Tracy Mortimer collapsed forward on to the table and began to heave and tremble. Elka Willems thought that it was more than the attack and her questioning that was making the girl cry.
Ray Sussock woke up and made himself a cup of coffee and carried it with him to Oliphant Grant's cell. Grant looked sullen.
'How's it going, Oliphant?' he said, drinking the coffee.
'Don't I get any?'
'You wouldn't like it, it's pigswill.'
'I thought you'd forgotten me.'
'You didn't like it here all by yourself? You'll get used to it, the nights are the worst, all the lags say that, waking up in the middle of the night and not being able to get back to sleep, it's sheer hell. Anyway, you'll find out. You'll have company in the Bar L, though, but I don't think it's company you want, is it, laddie, it's attention.'
'Look, if I tell you where I was when the first two were killed will you let me go?'
'Probably.'
'I haven't got an alibi for Margaret Stewart's death, but I was home. What were the dates?'
'The sixteenth and seventeenth.'
'Aye, I was in Inverness. I was ill and stayed home. I was late back for term. You can check.' He even smiled.
'I will. They on the phone, your Ma and Da?'
Grant quoted a number and Sussock walked out of the cell. He returned a few minutes later. 'It checks out,' he said. 'You're not Slow Tom.'
'So I can go now?'
'So you stay here now.'
'How come?'
'We're dropping the charge of murder, Grant. But I'm charging you with wilfully wasting police time. You'll spend the weekend in Barlinnie and you'll be up before the Sheriff on Monday morning. When you do get out you'll have a couple of worried parents to sort out.'
'You pig bastard,' said Grant.
'I'll be back later to charge you.' He turned and shut the door. As Sussock walked from Grant's cell he passed the open door of the next cell and heard a man crying. 'Yes, all right…I did it…I've watched her for days…I get these feelings…'
Donoghue walked with Sam Payne to the entrance of P Division.
'Well that's as near as I can get, Inspector.'
'Helensburgh, Dumbarton area, you say?'
'Yes, tending west rather than east into Glasgow. Not too far west though, no further than Garlochhead. They tend to roll their "Rs" a bit more. The sample you gave me doesn't have a significant "R" roll and the vowels tend to be low-pitched.'
'I'll take your word for it, Sam.'
'So long as you appreciate it's only an opinion. I don't want to be held responsible if the nutter turns out to come from Motherwell, I'm not infallible.'
'Point taken, Sam. I don't expect the word, or name, "Lissu" means anything to you?'
'Not a thing. I've seen the spelling in the papers; no, I can't say I know what it means. I'll ask around for you, though. So long, Inspector.'
'So long, Sam.'
Donoghue watched the leather-jacketed figure draped with recording equipment walk through the snow to the waiting police car. He was changing his mind about academics, just as earlier that morning he had changed his mind about the attitude of a forensic assistant.
My God, was it only this morning?
Richard King signed off duty and stepped into Sussock's office and glanced through the pending file. On his caseload already, beside his commitment to the Slow Tom investigation, was a gang of car thieves who were knocking off only cars with magnesium alloy wheels and leaving the car on a piece of waste ground—minus the wheels; a string of burglaries, committed by a person who had only two fingers of his right hand; a serious assault and an embezzlement. He had more than enough to cope with, but he liked to know what was coming in. He leafed through the files marked with red tape (for immediate allocation) and his attention was caught by a file on a missing boy, first reported missing Thursday 21st January, the previous night, in fact. The home had been visited, so had places the boy might have been, and he was still missing. It was a hell of a long time for an eleven-year-old-boy to be missing in a snow-bound city. King marked the file out to himself and walked back to his office and locked it in his desk drawer. He didn't realize it, but he was beginning to develop the kind of intuition Donoghue had honed to a fine edge.
