Stranglehold

by Rena George

  They only stopped when they reached the pool of light from the street lamp. Liam fumbled for his phone, gasping for breath, not daring to look back. He punched in 999.

  Drummond was swilling down a couple of paracetamols with a mug of strong coffee when he got the call. 'It's another body,' DCI Joey Buchan said, firing out the words like bullets from a gun. 'Over at Pollokshaws. Looks like she's been strangled.'

  Drummond cursed, his fragile insides churning over as he grabbed his coat. It was the last news he'd wanted to hear that day. Six weeks had passed since Maggie Burns' murder and the team had been daring to believe her killing had been a one-off. It still might be. But another strangling didn't sound good.

  It was half an hour before he got through the early morning traffic to the south side of the city. It was still raining heavily and the forensic team had already erected a tent and set up their powerful lights when he arrived at the scene.

  Nell Forrester turned up in her white coveralls as Drummond squinted down at the body. ‘You look terrible, Inspector. Heavy night, was it?' Her expression suggested she had no compassion for his hangover.

  He cleared his throat. 'I recognize her,' he said flatly. 'She's another hooker.'

  'Really?' Nell's eyebrow arched as she turned and knelt by the body and opened her bag.

  'It's the same as before, isn't it?' Drummond said.

  'Too early to say.'

  'But she's been strangled, and it's another scarf, albeit a red one this time, but another scarf.'

  Nell sighed. 'You're not expecting me to comment at this stage, are you? I'll be struggling to get any evidence from this body. The rain hasn't done us any favours.'

  DC Gail Swann poked her head through the flap in the tent. Morning, sir.' She smiled at Nell. 'Morning, Dr Forrester.'

  Both of them gave a silent nod.

  'The witness who found her was panicking about getting to work, so I told him he could go, and we would catch up with him later. Hope that was OK? He's only round the corner. He's a mechanic at the garage there.'

  'I'll have a word with him now,' Drummond said, striding out of the tent. 'What's his name?'

  'Liam Stiller. It was his dog that found the body.' Gail tugged her hood closer as the rain lashed down. They splashed through the mud to get to the far pavement. 'It's him again, isn't it, sir?'

  'Him? Who?' Drummond frowned.

  'The strangler.'

  'I hope not.'

  'But it is, isn't it?'

  'Well, let's just see,' Drummond said, narrowing his eyes against the driving rain.

  Brockett's Garage was less than a five-minute walk away. A balding man in a dirty blue boiler suit lifted his head from the engine of a Ford Astra as Drummond and Gail approached. 'Police?' he asked, before they had even produced their warrant cards. 'Liam told me about the body.' He grabbed an oily rag and wiped his hands. 'I suppose you'll be wanting to speak to him.'

  Drummond nodded.

  'Liam,' the man yelled. 'You've got visitors.'

  Liam Stiller's head appeared from the pit under the raised vehicle he'd been working on and nodded to Gail as he hoisted himself up.

  'This is DI Drummond,' she said. 'He needs a few words with you.'

  Liam Stiller grimaced. 'Just so long as you don't ask me to look at it again.'

  'You must have got a shock,' Drummond said.

  The man shivered. 'Doesn't bear thinking about. Those eyes…I'll never forget those staring eyes.'

  'I understand you were walking your dog. Did you notice anyone else on the waste ground?'

  Liam stared at him. 'You mean he could have been there hiding…watching us?' Drummond saw the shiver shoot through the man again. 'I don't know, it was dark.' He paused. 'No, I didn't see anybody, but then the head torch isn't that brilliant.'

  'Was it raining?'

  'A bit, but then it came in a downpour. I was running late, and Sabre wouldn't come back to me. I could hear him barking and cursed him for ignoring me. The ground was squelchy, and I didn't appreciate having to go and find him.' He paused again and Drummond could see in the man's eyes that he was reliving the event. 'In the torchlight I could see Sabre pawing the ground and kind of whining. When I got to him, I bent down and grabbed his collar to clip the lead on.' He swallowed. 'That's when I saw her…those eyes staring up at me. It was horrible. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.'

