‘I don’t know where you got your information from but… there is nothing I can say to confirm or deny your question. For operational reasons…’
He had faltered and the pack pounced, scenting blood.
‘Is this right, Detective Superintendent?’ ‘How is Atto involved?’ ‘Is he still locked up?’ ‘Has Atto escaped?’ ‘Has Atto killed again?’ ‘Why hasn’t the public been told about this?’
Shirley’s reluctant attempts to answer the torrent of questions were cut off as his impromptu interrogation continued unabated. The irony of asking him something but not allowing him to answer because he was being asked something else was lost on his inquisitors in the rush to ask the killer question.
‘Did Atto kill the cemetery girls?’ ‘How long have you known that he was involved?’ ‘Will you resign?’ ‘Has Red Silk returned?’ ‘Do you think you should resign, Detective Superintendent?’
The crowd in the Station Bar had become as rowdy as the reporters and were shouting their own questions at the television screen and at each other. Archibald Atto? How can that be? Winter watched Alex Shirley’s face glow red with anger and frustration as he had to yell to be heard at all.
‘We are talking to Archibald Atto in the process of our investigation. That is all I can tell you for now. And, yes, he is still in prison. That is all. No! I cannot comment further. This press conference is at a close.’
Shirley stormed off stage left, his face thunderous and the questions continuing to hammer at his back as he walked away.
Archibald Atto was the name that resonated through the pub and far beyond. The faces that had been scared were now terrified.
Chapter 41
Friday night
It was her first visit to Glasgow and it hadn’t been anywhere near the nightmare that she’d been told to expect. Sure, everyone spoke an almost unintelligible form of English and the weather was crap, but that hadn’t exactly come as a surprise. Once she’d got over the idea that everyone seemed to be starting an argument every time they opened their mouth and it was just them being friendly in their own way, then she’d learned to enjoy herself.
Everyone thinks that travel PR is all global chic; making do with five-star hotels if there aren’t any six-star ones available; constant sunshine and complimentary cocktails; chauffeur service and endless luxury.
And, hey, you know what? That’s pretty much the way it was and that’s why she loved it. Sometimes, though, a girl had to do the hard yards as well. Like conferences. Like conferences in Glasgow. Funnily enough, the prospect hadn’t got her pulse racing quite in the same way as a trip to Vietnam or Dubai, but it had to be done.
She’d been in the travel game for fourteen years and the lifestyle suited her. It had its downsides, like leaving her two miniature Yorkshire terriers, Buster-Bear and Bailey-Boo, behind as she jetted off hither and thither in search of new places for the rich and famous to lay their suntanned heads.
She’d had a couple of hours to herself before the slog began and had ventured out onto Buchanan Street and had been pleasantly surprised by the range and quality of the shops. The travel blurb had said the city had the best shopping in Britain outside London, but she’d doubted it until she saw it for herself. Lots of her favourite designer names were there and she’d duly indulged. Glasgow glamour! Who’d have thought it?
Sadly, it was then down to business, and she went through the same old dance of listening, explaining, nodding and smiling, all in the correct order and with boundless enthusiasm in the name of the client. Eventually, thankfully, it was job done and she had the evening to herself. Some of the others were going for dinner in the West End and a sleazy middle-aged sort in a too-tight suit had suggested she join them, but he alone was enough to have put her off the idea. This was Glasgow and she decided she wanted to go out for a taste of it. Sitting in a trattoria with a bunch of travel executives was something she could do any night of the week back home in London.
She’d asked at the hotel reception for recommendations for somewhere to go for a drink. The man behind the desk had looked her up and down, seeing the designer clothes, the expensive bag and the polished Chanel Rouge fingernails, and asked if she wanted to go to a proper pub or a wine bar. There was almost a challenge in the way he’d said it, so she’d answered with ‘proper pub’ before she knew it. ‘Try the Horseshoe on Drury Street,’ the old boy had said with a definite glint in his eye that made her want and wary at the same time, a feeling she was entirely used to. She went.
