Witness the Dead

by Craig Robertson

  Winter said nothing but couldn’t hide a feeling that was creeping over him, a familiar sense of anticipation that was as much eagerness as dread.

  ‘See the way the first girl is laid out on the flat gravestone? How her hands are positioned before her? Read this.’ Danny dug a sheaf of papers from his inside pocket and leafed through them before shoving a clipping into Winter’s hands.

  In each of the so-called ‘Red Silk’ murders, the perpetrator left the victim arranged in a manner that was almost ritualistic. These included, in the case of Brenda MacFarlane, her arms being outstretched as if in supplication on the cross. Criminal psychologists believe that the killer was displaying overt power over his victims by asserting his ability to make them at his mercy.

  ‘And this.’

  Danny handed over another piece of paper, this time a faded sheet torn from a notebook. Winter recognised the handwriting immediately.

  The killer has some kind of God complex. Lays them out as if they are praying to him. Or as if to prove he can do what he wants with them. He arranged Brenda M as if she was praying to him. It’s more than just the killing for him. He enjoys the power.

  Winter looked up from the paper, seeing Danny eager for a reaction. The dawning of some acceptance in Winter’s eyes seemed to be enough.

  ‘That was Brenda. Now read this about Mary Gillespie.’ Another time-soiled sheet was handed over, Danny’s handwriting again. He pointed at a section halfway down the page.

  Mary G had her head resting on a low wall. It was like she was resting on it or laying her head at his feet. He wants us to find them like that. He’s playing with us.

  ‘We managed to keep this stuff out of the papers even though the press were all over this story for months on end. Nobody else knew.’

  Winter pushed himself back from the table and exhaled hard, still saying nothing.

  ‘I know the guy, Tony. I chased him for two years. I know what he did to these girls. I know what he did to women elsewhere. This has got his prints all over it. These pictures prove it. You see that, don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe. Tell me more. I know the story but only what I’ve read in the papers. I wasn’t born then, remember.’

  Danny sighed. ‘Oh, I remember, son. Brenda MacFarlane had been dancing at Klass on a Friday night in June 1972 with her sister Frances. Brenda was nineteen and Frances was a year younger. Their parents thought they were both at a friend’s house but they’d hidden away their going-out clothes and got changed in a pub toilet, then hid their gear, aiming to pick them up and change back after the disco.

  ‘Disco was the new thing. The dance halls were still going but, for the younger crowd, it was disco. They could still dance but there were live bands as well. This was the music that was in the charts and the bands that played it. You wouldn’t believe how many of them came up to Glasgow to play at a disco like Klass. Slade, Bowie, Status Quo, Elton John. They were all there around this time. So all the old “are ye dancing?” stuff still held good: you could go out and still get a slow dance at the end of the night.

  ‘At some point on that night, Frances MacFarlane got dancing with a boy. She ended up snogging him but says she came up for air long enough to see her sister dancing with some guy wearing a black velvet suit with what looked like a red silk handkerchief in the top pocket. She looked again and the two were chatting away. When Frances eventually surfaced after the lumber number — the last slow dance — Brenda was nowhere to be seen. She figured her sister had got off with the guy in the velvet suit and didn’t think too much about it. But when she was outside, and Brenda didn’t turn up to get their other clothes and catch the last bus to Partick Cross, she began to worry.

  ‘Brenda was found the next morning. Raped, strangled. Her clothes around her waist and her arms stretched out wide. Her sister screamed, then cried for a month. She became an alcoholic and looked fifty by the time she was twenty-five.

  ‘The next night, the Saturday, police were all over Klass. Interviewing everyone there and asking what they’d seen the night before. The place was still open, though — best way to make sure potential witnesses were in the one place. Slade were playing and they were massive in Scotland at the time so they weren’t easy to cancel. One of the customers was a girl called Isobel Jardine. She went home on the last bus to Govanhill with her pal. They parted at Allison Street and Isobel walked the rest of the way home herself. She was found the next morning in Govanhill Park. Raped and strangled, half dressed, crouching on her knees and leaning against the building that was the old bandstand.

