by Gavin Graham
“Except he’s picking them as motherly figures.”
“Yes, it seems that way.”
“What did his mother look like?”
“Take a wild guess…”
“Brownish hair and freckles?”
“You got it.”
“We need to move on this guy soon Boss, we really do.”
“No, let’s take our time. One wrong move and he’ll slip out of our hands once again. What do you say, Colin?”
“Slowly-slowly, catchy-monkey,” the educated lad responded from the backseat. He chose his words carefully, true, but he also had an uncanny knack for stating the obvious when the obvious had to be stated.
Chapter 21
The Polish conundrum
Understanding the bizarre symbolism of a murder scene can be half the battle in solving the case…
The scene was indeed similar to that of the Connolly and O’Hara murder scenes, just slightly more vicious, as she’d been anally-raped then violently stabbed in the back of the neck and right into the back of the skull. It appeared as though the victim hadn’t struggled and was moved onto the bed where she’d been tied up and her corpse interfered with. The skin around the neck was raw and pink, he’d performed asphyxiation-style sex on her, even though she was already dead; as he’d probably done to his own mother.
She’d been dressed in black fishnets and red high-heel shoes, like a prostitute.
Her face had been brushed with a heavy layer of make-up and, again, red lip stick had been thickly applied. She looked like an erotic showgirl or some kind of glamorous hooker in a Las Vegas hotel. The perp had used a blade, the same one he’d used to get access to her insides, and cut the word - WHORE - across her chest.
“It’s the same guy aright, what’s with the sunglasses?”
“Something that relates to his mum…”
“Why would they have worn sunglasses indoors?”
“To hide the fact that she’d been beaten up pretty badly and had two black eyes into the bargain?”
“By who?”
“Husband, a client, or even Johnny-Boy? Most likely, the husband.”
“Good, and the liver?” Mac pointed to the red little organ.
“His mother had a chronic alcohol problem, I reckon.”
“An alcoholic prostitute of a mother and an abusive pimp of a father; he didn’t get much of a start in life, did he?”
“No. And the story is these beloved parents of his just suddenly went missing?”
“Yes, both unsolved cases. The boy had been in a right state apparently, on the verge of suicide. He’s a good actor, I’ll give him that. A devious and manipulative little shit.”
“He killed them, I’m sure of it, and he did this. He’s our Casanova Killer. You see, we men are strange creatures and we have to justify what we do, no matter how primitive. There has to be reason and meaning to our actions. This is just his way of making sense of his world, making sense of his own hateful agenda and somehow attempting to justify it. Tell me what you think about these obscene words and the way that he cuts them into the bodies of his vivtims.”
“He hated the fact that his mum was forced into prostitution and he now projects that hate onto them.”
“Why Tinder?”
“The App is full of women who are outwardly promiscuous, he hates them even more because they are sexually active by choice. He uses the App as a means of trolling and selection, to pick the ones that fit the bill. So that he can feel closer to his mum and keep her memory alive, as well as fulfilling his own murderous urges and justifying his bloody acts.”
“This woman fits the profile.”
“Yes. The techs have looked at her phone and she had certainly swiped right on Moffat.”
“She swiped what…?”
“That’s how you ‘like’ a person on Tinder, to show that you would be open-minded to meeting up with them for a date. Swiping ‘left’ means the opposite, that the person is not your ‘type’.”
“Oh, I see,” said McGreavy, feeling somewhat old and out-of-touch. “Where was Moffat at the time of the murder?”
“Watching a football game at the Horse & Anchor pub in Cambusnethan.”
“Camby? That’s my neck of the woods, a good wee pub that is…what was he doing out there?”
“Catching up with some old school mates apparently, so he has plenty of witnesses to provide an alibi.”
“It’s a bloody mystery, but I’m sure he’s our man.”
“You want to bring him in again?”
“No, let’s not do that, let’s stick to the plan and just keep a very close eye on him. Meanwhile, have the techs narrow down all women in a fifty-mile radius of the Moffat household who ‘fit the bill’, as you put it.”
They conducted a surveillance op outside the small Polish shop on Byer’s Road - it sold bread, sausages and some foreign newspapers.
The DC was in the backseat, as usual, with an Olympus super-zoom digital camera, taking snapshots of the suspect as he loitered and spoke to a few hard-looking skinheads, presumably the ones Moffat was pushing the drugs on.
“I didn’t know he smoked,” said McGreavy, in the front seat, staring quizzically at the man.
“Neither did I,” replied the DS, in the driver’s seat.
The three of them watched curiously until eventually the guys said their farewells and parted ways. As soon as they’d vanished they emerged from the vehicle and swaggered across to the shop door.
“Good morning,” said McGreavy. “Police,” he pulled his ID, “I’d like to ask you a few questions about this man,” he showed the shopkeeper a digital image of Moffat on his phone.
“Ah, yes, Tomasz Zebrowski,” the shopkeeper said with suspicious caution. What about him?”
The Inspector looked at the other two and they all shared a confused frown. “This man, you say, is…who?”
Beware of the two-faced man…
“Tomasz Zebrowski, is he in trouble?”