It was a proper pub all right, perhaps the most proper she’d ever been in. The sign outside said it had been there since 1884 and it didn’t look as if too much had changed. It had tiled floors of intricate mosaics, deep cornices, huge mirrors and decorative friezes, horses everywhere including a large mahogany one on top of the central bar. There were horseshoe designs on the fireplaces, the columns above the gantry and even the slate chimneypieces. There was brass and red leather but not in an English-country-pub kind of way, very much in a city-centre Glasgow kind of way. Most striking of all was the huge island bar in the shape of a horseshoe, naturally enough. The longest bar in the UK, a guy told her. At least she thought that was what he’d said.
Actually, the locals weren’t even that hard to understand after a while. You kind of tuned into their wavelength and got used to the ochs and the arrs and it all made some sort of sense. The drink helped. A lot. Once she’d established that they didn’t do cocktails, unless you counted a maraschino cherry or a slice of lemon in your vodka, she settled for a glass of Pinot Grigio. Happily, every glass made the good-looking barman not just more good-looking but magically more coherent as well. And whatever he said sounded a hell of a lot more sexy in that lilt and burr than it would have done otherwise. The drink must have slowed down his speech or speeded up her brain; either way, they were at the same pace, and she liked that. She wondered what he wore under his kilt. Not that he was wearing one, of course, but a girl could dream.
The Horseshoe was packed, proper Friday-night packed, and everyone seemed utterly determined to have a good time or die trying. There were men in suits who had obviously come straight from work and would go home the same way, assuming they went home at all. Younger guys who had come off building sites. Girls done up for nightclubs with the shortest skirts she’d ever seen. It was diverse and rowdy, lively and buzzing, and just threatening enough to make it interesting.
There was no room to sit despite the place being rather large, so she took up elbow room at the bar, quietly pleased with herself for braving the wilds of Friday night Glasgow on her own. Most people, male and female, who stood next to her said hello, after a fashion. ‘Awrite?’ or ‘You being served, hen?’ being the most common. When they heard her accent, they all wanted to talk. ‘First time in Glasgow?’ Yes, she told them. ‘Mental, innit?’ they asked back. ‘Whitsyur name?’ ‘Ashleigh Fleming,’ she told them. ‘Good Scottish name,’ they told her.
She even had a pie. Everyone in the Horseshoe told her it was the pub speciality — a pie and a pint. It seemed rude to say no, particularly when she hadn’t actually eaten in hours, so she had a steak pie and a pint of eighty shilling, whatever that was. The pie was, well, not exactly to her taste. So she had just one more bite and said she was full. After the brief diversion with the pint, she went back to the Pinot Grigio, which had been a bit disappointing at first as well, but was improving with every glass. They weren’t getting her drunk, though. Well, maybe a little.
A girl heard her voice and dragged her upstairs to the karaoke. The Horseshoe karaoke was legendary, according to her new friend, a petite, dark-haired girl who duly knocked out Joy Division’s ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ to rapturous applause. She sat flicking through the song choices for her own turn but couldn’t take her eyes off the performers: what they lacked in talent, they more than made up for in enthusiasm. Some of them must have spent all week perfecting their routines and the audience went crazy for their dedication to their art. She wa
s going to choose Rihanna’s ‘We Found Love’ but was firmly informed that it was Big Alice’s song and ‘she’d batter you’ if it was sung. She eventually settled on Emeli Sandé’s ‘Where I Sleep’, as no one had laid claim to it, and warbled her way through to big applause for not being good enough to make anyone else look bad.
You know what? This city wasn’t as bad as it liked to make out. It was just a big, fuzzy, tiddly bear and she wasn’t scared of it.
She had to go to the loo and unfortunately was forced to squeeze real tight past a tall, blond-haired guy coming the other way, which was a shame. Not. She looked for him on the way back from the toilets but he seemed to have been swept up in the crowd. On the plus side, there was a guy in skinny jeans and a white shirt who kept looking at her and he had a fab smile. Glasgow was great. Why hadn’t she come here before? The guy in the white shirt had headed downstairs towards the front door, maybe for a cigarette, and on impulse she followed him out.
