Deep and Crisp and Even

by Peter Turnbull

  He stepped out into the snow and looked for a place to buy some coffee.

  See me, I'm going to knock this city on its ass. I read that in a book. I read a lot. One man says to the other I'm going to knock this city on its ass. Ass is American for arse. I like it better so I'm going to knock this city on its ass.

  See me, I'm going to learn them, all of these, they're going wrong. I like to read a lot, I read in libraries and I like to know what went wrong before and how all these buildings came to be here so I read up history and I met Lissu. They've gone wrong so I've got to learn them. I didn't know I had to till Lissu told me. He tells me when to go and learn more. See, I'd like to learn the welfare lady, the new one, but Lissu hasn't told me yet. I read a lot.

  CHAPTER 4

  Thursday, January 21st.

  Five days into the enquiry. The incident room was overrun with files, stacked on the floor in alphabetical order, cups of cold half-drunk coffee accumulated on the desk, the team had begun to develop an esprit de corps, bleary eyes and stubble on chins were taken as signs of industry and commitment, familiarity began to creep into professional relationships.

  They had found out nothing.

  By the morning of January the 21st P Division had logged one hundred and thirty interviews and had eliminated one hundred and thirty suspects. There were no other suspects. The enquiry had already cost thousands of pounds, other investigations had been dropped, and the information obtained was precisely nothing, zilch, flat round zero. By the 21st of January Inspector Donoghue had no more information than he had had a few hours after Patrick Duffy had fallen in the snow. The mood in the station was depressed, too many heads were sore from being banged against the brick wall.

  Familiarity began to creep out of the professional relationships.

  In the corridor just outside the incident room Ray Sussock in his top-coat and hat, and Elka Willems in a neatly pressed white shirt and a pile of files in her arms, stopped to talk.

  'When do you get off?' asked Elka softly. Walls have ears. In police stations the walls have a lot of ears.

  'Ask me another.' Sussock turned a hand palm upwards. 'I'm away up to Maryhill for a drink in a bar with a guy. I'll be back at five.'

  'That's all you've got to do is it, old Sussock? Drink in bars when there's a bampot with a knife out there?'

  'I wish it was. This is not just any guy.'

  'All right, all right. Listen, I thought you'd take me for a meal tonight. If you can't get off I'll understand.'

  'Pick you up at eight.'

  'Fine.'

  Elka Willems mouthed, 'I love you' and Sussock reached out and squeezed her arm. Then they walked briskly away from each other.

  The bar was called the Auld Hoose and was on Maryhill Road. The Auld Hoose was in fact quite a new hoose, a bar in the classic Glaswegian style, a purpose-built drinking factory. It was a squat and a square building, battleship-grey pebbledash, one very solid door and no windows. It stood isolated on a site full of rubble from demolished houses. There was snow on the rubble. It was the sort of building which makes Englishmen who are used to pubs reel with culture shock.

  Inside, the bar was dimly lit by soft red lights fixed to the walls, the gantry ran the length of the wall, the seats were wooden benches set in cubicles. The carpet had a red tartan pattern and was still damp from the previous night's alcohol. Sussock felt his feet sink into the carpet as he walked across the room. At the gantry he bought two double hits of Bells and a bottle of American Dry. He carried them over to where Sam Alphonso was sitting in the corner cubicle underneath the colour television set. He was a small man with a sallow pock-marked complexion.

  'Eh, Raymond,' said Alphonso as Sussock approached.

  Sussock put the drinks on the table and they shook hands. 'You want Sammy's nose and ears, I think.'

  'Could be, Sammy,' Sussock sat down. 'Could be I'm jiggered and want a quiet drink. I thought I'd find you here. How's things?'

  'Che sera, sera.'

  'How's the book trade?'

  'I make a bit. You still provide the main source of income, Raymond.'

  'Money's tight at the moment, Sammy, we pay only for good news.'

  'Okay.' He took his whisky.

  'You've still got to keep scratching my back.'

  'I knew you didn't want my company, Raymond.'

  'Some other time we'll have a drink. Right now I need help.'

