One Last Dram Before Midnight

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Well, a couple of things of interest, sir. One especially so, I think.’ He handed the Cool Winds Sauna business card to the detective and told him about Hunter and his involvement with Tracey Greene. He also mentioned the young woman who had seen Greene with a middle-aged man with grey hair.

  ‘Well done, son,’ said Burns, taking a long draw of his cigarette, filling the room with pungent blue smoke. Daley noticed Scott looking on enviously. ‘It’s been a busy night and we’re short on manpower, so I want you to help me out, Constable Daley. You don’t look as though you’re quite ready for your bed yet.’

  Daley’s knee-jerk response was to say that he was tired and had to go back on nightshift later, but he stopped the words in his mouth. When he’d joined up, his aim had been to find a berth in the CID after his probationary period was over. It would be stupid to turn down the opportunity of working with them now.

  ‘Yes, sir, no problem,’ he said. ‘Tonight’s my last nightshift anyhow. I’m on re-roster rest days, so I’m fine.’

  ‘OK, I want you and Miss Moneypenny here to get yourselves down to that sauna. I want to know everything there is to know about this lassie and her clients.’ He turned to Scott. ‘Don’t be frightened to heavy them, Brian. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Scott, leaving Daley wondering what exactly ‘heavying them’ might consist of.

  ‘When you’re done there, get down to the mortuary. Crichton’s doing me a favour later with an early PM on Greene. I want to see if there’s a material connection between her and the other two girls.’

  The two young policemen were about to leave when Burns spoke again. ‘Daley, I hope you’ve got some civvies to hand. One look at a uniform, and these bastards in the sauna will shut up shop or do a runner. Get yourself changed. You keep him right, Brian.’

  Luckily, Daley kept jeans, a sweatshirt and a pair of trainers in his locker, just in case he went out straight after work. He accepted Scott’s offer of a cigarette as they drove down Hope Street in an unmarked Vauxhall Cavalier, past a huge billboard advertising a gig in the city by new wave band Sigue Sigue Sputnik.

  ‘First time on the cloth?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Daley. ‘It’s quite strange being in my own clothes but still on duty.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it . . . Oh, would you look at that,’ Scott continued, eyeing an attractive blonde woman who was crossing the road in front of them.

  ‘Aren’t you married?’ asked Daley.

  ‘Aye, but there’s nae harm in having a wee look now and again, is there? A’right, darling,’ he shouted from the open window.

  Something told Jim Daley that DC Scott was not overly burdened by concerns over Force Standing Orders. He smiled and shook his head. There was something disarming about the young detective.

  ‘You fae the toon?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Yup, South Side. You?’

  ‘East End, my friend.’

  ‘Not many cops from the East End.’

  ‘Naw, maist o’ the lads I went tae school with are working for the other side, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Isn’t that hard for you?’

  ‘Aye, sometimes. I don’t go oot wae my schoolfriends for a drink very often. But on the bright side, I can always catch up wae them at Barlinnie, where they a’ end up eventually.’

  ‘Don’t you get a hard time?’

  ‘No, no’ really. As long as I don’t grass them up, we’re fine.’

  ‘But that’s your job, isn’t it?’

  ‘Let’s just say that the situation hasn’t come up yet. I know fine it will, but hey, what’s the point o’ worrying aboot something that hasn’t happened? If I’m honest, I’m no’ sure that me being in the CID has nothing tae dae with my background. Burns is a canny bugger – he knows the kind of folk I grew up with. Bit of inside knowledge goes a long way, eh?’

  They turned onto Clyde Street, and drove alongside the great river that had made the city’s fortunes. Daley looked at the river and the run-down warehouses and derelict buildings that flanked it. The council had promised to transform this city into a European cultural centre. Daley wondered if this would – could – ever happen.

  The Cool Winds Sauna was located at the end of a lane behind a discount carpet warehouse.

  ‘Hey,’ said Scott, ‘this used tae be a Chinese restaurant. Me and the boys used tae come here and get pished when we were fifteen. Spend two quid on your dinner and a fiver getting oot your heid.’

  ‘I take it the owners didn’t bother?’

