He reached out and raised the shift, exposing her body and covering her face.
Leanne changed out of the white gown and left it in a bundle on the bed. The first time this had happened, she’d felt profound shock and disgust for the sixty-year-old man who now slept soundly on top of the bed. Then she’d learned that this was a regular occurrence. Terri had been here, Lucie, most of the other younger women Leanne knew from the centre.
As far as she was aware, no one had told the police about the priest’s nocturnal forays into the red-light district. Leanne wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because they didn’t believe he was the killer. Father Duffy was fucked up, but weren’t they all? She’d taken drugs to kill the pain, he drank. When he was sober, the priest was kind. He helped people. People no one else cared about.
Leanne made her way through the sleeping inhabitants of the church and found a vacant corner. With
her busted door and Minty out there somewhere, it was safer to stay the rest of the night in the chapel. Minty would never come here, not even for her.
Leanne relaxed among the grunts and snores and murmured sleep of her fellow inhabitants. In the red glow of the constantly burning altar light, she closed her eyes and prayed for Terri.
MAGNUS CLOSELY STUDIED
the calendar of yachting events. It was a long shot, but a geographical profile could be a powerful tool. Serial killers enacted their fantasies within their own world, a world with boundaries. Ted Bundy’s ‘world’ had comprised the university campuses of half of North America, each of his victims resembling the girl who’d spurned him during his college days.
It would be wrong to assume their killer’s life was contained within the environs of Glasgow. The notorious Scottish serial killer Robert Black had killed young girls on his lorry route from England into Scotland. The lorry was his home, the route his geographical area. The Clyde was a gateway into Glasgow, much as the road north had been a gateway into Scotland for Black.
A careful examination of approximate times of death provided a reasonable match with the timings of certain yacht races. What would DI Wilson say if he presented such a proposition tomorrow? Probably he’d think it the product of an overripe imagination.
Magnus rubbed the back of his neck. He’d been sitting at the computer for far too long. He glanced
over the profile of the killer, as complete as it could be with the evidence he had. He couldn’t predict the reaction of the investigative team. Or could he? DI Wilson would regard him as an academic upstart, who thought a fancy degree trumped police officers’ power of deduction. Dr Sissons was only interested in the pathological aspects of the case. Dr MacLeod – Rhona – what would she say? Probably nothing, but that wouldn’t mean she didn’t have an opinion.
Thinking of Rhona, surely at home with her boyfriend right now, enhanced Magnus’s feeling of loneliness. Man was a social creature, he thought, a pack animal. Physical or emotional separation from the comfort of others could create a ‘rogue male’ – someone with no reference points, who took what he wanted. Someone like the man they were searching for.
After Anna, Magnus had vowed that he wouldn’t sleep with a woman again unless it meant something more than just sex. He had to feel the relationship might have a future, the way it should have been with Anna. Not just for a few weeks or months, but perhaps an eternity. It was a tall order. Yet his parents had achieved it. Why couldn’t he? They’d spent their whole lives together, against the odds. That was what Magnus wanted.
And, against the odds, they would find this killer.
Refocusing on the case, he decided against presenting his profile on the overhead screen. He would present it in words, as the killer’s narrative history. The story he lived and breathed. The reason why he killed.
RHONA WOKE AT
dawn. Sean lay asleep beside her, oblivious for now to his aches and pains. Rousing him would be too cruel. She crept from the bed and headed for the shower.
She sat down to an early breakfast, Tom on her lap and the files she’d requested from records spread over the kitchen table. Some of her work already involved cold cases. Provided evidence was kept, low copy number DNA could now be extracted from victims’ clothing, sometimes solving old crimes.
They hadn’t succeeded in matching current trace evidence to entries on the database. But what if she looked for some similarities between the old and the new, rather than outright matches? That would throw up any genetic link between the perpetrators of the previous murders and the current crimes. It wasn’t the first time a case had been solved this way. Joseph Kappen had been identified as the rapist and murderer of two sixteen-year-old girls in Wales in 1973, by sweeping the national database for entries with a genetic pattern similar to the traces he’d left behind.