  Sussock had known Alphonso for ten years. Shortly after he'd arrived from Turin he got into bother. Sussock put a word in for him and the sheriff admonished him. said Sussock, had too much vino.

  Sussock had introduced Alphonso to the leaders of the Italian community and over the next ten years Alphonso had made a living by ingratiating himself into the fringes of the underworld, and by selling the harder-core glossy mags. He took a single end in Maryhill and sent for his wife. He readily took money for the information he passed to Sussock but Sussock always had the impression that the motive was partly an act of obligation to the man who had set him on his feet in this bitch city, and a Catholic act of contrition for trading in pornography.

  'You want information about the headbanger?' He finished his drink.

  'Right first time, Sammy. How did you guess?'

  'I haven't seen you in six months, then this happens in your patch, then I see you. I reckon they must be connected. It's the way I reckon that makes me a good grass. I just point in this direction and say, "that way, but no guarantee".'

  'Another? Bells, all right?'

  'For me it is the same.'

  Sussock went to the gantry and bought the drinks.

  'I don't know if I can help you, Raymond,' said Alphonso as Sussock sat down. 'See, I've heard nothing, I don't expect to hear nothing. I've read it in the paper. See, these guys, Raymond, they're not human, they are wolves, how do you call it—scaly, scaly monsters slithering in the shadows. They don't plan, they don't have contacts and they don't have a loose mouth. Such men are not men, Ray—I'm going to hear nothing.'

  'Listen to what we know.'

  'I know what you know, Raymond, you know this yin's a male, he's fair-haired, and wears a duffle coat. Just like mine, maybe I dye my hair blond and go out in my duffle coat and stick someone. You want to run me in, Raymond?'

  'You got an alibi?'

  'Sure I've got an alibi, if I hadn't I'd fix one.'

  'Just ask around for us, will you, Sam? Any strange characters, use the numbers in the paper—that's a direct line into the incident room.'

  'I'll talk only to you, Raymond.'

  'OK, I'll likely be there. I'll tell you something the papers don't know; he uses a stiletto.'

  'I'd say that's your best tack, my flat-footed compadre. Not a lot of stilettos about, it's an assassin's knife. In Sardinia they use them so well that they leave a little trace on the skin, a little mark, unless there's close inspection it looks like death from heart failure because all the blood goes inside.'

  'I know,' said Sussock. 'I saw the PM on the first victim.'

  'Was there a lot of blood outside?'

  'A bit, on the chest there was quite a lot.'

  'How many times were they stabbed?'

  'Two twice, one three times, all in the stomach, the two women had their throats punctured and the man had his chest cut. Keep that under your hat.'

  'Amateur.'

  'That right?'

  Sammy Alphonso nodded. 'See, Ray, a pro would only use a stiletto once. I think this yin's got hold of a knife and he's having a go at anybody. It's just chance that he's got hold of a stiletto.'

  'That doesn't help a lot.'

  'It helps plenty. It means you can rule out people who've been in the Commandos and the SAS because they'll know how to do it right. All this yin knows about knives is what he's picked up from that,' he jerked his thumb towards the television.

  'Point taken,' said Sussock.

  'It's the stiletto that's the big lead, Raymond. Difficult to get hold of. You want a Chief
tain tank? OK. A stiletto takes a little longer. But, for you, I'll ask some questions.'

  In the incident room, Donoghue, King, Montgomerie and the duty constable stood around the table. On the table was a cassette recorder and two polythene bags. In one bag was a letter and the other bag contained an envelope.

  'Play it over again, please,' said Donoghue.

  The duty constable leaned forward and rewound the tape. He pressed the 'play' button and stood back. The tape was of poor quality and there was a lot of hiss. They listened intently to the voice.

  'So it's Fabian, is it? Detective-Inspector Fabian Donoghue. Some game we have, eh, Fab? I can call you Fab, can I?' (Low drone in the background.)

  'This is Slow Tom, the midnight knifeman, Fab—just letting you know I know you're chasing me, but will you get to me in time? I did three in three nights, I'm having a wee rest now, then I'll do in some more. I liked the girls best, the way they folded, and it's all for Lissu. Do you like girls, Fab? I wrote you a song, Fab, this is how it goes:

  (Flurry of guitar playing)

  'I kill, kill, for Lissu, fast as I can.'

