Condition Purple

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘That’s the second time I’ve heard that in the space of half an hour,’ said Donoghue.

  ‘Well, that’s what he says. He can live with his wife so long as he can see Sandra for an hour or two each time he’s in Glasgow, which is most weeks. Sandra’s just got to be available, she gets a day’s notice and she’s got to keep herself clean. We get the AIDS test done twice a month. We’re both spick and span.’

  ‘At least you were after your last test.’

  ‘We don’t take chances. Never without a rubber. You want to do it without a rubber, away down the bottom of the street or get across to Glasgow Green. There’s some real animals in the Green.’

  ‘You don’t take men home?’

  ‘No way, never, Jim. In cars, in hotel rooms, in guys’ flats, down some alley…’

  ‘Down some alley,’ echoed Donoghue. ‘You know where that girl was found tonight?’

  ‘Down the alley, I know. The gossip went up the street like wildfire. A lot of girls went home, or stood on Cadogan Street for the night, but there’s difficulty moving in on someone’s pitch, and, like I said, if you go down there guys expect you to do it without a rubber.’

  ‘Did you know her?’ asked Donoghue. ‘The dead girl, did you know her?’

  The woman nodded. ‘I mean, I knew her to look at. I recognized her, said, “Hi, how you doin’,” things like that, if we passed in the night walking on to our pitch; we don’t like getting dropped off at our pitch, we like to get dropped a block away, the next customer doesn’t like seeing you getting out of other guys’ motors, so we tend to walk the last few yards on to the pitch. So if we walked in opposite directions we’d say “Hi”. We have to stick together. There’s a lot less bitchiness on the street than in many another place of work. We watch out for each other. So I knew her that way. Didn’t ken her name, or where she stayed. She was nice to talk to.’

  ‘You didn’t watch out for Stephanie Craigellachie tonight?’

  ‘That her name, aye? See, well, I was with a client in a motor. I know a quiet place in Cowcaddens. I came back and the street was full of blue flashing lights. Don’t make me feel guilty. Besides, it’s a risky business at times.’

  ‘You think she was killed by a punter, a client?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Me, I try to keep an open mind,’ Donoghue said. ‘Do you normally stand where you were standing tonight? On the corner there?’

  ‘No, the police moved us off the Square, trying to improve the city’s image. We have to stand in the streets around the Square, so I stand down there on the corner of St Vincent Street. Only tonight there was all the police around, so I stood with Sandra.’

  ‘Waiting for her regular?’

  ‘That’s about it. But corners are best. The guys in the cars like us standing on corners because it’s not so obvious that they’re stopping to give us the once over. They have to slow down to go round corners anyway.’

  ‘That makes sense. So if you normally stand down there, and Stephanie Craigellachie, as we believe her name to be, stood at the entrance to the alley, just below the Square, then you usually stood about a hundred yards apart and you’d see her most nights.’

  ‘Yes. I’d see her every night I was out. I’m not out each night, but each night I was out I’d see her standing there.’

  ‘Had she been operating long?’

  ‘Longer than me. She was standing there when Sandra brought me down to the Square for the first time. I’ll never forget that night. I was scared, feart.’

  ‘Did she have any regulars like Sandra’s fur trader?’

  ‘Regulars? No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘See her get into the same car more than once at all?’

  ‘All cars look alike to me, Jim, ’cept Rolls-Royces. I can tell a Roller a mile off.’

  ‘See yourself in one, do you?’

  ‘Aye. Don’t you?’

  ‘Never really thought about it.’

  ‘Well, maybe my profession pays better.’

  ‘Maybe it does,’ said Donoghue. ‘But I shall retire with dignity.’

  ‘I shall go out with dignity!’ said the woman strongly, sharply, sharply enough for Donoghue to realize that the woman possessed a short, a perhaps violent temper.

  ‘Let’s stick to talking about Stephanie Craigellachie,’ he said. ‘So, no regular?’

  ‘No,’ said the woman, calm again. ‘She seemed to come out at about six p.m. and take her last client at about midnight. Then she’d walk off, or sometimes join the other girls for a blether before going home.’

