Nathan knew all great cities were built on rivers. They grew from need and opportunity, sprang up out of greed and necessity. The river brought trade, transport and protection, and took away some of the shit. Glasgow had made the Clyde and the Clyde had made Glasgow. It was an old line but it was true.
The Clyde came from hills and streams and was made into ships and an empire. It brought tobacco and cotton and sent out men to fight wars and build roads on foreign dirt. It put the blood in the city’s veins and flesh on its bones. It was a cold, black sheet of life.
Nathan was above the river now, standing on South Portland Street Suspension Bridge. He stared with the rest of the crowd, the throng growing thicker round them with every scream. People came running to join them, fighting for room, straining to see, camera phones working overtime. Facebook had another treat coming.
The noise had moved downriver, cascading from bridge to bridge with the current, gaining in volume at each crossing. There was a huddle of bridges on this part of the river, fifteen of them squeezed into the two-mile stretch between the exhibition centre and Glasgow Green, and the sound had already passed over five of them. He imagined it had begun as just a shout of curiosity, a wonder if it could really be what it looked like. Maybe some kid ran to the middle of St Andrews Suspension Bridge and stood open-mouthed when seeing that was exactly what it was. The second person shrieked and, from that point, neither the screaming nor the shouting stopped at all.
He could see they’d come running. From walkways and pavements on either side of the river, anxious to see for themselves. He knew they’d all be denying their nature, making some excuse to themselves as to why they wanted to see it. Nathan wasn’t denying his.
They still stared from the granite grey of the Victoria Bridge, stretching their necks from Gorbals Street on the south of the river to Clyde Street on the north. Scores of others hungered for their turn on the Glasgow Bridge up ahead while, in between, those on South Portland Street held their breaths.
The cause of the commotion was a mattress. A simple, white mattress. It had served some unknown person as a double bed before being dumped illegally at a fly-tipping site. It was now travelling where the river took it, its pace set by the tide and wind.
As it sailed under the suspension bridge, the riot of phone clicks reached a crescendo, drowned out only by a scuffling of feet and raised voices as the crowd wheeled round to follow it. Nathan turned more slowly than the others, letting them spin by him, seeing them for what they were. He heard the screams rise again as the mattress re-emerged on the other side, as if it had come as a fresh surprise that the body was still there. Still bloodied, still dead.
Police sirens could be heard in the distance now, called by people on one of the earlier bridges. The noise was edging closer but was no incentive to the leeches on the bridge to move or do anything other than stare and scream and photograph.
Boats were on their way, too, a police launch thundering against the current, a blue light signalling haste. They couldn’t get there in time to save the poor bastard on the mattress though, that much was clear to them all.
His long, tousled hair was matted by a much darker shade, making an even greater contrast with his ice-pale skin and showing where his skull had been bashed in. His body was spread-eagled across the mattress, the long legs clad in skinny black jeans, the bright-blue puffer jacket shining in the gloom as he slept the longest sleep.
A helicopter roared overhead, slowly following the procession. It must be either TV news or the police. Either way, Nathan didn’t like it much.
He watched the mattress float away from him with an odd mix of sadness and satisfaction. It was now everyone’s, not just his, something he created but was having to share with the herd. They were devouring its spectacle as if they owned it. Some on the Glasgow Bridge were calling it to them, screaming at it to go faster so as to beat the cop launch before they missed out on their turn for a close-up view. A few of those around Nathan caught the mood and they shouted for it to hurry, too.
The boat got there first, collaring the mattress and hauling it in. The yobs booed, of course. Their fun had been spoiled and they acted like noisy drunks demanding more booze at a funeral.
You’ve got to love the river, Nathan thought as he began to slip away through the crowd. The Clyde was truly Glasgow’s heartbeat. It giveth life and it taketh away.
CHAPTER 27
The orders from KillingTime were out for delivery. Online tracking told her some were due today and, although she didn’t know which, she had a good idea of when they’d be delivered. She was ready, waiting and strangely anxious.
When she heard the doorbell, her feet slipped out from under the covers and she was over the side of the bed before the ringing had stopped. She wouldn’t run, she’d promised herself that much, but she couldn’t take the chance of missing the delivery.
She was halfway across the bedroom floor and the bell had stopped. She swore softly and hurried a little more, not knowing if there was someone standing outside waiting patiently or if he’d got back in his van, taking the package away with him. Or, worse still and potentially disastrous, was even now knocking on her neighbour’s door to leave it there.
Her tummy ached in protest at the haste but she ignored it, padding across the hall and unlocking and opening the door in one movement. She was assaulted by a blast of cold air, reminding her she was standing there in bare feet and a short nightshirt. That didn’t bother her as much as finding there was no one standing there. She cursed again and ventured out, seeing a man walking up next door’s steps, a white package under his arms.
‘Hey!’ she called to him. ‘Is that for me?’
He stopped midstride and looked across, seeing her state of undress and a smirk creasing his face. ‘Rachel Narey?’
‘Yes. Glad I caught you.’
‘Me too,’ he sleazed.
