Watch Him Die

by Craig Robertson

  ‘When was the last time he was seen?’

  Erin reached for a packet of cigarettes and fumbled one out. ‘My cousin Eleanor was in Glasgow, in the Buchanan Galleries, maybe six weeks ago. She was going up one of the escalators and he was going down the opposite one. He saw her but just looked at her, no hello, no expression, nothing.’

  ‘Would that be usual for him? Just blanking people like that?’

  ‘It would depend on which Fraser he was being that day. He might wake up being Mr Nice Guy, he might be a miserable bastard, he might be one thing to one person and something completely different to another. You never knew.’

  ‘Is there anyone who might know where he is? Old friends of his, or family?’

  ‘No, I doubt it. He never had many close friends to start with and he lost those after what he did. He doesn’t have much in the way of family and never had anything to do with them anyway.’

  They were getting nowhere. A last throw of the dice.

  ‘Does the name Matthew Marr mean anything to you?’

  She gave the name some thought but shook her head. ‘No, doesn’t mean a thing. Listen, Inspector, I don’t want anyone like Fraser anywhere near my kids. So, if you do find him, get him to pay the money he owes us, then lose him again. We’re better off without him.’

  *

  Derek Solomon and Colin McPake were ruled out, Martin Grenier too. Kepple, Geir, Anderson and Devlin were still places unknown. Bryce and Fairley had given nothing away. And the clock ticked.

  Narey needed something and, right on cue, her mobile rang. The screen showed it was Gerry Grady.

  ‘Hey, Gerry. You got something for me?’

  ‘Inspector, I’ve got a hit on our cat killer. I know where Martin Geir is.’

  ‘Gerry, I knew I could count on you. Where is he?’

  ‘Well, before I tell you, I was thinking that I’ve been doing all the back scratching in this deal and was looking for a bit coming back my way. What’s the story here, Rachel?’

  ‘Christ, Gerry. You’re really going to try to play hard-ball with me at this stage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, let me tell you something. Don’t. I have a major investigation where the shit is not so much hitting the fan as battering it to death. I have zero time for getting dicked around and I am currently considering charging you with obstructing a police investigation. You will subsequently get nothing from me and nothing from anyone else in Police Scotland but might find your car checked for bald tyres on a regular basis. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Can’t blame a man for trying, Inspector.’

  ‘I don’t have time to blame or not blame. Just fucking tell me.’

  ‘Martin Geir is dead.’

  ‘Shit. You’re sure?’

  ‘Pushing up daisies somewhere in the Motorway Triangle is what I’m told. He’d been driving an unlicensed taxi in Toryglen, cash in hand, calling himself Michael Johns. The firm he drove for is a front for Alec Kirkwood, the gangster. It seems that one of Kirkwood’s daughters heard about Michael Johns and his backstory. The daughter is a cat lover and went mental at Kirkwood about having this guy on the books. She wanted him out, but she also wanted him sorted. The same way he’d sorted the cats. This was three months ago, Inspector. Whatever you want him for, Geir isn’t your man.’

  *

  Narey had Lee Fairley watched around the clock, making sure the patrol car that made regular trips down his street was as visible as possible. If that made him nervous, then so much the better.

  The neighbours had been questioned about security and seeing anything odd in the area, leading of course to questions about Fairley.

  Quite a few said there had been arguments about noise late at night, about bins being overflowing, his car being parked where it shouldn’t. None of that was unusual but a few spoke about the ferocity of the man’s temper.

  He’d left his flat for one quick walk to a local shop, a drive to a flat in King’s Park where he stayed for just twenty minutes before leaving, and a longer drive over the river to Kelvingrove where he sat parked outside a block of flats for over an hour.

  That was enough to have Giannandrea and Wells on his tail when he next drove down Langside Road. When he indicated right at the last moment and turned into Earlspark Avenue, they were tight enough that they had to take the next turning then wheel back round. Even so, they were pretty sure he’d clocked them. When they parked up behind Fairley’s Honda, they saw that it was empty and there was no sign of him. He’d got out before they got there and probably legged it around the corner to Langside station, where he was doubtless on a train bound for the city centre.

