Rhona pondered the map. Glasgow’s inner city renewal project meant the reinvigorated Merchant City, with its designer shops and café society, was within walking distance of the poverty of Calton. Expensive riverside flats like Magnus’s, lay just west of the red-light district of Glasgow Green. It would be easy to move swiftly between the two worlds. If the killer was holding Terri, where would that be? In the world he killed in, or in the safety of his lair, wherever that was?
Burial was important to the killer, but his original hunting ground, the Necropolis, offered no opportunity to hide Terri alive. The Molendinar culvert was underground, but, according to those responsible for its upkeep, was largely inaccessible and liable to flooding.
Rhona traced a line down to the goods yard south of Duke Street, halfway between the Necropolis and the point Terri had disappeared. She recalled standing among the heaps of old bricks. Bill had set the police dogs loose on the piles, worried he might find another body there, but the dogs hadn’t picked up a scent. The back boundary of the yard dropped steeply to the car park. To the left was a massive hole, all that was left of a former railway building and its maze of brick cellars; to the right, the rear of the Great Eastern. Rhona remembered the broken windows on the upper levels of the once-impressive building, blue plastic flapping in the rain.
Bill had had the empty shell searched and drawn a blank. The old hotel held nothing but the forgotten hopes and dreams of the hundreds of men who’d lived there.
Rhona gave up on the map and turned to the Atlantic City notes. McNab had sent the complete set, rather than just the forensic results. They proved to be interesting reading. McNab was correct in thinking there were similarities in the investigations.
Decomposition in his first two cases had made it impossible to determine cause of death, but the most recent victim, killed just before Christmas, had been strangled with her bra. No mention was made of a
slipknot. Karil Heidner, their criminal profiler, seemed to agree with Magnus that the insertion of a stiletto heel in the vaginal cavity of all three victims was symbolic of a penis and could suggest that the killer did not – or could not – have sex with his victims.
Unlike the Glasgow case, all three Atlantic City victims had eventually been identified. All were working as prostitutes at the time of their death. Two were in their teens, one in her early twenties. The youngest, eighteen-year-old Aurora Catania, was a known crack addict. She’d been the first to be found but the most recently killed. Rhona took a look at the forensic evidence.
Because of its proximity to salt water and the weather at that time of year, the scene of the earlier crimes had been washed clean as far as forensics was concerned. In Aurora’s case, luck had brought an interested dog under the boardwalk. Some attempt had been made to bury the body in sand, but the dog had unearthed it. The girl had been dead less than a week.
An earlier photo of Aurora showed her with long blonde hair pulled back from a pretty face. It reminded Rhona of the family photos of Terri she’d seen at the Docherty’s. Aurora’s story was similar, driven to Atlantic City by an addiction to heroin and crack cocaine after a series of family traumas. She’d worked Pacific Avenue as a prostitute to feed her addiction. Atlantic City had 40,000 permanent residents and thirty million gambling visitors a year. Among such a fluctuating population, prostitutes arrived and left
with frightening regularity, so no one noticed if they went missing, unless they turned up dead.
The forensic report on Aurora stated traces of semen had been collected from her vagina. It hadn’t matched the DNA of their prime suspect and he hadn’t been charged. His name was Ryan Williams, he was forty-five years old and he worked in one of the casinos on the boardwalk. He also owned a small yacht in the nearby marina. He’d left town after his release. An accompanying photograph showed a clean-shaven, smartly dressed man.
Rhona fished out the DNA profile. Since the year 2000, most USA labs had begun testing for the same STR points, storing the results in CODIS, the Combined DNA Index system, so that results could be shared. This side of the Atlantic, the Scottish DNA Database regularly uploaded to the National Database, looking for matches. A submission to NDNAD would hopefully be quick but not immediate. It was worth running a comparison, because of the stiletto connection.
Rhona started on the unsolved cases.
Forensic methods had improved considerably over the last decade, but however meticulous they were at keeping evidence, however successful they were at extracting DNA, they still relied on a match with current records.
Seven murders in six years and not one conviction. In two cases, the men accused were acquitted, Scotland’s Not Proven verdict providing a get-out clause for the jury. Suspects in a further two cases weren’t
brought to trial, and there had been no arrests in the last three murders.