Sussock didn't see the last of the males on the list he had compiled from Margaret Stewart's address book until 10 p.m. He had drawn a blank with all of them. They either had alibis or black hair or no hair or were left-handed. No, they none of them knew anyone who had a grudge against the old lady. It was 10.30 when he left the last household, and the snow was swirling down. He got back to Rutherglen at 11.30 and let himself in the back door with a key his wife didn't know he had. He crept inside, feeling guilty for being under his own roof, and took off his shoes and coat. Upstairs he heard his wife say, 'What's that noise, Sammy?' and his son reply, 'Oh, it's only Daddy, Mummy. Don't worry.' Sussock slumped on the sofa, too tired to care. There was still a small glow in the fire grate and a slight heat.
He was thankful for small mercies.
CHAPTER 7
Ray Sussock and Elka Willems were walking arm in arm along the gravel path which wound through the shrubs and which was bordered by lush humus. At their side a stream was spilling freshly into a pond. There were fish in the pond, swimming around giant waterlilies. Palm trees arched above them and two pure white cockatoos sat on the branch of a smaller tree. Sussock loosened his shirt collar. Bach's Jesu, Joy Of Man's Desiring filled the air.
'You'll have to make a decision, Ray,' said Elka. 'You'll crack up. You can't go on like this.'
'It's a big break, Elka. And not only that. I think to leave would be to admit that it was all my fault.'
'Rubbish.'
'I feel guilty about it.'
'Then you're a silly boy, a stupid wee wean. I've told you before it's not your fault.'
The cockatoos screeched.
'Then I'll have to leave.'
'You said it, Ray.'
'I'll need to rent some place. I'll need to start looking. I'll look on the South Side or up the West End.'
'It's got to be a clean break, Ray, not any interim measure. You, Raymond Sussock, are about to break from your wife and son, you're leaving them the house and responsibility for the mortgage repayments, you are about to burn your boats and break clean. You can do it, Ray.'
'Jesus,' he said.
'But you are doing it for yourself, not for to come and stay with me. Remember I might not be here next year, next year I might have got tired of you and gone with another man. Next year I might be living in another city, because I've been in Glasgow for two years now and next year I might want a change. So you've got to stand on your own two feet from the word go.'
'Don't you think I'm too old?'
'No, a thousand times, no! It's not easy, it's never easy moving and unsettling your life but you've got to do it, Ray. I came up from Stranraer and I didn't know a soul and I hated this city, it was cold and hostile, but I stuck it out and now it's OK It's going to be easier for you because you know people and I'll visit you. It'll make a change, me staying at your place, anyway.'
He squeezed her waist. He told her he loved her.
'And I love you.' She pecked his cheek. 'But only if you're strong. As soon as you start to lean on me I'll leave you. There isn't any room for weak men in my life.'
They walked on. The gravel grated under their feet.
'I'm going in this afternoon,' he said, breaking the silence between them. 'I'd like to spend the day with you, but Fabian Donoghue is giving up his weekends and I feel I ought to be there. Do you understand?*
'Of course I do, Ray. Command is a lonely position and I wouldn't have Fabian's job right now, not for a pension. You have to support him. I've stacks of shopping to do anyway and you'll only get in the way. When will you be back?'
'Early evening.'
They walked around the Winter Gardens once again, slowly, and then into the museum of People's Palac
e and out to where Sussock had parked his car.
'I went to People's Palace a few months ago,' he said as they were driving away. 'I was filling in a split shift. I found out how Glasgow got its name. It comes from two Celtic words, glas and cu, reckons to mean the place of the heavenly green. It's supposed to be built round the spot where St Mungo met St Columba.'
'That a fact?' she said looking across the white sweep of Glasgow Green to the dereliction of the Barrowland. 'The name don't seem to fit now, do it?'
Richard King drove to Partick. He parked his car against a snow drift in Glassel Road and walked up to the top flat of a dark close. He knocked on the door. Behind him, somewhere in the dark, he could hear water dripping steadily. He heard a noise in the flat and the door swung open, wide, and a woman stood in the entrance. She seemed disappointed to see King. It was the first time that King had set eyes on the woman but he could tell that the last two days had aged her considerably. Her eyes were sunken, and her face creased with worry. King showed her his ID.
'Come in, sir, come in,' said the woman, anxiously stepping aside.
