Deep and Crisp and Even

by Peter Turnbull

  'It's vital that we trace this man before he can kill again. We appeal for anyone who knows of a man fitting this description or who saw anything suspicious in the early hours of the morning in central Glasgow on the nights of the sixteenth and seventeenth of this month, or in the West End on the night of the seventeenth, or early morning on the eighteenth, to come forward without delay. Any information will be treated in the strictest confidence.' He didn't think about the last sentence, it came automatically, as if from one of the dozen recording machines which whirred in front of him. Each reporter shot his hand towards the ceiling as Donoghue stopped talking. Left to right, he thought, and nodded to a young man with a beard and an expensive taste in sports jackets.

  'Sir,' said the reporter, 'The murders are taking place with extraordinary rapidity; isn't that out of character for a psychopathic mind?'

  Two of the reporters turned to each other and smiled, thinking, probably, that it was a stupid question. Donoghue couldn't see the point of the question, unless the hack was questioning his ability as a policeman and accusing him of using the psychopath theory as an excuse for not doing any detective work. He was momentarily angered, but saw a way to capitalize on it.

  'I don't know—is it? I'm not a medical man. We know that the same man has killed three people, leading completely separate lives, in the last three nights. If the pattern is continued he will kill again tonight. The significance of this is that there is more pressure on us all to catch this man than there would be if he was killing once every six months. Next man.'

  'Sir, what advice can you give to people to ensure their own safety?'

  That was more like it.

  'First, never go anywhere alone if it can be helped. Try not to be out late at night, try to be in by midnight, report anything suspicious. Don't assume you're immune if you are a male—one of the victims was a male and he was also heavily built.'

  'What about carrying weapons?' It was the same reporter. He shouted the question and Donoghue was worried that if he answered it then he would lose control and all would be shouting at him. However it was an important point so he took the question.

  'Your best weapon is your own two feet, use them to run away and don't be afraid of doing so. If you get the chance, bring your knee or foot up into his balls, but don't hang around; this move is only to buy you time. Your second best weapon is your mouth, use it to yell and scream, it can frighten any attacker into flight, especially if he knows you're yelling for help and not screaming in terror. As for weapons, frankly I object to them because it's my experience that a lassie who carries a can of paint or a metal comb with a spike for a handle is only leaning on a false crutch. She gets to depend on it and when she's attacked she helps her attacker because she's standing there fumbling in her bag when she should be running and screaming. If a man carries a knife it's the same thing, it just encourages him to stand and fight. We'll have a hard job prosecuting somebody for carrying a metal comb or a spray can, but a knife, cosh, anything like that and we'll throw the book. There won't be any gun-law in Glasgow, headbanger or no headbanger. Next man.'

  'Sir,' he was middle-aged; used a notebook in preference to a recorder. 'Will you be making use of the services offered by Scotland Yard?'

  'No. Next man.'

  'Sir,' youngish, no beard. 'Can you say something about the method of attack? Were the victims mutilated in any way?'

  This was the question Donoghue had been afraid of. If he refused to comment it would strongly imply that there was a degree of mutilation which would be upsetting for the relatives of the victims, and which, when the truth was exposed, would harm the credibility of the police. But if he told the truth he ran the risk of telling all the lonely people in Scotland who can't make anybody listen to them that the quickest way of getting a lot of attention is to go out and stick a knife in someone without the need to hang around for any grisly business. There was really only one thing he could say.

  'No, I can't. Next.'

  'Sir, were the victims killed by a single knowledgeable penetration or multiple stab wounds?'

  This was much the same sort of question, and Donoghue began to feel that he was wriggling on a hook. The reporters wanted answers, and were not letting him away easily. Once, during a police conference, this issue was discussed and an alarmingly senior police officer had suggested that a way of tracing psychopathic killers was to publish details of the attacks, thus encouraging 'ghost' crimes and so flushing out the psychopath by forcing anonymity on him. Donoghue had said that he found the suggestion professionally distasteful and ethically indefensible. Two months later he won early promotion.

