‘No. It’s fine. I’ll talk to you.’
‘Great.’ She turned to Toshney and nodded, he turning on the recording equipment at her signal.
‘I am DS Rachel Narey and also present is DC Fraser Toshney. We are conducting an interview with Ritchie Stark. This interview is being recorded in video and audio. Mr Stark has indicated that he is happy for this interview to proceed without the presence of a lawyer. Is that correct, Mr Stark?’
Stark coughed and announced loudly, ‘Yes.’
‘Thank you for attending Stewart Street police station, Mr Stark. We’ll try to keep this brief as I’m sure you are in a hurry to get out of here.’
Stark looked curious. ‘A hurry? Well, I’ll gladly get out as soon as I can but I’m not in a hurry as such. I just need to get back to the shop.’
‘And what are your plans for tonight?’
‘Um, I’m seeing Faith, my girlfriend. We’re going out. Cinema, I think.’
‘What are you going to see?’
‘I . . . I don’t know. We’ll just see what’s on when we get there. Probably some vampire thing if it’s left to her.’
‘Yeah? You not so keen?’
‘Not really. Not my kind of thing.’
‘You not into all that biting and blood?’
‘No. Guess not.’
‘Is she?’
‘She likes the films, that’s all.’
‘I see. Why do you think you’re in here, Mr Stark?’
He looked confused, maybe thinking that she should be telling him that.
‘Um, I don’t know. Because the girl had her tattoo done at our place, I suppose. I thought I’d told you all I knew, but if there’s anything else . . .’
Narey nodded thoughtfully, looking at him for an age and waiting for a reaction. All she got was more confusion. She picked up her notes and made a show of reading them, even though she knew everything that was written there.
‘So you didn’t do her tattoo and you weren’t in the shop when she had it done. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re sure you didn’t see her in the shop at any other time?’
‘No. I mean yes, I’m sure.’
‘What about when she came in to book her appointment and choose her design?’
‘I didn’t see her.’
‘But you might have been there?’
‘I guess I might but I didn’t see her.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Well, maybe I’m not. But I don’t remember ever seeing her.’
Narey pursed her lips, running her hand through her hair. ‘So it was just Mr Barclay alone with Kirsty, then, you think. Tell me, did he talk about her after she was in? Maybe after he tattooed her?’
Stark took his time, weighing up his answer, obviously deciding whether or not to say something. ‘Yeah, he may have done. I think he might have mentioned that she was attractive.’
‘May have done or he did?’
‘I think he did. We get a lot of clients. I couldn’t be sure.’
‘Suddenly you can’t be sure about very much, Mr Stark. Was it your impression, from memory, that Mr Barclay was interested in Kirsty McAndrew?’
Stark’s eyes slid over and he breathed out hard. ‘Yes. I think so, yes.’
‘Okay, thank you. I understand from my colleagues that Mr Barclay has a bit of a temper. Is that right?’
Stark looked as if he’d been placed somewhere he didn’t want to be. ‘Sometimes,’ he gave up reluctantly. ‘But so do a lot of people. He wouldn’t have hurt that girl. Any of them. He’s not like that.’
‘Hmm. So he fancied Kirsty McAndrew. He has a violent temper. And on the night she was killed he admits he was blind drunk. Doesn’t look good for him, does it, Mr Stark?’
Stark’s mouth opened and closed again. He said nothing.
‘And yet Mr Barclay has an alibi for the night of the second killing. He says he was with you and your girlfriend when Hannah Healey was killed. And you confirmed that, didn’t you?’
Stark’s head fell forward and he stared at the table in front of him.
‘Didn’t you?’ Narey repeated.
‘Yes.’
‘And was he with you?’
Stark didn’t look up but he shook his head.
‘Could you speak please, Mr Stark? For the benefit of the tape.’
Stark stared contemplatively at the table for an age before clearing his throat. ‘Stevo wasn’t with us. He came to me and asked if I’d say he was. He was just worried that you’d think it was him. He said he was out on the booze again and couldn’t remember what pub he was in at what time. Said it would be better if he just said he was with me and Faith. So I agreed.’
‘You lied to the police, Mr Stark. That’s a very serious offence and you may be charged.’
Stark’s head slumped again before rising in half-hearted defiance. ‘I still don’t think he did it. He was just scared.’
