by Bill Daly
‘Everything seems to be in order. They were fishing in the North Atlantic, in international waters, when their engines packed in. The north-westerly drove them down here and the coastguards sent out a tug when they picked up their Mayday.’
Condron got to his feet. ‘Okay, Tosh. Organise a search of their boat. Give it a good going-over. Then get their fuel pipe patched up and send them packing as quickly as you can. I want twenty-four hour surveillance while they’re in harbour, mind. I don’t want any of that lot putting a foot ashore without me knowing about it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Charlie Anderson pulled up at the end of the rutted track and got out of his car. Turning up his jacket collar to protect his neck from the drizzle, he made his way across the muddy surface. As he approached the encampment, he noticed that the caravan nearest to the road was encircled in yellow, scene-of-crime tape.
A young girl was kneeling by the stream, washing up plates and cutlery. She got to her feet quickly when she saw Charlie. ‘Dad!’ she called out loudly before hurrying away.
An unshaven figure with a bushy, salt-and-pepper beard appeared in the doorway of the adjacent caravan. He clenched his pipe between his uneven teeth and sucked on it hard as he stood at the top of the steps, watching Charlie walk towards him. Taking the pipe from his mouth, he tapped it out against the side of the caravan, then folded his thick, tattooed arms across his chest.
‘Who are you, and what do you want?’
Charlie produced his warrant card and held it up high as he picked his steps carefully across the sodden turf. ‘DCI Anderson,’ he called out. ‘Glasgow CID. I’d like a word.’
The man waited until Charlie had reached the foot of his caravan steps before responding. ‘I don’t have any truck with the polis.’
‘I’m investigating Irene McGowan’s murder.’
‘Your lot have been here all day – crawling all over Irene’s caravan.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ve already given them a statement.’
‘I realise that.’
‘Why are you here pestering me? Do you think I killed Irene?’
‘No. But I’m hoping you might be able to help me find out who did.’
‘I don’t know any more than what’s in my statement.’
Charlie huddled into his jacket. ‘All the same, I would like to talk to you.’
The man held eye contact with Charlie for a few seconds, then nodded. Unfolding his arms, he stepped back into the caravan.
Charlie slipped his warrant card into his pocket and climbed up the iron steps. Standing inside the door, he shook the dampness from his jacket as he took out his notebook and pen. ‘Your name is –?’ he asked.
‘Carter. Archie Carter,’ he said, indicating a seat for Charlie beside the single bed.
Charlie eased himself down onto the rickety chair. ‘It was you who found Irene McGowan’s body?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is your caravan the nearest one to hers?’
Carter gave a dismissive shake of the head. ‘Was it your razor sharp powers of observation that got you to the rank of DCI?’
The pen slacked in Charlie’s grip. He fixed Carter with a glare. ‘How long had you known Irene McGowan?’ he asked, gripping his pen tightly again and casting his eyes down to his notebook.
‘Since she first came here.’
‘Which was?’
‘Must be the best part of twenty years ago.’
‘Where was she before that?’
‘No idea. Unlike the polis, I don’t ask a lot of nosy questions.’
Charlie looked up again quickly. ‘I can do without the smart-alec crap. Just answer the questions. When did you last see Irene McGowan alive?’
‘On Sunday night. I saw her round the back of her caravan about nine o’clock. She was feeding her dog, but I didn’t speak to her.’
‘Tell me what happened on Monday morning.’
‘I was making porridge when I heard a car pull up on the road, on the other side of Irene’s caravan.’
‘What make of car was it?’
Carter shrugged. ‘I didn’t get a good look at it. Anyway, I know bugger all about cars.’
‘Did you see what colour it was?’
‘A dark colour – it might’ve been black.’
‘What time was that?’
‘About eight o’clock.’
‘Did you not think it strange that someone would come to visit Irene that early?’
‘Her boy dropped in to see her from time to time and when he did, it was usually early in the morning, so I didn’t think anything of it.’
‘Did you see who got out of the car?’