  Giannandrea was less worried that they’d lost him than the certain feeling that Fairley had done it just to show that he could.

  CHAPTER 47

  Narey’s eyes were glued to the screen. Somewhere in the greater Los Angeles area, Dylan Hansen sat slumped against the radiator, his hair covering his face and his body motionless. She’d become used to looking for the slightest hint of movement, the smallest sign of continuing existence.

  When the other monitor flickered into life, it made her jump, her mind leaping to a false conflated dawn, a vision of an ECG graph soaring to new heights. The reality of the still-motionless Dylan was a depressant.

  She held it together and turned to see Cally O’Neill staring back at her.

  ‘You watching Dylan, Rachel?’

  The strain must have been showing on Narey’s face and she was annoyed with herself that it did so. The only saving grace was knowing that O’Neill shared her worries.

  ‘Yes. He hasn’t moved in the fifteen minutes that I’ve been here.’

  ‘Our doctors tell us he’s running on empty. Organ failure is probably inevitable from here on in.’

  ‘Are you any closer, Cally?’

  O’Neill hesitated, thought long and deep before answering. ‘Yes. We’re closer. We’re learning more about Garland all the time and we now know more about who he was and how he thought. We’re closer. And that’s why I’m calling. We’ve been working a line on Ethan Garland’s father. It started out as something very left-field but we’re now thinking it goes right to the heart of who Garland was and . . . well, there’s things I need to know from you.’

  ‘Okay. Go for it.’

  O’Neill breathed deep and readied herself. ‘Okay . . . you’ll remember that among the murderabilia items we found in Garland’s cellar was a purse said to belong to Elizabeth Short and tagged with the name Frankie Wynn. It was just one of several such things, so we didn’t pay it any more attention than the others, but we followed process. We now know that Frankie Wynn was an alias used by Zac Garland and we have several links between Garland senior and the Short investigation. He drove a similar car to a prime suspect, he frequented a motel where many think the murder was committed, he worked at a restaurant where Short’s shoes and purse were found. The links are largely circumstantial, but they keep on coming and coming.’

  ‘You’re thinking Garland’s father murdered Elizabeth Short? Really?’

  O’Neill held her gaze, thinking, deliberating. ‘Yes. Maybe. It’s so far from what I thought we were working on but yes, it’s all pointing that way. How much do you know about the Short murder?’

  ‘She’s the one they called the Black Dahlia, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  Narey hesitated. ‘I guess I don’t know that much. I know of the case, know it was brutal, headline-making stuff and never solved. After that, I’d be guessing.’

  ‘Okay, let me give you the Cliff’s Notes. She—’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The quick-study version. Elizabeth Short was twenty-two years old. Dark hair, model looks. She’d been working as a waitress, may have had aspirations to get into the movie business. Her body was found lying on an empty building lot in 1947. Cause of death was a cerebral haemorrhage. The key thing I want to talk to you about was how her body was displayed.’

&n
bsp; ‘Okay . . .’ Narey sensed O’Neill’s nervousness as she neared the business end of her explanation.

  ‘Elizabeth Short’s body had been cut in half.’

  ‘Oh Christ . . .’

  ‘Right. So you now know why I’m making this call. Eloise Gray’s body was severed too, right?’

  ‘Right. Cut in two just below the waist. A technique called—’

  ‘A hemicorporectomy. Rachel, you saw Eloise’s body. Tell me how it was arranged.’

  The inescapable sense of dread made Narey close her eyes. Behind them, she saw Eloise’s body in the harsh light of the cellar of the Highland Fling, the two halves so deliberately positioned.

  ‘She’d been placed with her arms above her head. Her elbows were bent at right angles. Her legs were spread apart in a way that I’d suggest was intended to be sexual.’