  Drummond and Gail exchanged a look. The heavy rain wasn't the only thing that had destroyed evidence. There was no telling how much the dog had contaminated the crime scene.

  Nell had recovered the victim's handbag and sealed it into an evidence bag when they returned to the scene. She held up another plastic bag containing a letter. 'According to this our victim is a Bernice Brennan and she has a son in care. We have an address in Trongate.'

  It was the other side of the city and explained why Drummond knew very little about the woman. 'The forensic officer has a set of keys that were in her bag,' she said. 'They'll have to be dusted for prints before you can take them.'

  Drummond narrowed his eyes against his thumping head. 'You get more like one of us every day, Nell,' he said, standing back as the victim was zipped into a body bag and carried away by the undertakers.

  'D'you think the dates have anything to do with it?' Gail Swann asked.

  'Dates?' Drummond frowned.

  'Well, the strangler's last victim died on the last shopping day before Christmas and this is St Valentine's Day.'

  Drummond looked at her. 'Is it?'

  Nell heaved an exaggerated sigh. 'Does this mean I shouldn't expect a Valentine card then?' She shot Gail a mischievous grin, amused by Drummond's embarrassment.

  'We'll check it out,' he said gruffly. 'There might be something about the locations too.'

  'I don't see how. The bodies weren't found anywhere near each other,' Nell said.

  'That's exactly my point. That might have been intentional.'

  'It's not much to go on,' Gail said.

  Drummond agreed, flicking his attention back to Nell. 'Well let's hope the PM comes up with something more promising.'

  The pathologist picked up her bag. 'Don't hold your breath,' she called over her shoulder as she ducked out of the tent.

  Bernice Brennan's bedsit was in the close of an old Glasgow tenement. A card bearing her hand-printed name had been taped to the door frame. Drummond had no confidence that anyone would respond to his knock but knocked anyway. He thought about putting his shoulder to the door. There was no telling when they might get their hands on the keys.

  'Bonnie's not in. Who are you?' The woman had appeared from the back court, a bucket in her hand and a cigarette dangling from her mouth.

  They produced their IDs. 'Police,' Drummond said. 'DI Drummond and DC Swann. Can I ask who you are?'

  The woman nodded to one of the two doors in the close. 'I'm Nancy. Bonnie's a mate. I live there. What do you want with her?'

  'Can we have a few words, Nancy?' he said as a man and woman, dripping wet and carrying heavy shopping bags, pushed past them. The man muttered something about them blocking the close. The woman drew Nancy a look. It wasn't friendly. 'You'd better come in.' She raised her voice. 'Too many nosey auld biddies here that want to know your business.'

  The woman with the shopping tutted and shook her head as she and the man puffed up the stairs.

  Nancy pushed her door open. It hadn't been locked. 'Come in. You better tell me what Bonnie's been up to now.'

  'What makes you think she's been up to something?' Gail asked.

  'Because it's what she does. She's always banging on about social services taking her boy. She doesn't realize that chucking bricks at their windows isn't helping her.'

  'I don't suppose you have a photo of Bonnie?' Drummond said.

  'No. The pictures are all next door.' She began to look anxious. 'What's she done?'

  Drummond paused. 'We've found a body,' he said. 'We believe it might be her.'

  Gail shot him a
look as Nancy's hand went to her mouth and she collapsed onto a chair. 'Jesus. What happened?'

  Drummond's expression was grim. 'That's what we're trying to find out.'

  What colour there had been in Nancy's face had drained away as she stubbed her cigarette out in a dirty ashtray. 'I've got a key,' she said, getting up and crossing the room to rummage through a drawer. 'You'd be surprised how often she locks herself out.'

  Drummond and Gail exchanged a look as they got up and followed her next door.

  'We'll give you a shout if we need anything,' he said as Nancy unlocked the door to Bonnie Brennan's place and handed him the key.

  The bedsit was chaotic. At first the detectives thought the place had been turned over, but it soon became apparent that this was how their victim had lived. Drummond's eye fell on the framed photo by the unmade bed. The woman had frizzy blonde hair, challenging green eyes and she balanced a baby on her knee. 'It's her,' Gail said. 'And this must be her son. I wonder why he was taken into care?'