She bit her tongue and retreated to the door, standing half in and out, ready to close it as soon as she got the package from him. He was up the stairs in a flash, standing closer to her than he needed. She backed off slightly and caught hold of the door, ready to slam it in his face if necessary.
‘Sign here, darling. Bit chilly to be out dressed like that, isn’t it?’
She took the plastic stylus from him and made some incomprehensible signature on the screen of his handheld gizmo. Nodding at the package, she made to swap it for the document-signing machine but the delivery man held on to it.
‘I could carry it inside for you if you want.’
She quickly reached out and pulled the parcel from his hands, at the same time raising the signing equipment till it was an inch from the man’s nose. She leaned closer, seeing him start to smile. She whispered.
‘If you don’t fuck off right now, I’ll take this box and stick it somewhere that will be very difficult for anyone to sign. Understand?’
He did. He backed off quickly enough that he nearly slipped down the steps. She shut the door and left him there. She leaned her back against the door and weighed the package, trying to work out which of her purchases it was. It was quite light, so maybe the Martin Welsh front page or the Watson letter. It could be one of the slaughtergraphs, definitely not the Susan Atkins frame but possibly the fireplace stone.
Whatever it was, it felt hot in her hand. Like stolen goods. Like guilt. Inside, restrained only by bubble wrap, evil was bursting to get out.
She made her way back upstairs, closing the door behind her and sat the package on the bed. Sitting down a foot away, she edged it from her with the tips of her fingers, then pulled it closer again. She looked at the postmark – Bermuda – and the neat handwritten address, trying to read what she could into it. Of course, the easy thing was just to open it, but she was stuck, held back by a mix of unease and anticipation.
Whichever of the items were inside, she knew she’d seen worse and touched worse, whether skin to skin or through latex gloves that never made you feel any more distant from wha
tever it was. She wanted it and didn’t. Wanted to wait and couldn’t.
Her head spun, drawn by a noise from downstairs. She knew it was the front door. Had the delivery creep come back? No, the door had opened and closed again. Shit! It was Tony.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs and knew she had to hide the package. She threw it under the bed and got herself under the covers as his tread got heavier and closer. The quilt was barely over her when the door opened.
She saw the immediate confusion on his face, his brows narrowing as he was obviously aware of her recent movement.
‘You okay?’
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’ She heard the annoyance in her voice, cross at him for coming home, irritated at herself for thinking it.
‘No reason apart from the fact you’re ill. Were you up?’
She glared at him. ‘Am I not allowed to go to the toilet now? Maybe you want to get me a bag and a tube so I don’t get up at all?’
He stopped and looked at her, staying calm and accepting her frustration.
‘Do you need me to get you anything. Tea? Food?’
‘No!’ Damn it, she softened her voice. ‘No, thanks. I’m okay. You not working?’
He wandered over and sat down beside her, kissing her lightly on the lips, his hand resting on her stomach. She enjoyed the touch but couldn’t escape the thought of the package lying somewhere under the bed. Was it completely under the bed or was a bit of it sticking out? Would he see it?
‘Yes, I’m working. I’m just back from Clyde Street. Thought I’d pop in, make sure everything was okay. Listen, I’m sorry that I worry, but I do. I can’t help it.’
She managed to keep the sigh inside her. ‘It’s okay. I know you do and I know why. But I’m okay, just bored. Don’t let me get in the way of you working.’
She could see him trying to work out if she was being sarcastic or understanding. How could he know if she wasn’t sure herself?
‘I take you haven’t seen the news or else you’d know about Clyde Street.’ He looked at her curiously, wondering why she was so uninterested. ‘Do you want to hear about it?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
She knew why not. Because she wanted him to leave so she could open the KillingTime parcel. It was wrong and it was unfair but she wanted to rip open that envelope and devour what was inside. It was under the bed, calling to her.
‘I’m overwhelmed by your enthusiasm. Okay . . . so today I photographed a body floating down the Clyde on a mattress.’
It was probably the Watson letter – that was the most likely going by the weight. Charles Denton Watson, known as Tex. He murdered seven people. She wanted to know what the letter said about him, what insights it gave into his personality. Was he ill or evil or both?
‘A mattress. I didn’t get close but, still, I’d never seen anything like it. They were queuing up on the bridges to get a look at it but by the time I got there . . .’
Would she be able to tell that about Watson from the letter in the way she’d like to think she could if she met someone like him? She had a sense of a killer from having met more than her share of them. It was an indefinable thing, a very imprecise science, something born part of experience and part intuition.
‘The victim had had his head beaten in, then stuck on the bloody mattress to float down the river in full public view.’
And, beyond whatever was in the letter, would she get a sense of him? His hand on the letter, his DNA all over it. His smell, his being. Seven people murdered.
‘I managed to get some decent shots but the best of them would have been taken from the news helicopter. No way I can take anything to compete with that.’
It was just lying there, gathering dust by the second. She itched to get inside it.
‘Well it sounds like you better get back to the office.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve got a lot to do and I’m tired and I’d rather get some sleep. Just go and give me some peace.’
‘Peace?’