  ‘Is that what happens?’

  ‘Aye. We stand a good distance from each other, maybe in pairs, but at the end of the night some girls walk up to each other and blether on about how they did money-wise, what happened, maybe warn about a new guy with dangerous ideas. She’d join them, but I don’t think she had a special pal or was in a gang, even. Nice girl.’

  ‘You don’t join in. I mean, you said “they” and “them”?’

  ‘No. There’s just me and Sandra.’

  ‘I see. Anything else you can tell me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Donoghue was expecting her to say ‘no’. Her answer chimed like a bell on a still night, utterly disarming in its honesty.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘See, it was about two weeks ago, I was standing at the corner, just there. It was early evening, so we’re talking about maybe six-thirty p.m. That sort of time. I saw Stephanie, if that’s her name, walking along the square in front of the RAC Club. She was coming out for the night, so she comes on and crosses the road to where we’re standing now, here, just here, and she stops and she catches her breath. I mean, I’m over there and I hear her catch her breath.’ The woman tugged on her nail and blew a plume of smoke out of each nostril. ‘Soon, as she stops dead in her tracks this guy got out of his motor, parked just across there—see how they park nose in to the kerb? It was like that, one of a number of cars, he got out like he was waiting for her, knowing where she always stands. This guy gets out of his motor, he strides up the hill as easy as if he was walking on the flat and you can see for yourself how steep it is. He had good strength in his legs all right. Good strength. He reached Stephanie, grabbed her arm, I mean really grabbed it, I heard her let out this little gasp and he said, “Right, young lady,” and marched her down the street, buckled her into his car, backed up and drove away down the hill. Next time I saw her it was two nights later. She had a bruise on her cheek, she wore a silk scarf high round her neck and she had a pair of shades. Dare say they hid bruising—can’t have been dolled up like that for no other reason. Dare say he gave her a rare kicking for some reason. Didn’t talk to her about it, tho’ some of the others might have done, but not me.’

  ‘You don’t remember the make of the car?’

  ‘They all look the same to me, Jim.’ A sharp pull on the nail accompanied by a jerk of the head. ‘All the same, ’cept Rollers.’

  ‘So do you remember the colour?’

  ‘Black.’

  ‘Black,’ Donoghue echoed. ‘Anything about the car make it stand out at all?’

  ‘Yeah, it had a pair of large fluffy dice hanging from the interior mirror and fancy wheels, and fancy unholstery, like it was tarted up. I think the windscreen was tinted.’

  ‘All right,’ said Donoghue, taking a mental note of the details that he would jot down at his earliest convenience. ‘The man: he had strong legs. What else did you notice?’

  ‘He was short. I guess about my height, that’s five-six, short for a guy.’

  ‘Not in Glasgow.’

  ‘Look, do you want me to help you or don’t you?’

  ‘Do you want to continue this discussion down at the police station or not? If we took you down you’d be booked for opportuning, help us keep our arrest rate up. It’s up to you.’

  ‘OK. So he was still about five-six. So what?’

  ‘Dress?’

  ‘Smart, what they call casual b
ut smart. Safari jacket, light-coloured trousers, sports shoes, canvas shoes with a good sole, open-neck shirt, gold medallion hanging round his neck. A small wee hunk of a man and he just oozed money. That’s why I remember him. I could go a man like that, even if he was just five-six.’

  ‘I dare say you’d go for anyone who’s got money.’

  ‘Most anyone.’

  ‘Can I have your name?’ Donoghue reached for his notebook and took a pen from his jacket pocket.

  ‘And my telephone number?’ She smiled an insincere smile. ‘Hazel Tennant.’

  ‘Address, please.’

  She gave an address in the Anderston development.

  ‘Couldn’t be more convenient for you, could it?’

  ‘Couldn’t really, could it? I share it with Sandra. It’s a three apartment.’

  ‘Two-bedroomed council flat ten minutes’ walk from the Square, good quality housing, and there’s whole families living in damp bed-and-breakfast accommodation, all in the one room and a plate of cereal and a cup of tea for breakfast.’