She eased her way through the crowd, feeling a rush of excitement and wondering what she’d say to the guy when she got out there. Not that it would matter, as long as she said something, then things would go from there. Ah, bollocks! Where the hell was he? Whoa! The fresh air up here must be really fresh. She felt light-headed and the narrow confines of Drury Street spun before her.
Was that him at the end of the street? A white blur walking away under the yellow flame of the street light. Where do you think you’re going, mister? She lurched unsteadily left in the direction he’d gone, wondering why her legs seemed so unreliable but too concerned with the chase to care. At the corner, she emerged onto a street that stretched way up the hill as far as the eye could see and also to the left, where it seemed to turn into a junction with red traffic lights staring back at her. Fuzzy people were nearby, loud, laughing and lairy, argumentative voices and shouts that she couldn’t understand. Across the road and slightly to the left was a lane that sat between a Starbucks on one side and a shop of some kind on the other. She thought she saw the ghost of a white shirt disappearing down the lane and made after it.
A car horn blared behind her and an angry voice shouted something local that she could no longer understand. Maybe there was a tipping point where so much drink meant you could understand the accent, then any more meant that you couldn’t. She crossed the road, hearing another horn beep at her and the screech of brakes on the edge of her consciousness.
She could see only so far down the gloom of the lane but there was the garish glow of neon at the far end, meaning it led to another main street, so she’d be fine. The buildings rose tall on either side, crowding in and suffocating what little light there was. A row of industrial bins were parked to her left but she staggered on by them, conscious of her feet slapping ungracefully against the concrete. There was another sound, too, but she couldn’t quite place it. Like the echo of her footsteps, yet not quite right.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. The lane was narrower, longer and darker than she’d thought. And the lights at the end didn’t seem to be getting any closer. And she wasn’t walking very well. Or thinking very well. Everything was blurred and there was no sign of Mr White Shirt. She stopped, wondering whether to go back, wondering whether she’d find the pub again or her hotel. She’d stopped, but she could still hear her footsteps. How could that be? She turned round and saw the shadows move, a dance in the darkness where the gloom mixed with the murkiness.
She was blinking, trying to make sense of it, when the shadow jumped towards her and there was a hand over her mouth and behind her head. She couldn’t breathe or think or fight and her head spun as she was held tighter and pulled against the wall and into an even darker space. She could hear people laughing, a whole group of them at one end of the lane or the other. She tried to shout, but nothing came out and the cry for help stayed deep inside her. She’d been dizzy and tired but now even more so, sinking, slipping, drowning. She could hear the shadow talking but couldn’t make out the words, just somehow knowing that they weren’t meant for her.
The lane was a river now, a lazy, swirling stream that eddied before her eyes, bathed in the nearing street-light yellow. Nearing. It was getting closer and she looked down to see that she was walking. No, not walking: being half-carried towards the end of the lane, held up by the shadow’s shoulder. She’d been wrong and the shadow was helping her, taking her back to her hotel or to the police. She tried to say thanks but her tongue was made of wool and only lolled around uselessly in her mouth.
She raised her head enough to see that the yellow was close, and more voices were near, too, some of them singing. In her head she sang back but she made no sound. She swayed a little, held up by the shadow as large white faces passed by, laughing at her. There was a new noise, distant but near, emerging through the fog in her head. A roar, then a slam.
They moved forward quickly, she and her shadow, towards something big and white. A van. The door was open. It was her knight’s white charger, come to take her home. There was a push and she went through the open door into the darkness of the van, hitting the floor with her face and nestling there, feeling it cold and comforting against her hot skin. The floor moved beneath her and she could hear her heartbeat as she slipped deeper into the darkness until it was all around her, wrapping her up and smothering her. All she could hear was the roar of blood in her ears and a little voice in her head telling her that the shadow wasn’t taking her home at all. And she knew that her beautiful red coat was going to get dirty lying on the floor of this van.
