Bill changed his tone. ‘I’m sure you understand, given the present climate, how imperative it is we find Terri.’
Beattie looked momentarily mollified. ‘I’ve told you all I know.’
‘We’ll be asking everyone connected with Terri to volunteer a mouth scraping for DNA purposes, to eliminate them from our enquiries.’
‘But I haven’t seen Terri since she left school.’
‘Then you have nothing to worry about, Mr Beattie,’ Bill said.
It seemed to Bill that there was a worse stink in this room than anything coming from next door.
NORA STOOD OUTSIDE
the drop-in centre, trying to pluck up enough courage to enter. Occasionally one of the young women entering the building threw her a curious glance, but for the most part she was ignored. Sweat trickled down the front of her blouse, dampening the material and making it stick to her skin. She’d grown accustomed to the flashes of heat that clothed her body in perspiration and fired her cheeks. In this state, she could neither think nor speak coherently and longed only for a cold shower to beat on her face and reduce her surface temperature to something resembling normality.
Nora didn’t know exactly why she’d come here, but something had driven her to walk the streets her daughter had walked. She’d told David she was visiting her sister Jessie in Largs for the day. Nora wondered if he’d registered her lie, if he even cared how she spent her time, as long as she was there when he returned from work.
She had followed the tourist route map from the railway station to the cathedral, her feet too hot in their thin-soled sandals, her mind still reeling after seeing her daughter’s face on the big screen in Central Station.
When the cool air in the cathedral had washed over her, Nora had felt she’d left hell and entered heaven. Sitting under the vast arched roof, she had prayed. To whom or what she had no idea, but those moments had seemed to renew what little strength she had.
The graveyard itself had been off limits, a police barrier erected across the Bridge of Sighs. Nora had stood for a moment, imagining Terri’s body buried somewhere up there. The pain this had generated had crushed her chest, stopping her breath. The policeman on duty had offered to help, thinking her ill. Nora had found herself telling the young man that it was her daughter they were searching for.
Afterwards, walking the surrounding streets, she’d tortured herself, imagining Terri standing in every alleyway. She wanted to kill every man who had used her daughter as a commodity, and wondered if even for a moment they had thought of her as a person, as someone’s child.
Nora had contemplated her own death many times. When things were at their worst, it was the one thing that kept her going. Then she would mutter to herself, ‘If I die, it will all be over.’ She hadn’t chosen that escape route. Not yet.
Nora glanced at her watch. David would be on his way home. She wondered what he would think when he found the house empty. Maybe he would phone Jessie and discover she hadn’t been there? She had never intended going there. Would he worry? Something told Nora that David was past worrying. He was barely alive himself.
The hot flush had passed, leaving her weak but clear headed. Nora waited for the next young woman to arrive, then followed her inside.
The woman who handed her a cup of tea seemed much like Nora herself. Weary of the world, but not yet willing to give up on it. Nora suspected Marje’s path in life had been very different from her own, yet they had ended up together, in this little room, with its faint smell of damp.
Nora sipped at the tea, tasting sugar for the first time in a decade, realising the woman thought she was in shock. And who could blame her? How was she to know that this was Nora’s state, every hour of every day?
‘I’m glad you came.’
The simple welcome brought tears to Nora’s eyes.
‘You should speak to Leanne.’
‘Leanne? You mean Leanne Quinn?’
‘Terri’s partner.’
Nora wondered if Marje meant they worked together.
Marje observed Nora’s puzzled expression. ‘They live together.’
Nora absorbed that. ‘Oh, I see. Is Leanne here?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘But she will come in?’ Nora was seized by a sense of purpose. This Leanne cared enough about Terri to report her missing. Nora wanted to speak to her.
The sugar rush had left a strange taste in her mouth. Normally she would have gagged at the syrupy liquid, Marje’s version of tea. Now Nora
craved more, imagining it to be the source of her new-found energy.
‘When did you last see my daughter?’
Marje met her desperate look. ‘She came in the other day, Wednesday, to stock up . . .’ Marje hesitated.