  O’Neill nodded grimly. ‘Exactly as Elizabeth Short was.’

  Narey’s gut twisted. ‘Marr’s done this as a copycat killing? As what, some kind of homage to Ethan Garland’s father?’

  ‘It sure looks that way.’

  ‘Wait,’ Narey pulled a hand through her hair as she thought. ‘How old did you say she was? Twenty-two? Eloise was twenty-two. Does that sound like a coincidence to you?’

  ‘Nope. None of it does. Everything either of them has done has been for a reason, however fucking sick it is.’

  Narey nodded animatedly. ‘Marr has been adamant with me that there was no reason that Eloise was chosen other than that she was a victim. Lennie Dakers told me Marr was lying but we couldn’t call him on it or be sure there was more to it. Now we know different. What did Elizabeth Short look like?’

  O’Neill was ready for the question and immediately raised a grainy black and white photograph to the screen.

  Narey couldn’t help but see the connection right away. While Eloise and the woman they called the Black Dahlia didn’t exactly look alike, they were most definitely a similar type. The dark hair, the fresh-faced beauty, the bloom of youth. They looked enough alike that if you were searching for a stand-in for Short then Eloise would adequately fit the bill. Narey swore.

  ‘Ethan Garland did this search, Cally. He picked someone who fitted the profile and delivered her to Marr for dispatching. Marr told me she was killed because she was a victim, nothing more, but he was lying. It suited him for me to think she was just some random, that it could have been anyone.’

  ‘There was nothing random about it, Rachel.’

  ‘No. They picked her out and hunted her down. And I’m going to make Marr regret it.’

  CHAPTER 48

  Igloo. Messages. Vikki, 32.

  Ryan: Hey, how are you this morning?

  Delivered, 11.05

  Read, 11.08

  Vikki: Hi! Good thanks. Just chilling at home.

  I’m just checking you’re still okay for tonight. I’m really looking forward to it.

  Yeah me too! I’m a bit nervous, first time meeting and all that. I barely know you!

  I know. I’m a bit nervous myself. Only natural, I guess. And I know we’ve not talked for long but it feels like we know each other. Maybe just because we’ve got so much in common.

  Well that’s true. But what if we don’t get on in real life?

  But what if we do? :)

  Lol

  It could be the start of something beautiful

  Oh that’s cheesy dude!

  Yeah sorry lol. What can I say I’ve got an old romantic heart

  Nothing wrong with that :)

  So you’ll be there?

  Yeah. I’ll be there

  Great. I can’t wait!

  Lol me neither

  I’ll see you tonight Vikki!

  CHAPTER 49

  Narey and Dakers watched Dylan Hansen do nothing.

  He hadn’t moved in the twenty minutes they’d been there, nor in the previous hour that Wells had been in the chair.

  Not a flutter of his eyelids. Not a turn of his head. Not a kick of his leg or a beat of his heart. Not a single physical sign that he was breathing, thinking, functioning. If he was alive, his body had shut down on him. If he was alive, he wasn’t going to be for long.

  Five thousand miles away, they knew Salgado and O’Neill were watching too. Watching nothing. Watching everything.

  And somewhere just a few miles away from them, the man they knew as Matthew Marr was doing the same.

  When the green light flashed, Narey’s heart sank. The conversations with him were hacking away at her soul, carving slices from it every time they talked. She huffed, nodded at Dakers, and began to type.

  Are you watching him, Matthew?

  Yes. Of course. But it’s coming to an end. Maybe it’s already there.

  Maybe he’s already dead. Maybe you are waiting for an ending you’ll never see.

  I’ll see it. I’ll know it.

  How can you be so sure?

  There will be a sign. A send-off from his body. A final, futile instinctive movement. I’ll see it.

  And what if you don’t get to see it?

  What?

  You haven’t given me enough, Matthew. Or whoever you are. You talk and you watch but you don’t give.

  I’ve told you about Eloise. Told you about Ellen Lambert. I’ve told you things.

