“He wasn’t killed here obviously and he has been redressed. It takes quite a lot of dedication and persistence to get clothes on to a cadaver.” He leaned in closer to the corpse and pulled gently at the costume. “Velcro. That would have made it a bit easier I suppose.”
‘Death is due to blood loss and he wouldn’t have lasted very long once the carotid had been sliced.” He walked round the corpse, noting the position of Hastings’s hands and commenting on the knots. When he came round to front of the body he stared at the stitching on the eyes. “Very skilled work.”
Marriot began a more detailed examination as McLelland pondered, “How did he get the body up here?”
“The path’s wide enough for a car, maybe he just drove up.” Russell said.
“I suppose so, tricky though.”
As they talked more of the forensic team arrived and then Ellen Clarkson joined McLelland and Hastings.
“Sir, the park ranger is ready to be interviewed if you would like to speak to him.”
McLelland asked, “Anything significant?”
“Not really. The body wasn’t here last night. He didn’t see anyone around the park when he closed up and no one this morning when he opened up.”
“Any idea how the killer would have got in? Aren’t the park gates locked at night?” Russell wondered.
“Cut through the chains on the gates at Benview Street, apparently.”
“It’s easy done with decent bolt cutters, I’d imagine. What do you think about the placement of the body?” Russell was curious to know what Clarkson thought.
She replied, “It’s obviously very public, seems to be an attempt to humiliate the victim and attract more press attention.”
“What about the eyes?”
She shivered involuntarily. “Creepy. Looks like he’s staring at the university.”
“That’s what we thought too,” McLelland said. “We need to canvass the area, see if any of the residents in the flats overlooking the park saw or heard anything during the night. Can you organise that as quickly as possible, sergeant? I don’t want to lose any more time.”
“Yes, sir.”
Inside the screens, the work of the forensic team was now well under way. The crime scene photographer was completing a video tour of the body and the surrounding area. He would then turn his attention to photographing in the same methodical way.
“There’s not much else we can do here. We should head back to Stewart Street.” McLelland said
“Aye, right enough, “ Russell replied morosely.
***
The news had obviously reached the ears of the press pack as Russell and McLelland had to push through a throng of reporters and cameramen at the entrance to the station. Questions were shouted but the two detectives had nothing to say other than that a press conference would be held later that day.
The team of detectives who were waiting to be briefed in the incident room had also heard the news about Hastings death. Russell could sense their disquiet and there was also a degree of puzzlement as they tried to understand the killer they were tracking. There was a broad range of experience in the room but no one had come across a crime spree quite like this.
McLelland was darkly serious as he led them through the events of the past few hours. The description of the condition of Hastings’s body brought gasps of shock and expressions of revulsion.
“I’ve arranged with Professor Marriot that the post mortem be conducted today as soon as is practicable. Andy, I want you to take Ellen Clarkson with you when she gets back. We know what the cause of death was but I want to know what else may have been done to Mr Hastings - if anything - before his untimely end.”
“Yes, sir.” D.S. McKinley nodded.
“We need to find the connection between Deirdre Nichol, Gregor Hastings and what happened on the first of April, 1983.”
Russell was desperate to understand the motive, so he said, “Sir, I’d like to do that.”
“You’ll need some help. D.C. Shaw and D.C. Mulgrew, you work with D.I. Russell to find that link. Find it and we’ll be a bit closer to understanding why these crimes are happening and hopefully who is committing them.”
As the meeting came to a close, some of the detectives were allocated to help with the questioning of the people who lived around the park. The mood had improved a little as the briefing finished and work began in earnest once more.
McLelland told Russell, “I’ll go to Pitt Street and get the press conference out of the way. They’ll be in the mood for a lynching no doubt, but I’ll do my best to avoid the gallows and buy us a wee bit more time.”
“Good luck with that,” Russell replied.
When the chief superintendent had gone, Russell sat down with the two youthful detectives that had been told to help him.
“I’m going to phone the university records office, I need the two of you to speak to friends and relations of the deceased. We need to establish connections and they may not be obvious. Deirdre Nichol and Gregor Hastings were the same age, so they probably were in the same year at uni but they may not have been in classes together. I want you to ask about their interests, any clubs they may have been in together or if they were a couple back then.”
“Where should we start, sir?” D.C. Shaw asked.
“Start with family members and work out from there. There should be a comprehensive file on Deirdre Nichol but you’re going to have use your initiative to pull together the information on Hastings. Be discreet and sensitive when you’re asking questions, particularly with those close to Hastings. Check with family liaison and make sure that they have been in touch with his family before continuing. I don’t want you to be the one to break the news of his death. Do you understand?”
They nodded their acceptance and Mulgrew said, “I’ll take Mr Hastings’s family. It might be better if it’s a woman speaking to them.”
“I don’t mind which of you does it, as long as it’s done properly and with tact.”