‘Stock up,’ echoed Nora.
Marje decided to be frank. ‘On condoms. No needles. She and Leanne are clean. Have been for a couple of months.’
Nora concentrated on the word ‘clean’. Clean meant drug-free, didn’t it? A mental picture of her daughter’s bruised limbs brought back the pain. Nora allowed a measure of hope to wash over it. She felt a hand on her arm and looked up to find Marje’s concerned eyes on her.
‘Why don’t you stay for a bit. Leanne usually comes in later.’
The energy had drained from Nora as quickly as it had come. She had a vision of herself. A middle-aged woman sitting in a dingy little room, her clothes damp with perspiration, her feet swollen. The tears finally escaped her eyes.
‘It’s okay,’ Marje was saying. ‘We’ll look after you.’
Nora felt a pair of strong arms enfold her, a soft, cushioned body press against her own.
RHONA AND BILL
were sitting in his office, drinking one of the endless cups of coffee you consumed to keep your eyes open on a twelve-hour shift. She’d reported her discovery of crystal meth on the twenty-pound note found in Lucie’s pocket. Both were aware that crystal meth was available on the streets of Glasgow. The drug’s fast addiction rate and the violence associated with it made it one of the force’s biggest problems. Crystal, or Ice, could be made relatively simply. The profits from such an endeavour could be substantial. Just the sort of business Minty would relish. They’d brought Minty in many times before, but none of the girls he ran had been willing to press charges. And now he’d simply disappeared.
‘You can’t make money from a dead woman. Minty’ll be leaning on all the others to make up the difference, but they’re still too frightened to give him up.’
‘When do I get to examine his place?’
‘We should have the warrant by tomorrow.’ Bill rolled his eyes: tomorrow was Sunday. ‘No rest for the wicked, eh?’
They fell into an uneasy silence. Rhona longed to ask about Margaret, but before she could, Bill said gruffly
‘Margaret’s doing okay. Balder than me now, but at least she gets to wear a scarf to cover it.’ His weak attempt at humour only made things worse.
‘How are the kids?’
‘Lisa’s overprotective, which drives Margaret mad. Robbie’s pretending it’s not happening.’ Bill didn’t say ‘like his father’.
‘You shouldn’t be working these long hours.’
Bill looked up at her. ‘Margaret understands the job. She doesn’t want things to be any different from normal.’
‘But they are.’
Rhona’s frank reply drew a resigned shrug from Bill. ‘The truth is, I’m better working than watching her all the time. I make her more nervous than Lisa.’
Serious illness had been known to destroy marriages. Rhona couldn’t imagine that happening to Margaret and Bill, but she could appreciate the stress he was under. Rhona judged it was time to change the subject. ‘How’s Magnus getting on?’
Bill grimaced. ‘He asks a lot of questions. And is yet to prove himself useful.’
‘Do I detect a note of resistance?’
‘He told me he thought there was another body. I had already worked that out for myself. I just couldn’t find it.’
‘Do you think the killer led us there?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘So our perpetrator is now an official serial killer, who will keep going until he’s caught, or dies. You don’t need a profiler to tell you that,’ Rhona said sympathetically.
‘You and I both know profiling never brought Sut-cliffe, Fred West or Ian Brady to justice. Solid police work did that.’
‘And solid police work needs time, which we haven’t got.’
‘I think you should take a look at this, sir.’ Janice had knocked and entered without waiting for a response. Bill swallowed his reprimand when he saw her eager expression and heard the clamour of voices behind her.
‘What is it?’
‘The IT boys found a set of photographs of the victims online.’
Bad news had travelled fast and the incident room was packed. The noise fell to a whisper as Bill appeared. All eyes followed his to the wall screen and the projected images.
The pictures looked as though they had been taken shortly after death. The latest victim was immediately recognisable, the other two distinguished by location, modus operandi and signature. There was no doubt they were looking at the same gravestone and the wooded area north-east of the Necropolis.
