The conference started at twelve o'clock. Six people sat round the lightweight tables which had been 'liberated' from other rooms. Donoghue and Sussock sat on one side, Detective-Constables King and Montgomerie sat facing them, at the bottom of the table taking the minutes was WPC Willems. At the head of the table sat Chief Superintendent Findlater. Chief Super Findlater was 'the chair. In front of each officer was a file containing reports and all known facts about the stabbings of Patrick Duffy and Lynn McLeod. At 12.01 heads were bowed as the officers read over the reports. WPC Willems sat at the bottom of the table, notebook open and pen poised. At 12.10 only DC Montgomerie's head was still bowed and then he too looked up and sat back. Findlater cleared his throat. He was a bald-headed man who, even for a policeman, had an impressive bulk.
'Can we,' he said, in a rich Highland accent, 'formally convene the conference to discuss the murders of Patrick Duffy and Lynn McLeod on the night of 16th and 17th January respectively and which both took place in the vicinity of Argyle Street, Glasgow.'
WPC Willems put pen to paper.
'DC King has a verbal contribution to add to the report, sir,' said Donoghue.
'Yes, sir,' King sat forward and shuffled in his seat. He was twenty-five, bearded, had barely made the 5ft 8ins minimum height requirement and had never really lost his puppy fat. His voice wavered slightly as he spoke. 'I visited the home of Lynn McLeod this morning and took Mr McLeod to the mortuary to identify the deceased. He made a positive identification. I've only just returned so I haven't had time to write up the report.'
'All right, all right,' said Findlater.
'When I was at the house there were quite a few people there all milling round. By all accounts she was a rare lassie, no enemies, well liked.'
'They always are,' grunted Findlater, studying the table top.
'Universal opinion was that no one had any reason for doing her in. The priest was there and he reckoned she was the last person he thought would be murdered. She was a quiet lassie, took a drink but not much, didn't bother with the dancin'. She was studying Highers in the evening because she wanted to go to the University. She was mad keen to learn Russian, sort of obsessed with it. She had a boyfriend.'
'Oh?' Donoghue took his pipe from his mouth.
Findlater stopped studying the table top. 'Yes sir, he wasn't at the house. They thought he was in England somewhere. They were quite close but her parents raised every objection in the book.'
'Colour of his hair?' asked Donoghue.
'Ginger.'
'Good,' said Findlater. 'We have a suspect. Mark that down for action please, Constable. Do you know where in England he is?'
'No, sir, but I have his home address.'
'All right, we'll come back to him. Is that all, King?'
'Not quite, sir,' said King apologetically. 'After her father had identified the body I brought him back to the station to pick up her things.' Findlater glanced at Donoghue.
'It's all right, sir,' Donoghue said calmly. 'We examined her possessions. They didn't yield anything.'
'That's not quite correct, sir,' said King. 'Mr McLeod went through the articles in her handbag; he was still in a state of shock, not checking that everything was there you see; he couldn't have known whether everything was there anyway…'
'Get to the point.' Donoghue was gripping the bowl of his pipe.
'Sir, in the handbag, crushed into a corner at the bottom, she had one of these bags that was more like a message bag, a canvas thing it was—still is; well, there was a small piece of paper crushed into the corner. There was blood on the paper and some writing.'
'Where is this paper now?' Findlater had leaned forward while King was talking and now eyed the young man coldly.
'At the lab, sir. I asked for the blood group to be identified and for any dabs, prints, to be lifted. I've asked for the results to be sent here, sir, even if it means interrupting the conference.'
'Good man. What was written on the paper?'
King took his notebook from his pocket and consulted it. He knew from memory what was on the screwed-up piece of paper the numbed father had pulled from the depths of his late daughter's handbag, but he also realized that a conference likes to see a stamp of authenticity and so flipped over the pages of his book. Then he said, '"This is for Lissu."'
'Let me see.' Findlater extended a large, fleshy hand. King passed the notebook to Montgomerie, who passed it to Findlater.