  ‘All hell let loose then. When it was realised that she had been at Klass the night before, then all bets were off. Isobel’s pal, Meg Johnstone, didn’t remember any guy in a black velvet suit but said the bus back from town was pretty full and there were too many people to remember who was on it.

  ‘We had officers at Klass every night after that. Interviewing everyone that went in, showing them the sketch that was done from the description that Frances MacFarlane gave. The sketch could have been anyone, though, and we didn’t even know if Brenda had left with the guy in the suit. We didn’t know if the Klass connection was a coincidence. All week, nothing happened, nothing turned up of any use. Then it was two weeks later, the Saturday night. Or, more to the point, the Sunday morning.

  ‘Mary Gillespie was found murdered in an alley behind tenements off London Road, not far from Glasgow Green. She was found lying on the ground but with her head resting on the wall. She’d been partially strangled but finished off with her head being smashed against the wall. She’d been raped. Mary was married and her husband said she’d been visiting her sister on the Saturday night. The sister said this was true and all efforts were concentrated on the area between the sister’s house in Bridgeton and Glasgow Green. But the way she’d been attacked was too similar to the Klass killings and so detectives went back to the sister and kept on at her. Two weeks later, they broke her down and she admitted Mary hadn’t been with her at all. She’d agreed to cover for her if her husband ever asked. Mary had been at the dancing in town.

  ‘We went back to Klass and people said they’d seen someone matching Mary’s description on that Saturday night. Only problem was that we also asked in Clouds and Joanna’s as well and people there said they’d seen her or someone looking like her. But in Klass one girl said she thought she’d seen Mary talking for ages to a guy who was wearing a black-and-white-checked jacket — with a red silk handkerchief in the pocket.

  ‘That was all that people needed to know. It was Klass and it was the guy with the red silk handkerchief. The description went out and of course the press latched onto the handkerchief and called him Red Silk. It didn’t help us much, though. We knew that if the guy had any sense — and from what he’d done we knew he was smart enough to have got away with it so far — then he’d never wear that red silk hankie again. Maybe he’d never worn it before.

  ‘But the town went into meltdown. People were terrified. Didn’t stop them going out, though, and it didn’t stop them going to Klass. In fact, the place was busier than ever. Klass even ran Red Silk Lookalike contests. One night they had Be Red Silk for a Night night, when the guys only got in if they had a red hankie in their top pocket. Only in Glasgow, eh?

  ‘Of course, none of this made the chief constable very happy. He wanted this guy caught and fast. Any man in his twenties who looked remotely like the Frances MacFarlane description was stopped in the street or pulled into the station and asked to account for their movements on the night of the killings. Door-to-door enquiries took place all over Glasgow. We were sure someone must know something.

  ‘Everything pointed to Klass, though, and somebody in high office came up with the bright idea of getting young detectives inside the place posing as punters. They needed men and women who didn’t stick out like sore thumbs, who weren’t obviously cops. I was the youngest detective sergeant in the city, so I was a natural for it. Got my glad rags on and went dancing, size-eleven feet
and all. For weeks and weeks we were in Klass every minute it was open.’

  Winter shook his head at the thought of Uncle Danny shaking his stuff in a seventies disco. ‘That must have been some weird job. Did it work?’

  Danny glowered, genuine anger in his voice. ‘Stupid question, son. He killed again, didn’t he?’

  Neilson tipped the bottle of Peroni back and half of it disappeared down his throat before he abruptly snapped it away from his mouth again.

  ‘Three weeks later. Christine Cormack. Twenty-one years old. She worked in the Tunnock’s factory in Uddingston and was in Glasgow for a night out with two friends. She was in Klass, so were six coppers, including me, and so was the man that killed her. She was found in the alley behind the club, her mouth gagged with one of her stockings, strangled, beaten and raped. A red silk handkerchief was found near the scene. He did it there, right under our noses. Shoving our noses right in it.’

  Danny stared into the beer bottle in his hand for a few seconds before thrusting it to his mouth again and draining it. He held the empty bottle out to Winter. ‘Get me another one, son.’