‘I looked out of the window and saw a man going over to Irene’s caravan.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
Carter shook his head. ‘My eyesight isn’t that great. I don’t know her son that well. I only met him a couple of times. It could’ve been him, or it might’ve been somebody else.’
‘Have you met the boy’s father?’
‘I don’t even know who he is.’
‘Did Irene ever talk about him?’
‘Not to me.’
‘So, it could’ve been him who came to see her?’
‘It could’ve been. Or it could’ve been the Moderator of the General Assembly, for all I know.’
‘How long did he stay?’
‘Couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. I heard the car driving off as I was putting on the kettle.’
‘When did you first think something might be wrong?’
‘About ten o’clock. Irene keeps her dog tied up outside at night during the summer months. Round about ten o’clock, Stella started barking – and she didn’t stop. That was unusual, because she hardly ever barked. At first I thought Irene might’ve forgotten to feed her, but that didn’t stack up because she doted on that dog. I thought she might be sick, or something, so I went across to check. I chapped on her door, but there was no answer. I tried the handle and it wasn’t locked. When I went inside, I found her there – lying face down on her bed. There was blood everywhere.’ Carter rubbed hard at his beard as he stared out of the window in the direction of Irene’s caravan. ‘Her hand had been chopped off,’ he said in little more than a whisper.
‘Can you tell me anything at all about the man who came to see her?’
‘Not really, except he was quite tall. One thing I did notice,’ Carter added, ‘was he had a cap on with the peak at the back.’
The rain started coming down in large, steady droplets as Charlie was driving back to Pitt Street. He got tangled in the rush hour traffic and by the time he drove down the ramp to the underground car park it was after six o’clock. Hurrying up the staircase, he headed along the corridor, picking up a coffee from the vending machine on the way. When he went into his office, he found a grim-faced Colin Renton waiting for him. A boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, was standing by the window; jeans torn above the knee, dirty trainers split along the seams, spiky hair. His face was ashen.
‘Who do we have here, Colin?’
‘He doesn’t appear to have a name, sir.’
‘What’s he doing here?’
‘He brought you that.’ Renton nodded towards Charlie’s desk.
Charlie felt the bile rise in his stomach as he gazed down on the open shoe box. An amputated hand, lying palm down, the scarlet varnish of her splintered fingernails seemingly a perfect match for the coagulated blood adhering to the back of her hand. The solitaire diamond ring on her engagement finger sparkled brightly under the office strip lighting. Stapled to the side of the box, with a yellow smiley attached, was a nine of diamonds.
CHAPTER 4
‘He handed that box into the reception desk ten minutes ago, sir.’ Renton nodded towards the boy. ‘I happened to be there at the time and I heard him tell the duty officer it was a present for you. He tried to run off, but I held onto him while the parcel was being che
cked out.’
‘What does he have to say for himself?’
‘The cat seems to have got his tongue.’
Charlie walked across the room and towered over the cowering youngster. ‘What’s your name, son?’ The question was greeted with a stony silence. ‘Where did you get that box?’ All the remaining colour drained from the boy’s face and he sank his teeth into his quivering bottom lip. ‘Did you have anything to do with this?’
Panic flashed in the boy’s eyes. His whole body started trembling. ‘It husny got anythin’ tae dae wi’ me, mister,’ he yelped. ‘I don’t know nuthin’ aboot it.’ Tears started coursing down his cheeks.
‘Where did you get the shoe box, then?’ Charlie’s tone was calm and conciliatory. ‘Tell me where you got it and why you brought it here.’
‘A man telt me tae dae it, mister,’ he whimpered.
‘What man?’
‘I don’t know. Jist a man – in Sauchiehall Street. He gave me a fiver. He telt me tae bring the box here an’ say it wis fur Inspector Anderson. I didny know whit wis in it, honest.’ The words were jerked out between huge sobs. ‘He telt me tae say it wis a present.’
‘What did the man look like?’ The boy shook his head.