'"This is for Lissu",' said 'the chair', more to himself than the conference. Findlater handed the notebook on to Donoghue and Sussock. It was then passed to Willems, who copied the spelling of 'Lissu'. King took the book back and pocketed it.
'Comments?' said Findlater.
'I take it that Lissu doesn't mean anything to anybody here?' asked Sussock. There was a shaking of heads.
'What does it mean?' said Sussock. 'Lissu. Is it a movement, some organization, are these sectarian killings?'
'I hardly think so,' said Findlater.
'Is Lissu a person? Some kind of nickname?' Sussock appealed to the conference.
'Perhaps,' said Montgomerie leaning forward. 'We should start with what we know.' Donoghue grunted and lit his pipe.
'We believe the murders were committed by the same person. The method of attack, the weapon, and the hairs and the fingernails confirm that as near as damn.'
'They confirm it absolutely,' said Findlater.
'Very well. We know that the murderer had light-coloured hair and we know his blood group.'
'He is a male,' said Sussock, glancing quickly at Constable Willems.
'Do we know anything else?' asked Findlater. There was a silence, a looking at the table top, and a slow shaking of heads. 'So we are now left with the dangerous game of conjecture. Comments, please.'
'If we can establish a link between Duffy and the McLeod woman,' said King, 'that may help. We need to know more about both of them.'
Donoghue nodded.
'Any reaction from the press release?' asked Findlater.
'None,' said Sussock. 'It's a little early, though. I am also having a limited number of posters run up for distribution to libraries, bus and rail stations and the like.'
'There's the possibility that one was murdered for a reason, a premeditated murder, and the other as a decoy,' suggested Montgomerie. 'You know, to camouflage the intended murder.'
'It's a possibility,' said Sussock.
'It's a double-edged weapon.' Donoghue took his pipe from his mouth and knocked it gently on the ashtray. 'It can work just as effectively against the murderer as it can for him; twice the possibility of detection. I also think it's unlikely to be used by someone who chooses such a messy and dangerous—dangerous for himself—method of attacking his victim. Decoy murders are committed by people who don't like to get too near their victims; poisoners, shooters, people like that. Our man gets into a scrap with his victims.'
'Do we know why the McLeod woman was walking late in the city? It sounds a bit out of character for her.' Findlater looked at King.
'A drink after the office closed, sir,' said King. 'She phoned her parents' neighbours and said the girls were going for a bevvy to celebrate one of them getting hitched. She went along to be sociable. Had a couple of vodkas and went on to the grapefruit juice. When the bar closed they went back to one of the girls' flats for coffee and she was walking home back through town, either to get the 2 a.m. No. 41 to Easterhouse, or more likely get a taxi.'
'When did you find that out?'
'This morning, talking to the girls she went out with.'
'Very well. For someone to kill Lynn McLeod for any reason, as yet unknown, they would have to know when and by what route she would be walking back to the city centre. How many people could have known that?'
'None, sir,' said King. 'So far as I can tell. Only four girls went back for coffee and Lynn McLeod was the first to leave. She also took an unlikely route to the city centre. The flat they went to was just below the Mitchell Librar
y. Most women and a lot of men would have stuck to the bright lights and turned right at Charing Cross and walked up Sauchiehall Street. She must have taken the earlier right turn and walked up by the Anderson Centre. It's a bit gloomy at night there, sir.'
'I think we can assume somebody chanced upon her,' said Findlater. 'I don't think she was deliberately ambushed. And that leaves us with Duffy. I can't see anybody wanting to do in a man who led such a life as he, no matter what he might have done in the past.'
'We don't have a motive,' said Montgomerie. 'That's what we are saying. There's no reason, so far as we can see, why Duffy was killed, and the two most common motives for attacks against women, sexual and financial, are not present in this case.'