  ‘Naw, why should they? They sold us cheap wine and cider at a huge mark-up, and we weren’t any bother – knew where oor bread was buttered. Safe, tae – the cops check the pubs for underage drinkers, but they’re no’ bothered aboot a backstreet Chinese. Funny seeing the place again.’

  Daley smiled at the way Scott referred to ‘the cops’, as though he wasn’t part of it all.

  The sauna had blackened windows and heavy doors. Scott tried them, but they were firmly locked. On his right, a white intercom was attached to the door frame.

  ‘Anybody in?’ shouted Scott, pressing the buzzer.

  After a few seconds there was a muffled reply from someone for whom English was most certainly a second language. ‘We no’ open. Come back for jiggy later.’

  Daley waited for Scott to announce his credentials, but he didn’t. ‘Aw, come on, mate. Our girlfriends are away shopping. We’ve only got an hour. We’ll pay you good money.’ He produced a twenty-pound note from his pocket and waved it at the CCTV camera above the door.

  There was a pause for a few moments, then the clunk of heavy bolts being released, and the door swung open to reveal a swarthy man with dark curly hair and a thick moustache. He was wearing an open-necked shirt with a gold medallion nestling in his hairy chest.

  ‘Fuck me, it’s Graeme Souness,’ said Scott.

  ‘Too early,’ said the man, in what Daley thought was either a Greek or Turkish accent. ‘We only have the one lady. So you can have her same time, or one after one, OK? Money up front, mister,’ he added, holding out his hand.

  ‘We’ll need to see her first,’ replied Scott.

  Reluctantly, the man opened the door and admitted them to the premises. They were led along a dark corridor, which opened out into a room with a reception desk. Pictures of naked women in various poses adorned the wall, and the lighting was low. A radio was playing somewhere in the back, and the air was heavy with cheap perfume.

  ‘You pay half now, you see girl,’ said the man, standing by the reception desk.

  ‘No,’ said Scott, brandishing his warrant card. ‘You help us, or I close this place down and you go tae prison, amigo.’ He was speaking loudly and slowly, as though this guaranteed he would be understood.

  Suddenly, the man’s hand jerked behind the counter and a short baseball bat swung through the air. Scott neatly sidestepped the blow, and caught the man in the back with a rabbit punch to the kidneys. As his attacker doubled over in pain, Scott brought the man’s chin down on his raised knee, and the man fell to the floor whimpering.

  ‘Now, you be a good boy and listen tae me. My friend here is going tae show you a photograph of a lassie that used tae work for you. I want tae know everything about her, you understand?’ he said menacingly, his face red and aggressive, all sign of good humour gone. He hauled the brothel keeper up, and propped him up against the reception desk.

  ‘Right, Jimmy, tell the man aboot Tracey Greene.’

  Daley hesitated for a moment. He had seen plenty of violence in his short spell in the police – he’d been attacked himself – but for some reason he was shocked by the casual way Scott had subdued his victim. He remembered DCI Burns’ ‘heavy him’ comment.

  ‘Do you know this woman?’ asked Daley, showing him a picture of Tracey Greene.

  ‘No! I no’ know this woman,’ he replied.

  Scott grabbed the baseball bat and ran it along a row of drinking glasses on a sh
elf behind the reception, sending them crashing to the floor. ‘That’s just for starters,’ he said calmly.

  ‘OK, OK! She Tracey, junkie. We fire her months ago.’

  ‘And her clients?’ asked Daley. ‘We want to know about her clients, especially the one who hurt her. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘I thought you guys were Muslims,’ said Scott, holding up a string of pink balls, each one slightly smaller than the next.

  ‘I am Muslim,’ replied the man.

  ‘Oh, right, so yous dae the rosary, tae.’

  ‘What is rosary? Those are Chinese balls, put them up . . .’

  ‘Enough!’ exclaimed Daley. ‘Tell me about the man who hurt Tracey Greene when she worked here.’

  The brothel keeper sank to his knees, his head forward. ‘I can no’ tell you. I have family.’ He began to cry.

  Daley looked at Scott, who was sniffing at the pink ball necklace with a confused look on his face.

  ‘Listen. No, you’re right. I tell you what, Mr . . . What’s your name?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Suleiman, my name is Jat Suleiman.’