'Mr King,' he said. 'Don't call me "sir", please.'
'Mr King,' said the woman.
A girl ran towards him. She was about eight years old. She looked up at King and said, 'Have you found him?'
'Not yet, hen,' said King.
Mr McAlpine was standing with a newspaper in one hand. As King entered the room he strode across the carpet to the television and switched it off.
'Mr McAlpine?' asked King.
'Aye.' Ron McAlpine extended his hand and King took it. 'I've been out searching,' said the man, 'walked around these streets and down as far as the river. Been out six, seven, I don't know, eight times. I mean, I can't just sit here.'
'No,' said King. 'I think I'd do the same.'
'Would you like a cup of tea, Mr King?' asked Mrs McAlpine, clasping her hands on her forearms.
'That would be very nice. Thank you.' King accepted the offer only because he knew it would give Mrs McAlpine something to do.
'Please sit down, Mr King,' said Ron McAlpine. 'We can't think where he'd be. I've been to all his friends' houses , I've even phoned my brother in Aberdeen in case he's taken it into his head to go visiting. Nothing. Nowhere; nothing.'
'Is he likely to have gone off without telling you?'
'No. It's not his way. He's not an adventurous sort of lad, Ronald. Bit middle-aged, if you see what I mean?'
'I don't, I'm afraid.'
'Set habits, set routes, set routine. Totally predictable.'
'He hasn't done this before, then?'
'No. Never, not ever.'
'He's not gone before,' said the girl. King wanted to pick her up and hold her, he wanted to tell her about all the good things in life, he wanted to tell her that brothers don't go missing, that brothers don't disappear in snowbound cities which are grinding to a halt, and that they don't stay away for two nights when the temperature drops to fifteen below. He wanted to tell her that what he feared deep inside wouldn't really be so, and that they would all be together for Burns Night. Christ, oh merciful Christ, there were times when he hated his job. All he could say was, 'Have you any idea where he might be, hen?'
The girl shook her head vigorously.
'Where did he go on Thursday evening, Mr McAlpine?'
'To the youth club, same as always. The one in the church hall. A game of pinball, a game of indoor football, a chat with the lassies. It's run by the minister.'
'He didn't say he was going anywhere after the club?'
'Och, no; on a night like Thursday? I'm surprised he went out at all. Anyway, the club finishes at 9.30, he's supposed to be in bed by 10. He wouldn't have gone anywhere after the club.'
'Was he at the club?'
'Oh, yes, yes.'
'Did he leave alone?'
'He left with one other boy, but they would have parted soon after leaving the church hall. The minister will tell you.'
'Yes, we already have a statement from him, but I'll see him again.'
Mrs McAlpine entered the room and handed him a cup of tea. The cup and saucer rattled in her hand.
'It's the cold that worries me,' she said in a shaking voice. 'I'm sure it wouldn't be so bad if it was summertime. But I lie in my bed at night and listen to the snow falling off the roof and see the fresh falls in the morning… if only I knew he was warm.'
Her husband put his arm around her. The little girl ran into her bedroom and shut the door behind her.
'Nothing was worrying him?' asked King.
'No, nothing,' said Ron McAlpine. 'Nothing that we know about.'
'Would he have told you if there was something bothering him?'
'Yes, I'm sure he would,' said Mrs McAlpine, wiping her cheeks. 'I'm sorry, Mr King.'
'Don't worry about it.' King took a photograph from his jacket pocket. 'Is this the most recent photograph you have of him?'
'That's the one I gave to the other officer, yes. It was taken at Christmas, the jumper he's wearing, the red one, it was a Christmas gift.'
'His hair is like that, is it?'
'Aye,' said Ron McAlpine. 'A bit of ginger sticking out of the black. He got teased about it.'
When King left, Ron McAlpine saw him to the door. 'Thank you, sir, thank you,' he said.
King walked down the stair and stood at the close mouth. He looked at the drifts, he looked at the gunmetal sky and at the people huddling against the wind. He felt sick to the pit of his stomach.