‘Yes, peace. I’m supposed to be resting and you’re fussing over me and telling me about work stuff that I shouldn’t be hearing.’
‘You’re unbelievable.’
‘Well you better start believing it. And do it while you’re closing the door on the way out.’
He hadn’t done or said anything wrong, they both knew it. Only she knew why. He looked at her, hoping she’d back down or apologise. She wouldn’t. Sure, she hated herself for it but she wouldn’t.
She could see he wanted to explode, shout at her, tell her what a cow she was being, but he was biting hard on his lip and holding it in. And he was doing that for her. She was being a cow.
‘Okay. I’ll see you later. Phone or text if you need anything.’
He said it on the turn and wasn’t waiting for a reply. She watched his back and the closing door, struggling to resist the urge to hop out of bed as soon as it was shut behind him and rescue the package that was hidden beneath it. She had to force herself to wait until she heard his footsteps on the stairs and the angry closure of the front door. As soon as she heard it bang, she jumped out of bed and was on the floor in a second, scrambling over the carpet to grab the white envelope and yank it towards her.
She wasn’t waiting any longer this time and tore into it with sharp fingers, scratching it open and pulling it wide. She gouged her way through the bubble wrap and eased the paperwork out, laying aside the accompanying invoice and finding to her disappointment that it wasn’t the Watson letter or any of the other Tate-related pieces. Instead, she was holding a yellowing newspaper cover.
Friday, 4 May 1973. The photograph of the boy smiling out from the past. Disappears. That’s what they’d had to limit themselves to. Not murdered, not kidnapped, just vanished. It was easy to read between the lines with the benefit of hindsight, though. Missing, presumed murdered, was the tone.
The village of Calderrigg, Lanarkshire, in turmoil, his parents desolate, the police searching. Neighbours were quoted about the friendly wee boy, never any trouble, devastated for his mother. The school was in shock, doing all it could to help and praying for his safe return.
She could feel the fear in the paper, the untold knowledge in every line. Martin was gone and he wouldn’t be coming back. One minute he’d been at the bus stop in full public view, the next he’d disappeared.
Public view. The words made her remember what Tony had said, something that had passed right over her in her distraction over the package.
The victim had had his head beaten in, then stuck on the bloody mattress to float down the river in full public view.
She hadn’t been listening, too caught up in the anticipation of the delivery to pay attention to what he’d said. In too much of a hurry to get rid of him, so she could indulge this new . . . whatever the hell it was.
Public view. Someone had put on a hell of a show. Again.
CHAPTER 28
‘Hundreds of horrified city centre shoppers came face to face with a murder victim today right in the heart of Glasgow.’
The STV news reporter was suitably grave but you could tell she was loving it. She could barely keep the gleeful excitement out of her voice. Narey could see the woman was all but wetting herself she was so happy.
‘People were forced to look on as a body floated down the Clyde between various busy bridges on a mattress. The victim, said to be in his early twenties, had been severely assaulted and witnesses spoke of seeing bloody head wounds that seemed the most likely cause of death.
‘Large crowds gathered to see this bizarre and gruesome sight and screams could be heard for some distance. It was something that even people in this city, which is used to seeing violence and aggression, were shocked by.
‘These extraordinary shots you are seeing now were taken from the Scottish Television helicopter as the mattress was taken up the Clyde by the current. You can clearly see the man’s body in the centre of it. The images that will follow are close-ups of th
e mattress and some viewers may find them disturbing. If so, please look away now.’
Look away? She was daring them to stay. Look away if you’re scared, if you’re not strong enough, that’s what she was saying.
The camera closed in on the mattress, focused on the body. Christ, there was no way this should be shown on TV. You could see the blood, you could see the damage to the skull. This was someone’s son they were showing.
‘Police Scotland say they are treating the man’s death as murder. An inquiry team has been set up and an incident room assembled on the Clydeside near to where the body was seen in an attempt to question as many witnesses as possible. Police Scotland have not confirmed the victim’s identity.’
Apart from some cringe-making interviews with witnesses, that was it. A few randoms told how they’d never seen anything like it, were pure shocked man, everybody was screaming and that, blood everywhere, like.
Narey’s mind was racing, joining dots faster than she could find them. Come on, she was urging the news. Surely they’ve joined them too. Tell us. But no, nothing.
Instead, they went back to the studio and the presenter moved on to a related item.
‘In a separate development, Police Scotland have revealed the whereabouts of murdered MSP’s son Aiden McAlpine on the night he was killed. Caroline Denton reports . . .’
They switched to a studiously serious woman standing outside what Narey recognised as Kelvingrove Park. Caz Denton had probably just stubbed out a fag and quit giggling in time for the cameras to roll, doubtless counting down the clock to her first voddie and Coke. Kelvingrove? Narey jumped to conclusions right away.
‘Thanks, Bill. I am standing at the entrance to Kelvingrove Park in Glasgow’s West End and it is here that detectives have traced the last known movements of Aiden McAlpine. Officers have spent many hours trawling CCTV footage around the city in an effort to get a glimpse of Aiden and establish where he was the night before his body was found near the entrance to Queen Street Station.
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