If these women had been ‘ordinary’ as opposed to prostitutes, there would have been a public outcry. The notes made depressing reading. Beaten, strangled, stabbed, and in one case possibly drowned, only the 1993 case had a vague similarity to the current murders. Karen McGregor had been found near the Scottish Exhibition Centre, battered and throttled. The forensic report suggested an object had been forced into her vagina. Her husband was charged, but witnesses retracted their statements and Charles McGregor walked free after a Not Proven verdict.
The unsolved prostitute murders in Glasgow were a disturbing tale of lost lives and drug addiction, a haunting replica of the story told by Lieutenant Blum. The hell these women lived was the same on both sides of the Atlantic.
Chrissy came looking for her at six o’clock.
‘You won’t find anything in there you haven’t read before,’ she reminded Rhona.
‘McNab wanted me to take a look at a similar case in Atlantic City.’
‘Across the pond?’ Chrissy looked intrigued.
‘Similar MO and signature, strangulation and the insertion of a stiletto heel. The criminal profiler on the case voiced the same opinion as Magnus, that the stiletto served as a penis. The killer didn’t or couldn’t have sex with his victim.’
‘Any word on Magnus?’
‘No.’ Rhona had checked her mobile at regular
intervals all afternoon. She’d also tried to call him but got voicemail.
‘Maybe he’s out of range?’
‘All day?’
As if on cue, Rhona’s mobile rang. It was McNab.
‘Ryan Williams was formerly known as Peter Henderson. He changed his name legally online for £14.99.’
‘Is Ryan Williams British?’
‘Born in Glasgow in 1962.’
‘You’re sure it’s the same man?’
‘I talked to Lieutenant Blum. He said the guy had an American passport, but a funny accent. It reminded him of Shrek.’ McNab paused, then went on. ‘That’s not all. Henderson was briefly detained in Edinburgh in 1977 during the World’s End murder enquiry, but released without charge.’
The police had eventually charged sixty-year-old Angus Sinclair for the murder of the two teenage girls, last seen at The World’s End pub in the Royal Mile in Edinburgh thirty years before. Despite forensic evidence linking Sinclair with the girls, the case wasn’t presented to a jury.
‘Why was Henderson a suspect?’
‘He said he was in the pub, saw the girls leave, generally made himself available.’
Even back then, before psychological profiling, thrusting yourself in the spotlight always brought suspicion. It was a well-known feature of the behaviour of certain types of killer, Ian Huntley in Soham being a prime example.
‘Have we any proof he’s been back here?’
‘I’m working on it.’
Maybe McNab’s lead was really going somewhere.
Magnus’s text, asking to meet at her flat, arrived as she departed the lab. She had been praying for this for so long, Rhona almost cried out in relief. She texted back to say yes, then left a message on Bill’s phone to let him know Magnus had been in touch.
On the drive home, her sense of relief was swiftly replaced by anger at Magnus for causing so much worry. Rhona spent the drive rehearsing out loud exactly what she planned to say to Magnus Pirie when she got there.
MAGNUS OPENED HIS
eyes to suffocating darkness and an overpowering scent of damp and decay. Since he could see nothing, he focused on the smell, identifying it as both organic and cement-based, like a building being reclaimed by nature. At a guess, he was in a cellar. Magnus listened. He could hear water, both trickling nearby and running more freely elsewhere.
Concentrating on water brought on a sudden and devastating desire to urinate. Only then did Magnus become fully aware of the wire that gripped his hands painfully behind his back, digging into the tender skin of his wrists. He tried to persuade himself that he didn’t need to go, but his body eventually took charge and emptied his bladder regardless. Magnus felt a rush of heat inside his trousers, then the dampening of the ground below him.
Through a thudding head, he tried to work out how he’d got there. He remembered the girl, Nikki, running from him in the alley; then the discovery that the black car had trashed his bike, rendering it unusable. How he’d decided to leave it propped against the wall, accepting he was never likely to see it again.
He should have turned homewards then, but hadn’t. Instead he’d walked through Calton towards the Necropolis. He’d been crossing a strip of waste ground when he’d suspected someone was following him. He’d caught a scent at first, then heard a soft crunch as a foot met gravel.
