Watch Him Die

by Craig Robertson

  ‘Spill.’

  ‘Stefan Kalinowksi isn’t in LA. He isn’t in California.

  Stefan Kalinowksi lives in Glasgow, Scotland.’

  ‘Scotland?’

  ‘Yep. And it gets better. Or stranger. Take your pick. A lot of the random search engine stuff points to the same place.’

  Geisler handed a printed sheet to Salgado. ‘A bar named Blackfriars. Another named Brel. A restaurant called Café Andaluz. A restaurant called Cail Bruich. A cab company. A museum named Kelvingrove. A music venue called O2 Academy. All searched for by Garland. All in Glasgow, Scotland.’

  ‘The fuck?’

  The tech smiled ruefully. ‘That’s pretty much what I thought. I went back to the search history we had from the time Garland was online before he died. There’s a search for something in Glasgow there too. A look for the nearest subway station to somewhere named the Hillhead Bookclub – another bar.’

  Salgado whistled and tilted his head to show surprise.

  ‘Once I saw all the Glasgow references, I took the liberty of running a couple of the other names from Garland’s profile list through a simple internet search with Glasgow thrown in. I got two solid hits.’

  ‘Scotland?’ Salgado continued to wonder.

  ‘There was a girl from Belfast that I went to college with,’ O’Neill was thinking out loud. ‘Okay, I know that’s not Scotland, but bear with me. She used to say “arse” where any of us would say “ass”. I’d never heard anyone else say that, but Marr did. Check the transcript, but I’m certain he said something like “you’re an arse” when you challenged him about the live stream. It didn’t occur to me until now, but I’m sure he said it.’

  ‘I’ll check it,’ Geisler confirmed. His hands moved across the keyboard, searching the transcript of the talks with Marr. ‘Yep. Pretty much exactly what you said. He called Salgado an “arse”. I think maybe we were too busy agreeing to notice the language.’

  Salgado cracked a smile and pointed at the tech. ‘Lucky you’re a genius, Geisler. But that’s nice work.’

  ‘Okay, we need to contact the local force.’ O’Neill finally uncrossed her arms, some of the strain easing from her. ‘Glasgow PD or whatever it is. Ask them to run the names through their database and get back to us.’

  Geisler handed over another sheet of paper. ‘It’s called Police Scotland. There’s a phone number and an email address on there.’

  Salgado nodded. ‘Thanks, but I say we don’t wait. I want to talk to that freak Marr now. He knows what this is all about and I want him to tell us. Kurt, seeing as you’re on a roll, get him online. I’m going to talk to him. In fact, wait – I’ve got a better idea. Let’s make sure he comes on.’

  *

  It took all of two minutes.

  What the hell’s going on? Why have you turned that video stream off?

  This is Detective Salgado. I wanted to get your attention, Matthew.

  Well you’ve fucking got it. Now put it back on.

  When I’m ready.

  Now.

  Not now, Matthew. I want to ask you something first.

  What?

  How’s the weather in Glasgow, tonight? Still raining?

  The message was read. No reply.

  Don’t go all shy on me, Matthew. None of us have time for that.

  It was a gamble. The same risk they ran every time they pushed the guy. Everyone in the tech room held their breath until the cursor flashed to show typing.

  I want the stream turned back on.

  Then you have to give me something. You tell me how you’ll talk to me if you get to see the video. So talk. No talk, no video. Are you in Glasgow?

  The pause was lengthy. The cursor showed typing. Then stopped as it was scrubbed. Then began again.

  So poor old Ethan was careless. Arsehole. I should have known better than to trust someone else. Yes, I’m in Glasgow. Now put that video back on.

  Salgado and O’Neill looked at each other. He blew out hard and dragged two hands through his hair.

  Prove it. And quickly. I need to know you’re not just saying that. Tell me things about Glasgow. Now. Before you’d have time to look it up.

  This time the response was immediate.