Ray Sussock walked into the incident room. Donoghue saw him and smiled.
'Ray,' he said, taking his pipe from his mouth. 'I thought you'd be resting. I take it you didn't turn anything else up yesterday?'
'No; I finished late and had a lie-in this morning, sir, then I got bored. It's all very well having a day off, but you have to do something with it. I haven't anything to do, so I came in.'
'Glad to see you. I needed the company. No offence, laddie,' he said to the nearby PC.
'None taken, sir,' said the duty constable.
'Anything happening, sir?'
'Not a thing. It's all very quiet, maybe too quiet.'
'You think he's going to strike again tonight?'
'I don't know, Ray. He's been quiet for one night and we haven't had another tape. You never know with headbangers, and this one moves very quickly, one a night, almost, and so if he lays off for one night it's a calm before the storm.'
'Aye; who's on, sir?'
'Montgomerie's having a pleasant time reliving his student days, but he hasn't turned anything up. King's picked up a missing person—a boy. I didn't like it, I think he's got enough on with this Slow Tom character, but short of asking him to knock on every door in the city in the hope of finding someone with Slow Tom written on his forehead there was nothing I could give him. Anyway, he seemed eager enough, so…' Donoghue spread an upturned palm.
'He's still got a good half-dozen open cases on his caseload, he could have attended to those. He hasn't room for any more.'
'None of us has room for any more. Let's go to my office. I could use a gallon of coffee. Have you eaten yet?'
Sussock said he had. Donoghue ordered coffee. It was brought up and he and Sussock sat on either side of the desk with the stainless steel pot between them.
'Are you worried about it, sir?' asked Sussock, sipping his coffee.
'The case? Yes I'm worried about it. I couldn't rest at home; I'd snap at my family.'
'I feel we're not getting anywhere, we don't know a thing about this guy. Are you getting any flak from Findlater?'
'Not yet, I see him every day and tell him what we've done, which is a lot, and then I tell him what we've found out, which is very little. In fact, all we've got so far is one angry young man facing a charge of wasting police time, from which he'll probably be acquitted. He doesn't seem unduly bothered—Findlater, that is—and that worries me.'
'How?'
'Well, I'd be happier if he was pr
essing me for results and threatening to take charge of the investigation.' Donoghue leaned forward and grabbed the coffee pot and replenished his cup. 'But he's not. Every afternoon I knock on his door and wait to be asked in and then I give him a progress report which usually consists of two sentences, and he says "OK, carry on."' He raised his cup to his lips. 'Ray, I think he's waiting until I tell him we're within an ace of an arrest and then he'll assume command.'
'I wouldn't put it past him. He's a fly bastard.'
'Puts me in a difficult position. Tell me, Ray, shall I deliberately withhold information and see this thing to its conclusion, or shall I keep him fully informed and so let him come in at the kill and take a lot of credit for doing nothing?'
'Don't know, sir—you have to keep him informed, I suppose, but in the services orders and messages were known to go astray from time to time. Anyway, let's catch the bugger first, then we'll talk about that one.'
'You're right, I'm a premature worrier. Although you're wrong when you say we don't know anything about him. We know he's a first-generation graduate or someone who's made a class change, he's immature and he's a natural guitarist and he probably comes from the Dumbarton/Helensburgh area. But not further west because he doesn't roll his Rs enough.'
'Do what?'
'His Rs, Ray.' Donoghue smiled to himself. 'He doesn't roll them enough.'
'Oh,' said Sussock.
'So said Sam Payne.' Donoghue grinned.
'Was he the…?'
'Thug in the leather jacket who sat at my desk yesterday? Yes that was him. The lad's got a head on his shoulders. I've phoned round the colleges and the universities to ask them to check their rolls for male students from the north bank, but none of the registrars would release the information. I suppose they're right to do that, but it doesn't make our job any easier.' Donoghue's phone rang. He picked it up and Sussock saw his eyebrows rise slightly as he listened. 'Ask him to come up,' said Donoghue, and replaced the receiver.
Deep and Crisp and Even Page 11