  Winter retreated to the kitchen, secretly relieved to temporarily escape from the intensity of Danny’s reminiscences. Even his own taste for the dark was being smothered by the depth of his uncle’s anger. This stuff hadn’t happened forty years ago as far as Danny was concerned: it was as raw as the day before. When he returned, another two beers in his hands, Danny was studying the crime-scene photographs in front of him.

  ‘One thing I don’t get, Tony: what the hell’s with the word written on their stomachs? That doesn’t fit with anything.’

  ‘I don’t know, Dan. All I know is that you’re not supposed to know.’

  Danny screwed his face up. ‘Seriously, Danny. Alex Shirley’s drawn a three-line whip under this. He’s paranoid about that getting out. He finds out that anyone has blabbed about that word outside the case team, then their arse won’t touch the steps on the way out.’

  ‘It won’t get out, Tony. What the hell do you take me for? The only person I’ll talk to about this is you.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?’

  Danny shrugged. ‘Because you’re a natural-born worrier? Everything else about these killings screams Klass to me but this… this doesn’t fit. What does the case team make of it?’

  ‘Jesus, Danny. I told you. Shirley’s going mental about the word and making sure no one discusses it with anyone.’

  Danny sighed heavily. ‘Have you not got it yet, son? When I mentioned Archibald Atto to CID, they told me they think I’m a silly old fool and to go away and not bother them any more. Fine, I can do that. But what I can’t do is let this go. So I’m going to have to do it myself. With a little… no, a lot of help from you. I want to know what you know. You’re best pals with Derek Addison. He’ll know everything that’s going on. And Rachel, too, she’ll know.’

  Winter jumped to his feet, his arms spreading wide. ‘No way, Danny, I can’t do it. You’ll get me sacked. You’re right: Addy is my pal. But you don’t go around spying on your pals so that you can give information to someone else. You don’t put their careers at risk. And as for Rachel, well, we’re… not seeing a lot of each other at the moment.’

  Danny looked back at Winter, snorting a heave of frustration through his nose and his features twisting. He leaned forward and grabbed at the photographs, scooping them up in his hands at the second attempt and brandishing them before Winter. ‘Are you really going to make me spell this out, son?’

  Winter’s eyes furrowed, trying to make out what Danny was alluding to, the penny finally dropping, slow and ugly. ‘You’re fucking joking me. You wouldn’t.’

  ‘Yes I fucking would!’ Danny threw the photographs at Winter, their sharp edges cutting at his chest.

  Winter just let the photos tumble to the floor without reacting. As Danny’s head sank into his hands, Winter slowly bent down and picked up the prints.

  ‘I’m sorry. But don’t force me to do it, son.’

  ‘It means that much to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Winter paced back and forth across the room, shaking his head in disbelief at what he knew he was going to say. ‘I can’t believe this but, okay, Danny, okay. I’ll do it. But just to be clear: I’m not doing this in case you tell someone about these photographs. I’m doing it because you would have to be desperate to even threaten to do something like that to me.’

  Danny’s eyes closed over and he nodded. ‘Aye. Sorry, son.’

  ‘Why does this mean so much to you, Danny?’

  Neilson hesitated, the answer that was on his lips changing into a sudden snarl.

  ‘He’s a killer. Other young women are being killed. That no’ enough for you, Tony?’

  ‘That’s enough.’

  Danny’s voice softened. ‘Good. And thanks. Atto is in Blackridge Prison, the new one between Glasgow and Edinburgh.’

  Winter’s heart sank. ‘And why do I need to know that?’

  ‘Because we’re going to visit him.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Listen, we need to do this. These killings? They’re not finished. If I’m right — and I’m as sure as I can be that I am — then this isn’t over. If Atto has anything to do with it, or if someone is copying his killings, then there’s more to come. I’d guarantee it.’

  Chapter 21

  July 1972

  It had been the hottest July in years and there hadn’t been a drop of rain in two weeks. Everyone in Glasgow was dry — dry and thirsty. The crappy beer in Klass was flowing fast and often. No matter how tepid it was and how quickly it got stale, it was rushing down throats as if the punters had walked the Sahara. Some of the girls were on sweet stout but most sipped on martini or Cinzano, glasses chinking with ice that fought a losing battle with the summer swelter and the packed body heat. A disco that had been popular was now the only place to be. The killings hadn’t killed trade: it had multiplied demand.