They left him alone as they went in search of files and contact information. Russell lifted a telephone book on to the desk in front of him and found the section for the University of Glasgow. He scanned through a long list of numbers before finding the direct number for the records office. Some of his colleagues would have used the computer, but he was sure that the analogue method was quicker for him.
“Glasgow University records office, Tracy speaking.”
“Hi Tracy, I’m hoping you might be able to help me. My name is Detective Inspector Tom Russell and I’m in need of some information about students that would have studied with you in the early eighties.”
“Can I ask what this is concerning?” she asked guardedly.
“It’s an ongoing murder investigation and we believe that there may be a connection through the university between the victims.”
“Oh, I see.”
“We think they may have been attending the university some time around 1980. Their names are Deirdrie Macintosh and Gregor Hastings.”
“Of course, of course. It might take a while to dig back into the archives. Can I ring you back?”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
He gave her his number before hanging up and then decided that he needed a cup of coffee to kick-start his tired brain. A visit to the small canteen also secured a roll and bacon to allow him his first meal of the day. Shaw and Mulgrew were sitting at their own desks when he returned, phones stuck to their ears and pens poised above their notepads. The clock on the incident room wall seemed to turn very slowly as he sat drinking the coffee and eating his breakfast. When it had ticked round to twelve o’clock the phone rang.
“D.I. Russell.”
“Inspector, it’s Tracy Paterson at the university.”
“Hello Tracy, thanks for getting back to me.”
“Deirdre
Macintosh was a student from 1980 through to 1982 and earned a B.A. in Business Management. Mr Hastings was here during the same period, his degree was in Marketing.”
Russell was pleased that some link had been established. “Were they in a class together?”
“Let me have a look. Eh… no there were no subjects that they shared.”
“What about clubs or social organisations?
“I’m sorry we don’t keep those records unless it’s sport and there’s nothing listed for either of them.”
“That’s fine. You’ve been a big help.”
She sounded pleased as she said, “Have I? That’s great I hope you catch who did this.”
It wasn’t as clear-cut as he had hoped but the first connection had been verified, the only difficulty was that they weren’t at university in 1983. He hoped that Shaw and Mulgrew might be able to draw together the threads into something more cohesive and concrete.
He sat staring at the clock once again while picking up the occasional piece of conversation from the phone interviews that the two detective constables were conducting. By one o’clock the frustration had become too much for him and he went for a walk, trying to dodge the wind-driven showers that were still making an appearance every now and then,
McLelland was sitting in the office when he returned.
“Hi Tom, any news?”
Russell told him what he had learned from the university.
“So there is a possibility they knew each other back then?”
“Hopefully. How were the press hounds?”
“Biting. It’s going to be almost impossible to stop this spinning off into flights of fancy. They’ve got a juicy murder to add to the pile of the other bodies that have mounted up. I would never have thought that I would be glad of a war to keep us out of the headlines.”
“Deaths of innocent people in Iraq are a almost incidental to the fireworks show,” Russell observed cynically.
“But those fireworks are the focus for the press at the moment. It won’t be long before Iraq gets relegated to page two.”
“True enough.”
The chief super’s mobile rang. “McLelland.”
Russell sat in silence as the other man listened and replied.
“OK… Right, yes I understand… Thanks Ellen.”
McLelland ended the call and turned to Russell once again. “That was Ellen Clarkson. The post mortem showed that Hastings had been tortured before he was killed.”
“Poor bastard,” Russell said softly.
“Sir, I think you better see this.” A shout went up from the other end of the room. The sound of the television news filled the air as it was taken off mute.”
A news reporter was in the middle of a breaking news story. “ …believed to be of murder victim Gregor Hastings have appeared on the internet. The forty-one year-old man was found this morning in Glasgow and these pictures appear to show him being tortured by the killer who calls himself the Harlequin. The website - which is called the Harlequin’s Den - first appeared today at 11:45 BST and includes a number of distressing images.”
‘Put that thing off,” McLelland shouted, his face red with anger.
The television was muted once again and silence fell on the room.
“I want that fuckin’ thing taken down this instant. Someone get hold of the I.T. squad and get that website down,” he bellowed.
“Yes, sir,” replied the officer who had pointed out the news story.
“Can this get any fuckin’ worse?” he sank his head into his hands.
Russell was as distressed as his boss about the website. The Harlequin had moved on to a completely different level of seeking out publicity. He was accelerating his behaviour and Russell wondered if this time he might not stop at Hastings. If there were others within his sights he might not wait another ten years to finish his mission of revenge.
“I.T. are on it, sir. They’re trying to trace the I.P. address and they’ve initiated a denial of service attack to prevent people accessing the site.”
McLelland looked up. “Good, with any luck he’s made his fatal mistake.”
Half an hour later the technicians informed them that the I.P. address could not be traced and McLelland’s hope evaporated. He left the incident room and retreated to his temporary office.
At two o’clock, D.C. Shaw stood up from his desk and approached Russell. “Inspector, I think I might have something.”