  Drummond looked around him. 'Do you really need to ask?' He'd seen for himself how Bonnie solicited from street corners. She probably brought some of her punters back here. He paused, frowning. Could she have brought her killer here? He thought it unlikely, but they needed to get the forensic team out to check anyway.

  He took the mother and child photo from its frame and slipped it into his pocket.

  Nancy was still hovering about outside the door. 'You didn't say how she died. Was it an accident?' She locked eyes with Drummond.

  'I'm afraid not,' he said. 'We'll need a formal identification.'

  'You must have known Bernice quite well,' Gail said.

  'Bonnie,' she corrected. 'She hated being called Bernice. She was my best mate.'

  'Can we go back into your place?' Drummond asked.

  Five

  That Monday DCI Joey Buchan had fired her usual caustic words at them. They still hadn't caught the bastard strangler. As if every man and woman on the team wasn't already busting a gut trying to do just that. Somebody was murdering women right under their noses and he was getting away with it. Joey Buchan wasn't the only one raging with guilt and frustration. Traces of DNA were found on the bodies, but until they could match it up with the killer it was useless. They had the scarfs he'd used to strangle the women, but Drummond wasn't holding out much hope they would be helpful. The cat and mouse cards left with the bodies were devoid of fingerprints and could have come from any number of online printers, or the killer's own computer.

  Buchan was tapping her finger angrily on the Murder Wall where pictures of Maggie Burns and Bonnie Brennan took centre stage. A stark reminder of their failure…Drummond's failure. He stared at the images. Pictures of Annie Bishop and William McDade had also been added, together with Big Mal McKirdy and Benny Saul's ugly mugs. Drummond narrowed his eyes. What was it they were they missing?

  The top brass had brought in criminal psychologist, Francine Janus, a thin, serious-looking woman with cropped black hair and the shadow of a moustache. She had told them the killer was analytical in his approach to the murders. Each woman had been brutally attacked and as the PM reports on the bodies indicated, they had been choked to death probably in the act of being raped.

  'He probably cruises the city streets, choosing his victims with precision,' Francine Janus told them, adding what they also already knew – that he was targeting blonde, middle-aged women, all of them with heavily made up faces.

  'So, what are you telling us?' Drummond had sighed. 'We should be looking for a nut-case who's killing his mother?' The mother fixation about killers was the usual rubbish trotted out by these psychologists.

  'That's exactly what I'm telling you, Detective…?' She raised an eyebrow. 'I'm sorry, I don't know your name.'

  'DI Jack Drummond,' he said stiffly, aware of Joey Buchan's deep scowl, but he continued anyway. 'Why prostitutes?' he asked. 'Why not secretaries or hairdressers, or any other ordinary women going about their business?'

  Francine Janus was still staring at him. 'In our killer's mind he probably sees himself as ridding the city of filth. He'll believe he's doing a good thing. He'll be on a crusade. He sees these woman as deserving their fate.'

  'A religious fanatic,' Drummond muttered. 'That's all we need. Why can't we just be honest and say he's a crazy bastard who kills women?'

  'We can,' Francine came back at him. 'But it's my job to delve deeper into that crazy mind and find a reason why he is doing what he's doing. It's supposed to help you.'

  Drummond looked away, frowning.

  'What happens when he runs out of middle-aged blonde prostitutes?' Gail Swann asked.

  The psychologist shrugged. 'He might transfer his interest to another city.' She paused. 'Or he might move into the rest of the community.'

  DCI Joey Buchan unfolded her arms. 'So, no woman is safe?'

  'That's about it I'm afraid,' Francine said, sliding her thin backside off the desk she had perched on.

  Watching her leave, Drummond wondered how long it had taken her to reach a conclusion that was already obvious to anyone with half a brain. None of it helped them catch their killer.

  Joey Buchan was looking around the room. 'Any of you got an idea you'd care to share?'

