Addison allowed himself a mock grin towards Kelbie before answering. ‘We go public. As soon as possible. We get the press boys in and we tell them that we think the killer intends to complete his set and leave a body at the Eastern. It will—’
‘—cause widespread panic?’ Kelbie suggested helpfully.
‘No… It will let everyone in the city, including the bampot we’re after, know that we’re onto him. We let him know that there’s no way he’s getting anywhere near the Eastern and his game is up. We make sure it’s in every newspaper, on every TV station, on every website. He’s been calling all the shots on this up to now and we need to change that.’
Shirley seemed to be mulling it over, so Addison charged on.
‘We need to shake him up. Force him into making a mistake. I’m not pretending I know how the hell his sick mind works but it seems obvious he’s intent on copying the Red Silk murders and that Atto is his focus for that. He’s had a plan; we force him to change it. We seal off the Eastern and manoeuvre him into a place he doesn’t want to be.’
Shirley exhaled heavily. ‘Okay… okay. But we cannot make this look like we’re giving in to the idea of him killing again. Everything has to be geared to stopping him first. Another bloody murder and we’ll all be looking for a new job. Starting with me. But I agree, this might just be enough to put him off the idea of trying. Christ, it better. Stuff my job… I don’t want this on my conscience.’
An awkward silence fell between them, four minds contemplating the consequences of another murder — for the force, for them, for the victim. It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Okay…’ Shirley sighed again. ‘Denny, what’s happening with Winter and Atto?’
Kelbie pulled himself up to his inconsiderable height, glad of the chance to finally take centre stage. ‘Winter’s back there now. He had some kind of spat with Atto earlier and it looked like that was that, but Atto’s called him back in. The bad news is that the press are all over it after last night’s media conference. There’s a pack of them outside Blackridge. No doubt Atto is loving it. I don’t think Winter is, though: the pressure’s getting to him. I’d still rather we had someone else in there, sir. Like a proper police officer.’
Addison and Narey were both about to jump in but Shirley saw the protests coming and dismissed them with a wave of his hand. ‘In many ways I agree with you, Denny, but Atto’s already made it clear he won’t talk to anyone else. We have to trust Winter not to make an arse of this. We need every edge we can get and any bit of info that might tell us who his child is or where he is. We go with Winter; we’ve no choice.’
Kelbie shrugged, obviously unimpressed. ‘Yes, sir. I’ve primed Winter with questions that will hopefully lure Atto into letting information slip. He must know more than he’s telling us about who’s doing this. I’ve also persuaded Tom Walton, the prison governor, to wear a wire so we can hear what’s going on in that interview room as it happens rather than wait till they come out.’
‘What?’ Addison let rip. ‘Even though Atto insisted there would be no live transmission device? And even though he might be our best chance of stopping this guy? And even though it runs the risk of any evidence being inadmissible in court? And even though you didn’t bother getting authorisation for this?’
‘I made a decision because no one else was! And you should remember your place, Inspector!’
‘Enough!’ Shirley’s face had turned a dangerous shade of red. ‘Kelbie, next time, you ask me before you do something like that. Okay?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Addison, you wind your neck in. I don’t want to have to tell you again. I’m not entirely happy about this, but it’s done. Denny, you start worrying if it blows up in our faces. DS Narey, what’s this new information you’ve got?’
The floor being thrown over to her came as a surprise and she’d just as rather it hadn’t happened on the back of Shirley about to blow a gasket. Still, there was no going back. She just had to make it sound more convincing than she believed it to be.
‘Well, you’re going to have to bear with me on this, because it will probably sound a bit flimsy. Particularly to start with.’
She could see Addison blanching and she knew the git would be wondering whether he ought to have dragged her into the meeting on the basis of something she didn’t seem to have much faith in. She’d have been more annoyed at him if she wasn’t wondering the same thing.
