Cutting Edge

by Bill Daly

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘By the way, there’s no need to tell the world and his wife that I’ll be appearing on the box.’

  ‘Would you not like me to record the programme for posterity?’

  ‘Piss off!’ Charlie stretched across his desk and pressed his intercom. ‘Pauline, I’m going home now. I need to be with my wife.’

  As Charlie leaned forward to speak into the intercom, Tony thought he could detect the smell of whisky.

  ‘Best of luck for tonight, sir,’ Tony said, getting to his feet.

  As he pulled Charlie’s office door closed behind him, Tony noticed one of his shoe laces was undone. When he dropped down on one knee to re-tie it, he heard the metallic squeak of the drawer of Charlie’s filing cabinet being wrenched open. He switched knees and re-tied his other shoe lace unnecessarily, to the sound of the drawer being slammed shut. Getting to his feet, he dusted off the knees of his trousers as he walked slowly along the corridor.

  Mhairi Orr stared at the message on her screen. One match identified. She felt her heart rate quicken as she clicked onto the Provide match details icon.

  The message came back: Photograph of James McKendrick cross-referenced with Glasgow Central Station CCTV footage on the morning of Thursday, 23rd June. Match probability of 98.2%.

  ‘It doesn’t get better than ninety-eight per cent,’ Mhairi muttered to herself as she picked up Charlie’s list, which was lying on her desk. McKendrick wasn’t one of the names Charlie had underlined, but it was a match nevertheless. She flicked through the pile of photos and pulled out McKendrick’s as she clicked onto Show CCTV footage.

  The video started playing, highlighting a tall, slim man hurrying across the crowded station concourse. The time-line running along the bottom of the screen showed him being picked up on camera as he came through the main station entrance at eleven twenty-eight a.m. He stopped and looked up at the departures board, then went back to the ticket booths. Having purchased a ticket, he walked past the platform for the London train and continued towards the top of the station where, at eleven forty-three, he was seen boarding the eleven fifty train to Stranraer.

  Mhairi froze the image and stared despondently at the screen. She re-wound the footage and zoomed in on the best shot she had of the man’s face, comparing it to the photograph she was holding in her hand. She concluded it was definitely him. She wondered if it would’ve been possible for him to have got off the Stranraer train and switched to the London train without being picked up on camera.

  Switching to the CCTV footage of the people passing through the barrier to board the London train after eleven forty-three, she requested a match with McKendrick from then until the time the train departed. The response of No match came up on her screen.

  Cursing under her breath, Mhairi used Google to find the timetable for the Stranraer train. She made a note of all the stations it stopped at along the way.

  Charlie was surprised to see Kay’s car standing in the driveway when he pulled up outside his house. When he went inside he found Kay sitting on the settee, sipping a cup of tea. Sue was perched on the armchair opposite her.

  ‘How are you, love?’

  ‘I slept for a couple of hours. I’m feeling a lot better now.’

  ‘How did your car get here?’

  ‘Sue drove me over to Sainsbury’s so I could pick it up.’

  Charlie’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m not sure you should’ve been driving.’

  ‘Don’t fuss, Charlie. I had a bit of a fright, but I’m all right now.’

  Charlie made eye contact with Sue, who nodded. He sat down on the settee beside his wife. ‘Kay, there’s more to this than you know.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The psychopath who put that hand into your shopping trolley has also sent two amputated hands to me at Pitt Street.’

  ‘My God!’ Kay’s teacup rattled in its saucer as she put it down on the coffee table with a trembling hand. ‘What’s going on, Charlie?’

  Charlie took Kay’s hand and gripped it tightly. ‘We’re doing everything we can to find out who’s responsible for this, but so far we’ve drawn a blank. I have to appear on television tonight and I’m supposed to diffuse the situation and reassure the public that there’s nothing for them to worry about – though God knows how I’m going to be able to do that.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who could be doing this, Charlie?’ Kay asked.

  ‘Not a clue, but until this madman’s under lock and key, I don’t want you staying here on your own.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ Kay insisted.

