Murderers Anonymous (20 page)

Gilchrist stared at her for a while. Then stared at Annie Webster, who gave him a reassuring smile. One-to-one sessions. Sounded good, he thought.

And it would be a long time before there were any more one-to-one sessions after he'd killed that bitch and had been nicked. So he could wait. Might, in fact, just take her out on Christmas Eve, when they got back. That'd fuck her family up good and proper. In fact, maybe he'd take her family out on Christmas Eve, let her stew in her own misery, then take her out a couple of days later.

Whatever. He could wait. See what Katie Dillinger and Annie Webster had to offer. Maybe a two-to-one session ...

'Aye, all right,' he said. 'We'll see.'

Dillinger could read every single thought going through his head and knew that this would be tough. But this was why she was here; this was why she'd started this group in the first place.

Now for another tough nut to crack, or possibly a soft, pointless waste of time.

'Right,' she said, turning and looking into the near-insipid eyes of Barney Thomson. 'Barney. I'll not give you any shite. You're the third Barney Thomson we've had in here in a year. I'm sure all the others are pissed off at me for inviting you along. Persuade us you are who you say you are. Tell us something we don't know. Give it your best shot.'

Barney swallowed and nodded. He'd expected to be able to sit at the back for a little longer than this, to rest easy in his anonymity, but he'd known that he would have to speak at some point.

And so, at last, it was time to talk. The odd brief explanation aside, he had never really told his story. Many times it had been formulated in his head, many times he'd yearned for a captive audience. Now at last they sat before him. It was time to open up the doors of divulgence and spit the clotted words of truth onto the fires of revelation. These people expected to scorn him, and so he had to persuade them of the veracity of his words and let them all follow him; this Pied Piper of adumbration, this ringmaster of axiomatic necessity, this bedevilled master of ceremonies, this pantheon of verity and rectitude.

'I really am Barney Thomson, honest,' he began.

Barney stepped into the church, his feet crunching through autumn leaves. He had been here before, but the memory was vague. He had a strange feeling that it ought to have been more familiar than it was. He pulled his coat closer to him, as the wind howled through broken windows and the door swung and creaked. There ought to have been someone waiting for him, but he could not think who it should be. In any case, he was alone.

He looked up. There should have been something there. Something evil. Something swinging from the ceiling, its hollow eyes staring at him. But there was nothing but faded and peeling paint, leaves falling in through holes in the roof.

Barney shuffled up the aisle, his feet dragging through the sodden autumn mass. Took a look behind him as the door creaked again but it was merely the wind. An old desolate church and he was alone. And with this realisation came relief. The dark of night and nothing to fear. Perhaps at last he would be free... and he thought about it and looked around the blighted kirk, and could not remember what it was that he needed to escape.

Then, as he reached the front of the church and stood beside the remnants of the pulpit, he came to the point of the evening. And it induced no fear at first, no thumping heart. Just curiosity.

For in the corner there was a television. Small, portable, old. A round aerial on top, giving an unimpressive picture of a street scene at night. Live as-it-happened action, that was what he was seeing.

He stepped closer.

Volume down low, but he could hear it now that he was near. The click of a woman's hurried footsteps across a wet road. Blonde hair, coat pulled tightly against her, as protection against the cold, or against the evil that stalked her. She glanced over her shoulder and from the look in her eye, she could see what was coming behind. Barney only had sight of her, however, not of the one who stalked her.

She passed a couple in the street, tried to talk to them, but they were not interested. They walked on, giggling and laughing, consumed by each other; the feral beauty of young infatuation.

And so she walked on, starting to break into a run, but her shoes were not made for running. Barney began to feel nervous for her, for himself. Perhaps there was also someone behind him. But he did not look round. Eyes locked on the television. Thought he recognised this place. Near the centre of town, past Anderston, down towards the crane at Finneston. She walked on, hurriedly, in no particular direction. Waved at a passing taxi; the taxi drove on. Not even employed, the driver on his way home; had forgotten to switch off the light.

The camera pulled back and Barney got his first glimpse of the girl's pursuer. Just the back of his head, but he recognised that in itself. The dark hair, badly combed. The head of a minister. Had seen it somewhere before. No more than ten yards away from the woman.

Barney flinched; his mouth was dry. Decided it was time to leave, but he could not. He could not move. This wasn't real, yet he didn't have the control he should. And anyway, there was something behind him too that he did not want to see. Perhaps the same man who was closing in on the woman.

The shivers ran all over him; his heart thumped truly now. He would turn away, but he was not allowed. The woman broke into a run, she stumbled and instantly the beast was upon her. It wielded a knife, hand over the victim's mouth to dull the scream, and a vicious slash to the top of the leg. Barney winced and closed his eyes.

A hand touched his shoulder.

Barney Thomson awoke, screaming, face bathed in sweat.

The crane loomed large, casting a dull shadow in the half-light of morning. The Finneston Crane. Monument to the recumbent past; grand testament to the flourishing Glasgow of old; as majestic as the rooftops of Florence, as architecturally precise as the Eiffel Tower. The very begetter of the soul of this great city; the physical manifestation of the strength and purpose that lay at its heart.