  'I can't answer that in case it encourages similar crimes,' he said with finality. 'Next.'

  'Is there any significance that you have been able to discover about the word "Lissu"?'

  'No. As you know, notes reading "This is for Lissu" were found on two of the three bodies. Certainly it means something and probably holds the key to the entire case.' He paused. 'Frankly, we are baffled. "Lissu" may be a political movement, a religious cult, a person, anything. We would be grateful for any help the press can give us about "Lissu". It's a tantalizing clue. Next, please.'

  'Can you tell us something about your background and police career, sir?'

  'Next man.'

  The Evening Times alerted Glasgow to the monster in its midst and the radio and television news hammered the message home. That night the city was quieter than usual. Those who did venture out followed Donoghue's advice, which was faithfully relayed by the media, and went about in groups or in pairs. There was a strong police presence. The murderer broke his pattern and did not strike that night, or was given no opportunity to do so. The next morning the dailies carried the story as a leader and two republished Patrick Duffy's photograph, but the telephone number had been changed and the papers printed the numbers of the direct lines to the incident room. All the papers tried to dub the murderer, 'the knifeman', 'the midnight murderer', 'the Glasgow stabber', but he wasn't finally named until a few days later.

  The press conference brought a strong reaction from the public, mostly anonymous, and all informing of men with light-coloured hair who wore donkey jackets or duffle coats. All had to be followed up.

  It was a dark stairwell. Midnight black inside. There was light on the bottom of the stairs, it came in through the close mouth, there was light at the top landing, it came in through the skylight, but the middle of the stair was pitch black. Six doors, six names; it took Montgomerie six matches to check the names on the doors. The stairway was cold, on each landing were wooden chests, old and full of coal, and there was the extra door; the shared toilet.

  Montgomerie still found this aspect of Glasgow difficult to cope with. Bearsden was nice to grow up in, Edinburgh Law School was cool, he had drunk coffee in darkened rooms and talked about the meaning of life, he had had strange half-explored relationships, had sat in rooms with weird music in the background and sweet-smelling tobacco in the air. Life was the issue of getting into Zen, or getting into TM; it was the girl who disturbed his meditation to announce she was getting heavily into candles—the flame, man. She wore a red poncho and once did a drawing of herself and her man screwing in the bath. A third-class degree and Montgomerie returned to Glasgow, put on a uniform and went on to the streets. He found life was a heap of crap.

  The sixth match flickered in the dark and Montgomerie saw the name 'Cameron' on a fancy tartan background. He rang the doorbell.

  'Mr Cameron?' said Montgomerie when a man opened the heavy black door.

  'Aye?' said the man.

  Montgomerie flashed his ID card.

  'Aye?'

  'Can I come in?' asked Montgomerie. 'I've a few questions.'

  'No,' said the man.

  'We're making routine enquiries, Mr Cameron. I understand you wear a donkey jacket?'

  'Aye, and I've got light-coloured hair, as you can see. I read the papers.'

  'Can you tell me where you were on t
he nights of the sixteenth and seventeenth?' Montgomerie already had a feeling that he was on a hiding to nothing with Cameron.

  'Aye, but I'll no'.'

  'Just tell me and we won't bother you again. Otherwise I'll lift you now on suspicion.'

  'OK' said the man, 'I was working.'

  'Working?'

  'Working.'

  'Where?'

  'Somewhere between Coatbridge and Newcastle.'

  'Doing what?'

  'Why?'

  'Just answer the question, Mr Cameron. The sooner you answer the questions the sooner I leave.'

  'All right. I'm a rail guard. This last week I've drawn the night shift. I was working when those people got knifed, running container trains to Newcastle for the Geordies to take on to Peterborough, then the East Anglians run them on to Harwich. We pick up a train in Newcastle for the return journey. One trip out and one back is an eight-hour shift. Ask anyone.'

  'I will,' said Montgomerie. 'Coatbridge depot, is it?'

  'Aye. Was it that cow down the stair that sent you here?'

  'Can't say. It was an anonymous tip-off. I wouldn't tell you, anyway.'