“No, no, he just has a few unpaid traffic violations we need to talk to him about.”
“He doesn’t drive…”
“Can you just write down the correct spelling of his name and where he lives please, that would help us a lot.”
“But, surely if he has these traffic violations then you know his name, no?”
“Sir, I’m beginning to lose my patience here, now if you are not willing to co-operate here then we can haul you into the station.”
“For what?”
“Oh, I’m sure we can fit you up with something,” he said with a wry smile as the other two chuckled behind him.
The old Polish shopkeeper could clearly smell a rat but grudgingly wrote down the young man’s name and address.
“What the Hell do you make of this, Boss?”
“What do I make of it? I think Moffat is the killer and Zebrowski is a decoy, a double.”
“He doesn’t have a sibling, so it can’t be a twin brother.”
“They say that everyone has an identical counterpart, do they not? A doppelganger? But how would he find him?”
“He could have used Identity-theft Monitor.”
“Identity, what?”
“It’s an add-on App you can get for Facebook and Instagram that flags up people who have created an account using your picture.”
“Right, OK.”
“The other side of the coin is that it can also bring your attention to people who just happen to look identical to you.”
“That would be one way to make sense of this. One provides an alibi whilst the other one is out there murdering girls on Tinder. I really should become more savvy with all this social media stuff.”
“Not at all, Boss, that’s what you have me for! Look, I reckon that Pole is just here in Glasgow to make some quick cash, maybe dealing some dope, and taking a big earner from Moffat on the side. I’m sure he’s got plenty of lottery money stashed under the bed.”
“It’s nothing new as a concept either,
there’s been plenty of similar cases. The Bondurant Brothers, for instance. Identical twins - they used to go around killing women but helping each other to get away with it.”
“And that’s why the sperm failed to throw up a match, because it was the Polish-double that was screwing the barmaid. And, what was it the barmaid said, ‘he even speaks Russian’? Polish, I think is the language that she heard him speaking… It’s an almost perfect crime, but they got sloppy.
“Of course, Boss, I think we’ve got him by the balls…”
“I want a warrant to search the premises of the Moffat household and I want him arrested on suspicion of murder, ASAP.”
“OK, let’s just hope that he hasn’t jumped town.”
Chapter 22
Policja are coming
The smart criminal is the one who never gets greedy…
The bar was called Broken Glass.
It was a dark place with no windows and smoke machines pumped white clouds around the lower deck. It was an ice-themed bar and the order of the day was vodka-on-the-rocks, with ice cut up like broken glass.
Zebrowski sat in a corner by himself, although a Serbian student was eyeing him up from the bar. She probably recognised him from the papers, knowing that he liked big girls, and she was using her sexy curves to reel him in and tempt him.
He invited her to sit at his table and within a matter seconds they had started to kiss and she allowed him to fondle her body freely. He was slipping a hand beneath her top to steal a feel of her flesh when his phone vibrated. It was an SMS from the old Polish shopkeeper. “Sorry darling, can I just check that? My poor old mother is sick…”
“Of course.”
He opened up the message and read it: TOMASZ, POLICJA HAVE BEEN HERE ASKING QUESTIONS, I TOLD YOU NOT TO GET MIXED UP WITH DRUGS AND THAT EVIL MAFIA FAMILY. POLICJA ARE COMING - BE CAREFUL…
“KURVA!”
“Excuse me?” he had cursed in Polish but the Serb girl understood.
“Sorry, I have to go…” he knocked back his glass-full of chilled vodka and grabbed for his leather jacket.
“You don’t want to fuck me, Mister Casanova?”
“Not today, maybe next time…”
Now she was the one cursing in her mother-tongue and she said, “go fuck yourself,” as he urgently ran out of the bar.
The Pole took a risk and went home to get his passport, preparing to flee back to Warsaw.
It was the stupidest thing he could have done because in his flat there was a man with a gun, waiting for him.
He was zipping up his travel bag just as he heard the creak of a floorboard and turned to see a tall blonde man in a Harris Tweed jacket, with a scar across his cheek. He had a half-kilo bag of cocaine in one hand and a Glock-19 in the other. The gun was trained on the Pole’s chest and the smiling blonde dangled the bag like a little carrot in front of his nose.
“Jesus Christ, so are you Zebrowski or Moffat?” it was uncanny, they looked absolutely identical.
“I am Zebrowski, who the fuck are you?” he retorted now, no longer in mock Glaswegian, but in his thick East European accent.
“Look what I found, Tom…half a kilo? This could see you going away for a long time my boy, in a prison where there is no Polish mafia to protect you. Just big nasty bruisers with big dicks who like to fuck immigrants and rapists. Those guys are always looking for a new bitch, and I think a handsome boy like you will do them just fine…” Jimmy ‘The Swede’ taunted the Pole with his wicked blue eyes, mocking him.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?”
“Police, CID.”
“You’re a cop?”