‘Okay… so we know that Kirsty McAndrew’s shoes were missing. So was Hannah Healey’s handbag. And a fingernail was ripped off the latest victim, Ashleigh Fleming. I think they were taken by the killer as some kind of memento or trophy. But why those items and not anything else? Why not shoes from both or a bag or whatever? It’s been bugging me for days but I think Atto’s little bombshell yesterday has given us the connection.’
‘Spit it out, then.’ Shirley’s patience was being tested.
‘I went to see Hannah’s mother this morning and she was able to work out which bag Hannah had with her the night she was killed. It was a favourite that her uncle had bought her. A red one.’
Everyone heard the sceptical snort that escaped from Kelbie’s nose but no one responded to it, although Narey made a mental note to make him pay for it one day. She continued, resisting the temptation to glare in his direction.
‘Kirsty had so many pairs of shoes that her parents couldn’t tell us which were missing or which weren’t, but I spoke to two of her friends and they confirmed she was wearing this new pair of shoes when they were all out on the night she was murdered. Ironic, really, as her friends said that she’d kept on about how much she loved those new killer heels. Bright-red killer heels.
‘Ashleigh Fleming’s fingernails, as we know, were bright red. Red Pearl according to the bottle in her bag. And I spoke to the desk staff at her hotel. She was wearing a red coat when she went out on Friday night.’
Alex Shirley’s brows dived sceptically towards his nose. ‘You’re saying that’s why he’s killing them? Because they’re wearing red?’
‘No, sir. I’m not saying that’s why he’s killing them. I’m saying that’s why he’s choosing the ones that he is.’
‘Christ, that’s… insane. And… I suppose possible.’
‘I think it’s more than possible, sir. A red bag. Taken. Red shoes. Taken. A red fingernail. Ripped out. A red coat. Taken. Red lipstick daubed on the victims’ stomachs. Red Silk…’
Shirley rubbed both hands across his face then pushed on upwards through his steel-grey hair. ‘Yes, I can join the dots, Narey, thank you. Oh, for Christ’s sake, as if last night’s press conference wasn’t bad enough. I’m going to look like a right bloody idiot going back on national television telling young women in Glasgow to avoid wearing red.’
‘I’ll do it, sir,’ Kelbie butted in. ‘If it’s going to help ease any—’
‘I’m sure you would, DCI Kelbie, but your selfless offer won’t be necessary. This is my mess and I’ll deal with it. Christ. One of you get me Media Services on the phone and bloody hurry up about it.’
Chapter 48
August 1972
There had been talk about forcing Klass to scrap its Be Red Silk for a Night event on the obvious grounds of bad taste, along with its equally dubious Red Silk Lookalike contest. However, the chief constable was eventually persuaded to let it go ahead on the grounds that it just might lure the killer into the open. Only Geordie Taylor suggested that the killer might actually go and try to win a competition to be the most like himself. Their leads were drying up fast, and they needed to try whatever they could.
Glasgow seemed to have become split into those who thought everything was okay because Red Silk hadn’t struck for three weeks and those who were all the more terrified because he still hadn’t been caught. So, ridiculous as it seemed, he was in the queue to get into the disco with a red silk handkerchief placed in the breast pocket of his lightweight fawn suit. The jacket wouldn’t be on for long, though: t
he temperatures had picked up again and he was beginning to sweat even standing on the stairs, never mind what it would be like in the oven inside.
They all had them, every man in the queue. The snaking line of likely lads with red hankies made a bizarre sight and was causing hilarity verging on hysterics among the girls, particularly those whose nerves were being stretched by the nature of the event. It seemed as if the place had never been busier, the queue extending further down West Nile Street than he’d ever seen it and with more joining its tail all the time. There was no way that they’d all get in, and the bouncers had even more leeway than usual for refusing admittance — and there was no chance of the few blokes without red hankies getting across the door.
He turned and looked down the stairway, telling himself he was looking for someone matching the Red Silk description among a sea of pretenders but knowing that the truth was different. He saw a couple of redheads bobbing here and there but, despite the steep angle of the stairs making it difficult to tell, he didn’t think she was among them. That was good, he told himself: no distractions, no interference, concentrate on the job in hand.
