'Aye,' said the girl, surprised that a police officer could be so ignorant about the central card index coding. 'There's only one name on any of the cards, but even the 44-Is and the Part 3s will have a whole family behind them.'
'So the "B" may not be recorded in the card index at all?'
'No. Only the case files have all the family members recorded.'
'Which he took away with him.' Donoghue blew out a plume of smoke.
'Miss McGarvey,' said King. 'Do you know of anyone who'd murder Mrs Sommer?'
'A name with a "B"?'
'That would help.'
'Well, see, just before Christmas, Miss McCourt, that's another Social Worker, she had a breakdown. She was found doing the breaststroke down the corridor and when she reached the end she'd come back doing the back crawl. She was taken to Gartloch Hospital shortly after that. Anyway, the other workers shared her cases out, and Mrs Sommer took some. I haven't altered all the cards yet. There was this one guy, funny shifty eyes, used to be Miss McCourt's and went to Mrs Sommer. They never seemed to get on.'
'Name?'
'Bernard McWatt.'
'For God's sake!' yelled Donoghue.
'I'll get the card,' said Anita McGarvey.
'Excuse me, sir,' a constable stood in the doorway of the office; he held an open notebook. 'Radio message from Sergeant Sussock just came in, sir.'
'Well, what is it?' snapped Donoghue. 'Get on with it!' The constable read from his notebook. 'Message is, "Suspect's name believed to be McWatt, no Christian name, address believed to be 15 Dalmally Toll, G40".'
'Here it is, sir.' Anita McGarvey held up a small pink card.
'Address?'
'15 Dalmally Toll, sir.'
Dalmally Toll was a cul-de-sac of four-storey tenements. The red sandstone had turned dark brown and the paint was peeling. It had been built as a through road to the river, but an elevated four-lane expressway had caused the demolition of most of Dalmally Toll and forced cul-de-sac status on that which had been spared.
Sussock was waiting in his car outside the close mouth of No. 15. Donoghue pulled up behind him. Behind Donoghue was a car containing King and Montgomerie and behind them a patrol car with two constables inside and a revolving light on the roof. Curtains along both sides of Dalmally Toll were being drawn back even before the patrol car halted. It was snowing hard; the pavements and cobbled street lay under mounds of snow and banks of grey slush. Sussock blew his nose.
'You should be in bed, Ray,' said Donoghue.
'I'm not going to miss this, sir.'
'Been up there yet?'
'No.'
'Good. His address checks out with the card in the Welfare Office. This is our man, Ray.'
'Alphonso is a good grass.'
'Aye,' said Donoghue drily. 'We'll be talking about that.' He turned to King and Montgomerie and the two constables. 'Nice thing about tenements, no rear entrances. We go in in force, let him make a play, but I don't think he'll need heavy handling. One constable to stay at the close mouth, the other with us.'
The door with 'McWatt' screwed to it was on the second floor of the stairway. They bunched round it; Donoghue took his ID from his jacket pocket and Sussock rapped on the door. The door of the opposite side of the landing opened and a middle-aged woman stood looking at the policemen. 'OK, hen,' said the constable. The woman retreated, closed the door behind her and peered through the letterbox.
Sussock rapped on the door again. He could sense the tension rising in the group which stood around him.
He thought Sam Alphonso was a good grass, he thought he had a good argument, and he didn't want Donoghue to lose to him. In the basement he had seen something, he'd seen two men having a woman at once. And he'd seen a man holding his hat hard against his face. He knocked on the door again.
Donoghue turned to the constable. 'Go and see if he's shinning down the drainpipe.' The constable's boots clattered down the stair; halfway down he saved time by shouting to his mate: 'Jack! Drainpipe. Back court.'
Then the door opened with a gentle click. It swung wide; there was a woman standing in the darkness. She was bent and had silver whiskers on her chin and a red shawl draped over her shoulders. She leaned forward on an aluminium walking-frame.
'Mrs McWatt?' Donoghue showed her his ID. 'Is Bernard at home?'
'No.'
'Do you mind if we come in? We have some questions and we'd like to look around.'
'Yes, I mind,' said the woman. 'But I dare say you've got to.'