“I know I don’t look like one, but I’m as blue a Bobby as they come. Furthermore, I’m bringing you in for questioning in a murder enquiry. If you don’t co-operate, you’re getting done for the half kilo and anything else we decide to fit you up with. It is an unfortunate predicament for you, but what to do? Help us track down this psychopathic ‘double’ of yours though and we will see you right…”
“Oh fak, fak, fak…” was all the Pole could say.
Moffat read the newspaper headlines, particularly the front page of the Glasgow Herald: TINDER KILLER STRIKES AGAIN, GLASGOW HAS A SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE!
The MILF had been an easy target, living alone like that in such an isolated location, she’d been easy pickings. With the assistance of his doppelganger he was once again able to elude the cops by providing solid witnesses.
He was proving to be careless though, his Polish accomplice. Fucking that barmaid, for example, and asking about who he could buy drugs from with the money that he was getting paid. It was time to eliminate his so-called partner-in-crime and change tactics. First things first though, he would kill just one more, with Tom’s assistance.
He’d already picked her out too, yes, she was a real bitch.
Just one more kill, then he would get rid of the Pole.
Chapter 23
A Glasgow thing, an Edinburgh thing & a murder thing
A man must know his own limitations as a mortal…when to hunt and when to rest…
It was very much a ‘Glasgow’ thing, to meet for a wee drink on a first date, as opposed to having dinner at some pretentious restaurant.
Drinks, in the October Café, for example.
Then, down to a club like The Tunnel, to dance and take drugs, before going to someone’s flat for comedown sex and a smoke. It didn’t have to be your flat or her flat either, just someone’s flat; or a place.
He had his car parked up in the NCP and the backseat could be the proposed place. He considered getting his next victim drunk then luring her to the vehicle to kill her, whilst Tom did something in a public place with lots of witnesses. It had been Tom, despite his stupidity and lack of self-control, that had given him the idea of using the car for entrapment purposes.
It was a plan, albeit a simple one, but a plan nonetheless.
The only problem was that it would be another very public performance of his murderous magic routine with lots of witnesses who saw him with the victims before she was killed. It would attract more media attention and he didn’t want that. All he wanted was a clean kill before he disappeared and re-established himself somewhere else like Paris or Rome then perhaps New York, later on. He would keep on re-inventing himself and changing tactics, moving on to another city before the Police ever got close to catching him.
It was a ‘Glasgow’ thing, but apparently it wasn’t an ‘Edinburgh’ thing because Shona Aberfeldy wasn’t into that kind of thing anyway.
She didn’t do drugs.
She didn’t do clubs.
She was more into the Michelin star restaurant scene than the bars. “The pubs in Glasgow are full of idiots and thugs,” she had informed him, matter-of-factly, over the phone.
For that comment, she would pay dearly.
High bloody maintenance for such a nasty little whore, thought Johnny-Boy. Tony Macaroni’s too good for the posh Edinburgh lady, is that it? She will be in for a treat then, when I wring her neck and give her a one-way ticket to the basement of Hell.
Well, it wouldn’t be another restaurant deal like the Tony Macaroni performance, he didn’t want to come across too obvious and predictable, he would continue as he did with the McDonald woman and keep his killing in total isolation. “How about I pick you up and we take a drive up to Loch Lomond, get a wee cabin and have a nice weekend? We can try out a few local pubs, eat some nice haggis?”
“Oh, that sounds amazing John, I’m totally up for it.”
“Hoakey-doakey then, I’ll pick you up tomorrow at six o’clock?”
“Great.”
“We’ll be up there in time for a nice wee dinner and a romantic walk along the loch.”
“I can’t wait, this will be lovely, just what I need.”
Little does she know, she’s been marked for death…
Pre-kill intercourse with a victim was never as satisfying as the sex he’d enjoyed with his mu
m. But, of course, the raping and pillaging of those promiscuous little whores more than made up for it.
This old slag from Edinburgh was ripe for the taking and he would enjoy killing her, because of her arrogance, her ignorance and her outright stupidity. Here she was, sailing on the waves of greatness, standing in the shadows of certain death, and she didn’t even know it; what a cunt. He was ready to paint her with the bleak stains of bodily violation and murder, to teach her the meaning of life and death, and show her what happens when you dance with The Devil and hand out free fucks to strange men.
Because, it is never just a dance, is it?
Satan is a fiend, fornication the sweetest drink, and the Great Beast is always thirsty…
He would tarnish her body by forced sex and strangulation before giving her up as a sacrificial lamb, posing in the night with her liver and her blood, defiling her in the smoky clutches of the unseen spirit world, where evil watches and Lucifer reigns supreme. Her reverence and faith was like a sad, empty warehouse, filled with shadows and curious question marks. Empty, like the thick emptiness of her witless, imbecilic head. Her false dedication was reason in itself to instigate her expiration.
God, he wanted to kill her, so badly now.
The next day they were on the A82 road and a tranquil drive up to Loch Lomond.
“I just love the highlands, don’t you?” they were officially out of the City Centre and into the rolling hills that now surrounded the car in majestic mist.
“Aye, it’s truly magnificent,” he was referring to the tiny articles of ash that moved around the edge of the car’s windscreen, dancing on the surface like passing raindrops.
