The Harlequin

by Sinclair Macleod

  “Tam, ye widnae dae that tae yir wee brother.”

  “I will. I’ll make something up that’ll make things even worse for you. If you come back, you might be able to spin some tale about self-defence, but if you don’t, I’ll tell them that you planned the whole thing. Don’t for a minute doubt that I will.”

  There was a long pause and Russell was determined he was not going to be the one to end it. At that precise moment Eddie was nothing more than a perpetrator as far as he was concerned.

  “Ah, need tae think aboot this.”

  “You’ve got ‘til Tuesday. Then I spill my guts and you’ll sound like fuckin’ Al Capone. Understand?”

  “Right, aye, Ah’ll speak tae ye later.” He ended the call. Russell sighed and tossed his phone on to the couch beside him. He had no idea if Eddie would do the right thing but the chances were, come Tuesday he would be on his own.

  The rest of his evening was spent staring blankly at the television; the bland Saturday night offering was a good soporific if nothing else. By the end of the day his hangover had finally gone completely and he was ready to go to bed when his mobile rang.

  “Russell,” he growled.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir. It’s D.S. Weaver.”

  “Hi, Frank what can I do for you?”

  “I know you’re not on-call tonight but D.I. Harrison has developed shingles.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “A fight outside a bar, one man dead.”

  “Fuck.” Russell said quietly.

  “It’s a Cat B. sir. I can get someone else.”

  “No, it’s fine, where is it?”

  Weaver gave him the details.

  When he arrived at the scene it was obvious that it was a straightforward case. It was just another Saturday night, another punch thrown, another head hitting the pavement too hard and two lives over; one literally, the other figuratively. There were enough witnesses to fill three courts and in the end it was almost like a practise exercise in paperwork.

  He arrived back to his flat at three the following morning; the worry over McGavigan and the Serbs had crept back into his mind during his trip home. When he got in, he polished off the remainder of the whisky and blanked out most of Sunday while the Harlequin was out collecting his victims.

  Chapter 21

  Karen Russell woke with a fuzzy head, a dry mouth and an aching body. Even with her eyes open it was still nearly black and it took a while for them to adjust to what little light was available.

  Disorientated and confused, she couldn’t figure out where she was nor how she got there. As she shook the fog from her mind she remembered the face of the Harlequin and the panic began to rise from deep within her, a primal fear that had her heart thumping in her chest and sweat appearing on her brow.

  “Hello, is there anyone there? Where am I? Let me out of here.”

  There was no reply. She pushed herself to her feet, still feeling shaky from the effects of the anaesthetic; she rocked before finding her balance. She could hardly see her hands in front of her as she stepped forward, arms straight, trying to feel for obstacles. She took two steps when she kicked something and a metallic sound rang out. She jumped in fright and then stood in the silence waiting for the trembling to stop. She edged forward once more for about six short paces before her hands came up against a barrier. She moved her fingers over it, feeling the cold metal that was arranged in a mesh. She realised that she was in a cage of some kind and suddenly the dread rolled over and threatened to suffocate her.

  She croaked a weak plea, “Hello, is there anybody there?” Please.”

  She was startled once again when a voice to her left said, “Help me.”

  “Who’s there?” Karen asked trying to not sound as scared as she felt.

  “Where are we? What’s happened?”

  “I don’t know. What’s your name?”

  “Hayley,” the voice replied.

  “Hayley, I’m Karen. It’s going to be alright.” She wasn’t convincing herself, never mind the other woman, but she thought it was important to at least make an attempt to reassure her.

  “What is this place?”

  “I don’t know, but you need to stay calm and we’ll work it out.”

  “Help.” Another voice, this time on Karen’s right. It was a young man.

  “Hello. I’m Karen.”

  “Help,” he mumbled again.

  A door opened and painfully bright light flooded into the space. It was so bright that all three captives blinked and shielded their eyes until a shadowy figure stood in the doorway.

  “Welcome ladies and gentleman, contestants, to the Harlequin Carnival.”

  ***

  Monday was a bank holiday, but it was also the first day of the new Police Scotland organisation. As a result, there was no rest for the detectives. Russell woke to the sound of his radio at seven o’clock. His heart sank when the D.J. said, “It’s April the first, 2013. What jokes have you got planned for this holiday Monday?”

  It was April Fool’s Day and the year ended in three. Russell hoped that there would be no reappearance of the Harlequin but a gnawing, grating feeling in the pit of his gut would not go away.

  He showered and then dressed in a crisp white shirt, dark blue tie and dark grey suit. His polished shoes, gold cufflinks and tie clip completed his usual business dress.

  For once the drive to Helen Street Station in Govan was brisk on the near-empty roads. He acknowledged some of his colleagues as he walked through the open plan area to his own office at the far end of the second floor of the building.

  After hanging up his coat, he settled down at his desk, waiting for the computer to spin into life. His office included a private coffee machine that kept him supplied all day, much to the disgust of some of the other detectives. He brewed a cup and by the time it was ready, his computer was sitting at the login screen.

