. McKinley, he will disseminate the information to the rest of the team. Understood?” McLelland asked.

  “Yes, sir,” was the unanimous reply.

  Russell decided that he wanted to take a look at Hastings home and asked D.S. Clarkson to accompany him. As the meeting broke up, they headed to Clarkson’s car.

  ***

  Hastings lived in a penthouse flat in Clyde Street, which enjoyed a panoramic view of the river. Rain had begun to fall on the city; the skies were dark with slow-moving clouds that were crammed with the promise of a long period of heavy rain. The downpour made both detectives scurry to the door of the building where Russell had to press a few of the intercom buttons before getting a reply from a woman on the third floor. He introduced himself as he showed his warrant card to a closed-circuit camera that was positioned above the row of buttons. The entrance opened with a click; Russell held i
t open, waiting for two uniformed constables who had followed them from the station. They were there to provide the muscle should they need to break down the door of Hastings’s flat.

  All four climbed the stairs to the third floor where a woman was waiting outside her flat.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked as she looked at the short battering ram that one of the constables was carrying.

  “Yes, of course. Thanks for letting us in.”

  “Are you sure?” She looked doubtful.

  “Absolutely.”

  It was obvious that she was desperate to learn more but Russell remain stoic and waited until she retreated back into her home.

  The flat that Hastings owned was directly above where the curious woman lived. Russell knocked the door a couple of times; the second time was louder than the first and was accompanied by a shout. When there was still no reply, he rang Hastings home phone once again with exactly the same result.

  “Open it up,” Russell said to the constables.

  The door withstood the first blow but surrendered in a brief shower of splinters with the second strike.

  Russell and Clarkson pulled on some gloves and walked into the flat, leaving the constables to wait outside. There was a narrow stairway that led from the short hall to the second storey of the flat. The hall opened out into a kitchen and dining area that then led to a living area three steps below. The balcony was beyond the broad expanse of full-height windows. All of the ground floor of the flat was covered in highly polished genuine cherry wood flooring. To Russell’s eye the furniture was modern, tasteful and expensive. He walked through to the living area and was relieved that there was no sign of either a body or a struggle.

  “Very nice,” Clarkson observed.

  “Aye, he’s clearly doing well for himself. We better check upstairs.” He led the way to the second-floor landing that contained four doors. They tried each of them in turn, looking into two guest bedrooms and a toilet before finally entering the master bedroom. The room was decorated with refined masculinity, simple and minimalistic. The king-sized bed hadn’t been slept in and there was a single navy blue suitcase lying on it; on the handle was the airport baggage tag that had been attached at Heathrow. Russell tried to open the case but it was locked.

  “Looks like he didn’t get time to unpack,” Clarkson said.

  “Let’s have another look downstairs.”

  They both went to search the kitchen and living room. There was nothing to suggest that Hastings had even made himself a cup of tea on his arrival from the airport.

  “Maybe the killer was waiting and watching for him to come back.” Clarkson theorised.

  “Aye and then called him. If he tempted him out of the flat, Hastings must have known who it was.”

  “We better get forensics to have a look, in case the killer came into the flat.”

  Russell called McLelland and told him what they had found.

  When he was finished, McLelland said, “It’s not looking good is it?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “I’ll get forensics over. Let’s hope they can find something.”

  Russell returned to the station by taxi while Clarkson stayed to interview Hastings’s neighbours. She completed her task at six-thirty after waiting for the majority of them to return home. No one had heard anything, some of them didn’t even know who Hastings was.

  Russell sat in the incident room until well after nine o’clock, hoping against hope that a piece of information would help them to find Hastings. The CCTV cameras on Clyde Street had captured him exiting a taxi at the flats at quarter past midnight and then leaving on foot ten minutes later. The cameras tracked him to the South Portland Street footbridge across the Clyde but failed to pick him up on the other side. The area would need to be canvassed for information in the morning.

  McLelland walked into the office at ten o’clock and after he had been briefed said to Russell, “There’s nothing else we can do tonight, Tom. Get yourself off home.”

  Russell complied reluctantly, “Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Tom.”

  Chapter 16

  Russell’s phone rang at quarter to seven the next morning and he knew what he was going to hear before he even looked at the display to see who was calling. Ellen Clarkson’s name on the screen only confirmed his fears.

  “Sorry to disturb you sir, but a body’s been found in Ruchill Park.”

  “You didn’t disturb me, Ellen. I’ve been waiting on the call most of the night. Hastings?”

  “Looks like it. The chief super’s on his way to the scene, will I tell him you’ll get him there?”

