He took a turn into Terri’s lane. He had a team looking through the CCTV footage from the entire safe zone. It was remarkable how many punters knew just where to draw up to avoid their number plates being registered on camera.
The alley lay in shadow. No sunlight found its way between the high buildings. The silence was eerie, although not far away he would find the streets near the Barrowland weekend market teeming with people.
A broken pipe trickled water in a continuous stream down a wall green with mould. If Bill half-shut his eyes – the cool shadow, the sound of water, the smell of damp and growing things, the coo of a pigeon – he could imagine himself in what Calton once was.
Coilldum
– Gaelic for ‘wood on the hill’.
His eyes sprang open at the clip of heels on the cobbles. A woman in knee-high boots was coming towards him. There was nothing overtly sexual about her approach, merely purposeful. In the shadow, Bill couldn’t make out her face.
‘Looking for me?’ she said softly.
‘Who are you?’
‘Whoever you want me to be.’
‘I’m looking for Terri Docherty.’
She sighed. ‘Who the fuck isn’t?’ Her face emerged from the shadow. She looked him up and down. ‘DI Wilson.’
Bill smiled in recognition. ‘Cathy McIver. Long time no see.’
They made a right pair, middle-aged policeman and middle-aged hooker drinking tea together in a Barrow-land café. None of the other customers gave them a second glance. That was Glasgow for you.
In full daylight, Cathy didn’t look too good, although Bill didn’t like to pass judgement. He was no spring chicken himself. Not that long ago, a BBC Scotland news report had placed life expectancy in Calton lower than the Gaza Strip or some areas of Iraq. Males were expected to live until they were fifty-eight. Women in Cathy’s line of work, especially if they had drug problems, were lucky if they reached thirty. Cathy was a survivor.
Bill had met Cathy through her second husband. Mikey McIver had the Glasgow banter – they said he could sell a crucifix to an Orangeman. His two stalls on
the Barras made him a decent living, though most of the money went down his throat. But the days when wide boys ruled the Barras were over. The secondhand goods and banter had been replaced by businesses selling counterfeit DVDs, CDs and smuggled tobacco, run by serious criminal gangs.
Mikey had died in a drunken knife fight. When Cathy came to the mortuary to identify him, she’d cried on Bill’s shoulder. He realised later that they were tears of relief.
‘Two wasters for husbands – but thank God, no kids,’ Cathy toasted that with her tea mug, then asked Bill about his own children. He was surprised she remembered.
‘Teenagers now. Robbie’s into computers and the cinema. Lisa’s . . . she’s the same age as the missing girl.’ Bill didn’t mention Margaret, because the words stuck in his throat.
Cathy gave him an appraising look. ‘You’re a lucky man.’
Bill didn’t feel it.
‘Thought you would have retired by now.’
She exposed a row of nicotine-stained teeth. ‘Give up sex, you mean?’ A laugh set her off coughing. ‘I should. But I don’t like to let my regulars down.’ She sounded as though she meant it. ‘I don’t do the streets much any more. My flat’s safer and I only invite the ones I know.’
‘D’you know Brendan Paterson?’
Cathy tilted her head, thought about it for a moment, then said, ‘I know Brendan. He’s okay.’ Coming from Cathy that was high praise. ‘Why?’
‘He was one of Terri’s regulars.’
She nodded, not surprised.
Bill wanted to ask what the word on the street was about the killings, and about Terri, but he didn’t want to push it. Cathy had to live there. She’d survived because she didn’t piss anyone off.
Cathy fingered the handle of her mug. ‘You lot have Terri’s handbag, money and bank card. Minty’s been around looking for what he’s owed.’
‘Leanne?’
Cathy nodded. ‘She’s got to pay him off.’
‘When did he show up?’
‘Last night. Scared the lassie shitless. That’s why I came by the alley – I thought Leanne might still be working. The sun brings the punters out,’ she added by way of explanation.
‘I’ll talk to Leanne,’ Bill promised.
‘Talking won’t help.’
‘We’d lift Minty if we could find him.’
Cathy knew what he was asking her. She shot him a shrewd look. ‘Streets would be safer without him.’
Bill slipped her a card with his number on it. ‘Call me.
Any
time.’
Cathy made no comment, but put the card in her pocket.
A young man came in and glanced their way. Bill deliberately didn’t look around, but Cathy did.
