by Bill Daly
Charlie took his list of names from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. Taking out his pen, he slowly circled, then re-circled, the five names he’d underlined. He hauled himself to his feet and dropped the sheet of paper onto the ground. He scrabbled around until he found five flat pebbles. Yelling out each of the names in turn, he sent the stones skimming across the surface of the loch, each one propelled more furiously than the last. ‘What a complete waste of fucking time!’ he shouted to the skies as the last pebble plopped from sight below the surface of the loch. He sank back down on the rock. Snatching up his list, he stared at the names. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Anderson?’ he growled. ‘You have to deal in facts. It’s no use trying to guess who the killer is!’ Crumpling the sheet of paper in his fist, he stuffed in into his jacket pocket and strode towards his car. Getting behind the wheel, he fired the ignition.
On the approach to the Erskine Bridge, Charlie wound his window down a few inches to allow the current of cool air to stream into his face. As he was leaving the bridge, he saw two patrol cars up ahead, parked by the side of the road. A uniformed policeman was flagging down the driver of the vehicle in front of him and directing him into the lay-by. The officer indicated to Charlie to tuck in behind. The thought flashed through Charlie’s mind was that he was not in great shape for passing an early-morning breathalyser. He recognised the constable who came across.
‘Hi, Frank. What’s up?’ Charlie asked, depressing the button to wind his window down fully.
Frank straightened his tie. ‘Good morning, sir. Sorry to pull you over. I’m afraid we’ve had a jumper.’
Charlie shook his head. ‘Dead, I suppose?’
Frank nodded. ‘When you hit the water from that height, it might as well be reinforced concrete. We’re having a word with everyone crossing the bridge in case they happened to see anything.’
‘Weren’t they supposed to be installing barriers to prevent people jumping, after what happened to those two wee lassies a couple of years back?’
‘It’s in the plan, sir. But work won’t be starting on the barriers until sometime later this year.’
Charlie shook his head. ‘What time did this happen?’
‘About an hour ago.’
‘I crossed the bridge in the other direction round about then, but I didn’t see anything.’
‘Okay, sir. Sorry to have delayed you.’
‘Have you managed to identify him?’
‘It wasn’t a bloke. It was a middle-aged woman. We’ve no idea who she is.’
Instead of taking the motorway, Charlie turned off onto the narrow, twisting back roads he knew well, through Bishopton and Houston, until he got to Elderslie.
When he rang Grace’s door bell, Charlie noticed the lace curtains in the lounge window twitch before Grace came hurrying round to open the front door.
‘Come on in, Charlie. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That would be great.’ Charlie allowed himself a smile. He couldn’t remember Grace ever greeting him with any other welcome – or him giving any other response. ‘How is Kay?’ he asked.
‘Bearing up. Go on through while I put on the kettle.’
Charlie’s mobile started to ring as he was walking down the hall. He checked to see who was calling, then dropped the phone back into his pocket.
Kay put down the magazine she was flicking through and got to her feet.
‘Are you all right, love?’ Charlie asked, wrapping his arms around her and giving her a kiss.
‘I’m okay.’ She held him close. ‘Did you have a session last night?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can still smell the whisky on your breath.’
‘I had a couple,’ he said defensively.
‘Don’t let him get to you, Charlie.’
Charlie stroked her hair.
‘Did anything happen last night?’ he asked. ‘Was there anyone hanging around in the street outside? Any strange phone calls?’
‘There was nothing like that. We did get a call from someone who said he’d be coming round this morning to set up CCTV cameras.’
‘That’s all right. I arranged for them to be installed here – and also at Sarah’s place. Just as a precaution.’
‘I spoke to Sue half an hour ago,’ Kay said. ‘She had a quiet night. No more threatening calls.’
Grace came into the lounge carrying a tray with a pot of tea and three cups and saucers. She set the tray down on the coffee table and started to pour.
‘Grace and I have decided we’re not going to spend another day cooped up in the house,’ Kay stated. ‘We’ve made plans. There’s a film on in Paisley we both want to see and we’ve booked a table for dinner tonight in the new Chinese restaurant that opened in Johnstone last month.’
‘That’s good,’ Charlie said, taking the cup that Grace handed him. ‘Just be careful, love.’
When he got to his office, Charlie fished Mhairi Orr’s business card out of his pocket and called her work number. The phone rang out unanswered. He checked her card again and tried her mobile.
‘It’s DCI Anderson, Doctor Orr,’ he said when she took the call. ‘Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday morning, but I need to update you.’
‘Not another murder, I hope?’
‘No, but the killer sent a threatening letter to my daughter’s house yesterday morning, then he phoned her in the afternoon and tried to frighten her.’
‘He’s upping the ante, Inspector. He’s showing off. This is his way of taunting you, through your daughter. Do you know how he managed to get hold of her address or her phone number?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘By the way, I’ve eliminated James McKendrick as a suspect. The CCTV footage from Ayr Station shows him getting off the train at twelve forty on Thursday morning.’
‘He wasn’t high on my list,’ Charlie said. ‘And now you come to mention it, I remember hearing something about him moving to Ayr a couple of years ago.’