  I want more.

  No.

  Yes. You give me more or I take this feed away from you. You know I can, and you know I will. You’ve been through all this and you won’t see the end of the show. The one thing you want.

  The message was read but not replied to. The green light shone but the screen remained static.

  ‘He’s trying to find a way round it,’ Dakers intimated. ‘He’s driven by two strong, opposing instincts. He doesn’t want to give you anything but knows that if he gives you nothing, he might lose what he wants. If he gives you too much, the same thing might happen. The chances of him lying at this point are high.’

  Marr began to type, then stopped. He scrubbed whatever he’d written and started again. And stopped again. The hesitancy continued until he final sent the message.

  I will tell you something. Not everything. That would be stupid and I’m not stupid.

  And you’ll tell me the truth?

  Yes.

  ‘Keep him on a tight lead,’ Dakers advised. ‘If you leave this open-ended, he can tell you anything. And he will lie. Give him no room for manoeuvre.’

  She paused, thought, and nodded her agreement. She had precious few favours left to call in from Marr, few bargaining chips remaining before the man would refuse to deal. She had to choose what she wanted most.

  Okay, Matthew. I want information about a woman who was murdered. If you know about it, will you tell me?

  If I do.

  She was murdered in her home in Polmadie. She bled to death from a puncture wound to each wrist. Do you know who this woman is?

  More hesitancy. More letters typedanddeleted. Thenareply.

  Yes.

  Tell me.

  Her name was Irene Dow. I killed her.

  ‘Good,’ Dakers chirped. ‘He’d nowhere else to go.’ Narey kept at him.

  You could have read about her in the media.

  You could just be telling me what you think I want to hear.

  I’m not.

  Prove it. Tell me something only Irene Dow’s killer could know. Prove it now or I stop the video feed.

  The pause was long enough to convince Dakers that a deception was coming, and he made a face to make sure Narey knew of his doubts.

  I used a screwdriver to puncture her arteries at the wrists. The holes were small. The screwdriver was quite blunt, so I had to force it in. Is that enough?

  Narey sat back in her chair, suddenly tired. He’d sliced off another chunk of what remained of her soul.

  ‘It’s true,’ she told Dakers. ‘I’ve read the Dow file. It’s true and it hasn’t been made public.’

  Yes, she typed to Marr. It’s enough for me to believe you
killed her. Thank you. But I want more.

  No. You leave the feed on.

  Let’s talk about Eloise Gray.

  No.

  I’ll turn it off. You know I will.

  Silence. Anger brooding. Resentment rising.

  Okay. What about her?

  Why did Ethan choose her?

  Her message was read. But he hesitated.

  ‘He’s thinking,’ Dakers said from behind her. ‘Thinking of a way to avoid it. Give him no room.’

  I can’t be sure. She was Ethan’s choice. How can I guess his thinking?

  ‘Equivocation,’ Narey said it before Dakers did. ‘He’s avoiding saying a lie, avoiding saying the truth. He knows. We’re right.’

  She typed.

  You don’t have to guess. Do you? You know.

  Hesitation.

  Do I?

  More equivocation.

  You do. You know about Ethan Garland’s father. So you know why he choose Eloise. It’s because she looked like her, isn’t it?

  Hesitation. Lots of it.

  Like who?

  You know who. And you tell me now or this feed goes off.

  Hesitation. Words typed. Words deleted. More words typed.

  Elizabeth Short. She was chosen because she looked like Elizabeth Short.

  Narey sat back in her chair, momentarily stunned. She turned to Dakers, who nodded encouragement. ‘Go on.’

  When did you learn what Garland’s father had done? Is that what brought you and Ethan together?

  I’ve told you enough.

  I think it was. I think you met in an online forum about murderers. Am I right? 4chan or 8chan or the like?

  I’m saying nothing. We had a deal. It will be my turn to walk away if you don’t leave it on. I told you before, I’m not stupid.