  Okay fucker. Best city in the world. Main river is the Clyde but there’s also the River Kelvin, the Molendinar Burn, the Black Cart and the White Hart. Oh, and the Levern Water. That do you, fucker? Any more tests?

  Salgado waited and moments later got a thumbs up from Geisler after a Google search.

  So, you’re Scottish?

  Can’t you tell by my accent?

  I can’t . . . Salgado deleted his initial response when he realised he was being made fun of.

  I’m in Glasgow. That’s all you need to know and all you’re going to know. It’s also all Ethan ever knew so you can search his computer all you want, or whatever you’re doing, because he didn’t know who I was or where I was other than Glasgow. It’s pretty small compared to Los Angeles but it’s plenty big enough to hide in.

  He didn’t know who you were? Your name isn’t Matthew Marr?

  Don’t be such an arse. Of course it’s not. Ethan never asked because he knew better. Now put that video back on.

  I need to know more.

  I’m sure you do, big man. But you’re not getting it. Not tonight anyway. Video. Now.

  He looked at O’Neill, who shrugged then nodded. ‘We got something. Much more than we had. Let’s not push him hard enough that he walks away. Because then that kid is dead.’

  Salgado’s eyes slid shut, hating it. He opened them again and turned to Geisler. ‘Do it.’

  The tech made it happen and the response from the man calling himself Matthew Marr was instant.

  That’s the way. You know it makes sense, big man. Now go fuck yourself and let me watch this in peace.

  Salgado got out of the chair and kicked it across the room again.

  ‘We catch this guy. Nothing else to be done here. We catch this fuck.’

  CHAPTER 19

  Narey was at her desk, chasing wild geese through the internet. She’d been wading through both the Criminal History System and the Police National Computer for over an hour in the vain hope of stumbling over something that she could work with on the Eloise Gray case. She might have called it looking for a needle in a haystack, but she couldn’t even be sure it was a needle she was looking for.

  The landline rang, an internal call. She ignored it and continued to scroll through the database looking for something, anything that might give her an in. The caller refused to give up and Narey had to relent. She regretted her lack of urgency two seconds after she recognised Detective Superintendent McTeer’s voice. This was all she bloody needed.

  ‘DI Narey. I can only assume you were a long way from the phone. Can you report to my office, please? Now, if you could.’

  ‘Sir, can I ask—’

  ‘No. And I said, now.’

  This was becoming a well-trodden path and she wasn’t liking it much. She found herself wondering if someone was monitoring her searches on the CHS and the PNC. If McTeer had somehow got wind of the fact that she was doubting that Tam Harkness was guilty, then she might be facing a bollocking for pretty much the opposite of her last visit. Someone had to make their mind up round here.

  She knocked on his door and, after a brief pause, he shouted for her to enter. The super was on the phone, his head resting on his hand, and saying ‘uh huh’ a lot. His face was not a happy one. ‘Okay, okay. Leave that with me. Yes, I’ll get back to you.’ He hung up the phone. ‘Or maybe I won’t. You ever get one of those days when you wish you were still walking the streets in the pishing rain?’

  ‘All the time, sir.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. Okay, so what’s the latest with your man Harkness? You still trusting your instinct?’

  Damn it. She really hoped it wasn’t Rico Giannandrea that had said anything. She wasn’t ready to explain any of this until she got her hands on someth
ing resembling evidence. If it had been Rico, she’d throttle him.

  ‘It’s not just instinct, sir. It’s . . . experience. I’ve seen people react the way Harkness did, and I don’t believe he was faking it. Look, I know this goes against everything I’d said before, but I need more time to try to get a handle on this.’

  McTeer looked confused and she realised he’d had no idea she was doubting the man’s guilt.

  ‘Are we talking at cross purposes here, Rachel? I’m not sure that I want to know.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want you to know either,’ she conceded. ‘Maybe we should start again. Shall I go back out and knock?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Rachel. Sit down, please.’