  ‘Right, Jat, here’s the deal,’ said Scott, placing the balls down on the counter. ‘You don’t need to say anything. I’ll make sure policeman standing here at your door all night, OK? No business.’

  ‘No! No, you don’t understand. We have private client. They no’ like me telling you these things.’

  ‘Here’s my card, Jat. Just you call when you want the policeman to go. Come on, Jim,’ said Scott.

  They left Jat Suleiman crying on the floor.

  Daley blinked in the sunshine as they got back into the car. ‘Do you think he’ll come round?’

  ‘Oh aye, he will eventually. A few hours wae nae punters ’cause a cop’s standing at the front door will be enough for him tae come a-running.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Still, didnae think that mob used rosary beads.’

  ‘Like he said, that’s not what they were,’replied Daley.

  ‘Hell of a funny-looking necklace, anyway.’

  ‘No, not a necklace.’ Daley pointed to his lap.

  ‘What! You’re kidding. Dae you really mean that?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Mingers! I want tae go and wash my hands. I thought they smelled funny,’ said Scott, a look of horror on his face. ‘Dirty bastards.’

  VI

  Jim Daley was dreading the visit to the mortuary. His first time there had been during training, and for the young constable, it had been the hardest part of his induction into being a police officer. The place stank – the cloying stench of death. He remembered feeling the bile rise in his throat as a body was efficiently eviscerated by a pathologist. Around him, fellow trainees had made their excuses and left the room, or simply collapsed. He had been determined that he would carry on until the end. However, when a diseased liver, swollen, green and suppurating, was removed from the body, Daley couldn’t take any more. He’d rushed from the room and been violently sick.

  The moment the CID car drew up at the door of Glasgow City Mortuary he could feel his stomach lurch.

  ‘I wonder if the gaffer’s right?’ said DC Scott, getting out of the Cavalier and lighting a cigarette. ‘Hey, are you wanting one?’ he added, offering the open packet to Daley.

  ‘No, you’re all right. This isn’t my favourite part of the job, Brian.’

  ‘Och aye, I know what you mean. I just let it go over my head. Just imagine it’s a piece o’ meat. That’s the advice I got at the start – worked a treat. I tell you, though, if these lassies have been killed using the same MO, then we’ve got a serial killer on oor hands.’

  ‘We’ll soon find out,’ said Daley, staring at the red-bricked building.

  Scott inhaled the last of his cigarette, then stubbed it out on the pavement with the toe of his shoe. ‘Aye, here goes, Jimmy,’ he said, pushing the heavy glass door open. As he did so, the sickly-sweet smell of decay assaulted Daley’s senses once more. He gritted his teeth and followed the detective.

  A man smoking a pipe approached them. He was of average height with unruly dark hair receding at the temples and bushy sideburns that spoke of a style long out of fashion. He had a friendly face, and a slightly distracted manner.

  ‘Ah, DC Scott, isn’t it?’ he said, sending a plume of blue pipe smoke into the fetid air. ‘DCI Burns said you were on your way. And this young man is . . . ?’

  ‘PC Daley, Mr Crichton,’ replied Scott, gesturing towards his colleague. ‘Aide tae CID, at the moment. Couldn’t afford a suit.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, young man,’ said Crichton, shaking Daley by the hand. ‘Embarking on a career as a detective – most commendable. You’ll have to get used to this place, I’m afraid.’ He smiled warmly. ‘Follow me, gents. I’ll need to get scrubbed up.’ He ushered the police officers into the examination room.

  A body lay covered on a metal gurney, under an array of lights, similar to the set-up in an operating theatre. A mortuary assistant removed the cover, as the bright lights flickered into life over the corpse of Tracey Greene.

  ‘I’ve done as DCI Burns asked,’ said Crichton. ‘Managed to get a bit ahead of myself, this morning, so I can show you what’s what.’

  Daley stared down at the remains of the young woman. She was skin and bone; her ribs were showing, breasts barely visible, and her hip bones looked as though they would pierce her flesh. It was easy to imagine the skeleton beneath. Her face was waxen, eyes staring into space. A thick dark gash, running from her chin to her genitals, had been cut, then resewn with thick black thread in a criss-cross pattern. It was the same pattern in which he laced up his football boots, Daley thought.