  He needed to check some details of the manslaughter case from Saturday night before he could sign it off and pass it to the Procurator Fiscal’s office. There was also the ever-present list of e-mails to plough through, a constantly high number that never seemed to diminish. That morning there were one hundred and forty-five unread mails in his inbox.

  “Bloody hell, where does all this crap come from?” he muttered.

  There were a number of mails regarding the new organisation, some of them duplicated as they were forwarded with comments and opinions from the Police Federation. He had three regarding previous cases, mainly queries from the Fiscal’s office and one or two announcements about social events.

  Close to the bottom of the list was a mail with the subject ‘Happy April Fool’s Day’. Everyone on the force was well versed in the need for vigilance with regards to computer security and in normal circumstances he would have dragged it straight into the recycle bin, but this was different. The mail had been sent from his own home e-mail address.

  He clicked to open it. There was no message just a single Internet address; www.pagliaccistears.com. If he clicked on it and it resulted in a virus infection, he knew that he would be disciplined but as he was already facing the sack and maybe worse he thought, what the hell.

  The Internet browser jumped on to the screen and the blue progress bar crawled, slowly revealing an animation. In the centre of the display was a Harlequin clown, laughing dementedly, beside it were the words, ‘Come back at 10 a.m. for live fun’. The words disappeared and were replaced by a new phrase, ‘Remember 1st April 1983’. The whole thing looped round to start again as the detective shivered.

  Russell sank back into his seat and stared at the website. Two decades of nightmares came swimming into his head like voracious sharks, they were there to tear his life apart once more.

  It can’t be, it can’t be was all he could think.

  After five minutes he checked his
watch, five to nine. He felt paralysed with the knowledge that something awful was about to happen. Finally he came to his senses and rushed to the door.

  “Alex,” he shouted out into the corridor.

  “Sir,” she replied from the large office she shared with the other detectives.

  “Come here, quickly.”

  She did as he had requested and he directed her to the computer.

  “Look,” he said.

  Alex looked at the screen, puzzled as to what was upsetting him.

  “Sir?”

  “He’s back, that bastard’s back.”

  “I’m sorry sir, you’ve lost me.”

  “The Harlequin, Roy Dent he’s back.”

  Only then did Alex make the connection to ten years previously and the murders that had occurred in the city centre. She remembered there was some connection to the university as she was just finishing her degree when the murders in George Square happened and the details of the story were revealed.

  “It must be a copycat, it can’t be him. It’s somebody playing a sick joke, surely?” she said doubtfully.

  “No, it’s him, I know it is. We need to get the I.T. bods on this right away. We need to know where that’s coming from.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll give them a ring.”

  She had just left the office when Russell’s mobile rang.

  “Tom, it’s Mark McLelland.”

  Russell knew what he was going to say. “You got an e-mail?”

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “I got the same one.”

  “Do you think it’s genuine?”

  “I’m sure it is, sir.”

  “Just Mark these days, Tom. You don’t think it’s a copycat?”

  “No, it just feels like the kind of escalation I expect of that bastard. Another play for publicity.”

  “What are you doing about it?”

  “We’ll get the e-crime boys to trace it and hopefully we’ll be able to do something about it before he can play his sick games again.”

  “Why has he targeted us?”

  “We got too close to getting our hands on him. We prevented him from completing his revenge, and now we’ve become his targets. Maybe he just wants to taunt us and let us know that he’s still around. With this psycho it could be anything.”

  “Please keep me informed.” As McLelland was speaking, the phone on Russell’s desk rang.

  “I’ll need to get that, I’ll be in touch, I promise.”

  After he put down the mobile, he picked up the handset. “Major Incidents Team, Detective Superintendent Russell speaking.”

  “Sir, it’s Sergeant Kerry at Stewart Street. I’ve got a Christine O’Donnell on the line who would like to speak to you.”

  “Put her through.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was a brief silence before a click and Christine O’Donnell said, “Hello.”

  Russell guessed why she was calling but he said, “Ms O’Donnell, what can I do for you?”

  “Inspector Russell, I’ve received an e-mail this morning,” she said warily, as if she expected that the detective was going to dismiss her.

  He didn’t bother correcting her regarding his rank. He said simply, “Yes, as have I.”

  “The website?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it him?”

  “We believe so, yes.”

  Her rising panic was clear when she said, “Oh God, what is he going to do this time?”

  “I don’t know but please don’t worry, we’ve already got our computer specialists looking at the site and hopefully we’ll be able to see where it’s coming from.”

  “That’s good. You’ll put him away this time?”

  “That’s the plan. Don’t worry we’re on it.” Russell offered a platitude but not one that he truly believed.

  “I can’t help but worry. What if he’s after me?”

  “I can have a uniformed officer come and keep an eye on you until it’s over if you want.”

  “Please, that would make me feel a little better.”

  “Are you still in Moodiesburn?”