There had been no further news on Terri Docherty. Rhona knew Bill was just waiting for her body to turn
up. Of course, it might never appear. Given the right time and tide, the river could take it west. If the killer did have access to a boat, he could take it west himself and dump it. But his obsession with burial suggested to Rhona that the body would find its resting place in the earth.
She had a couple of hours before she was due at Craig Minto’s apartment. Rhona began to read the long, grim reports.
According to his nearest neighbour, Minty hadn’t been home for three days.
‘Thank fuck!’ was the guy’s conclusion. He’d opened his front door as soon as he’d heard their footsteps on the stairs. He was up and dressed, despite it being early on a Sunday. A woman in a dressing gown hovered behind him. ‘My wife phoned the council about the smell, but they just came, knocked on the door and went away again.’ He shook his head in irritation. ‘He doesn’t even pay rent.’
Bill explained about the warrant.
‘About time too.’
The couple watched from the doorway as the officers positioned themselves. Rhona stood back as Bill knocked, expecting no reply.
It took three slams of the battering ram before the reinforced metal door gave way. Minty took his security seriously, and it soon became obvious why.
A strong chemical smell escaped through the open door. Rhona motioned to Bill not to enter.
‘What is it?’
‘Whatever it is, it’s probably noxious. I think we need to clear the building. Phosphine gas is one of the side products of making methamphetamine. It’s extremely toxic when inhaled. He’ll also have been using solvents for extraction. We’re lucky there hasn’t been a fire or explosion. I think we need the fire brigade and some breathing apparatus.’ Rhona pulled up her mask.
‘Are you sure you want to go inside?’
‘The sooner we know what we’re dealing with, the better.’
The hall was dark and narrow. Rhona ignored the light switch and used her torch. She had no idea if the electrics worked, and she didn’t want a spark igniting any lingering combustible gases.
There were three doors off the hall. One led to a grubby-looking bedroom. Another to a filthy, rubbish-strewn bathroom. The bath was full of something, she wasn’t sure what. The final door led to a combined kitchen and sitting room, now a makeshift laboratory.
A number of pots sat on the cooker. Scattered on the counter nearby were matchboxes with the red phosphorus striking panel ripped off. There were rows of empty iodine tincture and solvent bottles, and packets of decongestant tablets. Minty had definitely been trying his hand at making crystal meth.
Rhona opened all the windows and retreated. The fire brigade would have to declare the flat safe before she could properly examine it. She emerged to find a fire engine pulling in below. Small groups of residents had already gathered in a nearby play area. Pulling people out of their beds and homes on a Sunday
morning would hardly endear Craig Minto to his already pissed-off neighbours.
Rhona went down to meet the fire officer in charge. When she explained what had been happening in the flat, he wasn’t surprised.
‘Three call-outs for this kind of thing in a month. In the last one, the guy making the stuff was unconscious from the fumes. One strike of a match and the whole place would have gone up. I’ll give you a shout when we’ve secured the building.’
Bill and Rhona retreated to a nearby café. The coffee was half decent and strong. Bill ordered sliced sausage on a roll to go with it. Rhona resisted, but not for long.
‘Sniffing solvents must make you hungry.’
She added tomato ketchup to the thick slab of square sausagemeat and took a bite. They munched together in silence. The café was rapidly filling up with refugees from Minty’s building. The neighbour appeared with his wife. He spotted Bill and Rhona in the corner and came across.
‘That bastard could have killed us all. What are you going to do about it?’
‘He’ll be charged, Mr . . .?’
‘Jackson.’
‘You’ll be asked to give a statement. I take it you’ll be willing to give evidence in court?’
Mr Jackson looked perturbed. Craig Minto wasn’t a man to cross.
After a moment, though, he seemed to master his fear. ‘Aye, I will. You cannae let scum like that rule
your life. My wee granddaughter comes to stay with us. The bastard could have killed her.’
When they were finally allowed into the flat, the air was a good deal fresher. Rhona insisted Bill wear a mask anyway. The fire team had removed the flammable material, properly logged as evidence.
