Witness the Dead

by Craig Robertson

  ‘It’s a miracle of anatomy that you aren’t a fat bastard, Addy,’ Winter chided him.

  Addison was a lanky six foot four, carrying barely an ounce of fat despite his unrelentingly patriotic diet of stodge.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ the DI admitted. ‘But it would be rude not to take advantage of it. So let’s go interview our star witness so I can get fed.’

  The man was waiting nervously for them at the foot of the hill, standing between the Bridge of Sighs and the menacing doors of the Façade — the entrance to a tunnel that was to have been built into the heart of the hill to contain catacombs but now protected nothing more than a collection of lawn-mowers. Addison was right, Winter thought: the guy was a picture all right.

  In his late fifties, he was wearing a navy-and-white-striped dressing gown over pale-blue pyjamas and black slippers. A couple of days of grey grizzle adorned his face and thick locks of dark hair were pushed back on his head. Most strikingly, though, was the ginger cat that he was holding at the end of a leash.

  ‘It’s a well-known fact that most dead bodies are found by people taking their dog for a walk,’ Addison murmured to Winter as they neared the man. ‘But this is a first for me.’

  Winter stifled a laugh as well as the urge to take the man’s photograph.

  ‘Mr Gibson? I’m DI Addison. I understand you found the deceased.’

  The man looked up, startled, and began nodding fiercely.

  ‘Yes, yes. Yes. I was just telling this officer. It… I was so… I mean, this is just so…’

  Addison sighed, not exactly famed for his patience.

  ‘Take your time, Mr Gibson. I’m sure it was very upsetting, but please start from the beginning and just tell me what happened.’

  The man nodded, less fiercely this time.

  ‘Well, I had to take Lulu outside for her ablutions. She’d had sardines, you see. It’s my fault, really, because, although she loves them, I know they don’t always agree with her. It’s the oil. The vet says she’s just being a madam, but she’s a sensitive soul, her breeding, you see. She’s very—’

  ‘So you had to take her out,’ Addison interrupted.

  ‘Yes, yes. Sorry. Yes. She just won’t go inside the flat. She’s very particular that way. Just too… respectful for that. Well bred, you see. Anyway, we normally go for a walk when we go outside for her business. She expects it and is rather partial to a tour round the Necropolis.’

  ‘She is or you are?’ asked Addison, failing to keep the note of scorn out of his voice, knowing full well the Necropolis’s reputation as a late-night meeting place for men.

  ‘She is,’ Gibson replied indignantly.

  ‘Even though the cemetery gates are locked at night?’ the DI queried.

  The man had the good grace to look embarrassed.

  ‘I just live over there,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘I know where the gaps in the fence are.’

  ‘Do you, now?’ Addison asked pointedly.

  Gibson ignored the question and continued.

  ‘Lulu and I went up the hill and she did her business near the big tombstone of Corlinda Lee. You know? Queen of the Gypsies? She read Queen Victoria’s palm at a Gypsy ball in Dunbar. No?’

  Addison shook his head brusquely and Winter knew he was bitterly regretting asking Gibson to start at the beginning.

  ‘Anyway,’ the man continued blithely, ‘we did our stuff near Corlinda and continued up the hill. I think Lulu must have sensed something. Cats are very perceptive that way — the well-bred ones are at any rate. She led me there. Better than a bloodhound, I’d say. I couldn’t see what it was at first but I knew there was something wrong. Her hair was standing on end and she was hissing something terrible. And then we saw her, the girl.’

  ‘What time was this, Mr Gibson?’

  ‘About five. It was still pitch black and when I shone my torch on her… well, I just couldn’t… I mean, I’d never seen anything like it in my life.’

  Neither Addison nor Winter doubted that.

  ‘Did you touch her, Mr Gibson?’ asked Addison.

  ‘No!’ the man shrieked crossly. ‘I am a great fan of crime dramas and I know police procedure. I did not contaminate the scene.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ accepted Addison. ‘Did you see anyone else anywhere near the body? Anything unusual at all?’

  Gibson shook his head dolefully.