“Go on then.”
“Deirdre Macintosh was a member of something called the Jester’s Balls. According to a friend that I traced through her ex-husband, she was a member at the same time as Gregor Hastings. She thought that Hastings was possibly one of the founder members of the organisation.
“What did the organisation do?”
“She wasn’t very forthcoming but she said it was something to do with practical jokes.”
“What’s this woman’s name?”
“Christine O’Donnell.”
“Where is she?”
“She lives in Moodiesburn.”
“I think I’ll go and have a word with Ms O’Donnell.
Russell told McLelland where he was going and then took Shaw with him to head to Moodiesburn.
***
Within thirty minutes the car was pulling into the drive of a semi-detached house that dated from the sixties. Christine O’Donnell opened the door to them with an anxious look on her face.
Russell offered the official greeting. “D.I. Russell and this is my colleague D.C. Shaw.”
“Come in.”
She was in her early forties with features that looked careworn and bore the wrinkled scars of the struggles of her existence without masking her fine bone structure. She was stout with thick arms and legs that were wrapped in loose leggings. Her hair was dyed a dark shade of purple but there was a line of grey showing at the roots.
She guided them into the living room, which was decorated in beige tones and was covered in pictures of her family; Russell noted two children but no sign of any photographs of a partner. He thought that the worn down air she projected might be the result of the life of a single parent.
“Ms O’Donnell, thank you for speaking to us.”
“This is about Deirdre and Gregor?” she asked as her hands circled around one another in a gesture of anxiety.
“Yes, it is. You may be aware that Gregor Hastings was found dead this morning. We believe that his death may have a connection to Deirdre’s and I believe you told D.C. Shaw what that connection might be.”
“I can’t be sure,” she replied.
“I understand that, but if you can tell us all that you know, you will be helping us rule out a link to this club you spoke of, at the very least.”
She took a deep gulp of air and said, “Gregor set up the Jester’s Balls club when he joined the university. The idea was that the members would play practical jokes on each other and other students. We would sponsor one another to execute the jokes and raise money for good causes.”
“A bit like ‘Rag Week’,” Russell suggested.
“Yes but it would continue all through the academic year.”
“So how did this sponsorship work?”
“At the monthly meeting we had to pick three jokes that would be played the following month.”
“You were a member of this club?”
“Yes, Deirdre persuaded me to join. I think she only joined because she fancied Hastings who was a friend of some guy she knew. Anyway, once the jokes had been agreed, each of the members had to pledge a certain amount of money to pay if it was completed successfully. You had to show evidence that it had been done, normally a photograph. The more daring the stunt, the more money you had to pledge. It started off with buckets of water above doors and super-gluing staplers to desks but as time went on it got more
daring.”
“In what way?”
“During third year, Gregor was dared to steal the wheels from a vintage car owned by one of the professors. It was a beautiful open-top sports car, an Austin-Healey I think it was. He took on the challenge but the car toppled off the jacks he was using. He damaged the chassis and the bodywork of the car. Professor Turner was livid and threatened to throw the culprit out of the university but he never found out that it was Gregor.”
“This all happened while you were at university. What about after you finished your degree? In 1983 to be precise.”
The woman’s anxious behaviour increased and suddenly she stood up. ‘Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, that’s fine Ms O’Donnell. Please take a seat and tell us what happened.”
She perched herself on the edge of her chair. “The committee in charge of the club decided that we should keep it going. We would hold meetings every April Fool’s Day and celebrate with a fund-raising event of some kind. In 1983, April the first fell on a Friday, so we decided to have a weekend event that included a dinner-dance thing at a country hotel out near Falkirk. Deirdre came up with this horrible practical joke for us to play.” She stopped talking, looking guilty.
“I think you know that this might be very important. If it was something illegal and you were involved, we don’t care. The murder is our only concern.”
“No, it wasn’t illegal just immoral. She came up with this idea where her and two other women would pretend to be attracted to three guys we knew from uni. She asked me to do it but I refused, so it was Deirdre and two other members of the club. The idea was that they would take these guys to their rooms and the woman who persuaded the guy to undress first would be the winner. There were three people with cameras who were meant to record what happened to each of the men. The three guys they picked as targets were the shy type, the ones who struggled to talk to women.”
“So what happened that night?”
“Deirdre had organised the invitations to the three guys. They were told that they were going to be invited to join the club. The dinner started at seven-thirty and the women made sure they were sitting next to their targets. They plied the guys with drink; there may even have been drugs involved, I’m not sure. They spent the evening dancing and flirting with the men and at about eleven, Deirdre led her man up to the bedroom. The other two followed at five-minute intervals and the remainder of the club were split into three different groups. Deirdre had told us to wait half-an-hour to go up to the rooms. By this time everyone was pretty drunk and everybody thought that it would be a good laugh. It was far from it.”
The Harlequin Page 13