She turned slowly round and made her way into the gloom. The constable came running up the stair. He glanced at Donoghue and shook his head. The policemen followed the woman down the hall; the constable was the last in; he shut the door gently behind him and stood in front of it.
The woman slowly made her way to the living-room and stood in front of an electric fire. It was a cluttered room, there was an old television set in the corner, a canary in a cage by the window, a heavy settee and an old piano pushed up against the wall.
King wondered how they had got the piano up the stairs.
'Is Bernard in trouble?' The woman directed her question to Donoghue.
'He may be, Mrs McWatt. We'd like to talk to him.'
'Nobody can talk to him.'
'How no'?'
'Och, he's away with the fairies.'
'How's that?'
'Months now he's been sitting and brooding. He scares me. He spends a lot of time in his room. He brings books home and sits in his room reading them. Sometimes he sits in that chair there just looking at the bird and then he'll get up and go out. In this weather! Sometimes it's late when he goes out, after I'm in bed. I know he's been up and out because he's taken the cloth off the bird-cage.'
'Which is his room, Mrs McWatt?'
'Second along.'
'When did you last see him, Mrs McWatt?'
'This morning, when he left for work.'
'Where's that?'
'Cowcaddens. The Sheltered place.' Donoghue turned round, but Montgomerie was already on his way.
The second room along the hall was a small room, some twelve feet by six feet, there was room for one bed, a wardrobe and a small desk on which stood a portable typewriter. Books lay on the floor, neatly stacked against the wall opposite the bed. King kneeled and looked at the books. There was little fiction, most were factual texts and most were historical. Donoghue entered the room. 'Look for something Oriental, Ancient Chinese. Go careful, don't disturb any evidence. This it it. 1 He returned to the sitting-room.
'What does Bernie do in his spare time?'
'Sits and reads. Sits and broods.'
'Social life?'
'None to speak of.'
'How old is he?'
'Thirty-seven. Do you know about Bernie, sir, what he's like? He's hardly ever had a social life, sometimes he goes into the bar across the street when it's quiet. He could never overcome his shyness.'
King brought a book into the room. It was a large hardback and he carried it delicately in gloved hands. He put it on the settee. 'Found it under the bed, sir.'
The book was called Ancient Chinese Dynasties. Donoghue opened the front cover; there was a small piece of notepaper, folded twice and tucked inside the dust-jacket. Donoghue took the paper, unfolded it and read it. It was written in the same disjointed, tightly screwed handwriting that he had shown to Mr Simpson of the Department of Applied Psychology. What was written was:
Order Due male 16 Jan on time It was the last entry which chilled Donoghue: female 27 Jan He turned to Mrs McWatt. 'What was he like this morning, before he left for work?'
'Quiet, sir. Kept looking at the floor.'
'What time was he in last night?'
'Late. About eight. He smelled of smoke.'
'He stayed in all night?'
'I don't know, sir. I go to my bed at eight-thirty. I don't see him again until the morning. He could have gone out again, but not in this weather, surely?'
'Was he up bef
ore you this morning?'
'Aye.'
'Was the cover off the bird-cage?'
'Aye.'
Donoghue began to pray that Bernie McWatt was at his work.
The man was slightly built, with a moustache, and was wearing a grey smock; his desk was Department of Employment standard issue; made of mild steel and painted in two tones of grey. There was a pipe running down the wall of his office. He stood as Montgomerie entered the room and vigorously shook his hand as though honoured by the policeman's presence. Montgomerie showed him his ID.
'It concerns Bernard McWatt, Mr Bonini. Is he at work?' Bonini sat down and picked up the phone on his desk. He indicated the chair in the front of his desk and Montgomerie sat down. 'Miss Watson, is Bernard McWatt in today… yes, I'll hold… No? Thank you.' He replaced the receiver. 'No, he hasn't clocked in. Quite usual, I'm afraid, at least since Christmas.'
'Oh?'
