Minty knew it wasn’t his print on the gag. But he had met Cathy the night she died. Bill was sure of it.
‘Cathy contacted you and you met her to pick up Leanne’s money.’
Minty’s piggy eyes narrowed calculatingly.
‘What if I did?’
‘Any help finding Cathy’s killer will be noted in your file.’
Minty digested that, decided he had nothing to lose.
‘Cathy got word to me she had the money. We met. She handed it over. I left.’
‘When?’
‘Sunday night. Near her flat in Duke Street.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing.’
‘Where was she when you left?’
‘Standing outside the Great Eastern.’
Waiting for her killer.
‘Did she say anything about meeting someone?’
Minty thought about that. He was smart enough to know he’d given Bill nothing worth writing in a file.
‘She was headed for High Street Station.’
High Street was on the North Clyde Line. Cathy hadn’t gone to Queen Street to catch a train for Cardross. She’d left from the High Street.
Bill left the pimp to stew. The incident room was a buzz of noise. Bringing in Minty had been good for morale. Bill tried to check on McNab, see how he was getting on in the culvert. When he couldn’t reach him, he assumed they were still below ground. No doubt McNab would call in if they found anything of significance.
Bill was reading the emails from Rhona when Janice came in.
‘Sir, Ray Irvine has a lock-up not far from the Necropolis, off Alexandra Parade.’
Irvine was the type to have an expensive flat in Merchant City. Why did he need a lock-up in Denniston?
‘The CCU picked up the address via a porn distribution network,’ Janice told him. ‘When they checked who owned it, they discovered it was Irvine.’
Bill remembered Irvine’s arrogant smile. The man who could afford to buy anything.
‘Okay, go down there. Take someone from CCU with you. If Irvine’s involved in a distribution racket, we’ll get him on that.’ Bill would dearly love to see the smirk wiped of Ray Irvine’s face.
Bill got onto the latest from forensic. Rhona had noted in her email that no individuals called Henderson, Williams or Gordon were on the list from
Realpaints, but both Rhu and Kip Marinas were customers of the specialised varnish. Bill gave Rhu a call and asked for the repair department. They put him through to Daniel Bradley.
‘We do stock that varnish, although it’s fairly specialised. Wooden-hulled yachts may make the heart beat faster, but they can also be a world of trouble. They need regular maintenance or they rot.’
Bill asked if they’d had a yacht like that in the yard recently.
‘Matter of fact we have one now. It’s still standing in the stocks. The guy working on it hasn’t been around this week.’
‘His name?’
‘Gordon. Mark Gordon.’ Bradley sounded worried. ‘Has something happened to him?’
Bill kept his voice steady. ‘Do you have an address or contact number?’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘I’ll need to look it out. Can I call you back?’
Bill agreed and rang off. Throw enough darts at the board and you hit the bull’s-eye eventually. He allowed himself to feel hopeful for the first time since they’d found the bodies in the Necropolis.
He called the incident room together, went to the whiteboard and circled Mark Gordon’s name with a flourish. This was the bastard and they were going to get him.
Ray’s lock-up was located at the end of a block of small business premises off Millbank Street. Standing out
front, Bill could see the rise of the north flank of the Necropolis, an easy cruising distance from there.
The room looked as though it was serving as a storage and distribution point, packaging and boxes piled everywhere. The boxes were filled with a variety of hardcore porn magazines and DVDs. A technical guy from the Computer Crime Unit was busy dismantling the computer system.
Janice indicated a manhole-size opening and a steep set of steps leading down to a basement, or dunny. As a kid Bill remembered being frightened of the dunny under his tenement home, its dank smell and darkness. He descended into familiar smelly territory, but here a long fluorescent bulb lit the shadowy recesses.
Bill looked about him. If he’d wanted a nightmare, here it was. Janice had followed him down, her expression mirroring his own. This was why she’d asked him to come right away.
An Aladdin’s cave of filth and depravity, it was a picture gallery of what Gary Forbes had written about in his blog. Countless photographs of countless women formed a gruesome collage on the walls. Lucie was there, the pregnant girl they had no name for, and the second victim in the Necropolis. All were being made to do things no human being should be subjected to.