‘Hey, Brendan, come and meet a friend of mine.’
Brendan placed his mug of coffee next to Cathy’s and pulled out a chair. He sat down, avoiding Bill’s eye. Cathy did the introductions.
‘Cop?’
Cathy nodded. ‘He needs to talk about Terri.’
Brendan suddenly looked queasy. ‘I don’t know anything.’ He rose as if to go. Cathy put her hand on his arm.
‘Better to talk to the DI here, than at your stall.’ She didn’t need to add that the stall would be open to prying eyes.
‘Or at the station,’ added Bill.
Brendan sank back in the seat, a sullen, resigned expression on his face. His eyes darted between Cathy and Bill. Cathy smiled encouragingly. ‘You want Terri found, don’t you? Otherwise you might end up with an old bird like me on a Wednesday night.’ She finished the rest of her tea and stood up purposefully.
‘Good luck,’ were her parting words to Bill.
Bill gave Brendan a few moments’ respite, before he cut to the chase. ‘Your number was on Terri’s phone. Her partner says you were a regular. She knew your name and that you have two children.’
Brendan assumed a defensive air. ‘I never hurt Terri. And I always paid –
and
gave her and her pal freebies.’ He stuttered to a halt, realising mentioning the CDs might be a mistake.
‘Tell me everything you know about Terri. That’s all I’m interested in.’
Bill stood in front of the distinctive neon sign.
Barrow-land
. Recently voted by bands as the best venue in the UK, and second best in the world. Not bad for a
Glasgow ballroom with a modest capacity of 1,900 people. Famous for its great acoustics, magic atmosphere, and for the long list of famous musicians who’d graced its stage.
But that wasn’t all it was famous for. Bible John, the last serial killer to roam Glasgow’s streets, had operated from around there. Three women, all picked up at this ballroom in the late 60s. All strangled and dumped nearby. The last one, Helen Puttock, was seen with a tall, slim, red-haired man, who called himself John, spoke politely and liked to quote from the Bible. The police never found him. No one arrested, no one charged, at the time.
They thought they had him in 1996 and again in 2004. Bible John, for ever Glasgow’s bogey man. Already the papers were retelling his story, having noticed the similarities in location and method of these new murders. If Bible John was still alive, he’d be in his fifties. Not too old to kill.
Bill looked up at the famous sign, as the crowds of shoppers divided around him. He was just a teenager when Bible John killed his last victim, and now he remembered his mother’s shock and distress as she listened to the news. The whole of Glasgow was talking about Bible John. The tabloids already had a name for their latest city killer,
The Gravedigger
.
Cathy had told him nothing, but he’d got the message. When she knew something, particularly about Minty’s whereabouts, she would be in touch. Cathy was willing to put herself in danger to help Leanne.
Brendan hadn’t struck Bill as a violent punter, not like Minty. He’d confirmed he’d met Terri every Wednesday night, after his regular darts match at the pub. He’d got a bit stroppy when Bill told him they would require a DNA sample. When Bill had pointed out it was either that, or a constable visiting his home on Monday morning, he had changed his tune.
A general appeal had already been issued for anyone using Terri and Lucie’s services to come forward and avoid having the police turn up on their doorstep. So far, the response had been slow.
When Bill returned, two wee girls were cycling on the pavement outside Minty’s. The uniform guarding the car was engaging them in conversation, doing his bit for community policing. The lassies only wanted to know if he was carrying a gun, and, if so, could they see it?
‘Fingerprint team have left,’ he told Bill when the girls had trundled away. ‘Someone from the council is resealing the door.’
On the drive back, Bill pondered the dead end the investigation had entered. Everyone working flat out, but no definite line of enquiry, just an endless collection of data. Peter Sutcliffe killed thirteen women before they caught him, in a piss-up of an investigation blamed on too much data, all of it stored on cards, with no proper cross-referencing. The Sutcliffe fiasco had paved the way for HOLMES – the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, which allowed police forces to store, search and match gathered evidence. Strathclyde force certainly couldn’t blame a lack of fast database
access, or good forensic facilities, for their failure to identify even one suspect.
Maybe he was wrong and the professor could provide an insight on the killer. Bill had to admit, if only to himself, that he could use all the help he could get.