‘No joy from the Sainsbury CCTV either, I’m afraid. There was no recording of the hand being put into your wife’s shopping trolley. I tried running a match of the photos of the men on your list against the footage of the people entering the store on Friday morning, but that didn’t throw up anything.’
‘What’s next?’
‘From the analysis I’ve been able to do so far, Inspector, I don’t believe we’re dealing with a serial killer in the accepted sense of the term.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The classical definition of a serial killer is someone who murders two or more people over a period of time, with a significant cooling off period between the murders – that isn’t the case with this guy. Serial killers are often social outcasts, working in menial jobs. There are exceptions, such as Harold Shipman who killed fifteen people while working as a family doctor – but cases like that are rare. The majority of serial killers have low IQs and low self-esteem – and there’s always a pattern to their selection of victims, be it prostitutes, policemen, Jews, or whatever. In this case, there appears to be no common factor that would link the victims. I don’t believe this guy is motivated by psychological gratification in the act of killing itself. I think the murders are part of some other, more complex plan.’
‘What kind of plan?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll continue trying to build up a picture of him. From what we know so far, I think we’re looking for someone who’s ruthless, intelligent, arrogant and self-confident, but with a massive chip on his shoulder that’s driving him to extremes.’
‘“Intelligent” would eliminate most of the people on my list,’ Charlie said.
‘I’ve done an analysis of the crimes committed by the people you identified and, in my opinion, only two of them are possible candidates, neither of them in your top five.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Only Adams and Gray appear to have the psychological mindset which would be required to comm
it these murders and, even then, I wouldn’t rate either of them at more than a ten percent probability.’
‘So, the bottom line is that you don’t think the killer is on my list?’
‘That’s what the analysis is telling me.’
‘Does that mean you’ve reached a dead end?’
‘I didn’t say that. I’ll keep working on the data. Essentially, you and I work the same way, Inspector,’ Mhairi said. ‘We sift through information to try to establish patterns, identify anomalies and assess probabilities. You use brainpower – while I rely on software.’
‘Well I sure as hell hope your software comes up with something soon, doctor,’ Charlie said with a sigh. ‘Because right now, my brainpower isn’t contributing much.’
‘I’ll be tied up all day tomorrow with lectures at the university,’ Mhairi said. ‘If anything breaks, leave a message for me on my mobile and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. If I don’t hear from you before then, I’ll drop in to your office on Tuesday morning and discuss where we go from here.’
‘Okay.’
‘Would ten o’clock be all right?’
‘Fine,’ Charlie said, making a note in his desk diary.
When Charlie disconnected, he checked his mobile. There was one recorded voice message: Hamilton here. Come to my office as soon as you get in.
‘Would the word “please” have killed you?’ Charlie muttered to himself as he made his way along the corridor towards the stairs at the far end. Hamilton’s office door was open and Charlie walked straight in. ‘You wanted to see me?’
‘I’ve been trying to call you at home all morning. Why weren’t you answering your phone?’
‘I went across to Elderslie to see my wife. She’s staying with her sister. I didn’t want her to be in the house on her own.’
‘I tried calling your mobile.’
‘I always switch it off while I’m driving,’ Charlie said with a deadpan expression. ‘I just picked up your message.’
‘Have you seen the email I sent you?’
‘I’ve just got in. I haven’t logged on yet.’
‘Check it out. There’s been a development regarding the murder on the train. The DNA check revealed the victim to be a guy called Pete Johnston – and the Met are involved. Superintendent Kenicer of Counter Terrorism Command sent me some background information in an email. I’ve forwarded it to you, but apparently there’s a lot more they’re not prepared to put in writing. There’s going to be a confidential briefing by conference call in my office at twelve o’clock.’
‘I’ll round up the team.’
‘Their presence will not be required.’
Charlie looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean “not required”?’
‘This is strictly need to know information.’
‘For Christ’s sake! My guys are working on a murder investigation. That means they need to know everything that could be relevant.’
‘It’s you and me, Anderson,’ Hamilton rasped. ‘No one else. Here – at twelve o’clock. That will be all.’
Tony O’Sullivan woke with a thumping headache. Squinting through slits of eyes at his bedside clock, he saw it was after ten o’clock. When he tried to sit up in bed, the whole room started to spin. He eased his head back down onto the pillow and tried to recall the events of the previous evening. He got as far as pouring two large measures of Highland Park while holding court on the virtues of independence for Scotland. He had a vague recollection of reminding Malcolm how to get from Wilton Street to Roxburgh Street, but he had no memory of showing him out or going to bed.
He rolled over onto his side and shut his eyes tightly, which seemed to slow the room down a little.
Harry Brady fumbled with the belt of his dressing gown as he came down the stairs.
‘You must’ve got home very late last night,’ Maisie said as he walked into the kitchen. ‘I waited up till after midnight and –’ Maisie broke off when she saw her husband’s bandaged hand. ‘What happened?’
‘I had an accident in the shop yesterday afternoon. I was repairing an electric lawnmower when it fired up unexpectedly and my hand got caught. I broke a couple of fingers. And the queues in A&E at the Western were ridiculous. I didn’t get home until after one o’clock, and I didn’t want to wake you.’