  Danny laughed inside to see that some of the blokes were still strutting their stuff in mohair suits despite the rising temperatures inside Klass. They were too proud of their gear to ditch it just because it was so damn hot. They must have itched and sweated like pigs in a Swedish sauna in those suits. A tall chap with fair hair stood next to him at the bar, wrapped up in a navy mohair that might as well have been a straitjacket with a built-in electric blanket. His white kipper tie was loosened at the neck but he still twisted at it to let a comfort of damp air steal inside. His forehead was clammy, sleek rivulets of sweat dripping down his neck.

  Looking good was important but Danny wasn’t sure it was worth frying to death for. Sure, he felt a pang of regret at the temporary demise of his three-piece with its stylish stripe but he’d have regretted the heat more. Instead he’d got himself togged out in a new yellow Hardy Amies shirt that went with the brown floral tie that she had bought for his birthday. His brown high-waisters had a cool, wide flare and his white shoes gave them a summer look that said Saint-Tropez or Majorca. But he was still too hot.

  The real bonus of the high temperature was the clothes that the girls were wearing. Of course, it wasn’t why he was there, but it didn’t do any harm to look. This was the seventh time he’d been on Klass duty and it was beginning to wear thin. Long sweaty nights with little sleep and no results was making everyone tired and irritable. Relations at home were being stretched to the limit and there wasn’t even a hint of the man they were calling Red Silk. So the girls were a welcome bonus. Tiny miniskirts and bare legs tanned by the unusually good weather, skimpy hot pants and singlet tops that slipped off exposed shoulders. Peach hot pants with bib and braces, white silk shirts with mutton sleeves, and pink suede platform boots. Even those with long dresses wore them thin and they clung to curves in the heat. Maybe the swelter made the dancers think they were on holiday, or else their blood was getting hotter, too, because he had seen them pair off as if driven by their basest insti
ncts. Every degree that the thermometer rose, so too did their primeval passions. Drink was drunk and dances were danced. Faster, hotter, sweatier. The whole room was steaming.

  He’d given up on his own self-imposed ban on drinking much while on duty there. It wasn’t just the heat-induced thirst: he’d also convinced himself he was standing out by not doing what everyone else was doing. So he took his share of the draught lager and when that ran out he turned to the McEwan’s Export and swallowed that. There were three of them in Klass that night: he, Billy Moffat and Geordie Taylor. They made a point of never talking to each other, but couldn’t help but swap quiet nods and knowing glances, maybe pointing one another in the direction of someone they thought might be worth checking out. Billy and Geordie were knocking back pints, too, wiping clean their lips with the backs of their hands and eyeing up the customers.

  They’d been christened the Disco Dancing Division by the other lads, or Triple D Squad for short. Six of them took their turns, four male officers and two female. The women, Alice McCutcheon and Liz Grant, went on about how they weren’t particularly happy with the duty and moaned about being set up as potential targets for a murderer. He knew they didn’t mean it. Liz in particular would have loved it if Red Silk actually made a move against her. She carried a little clutch bag with half a brick inside and wouldn’t think twice about battering someone around the head with it. She could look after herself, and so could Alice.

  It was Alice who had said to him that every man in a disco like Klass was a predator, on the prowl for what he could get. She said they were having to find a hunter among a room full of hunters. He didn’t much like hearing that but found it hard to argue with. The evidence was all around them.

  He watched two blokes, one in a light, beige safari suit and the other broiling in a navy velvet jacket, standing either side of a slim girl in a green miniskirt and halter-neck top. They were crowding in on her, stealing her space and the little fresh air that there was. It was obvious that she didn’t know them, or at least hadn’t done until a few minutes before. The girl was laughing, but something in it seemed nervous, anxious not to annoy them. The two lads weren’t together, either — that much was obvious from the way they reacted to each other. Consciously or not, they’d teamed up to hunt as a pair, but they were also competing against each other, forcing her to choose one or the other. They’d need an eye kept on them.