  'Sorry you've had a wasted journey,' said the man, coldly.

  'We won't know it's wasted until we check with your ganger at Coatbridge. Do you want to make life easy for us and give us your work number?'

  'No.' The man shut the door, plunging Montgomerie into the gloom.

  King sat in the cell, leaning back against the chair with one foot on the table. A fair-haired young man with a round girlish face and a pert, turned-up nose sat on the other side of the table. He was looking at the floor.

  'Let's have it again,' said King.

  The man shook his head. King sighed and took a packet of cigarettes from his jacket. 'Smoke?' he asked. The man nodded and took a cigarette and held it between shaking fingers while King lit it.

  'Again,' said King.

  'I've told you once.'

  'The head man round here, he's a particular man, Jamie, he likes to be certain.'

  'I've told you the truth.'

  'Tell me again. Apart from the head man being particular I've got a bad memory and I didn't write it down the first time.'

  'You can't keep me here, not without charging me.'

  'Who's keeping you, Jamie? You can go any time you like. You're helping the police with their inquiries, Jamie, just like a public-spirited citizen should.'

  'OK, I'll go.'

  'Sit!' snapped King. 'There's no hurry, the bars will still be open when you do get out. Nice head of hair you have, Jamie, long and blond, always been like that, has it?'

  'I'm no' queer.'

  'I didn't say that you were.'

  'You meant it.'

  'Why are you so touchy, Jamie?'

  'I'm not touchy.'

  'What were you doing out last night?'

  'walking.'

  'All by yourself, a cold night for walking, Jamie?'

  'I was warm.'

  'Aye, donkey jackets are warm.'

  'Aye, so they are.'

  'So why walk by the riverside at two in the morning, in the cold and the snow?'

  'Why not?'

  'Why did you run from the officers?'

  'I thought they were three guys jumping me. I told you.'

  'You thought they were three officers going to arrest you.'

  'They came at me from three different directions, running at me.'

  'Didn't you see their nice shiny buttons, Jamie?'

  'I just took off.'

  'You knew they were polis, Jamie, and you were shit-scared. You still are. I'll make a deal, Jamie, clean break from you and I'll put in a word on your behalf.'

  He shook his head.

  'Why did you do it, Jamie, how many was it, three? Why?'

  'I don't know, I…I didn't do nothing.'

  'What don't you know, Jamie?' King sat forward, taking his leg from the table.

  'I…I, why I'm here, that's what I don't know.'

  'You said you didn't know why you did it. Of course you know, tell me, Jamie, you get these feelings, right?'

  He shook his head, tears rolled down his face, over soft cheeks which had never needed a razor. The cigarette smouldered between two trembling fingers.

  'Tell me.'

  'No.'

  'Do you get a kick out of it, Jamie?'

  He shook his head again.

  'I think you must.'

  'Maybe I do.'

  'What do you get a kick out of?'

  'Nothing! I don't get a kick out of nothing!'

  'That's why you did them in? For kicks?'

  'It wasn't. I didn't do nobody in.'

  'Yes you did. You did three.'

  'No!'

  'Where do you stay?'

  'Partick. You've got my sheet, you know I stay in Partick. Glassel Road, Partick.'

  'Just testing, keeping you on your toes. Stay alone, do you?'

  'You know fine well I don't, Mr King. There's my dad and my wee sister.'

  'Some son, eh?'

  'I pay my way.'

  'With what do you pay your way?'

  'Social Security money, mostly.'

  'Mostly?'

  'I get some from horses and dogs.'

  'What do you do when you don't sleep at night?'

  'Walk.'

  'What for?'

  'Because I don't sleep.'

  'Why don't you sleep good, Jamie?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Conscience troubling you, is it?'

  'No.'

  'Jamie, you walk at night, just you and your blond hair, all wrapped up not as snug as a bug in a donkey jacket, in the coldest winter this city's seen for forty years and you tell me you do it for nothing. Come on!'

  'Leave my hair out of it.'

  'What were you doing out?'

  'There's a law against walking?'