  “Yes.” She supplied her address to save him digging it out of the files.

  “I’ll get that organised.”

  “Thank you, I really appreciate this. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Ms O’Donnell.” He felt that he hadn’t offered much help, but she was just one of a host of problems he had to deal with. At least he might be able to offer some reassurance in the form of a constable to keep an eye on her until this was over.

  With a press of a button he disconnected the call. The nearest police station to where she lived was in Cumbernauld. Russell looked up the number in the force directory and rang it. A reluctant desk sergeant was finally persuaded to send a car to her address, checking that the cost would be taken from the budget of the M.I.T. rather than the local station.

  “Fuckin’ bean counters are everywhere,” Russell shouted at the phone when the call was over.

  His call to Lewis Baxter was not a comfortable one. Baxter was the newly appointed assistant chief constable responsible for operational matters in the West of Scotland. Baxter had come from the old Central Scotland force and this was his first day on the job in Glasgow. The product of an independent school, he had been fast-tracked through the ranks and was a career manager with a plummy accent, not the kind of cop that Russell had much time for.

  After his initial description of what had happened and the background to the previous incidents he said, “There’s little we can do at the moment, sir. We have no idea what he’s got planned. I’ve got I.T. trying to trace where the site’s being hosted.”

  “We need to prevent this leaking out, detective superintendent.”

  “Yes sir, but that’s going to be almost impossible. Once this gets on to social media it will spread round the world in an instant.”

  “Do what you can, I’ll be in touch.” The call ended abruptly.

  Russell shook his head and then moved through to the main office where Alex was sitting conversing with someone on the phone.

  “Any luck?” he asked quietly.

  She shook her head.

  Russell stood poised at Alex’s desk, hoping desperately that she would tell him they had traced where the website was being broadcast from.

  Finally Alex said, “OK, thanks, Roger. Keep trying.”

  She turned to her boss. “Sorry sir, the signal’s being bounced around the world. There’s no way they can trace it. Roger said that he’d contact the Met. to see if they’ve got anything more advanced that might help but it doesn’t look good I’m afraid.”

  “Shit.”

  “It gets worse. Roger said the website’s already been publicised on social media; Dent must have posted it. There may be thousands watching that site at ten o’clock.”

  “I thought that would happen and it’s exactly what he wants, publicity. I better contact the press office and warn them. Let me know if the Met. come up with anything.”

  Back in his own office he dialled the press office number.

  “Helen Paterson,” the press officer said.

  “Helen, it’s Tom Russell. I’m afraid we’ve got a major problem developing.”

  When he finished telling her what was happening she asked, “What are we looking at here? How bad is it going to be?”

  “As bad as it gets.”

  “There’s little we can do to stop this. That’s the problem with the Internet; it’s around the world in a blink. I’ll get on to the providers and ask them to stop it but it’s a case of bolting the stable door. The press will need to be briefed but they’re probably all over it already. Great way to start our new organisation, Tom.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll kee
p an eye on that site but I’m not optimistic that I’ll be able to spin anything from this. I’ll let the media think that the inquiry is being run from here, that should mean you won’t have them camped out at Helen Street.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that. I’m sorry Helen, I know today was going to be busy anyway, but I thought it would be better if you were ahead of the game.”

  “I know but please, Tom, no more little presents like this.”

  Russell had done all that he could; all that was left was to wait until ten o’clock.

  Chapter 22

  Inside the cages, a masked man wielding a gun ordered the three captives to strip, threw a Harlequin suit to each of them and told them to put it on. The room was lit with a dim lamp and they could at least see each other. The young man had introduced himself as Joe O’Donnell and Karen thought he looked so youthful that he was like a boy. When the command came from their captor, Karen could see Joe become embarrassed as the two women stripped to their underwear, staring at the wall rather than their semi-naked forms. When it was his turn, Karen indicated to Hayley that they should do him the same courtesy.

  Although she was absolutely terrified, Karen tried to remain unflustered. Hayley was so completely fearful that she had hardly said a word. She veered between total silence and then weeping copiously and noisily. Joe just seemed shell-shocked not sure what was happening or why. Karen knew all too well the story of the Harlequin, but she couldn’t work out why she had been targeted. She wasn’t sure that Tom would care very much what happened to her after their acrimonious divorce had left him with very little. The Harlequin obviously thought that he was exacting some sort of revenge on Karen’s former husband, but she doubted that was the case. She did know Tom well enough to know that he would do all that he could to save all of them regardless of his feelings towards her.

  When all three were dressed in their new apparel - each in a different colour - the masked man reappeared.

  “Come with me, it’s time to play.”

  ***

  In the briefing room of Helen Street Station, a laptop had been attached to a projector and a team of detectives were now assembled sitting staring at the screen. The computer clock showed it was five minutes to ten and the room was eerily quiet as a sense of foreboding gripped the group. Russell had already brought everyone up to speed, and during his talk his disquiet transferred to the team; his concerns became theirs. What could the sick bastard have come up with now?