‘Tall or short?’
‘Quite big.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You must remember something about him.’
‘He had sunglasses on.’
‘Sunglasses? It’s pissing down out there, son. Why would he be wearing sunglasses?’
‘I don’t know. It wis thae shiny blue wans. The kind you canny see his eyes through.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘He had a cap on – a baseball cap – on backwards.’
‘What else?’
The boy again bit hard into his swollen bottom lip, drawing blood. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ Burying his head in his hands, he started to wail.
Charlie spoke quietly to Renton. ‘Get his name and address out of him, Colin. Arrange for someone to take him home and tell his parents what happened. We’ll have him back in later to make a statement and work on an e-fit picture, once he’s got over the shock.’
As Renton was leaving with the boy, Charlie pressed his intercom button. ‘Pauline, find O’Sullivan and Stuart. Tell them I want to see them straight away.’
Charlie stared long and hard at the amputated hand. There was no doubt about it, the fingers had moved. The change was barely perceptible, but a lifetime of attention to detail told Charlie the fist had clenched ever so slightly in the past few minutes, probably, he surmised, due to the heat of the office drying out the blood and causing the skin to contract.
Tony was hurrying along the corridor towards Charlie’s office when he met Malcolm approaching from the opposite direction. When they walked into the office together they found Charlie sitting with his feet up on the desk, his gaze locked on the shoe box.
‘We’ve got another one, boys.’ Charlie didn’t deflect his stare.
Malcolm screwed up his eyes when he caught sight of the dismembered hand. ‘Jesus wept!’
‘Where in the name of God did that come from?’ Tony asked.
‘Some sick bastard paid a kid to bring it here. Told him to say it was a present for me.’ Tony approached the desk tentatively to look at the contents of the box. ‘When you’ve seen all you want to see,’ Charlie said, ‘cover it up.’
‘The same killer?’ Tony asked as he replaced the lid and sat down.
‘Not much doubt about that. The same shoe box, the same nine of diamonds and the same yellow smiley,’ Charlie said. ‘And the same recipient for the dismembered hand,’ he added grimly.
‘Where do we go from here?’ Malcolm asked.
‘There must be a reason for the nine of diamonds’, Charlie said. ‘All I know about it is the standard folklore stuff. Do some digging on the Internet, Malcolm. Try and find out if it has any significance.’
‘And why the smiley?’ Tony asked.
‘God only knows. And as it looks as if we have a serial killer on our hands, whether I like it or not, I’ll have to involve Niggle’s little protégé,’ Charlie said with a dismissive shake of the head.
‘Dr Mhairi Orr,’ Tony said to Malcolm. ‘She’s a consultant psychologist who specialises in profiling techniques.’
‘She’s a wee lassie who looks to be about fifteen,’ Charlie grunted, ‘But apparently she’s the world expert in tracking down serial killers because she got two university degrees and half a dozen letters after her name.’
‘As you may gather, Malcolm,’ Tony said with a grin, ‘Inspector Anderson isn’t completely sold on the value of criminal profiling.’
‘Load of mumbo-jumbo as far as I’m concerned.’
‘The Met have had a fair amount of success using profiling, sir.’ Malcolm offered.
Charlie snorted. ‘Catching criminals isn’t some kind of psychological black art. What’s required is the ability to structure data, analyse it methodically and apply a modicum of common sense. You don’t need a couple of degrees and a string of letters after your name to do that. However, Niggle has mandated that his wee profiling expert has to be drafted in if there’s any possibility of a serial killer operating on his patch, so we’ll have to go through the motions, even though it will be a complete waste of time and money.’ Charlie punched the button on his intercom. ‘Pauline, I need a meeting with Doctor Orr. Try to set something up for tomorrow morning, if you can.’
‘Do you want us to be there?’ Tony asked.
Charlie shook his head. ‘There’s no point in all of us wasting our time. I’ll handle little Miss Profiler while you and Malcolm –’
Charlie’s flow was interrupted by the buzz of his intercom. He jabbed at the button. ‘What is it?’ he demanded testily.