Ray Irvine featured in many of the photographs. He’d said he went slumming when he made a killing in the financial markets. He’d taken photographs to prove it.
Bill sought Terri’s image in the gallery of horrors, and was grateful not to find her. But he did see the
three murder victims whose photos they’d found on the internet.
‘He could have downloaded those, like we did,’ said Janice, echoing his own thoughts. ‘The rest could have been taken any time.’
Ray Irvine had been quite open about his relationships with prostitutes. They were a service he paid for. No doubt he paid to take photographs too. Just like Gary Forbes had paid to watch Lucie in action. Bought and paid for. No laws broken.
‘Forbes and Irvine. There’s no chance they know one another?’ suggested Janice.
Forbes wrote a blog on ‘Glasgow pussy’. Irvine ran a business distributing obscene photographs of local prostitutes. A connection between the two men seemed more than likely.
Janice drew his attention to another section.
‘Take a look at these, sir. Remember the doggers using the Necropolis? Looks like Irvine was their official photographer.’
The sequence of photographs Janice indicated had definitely been taken in the Necropolis. John Knox must be turning in his grave at the fornication going on in full view of his monument.
‘I want Forbes and Irvine back in. See what they have to say.’
Magnus had predicted that the killer worked alone, but there were always sick-minded disciples lurking in the shadows of killers they admired. If Forbes and Irvine were hanging about the same playground, maybe they knew more than they’d said.
When his mobile rang Bill thought it was McNab with an update from the culvert, but it was Daniel Bradley, sounding flustered.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t seem to have contact details for Mr Gordon. As far as I recall he was a member of the yachting club. You could try the commodore. He might be able to help.’
Bill thanked him and rang off. He knew McNab and Rhona had visited the Rhu yard and requested a membership list from the commodore. Bill tried McNab’s mobile again. This time he answered.
‘We’re out of the culvert. Water level’s too high to check any further.’
Bill heard the disappointment in McNab’s voice. They’d obviously found nothing. Bill told him the latest news on Mark Gordon. ‘He should be on the membership list the commodore emailed through.’
McNab perked up. ‘I’ll be with you in five minutes.’
‘There’s no Mark Gordon on this.’ McNab threw the hard copy on his desk and went back to the screen. He made sure the list was in alphabetical order and checked again. ‘Bastard!’
‘He’s on to us,’ Bill said.
‘Maybe he got a whiff of our visit to the marina. Or saw us there.’
Bradley had seemed nervous during Bill’s phone call. He’d put it down to a natural fear of the police.
‘I’ll go down. Check this out,’ McNab offered.
‘Take the mug shot of Williams. See if Bradley recognises him.’
‘I can feel him. We’re close. So close.’
‘If he thinks we’re near, he could run.’
‘Leave the country?’
McNab was right. If Williams, Henderson and Gordon were the same man, he might even now be on his way across the Atlantic on his American passport.
‘Take Rhona with you. Get her to look at the yacht Bradley mentioned. If we can match the flake found in the grave . . .’
‘I’ll pick her up on my way.’
Bill took a look at Williams’s photograph. The quality was so poor he could have been any middle-aged man. Stopping people at airports wasn’t as simple as it sounded. Williams could be travelling on one of three different passports. And he didn’t necessarily look like this in any of them. He only needed to have his hair cut differently, or change the way he dressed. Passport photographs were notoriously unreliable. They could be ten years out of date for a start, hence the move to a biometric version.
Bill stared at the photograph. Just like McNab, his sense of being near the killer was strong. The puzzle was coming together. The myriad of tiny threads weaving the web with which they’d catch him. And Father Duffy was one thread.
The priest was in an interview room, a full mug of tea cooling in front of him. His face shone with perspiration.
‘When can I go?’ He licked cracked lips.
‘Just a few more questions.’
Bill produced the whisky and a glass. Drying out the priest wasn’t his job. A sudden absence of alcohol could kill an alcoholic. Bill didn’t want Duffy collapsing while in custody. He handed him the glass. The priest looked at it and shook his head.
‘You’ll need help to dry out.’
‘I’ve managed in the past. God will help.’
‘Maybe you weren’t as bad those times.’
Relenting, Father Duffy took the glass, observed the whisky for a moment, then swallowed it as though it were poison. Bill waited for it to hit the bloodstream.