  'With your record we'll find a law against you walking, especially at two in the morning.'

  'I've done nothing!'

  'Want to go back inside, Jamie?'

  He shook his head.

  'Didn't have a good time, did you? Nancy-boy buggered in the cells.'

  'I'm no' queer.'

  'We could get a reduced sentence, fix you up with a psychiatrist. We'll arrange special facilities.'

  'I done nothing, Mr King. I don't know what you're talking about.'

  'What did you do with the knife, Jamie? Went in the river, did it?'

  His head sagged forward, he held it in his hands, and breathed deeply. When he raised his head there was a broad grin across his face.

  'You think I murdered those people? I didn't, see? I was in Paisley nick when the first one was done. They picked me up for being in a battle in a bar.' He sat back in the chair and pulled on the cigarette. 'Check,' he said.

  King checked. Jamie McPherson had been detained in Paisley police station at 10.30 p.m. on the sixteenth. He had appeared before the Sheriff the following morning and was ordained for reports, having been charged with Breach of the Peace. King hadn't a clue what Jamie McPherson had been up to, but he certainly wasn't the man who had stabbed three people to death. King released him.

  Thousands of men who wore donkey jackets or duffle coats, who had light-coloured hair and who lived in the Greater Glasgow region were not having a good time.

  Sussock stepped into the living-room. It had a pungent smell. There were old fish-supper cartons piled in the fireplace. Half a dozen empty Carlsberg Special cans stood on the table and three more full cans rested on the arm of one of the chairs. The woman swayed from side to side, but managed to shut the door.

  'Good night last night, was it?' asked Sussock.

  'I don't remember much about last night, big man. This is my breakfast. You want a can?' She leaned forward and took a can from the chair arm and levered the ring-pull off with a plastic bangle which hung around her wrist. Hard Mary. 'See me, big man, I'm lawful, that's why I phoned when I saw Pat's picture in the paper. Pat
lives in the top flat. Pat lived in the top flat. I own that flat and this one, big man, my man left both to me, left them both, the two of them, in his will, to me. I'm his widow. I stay in this one because the roof leaks so I put Pat up there. Pat came from Tyrone and said he never had a chance. The Environmental, the Environment, the Health people say the roof's got to be repaired.'

  'Can I see his room?' asked Sussock.

  'Take a lager, big man. I don't get a lot of company, not since my man died, I don't know when it was, I can't really remember, but it doesn't matter, does it? Do you think I'm attractive? Men do…did…no, do…'

  'The room,' said Sussock. 'Just let me have the key, hen.'

  'How old do you think I am? I'm pretty.' She twisted slightly to let Sussock take in her profile. 'My husband used to tell me I'm pretty. I think I'm fifty-five. I bet I look thirty, I mean, not many women of my age can wear jeans and a T-shirt. How old are you, big man? I think you are forty, let me see, a bit more, yes a little bit more. Anyway, let's have a drink to eternal youth, or the snow. Or we could drink to Pat. Poor Pat. I need a tenant for the flat upstairs since Pat won't be back. I'll take anybody so long as they pay. Do you know of anybody?'

  Just give me the key, will you?'

  'There was only one. Pat had it.'

  'Shit!' said Sussock.

  'Don't know why he carried it, lock's been bust for years. Come and take a drink to the old times when you come back—it's warm in here,' said the woman as Sussock left the room.

  Patrick Duffy's flat was as empty as his life. One bed with a rug for a top blanket, a blackened toilet, Page Three girls stuck on nails which protruded from the wall, or trapped under paintings and a mirror. There was a DHSS signing card in the drawer of his dresser and a few old and dirty clothes.

  Sussock left the room in order to breathe. He felt it had been a wasted journey he hadn't wanted to do it in the first place, but Donoghue had said he had to go—the woman had called in and her call had to be followed up for the sake of completion if nothing else. For the sake of completion Sussock pulled the door shut behind him and went down the stair and didn't call in at the lady in the bottom flat for a drink to eternal youth, or to the old days, or to poor Pat Duffy from Tyrone who never had a chance.