  ‘No. If there was anyone else in, and there are usually a few… resident undesirables who are terribly rude to Lulu and me, then they were asleep or unconscious. We went back down the hill as quickly as we could and went back into the flat where I called nine, nine, nine immediately. Well, I had a large brandy then I called. I hope that was okay?’

  Addison sighed again.

  ‘Yes, Mr Gibson. I don’t think the delay was crucial. So you saw or heard nothing all the time you were in there?’

  ‘Well, yes. There was the noise.’

  ‘The noise?’

  ‘Yes. I nearly died. Oh… I mean, I shouldn’t have said died. I’m sorry. Sorry.’

  ‘What noise?’ Addison growled irritably.

  ‘Well… Lulu and I were halfway down the hill when she suddenly stopped, and so I did too. I listened and there was nothing, but then there was this scuffling sound in the bushes and a noise like someone hurrying away. I nearly had a heart attack on the spot.’

  ‘And did you hear anything after that?’

  ‘No, no. But I wasn’t for hanging around to find out. I was back in the flat as quick as my feet could take me,’ Gibson answered breathlessly.

  ‘Well done,’ replied Addison with the fakest smile that Winter had ever seen him muster. ‘Mr Gibson, I’ll need you to show the constable the spot where you say you heard this noise. If you could go with him now, please. You’ve been very helpful. We will be in touch.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no problem. We’re glad to help. Aren’t we, Lulu? If there’s anything else at all that we can do to help, then please let us know.’

  Addison turned his back on the man with a cursory nod and walked closer to the constable who had been taking Gibson’s statement.

  ‘Have you been inside this guy’s flat yet?’ he muttered softly.

  ‘No, sir,’ the uniform replied equally quietly. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well, do it. Mark off the area where he heard his noise, then take him inside on the pretence of getting his statement down in full and check his place out. I never trust a man who likes cats.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Addison turned to leave but saw Winter chatting to Gibson.

  ‘That’s a beautiful cat you have there, Mr Gibson,’ the photographer was saying.

  The man beamed and looked down at his pride and joy sitting patiently at the end of its pale-pink lead.

  ‘Would you mind if I took a photograph of the two of you?’ Winter asked.

  Gibson brightened considerably, puffing himself up.

  ‘Well, if it helps. It’s the least we can do. Will it help?’

  ‘It might,’ Winter assured him. ‘You can never tell what might make the difference in a case like this.’

  Gibson nodded enthusiastically and stood up straight, pulling at Lulu’s lead to get her the same.

  Winter rattled off a succession of frames of the strange man in the blue pyjamas and the striped dressing gown with his preening ginger tabby. He wasn’t sure if he wanted them just for the novelty value or as some bizarre photographic counterpoint to what was on top of the hill, but it didn’t matter. The picture was his for ever.

  ‘Fruit loop,’ was Addison’s assessment as the two men climbed back up the path to the scene.

  ‘Because he has a cat or because he might be gay, you bigoted sod?’

  ‘Might be gay?’ Addison retorted. ‘He owns a cat.’

  ‘That’s it? You rest your case? Did the entire second half of the twentieth century pass you by?’

  ‘Fuck that case,’ Addison snarled. ‘It’s the one up there that I’m
bothered about.’

  ‘What do you think the noise was he heard in the bushes?’

  ‘Who knows? Rabbits, deer, some other “cat walker” looking for companionship. Anybody’s guess for now. We’ll get Baxter and his people down there to see what tracks they can find.’

  ‘Deer?’

  ‘There’s loads of deer in here. Cute-as-fuck Bambi types, if you like that sort of thing. Some bastards even hunt them with dogs. Eric Paterson, the super over at London Road, is really hot on it. He makes it a personal mission to chase down the sods responsible.’

  ‘The same way you’re going to deal with whoever did that on top of the hill?’

  ‘The very same. Come on. Let’s see what they’ve got.’

  They climbed the hill again and, as they did so, the sun came up and the glowering figure of John Knox could be seen towering over the sepulchres, mausoleums, monuments, obelisks, statues and cherubim. The frown worn by the man who led the Protestant Reformation was perhaps caused by the multidenominational memento mori below him in Gothic, Celtic, Moorish and Jewish.

