by Alex Gray
Alex Gray was born and educated in Glasgow. She has been awarded the Scottish Association of Writers’ Constable and Pitlochry trophies for her crime writing. Married with a son and daughter, she now writes full time.
ALSO BY ALEX GRAY
Never Somewhere Else
A Small Weeping
Shadows of Sounds
The Riverman
Pitch Black
Glasgow Kiss
Five Ways to Kill a Man
Sleep Like the Dead
Copyright
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978 0 748 11738 3
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 Alex Gray
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
About the Author
Also by Alex Gray
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to Nanette Pollock,
formerly Detective Chief Inspector of Strathclyde Police
What do you think a man does who has a hundred sheep and one of them gets lost? He will leave the other ninety-nine grazing on the hillside and go and look for the lost sheep. When he finds it, I tell you, he feels happier over this one sheep than over the ninety-nine that did not get lost. In just the same way your Father in heaven does not want any of these little ones to be lost.
St Matthew’s Gospel, Chapter 18, verses 12–14
CHAPTER 1
It wasn’t always easy to see the moon or the stars. This city’s sodium glow rose like yellow fog from its streets, blotting out any chance of star gazing. But she knew it was there. That cold white face dominated her thoughts tonight and she shivered as though it already saw her flesh naked and exposed to its unblinking watchfulness. Perhaps it was because she was trying to be seen that she felt such awareness. The red jersey pencil skirt folded over to create a too-short mini, those agonisingly highheeled sandals cutting into her bare toes; spread across the bed back in the hotel they had seemed the garb of an adventuress. Now, revealed in the glare of the street lamp on this corner she felt a sense of … what? Shame? Perhaps. Self-consciousness, certainly. But such feelings must be overcome if her plan was to work.
She had already overcome the blank indifference of the girls down in Waterloo Street, their body language both defiant and compelling. Her hips shifted, one slender foot thrust forwards, as she remembered how they had stood, languidly chewing gum, waiting for their punters. Their desperation drove them to return night after night, the price of a wrap of drugs equating to an hour with some stranger.
Her own need was just as strong, fuelled by a passion that would not be spent until she had fulfilled her desire.
It was warm in this Glasgow summer’s night and her black nylon blouse clung to her back, making her uncomfortably aware of her own flesh. The thin cotton coat she’d worn to conceal these trashy clothes as she’d tapped her way across the marble foyer of the hotel was now folded into the black bag at her feet, along with her more sober court shoes. When it was over she would slip them on and return the way she had come, hair clipped in a businesslike pleat. She smiled thinly. Being a woman had some advantages; the facility for disguise was just one of them. Her carefully made-up face was stripped of colour in the unforgiving lamplight, leaving only an impression of dark eyes, darker hair tossed back to reveal a long, determined mouth. She recalled what Tracey-Anne, one of the girls at the drop-in centre, had told her: I get through it by pretending to be someone else for a few hours, then I can be myself again.
Tracey-Anne was lucky, though.
After tonight she could never again be the person that she used to be.
Glancing at the elegant façades around the square, the darkhaired woman suddenly saw these city streets through different eyes: the shadows seemed blacker, the corners harbouring ill intent. Her chin tilted upwards, defying those inner demons tempting her to turn back.
After tonight things would change for ever.
When the car slowed down at the kerb her heart quickened in a moment of anticipation that astonished her. She had expected the thrill of fear, not this rush of excitement sweeping through her blood.
The man behind the wheel had bent his head and she could see his eyes flicking over her hungrily, appraising his choice. He gave a brief nod as if to say he was pleased with his first instinct to stop. Her lip-glossed mouth drawn up in a smile, she stepped forward, willing him to reach across and open the window, ask her price. For a moment he seemed to hesitate and she could see tiny beads of sweat on his upper lip, glistening in the light. Then the door of the big car swung open noiselessly and she lowered herself inside, swinging her legs neatly together to show as much thigh as she could. But the gestures were still ladylike, almost reserved, as if she knew that would quicken his senses.
‘How much?’ he asked. And she told him, one shoulder moving insouciantly as if to declare that she wasn’t bothered whether he could afford her or not: someone else would pay that price if he wouldn’t. She glanced at him briefly, catching sight of the tip of his tongue flicking at his lips like a nervous lizard, then he made a gruff noise of assent, looking at her again, as though to be sure of his purchase, before accelerating into the night.
CHAPTER 2
Detective Inspector Keith Preston listened patiently as the scene of crime manager took him through the morning’s work. A patrol car had found the Mercedes abandoned beside a train station half an hour’s drive outside the city. The white car had been parked just under the railway bridge well away from the prying eyes of any CCTV camera. The victim’s body was still where they had found it, slumped over the steering wheel, a gathering posse of flies buzzing around the dark stain on the man’s shirt.