The whole of the Triple D squad were in Klass that night, no time off with the potential consequences of the Red Silk night. Kenny McConville and Sheila Mottram were there posing as a couple; Brian Webster, Colin Black and Alice McCutcheon were singles, working the room and mixing with the crowd. McConville and Mottram had been just a few steps above him in the queue, Kenny slipping his arm round Sheila’s waist and she noticeably squirming with discomfort. Danny knew that McConville was likely to get a slap when the night was over.
Inside, the squad were dotted round the room, rarely in sight of each other because of the mass of humanity that was packed in there. The dance floor was already full and the DJ had the place buzzing even though the night had barely begun. It just contrived to make it still warmer, bodies cranking up the heat on each other, and even the walls were beginning to sweat. The DJ came in at the fade of Badfinger’s ‘Day by Day’ and ventured to pump up the temperatures even further.
‘Awrite there, people. I’m Jumping Jimmy Steele and you are in Klass, the best disco this side of New York City. Look at all youse beautiful men out there. Never seen so many red silk hankies in my puff. Also with us tonight is Mr Malcolm Scobie, the winner of last night’s Red Silk Lookalike competition. Malcolm was so convincing he spent today down at the cop shop helping the polis with their enquiries, but they’ve let him back out for the night. Good to see you, Malky. Okay, guys, mind and keep those red hankies on show ’cos there’s gonna be special prizes afore the night’s out. We’re Klass and it’s all happening here. I’m Jumping Jimmy Steele and this… is Argent with “Hold Your Head Up”.’
The Argent track was less than halfway through when she came in. She seemed to carve a path through the crowds with her friends in her wake, effortlessly making her way to the edge of the dance floor, where she stopped and looked around. He could see her eyes sweeping in his direction and knew she would see him in seconds. He readied himself, smiling the Steve McQueen smile. She saw him and he enjoyed the way that her own smile slowly began to spread across her face. It was the moment he knew he was in trouble.
Jenny turned to her friends and said something that caused them to grin knowingly before she strode onto the dance floor, immediately picking up the rhythm of the song as she walked, her hips swaying provocatively. A voice deep inside him said go, and he was walking almost before he knew it. They met on the floor and were dancing together without a word having been spoken.
She was wearing a red miniskirt, brown calf-length boots and a white halter-neck top showing off her slim, sun-kissed shoulders. Her hair was loose and long, bouncing behind her as she moved, transfixing him. The red tresses danced as she did, bobbing in time to the music thumping out from the DJ’s decks. The room and the dance floor were full of bodies, but he could see only hers.
The song changed, but he was almost unaware of it, conscious only of the way she moved and following her tempo rather than that of the music. They were dancing closer, forced together by the crowd and their instincts. The heat was rising.
Maybe the DJ was a bastard, because he put on an even faster track and the room was on fire, burning bodies moving more quickly, turning, spinning, sweltering. She simply picked up the speed and ran with it, her legs kicking, her arms high and her hips gyrating. The buzz of moving with her was a powerful thing, sizzling in the energy that electrified the room.
After the third song, they moved off the dance floor, over to the side away from where her friends were. He could feel the dampness in the middle of his back where his shirt stuck to it, and his breathing was quick, the heat making him pant like a dog despite his fitness. She seemed unfazed, coolly leaning back against a pillar, her long bare legs crossed at the ankles.
‘Drink?’
‘Good idea.’ She grinned. ‘Take it you can remember what it is?’
‘One martini and lemonade with ice coming up.’
He reluctantly turned away from her and nudged his way through the crowd, tapping shoulders and edging people aside. The queue was three deep, desert-dry mouths aching for refreshment. As he stood and waited his turn, he took the opportunity to glance around, remembering why he was there in the first place. Everywhere he looked, there were red hankies, most being used to wipe perspiring foreheads. Red silk everywhere.
