Easy Kill (17 page)

The patter of drops on the tent heralded the arrival of the rain proper. Somewhere above them, thunder rumbled.

‘We’d better get the body out as soon as possible,’ Rhona said. ‘There must be scores of drains using this waterway for runoff.’

Bill went to give the fire crew the thumbs up. Shortly afterwards, Rhona heard a grinder blast into action. A two-hour minimum forensic study
in situ
was the norm,
but in the present circumstances, impossible. If the water rose abruptly they could lose more than they gained.

Rhona swiftly bagged the hands, noting the broken bloodied nails. Cathy had put up a good fight before she was killed. The rough tape used to silence her was wet, but with luck they might still pick up a print. Rhona was wrapping the head, when McNab arrived with a body bag.

‘They’ve taken a section of the metal fence down. We can get her out that way.’

Once the body had been removed, Rhona concentrated on the nearby undergrowth, taking specimens of the variety of bushes, plants and grasses that clustered around the culvert opening. Then she headed back inside.

Under the arc light, the varied colours and textures of the moss formed a patchwork on the curved wall. The rule was to miss nothing, otherwise your omission came back to haunt you. If the killer had been there, he would have traces on his clothes.

When she emerged she was confronted by Magnus, his height and the white suit making him look like an abominable snowman.

‘A shooting,’ Rhona told him. ‘Bill knows the victim. It doesn’t look like the work of our killer.’

Magnus went past her into the tunnel, the beam from his torch playing across the brick arch. When Rhona followed, she found him sitting on the narrow ledge, head bowed, one hand trailing in the water.

If she imagined Magnus was in some deep contemplation of life’s mysteries, Rhona was wrong. There
was a swift movement, a splash, then he held out his hand to reveal a silvery-flanked tiddler, about two inches long.

Magnus observed the panting fish for a moment, then put it gently back in the water, where it flicked itself into the current and headed for the Clyde. It was a strange thing to observe in what had moments before been a grave.

Something else had caught Magnus’s eye. He dipped his hand in again.

‘What is it?’

Magnus showed Rhona a small silver charm, in the shape of a half-moon. He turned it over in his hand.

‘There was a carving of a moon and a fish on the gravestone, where he left Lucie’s body.’

‘You think that’s significant?’

Magnus looked thoughtful. ‘This stream runs underground west of the Necropolis. Which means we’re a stone’s throw from his hunting ground.’ He glanced between the high flats on the opposite side of Duke Street, as though he could see the City of the Dead in the distance.

‘And?’

‘And nothing.’ Magnus looked annoyed, as though his brain had let him down. He handed Rhona the charm and she slipped it into an evidence bag. ‘What did you think of Terri’s father?’

Rhona remembered the strained face, the hand that gripped the paintbrush. ‘He was frightened.’

‘Do you think he wanted his daughter dead?’

It was a chilling thought. ‘The parents of a drug addict live in their own special kind of hell. Death might seem like the only way out. But few, if any, kill their child. The drugs do that for them.’

Magnus nodded, as though he approved of her answer.

‘You’re still convinced Terri’s alive?’ she asked.

‘Until Nora calls to tell me otherwise.’

It sounded like a case of positive thinking to Rhona, and she’d never known that to bring the dead back to life.

RHONA WATCHED AS
the search team, heads bent, moved slowly across the wasteland towards the derelict hostel. It would need a keen eye to spot anything in the tall mix of grass and weeds, made abundant by a long wet summer.

The back of the building rose seven storeys high, the ground-floor windows boarded up. On the upper levels, splashes of tattered blue plastic escaped through broken glass, fluttering like pennants in the breeze. A few folk had gathered on the nearby bridge to gawp, but incident tape didn’t excite much interest in this part of Glasgow.

The only other possible access to the stream was by a metal ladder attached to a concrete wall on the wasteland side, close to the bridge. The bank there was high, but it might have provided an entry point for the body.

Rhona dipped under the yellow tape and used the treads to reach the water’s edge. There was no sign of footprints in the wet ground, nor any broken foliage nearby. It didn’t look as though Cathy had been dumped from this spot.

McNab came and stood outside the tape. ‘Any luck?’

Rhona shook her head. ‘You?’