Narey’s face was right in his. ‘He’s got good reason to be scared. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go speak to your friend. Make yourself comfortable, Mr Stark, we may be some time.’
Chapter 51
‘Right, Mr Barclay . . .’ Addison swept through the door of the interview room, catching Stevo Barclay by surprise and speaking before the tattoo artist had registered that he was in the room. ‘Let’s talk.’
‘Look, I told you I—’
‘Mr Barclay, this is James McEwan, your solicitor.’
A short, tubby man clutching a briefcase followed Addison through the door and behind him was DS Andy Teven. The solicitor shook Barclay by the hand and took up a seat next to him, beginning to arrange some papers from the briefcase in front of him.
‘About time,’ Barclay muttered.
‘DI Addison, I’d like some time alone with my client, please.’
‘Yes, of course, Mr McEwan. In a bit. Let’s chat first. Andy, get the tape, will you?’
‘No, I’m sorry I—’
‘This is DI Derek Addison. Being interviewed is Mr Steven Barclay. Also present is DS Andrew Teven and Mr James McEwan, solicitor.’
‘For the record, Detective Inspector, I would like to state my dissatisfaction at the length of time my client has had to wait for legal representation. And that—’
‘Duly noted, Mr McEwan. Thank you. Now, Mr Barclay, can I refer you to witness statements you gave to officers when spoken to after the murders of Kirsty McAndrew and Hannah Healey? You told them that you were drinking heavily on the night Kirsty was killed. Is that correct?’
Barclay looked at his newly appointed solicitor before answering. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And you have little or no recollection of your events of that night?’
‘I know I didn’t kill anyone.’
‘Hmm. And regarding the murder of Hannah Healey, you told officers that on the night in question you were with your work colleague Richard Stark and his girlfriend Faith Foster at their flat. Is that correct?’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘Hmm. I think we have a problem, Mr Barclay. I don’t think you were with Mr Stark and Ms Foster. Are you sticking to your story that you were?’
‘It’s not a story. I was. Ask them.’
Addison spread his arms wide as if enjoying an epiphany. ‘Ah, of course. Why didn’t we think of that? Actually, we did. And do you know what Mr Stark said?’
‘DI Addison, I think I ought to speak to my client at this—’
‘I’ll save you from guessing, Mr Barclay, because your solicitor doesn’t seem to know the answer either. Mr Stark has told us that you weren’t with him that night. That you asked him to lie to the police on your behalf.’
‘That bastard—’
‘Mr Barclay, Mr Barclay.’ The tubby lawyer looked sweaty and agitated. ‘I must caution you not to say anything that—’
Barclay clamped his mouth shut, but the damage had been done.
‘Go on, Stevo. Tell me. Why is Ritchie Stark a bastard? For not keeping his side of the bargain? Letting a pal down?’
Barclay stopped and started, fury building in him, wriggling in his seat and impervious to his lawyer’s attempts at shushing him.
‘You may as well tell me, Stevo. Ritchie’s made a statement. He says you told him you were blind drunk again and needed an alibi.’
‘Bastard! I gave him a job as well.’
‘Hardly a way to repay you, was it? So where were you that night?’
‘DI Addison—’
‘Where were you, Stevo?’
‘I was drunk. I was out my face.’
The solicitor’s head fell into his hands before he threw them up in despair. Barclay again ignored him.
‘I knew you wouldn’t believe me, so I asked Ritchie to cover for me.’
‘You asked him to give you a false alibi. Why did you need one?’
‘I didn’t! I did but . . . I didn’t kill her.’
‘Innocent men don’t need false alibis. You are in serious trouble, Stevo. Did you murder Kirsty McAndrew?’
‘No.’
‘Did you murder Hannah Healey?’
‘No!’
‘Did you murder Ashleigh Fleming?’
‘Who? No!’
‘I don’t believe you, Stevo. You have lied to us. You have tried to cover your tracks. Did you kill those women?’
‘No!’ Barclay was out of his chair, roaring, his eyes wide. Addison sat calmly and watched him.
‘Terrible temper you have, Mr Barclay. Terrible.’
McEwan looked very nervous, his eyes going from his client to the cop. ‘DI Addison, I really must insist—’
‘Of course, Mr McEwan. Why didn’t you say? I think we’ve heard enough from Mr Barclay for the moment. A self-confessed liar who fabricated an alibi for the time of the murder. Let’s take a little break, shall we? Interview suspended.’