Chapter 42
Saturday morning
The morning after the Friday night before is usually a time for sore heads and self-recrimination, never-again promises that will never be kept and muddied memories of things that shouldn’t have been said or done. This Saturday morning was different. The first waking thought of those lucky enough to have managed sleep was whether Glasgow was one soul lighter.
It was certainly the question that immediately went through Winter’s mind as he lifted his watch from the bedside cabinet and saw that it was just 6.30. He hadn’t set his alarm, sure that he wouldn’t need one as fitful sleep was always its own wake-up call. Next he grabbed his mobile, but there were no unread texts, no missed calls, just as he knew there wouldn’t be. The first buzz of either, and he’d have been wide awake.
He hit the shower, any thought of going back to sleep easily banished by the not knowing. Still, he was sure he’d have got the call to arrive with his camera if there had been another victim, Alex Shirley having reluctantly lifted his suspension when asking him to speak to Atto. He was back on the inside as well as the outside of this case.
Head raised to the jets that blasted his face, he let the water roll over him and wash away the last vestiges of half-sleep, steeling himself for whatever was out there. No call didn’t mean no body: it meant no body had been found yet. Atto had been certain that the spawn would try again, although even he couldn’t be sure that—
The ringtone from his mobile pierced the shower cabinet and the water flow, causing him to stop and think twice whether he was actually hearing it. He reached up and turned off the water, pushing through the shower door in the same movement and picking up the phone where he’d left it in easy reach on an adjoining shelf. It was Addison.
‘Yeah?’
‘Another one.’
‘Shit!’
‘The Western Necropolis. Uniform found it on a sweep of the cemetery at first light.’
‘What? I thought it was being—’
‘Don’t you fucking start. Just get yourself over there. The place is huge and it’s in a city full of bloody cemeteries. Just shift your arse.’
Addison was gone, the phone left silent in Winter’s dripping hand. He dropped it back onto the shelf and snatched a towel from the rail, rubbing himself dry as quickly as he could before jumping into the first set of clean clothes that he could find. His heart was pounding and he told himself over and over to stay calm and get a grip. Jus
t get moving, just be professional.
He was due to meet with Atto again in just a couple of hours, and his mind was flash-filled with the thought of the man sitting there with that superior, told-you-so look on his face. Winter’s stomach clenched at the image, dreading being there and forced to indulge Atto in his sick self-satisfaction.
The Western Necropolis was up off Maryhill Road near Gilshochill railway station and no more than a ten-minute drive at that time of the morning. Winter pushed the accelerator as far to the floor as he dared, worried less about the certainty of cop cars flying to the scene than he was about his own concentration. Driving with a head full of an unknown young woman, probably strangled, probably raped, didn’t exactly improve his chances of keeping the car on the road.
He wrenched his Civic left just after Jaconelli’s onto Lochburn Road, winding his way past cars coming in the other direction with barely enough room to pass, dipping under the low bridge and racing on into the wilds of Lambhill. Swinging onto Cadder Road and climbing the hill, he punched on the radio and searched for news but got nothing. A couple of minutes later, driving straight across the mini-roundabout onto Tresta Road without thinking, he saw that the news had found him.
As he passed the primary school on his left and the flats on his right, he saw the road ahead packed with the familiar yellow and blue that rarely meant good news. He parked up on the nearest available bit of pavement, throwing the door closed behind him and barely paused to fire the remote to lock the car, running the rest of the way to the cemetery gates with his camera bag banging against his back.
The two cops on duty recognised him and there was no need to bother with the hassle of fishing out his ID, as he rushed straight by them with no more than a nod. He saw more cops up ahead, their garish yellow vests visible in the half-light, and he charged in their direction, wondering if he could have simply driven in but now too late to take the option. The bag weighed heavier with every step, not least because he knew what it was going to be used for.
Witness the Dead Page 27