  ‘I’m not prepared to take that risk. He managed to find you in Sainsbury’s. If he’s capable of doing that, he’s capable of finding out where we live. I think you should go across to Elderslie and stay with Grace for the time being.’

  ‘Dad’s right, Mum,’ Sue chipped in.

  ‘What about you, Charlie?’ Kay asked.

  ‘I’m staying here. There’s no way I’m going to let this bastard drive me out of my own house.’

  ‘That’s exactly how I feel.’

  ‘I know you do, love. But do it for me – please. I’d be worried sick at the thought of you being here on your own.’

  ‘That makes sense, Mum,’ Sue said. ‘And if Dad has to be in the television studio this evening, it would be a good idea for you to go across to Aunt Grace’s straight away.’

  Kay hesitated, then let out a resigned sigh as she got to her feet. ‘I’ll do it, Charlie. But just for your peace of mind.’ She crossed the room and picked up the phone. ‘I’ll give Grace a call and let her know I’m coming across.’

  ‘Do you want me to drive you, Mum?’ Sue asked.

  ‘No, I’m fine. I’ll take my car.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘In which case,’ Sue said, glancing at her watch. ‘I’d better be on my way. I have to pick Jamie up from Sarah’s.’

  Charlie’s mobile started ringing as Sue was leaving. He took the call.

  ‘It’s Doctor Orr, Inspector.’

  ‘Do you have anything for me?’

  ‘Nothing of use, I’m afraid. I thought we might’ve had a breakthrough because one of the men on your list, James McKendrick, was picked up by the CCTV cameras in Central Station yesterday morning. But I’m afraid it seems to have come to nothing, because he boarded a train to Stranraer. I’ve requested CCTV footage from the stations that train stops at en route to try to establish where he got off.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘As soon as I get the CCTV footage from Sainsbury’s I’ll load the data into my module and re-run it. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ve thought of another question, Mum. It’s awesome!’

  ‘Don’t start on Mr O’Sullivan the minute he walks through the door, Jamie. Give him time to get his coat off.’

  ‘When is he coming?’

  ‘He said eight o’clock.’ Sue glanced up at the kitchen wall clock. ‘He should be here any time. Are you sure you’ve set the table properly?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you put out napkins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Knives and forks on the correct side?’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Then pour me a tomato juice and get yourself an Irn Bru.’

  The door bell rang as Jamie was taking his Irn Bru out of the fridge. Sue slipped off her pinafore and smoothed her hair behind her ears as she walked down the hall to open the door.

  ‘Did you manage to find the place without any problem?’ she asked.

  ‘You can’t go wrong with a sat nav,’ Tony said, producing a bunch of red roses from behind his back and handing it across.

  Sue held the flowers up to her face and inhaled the perfume. ‘Thank you! They’re lovely.’

  Tony smiled at Jamie as he came out of the kitchen and stood shyly at the end of the hall. ‘You must be Jamie,’ he said, striding towards
him and shaking his hand. ‘I hear you’re a bit of an expert on Scottish football.’ Tony handed him a parcel. ‘I thought you might like this.’

  Jamie took the parcel tentatively and looked at Sue. ‘Can I open it, Mum?’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  Jamie ripped away the wrapping paper. ‘Next season’s strip!’ He squealed with delight as he held up the Partick Thistle jersey.

  ‘I hope it fits,’ Tony said. ‘Don’t worry if it doesn’t. I’ve kept the receipt and they can change it for a different size.’

  ‘Can I try it on, Mum?’ Jamie asked excitedly.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘This is too much,’ Sue whispered as Jamie was pulling the shirt over his head. ‘You do realise that all that’s on the menu tonight is chilli con carne?’ she said, winking.

  ‘What? No afters?’

  ‘Not tonight,’ she said, nudging Tony in the ribs with her elbow.

  ‘Look Mum!’ Jamie said, spinning round and round. ‘Can I keep it on?’

  ‘As long as you don’t spill anything on it.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Will you take a photo of me in it, Mum, so I can send it to Sean? He’ll be dead jealous.’