  “Aye. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “It’s at the flagpole, so you should come in off the Benview Street entrance.”

  “Cheers.”

  For Russell the drive to the park was filled with dread. Another death meant another layer of remorse and regret for him. Life as a detective was only satisfying when he was getting justice for the victim of a crime, but failing to catch the person responsible always brought a feeling of failure, and when the culprit used his freedom to continue killing it was even worse. In his career, Russell had never come across anything quite like this. There was obviously a motive, revenge was indeed a strong one but the cold way that he had gone about it made this a very strange murderer. Revenge was normally about raging passion not clinical calculation.

  He arrived at the park twenty-five minutes after Clarkson’s call. He drove through the gates and up to where the blue and white tape fluttered in a strong breeze. The park sat on a hill that left it exposed to the elements and a squally shower was drenching everyone when Russell drew to a halt just outside the cordon. He suited up and walked in the direction of yet another body.

  The flagpole was situated on a mound that offered a view across the whole city. A spiral path led up to it and at the top an inner cordon had been established. McLelland was waiting for Russell when he ducked under the tape.

  “Good morning, Tom,” the chief super greeted him with a grim look.

  “What’s the story?” Russell asked.

  “The park ranger found him this morning during his first patrol of the day. It’s another level of freakishness.”

  The situation of the body made it difficult to erect a tent around it and instead the technicians had surrounded the pole with screens. When the two detectives arrived a female technician stepped out of the screened off area to allow them to look at the body.

  Gregor Hastings had been tied to the bottom of the flagpole; a rope had pulled his head back, revealing a line of crimson death that was traced across his throat. His eyelids appeared to have been stitched to his forehead, leaving his eyes open and staring off into the distance. He was dressed in one of the harlequin suits that had been used during the performance in George Square; it hung loosely on his angular frame and it appeared he was naked under it.

  “Bloody hell,” Russell muttered in disgust as he took in the terrible sight. He stepped closer and noticed something in the murdered man’s mouth. “Can you take a picture of this, please?” he shouted to the technician. She did as she was asked. With the tips of his fingers Russell got a hold of the item and gently pulled it out through Hastings’s teeth. It was the now familiar calling card of the Harlequin and when Russell turned it over written on the back was the same date, 1st April 1983.

  “Same again,” Russell said to McLelland who bobbed his head in agreement.

  The technician handed him an evidence bag from her case. He placed the card in it and showed it to McLelland before giving it to the woman to record and reference.

  McLelland was standing shaking his head, “What’s this all about, Tom?”

  “Fuck knows,” Russell sighed.

  “What about the eyes?”

  “Where is he looking?”
He stepped out of the protected area and tried to establish the direction that Hastings’s headhad been positioned to ‘look’ at. He moved his head in and out of the screen as he calculated the direction.

  “The university, he’s looking towards the university.”

  The Gothic architecture of the main university building loomed over the West End of the city like an educational behemoth. It was easily visible from the top of the mound.

  Russell’s mind began to tick over and think through all that had happened. “What if the Harlequin had hoped to drug university students when he got Petterson to place the hallucinogens in the cakes?”

  “A vendetta against the university?” McLelland asked trying to follow his logic.

  “It could be or maybe it was something that had a connection to the university back in 1983. Deirdre Nichol attended Glasgow Uni, didn’t she?”

  “Yes but I think she would have left by ‘83.”

  “I’ll lay good odds that Hastings was there too. I’m sure there’s a connection between them.”

  During their conversation Professor Lionel Marriot strode up the mound already dressed in his protective clothing, a mask dangled below his chin and he was carrying his forensic case.

  “Good morn…ing, gentleman.” He was panting due to the effort of climbing the short hill. Russell hadn’t seen the pathologist for a couple of months and he was shocked to see how much weight the man had lost.

  “Are you OK?” McLelland asked.

  “On my last legs old boy. Too many cigarettes. Asthma and goodness knows what else killing the old lungs and me with it probably.” His barking laugh was laced with a customary black humour.

  “Should you be here?”

  “No it should be Dr Dent but he’s taking a personal day, whatever that’s supposed to be.”

  “I meant should you be working at all?”

  “I’m just doing my time until they find a replacement. Anyway what have you got for me?”

  They moved towards the screened area and when the body was revealed, Marriot said, “It’s enough to drive you up the pole.”

  McLelland and Russell ignored the comment. They were used to the professor’s tendency to crack jokes at a crime scene, but after all that had happened in this case, neither detective could be bothered to offer even a polite smile.