The victim had crossed here to her death, just as other victims had made the more famous crossing in Venice. Rhona’s mood was growing as dark as the day. She remembered what Bill had told her once, earlier in her career. The only death to fear, he’d said, was your own. It was a strange thought for him to voice, considering
how much he worried about the well-being of his two teenage children, and now his wife Margaret.
A line of police vehicles was parked in Cathedral Square. Once inside her car, Rhona called Chrissy.
‘Go home,’ Chrissy told her. ‘I’ve logged and stored everything. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Rhona found herself readily agreeing.
She drove westward through the city towards a sky bruised red and blue. It looked both beautiful and ominous.
Rhona found herself craving the small ordinary things of life, as far away from violent death as was imaginable. The sounds of the flat when she would open the door, sometimes a hushed silence, sometimes music. The soft mew of the kitten. Its purr of pleasure as it greeted her arrival. Rhona’s skin prickled in anticipation as she slid her key quietly into the lock.
Tonight there was music, but no sign of Tom the cat. She stood for a moment in the hall, breathing in its familiar scents, then went in search of the occupants.
They were both in the kitchen. Sean stood facing the window, listening intently, the kitten cradled in his arms. Something in his stance stopped Rhona from interrupting.
The music was jazz piano, a tune Rhona was unfamiliar with. A padded envelope lay on the table. Nearby was an empty CD case. Musicians often sent Sean samples of their work, hoping for a gig at the jazz club. Rhona assumed this was one of those occasions.
As the track drew to a close, Sean turned, sensing her presence. He placed the kitten on the window seat, where it curled itself into a tiny ball.
‘That was Sam playing.’
‘Sam?’ Rhona’s heart leapt.
Sean indicated the envelope. ‘The CD arrived this morning.’
Sam Haruna, the father of Chrissy’s unborn child, had been forced to flee during Rhona’s last big case, uncovering a child-trafficking ring in Nigeria. The men chasing him were both influential and ruthless, and if Sam was still alive he was in great danger.
Rhona picked up the envelope, postmarked London, three days before. ‘He must have made it back to London. I have to call Chrissy and tell her. She’ll be over the moon.’ Rhona pulled out her mobile, but Sean stopped her hand before she could dial.
‘I think we should wait.’
‘Why?’
‘This recording could have been made at any time. It doesn’t prove Sam’s alive now.’
‘Who else would send the CD, if it wasn’t Sam?’
Sean didn’t have to answer. The Suleiman family were as powerful in the UK as they were in Nigeria. If they suspected Sam was back in Britain, then all his ties were here in Glasgow. His job, his church, his girlfriend. They would do anything to flush him out. The muggy heat of the kitchen suddenly seemed suffocating, as though West Africa had followed Rhona home.
‘We can’t tell Chrissy until we’re sure.’
Sean was right. It would be too cruel, especially now.
‘There’s something I haven’t told you,’ said Rhona.
The kitten, sensing her mood, rose and stretched with a plaintive miaow, jumped lightly down and came to rub itself against her legs.
Sean waited.
‘Chrissy’s pregnant.’
A series of emotions played across Sean’s face, and Rhona convinced herself that envy was one of them.
He shook his head in amazement. ‘Sam would have loved that.’ He corrected himself. ‘Sam
will
love that.’
Rhona couldn’t meet Sean’s gaze. She’d purposefully kept this news from Sean, telling herself it was early days yet. Chrissy didn’t want everyone to know. All lies, of course. Chrissy had no problem with Sean knowing about Sam’s child. It was Rhona that had the problem. Ever since Sean had expressed his desire to have a child, one drunken night after his father died, Rhona had been torturing herself about it. When she’d challenged him sober, Sean had told her to forget it. That all Irishmen were maudlin in drink. But Rhona couldn’t forget it, because the words had been said, and drunk or not, Sean had meant them.
‘Rhona . . .’
‘I’m going for a shower,’ she said abruptly.
Rhona felt Sean’s eyes on her back as she left the room. It was at times like this she wished she wasn’t in a relationship.
LEANNE WOKE AT
nine o’clock on Thursday morning, knowing something was wrong. Two sleeping tablets had rendered her practically unconscious, leaving her with a dry mouth and swollen tongue. She always took two when it was Terri’s turn to go out. That way she didn’t lie awake worrying about her.