  ‘We’ll do that tomorrow. Have you thanked, Mr O’Sullivan?’

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr O’Sullivan. It’s the best present ever.’

  ‘How about you call me Tony?’

  ‘Thanks, Tony.’

  ‘Come through to the lounge and have a drink,’ Sue said. ‘G and T okay?’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  ‘Ice and lemon?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’ll put these into water straight away,’ Sue said, smelling the roses again. ‘Jamie, why don’t you ask Tony some of your football questions while I get him a drink?’

  Tony sat down on an armchair while Jamie squatted cross-legged on the carpet in front of him, notebook and pen in hand.

  ‘First question. Who was Partick Thistle’s best ever goalkeeper?’

  ‘No doubt about it – Alan Rough.’

  ‘Who was their best left winger?’

  ‘Let me think about that,’ Tony said, stroking his chin reflectively. ‘I reckon it would have to be Davie McParland.’

  ‘What was the score when Thistle played Celtic in the 1971 League Cup Final?’

  ‘How could I ever forget? 4-1 for Thistle. I also happen to know it was 4-0 for Thistle at half-time. Do I get a bonus point for that?’

  ‘No. Who was the Partick Thistle manager who played in Celtic’s European Cup winning team?’

  ‘Bertie Auld.’

  ‘Thistle’s all-time top goal scorer?’

  Tony scratched at his head. ‘There, you’ve got me.’

  ‘It was Willie Sharp. Who was Thistle’s –’

  ‘Jamie,’ Tony interrupted. ‘Are there any questions that aren’t about Partick Thistle?’

  Jamie looked bemused. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘It’s time to give Tony a break,’ Sue said as she came into the room and handed Tony his drink. ‘You can try him with some more questions after dinner.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Tony said, taking the glass.

  ‘How did he do, Jamie?’ Sue asked.

  ‘Not bad. But he didn’t know Willie Sharp was our all-time top goal scorer.’

  ‘Tut, tut,’ Sue said. ‘Definitely no afters for Tony tonight!’

  Just before nine o’clock, Charlie crossed the foyer of the BBC Scotland headquarters in Pacific Quay.

  ‘My name’s Charlie Anderson,’ he said to the receptionist. ‘I’m here to see Fran Gibbons. She’s expecting me.’

  ‘I’ll let her know you’re here, Mr Anderson.’ The receptionist picked up the phone and called an extension. ‘Fran will be using Studio C on the fourth floor,’ she said as she replaced the receiver. ‘Someone’s on their way down to collect you.’

  Charlie’s eye was caught by the long, rust-coloured, reception desk. ‘That’s an unusual piece of furniture,’ he said.

  ‘Everyone asks about it.’ The receptionist smiled as she took a visitor’s badge from the top drawer. ‘It’s actually a girder from one of the shipyards on the Clyde.’

  ‘Really?’ Charlie said, running his fingertips along the cold steel.

  The receptionist handed Charlie his badge. ‘If you wouldn’t mind wearing that at all times while you’re in the building, Mr Anderson.’

  ‘Haven’t we met before, Inspector?’ Fran Gibbons rose from behind her desk and took Charlie’s hand in a firm grip.

  ‘Not as such. I was in the room when Superintendent Hamilton gave his press conference on Monday.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I knew I recognised you from somewhere.’

  Charlie judged her to be in her early forties; strong features, black hair piled haphazardly on top of her head and held in position by a wooden clasp, tight jeans and a grey, polo-neck sweater. She appeared to be wearing no make-up, apart from a touch of mascara.

  ‘It’s good of you to step into the breach at such short notice.’

  Charlie nodded noncommittally. ‘What ground do you want to cover?’

  ‘The public wants answers to the obvious questions.’ Fran gestured towards the chair opposite. ‘Do the police have any idea who the serial killer might be? How does he select his targets? What’s his motivation for chopping off his victims’ hands after he kills them? And, on a personal level, what’s the connection between the murderer and you and your family?’

  Charlie eased himself down onto the chair. ‘The questions are a lot more obvious than the answers, Miss Gibbons.’