‘Duty officer here, sir. Sorry to disturb you, but news is coming in about a body being recovered from the Clyde, near the weir at Glasgow Green. Young girl – left hand amputated.’
‘Do we know anything about her?’ Charlie asked.
‘Not so far, sir. We’re trawling through the Mis Per files.’
Charlie released the intercom button without comment. He stared hard at the shoe box. It crossed his mind to call Niggle at home, but he decided against it.
Charlie’s intercom buzzed again. ‘Doctor Orr is free tomorrow morning, sir,’ Pauline said. ‘She can come to your office at nine o’clock.’
‘Thanks, Pauline,’ Charlie said. ‘Tony, arrange for someone to take the box across to the mortuary so they can match the hand up with the young girl’s corpse when it’s brought in. Tell them I want the pathology report on my desk first thing in the morning. I’m going home now to see Sue and Jamie.’
Tony hesitated. ‘I didn’t realise they were back,’ he said, trying to conceal a smile.
‘They flew back today,’ Charlie said. ‘They’re my daughter and my grandson, Malcolm,’ he added, by way of explanation. ‘They’ve been over in Brussels and I haven’t seen either of them since February. I suggest both of you head off home and get some kip. For now, we’ll stick to the plan for tomorrow morning. Tony will go with Colin Renton to St Vincent Street to interview the post office staff, Malcolm will get the lease for his flat sorted out – and also see if he can find out anything more about the significance of the nine of diamonds on the Internet – and I’ll have a meeting with the world expert in profiling. We’ll meet back here at two o’clock and pool what we’ve got. Any questions?’
O’Sullivan and Stuart looked at each other and shook their heads. Scraping back their chairs, they got to their feet.
Having arranged with the duty officer to have the shoe box taken across to the mortuary, Tony walked down the steps to the car park with Malcolm.
‘Where do you live, sir?’ Malcolm asked.
‘Wilton Street, if that means anything to you?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘It’s n
ot far from Great Western Road.’
‘I haven’t got my bearings yet. Is that anywhere near Roxburgh Street?’
‘About half a mile away. Why?’
‘That’s where my flat is. If it’s not too presumptuous, I was wondering if you might like to drop in for a nightcap? It’d have to be whisky, though – I haven’t got anything else in.’
‘It’s never presumptuous to offer a Scotsman a whisky, Malcolm. Sounds like an excellent idea. You lead the way and I’ll follow.’
‘It might be better if you led the way. I’d probably get us lost.’
‘No problem.’
Roman Timofeivitch Bespalov cooperated fully with the search of his vessel, instructing his men to remain on deck while Constable Glancy made a thorough search of the captain’s cabin and the crew’s quarters. Glancy then donned thigh-length waders and ploughed his way through the knee-deep fish sludging around in the hold, prodding and peering into every nook and cranny with the aid of a powerful flash lamp. He came across nothing untoward.
When he heard Charlie’s car pull up outside, Jamie came sprinting out of the house and hurtled down the driveway. ‘Bon soir, Papy! Comment allez-vous?’
Charlie grabbed Jamie by the waist and swung him round and round until both of them were dizzy. ‘We’ll have none of that foreign gobbledegook around here, my lad. I want to hear you say: “It’s a braw bricht, moonlicht nicht, the nicht”.’ Charlie put Jamie down on the path and ruffled his long, tousled hair. ‘Do they not have any barbers in Brussels?’
‘Come on in!’ Jamie grabbed Charlie by the hand and tugged him up the path. ‘Mum’s dying to see you.’
As soon as Charlie walked through the front door, Sue threw her arms around him and held him close. ‘What time do you call this to be coming home from your work, Detective Chief Inspector Anderson,’ she whispered in his ear.
‘Sorry I’m late, love,’ Charlie called down the hall in the direction of the kitchen, his arms still wrapped around Sue. ‘It was a right pig of a day.’