A big hunk of metal. And at its foot lay a body, red coat stained darker red with blood. The fourth victim of this year's serial killer.

The murder had featured a few stages. Stabbed in the leg as a foretaste; an aperitif. Gagged and bound, but conscious. While Cindy Wellman had watched, the skin had been stripped from the top of her thigh to more than halfway down her leg. This had hurt, and she'd fainted three times. Each time, however, her killer had woken her before continuing. He had thought of using the skin to strangle her, but it'd snapped seconds after he tightened it around her neck. So instead he'd thrust it deep down her throat, thus suffocating her in a matter of a few, frantic, thrashing seconds.

Creative, but disgusting. As is much of modern art.

Having committed his crime, the killer had made his way home for a relaxing cup of tea, a few minutes' pointless late-night television, and then a good night's sleep. He had, he had to admit, even disturbed himself a little with this crime, and intended not to repeat it. Sometimes convention wasn't so bad. Next time he would return to the more straightforward stabbing scenario.

The body had been discovered – in the usual manner – by illicit lovers at half past three in the morning. Two men, by chance, both firmly in the closet; one a bank clerk, the other a well-known Premiership footballer. An anonymous call had been placed to the authorities, and the police were thinking that there might have been a lead in that call, when there was none.

The body still lay where it had been discovered, five hours previously. There was the usual crime scene. Yellow tape; more officers than were necessary. The ghouls of the press and public as close as they could get, trying to see what all the fuss was about. Two plainclothes officers moving within the crowd, on the basis that forty per cent of murderers, taking pride in their work, would return to the crime scene after the event. A helicopter circled overhead. Squad cars came and went, headed off to round up the usual suspects. Somewhere a woman bit into a chocolate pretzel she'd seen advertised on the television.

Mulholland and Proudfoot stood and stared. The cadaver was finally being placed into the removal bag, everyone who'd needed to look and prod having had their turn; every clue that could be garnered from the position and substance of the body as it had lain having been so.

Proudfoot was white, blood having retreated inside to mix with the haunting of her stomach and her heart. She was being taken back down a long black tunnel to the events of the previous winter, and everything she'd seen then was returning to torment her.

Mulholland felt nothing. In his way he was a lot less ready to address the demons of the past. Still hiding from it all, and it was possible that he would never emerge from that hiding place. Maybe it would penetrate his consciousness in ten, twenty, thirty years' time. Or maybe he would take all the feelings of terror, desperation and inadequacy to the grave. Whatever; as he watched the victim of the most vile of murders being enclosed in the Big Bag, he felt nothing. 'Well,' he said, 'that's not something you see every day.'

Proudfoot barely heard him. One of the medics gave him a
From Dusk till Dawn
look; the other was as tied up as Proudfoot in horrors of the soul and did not notice.

'What?' she said eventually. Took so long to speak that Mulholland had almost forgotten what he'd said. He shook his head and said nothing.

A small boat passed by on the Clyde, those on board craning to have a look at the activity. Seeing nothing, they went on their way, but they would later tell anyone who would listen that they'd been there and that they'd seen everything.

The two detectives glanced at one another and then looked around. Activity everywhere, none of it to much end. Finally their eyes settled on the water, and the grey Clyde coldly flowing past.

Another bleak day, the colour of the river. And there they stood, for neither knew of any point in rushing to their tasks. The immediate work was awful and bore no relation to solving the crime. Inform the relatives; speak to the press. Perhaps there might be some clues to be gleaned from the former, but unlikely at the moment of revelation. 'Your daughter's dead. What were you doing at midnight last night, by the way?' Couldn't do it like that. Not any more, at any rate.

Detective Sergeant Ferguson approached. Looking sombre for once, but only because he hadn't eaten anything in ten hours. They were aware of his approach; only Mulholland bothered to take it in.

'You're in luck,' said Ferguson.

Mulholland raised an eyebrow. 'You mean she's not dead?'

'Better than that. Her parents are dead, so you don't have to tell the mother.'

'A blessing,' said Mulholland dryly. 'What about boyfriends, husbands, that kind of thing?'

'She wasn't married, that's about it. Worked at a wee solicitor's up in Bearsden. Got the address.'

'Bearsden, eh? Brilliant. Better start there, then. See if you can get the doc to write her a sick note and we can drop it off.'

Ferguson laughed. 'Aye, right. A sick note. Nice one.'

'It's arbitrary,' said Proudfoot, still staring abstractly across the Clyde. A paper bag floated slowly past; an empty bottle, a packet of cigarettes, a bedraggled cuddly toy, and somewhere a child cried.

Mulholland watched as the body was laid to rest in the ambulance and the doors closed upon it. Pondered on what it must be like to ride in the back of one of those with the deceased. Would you constantly be waiting for the zip to be undone and a hand to suddenly appear? If there was an unexpected movement within the bag, would you dare open it?

'Why d'you say that?' asked Ferguson.

'Got a feeling,' she said. 'It's nobody he knew. It's just a guy committing murder in an entirely random way. No motive, no reason, just doing it. Might not even know why. He's just out wandering the streets and the mood takes him. The gay bloke from the other night, that's the same. Nothing to do with him being gay.'