He finally caught the eye of the short balding barman and moments later he had a pint of lager and a tumbler of martini, the ice fighting a losing battle against the heat. Picking them up, he turned back towards the dance floor and straight into a bloke coming the other way. The guy’s elbow caught his pint glass and caused lager to splash onto the floor, making the carpet even stickier than before. They looked at each other for a few moments, a typical Glasgow stand-off with no one wanting to be first to apologise. The man, dressed in a nondescript brown suit with a red hankie peeping out of the breast pocket, was an inch or two shorter than Danny and a good few stone slighter, so you would think there would be no contest if it came to a shoving match. There was an edge to the smaller fellow’s dark eyes, though, something fierce in them under that fringe of mousy brown hair that put Danny on his guard. In this city you quickly learned the difference between height and size.
At once, they both muttered ‘Sorry’ and nodded an acceptance, each edging to the side to let the other through. Danny scooped a gulp of his lager, groaning slightly at the realisation that it had already gone warm, and took the drinks over to where Jenny was waiting. Halfway there, he spun on his heels and looked back at the bloke at the bar, seeing him turn at the same time, and they locked eyes before the barman brought a pint of heavy to the counter and called for the other guy’s attention.
‘Who was that?’ Jenny asked.
Danny shrugged. ‘Just some punter. He knocked my glass but it was my fault. No big deal.’
‘He better watch himself,’ she laughed. ‘He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. You being Red Silk and all.’
‘Ha ha. Very funny. Be bad news for you if I was Red Silk. You’d be on dangerous ground right now.’
She was close to him now. Very close. He could smell her skin and see the faint sheen on her forehead.
‘Maybe I like being on dangerous ground.’ She looked him straight in the eye, daring him to doubt what she meant. ‘Maybe playing dangerous games is what I do.’
This was the point and he knew it. The point where he had to back away. ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of danger,’ he heard himself saying.
‘Talk’s cheap,’ she teased. ‘I think you’re all talk, Danny Neilson.’
‘Try me.’ The words that came out of his mouth were not the same ones he was trying to convince himself of in his head.
She smiled broadly, white teeth shining in the neon gloom of Klass, her red hair glossy under the glitter ball. ‘Maybe I will. If you’re not chicken.’
He hesitated, fighting the last round with his co
nscience but aware that he was hurtling downhill with the brakes off. ‘Like I said, try me.’
Her nose was all but touching his, her breath hot on his cheek as she leaned in to whisper. ‘It’s very, very hot in here. Funny, but the coolest place in here is the ladies’ toilets. Not that I can speak for the gents’, obviously.’
Her lips scraped against his ear as she spoke, the feeling rocketing through his body, causing his pulse to quicken and his blood to pump furiously. ‘Is that right?’ was all he could manage to say.
‘It is right.’ Her lips were kissing the very tip of his ear, the merest touch at every syllable. The merest explosion as they did so. She pulled back enough that she could look him in the eyes, teasing, daring, challenging. He swallowed hard despite himself and she leaned in again. ‘The band will be on in a minute. Very popular the Sweet are. Everyone will be standing on that dance floor watching. Probably even the bouncers.’
With that she let the wetness of her lips catch against his ear slightly more firmly before pulling back, her eyebrows raised questioningly. ‘I’m going to the toilet. I’ll probably still be in there when the band comes on.’
She walked backwards for a few steps, her eyes never leaving his and the teasing smile never leaving her lips until she turned and disappeared into the crowd. He stood, his heart pounding, a slight tremble in his legs. The hill that he was racing down had just become even steeper. Behind him, he could vaguely hear the booming voice of the DJ cutting through the fade of the last song.
‘Awrite there, people. I’m Jumping Jimmy Steele and you are in Klass, the best and hottest disco this side of New York City. Are youse having fun? I said are youse having fun? That’s better. Okay, here’s the moment youse have all been waiting for. They’ve had three top-twenty singles and they’re at number four in the charts this very week with “Little Willy”. Their lead singer is Glasgow’s very own Brian Connolly and they are here to rock the house tonight. Let’s hear it for one of the best glam bands in the business. Give up a huge Klass welcome for… the Sweet!’
Witness the Dead Page 31