‘This guy from the past you recognised?’
‘It’s him in the photo.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Tell me about him.’
The priest held out the glass for a refill, resistance melting like snow off a dyke.
‘I met him in Bradford about five years ago. He came to confession. Told me he knew what I needed and wanted and he could make it easier for me.’
‘How did he know?’
‘I was taking chances.’ Father Duffy paused. ‘When I came to Glasgow, I thought I’d seen the back of him.’
‘But he turned up?’
‘July last year. I didn’t recognise him at first. Then he asked for confession. And it began again.’
‘How?’
‘He brought women to the chapel house. I paid. Sometimes he watched. Sometimes he took photos.’ He looked sickened by what he was saying. ‘I told him I
didn’t want to do it any more. He threatened to send the photos to the bishop. Every day I prayed to God he would leave me alone. And then he disappeared.’
‘When was that exactly?’
‘September or October.’
‘And he reappeared when?’
‘Only once, last Sunday evening.’ Father Duffy looked as though he wanted Bill to tell him it was all a bad dream. ‘He must have seen me bring Leanne to the chapel house on Saturday night. On Sunday, I gave him her number.’ Father Duffy avoided meeting Bill’s eye. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve put Leanne in danger, haven’t I?’
Bill tried to remember that the priest had helped Leanne pay off Minty. That he’d come here of his own accord, knowing when he spoke out it would be the end of his priesthood. Duffy wasn’t an evil man. Just a bad priest.
MCNAB TRIED RHONA’S
mobile on his way to the car and got no reply. When he rang the lab Chrissy answered.
‘I thought she was with you, strolling down the Molendinar.’
‘I left there over an hour ago. She’s not been in touch?’
‘Nope.’
The uncomfortable thought that she might have gone back into the culvert crossed McNab’s mind. Surely even headstrong Rhona MacLeod wouldn’t be that stupid . . . but then, it wouldn’t be the first time her curiosity had put her in danger. For now, he had to assume she’d let common sense prevail.
‘I’m headed for Rhu Marina. Looks like we found the yacht. Bill wants Rhona to take a look.’
‘I could come . . .?’ Chrissy sounded cautious.
‘Okay,’ McNab answered with equal wariness. ‘I’ll pick you up.’
McNab had never known Chrissy so quiet. He’d expected the usual acerbic wit known to shrivel a cock at a hundred yards. Even the look she’d given him as he drew up outside the lab, hadn’t included the usual
daggers. Ever since he’d become obsessed with Rhona – McNab had finally admitted it to himself – Chrissy had been his number one enemy. This new mellow Chrissy, sitting next to him, was something else. He was wondering what sea-change had occurred, when Chrissy broke the silence.
‘I’m pregnant.’
Chrissy’s blunt announcement took McNab’s mind off the road, generating a horn blast from the Audi behind.
‘And I’d like to stay alive long enough to have my baby.’
McNab gave the finger to the guy in the Audi, who’d just realised to his consternation that he’d honked his horn at a police car.
‘Sorry, but it was a bit of a surprise.’
‘That’s what fucking does, makes babies. Men like to forget that.’
McNab held his tongue on that one, and tried to work out who the father might be. Chrissy had been seeing that bloke, Sam Haruna, during the Nigerian case. McNab did a quick calculation and decided it had to be Sam.
‘You’re keeping it, then?’ He made his voice neutral.
‘It’s not a dress I brought home to try on.’
McNab suddenly remembered the scene in the Necropolis when he’d suggested Chrissy was putting on weight. How Rhona had changed the subject and removed him from the scene.
‘Who else knows?’
‘I figured once I told you, everyone.’
‘I won’t mention it, if you don’t want me to.’
‘I don’t give a fuck what you do.’
McNab decided Chrissy was either very brave or very foolish. Haruna was on the run from the law and the entire Suleiman tribe. Hardly a stay-at-home, financially supportive father. Chrissy was about to enter the world of the one-parent family. The single mothers’ society the
Daily Mail
liked to blame for the world’s ills.
‘My mum had me on her own.’ McNab surprised himself by saying it. It wasn’t something he normally broadcast.
‘And look how you turned out.’ Her tone was sharp, but the look Chrissy gave him was conciliatory.