  ‘We had contacts, we gave favours, strings got pulled. It’s easy if you know how. Besides, me and Sandra will be off the game in a year or two, we’ll have a bought house by then.’

  ‘Did Sandra see that incident?’

  ‘Incident?’

  ‘The five-six guy in the safari jacket who oozed money and who bundled the soon to be deceased Stephanie Craigellachie into his tarted-up motor?’

  ‘Aye, she saw it all right.’

  ‘Good, well you can advise Sandra that a police officer will be calling on her to speak to her about it, to take a statement from her.’

  ‘Is that necessary? I mean, the flat’s our wee hidey-hole, she’s on the street most nights…’

  ‘Both she and you will be run in if you don’t stop dictating terms.’ Donoghue glanced down Blythswood Street. He could see one or two girls standing a respectable distance from the police activity, people walking past them, men occasionally stopping for a brief exchange, cars clearly cruising slowly. The more he looked, the more he could recognize a whole operation of girls and cruising motors, which he would not notice with a casual glance. ‘Police business takes us anywhere at any time, and if an individual is not prepared to make herself available then we will make her available. If you see what I mean.’

  ‘OK, OK.’

  Donoghue saw Dr Chan leave the alley and walk to his car. He got in and drove away. The unmistakable tall silver-haired figure of Dr Reynolds followed Dr Chan out of the alley, moving as always at his own pace. He crossed the street to where his car stood, placed the black bag on the rear seat and then strolled up Blythswood Street to where Donoghue waited.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said Donoghue.

  ‘Evening…evening, Inspector.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Hazel Tennant, casting a professional eye over a new male. ‘You another cop, aye?’

  ‘No, I’m a pathologist.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A doctor, I cut up bodies.’

  ‘Stephanie going to get cut up?’

  ‘A word. Inspector.’ Reynolds addressed Donoghue and the two men strolled a few paces away from the prying ears of Hazel Tennant.

  ‘Done all I can here,’ said Reynolds. ‘I’ll have the body removed to the Royal and commence the post mortem immediately.’

  ‘Thank you. Can you give me anything to go on?’

  ‘Well, death certainly seems to have been caused by the single knife wound to the throat. Time of death…well, could be up to six hours ago; that’s based on purely clinical observations, but really I can’t see the body lying where it is for six hours and not be seen in that time, this is the centre of the city in the summer time for heaven’s sake, but that is your department. I’ll have her clothing sent on to Forensic Science as soon as possible. Her possessions to you, I presume?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Have you located the next of kin at all?’

  ‘No,’ said Donoghue. ‘We’re not even certain of her name. She’s known as Stephanie Craigellachie, but that could be assumed, sort of nom de rue if you see what I mean.’

  ‘I think she was killed where she was found,’ said Reynolds. ‘There’s no hard evidence, but she seems to have slumped where she was found, rather than having been dumped. The body is in the posture I would expect it to be in if it had fallen immediately after the knife thrust to the throat which punctured the venous artery. Some bodies have clearly been dumped, they are found in postures the body could not naturally assume, others have been almost ritualistically laid out. But in this case the deceased seems to have fallen back against the wall and then slumped sideways.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be on my way,’ said Reynolds, turning towards his car. ‘I’ll phone you with my findings. The report will follow in due course.’

  ‘Again, thank you. If I’m not in the station you can leave a message.’

  Donoghue pulled out his hunter and glanced at the face. It was 10.30 p.m. He’d been at work since 8.30 a.m. Nothing new, nothing new to a cop in this city. He’d hand over to a member of the team, then drive home to Edinburgh, to a newly built bungalow, to two sleeping children, to a wife who would register her disappointment at his long hours by pretending to be asleep when he crept into their bedroom. He walked back towards Hazel Tennant. ‘Well, like I said, we’ll be calling on your friend and you’d perhaps like to think further about the incident, any detail could be vital. We don’t like any murder, we especially don’t like the murders of young women.’