  She settled herself in the seat opposite McTeer’s desk, only now picking up on the look of consternation on his face. She sensed a worry from him that she didn’t much like. He was building up to something and she felt a familiar rush of adrenalin that she didn’t know was good or bad.

  ‘We’ve had a call from the United States, from the LAPD. They—’

  ‘Sir? This is about Eloise Gray?’

  McTeer lifted his head from the printouts in his hand just long enough to look at her admonishingly over his spectacles. She stayed silent.

  ‘It’s an odd one, to say the least. They were called to what seems to have been a non-suspicious death; a man named Ethan Garland had a massive heart attack. However, there were items in the house that raised suspicion. They searched the premises and found body parts seemingly held as trophies. The evidence suggests this Garland was a serial killer and they just stumbled across him.’

  He held a hand up without taking his eyes off the sheet, shutting off the questions he knew she was burning to ask.

  ‘Their IT people went to work on his computer and among the few things they were able to dig out was a file of names with potted biographies. Age, job, physical descriptions, hobbies, things like that. They ran them against mispers and anyone with a record, but they got nothing. It was as if these people didn’t exist. And yes, I know you’re bursting to ask what this has got to do with us and are wishing I’d get to the point. So, it’s this. Garland had done internet searches for places in Glasgow, so one of the LA detectives got in touch and ran the list of names they had past us.’

  He paused just long enough that she couldn’t help but fill the gap.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And –’ McTeer took a breath – ‘one of the biographies on the list was a divorced father of one. A six-foot, fair-haired primary school teacher who loved hill-climbing, old movies, cooking and dogs. His name was—’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. His name was Jamie Stark. It’s either a very odd coincidence or he’s the one we’ve been calling our Mr Kipper.’

  Narey could only stare back at him as she tried to make sense of it. ‘How the hell is that even possible?’

  McTeer tossed the printout across the desk so that the clipped papers landed in front of her, sat back in his chair and slipped his reading glasses from his head. ‘Rachel, I have no bloody idea. But it gets worse. Or at least stranger. Read the other names on the list.’

  She snatched it from the table and skimmed through the names. Seconds later, she lowered the paper and looked up at him, her mouth open.

  CHAPTER 20

  Narey and Giannandrea were in a media suite inside HQ at Dalmarnock, sitting in front of a large screen waiting for Los Angeles to wake up. The eight-hour time difference was proving hugely frustrating but at least it had allowed them to do some work on the list that McTeer had provided. The fruits of that work had only made the time crawl slower as they became desperate for the Americans to get to their desks.

  ‘So, what’s the time over there now? Surely the lazy bastards are at work by this time?’ DCI Derek Addison was in attendance on the orders of McTeer and making no pretence of hiding the fact he was none too happy about it.

  Giannandrea checked his watch. ‘It’s five to six in the morning Pacific Time.’

  ‘Which is five minutes later than the last time you asked, sir,’ Narey added wearily. Addison had been a pain in the rear since the moment he joined them.

  ‘Specific Time? Of course I wanted the specific time. And less of your cheek, DI Narey. You’re not running the team yet.’

  ‘Oh, give us—’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Giannandrea broke up the sparring. ‘Looks like we’re on.’

  The icon next to the LAPD connection had turned green. They were good to go.

  ‘About bloody time,’ Addison moaned.

  Giannandrea made the call and it was accepted instantly. The link buffered for a few moments, showing just two slightly blurry figures on the screen, until it settled, and they saw two cops looking at two cops looking at two cops.

  The male was in his early thirties, tanned and handsome in a sharp suit. She was pale and pretty with long red hair, looking as Irish as sweet Molly Malone, and she made the introductions.

  ‘Good morning, Detectives. Or is it . . . afternoon? I’m Detective Cally O’Neill and this is my partner, Detective Bryan Salgado. Thank you for taking the time to talk to us today.’