Donoghue cleared his throat. He had a pipe-smoker's cough. It wasn't the deep, lung-shaking cough suffered by cigarette smokers, it was a shallow cough clearing an irritation at the back of the throat, and Donoghue used it to effect, this time to claim the floor; 'Good point, Montgomerie,' he said. 'I think I want to echo that by sharing my feelings about these murders, but I hasten to add that I appreciate it is pure speculation. Montgomerie is right, the lack of motive is significant. I don't think we can discount the possibility that we have on our hands a person who is killing for the sake of killing; someone who is criminally deranged.'
Sussock said, 'God in Heaven' and Willems, who had no right of access to the conference, groaned loudly. The others sat in shocked silence.
'I appreciate,' said Donoghue, feeling he had to break the silence, 'that it's too early to say yet, but in the absence of other indications, I think it's the most likely possibility.'
'As you say,' said Findlater, 'It's too early to tell. But I am inclined to agree it's a possibility. Comments?'
There were none. The conference was still in shock.
'Very well,' said Findlater. 'Let's see what we have. Not a lot, according to my notes. For action, investigate Lynn McLeod's man-friend, and find out more about Patrick Duffy, though after Inspector Donoghue's contribution I think anything we find may be red herrings, but we can't take chances.' He paused. 'We'll assume a routine murder enquiry until we are forced to accept the Inspector's theory. The Inspector will co-ordinate the enquiries.'
Donoghue said, 'Thank you, sir.'
'Sergeant Sussock and Detective-Constables King and Montgomerie will be in support. I reserve the right to assume command at any time and without notice.'
WPC Willems scribbled furiously.
'We'll need an incident room, Inspector.'
'I'll commandeer this very room, sir. I'll arrange for a direct telephone line…'
There was a knock at the door. Willems glanced at Findlater, who nodded. She rose and crossed the floor to the door, opened it, and took the envelope which was handed to her. Sussock watched her closely. Her hair was done in a tight bun, she wore an unflattering black dress which hung below her knees, dark tights and flat shoes, yet she still managed to look attractive. She handed the envelope to Findlater, who tore it open and studied the contents.
'It's the lab report on the piece of paper found in the McLeod woman's handbag,' he announced. 'No prints. Bloodstain is AB-positive.' He glanced at the file in front of him, 'It's the girl's blood. They photocopied the piece of paper. You didn't say that "This is for Lissu" was typewritten, King.'
'An oversight,' said King. 'I'm sorry.'
'That's an understatement if ever I heard one,' said Findlater dryly. 'Oversight, you say. Didn't you see the significance of this? It gives an indication of the coldness with which this attack was planned. It virtually confirms the Inspector's theory. Thoroughness, King, thoroughness in all things. Have a look at PC Hamilton's report. That's the sort of reportage I want.'
King had his own opinion of Hamilton's reports; juvenile, he thought, would be a kind description. 'Yes, sir,' he said.
'Where were we?'
'Conclusions, sir,' said Donoghue. 'I'll arrange a telephone line to be installed, probably more than one in fact, and it will be manned round the clock.'
'Good. At the moment Lynn McLeod's man-friend is our No.l suspect. Find him and bring him in for questioning. We'll assume the psychopath theory to be correct in the event of a third body. Christ, I hope you are wrong, Inspector; it will knock this city sideways. Try to find out what "Lissu" means.'
'I have increased the foot patrols in the centre of the city,' said Donoghue.
'Good. I'll take a verbal report from you at four thirty each afternoon, Inspector. I hope to God you are wrong.'
'So do I,' said Donoghue.
Findlater rose, and the rest of the conference did likewise. They left one by one, save for Sussock and WPC Willems. Sussock smiled at her, then he too left the room, leaving the tall girl to collect the files and write up the minutes.
The murderer got into the lift. He was glad it was empty. The steel doors closed, and he smiled at the womb-like sanctity of the box as it carried him upwards. He left the lift at the fourth floor and took the stairs to the seventh. He pressed the button marked 'For Attention'.
A young woman with short hair, in a red dress, gave him a proposal form and helped him complete it. She asked him to take a seat, and walked away with the form.
He noticed she had long fingers. Not stubby like his own, but long, and they spread over the paper like a bird's foot. In the corridor where he sat two men were standing, talking. One said, the accident had happened a year ago and this is them giving out the money only now. The other man said, they are not so slow to take the money.