The lurch in Leanne’s stomach when she saw the empty place in the bed beside her sent her to the toilet. She retched in the sink, then turned the tap full on, rinsed out her mouth and splashed her face. In the poor light of a low-wattage bulb, her frightened face looked back at her, white and distorted. Leanne stared down at the healed sores on the blue-veined tributaries of her inner arms, testament to Terri’s determination that they should both get clean.
Leanne gripped the sink, as her legs lost what little strength they had. By rights the two of them should have woken curled together, Terri at her back, arm circling Leanne, hand cupping her breast. Leanne shut her eyes, the pain of wishing like a knife in her guts.
After a moment she straightened up, went for the mobile and rang Terri’s number, desperation growing with each unanswered ring.
They’d agreed from the beginning. Stay safe, call if in trouble. The phone slipped from Leanne’s hand as the trembling became an uncontrollable shake. A cold sweat swept over her, rattling her teeth. She hugged herself to control the tremors and tried to think through her fear.
Wednesdays were regulars. The stall guy from the Barras market who gave Terri pirated CDs. The old man who smelt of piss and called her Marie. Wednesdays were quiet, never more than six, then home. But Terri hadn’t come home.
Leanne tried the mobile at five-minute intervals while she dressed. Each time it rang out, she prayed for Terri’s voice to break the endless ringing, only to hang up in despair.
She made herself a heavily milked tea with two spoonfuls of sugar, Terri’s cure for just about everything, hoping it would quell the mixture of hunger and nausea that gnawed at her stomach. While she sipped it, she put on the radio and listened to the Scottish news. Dread was replaced with hope when there was nothing that might be linked with Terri.
Outside the flat, warm damp air prickled Leanne’s skin, as she headed for Terri’s favourite spot. On her right, the distant trees on Glasgow Green stood thick-leafed under a thunderous sky.
The network of dismal streets that made up the east end of Glasgow’s red-light district, looked even shabbier in daytime. When Leanne reached the entrance to Terri’s alley she hesitated, afraid of what she would find. When she finally plucked up the courage to enter,
she picked her way across cobbles slimy with wind-blown rubbish and a scattering of used condoms. As her eyes became accustomed to the dimmer light, she was relieved to see the alley was empty.
Someone had vomited in Terri’s doorway, splattering orange gunge on the scored wood of the door. On a nearby wall someone had spray-painted, ‘Fuck you!’ in red.
Leanne walked the length of the lane, looking for any sign of Terri, but found nothing. On the far wall was the mounted camera that was supposed to keep Terri safe.
Leanne passed the police station on her way to the free food van. Even now, she didn’t think of going inside and reporting her fears for Terri’s safety. A missing prostitute with a drug problem wouldn’t be high on their list of priorities. And she was still hoping that Terri would turn up some time soon.
The van was serving breakfast. The smell of frying bacon hung in the air as Leanne approached. There were half a dozen folk in the queue, two of them women, neither of them Terri. Leanne scanned the faces, registering the ones she knew. Three of the men were strangers, the fourth a regular visitor at the van. She was relieved to see the elder of the women was Cathy, still on the game at forty-five going on sixty, everyone’s pal and confidante. Her companion looked barely eighteen and hung on her arm like a wet dishcloth.
‘Have you seen Terri?’
Cathy registered Leanne’s worried expression immediately.
‘No. Why?’
‘She never came home.’
The girl beside Cathy was stoned, her eyes glazed. There was a bruise on her cheek the size of a walnut. A cold sore on her lip had lost its scab and was seeping. Leanne realised Cathy was the only thing keeping the girl on her feet.
‘She needs some food inside her,’ Cathy said. She took a firmer hold on her friend, preventing the girl from swaying. ‘You checked Terri’s spot?’
‘There’s no sign of her.’
‘Her phone?’
‘Not answering.’
Leanne knew what was going through Cathy’s head. Terri had bought a fix and was flaked out somewhere until the trip was over.
‘She’s not using.’ Leanne said.
Disbelief flickered across Cathy’s face.
‘She’s not,’ Leanne repeated, more to convince herself than Cathy. ‘Did you see her last night?’
Cathy thought for a moment. ‘In the queue for the food van. Then she headed off like the rest of us.’
They had reached the front.