  As he looked down on the scene, he felt his head swim. The woman looked even more pathetic lying here on the gurney, all dignity removed, under the glare of strangers, than she had lying in the spartan flat that had been her home.

  ‘Now, can I draw your attention to the bruising here and here,’ said Crichton. ‘I know it’s difficult to see, given the pallor of the corpse, but I would say she’s been restrained somehow – perhaps handcuffed, or tied up. The trauma to her wrists and ankles match up, so restrained hand and foot,’ he relayed in an even tone.

  ‘She had sex – both vaginal and anal – in the few hours before death. I’ve taken samples of semen for analysis. Suffice it to say, though, that it looks as though she’s been pretty badly treated – not just in the last moments of her life, but in the weeks, perhaps months, prior to her death. There is extensive, more mature bruising, and three of her ribs have been cracked in the recent past. She has two distinctive burns to her buttocks, probably caused by a cigarette, or more likely a cigar, given the circumference of the burn, being applied to the skin.’

  ‘What about the cause of death?’ asked Scott, casually placing a stick of chewing gum in his mouth, much to Daley’s disgust.

  ‘That’s where it gets interesting,’ said Crichton. ‘Her veins have collapsed in the normal way, due to the misuse of intravenous injection – common enough. Ostensibly, it would appear as though she administered her last fix with an injection to the groin – we recovered the syringe DCI Burns spotted, which had been filled with a heroin-based solution – but it wasn’t enough to kill her, in my view.’

  ‘So how, then?’ asked Scott, looking puzzled.

  ‘Here.’ Crichton lifted the dead woman’s right arm. ‘Look here, just below her armpit. Can you see a small discolouration?’

  Scott leaned forward and peered at the corpse, still chewing enthusiastically. ‘Aye, a wee purple bruise.’

  ‘Yes. Exactly right, DC Scott. This is the mark of another injection of heroin. Because we have a bruise, we can be sure that it happened prior to death, but not long before.’

  ‘So she injected herself with the drug twice. A suicide?’ asked Daley.

  ‘No. It couldn’t be suicide. I’ve calculated the strength of the second injection into her groin by studying the remnant of the drug on the sides of the syrin
ge. It was a hefty dose, but not enough to kill her. In any event, given the injection of the drug, only a few minutes before into a serviceable vein in her armpit, she couldn’t possibly have retained the dexterity to administer the second dose.’

  ‘So the injection into her groin was done by someone else?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Almost certainly. I’ve looked at the crime scene shots. It’s obvious by the way her skirt was pulled up, and her right hand placed on her thigh, that we were expected to conclude that she had injected herself. However, the fatal injection to the groin was administered by someone else.’

  ‘So, the same as the other two girls, Mr Crichton?’ asked Scott.

  ‘In a nutshell, yes.’

  ‘There goes my weekend off,’ said Scott ruefully.

  ‘Indeed. And the collective weekends of many of your colleagues, I shouldn’t wonder. We have a serial killer of prostitutes on the streets of our fine city,’ opined the pathologist. ‘Are you feeling all right, Constable Daley?’

  Not waiting to reply, Daley rushed from the examination room, hand clamped over his mouth.

  VII

  During the short train journey to Paisley, Daley looked around the carriage. Two old men were swapping opinions about football; five teenage girls, all dressed in the same school uniform, giggled as they looked at a copy of Smash Hits with a picture of George Michael on the cover; and a young mother looked wearily out of the window, gently rocking a sleeping baby in her arms. A spotty youth was listening to a Walkman, doing his best to avoid any eye contact with his fellow passengers.

  Daley had no idea what they had been doing prior to catching the train, but he was pretty sure that they hadn’t been staring at an eviscerated dead girl on a metal gurney. He sniffed at his sleeve; the smell of death would be his close companion for the next few days. He knew that, no matter how much he showered, no matter how much deodorant he applied, or Jovan Musk Oil he plastered across his face, the smell would linger.

  As he set his alarm for seven thirty, he knew he wouldn’t need it. For Constable Jim Daley, sleep would not come. At six o’clock, he gave up, went to buy a fish supper, and got ready for the nightshift.