  Gail Swann was staring at the Murder Wall. 'I'm still wondering about the places where he's dumping his victims.' She paused, looking about her.

  'Go on,' Buchan said.

  Gail shrugged. 'The psychologist said our man was meticulous. I just wondered if the disposal sites were significant.'

  Drummond's eyes went back to the wall. She could have a point.

  Buchan turned to him. 'Have we looked at this, Jack?'

  'Only as far as questioning anyone whose property overlooked the sites. We checked surrounding roads and put out requests for anyone who might have been out and about in the area at the time. A few people came forward, but none of them saw anything.' He was still staring at the wall. Something was missing and then it clicked. 'We need pictures of the witnesses who found the bodies,' he said.

  Joey Buchan's eyebrows went up. 'You're not suggesting the killer could be one of them?'

  'No, but it's not out of the question. It would be a way for him to get an insight into the police investigation. He's probably arrogant enough for that.' He nodded to Gail. 'DC Swann is right. We should be looking for connections.'

  Joey Buchan's face stretched into an expression that indicated she thought the whole theory was far-fetched. But they were in no position to ignore anything. 'OK,' she said. 'You've talked yourself into a job, DI Drummond. You check that out yourself and get those photos up on the wall.' She glanced around the room. 'The rest of you have been briefed. Get out there and catch this bastard.'

  The phone on Drummond's desk rang and he grabbed it.

  'Is this a bad time?' PC Pete Mullen was the old-fashioned kind of cop everybody trusted. He had been a community bobby pounding the city centre streets since before Drummond joined the Force. He was also his best friend.

  'It's fine, Pete. We'v just finished a briefing. How are you doing?'

  'Great, yeah. Just wondered if you fancied grabbing a bite to eat tonight?'

  Drummond hesitated. The Four Crowns was one of Pete's local pubs, but Drummond wasn't sure how welcome he'd be there, not after last week's fracas. He hadn't thrown the first punch but there was no way he was going to let a lowlife like Wattie Bremner get away with yelling abuse at him across a crowded bar just because he was the polis. In the end they had both been thrown out.

  'Where were you thinking of meeting?' he asked.

  'Come over to the house. I'll cook,' Pete said.

  Drummond's eyes went to the ceiling. 'You heard about the stramash then?'

  'Everybody has, Jack. You need to curb that temper of yours.'

  'It wasn't my fault, Pete.'

  'Even so. You're a DI. People need to respect you.'

  'Are you inviting me over for a lecture?'

  Pete laug
hed. 'Would it do any good?'

  'Probably not,' Drummond said. 'What are you cooking?'

  Drummond loved the city at night, but it felt like a different place since this psycho had started murdering people. So far, he had confined himself to attacking prostitutes, but they had no reason to believe his next victim would be another hooker.

  Drummond felt sorry for the women. What life did they have selling their bodies to any passing male willing to pay the price to subject them to God knows what degradation? Most of them weren't even earning a living, only financing a drug habit. They had enough to contend with without being preyed on by some sick maniac.

  The first time Drummond spotted Evie in the red-light area he thought she must have innocently strayed there returning home from some city centre nightclub. She looked like she should be getting an early night for school next day, not loitering about with the city's prostitutes. His heart sank when he saw her get into a car and be driven away.

  Whatever circumstances in this girl's young life had driven her onto the streets, she was on a downward spiral unless somebody stopped her.

  Normally he turned a blind eye to the hookers' activities, but while this killer remained at large none of them was safe. The ones he'd spoken to had ignored his advice to stop hanging about street corners. Maybe now was the time to get tough with them.

  Maidie Gemmell was as hard as they came. She'd been plying her trade on the city streets long before Drummond joined Glasgow's finest. She tossed away a fag butt and rolled her eyes as he approached. 'Give us a break, Mr Drummond. Business is bad enough without you turning up and frightening the punters away.'

  'Your next punter could be your last. Think of this as me doing you a favour.'

  'You're not going to nick me?'

  He lowered his brows and stepped closer. 'That's exactly what I'll be doing unless you stay off the streets. Pass the word on.'