‘Could the first one be a crime scene shot?’
Bill’s question caused a ripple of shock – could a scene of crime officer have posted confidential material online?
‘I don’t think so. It must have been taken very soon after she died. Look at the skin and blood colour,’ Rhona moved closer to the screen.
The victim who shared Lucie’s grave bore a striking resemblance to her. It was almost uncanny. Similar
features, hair length and colour, build and age. Had it not been for the different clothes, they might have been the same girl. Dr Sissons would hopefully present his report on victim three at Monday’s meeting. Until now she had been an unknown quantity.
‘She looks to be the youngest,’ observed Rhona. The puffy, mottled face that stared down at them from the screen could almost have belonged to a child.
‘We’d better trawl for missing minors,’ said Bill.
There was activity behind them, as some of the team moved to carry out his order.
‘He likes them young, and he likes them to look the same,’ said Rhona.
‘And Terri Docherty is seventeen, five foot three and blonde.’
Any hope they’d had that Terri had simply gone AWOL was fast disappearing. Bill was pacing the room, glancing up periodically at the screen.
‘Did IT find these by chance, or were they given a lead?’
‘A member of the public called in on the confidential line. He said the photos were available via one of the doggers’ websites,’ Janice replied.
The DI’s expression was a mixture of anger and frustration. ‘He’s playing with us.’
Placing Lucie’s body on top of a previous victim, leading them to the burial site, now the release of photographs of the victims shortly after he killed them; everything suggested the perpetrator was keen to control the investigation.
‘We should bring Magnus in on this,’ said Rhona. Despite her misgivings, unravelling the twisted thought processes of a serial killer was a job for a psychologist.
Bill acted as though he hadn’t heard.
‘How widely distributed are these photos?’
‘IT say they’ve been viewed or downloaded by a substantial number of the “dogging” community, in the UK and probably North America.’
‘So the world and his mother is ahead of us on this?’
‘There’s something else, sir. A website that may have a link to the crimes.’ Janice moved the slideshow forward and displayed the following script.
Wednesday July 28th
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
.
Friday July 30th
Two mangy crackheads lying one on top of the other. One fresh meat, the other rotting. The police didn’t even know the rotting one was missing. Told you. No one gives a shite
.
Saturday July 31st
If you found your way here, you know what the stakes are. The next streetmeat is yours to slaughter. Bidding starts at a grand
.
The silence in the room was palpable, all eyes glued to the screen.
The first message had been posted the day Terri disappeared. The second could have been written by a sicko following the case, but the third . . .?
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It’s an online auction,’ Rhona voiced what no one else wanted to say. ‘He’ll carry out and record the next kill for the highest bidder.’
There were murmurs of disgust and anger.
‘It could be a hoax,’ said Janice.
Bill shook his head. ‘I think it’s the next move in the game.’
MAGNUS STARED DOWN
at the chessboard. The game was currently in limbo, but he still liked to study the pieces poised for battle, frozen in time. His opponent had departed Orkney for a lecture tour in the United States and Canada on the topic of John Rae, Orkney’s greatest son and explorer.
Magnus could forecast from the current position that he was likely to lose, again. Douglas Flett was a powerful opponent. Magnus had learned a lot by playing him regularly over the past three years.
Thinking about Douglas produced a sudden longing for Orkney, its smells and sights. The Raes’ family home, The Hall of Clestrain, overlooked Scapa Flow, not that far from Magnus. Rae had been his boyhood hero. Like the young John, Magnus had learned to sail on the ever changing Scapa waters and believed himself capable of great adventures.
Magnus stepped out onto the small balcony that hung above the River Clyde. Here at least he could enjoy the smell of water, although not the sea. He would have to go further west for that.
Glasgow’s great river and its extended waterways covered 600 square miles and was served by multiple
marinas. Thousands of people sailed its waters or worked with boats that did. Traces of sea salt and diesel weren’t significant in narrowing their search for the killer, unless they had a suspect. But it added to the profile that Magnus was forming of the man they sought.