  ‘Think he saw who did it?’ Winter asked with a nod to the twelve-foot-tall figure of Knox perched on a sixty-foot-high Doric column.

  ‘Probably too dark,’ Addison replied. ‘But, even if he did, chances are he’d blame it on a Catholic.’

  When they got back to the scene, they saw Narey and Baxter standing off to the side, discussing the scraps of evidence they had accumulated. Fitzpatrick was still working her way fastidiously over the body, the poor girl’s naked form not yet afforded the dignity of being covered.

  ‘Okay,’ Addison said as he breezed into the scene, not waiting for anyone else to finish their conversation. ‘Listen up.’

  Narey, Baxter and Fitzpatrick dutifully stopped and paid attention, their annoyance at having to do so barely concealed.

  ‘Our only known witness is worse than useless,’ Addison went on. ‘All we have to go on for now sits on top of this hill. Here’s what we need. Her name. And we need that as soon as possible. Shoes. I want to know where her fucking shoes are. Lipstick. I want to know the make and colour that wording was written in. Her movements. I want to know where she was last night and who she was with. Most of all, though, I want to know who had a reason to write “SIN” on this girl’s stomach. Someone who knows her would be the best guess. A boyfriend maybe. Or ex-boyfriend. Find him and find the person most likely to have done this. Okay?’

  Narey and Baxter looked at each other ruefully, but it was Fitzpatrick who replied.

  ‘I might be able to give you a partial answer to the last of those, Inspector. And Tony? You might want to get your camera out again.’

  Winter’s itch twitched as he and Addison converged on the pathologist as she raised the girl’s purple-tinged body onto its side so that they could see her back. Narey and Baxter had obviously already been let in on the discovery and Addison looked pissed off at being the last to know; but, far more than that, he was eager to know what it was.

  ‘I’m no expert on tattoos,’ Fitzpatrick continued. ‘But I would say this was done fairly recently.’

  Under the glare of the temporary spotlights and the fleeting brilliance of Winter’s flashgun, they saw it. Arched across the curve of the girl’s lower back was the depiction of a writhing snake, working its way round bold letters separated by beating hearts. Despite the skin’s discoloration where the lividity had settled after death, the name could clearly be made out.

  Addison stared at the tattoo as Winter fired off a series of shots. Finally, the DI spoke low and steady, little more than an angry rumble that they had to strain to hear against the rising wind.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Find out who the hell Razor is and bring him in.’

  Chapter 3

  Glasgow, July 1972

  He checked himself out in the mirror, tilting his head left and right, trying different expressions on for size. He’d do. He’d more than do.

  The cut of his suit was pretty special; two weeks’ wages that had cost him but it had been worth it. Three-piece, royal blue with a thick gold stripe running through it. The guy in Slaters who had sold him it said that it had come from Carnaby Street and was the only one in Glasgow. The trousers had four buttons on the waist and the waistcoat was cut high enough to show them off. Nice flared bottoms on them, too, above a pair of righteous three-inch platform shoes. Dead gallus, if he said so himself.

  The tie was as wide as the Clyde and he’d thought twice about wearing it. What the hell, though. It looked good; he looked good. You couldn’t be going to the dancing wearing just anything: you had to look the part. That was true even if you were just going there to try to get off with a lassie. Which he wasn’t. Not quite.

  It still mattered, though, making the effort. Same with his hair. He pushed his hands through it, making it appear even bigger, his sideburns thick and dark. Some guys still wore Brylcreem like it was fashionable. Could you believe that? The idiots wouldn’t know style if they fell over it. Like he’d listen to what they had to say about anything.

  It was going to be a big night, he could feel it, the nerves just bubbling under the surface. His blood was pumping with what-ifs and he already felt the need of a drink to slow them down. He couldn’t have more than a couple, though. Big night. He needed to keep a clear head. Anything else was far too risky.

  He blew a stream of air towards the mirror and flapped his lips, making the noise come out in a jumpy rat-a-tat-tat, shaking his shoulders at the same time. He wanted, needed, the worry out of his system. He couldn’t afford to be nervous, not tonight.