  ‘Young! She’s older than me.’

  Donoghue was surprised. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Nineteen,’ she said indignantly. ‘I was nineteen yesterday.’

  The task fell to WPC Willems. She attended at the address on the envelope of a letter which had been posted to Stephanie Craigellachie and which had been found among the possessions of the deceased. The address was that of a flat in Gibson Street, Kelvinbridge. She entered the close, it was old and damp and crumbling, winding tightly. No stair lighting. She switched on her flashlight. The railings were of thin wrought iron and the flagstones had been worn down over the years, and had become displaced here and there as the building had ‘settled’ or had slid an inch or two down the hill towards the Kelvin. She shone the beam of her torch on the names of the doors as she passed. Many doors had a number of names pinned to them, probably students or unemployed, she thought, living where they can. Other doors had names such as ‘Singh’ or ‘Rafiq’.

  At the top of the close, underneath a massive expanse of glass skylight, she came across a dull brown door with the names ‘Craigellachie’ and ‘Spence’ written in a neat hand on lined paper and taped to the door.

  Elka Willems rapped the door. The echoing of her knocking rang down the close. She hammered on the door a second time. No response. She bent down and looked through the letterbox. The flat was in darkness. It seemed, so far as she could see, to be a cleanly kept flat, a carpet on the floor, pictures on the wall. She called out, ‘Hello, police.’

  No response.

  She rapped the door again. Still no response. She turned to go and then heard a noise, an opening door and a footfall, a creaking floorboard, from within the flat. A light was switched on. A bleary female voice said, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Police.’

  The letterbox was pulled open and a pair of eyes blinked at Elka Willems. The letterbox snapped shut and the door was unlocked and pulled wide.

  A girl stood in the doorway, about nineteen, twenty, brown eyes, dark curly hair, slightly built body, a dressing-gown, slender legs, bare feet. ‘What is it?’ she said, yawning.

  Half an hour later, when the ashtray on the kitchen table was full of ash and cigarette butts, the girl said she still couldn’t believe it, she still couldn’t.

  ‘It’s always hard,’ said Elka Willems.

  ‘Has this happened to you, lost someone you know well?’

  ‘Not y
et, but it’s part of my job to knock on doors at all hours of the day and night to tell parents and wives and husbands about the sudden death of a member of their family. In the case of Stephanie we still have to do it. But the emotion is something you get used to. The worst ones of all are the ones who just don’t take it in, they say, “Yes, I hear you, but she’s coming home soon. She’ll be back as usual.” They’re the worst of all.’

  ‘I can bet. I couldn’t do your job. Wanted to once, mind.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Never put myself forward. I reached five feet two and stopped growing. I’m always the last one to find out that it’s snowing. It is too small, isn’t it. Five-two.’

  ‘Yes. It’s five-eight for men and five-six for women. They might take you if you’re shorter and have really good potential, but not much shorter. So what do you do yourself, Karen?’

  Karen Spence shrugged. ‘This and that.’

  ‘Been up to the Square yourself?’

  ‘Once or twice when money was tight, two or three nights would buy me a two-week package holiday in Spain if I was fed up, but that’s all, I just dabbled in it, played at it. Not like Stephanie, out every night—flung herself into it she did—seven days a week, she’s bringing home big money.’

  ‘Where does it go?’ Elka Willems looked about her. The flat was neat, but had a ‘cheap’ feel about it. ‘Is she a smackhead?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ Karen Spence lit another cigarette. ‘She’s not daft, she keeps herself clean as well, no infections, no VD, no AIDS—she’s spotless, always uses a rubber and never kisses. She told me, she says you have to keep the transmission of body fluids to a minimum.’

  ‘Very sensible of her.’

  ‘It’s a business like any other and it’s competitive. She can’t, I mean couldn’t, go on standing at the top of the street near the Square for ever, so she was making the most of it, I suppose, working hard and keeping herself clean. I think she was planning to retire once she had saved enough, find a good man, settle down, have a couple of kids, one of each. I think that that was what she wanted.’