DC Fraser Toshney had spent most of the time in the operations room at a bit of a loss, hopping from one half-completed task to the next, opening folders, pulling up spreadsheets, looking at photographs and generally trying to find something worthwhile to do. He had the distinct feeling that there was something there for him; he just didn’t know what it was.
He knew what most of the team thought of him. An arse. He irritated them and they didn’t rate him. He knew he was a better copper than most of them gave him credit for, but showing that to them was another matter. He’d been in the squad for less than two months, dropped straight into one of the biggest murder investigations they might ever tackle. So what was he doing? Trying too bloody hard to fit in and prove himself.
So he made stupid jokes, he played the idiot. Maybe he
was
just an idiot. He was worse with Narey, he knew that. Maybe it was just because he fancied her. Maybe it was because she so obviously couldn’t stand his being there. Or because she was always so on the ball that he couldn’t help but feel useless in comparison.
She’d been rattling through task after task with effortless efficiency all afternoon: checking witness statements and ordering more, calling psychologists to test her ‘red’ theory, running profiles from other forces and screening everyone who was on their radar.
He knew that the three necropolis locations were bugging her: she was seeing them as the centre of the investigation but not knowing why. If he could work that out, or even just give her the key that might let it happen, then surely she’d stop thinking of him as a complete waste of space.
So he spent a lot of time online, searching everything he could about the cemeteries, looking for some link, no matter how random or offbeat, that might tie to what was in front of them. What he came up with was mostly a whole load of history.
He learned that the first burial in the newly created Glasgow Necropolis in 1832 was that of a Jew, Joseph Levi. The first Christian burial was a year later, Elizabeth Myles, the stepmother of the park’s superintendent, George Mylne. He knew that 50,000 burials had taken place and that most of the 3,500 tombs were up to 14 feet deep. The tombs at the top had been blasted out of the rock face and there were monuments built by the likes of Alexander ‘Greek’ Thomson and Charles Rennie Mackintosh.
He could tell you that the Southern Necropolis was a rectangle laid out in three sections, those built in 1840, 1846 and 1850. It held the remains of 250,000 people across 21 acres, including Thomas Lipton, the tea man; Agnes Harkness, the heroine of Matagorda; and Greek Thomson the architect. The Western held Sir William Smith, the founder of the Boys’ Brigade, and Will Fyffe, the music-hall entertainer. The Glasgow Necropolis was the final resting place of generations of the Tennent brewing family, all having to be buried facing the Wellpark Brewery at the rear of the cemetery.
He discovered that ‘necropolis’ came from the Greek.
Nekros
meaning death and
polis
meaning city. In Glasgow, of course, polis meant police. The plural of ‘necropolis’ wasn’t ‘necrop-oli’, as Rico Giannandrea tried to tell him, but ‘necropoleis’, as Google told him – although most people opted for the more obvious ‘necropolises’. He even found out that the Southern’s interment records included the burials of legs. Just legs.
What he didn’t learn was what the connection was between the necropoleis and their killer, and it was driving him to distraction.
The large map that took centre stage in the room had the Necropolis, the Southern and Western pegged out in red and the Eastern in green – not because the Eastern had Celtic Football Club as its immediate neighbour but because it, as yet, anyway, hadn’t earned the red for death. Other old cemeteries around the city were pinned in yellow: Sighthill, Calton, St Kentigern’s, St Peter’s at Dalbeth, Cathcart, Jocelyn Square and St David’s at Ramshorn Kirk. Toshney stood and stared at them in the hope that the answer would somehow reach out to him from beyond the graves.
He mentally discarded those marked in yellow: the answer was in the necropoleis, he was sure of it. The Necropolis at the Cathedral, the Southern and Eastern were relatively close to each other, easily within walking distance, even though the Southern at Caledonia Road was over the river. The Western on the other hand was five miles away, a good bit further north and obviously west from the others.
He stared, trying to work out the relationship between them. The shape bothered him somehow, the pinned locations reminding him of something. The Plough, that was it. If he joined the points up like the stars, they made a similar shape to the constellation. A triangle of points at the bottom then a long line up and left to the final position. Except that the bottom part of the Plough had four points rather than the perfect triangle that the three necropoleis formed.