‘Nothing so far. Land Services are organising a search of the culvert.’

He was trying too hard to look casual, which immediately put Rhona on her guard. She knew Michael McNab too well.

‘How’s the Prof doing?’

‘Bill seems happy enough,’ Rhona said in a neutral fashion.

‘What about
you
?’

‘What about me?’

‘You know – a woman’s intuition.’

Her woman’s intuition told her McNab was winding her up. ‘Why don’t you ask Judy?’ she suggested, her smile as sweet as McNab’s.

He laughed. ‘You want to be on my tunnel expedition?’

‘Of course.’

‘Tomorrow morning probably. I’ll give you a shout.’

McNab moved off towards the search party, as Rhona hunkered down for a closer look at the embankment.

By the time she returned to the car park, most of the service vehicles had left. Rhona called Chrissy and brought her up to date.

‘And I thought you were still on a jolly with the handsome Viking,’ Chrissy said, placated.

‘Talking of Magnus, he guddled a fish in the Molendinar Burn.’

‘No kidding?’ Chrissy whistled through her teeth. ‘Is there no end to the man’s talents?’

There was a short silence while each waited for the other to speak. Finally Rhona broke it. ‘Any word from Sam?’

It was the question Chrissy had been waiting for. ‘A text. He’s coming to see me tonight.’ She sounded excited.

Rhona wanted desperately to tell her to watch her step.

‘We’ll be careful,’ said Chrissy, reading her mind.

Rhona rang off then, not wanting to labour the point. The Suleiman family wouldn’t give up on Sam, not if they believed he was still alive. If they got the slightest inkling there was a connection between Sam and Chrissy, they wouldn’t hesitate to use her. After the attack on Sean, the jazz club staff had been warned not to discuss Sam with anyone, and to report any suspicious enquiries. It wasn’t enough to stop Rhona worrying.

Chrissy had left the lab by the time Rhona made her way through the evening rush hour. She stored her samples and sat down with a coffee to read through the notes Chrissy had written up in the log book.

Cathy’s clothes had been delivered from the mortuary. One thing caught Rhona’s eye in particular. The plastic boots had trapped some interesting material that might give them a lead on where Cathy entered the water.

Rhona glanced at the clock. She should be on her way home by now, but anything that could help with tomorrow’s search of the culvert would be useful. Rhona settled down to examine the mix of soil, water and vegetable material.

DOCHERTY WAS STUDYING
his hands, where the red paint had hardened on his skin.

‘You were watching your daughter?’

A bluebottle buzzed around them. Bill wanted to swat it but knew he’d miss.

‘Leanne told us Terri saw you.’

Docherty switched his attention to the fly, as though Bill wasn’t there.

‘We’re trying to save Terri, Mr Docherty.’

The insect settled on the table between them. Docherty approached it from behind, palm open. Caught it in expert fashion.

‘Where is she? Where is Terri, Mr Docherty?’

The fly buzzed frantically in Docherty’s closed fist. Then his hand slammed onto the table and silence fell.

Bill was in danger of losing his temper. Everything about this man set his teeth on edge. After the flash of fear in the boat yard, Docherty had shut down. If he wouldn’t talk, there was nothing they could do to make him.

‘If you were kerb crawling you must have seen Lucie. She worked near Terri. Small girl, half starved,
crack addict. Did you watch her too? Someone strangled her with her own bra. That man had salt on his hands. Sea salt.’

Quick as a flash, Docherty’s eyes came up to meet Bill’s. ‘What did you say?’

This was a different Docherty. Alert, interested and calculating.

Bill had silently questioned his decision to mention the salt. It wasn’t common knowledge to anyone outside the investigation. They had kept it from the press releases so as not to alert the killer. Why had he told Docherty? Because he wanted to see his reaction. And to convince himself Docherty wasn’t involved in the murders.

‘There was salt and diesel on the killer’s hands.’

Realisation dawned. ‘That’s why I’m here. You think I did it. You think I killed those lassies.’ Fury erupted on Docherty’s face. ‘You bastards. You pathetic bastards. Some maniac’s got my daughter and the best you can do is blame me!’ Spittle sprayed the table.

‘What have you done with Terri?’

‘You make me sick.’