  (Twelve-bar blues guitar playing)

  'I go stab, stab, yeah, one, two, three

  'They all fall down, I said, one two, three.'

  (Twelve-bar blues guitar playing)

  'What's my favourite number?

  'Well, I like nine, yeah, nine is fine.'

  (Twelve-bar blues guitar playing)

  'Well I got three, fell in the snow,

  'That's six fat humans yet to go.'

  There was a silence. The four policemen watched the spools slowly turning, and then the voice said:

  'Well that's it, Fabian, Fab—I'm sorry, not Top of the Pops material, but it'll keep you on your toes.' (Low drone in the background. A pause.) 'Listen, Fab, I might pop something in the post again, give me a few days, but here's a clue to stop you getting too cold; you've got my hair all wrong—it's black.' (Laughter)

  The tape ran silently to the end. The other side was blank.

  'So now we know what he sounds like,' said King. 'I didn't imagine him sounding anything like that.'

  'How did you imagine him sounding?' asked Donoghue.

  'Sort of a high-pitched, squeaky voice.'

  'I thought he'd have a deep, slow voice,' said Montgomerie.

  'What about what he says about his hair?' Donoghue looked at the two DCs.

  'I don't buy it,' said King. 'We've taken three separate samples of male hair from three victims, each matches the others, and they're all light-coloured.'

  'I agree,' said Donoghue. 'He's trying to throw us off the scent. Let's listen to what he didn't want to tell us.'

  'Sort of mellow voice,' said King. 'Middle-class, but not quite.'

  'Not at all,' said Montgomerie.

  'More middle than working.'

  Montgomerie didn't argue further.

  'We'll get a voice expert to settle the argument,' said Donoghue. 'Interesting background noises. Comments, please?'

  'Two aeroplanes flew over in the space of this tape,' said Montgomerie. 'I timed them, a minute between each, he's under the flight path of an airport, maybe out by Abbotsinch.'

  'Perhaps,' said Donoghue. He tapped his pipe stem on his teeth. 'Interesting that that was the only noise which got into the room?'

  'So he's living in a secluded spot,' said King. 'A remote house near the airport?'

  'Or an old building,' said Donoghue reaching for his battered leather tobacco pouch. 'Come on, gentlemen, I don't want to do all the work. What about the acoustics, you can hear them best when he's doing his instrumental bit.' He rewound the tape, hitting and missing until he came upon a spread of guitar playing. 'Big room, don't you think? The tape has a hollow, echoey sound.'

  'It's a Spanish guitar,' said King.

  'Acoustic as opposed to electrical is all our untrained ears can offer in the way of opinion. Think! We have a guitar-playing male who's softly spoken, he's in a large room under the flight path of an airport, and he has some hi-fi equipment. He can spell, too.' Donoghue indicated the note which lay in a cellophane bag. It said:

  Earthbound Fab,

  I couldn't want for a more worthy opponent. Here's a gift, or is it a gauntlet? Whatever it is, consider it the first in a series.

  Slow Tom

  'He posted it in Glasgow yesterday, we'll send the letter and envelope off to the forensic lab, but for the moment what can they tell us?'

  'He lives in the city somewhere,' said King. 'If he posted it from near his home.'

  'A student type?' suggested Montgomerie. 'Living in rented rooms in the West End, right under the flight path of Glasgow Airport. If he stays in the gardens off Byres Road and in one of the top rooms his tape machine wouldn't pick up a car backfiring unless it was right underneath his window.'

  Donoghue beamed at him.

  Montgomerie was to look back on the 'Glasgow Knife Murders' with a great deal of nostalgia. The case involved teamwork, it had depth, it had crisis and pressure, it came to have a great deal of fame, with the predictable professional spin-offs for those who had been involved; for a period after the case, to say he had worked with Donoghue enabled a career-conscious policeman to virtually write his own references. One of the lesser spinoffs for Montgomerie was that it gave him the chance to live in his favourite habitat; a university campus, and to wear his favourite plumage; faded denims and a beard.