'Well, since just before Christmas, really, funny how Christmas is always a big milestone; but I digress, just before Christmas he began to change, became moody, not talking as much as he did, and has been absent a lot. We tried to get in touch with his social worker, but she's ill, apparently; pity, nice jovial lass with a woolly hat, she was; anyway, he saw another worker, but I don't think they get on too well. That's another pity because this is the only job he can get and he's in danger of losing it. This is the West of Scotland, you fight tooth and claw for a job here and hold on to it for your life. Can I ask what it's about?'
'I think you'll find out soon enough, Mr Bonini, but I don't want to say anything right now. I wonder, could you let me have a list of his absences and a sample of his handwriting?'
'Yes, yes, I dare say I can.' He reached for the telephone.
'What does he do here?'
'He spray-paints metal chairs. Miss Watson, I wonder if you could come in here for a moment, please.' He put the phone down. 'Yes, he's been with us for about eight months, he started in stores like all the others and then moved on to painting. He was doing well and we were going to move him on to fixing seats, but then his absences started. We couldn't seem to talk to him; our own Welfare Officer, Miss Hughes, gave him a lot of time but couldn't get through and so she advised him to go and see his own social worker. He's not the most alert person at the best of times, if you see what I mean, but he seemed far away occasionally, usually he was his chirpy self, but he'd get these moods. Moods don't mean anything, but he damaged himself through his absences.'
Montgomerie walked away from the Sheltered Workshop holding a large manilla envelope in which was Miss Hughes's file on Bernard McWatt (I'm not sure if this is at all correct, Mr Montgomerie ...'), a sample of McWatt's handwriting and a list of his absences. He sat in the area car and shook his head. 'Not there,' he said, not looking at any of the three officers. 'Back to the station, please.'
Donoghue leaned against the wall; Montgomerie and Sussock sat at the table. Montgomerie held his head in his hands and Sussock was doodling on a piece of waste paper. The duty constable sat at the telephone. The windows were steaming up. King entered the room carrying a tray full of mugs of steaming tea. He put the tray on the table and kicked the door shut with his foot. Donoghue reached forward for his mug: there was a goat embossed on the white enamel. 'He's our man,' said Donoghue. 'According to that file he's spent years in Gartloch's secure ward, and he's on the town tonight with a knife. Comments.'
'We'll have to issue his description to all beat officers and patrol cars.' King stirred his tea.
'Saturate the city centre with officers, plain-clothed and uniformed,' Montgomerie suggested.
'So he strikes in High Possil,' snorted Sussock. 'Lot of good a hundred and fifty officers in George Square are going to do then, aye!'
'Cut it out!' Donoghue said sharply and then drank some tea before speaking again. 'Come on, there must be more suggestions. I know what I think we should do, but I want to hear your ideas.'
'Publicize it,' said Montgomerie. 'Name, description, and the fact he's on the town the night.'
'We'll find the bugger strung up from a lamp-post,' said Sussock.
'Aye,' agreed King. 'And a lot of broken heads as rival groups of punters fight for the trophy.'
'There'll also be an old lady in G40 with her door kicked in,' said Donoghue flatly. 'No, that won't do. I've seen mob violence before, I don't want to see it again.'
'OK, OK' said Montgomerie, looking at the table. 'You asked for suggestions.'
'All right.' Donoghue swilled his tea round his mug. 'Let's look at his M.O. Brainstorm!'
'Night worker,' said Montgomerie, quickly.
'Right.'
'Mainly City Centre,' said King.
'Do you think you can say that?' asked Donoghue. 'Two out of six were attacked in the City Centre. We can't count Mrs Sommer because she was known to him and he would have gone to wherever her work place was, which just happened to be fairly central.'
'He's after a woman the night,' said Sussock. 'And he'll use a knife.'
There was silence in the room. Snow lay on the ledges outside the window.
'All right,' said Donoghue. 'What have we got? He's out on the town tonight, looking for a female to knife because his mother's bloody canary told him to do it. He's struck four times in the City Centre and the West End. It's only half an hour's walk from Buchanan Street to Byres Road so we'll look on that as our area. He's killed once in the South Side and he waited in her house for her to come home, that suggests he knew her or had seen her some place, probably in a magazine. Significance?'
'He won't be hunting a random target south of the river,' said Montgomerie.
'Right. All the people he has killed and has not previously known or seen have been attacked in the area I just outlined, West End to City Centre. That's his patch, his hunting ground. We ought to have noticed sooner.