  ‘Just so we don’t get off on the wrong foot, Inspector, I don’t respond to Miss. My preference is to be called Fran. At a pinch I can live with Ms Gibbons and I can handle any random expletives that come to mind, but, please, not Miss.’

  Charlie shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Off the record, do you have any idea who the killer might be?’

  ‘On, or off, the record, the answer’s the same – it’s “no”.’

  Fran broke eye contact and thumbed through the sheaf of papers on her desk. ‘Let me explain what we’re trying to achieve with this programme. What we want to do is cut through the hysterical hype that appeared in the tabloids this morning. We want to inform the public in a responsible way about the murders and advise them what precautions they should be taking while the killer’s still at large. I’ll give you the opportunity to reassure the viewers that the police are on top of the situation – and I’d then like to touch on the human interest angle – how it’s affecting you and your family.’

  ‘Let me get one thing straight. It will not surprise you to know that I’m pissed off that this maniac is targeting me and my family. I’m worried sick about what he might do next and I’m frustrated as hell that I haven’t a clue who he is or why he’s doing this, but there’s no way I’m going to give him the satisfaction of admitting any of that on air.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’ The large, hazel eyes didn’t blink. ‘Let me explain the format.’ Fran checked her notes. ‘The programme is scheduled for thirty minutes. We’ll kick off with a recording we made this afternoon. Basically, it’s a scene-setter where I give a factual resume of the circumstances surrounding the murders, including what we know about the victims’ backgrounds. That runs for just under fifteen minutes. By the way, has the man who was killed on the train been identified yet?’ Charlie shook his head. Fran referred back to her timetable. ‘We’ll then show five minutes of clips from a selection of man-in-the-street interviews I did in Argyle Street this afternoon. That will leave ten minutes for me to put questions to you.’

  ‘Do I get to see the questions in advance?’

  ‘There isn’t a predetermined list. I don’t work that way. Anyway, it’s better for you if you don’t know what’s coming. Trust me on that. If you tried to rehearse your answers you would come across as stilted. When you’re in front of the camera, the best approach is to take
your time and give a considered, frank response to each question.’

  Fran glanced at her watch and got to her feet. ‘There are a few things I need to sort out before we go on air. I’ll take you over to make-up, then you’ll have time for a coffee in the Green Room before the programme.’

  Charlie fidgeted in his seat while powder was dusted over his bald cranium, then dabbed at his forehead and the grey pouches beneath his eyes.

  ‘A touch of lipstick, Inspector?’ the cheerful make-up assistant enquired. Charlie glowered at her. ‘Only joking!’

  ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Picking up a clothes brush, she flicked the traces of fine powder from the shoulders of his jacket. ‘The Green Room is straight along the corridor.’

  ‘Is there a toilet I can use?’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ she said crossing to the door. ‘It’s round the corner over there, on the left,’ she said, pointing. Going into a cubicle and locking the door, Charlie took his hip flask from his pocket and swallowed a long, slow swig of whisky. Screwing the cap back onto the flask, he sprayed Gold Spot around the inside of his mouth.

  ‘It’s way past your bedtime, Jamie.’

  ‘Can I not stay up a wee bit longer, Mum?’ he pleaded. ‘I’ve only got another ten questions to ask Tony.’

  ‘The questions will keep for another time,’ Sue said, ruffling Jamie’s hair. ‘Say goodnight to Tony and get yourself ready for bed.’

  ‘Goodnight, Tony. And thanks again for the jersey,’ Jamie said, stroking the sleeve lovingly.

  ‘I’m looking forward to the day I’ll see you running out of the tunnel at Firhill wearing one of those.’

  ‘I won’t be wearing this strip. I’m going to be a goalkeeper, like Grandad.’

  ‘Bed!’ Sue said, pointing towards the door. ‘Go on. I’ll be up in a minute.’

  Jamie picked up his notebook and pen and trotted up the staircase. ‘Don’t forget to brush your teeth!’ Sue called up the stairs after him.