‘Why didn’t you call?’
‘I tried from the hospital, but my phone was flat.’
‘Is it very painful?’ Maisie asked.
‘It was pretty sore at the time, but it’s a lot better now.’
‘What would you like for breakfast?’
‘Porridge would be good, but I’ll have a shower first.’
‘Will you be able to manage?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
Harry plodded back up the stairs to the bedroom. He took the cassette from his jacket and fished the note out of his shirt pocket. Going into the bathroom, he locked the door. He stared long and hard at the note. Pay me a grand tomorrow – or we pay Sheila a visit. Weighing the cassette in his hand, he dropped it onto the tiled floor and ground it under the heel of his slipper. Ripping the note to shreds, he dropped the scraps of paper into the bowl and flushed the toilet.
Charlie had asked Pauline to print out Kenicer’s email while he went to the vending machine to get a coffee. Stirring in the sugar, he read the text:
The Metropolitan Counter Terrorism Command have known the identity of the man who was killed on the train from the outset, but we could not be seen to be involved. However, now that your DNA check has identified the victim to be Pete Johnston, I am able to release some background information. Johnston was a private in the British Army until he was invalided out in 1992, officially a victim of Gulf War syndrome, in reality a junkie who was more of a danger to his fellow soldiers than the enemy. I will contact you by phone at twelve o’clock today to brief you further. The SIO in charge of the investigation may be present, but no one else. The information I will be divulging is classified.
Mitch Kenicer
Detective Superintendent
Counter Terrorism Command.
Charlie walked into Hamilton’s office just before twelve o’clock, the phone on Hamilton’s desk ringing out as he was about to sit down.
‘Superintendent Hamilton here,’ Hamilton stated as he picked up the receiver. Charlie couldn’t hear what the caller said. ‘I have DCI Anderson with me. He’s the SIO in charge of the murder investigations. I’ll put you on the box.’ Hamilton switched to loudspeaker mode and replaced the hand set.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ A deep, resonant voice filled the room. ‘My name is Mitch Kenicer, Detective Superintendent in Counter Terrorism Command.’ Hamilton fiddled with the volume control on the loudspeaker. ‘I have with me Detective Inspector John Farrell, also of SO15. Are you in a secure environment?’
‘The phone line is encrypted,’ Hamilton said, ‘and the office is soundproofed.’
‘Have you both seen the email I sent this morning?’
‘Yes,’ said Hamilton.
‘Then let me fill you in on the details. After he left the army, Pete Johnston financed his heroin addiction by working as a mercenary for anyone who was prepared to stump up for his services. He was involved in conflicts as far afield as Angola, Burma, Sierra Leone and Ethiopia, as well as a stint on the Golan Heights. When he was murdered on the London train, he was acting as a courier for an Iraqi terrorist organisation known as Brothers of the Sword, transporting an attaché case from Mull to London.’
‘How did you manage to establish that?’ Charlie asked.
‘We have Johnston’s apartment in London under constant surveillance. We monitor his visitors and we have a tap on his phone. He received a visit last Tuesday from a man called Hassam Salman, one of the leading lights in Brothers of the Sword. The day after Salman’s visit, DI Farrell followed Johnston from London to Mull where he observed him meeting a contact in a remote barn and collecting an attaché case.’
‘What was in the
case?’ Charlie asked.
‘Anthrax.’
CHAPTER 13
‘Anthrax!’ Charlie’s exclamation reverberated around the office.
‘Anthrax spores, to be precise. All the way from Russia. Back in the nineteen eighties, the Soviets created over a hundred tons of spores on Vozrozhdeniya Island,’ Kenicer stated. ‘Despite signing an agreement to end bioweapon production in 1972, they continued to have an active programme long after that, including the production of weapons grade anthrax. Our intelligence sources tell us that the residents of Sverdlovsk were exposed to an accidental release of anthrax from a biological weapons complex in 1979. Over a hundred people were infected, most of whom died. The accident was covered up by the KGB until Yeltsin went public about it in 1992.’
‘Were the Soviets planning to use anthrax as a chemical weapon?’ Hamilton asked.
‘Not a lot of room for us to take the moral high ground on that score, Superintendent. In the 1940s we contaminated a Scottish island for fifty years by testing the Vollum-14578 strain with a view to using it against the Germans.’
‘Of course, it would have to be a Scottish island,’ Charlie muttered under his breath.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing.’ Hamilton said, glaring at Charlie. ‘Go on.’
‘Unfortunately, the spores from Vozrozhdeniya were never destroyed and they have now fallen into the hands of some unsavoury characters.’
‘Such as Johnston’s contact?’ Charlie suggested.
‘Precisely. A guy who goes by the name of Roman Timofeivitch Bespalov. DI Farrell followed Johnston to Mull where he observed him meeting someone in a remote barn to effect the handover – either Bespalov himself, or one of his cronies. Farrell got the number of the car that picked this guy up after he and Johnston split up. The vehicle’s registered as a taxi belonging to someone called Lachlan Gunn, a resident of Mull. Can you have him checked out?’