There were two people serving – an earnest young man with red hair, and an older woman called Liz, who all the girls knew and liked. Cathy ordered two bacon rolls and two mugs of tea.
‘How about you?’ Liz asked Leanne.
Leanne shook her head. ‘I’m looking for Terri. She never came home last night.’
Liz turned to her colleague, who was wrapping Cathy’s order.
‘You manage on your own for five minutes?’
As soon as Liz emerged from the van, she hugged Leanne. The motherly embrace brought tears to Leanne’s eyes. She had to bite her lip hard to stop herself bawling like a baby. Cathy had propped her companion on the steps of the van and come to listen.
‘Terri was here last night. Ate a good meal. I saw to that. She left around nine thirty.’
Cathy chimed in, looking as concerned as Liz. ‘I’ll check the drop-in centre. See if she’s been there.’
‘And I’ll ask everyone who comes to the van. Have you got a photo?’
Leanne took out her purse and extracted the one picture of Terri she had. She hesitated before handing it over.
‘I’ll stick it in the window. It’ll be safe there,’ Liz said. ‘Has Terri ever gone off before?’
Of course she had. Just like Leanne herself had done. But things had changed since they got clean. Since they got together.
Leanne shook her head. ‘Something’s happened to her.’
‘What about the police?’
Fear gripped Leanne. She’d spent too many nights sweating in the cells and paid too many fines.
‘How about if I go?’ Liz said.
Leanne looked at the woman’s kindly expression and wanted to kiss her. ‘Would you?’
‘Give me your phone number. I’ll go as soon as we finish here.’
When Leanne left the van, Terri’s photo was already stuck to the glass with Sellotape. If anyone had seen Terri after the food run, Liz would be the one to find out.
Despite this, Leanne didn’t feel any better. A sense of dread was churning at her empty stomach. Instead of going back to the flat, she cut through Bain Street to the Gallowgate, and from there up Barrack Street. Some punters didn’t like the brightly lit district and took you somewhere less obvious. The area, close to the brewery, was popular for that reason.
A police car passed her, heading up John Knox Street towards the Necropolis, quickly followed by a mortuary van. Leanne watched their progress with mounting alarm, registering the line of parked police vehicles, and the white shape of an incident tent half-way up the slope of the Necropolis.
Worry brought Leanne to a standstill. What if the hive of police activity had something to do with Terri?
Glasgow Pussy – Internet Blog
Wednesday July 28th
There are basically five types of flesh for hire in Glasgow. The first is the cheapest and not always value for money
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Class 1
Known as streetmeat, they can be found hanging around the Finnieston area or by Glasgow Green. Mostly mangy crackheads and criminals, there are two kinds. The dried-up worn-out clits brigade who’ll do anything, ANYTHING for the money including crap and pee on request. Then the juveniles. Young, some VERY YOUNG and still fresh. Get them before the smack does. If you fancy beating up a whore, this class is for you. Nobody gives a shit what happens to them, including the police
.
THE PROFESSIONAL ROUTINES
required for a murder enquiry were like the preparations for a family funeral. They kept those involved busy and their minds off the proximity of death. For policemen and women death was, if not an everyday event, certainly a frequent one. Working in a post-industrial city like Glasgow – with a murder rate twice that of London – gave detectives the opportunity to hone their skills, and pathologists an interesting and varied workload. Dr Sissons had been heard to say at some dinner or other that he wouldn’t have chosen to work anywhere else.
The incident room was buzzing, exuding a sense of purpose. Although no one would ever admit it, any investigation team would be less than thrilled to be assigned to another prostitute murder enquiry. After all, the previous eight remained unsolved. There was also an underlying belief – in the force, as well as among the general public – that, like a soldier on the front line, a street prostitute knew the dangers when they took on the job. However, the discovery of a second body buried under the first had turned the case into something much more interesting than a violent punter or a pimp taking out his anger.
The strategy meeting had been scheduled for eleven o’clock. Bill had gone home late the night before and come back early that morning. Margaret had been in good form when he’d arrived home. They were making a point of not talking about her illness, at her request. As life continued, if not as normal, then with a semblance of normality, Bill realised they were, as the literature said, ‘living with cancer’. Margaret behaved the same, although now she had her bad days, which he recognised and did as she’d asked. Kept quiet and let her get on with it. The strange thing was, Bill felt the cancer was eating at him, rather than her. He was the one who looked ill.