  The tape, the letter, and the envelope were sent to the Forensic Science Laboratory, Scottish Office (Glasgow) by courier. In the covering letter Donoghue requested that they be given urgent attention. They were given very urgent attention and were returned to Donoghue with a full report later the same day.

  The report on the tape told him little. The cassette was three or four years old and had been wiped clear of fingerprints. A voice print was taken and was enclosed with the report. No two voices are the same, and each will leave its own trace on a voice recording machine, the printout of which looks like a seismograph recording of an earthquake and which will record the same characteristic modulations whether the owner is reciting Shakespeare or screaming at Hampden Stadium. They have the same drawback as fingerprints; one isn't a lot of good unless you can match it up with another. The report on the letter and envelope read:

  JK/CT

  Forensic Science Laboratory Glasgow

  Inspector F. Donoghue

  21 January

  Strathclyde Police P Division. G3.

  REPORT OF FINDINGS OF INSPECTION OF LETTER AND ENVELOPE SUBMITTED 21.1

  Envelope A4 brown manilla. Postmark genuine. Saliva under stamp indicates male person with blood group O. No trace of lipstick or scent on envelope seal or stamp. Therefore no indication of feminine involvement.

  Letter Lined white vellum. Single sheet. No apparent smell. Sample placed in metal box and put on top of radiator to 'encourage' smell. Test result negative.

  Writing made by black ballpoint pen. Sample held at fine angle to light. Indentations left on paper by previous letter visible. Fine pencil run over paper revealed letters, 'hol' or 'bol' or 'tol' at top right of page. 'Working hard' at mid page. 'Love to' at bottom of page. I hope this information is of use to you.

  J. Kay, B.Sc, Ph.D., Dept. of Forensic Science.

  'That blood group is some fly in the ointment,' said Donoghue, holding the report in his left hand and a cup of coffee in his right.

  'It's a bloody great spanner in the works,' replied Sussock, whose head was still light following his lunchtime drink with Sammy Alphonso.

  'But it tells us something, Ray. It tells us our man is clever enough to know that blood group can be determined from a saliva sample.'

  'Or he's just lucky that somebody was willing to stick the stamp on for him, probably before the envelope was addressed.'

  'We'll only know that when we catch the bugger,' said Donoghue. 'We're getting to know something more about him; he's intelligent, he's socially integrated, see, he's sending l
ove to someone, and at the top of the page here, "hol", "bol", or "tol", that might be part of an address.'

  'He's giving a lot away. Can't be deliberate.'

  'I don't know. I'm beginning to see him now, Ray, I'm beginning to get into his mind. He's enjoying the game he's playing, it's called "catch me if you can". We've got to grab him before he kills nine people, and he's already got three. I reckon he'll stop at nine and call it a won game, unless he likes being centre stage, in which case he won't stop until he's caught.'

  'He's clouding his trail,' said Sussock. 'He doesn't intend to get caught.'

  'I don't think so.' Donoghue hooked his thumb over his pipe and watched a white car negotiate Charing Cross and put itself at the morass that was Sauchiehall Street. He reached behind himself and picked up his lighter from his desk top. 'See, he's laying false trails, not clouding the one trail. He thinks he's clever. If he's a university student he probably thinks he's cleverer than he actually is—I know I did—and he probably thinks he's cleverer than the police, so he's laying a series of false clues, like contradictory blood groups, signposts to dead ends to see if we can sort out the relevant from the irrelevant.' He lit his pipe, pulling and blowing. 'Ordinarily it would cause us no great trouble because we'd follow each pointer until we were certain that it was a dead end. Do you follow?'

  'Yes, sir,' said Sussock.

  'But he's put a time pressure on us, he's knocking them down like flies and he's after six more. He's forcing us to take chances and guess. I bet he's the sort of smug, arrogant bastard you meet from time to time that makes you want to chuck him in the river. Picture him, Ray.'

  'Dangerous game, sir.'

  'Won't go beyond these four walls.'

  'Young, blond, a bit smooth, has the sort of smile that could sell toothpaste.'