‘Matthew Wardlaw,’ the DS told him, ‘lived in Solihull. From the contents of his briefcase it seems he’d been staying up here on some sort of legal business. Was booked into the Crown Plaza hotel.’
‘Pathologist on his way?’
‘Her way. Doctor White.’ The DS grinned.
Preston nodded. Jacqui White was one of Glasgow’s more recent celebrities, due to her part
in a documentary series about facial reconstruction. Forensic anthropology had been her initial career choice before she had switched to medicine and so the pathologist had been selected to appear in a series of programmes around the country featuring universities like Dundee and Teesside. Preston guessed that the programme’s ratings success was probably down to her milk chocolate voice and a face that the camera just loved. Whatever, Under their Skin had made Jacqui White a household name on both sides of the border as she travelled around talking to the forensic anthropologists whose work was an integral part of criminal investigations. Today, though, she was here in her capacity of consultant forensic pathologist.
Both men looked up as the charcoal grey Porsche Carrera parked behind the two police vehicles. One door was pushed open and in a matter of minutes the pathologist had donned her white boiler suit, picked up her medical bag and was heading towards them. She would examine the corpse, estimate the time of death and tell them what they already knew: that the victim had been shot through the heart, the scorch marks around the entry wound testifying to the fact that the bullet had been fired at close range. Finding out why he’d been there and who had reason to kill him were not within Dr White’s remit, however. She would examine him more fully down at the city mortuary, leaving Preston as Senior Investigating Officer to work out these sorts of problems.
‘Someone knew what they were doing,’ Jacqui White commented as she snapped off her surgical gloves at last. ‘Bull’s eye, in fact,’ she added with a fleeting smile.
‘Or they just got lucky,’ the DS suggested.
‘Well, he didn’t,’ Preston pointed out, nodding back towards the Mercedes. They watched as the scene of crime photographer prowled around the car, leaning in to take shots from various angles, one more stage in the piecing together of just what had taken place under this railway bridge. Matthew Wardlaw’s body would soon be zipped into a body bag and transferred to the waiting van. But for a time this cordoned off area would continue to be forbidden territory to any curious eyes.
Overhead a train rumbled on the tracks, its brakes suddenly shrieking as it drew closer to the platform. Preston looked up and nodded thoughtfully. Perhaps this wasn’t such a random location after all, then. Whoever had pulled that trigger might have waited for such a moment, the deafening noise on the bridge obliterating the sound of gunfire. Well, they would have to wait for forensics results before anything could really push this one forward. It was an isolated spot, far from any domestic habitation, just a couple of shops and a post office-cum-general store nearby. Still, the station would have CCTV that could be looked at, though Preston had a bad feeling it would be of little use to them.
He turned away from the scene of crime with a sigh. Once an incident room had been set up he’d have his team look into the victim’s background. It would be a starting point at least. The DI’s brow furrowed as he frowned. First, though, he’d have to make contact with the police in Solihull, get someone from their family liaison out tonight to break the news of Wardlaw’s death to his family. It was one of the least pleasant tasks in this job, but at least whichever officer rang that doorbell would have been spared the sight of the victim’s body, and could refer to the man’s death as an ‘incident’ for now, at any rate.
CHAPTER 3
She picked up the croissant, surprised at the steadiness of her fingers. The perfectly manicured nails sank into the burnished crust, tearing it apart and revealing layers of soft yellow pastry. She broke off a piece and chewed thoughtfully.
Her act of killing seemed to have given her strength. She had expected to feel some reaction, weakness or trembling, but there had been nothing. Not even the satisfaction of a job well done. Perhaps, she thought, taking a sip of the hotel’s very good espresso, it was because it was only the beginning.
She had chosen to sit facing the windows, her back to the waiting staff in the dining room, looking out at the trees and grass of Blythswood Square. This was possibly the most upmarket hotel in Glasgow, formerly the home of the Royal Automobile Club and the historic setting for the start of many a famous rally. Glancing at the scarlet lightshade suspended in the long window, she wondered if whoever had been commissioned as interior decorator for this place had had any notion of its less salubrious history. Not only was it part of the notorious square mile of murder, it had been known for decades as the red light district. At each window looking out onto the square there was a similar red lamp. And, directly opposite the main door, were two deeply recessed seating areas in plush red velvet, reminiscent of a nineteenth-century bordello. Was that a deliberate joke on the part of the firm contracted to give the hotel some cachet? Or was it only an ironic coincidence?