The woman came back and sat next to him. She smelt of scent—he thought it must be scent, he didn't know that much about it, but whatever it was it was nice.
'I've spoken to Mr Young,' she said in a whisper, 'and he says it's necessary for you to have a medical before we can approve the policy. We can arrange one for you.'
The murderer stood and walked slowly towards the lift-shaft, leaving the girl in the red dress sitting on the seat, watching him go, and thinking what a lousy job she had. He took the lift to the ground floor and walked on to the pavement and became one of the crowd.
The man was dressed in slacks, slippers, and a vest with a hole in the front. He held the door wide and surveyed King suspiciously. King wondered if the man felt cold. If he did, he was showing no sign of it.
'It's about Tommy, y'say?' said the man. King nodded.
'You've identification?' King took his card out and showed it to the man. The man had an eagle tattooed on his left forearm, his hair was thinning and his stomach distended. He stepped aside and showed King into the living-room.
In the corner of the living-room was a bed; in the bed was a silver-haired woman with a pale, drawn face. The woman raised her head and glowered at King and let it sink back again on to the pillow. There was a chair in the room, and a table, on which was an ashtray full of stubs. On the wall was a photograph of soldiers in dress uniforms. In the fire grate two wooden chair legs were burning, the small flames blistering the varnish but giving little heat. King suspected the couple had been subject to a warrant sale, All in Accordance with the Debtors (Scotland) Act, 1832.
"It's the police, hen,' said the man. 'About Tommy.'
'There's more trouble,' said the woman in a thin, cracked voice, and looked constantly at the ceiling.
'The wife's no' well,' said the man. 'Is Tommy in trouble again?'
'We don't know,' said King. 'We'd like to trace him.'
'Is it about Lynn?' said the woman from the bed.
'Yes,' replied King. 'We would like to talk to Tommy about Lynn.'
'You don't think he did it?' asked the man. There was a note of alarm in his voice. 'Tommy's been in trouble before, but that was years back.'
'Breach of the Peace and Assault. Four convictions,' said King, who had checked the records before driving out to Easterhouse. 'Last conviction was two years ago; he drew three months' Borstal training.'
'Aye, no bother since then, and not since he was going with Lynn. He
's calmed down and been looking for work.'
King said it wasn't easy, there was not a lot of work about. Then he shivered despite being dressed and indoors, and he wondered again at the man's state of undress. He asked how long Tommy and Lynn had known each other.
'Eighteen months. They met the summer before last. She was a fine lassie. Her parents didn't like Tommy, didn't think he was good enough, I suppose, but she went with him anyway. Strong-minded lassie, and the change in Tommy, he wouldn't do anything to harm her. I don't think he knows she's dead—he couldn't, we only just heard from them across the stairs. I wrote him a letter, I only posted it a few minutes ago, just before you came, sir.'
King hated being called 'sir' by working-class men who were old enough to be his father. 'He is a violent boy,' he said.
'Aye, he's a big lad, and he likes a fight. But not lately. Not since he met Lynn. He's on the way up, he'll be brand new when he gets settled. I don't know how he'll take it about Lynn. She was a fine lassie.'
'Where is he?'
'Corby. He's staying with my brother. He's looking for work and was to be sending for Lynn when he was fixed up.'
'They'd've been married,' said the woman from the bed. King thought the woman was dying. He didn't want to enquire after her health. 'How long has he been down there?'
'He took the bus just after Hogmanay.'
'He's not been back since?'
'No, sir.' King winced.
'We've got a card to say he'd arrived, but nothing since. Tommy never was a great letter-writer. Where's the card, hen—in the drawer isn't it?' The man left the room and returned a few seconds later holding a picture postcard of Corby Town Centre. He handed the card to King. It was postmarked, 'Corby, January 5th' and Tommy Ferguson had written, 'Got here okay. Staying with Uncle David. Will look for work tomorrow. Love, Tommy.'
Deep and Crisp and Even Page 3