‘Iodine crystals and red phosphorus.’ She picked up a sheaf of printouts and glanced through them. ‘It’s all here. How to source your ingredients. How to mix them.’
‘And here’s me thinking Minty was stupid.’
They had plenty of evidence with which to charge Minty, if they could find him. Although with a gap of three days between Minty’s disappearance from the flat, and the police raid, forensics would have to provide a direct link between the suspect and the apparatus.
Rhona began to take samples from the crude laboratory. Bill hovered nearby, obviously wanting to say something, but having problems coming out with it. Rhona stopped what she was doing to give him an opening.
‘You spoke to the professor about the online auction?’ he asked.
‘I went by his place last night and showed him the photographs.’
‘And?’
‘He pointed out something I hadn’t noticed.’
‘What?’
‘The most recent victim has six stab wounds, the one from a month ago five, the one before that four.’
‘He said nothing about Terri being the same physical type as the others?’
‘He suggested all prostitutes fall into a similar type and age range. And level of vulnerability,’ she added.
Bill pondered this. ‘I hadn’t noticed the increase in the number of stab wounds.’
‘Neither had I.’
‘And he thinks that’s significant?’
‘He was proving a point. Demonstrating how what’s significant may not be the most obvious.’
‘Dazzling us with his psychological insight.’
Rhona wanted to reassure Bill she was on his side, that she knew police procedure and forensic evidence provided the best possibility of catching a killer. But in this case, the killer had left traces of himself behind, confident they would lead the police nowhere. Trying to understand him and to anticipate his next move might be the only hope they had.
Rhona switched her mobile to silent while she worked. Bill had departed soon after their conversation about Magnus, declaring his intention of going back to the station. He could have asked McNab or another junior detective to handle the search at Minty’s flat, and spent Sunday with his family, but Rhona suspected a day watching Margaret suffer was a prospect Bill didn’t relish.
Craig Minto’s flat continued to yield interesting results, but nothing obviously linking him to Lucie’s murder. Trace samples taken from the bedclothes would probably be a match for the dead girl, but
Lucie’s relationship with Minty was already established. Craig Minto might have been Lucie’s pimp, but it seemed unlikely he was her killer. When Rhona left the flat, the fingerprint team were still hard at work. No doubt Minty’s laboratory would produce a rogue’s gallery of prints.
On reaching the car, Rhona checked her mobile and found a message from Chrissy. When she tried to call back, she was switched to the messaging service. She decided to go around to Chrissy’s flat in person.
It took three rings on the buzzer before she got an answer.
‘It’s okay,’ Chrissy answered sleepily, when Rhona apologised. ‘I was getting up anyway.’
The flat was as messy as usual. Chrissy, though meticulous at work, lived in a pigsty at home. It was a sign of her determination not to end up obsessed with housework like her mum.
‘Sam’s place was always tidy.’ She gave Rhona a rueful grin as she ushered her through. ‘God knows what he thinks of this place.’
‘How is he?’
A shadow crossed Chrissy’s face. ‘He’s . . . thin.’ Her mouth trembled a little. ‘I told him about the baby.’
They stood in silence for a moment.
‘I’ll never forget his face when he felt it move. He says it’s a girl.’
They sat in the kitchen, nursing mugs of tea, while Chrissy told Rhona a little of what had happened. Sam had been deliberately vague about his return journey to
Britain. His passport was still valid and no one had questioned his entry. There was no mention of the CD in the story and Rhona didn’t ask. If Sean was right and the CD’s arrival was the work of the Suleimans, Rhona didn’t want to give Chrissy anything more to worry about.
‘Is he coming back?’ The million dollar question.
‘He’s going to try.’
Rhona didn’t envy Chrissy. Had Sam died she would have mourned, then faced up to a life without him. A halfway house, where Sam, Chrissy and the baby lived in constant danger, might be even worse.
MINTY’S FLAT LAY
in the criss-cross of streets north of London Road, opposite Glasgow Green. That morning, the Green was sprinkled with family groups enjoying the sunshine, a far cry from its Saturday night clientele. Bill had left the car outside Minty’s with a uniformed officer, rather than take a chance and park it near the Barras.