There was something missing from the place, however classy it might be. It was too quiet, that was it. No trace of music gave any comforting layer to the atmosphere, though what sort of music could be pleasing after last night was questionable. And that quietness brought her a sense of unease rather than solace. Noises from her fellow guests as they clattered cutlery and chattered to their breakfast companions seemed to be magnified in this place with its minimalist decor, making her feel exposed, somehow. Even as she sat facing away from them she wondered who might be looking at her and speculating about this solitary woman. What was she to them? Surely just another guest breakfasting quietly before whatever work had brought her to the city, her laptop case placed strategically against the table legs like a keep off sign to guard her privacy. Today her demure charcoal business suit and smart cotton blouse proclaimed her for what she really was – a businesswoman.
But nobody glancing her way would ever suspect that her business was murder.
She picked up the linen napkin, wiping away some stray crumbs from her lips just as effectively as she had disposed of the bloody garments several hours earlier. There was not a trace of her on his body or in the car. She was certain of that. She allowed a small smile of satisfaction to play about her lips.
There had been no smile on her face that night in the hospital, just a dry gasp as she had entered the cubicle where the dying woman lay. The memory could sweep back into her thoughts at the most unexpected moments, like a harsh black outline against the lemon light of dusk.
She was alive, she reminded herself, sipping the last of her coffee. It was Carol who was gone, far away from the pain and bloody shambles that had taken her. But the horror of her leaving repeated itself night after night, images of what must have happened endlessly reverberating in her mind. She’d thought to quench it with that other, noisier, death. But that hadn’t happened. Nothing would bring Carol back and nothing, it seemed now, could relieve the painful recollection of her last moments. The cruel point of that turning knife (she knew all about that from the pathologist’s report: she’d spared herself nothing); the samples of sweat still waiting for a match in the lab; Carol’s endless cry as the pain shot upwards, fearing she was about to die. Sometimes it seemed that it was Carol’s scream she heard, tearing her from sleep; often it was her own.
It might take days before she knew if she had been successful, and she wasn’t stupid enough to believe in beginner’s luck. It might take several nights standing beneath that street lamp before she found the man she sought. And until then she would have to content herself with the fact that there was one less kerb crawler littering up the streets of Glasgow. If that were the case, it might prove to be a small consolation, rubbing balm into the sore place of failure.
CHAPTER 4
DC Barbara Knox was nothing if not thorough. It was, she reasoned, the only way to obtain useable information and she didn’t care a toss if the others on the team thought her completely anal in her working methods. Besides, hadn’t she already uncovered bits and pieces that had helped in previous cases? Her SIO had meted out sufficient scraps of praise to encourage her dogged approach to investigations, though Barbara knew fine that she would work things her own way even without such encouraging words. Take this one, she smirked, pressing the print button to
churn out hard copy to take through to her boss. HOLMES had come up with a nice parallel case that was not only in their region but remained satisfyingly unsolved. Satisfying, at least, for a young woman like her who was hungry to prove what a great officer she was going to be. The Home Office Large Major Enquiry System had provided information on past cases in the UK for more than two decades now and was a primary tool in any ongoing investigation. What Barbara found most satisfying was its ability to process and prioritise information, something she wished every one of her fellow officers shared. It would be a great start to the New Year if she could impress the SIO.
Barbara lifted her ample bottom off the computer chair and marched through to Mumby’s room, only pausing briefly to give his door a swift rat-a-tat-tat.
‘Think you’ll want to see this, sir,’ she said gruffly, stepping towards the desk. A balding man with a round, rosy face looked up at her. DCI Mumby’s mouth hung open ever so slightly, giving him the look of a startled child.
‘It came from HOLMES,’ Barbara added. ‘Case last summer that was never solved. Guy shot dead in his own car,’ she added, nodding at the paper now in Mumby’s hand.
‘Hmm, found slumped across the steering wheel … neat hole drilled in his chest … found under a railway bridge …’ Mumby muttered, reading from the report. ‘Good Lord! Looks like we may have the same killer on our own patch, Knox. Well done. Hmm, well done indeed.’ DCI Mumby nodded his head at her.
‘There are other similarities too, sir,’ Barbara insisted, coming around the side of her boss’s desk and pointing at a paragraph halfway down the page, oblivious to the proximity of her large breasts to the DCI’s reddening cheeks. ‘Both men were strangers in the city, both of them up on legitimate business.’
‘Meetings noted in their BlackBerrys.’ Mumby nodded again, trying hard to keep from staring at his junior officer’s expansive bosom. The faint smell of lavender filled his nostrils; a very feminine scent, somehow at odds with this large, plain woman whose stubby fingers were drawing his attention to a particular part of the photocopied page.