LEANNE HUNG AROUND
the church all day on Sunday, keeping well out of sight. She’d explained to the priest about Minty and the money. Father Duffy, suffering from a hangover and the after-effects of mortal sin, offered her enough to pay Minty off.
Leanne stared at him in amazement. ‘You’ll give me the money?’
‘I will.’
Leanne wanted to hug him. ‘Oh, thank you, Father.’
He brushed her gratitude aside. ‘I’d like you to make your confession before you go.’
Leanne nodded, aware that this was the price of her good fortune. They sat either side of the partition and Leanne went through the usual performance.
‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I let a man have carnal knowledge of me.’
‘And who was this man?’
‘A priest, Father.’
‘And what did this priest ask you to do?’
As she made her act of contrition, there was a grunting noise through the partition. The confession was Father Duffy’s dessert, before the whisky wore off. When he finished, he passed the money through the
space below the grating. Leanne looked down at the notes, tears streaming down her cheeks.
They had all been there at some time or another, sitting in the confessional, talking dirty. Lucie, Terri, Cathy. Cathy had hilarious stories to tell about Duffy. She never called him Father. Once she swore he stuck his stiff prick through the hole with a crucifix hanging on the end, and told her to kiss it.
‘The prick, or the cross?’ she’d asked.
They’d all laughed at that.
At least they kept the priest’s money for themselves. Minty never knew about Father Duffy’s little habit. Even Lucie had managed to keep that from him.
Leanne shut the door behind her and squeezed past the priest’s car. She checked the coast was clear, before making her way onto the street. Her relief at getting the money evaporated when she thought about Terri. A sudden hope that she might arrive home and find Terri there quickened her step.
When she reached the flat, she found the door sealed, a new lock in place. Leanne tried her key but it wouldn’t work. She longed for something to eat and a hot shower. The Valium she’d taken the night before had worn off, and her nerves were jangling. She could go to the centre, or, better still, find Cathy. Cathy would help, maybe even be the go-between with Minty. Leanne didn’t want to face Minty again, even with the money.
Leanne dialled Cathy’s number, hoping she wasn’t already working. Cathy answered almost immediately.
‘Leanne. Are you okay?’
The concern in the older woman’s voice brought tears to Leanne’s eyes. ‘Can I come around?’
‘Sure.’
Cathy’s flat was in a 70s block on Duke Street. The caretaker let Leanne in, giving the miniskirt and stilettos the once-over, but saying nothing. Cathy and he were pals. In exchange for services, he never questioned Cathy’s visitors and fixed anything that went wrong in the flat. ‘Better than a fucking husband in all respects,’ Cathy always said.
Cathy was waiting at the door. Leanne hadn’t realised how bad she must look until she saw Cathy’s reaction.
‘Jesus, girl, what the hell happened to you?’
Cathy handed her a large glass of vodka.
‘The old bugger gave you enough to pay off Minty?’ she looked impressed. ‘Christian charity, or to keep your mouth shut?’
The priest didn’t normally cruise the red-light district. He preferred ordering by phone. A check on his mobile calls could provide
Panorama
with a whole programme on the dissolution of the Catholic clergy.
‘Will you pay Minty off for me?’
Cathy understood her fear. ‘If I can find him. The police raided his flat. He’s gone to ground.’
That changed things. If the police picked up Minty, Leanne might be able to keep the money. Cathy knew what she was thinking.
‘Minty’s got pals it’s better not to cross,’ she said, pouring them both another vodka.
Leanne swallowed a mouthful, enjoying the warmth as it slid down her throat. She felt safe with Cathy, just as she had with Terri.
‘I’ll find Minty and pay him for you.’
‘How?’
Cathy shook her head. ‘I have my ways.’ Despite her light-hearted tone, Leanne knew Cathy had her doubts. The rule was usually to avoid Minty at all costs.
‘Thanks.’
Cathy caught her hand and gave it a squeeze. They’d evaded the subject of Terri until now.
‘There’s something else,’ Cathy said. ‘A whisper, nothing more, that Terri’s still alive.’
Leanne couldn’t bear to believe it.
‘Don’t get your hopes up. I’ve got to go out later to meet someone. Maybe I’ll know more after that.’
Leanne’s eyes were closing. A hot shower, food, vodka and the possibility that Terri was alive were all helping her shut down. At Cathy’s insistence, Leanne stretched out on the settee and sank into oblivious sleep.