But that's where he'll be tonight, because Li-Ssu, or the canary, didn't identify a particular target; his list just says "female". So we'll set a trap for him. Constable, is WPC Willems on duty?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Ask her to come up, please.'
Ray Sussock went very, very white.
Look at these books. I mean, look at them. There's a word, million, means a lot. There must be a million books in this library. I don't know why I haven't found it before. Books, books, books, and this is only one floor. Right here it's books about Africa. I could see this building when I learned the second one, the way she backed on to the building site like I had a mad dog in my hand, anyway, the big dome was against the sky. When I learned her I went to look at it. I just stood there looking at the dome with the stars in the background. I'll stay here. It shuts at eight. I'm a bit tired, burning all those files. Three trips, it took. Still, she knows now. I'm not going to work. When you're going to learn one you need rest, to prepare. Lissu wants me to learn one the night. I'll stay here till it shuts. Resting. Reading.
The woman was walking down the street. She was taller than most women, had long black hair, a dark leather coat, dark hat, and black boots. She walked purposefully, taking the snow in long but not inelegant strides. She looked like any young and attractive woman setting out late at night on the long walk home, except that in her shoulder-bag was a .38 Webley.
It was 3.45 a.m.
She had been walking since 10 p.m. Just walking. Her legs ached, five and three quarter hours is a long time for anyone to be walking. When it's five and a half hours through slush, and then a snowfall settles on the slush, which in the meantime had turned to ice, then it's an even longer time to walk.
The city was deserted, the fights had been fought, the drunks were in the cells, the injured in the casualty wards, the last buses had gone and the streets were quiet. The city was an area of captivating, awesome mysteriousness, but that didn't prevent her legs from getting sore. They were sore on the inside of her thighs, her feet ached and swelled inside her boots. She thought more about the ache in her legs than she did about the sensation
in her stomach.
The sensation in her stomach was of hollowness and was caused by being intensely afraid. It was one thing using plain clothes for surveillance, but it was something else again to use plain clothes to act as bait for a deranged killer. Throughout the night she rarely walked more than two hundred yards without once thinking that there was more than one punter on the town that night who was away with the fairies. In the snow in front of her were four sets of footprints made by a woman wearing a size 6 boot or shoe with a wide 'sensible' heel. At the side of the woman's prints were four sets of prints made by a man wearing large, flat-heeled shoes. Four times up Buchanan Street since the snow stopped, and Donoghue snug and warm in his Rover, just out of sight, passing round the flask of coffee and a nip of brandy. Och, you're off your head, Willems. She carried on walking only because the man following her would catch her up if she stopped.
Donoghue had parked his car in the gloom of an alley near Queen Street Station. He hadn't a coffee flask or nip of brandy to pass around, nor did he have any company. He was alone with his thoughts and his thoughts plagued him that he was wrong, that it wasn't going to work, that he wasn't just making a blunder, he was making a blunder. He also knew that by not telling Findlater of the operation he was laying his whole career on the line. There was a song going through his head. That morning as he was driving to Glasgow with the radio on he had switched from Radio Four as Thought for the Day started and got a music station and had heard a song called The Gambler. A line in the song had stuck in his mind; 'You've got to know when to fold them.' Donoghue thought he hadn't known when to fold his deck, he thought he'd played all his cards and hadn't a penny in the bank and he'd mortgaged his soul to stay in the game.
The operation was a big one. He had issued orders above his station and had had the West End saturated with uniforms and cars after midnight. Not so much to catch the killer but to force him into the quieter City Centre around which a tight net had been discreetly slung. He knew it was a long shot and by 3.30 he knew it wasn't going to work. His thoughts were torturing him and he had relief only once every half-hour, when Elka Willems would pass the end of the alley in which he was parked and when he would pick up the walkie-talkie which lay beside him and say 'Point Fifteen. Dog sighted.' Forty seconds later, when the lanky form of PC Hamilton also passed the end of the alley, he would speak again into the mouthpiece of the walkie-talkie, 'Point Fifteen. Fox sighted.'
Deep and Crisp and Even Page 19