  He played with the knot in his tie, fingering at it, easing it towards his throat and away again until he was comfortable with the look. It wasn’t like he was really into it; the clothes and that. But he could pull it off. Better than that, he’d look like he wasn’t even trying to pull it off.

  He pulled his hand up towards his mouth and breathed hard into the palm, trying to catch the smell of his breath. He did it again, just to be sure, but it seemed okay.

  Moving closer to the mirror again, he made his eyes crease at the side the way that Steve McQueen did. Took him ages to get that right. He’d gone to see The Thomas Crown Affair at the Cinerama on Eglinton Street. Loved that film. Totally cool, like McQueen himself.

  Smile. Then look mean. Grin. The McQueen eyes. Mean and moody. ‘Are ye dancing?’ he asked out loud. Too loud.

  ‘Did you say something in there?’ came her voice from the other side of the bathroom door.

  He froze. Guilty way before the event. Stand still, say nothing, pretend he hadn’t heard her.

  ‘Ah said, did you say something in there?’

  ‘Eh… no, no. I was just thinking out loud, love. Wondering where the hairbrush was.’

  He stared at himself in the mirror, not seeing McQueen. Not seeing cool. Seeing embarrassed. Seeing guilty. He shook himself again, blowing away the shamefaced cobwebs. It was going to be a big night and he didn’t need his head full of shite. Get a grip.

  She was standing there when he came out of the bathroom, looking at him oddly, seeing the suit for the first time. He could see that she liked it and yet she didn’t.

  ‘You’re looking kinda smart, are you not? Where did you say you were off to?’

  ‘Ah didn’t. I’m working, though. Look, I’ll try not to be too late back, but don’t you bother waiting up for me. Sorry, I’m running late as it is. Better rush.’

  The front door closed behind him and he could hear the theme tune from The Thomas Crown Affair echoing in his head. Echoing like windmills in his mind.

  The bus into town was busy, full of people chattering away as if it were just a night like any other. He knew it wasn’t, and they should have, too.

  Behind him, two girls were singing ‘Get it On’ by T.Rex and in between verses they were giggling about how the band were coming to Glasgow and they’d die if they didn’t get to see them. They were both in love with Marc Bolan and
each said they loved him more than the other one. All he could think of was how unlikely it was that not seeing a band would be the death of them.

  Someone else started a singsong at the back, three young blokes who quickly drowned out T.Rex with a raucous version of ‘Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep’. The two girls glared at them at first but soon gave in and within minutes the entire bus, conductor and driver included, were singing the song on the way into town. Everyone but him.

  It was a warm night and the windows of the bus were open, letting the singing escape into the night air, treating Maryhill and then St George’s Cross to chorus after chorus. They weren’t fooling him, though: it was whistling in the dark, showing that Glasgow wasn’t afraid of the bogeyman that nobody mentioned. Was that why he wasn’t singing, because he knew that they should have been afraid?

  When the bus hit the city centre, he got off at Buchanan Street and walked the rest of the way. Klass was on the third floor of a building at the top of West Nile Street and, as it was a Friday night, it was easily recognisable by the queue of people that snaked all the way down onto the pavement.

  The queue wound up the narrow stairs and left only enough room for those not allowed admittance to make their way back down the steps and onto the street. When he got nearer to the entrance, he could see people doing their first dance of the night, a nervy quickstep as they moved from one foot to the other, waiting to find out if they’d be knocked back. It was the best disco in town and tough to get into. ‘Not tonight, boys’ was the usual line from the bouncers, and he saw shoulders sag as they had to deal with the embarrassment of not getting in. He’d get in, though; there was no doubt about that.

  He scanned the queue, looking for likely candidates. Glasgow in all shapes and sizes but not one that immediately jumped out as being what he was looking for. There would be plenty more inside, though, and more still as the night went on.

  The bouncers gave him the once-over and then the nod.

  The place was teeming with people, sticky with summer-night body heat. It smelled of beer and cigarettes, perfume and hormones. It was light enough to see everyone and dark enough to hide a few imperfections.