At that point he’d upped his pace, heading for a distant street light that marked the main road. The last thing Magnus remembered was a rush of air as something came down heavily on his head.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Magnus began to distinguish the shape of the space he was in. Low-ceilinged, a brick archway to one side. He had no idea how long he’d been trussed up there, but judged by his biting hunger and thirst, it might have been up to twelve hours.
He’d no doubt his abduction had been prompted by his online bid, and railed at himself for not calling Bill immediately. Magnus winced at the bitter memory of Anna losing her life because of his stupidity and arrogance. What if he’d hastened Terri’s death too?
A rush of anger engulfed him. He’d thought himself clever. So clever he could catch the killer by psychological insight. What a fool he’d been. The killer was smarter than him. The killer had read his weakness, and played it to perfection.
The cramps in his arms had worked their way up to his neck. Magnus twisted his hands in an effort to free them, then stopped when he felt the wire draw blood.
There was a growl in his guts and he realised his bowels would move soon of their own accord, despite
his efforts to prevent them. Magnus didn’t care about pissing his pants, but he was damned if he would soil them too.
He rolled onto his front, then rose to his knees and with a huge effort climbed to his feet. His ankles were tied, but more loosely, with cord. Magnus worked at one shoe. Once one foot was out, the other was easy. Then he began to twist his wrists in ever expanding circles, spitting a litany of curses, as the wire stretched and loosened. The release, when it finally came, made him stagger in agony. Magnus realised in that moment that he had never experienced real pain before. He’d merely observed and analysed it, kidding himself he understood.
When he’d regained control of his body, he dipped his head and exited through the archway. This space gave immediately onto another. Magnus paced its perimeter until he found a matching archway on the opposite side.
He stood for a moment and listened. The sound of water seemed louder now. Magnus took a deep breath, expecting to smell an underground stream, but it was the faint smell of sweat that met his nostrils. At the same time he was conscious he was on the outskirts of a source of light.
As Magnus crept forward, the human scent grew more intense. More than one person was or had been close by. Magnus looked through the archway.
A harsh arc light held her full in its gaze, like a stark camera shot in some horror movie. Crouched and rigid with fear, Terri Docherty watched Magnus emerge from the shadows.
‘I’M NOT GOING
to hurt you.’
Terri pressed herself to the wall, mewing like a kitten.
‘It’s okay, I’m here to help you.’ Even to himself, it sounded weak and pathetic. A man who could barely walk, was here to help her. He tried again. ‘My name is Magnus. I’m a profiler with the police. I’ve been looking for you.’
‘And now you’ve found her.’
Magnus swivelled around, looking for the voice’s owner, finding no one.
‘You bid for her and now she’s yours.’
‘I’m here to help her.’
The shot, when it came, was unbelievably loud in the confined space, ricocheting from wall to wall. Magnus flung himself to the ground. Eventually the bullet buried itself somewhere and died.
‘Next time I shoot her through the head, just like Cathy.’
Magnus had never felt so cold.
‘You’re here to fuck her. Get on with it.’
The place went eerily silent. All Magnus could hear was the rush of water. For the first time in his life his
brain had ceased to function. It offered him nothing. No thoughts, no ideas, no possible solutions.
‘Fuck her, or I kill her.’
Terri’s naked body glistened with sweat and blood. Magnus realised she’d already been wounded. Something – a bullet? – had scored her neck, and her left breast had an oozing wound. Her terrified eyes sought his and Magnus read the truth of her anguished request. Terri would rather submit than die. Magnus crawled slowly towards her, running various scenarios in his head.
‘I won’t hurt her,’ he shouted into the blinding light. He moved to cover Terri’s body with his own, trying to judge where the last shot had come from.
Suddenly the arc light snapped off and they were plunged into darkness. Somewhere behind him, Magnus heard a footfall, then something sharp jabbed his neck.
Magnus knew he was in darkness, yet his mind insisted on pretending otherwise, swooping him through a kaleidoscope of images that exhilarated and nauseated him at the same time. The realisation he had no control over any of his senses terrified Magnus. He’d been drugged. With what, he had no idea. His tortured brain tried to remember what Rhona had said in the lab about crystal meth and its effects on the nervous system.