  ‘It’s afternoon for us. I’m Detective Inspector Rachel Narey and this is Detective Sergeant Rico Giannandrea. Also in the room is Detective Chief Inspector Derek Addison, although he’s here—’

  ‘Under protest,’ came the voice from the side of the room. ‘Just ignore me and do your jobs. These two don’t need me babysitting them and I’m sure you don’t either. I’m only here because I have to be, so only refer to me if you really have to.’

  O’Neill seemed taken aback by the interruption, but shrugged it off.

  ‘Okay, sure thing, sir. Listen, I don’t know how much you guys know about what we’ve been working on or why we need your help, so I thought it would make sense to run through it, so we all know where we are. That work?’

  ‘It works for me,’ Narey told her. ‘We have your list and have some answers to that but some more context would definitely help.’

  She saw O’Neill and Salgado swap glances at that, sensing their anxiety to know what she had for them. They’d made their offer though and would have to stick to it.

  ‘Okay, Detective, I’ll make it quick.’ Salgado took over. ‘A couple of minutes ago, we emailed a full report on everything we have, but here’s the highlights. We are investigating the activities of a fifty-eight-year-old white male named Ethan Garland. He was found dead in his home here in Los Angeles two days ago. Death was natural causes, but it’s opened up a major investigation. We believe Garland was a serial killer, active over a number of years and responsible for a large number of murders. We’re working those of course but, crazy as it sounds, that’s not our priority. Garland left one unfinished.’

  ‘Unfinished?’

  ‘Officers, why don’t we show you what we’re dealing with?’

  It was O’Neill’s tone rather than what she said. The tone of someone who knew she held the winning argument. She turned the camera on whatever computer they were using until it pointed at another screen.

  ‘The quality won’t be great, because of not coming to you direct, but we’ll fix that and get you a feed you can use. This will let you see what we’re dealing with, though.’

  She adjusted the angle again until the second screen filled the one in Glasgow. It flickered once then snapped into focus.

  It took Narey and Giannandrea a few moments to fully realise what they were seeing. It was a room, barely lit, an object in the middle, something else behind it. It took closer inspection and a little deduction to reveal it to be a person, the humanity initially disguised by the head slumped forward and dark hair obscuring the face. The chinos, the shirt and the build told them it was a man.

  As they watched, his right arm shook briefly, perhaps uncontrollably, and the tremor ran through his body to his right foot and it too moved.

  ‘He’s alive?’

  ‘Yes.
Just. We can’t be sure when he last ate or last had water, so medics can’t give us a time on how long he’ll survive if we don’t find him. He wakes occasionally but he seems to be sleeping more and more in the time we’ve had access to the feed. We think a lot of the movement is the body reacting to the changes. How much cognitive brain activity is still going on is anyone’s guess.’

  The man’s body shook again, this time his head falling to the side, held in place only by the chain that Narey could now see attached to the old iron radiator behind him. Christ, his face. The skin was a deathly shade of yellow, the cheeks hollowed and eye sockets like craters. A large blister was obvious on his left cheek.

  His eyes were open, staring blankly at the floor. His mouth was open too, perhaps more by gravity than choice, slackly yawning at the wooden floorboards.

  ‘We think he’s in his early to mid-twenties,’ Salgado said. ‘We’ve run the description against missing persons and have around a dozen possible hits. None of them give us a whole lot of hope, though. It may be he hasn’t been reported missing yet. Our bosses are making a decision as to whether we release a photograph of him. A positive ID might narrow down search areas but LA is a big city and he could be anywhere. We’re racing the clock here.’

  The two Scots stared at the young man on the screen, five thousand miles away, seeing him die before their eyes and aware that they, somehow, had to play their part in saving him. It was surreal and a little unnerving.

  ‘Okay, whatever help we can be, you’ve got it,’ Narey told them. ‘But where do we fit into this? We’ve worked our way through your list, so we know there’s a link, but we don’t know how or why.’

  One of the Americans swung the camera back away from the young man and back onto them, their faces awash with tension.

  ‘We need to get to this,’ Salgado insisted. ‘We’re dancing when we need to be running.’