‘You forbid your daughter to come home. You threaten her. When she walks the streets you follow her. I think you’d had enough. I think you wanted it all to end.’

The anger drained out of Docherty as quickly as it had arrived.

‘We’ve got to keep hoping. That’s what Nora says. Hope. Another fucking word for torture.’ He looked at
Bill with haunted eyes. ‘If you had to watch your daughter sell herself. What would you do? Eh?’

Bill couldn’t answer.

By the time Bill let Docherty leave, he knew the man had gone to Glasgow late on Friday night to look for his daughter, intending to take her home. Docherty maintained, despite driving around for an hour, he’d never found Terri.

Geordie had said in his statement that he’d seen Terri get into a black car around ten thirty. He’d waited, but she never came back. The two stories matched, but Bill didn’t see either man as a reliable witness. He still had a vision of Docherty trying to take Terri home and her refusing. What would he have done then?

MAGNUS TOOK THE
only vacant seat in the room, which was next to Geordie. The strong odour emanating from the old man hit his senses like a sledgehammer. Magnus concentrated on analysing it to weaken its power.

It reminded him of the first sealskin he’d attempted to cure. He’d worked on it in the old smoking shed, but even the lingering scent of salted fish had failed to disguise the mess he’d made of the skin. Eventually, on his mother’s orders, he’d buried it far from the house, watched by the circling seagulls that had followed him to the burial site.

The other men in the room were suffering more than Magnus. Only Geordie looked unconcerned, munching on a chocolate biscuit and slurping a mug of tea. They’d all looked up when Magnus entered, then had returned to studying their hands or the floor between their feet.

Geordie savoured every last taste of chocolate, then held out his hand to Magnus. The skin was wrinkled and grimy but the handshake was warm and firm.

‘Geordie Wilkins.’

‘Magnus Pirie.’

Geordie contemplated the name. ‘Had a mate in the army called Pirie. He was from Orkney. Talked like you.’ Geordie’s eyes grew vague as his mind moved into the past.

Magnus surveyed the other occupants. Brendan Paterson had been there that morning to give his mouth swab. That left Beattie, Ray Irvine and Gary Forbes. A faint scent of motor oil helped him identify Gary as the mechanic who’d travelled up from Dumfries and Galloway. He was young, barely early twenties, looking shocked to be there. His furtive sideways glances indicated his discomfort at being in the presence of Terri’s other clients. When in fantasyland you could kid yourself you were the best she ever had. Sitting in a room with men who’d been there before and after him was causing Gary some problems.

Beattie, Magnus had picked out right away. His face was a study in anger. Terri’s former guidance teacher and sailing instructor, who was trying to stay aloof. He, of course, had told Bill he’d only talked to Terri by phone.

Magnus suspected Ray Irvine, with his expensive clothes and well tended hands, fancied himself more than any woman. Magnus wondered why Ray chose to slum it in the red-light district. He read him more as a sauna man. Sex in the comfort zone. Bought and paid for, like his manicure.

Magnus tried to imagine each of the four men with Lucie, luring her to the Necropolis, strangling and stabbing her, raping her with a stiletto. It was difficult, because they looked so normal. But then most serial
killers looked ordinary. The only thing recorded as common among them was the emptiness of their eyes. Magnus didn’t accept that. He’d seen photographs of Ted Bundy. Not only did the serial killer look charming and friendly, his eyes sparkled with laughter and life. That’s why the girls went with him in the first place. If the eyes were the mirror of the soul, Bundy had managed to fake a soul pretty well.

When Bill opened the door they all raised their heads expectantly, apart from Geordie, who went on mumbling and humming to himself. Bill nodded at Magnus and he stood up. Beattie immediately complained.

‘He’s only just arrived. The rest of us have been here for hours.’

Bill ignored him and ushered Magnus out. Once they were in the side room, Bill asked him what he thought.

‘Beattie’s hiding more than just the sailing lessons. The Gary character smells of oil. There’s no chance he works on boat engines, as well as cars?’

‘We’ll check that out.’

‘I take it they’ve all given samples?’

‘On arrival.’

The one-way glass gave a clear view of the interview room. Gary Forbes, his face drained of colour, was brought in first to sit at a table opposite DC Clark.

‘I let Geordie go,’ Bill said. ‘He’s done his bit.’