Random (28 page)
Looking back it’s as if it was all playing out in front of me in high-definition 34-inch plasma grotesque. I stared at that television and watched my play unfold, seeing it, remembering it, imagining it, feeling it.
Imrie arrived bang on cue at quarter past eight, just as the light was beginning to go on that cloudy May night. He had parked up a street away and walked over to the lock-up, furtively looking around him in case he was being watched. Oh he knew the game all right, he could keep his sources sweet and discreet.
He pulled up the sliding door and slipped inside with just one backward glance at the falling gloom. Every step to the back of the garage took him a step nearer London, the metaphorical Fleet Street and a job on one of the national dailies.
He’d worked for this. It was his due. From council minutes and court reports in the early days, through tip-offs and lifts from local papers to crime tidbits and page leads, from hard days’ nights drinking with arseholes and villains, keeping people sweet and keeping the whole thing discreet. He’d played the fucking game and it was his time now. He was the best there was in this wee pond and this was going to be his chance to show the big boys what he could do.
The game was the same wherever you played it. You just had to know when to kick arse and when to kiss it. When to slap someone on the back and when to stab them there. When to write the truth and when to write what suited you. Simple as. He knew the game inside out.
The Cutter stuff hadn’t fallen into his lap as some of them said. Things didn’t work like that. You make your own luck even if those jealous fucking idiots couldn’t understand it. The Cutter could have picked any journalist in the city but he hadn’t. He picked Keith Imrie because he was the best that weegieland had to offer. He’d worked for it and he’d earned it. Nothing at all to do with luck.
He made for the back right corner of the lock-up, just as instructed. The information had never been wrong before and nor would it have been. The muffled voice on the phone had never identified itself, the letters were always unsigned but he knew, of course he knew. It was straight from the horse’s mouth. Everyone was desperate for a line on The Cutter and he had the best contact of them all. Of course he did.
The battered cardboard box was half-covered by an old carpet, as inconspicuous as it was insecure, the safety of its contents all but guaranteed by its unguarded shabbiness. Inside was his passport to Fleet Street. Sure, the big papers had moved out to Docklands and Broxbourne via Wapping but it would always be Fleet Street to him.
He reached under the carpet, keen not to actually touch the thing, and groped in the half-light for the envelope. Sure enough his fingers settled on it and with a satisfied smile he eased out the prize. A plain brown envelope, thinly bulging with hidden promises. All his.
Smug? So what. Show him a good loser and he’d show you a loser. Same goes for good winners. If the rest of the Glasgow meedja was looking on he’d give them a big Get It Right Up Ye to the lot of them. Come on down, the prize is right.
He carefully tipped the contents of the envelope onto the carpet draped over the box and eagerly examined his haul.
There was a glossy white business card.
Jonathan Carr. Salter, Fyfe and Bryce Solicitors. 1024 Bath Street
.
There was a newspaper cutting. Brian Sinclair’s wedding announcement. Bingo.
There was a man’s chunky gold necklace. Blingo.
There was a betting slip marked Hutchison’s Independent Bookmakers, a till receipt from Tesco and a credit card in the name of Wallace R. Ogilvie.
House!
Fucking hell, it was even better than he’d hoped. His editor could kiss his golden arse. Never mind the series of front-page exclusives that this would serve up, it would get him so much pussy it was beyond belief.
Grisly Treasure Hoard From The Cutter’s Lair. Open Says Me,
Record
Reporter Uncovers Killer’s Cave. He could only think in headlines, could only see his name up in lights and in glorious 20-point byline.
He slipped the envelope and its prize papers into his inside jacket pocket, all except the chunky piece of manbling which he put snugly into his trousers, enjoying the feeling of it rubbing against his golden balls. Fuck, he was the man.
He eased up the door to the lock-up and, with barely a glance to the waiting night, he left as he came, striding like a prince among papers back to the Saab convertible that would take him to London. He had gone all of five feet when he heard the footsteps behind him that sent his spider sense into overdrive and his sphincter shutting like a clam.
Despite every instinct telling him just to run, he spun to see what was behind him. As he took in the two very large men moving towards him, he heard more footsteps, this time from the direction he had been heading. He wanted to speak, to bluff it out, to talk his way out of it but no words would come. A boot from the guy nearest him crushed his golden balls and put him squealing onto his knees. He hadn’t even begun to recover from that when something, a fist, a boot, a baseball bat, crashed into the side of his skull and he could taste his own blood as he sank onto the waiting concrete. His head rang, he’d bit his own tongue and his brains rattled against the side of his head.
Voices came at him as if someone was phoning him from inside a bathroom or underwater. Feet crashed against his knees and ankles, encouraging him to listen or stand. When he failed to do either he was hauled to his feet and his vision settled enough for him to recognize the face directly in front of his. Alec Kirkwood. Fuck.
Hands were rifling through his pockets, maybe Kirkwood’s maybe not, finding and removing the envelope and then the necklace. Spud’s necklace, he heard someone say. That revelation was followed by a punch to the stomach that blew away whatever little breath he had left. He was being held up like a rag doll.
We need to talk, wee man man man man. I’ve been waiting a while for this this this this. Kirkwood’s words reverberated round his bruised skull.
It wasn’t his show any longer. It was Alec Kirkwood’s show. He didn’t know how and he didn’t know why but he knew his time had come and gone. His exclusive had gone. His reporter of the year award had gone. Fleet Street had gone.
Kirkwood held something up. The betting slip. He’d barely taken in what it was when a fist pummelled into his face, just under his right eye, almost certainly breaking his cheekbone. The pain was excruciating. He screamed.
When he dared look up he saw the lawyer’s business card only inches from his eyes. It suddenly disappeared from his radar and was immediately replaced by Kirkwood’s fist hammering into his left cheek. That hand had a ring on it, he could feel it rip into his skin and on into the bone. He wanted to pass out, throw up and die. Only the hands that were under his armpits allowed him to stay on his feet.
Did you kill Spud Tierney Tierney Tierney? Did you kill Spud you little bastard bastard? Did you kill them all?
Yes. He heard himself saying. Yes. Yes. Leave me.
Did you kill Spud? Yes, he slurred. Yes. Yes.
Did you kill them? Yes, he screamed. Yes.
Kirkwood was holding the necklace in front of him now, offering it up in front of his bloodied eyes as obvious proof of something. Then the fist came crashing into his mouth, breaking teeth and bursting his lips. A hand grabbed his throat and squeezed tight, forcing his mouth open in an instinctive reaction.
Something was being shoved into his broken mouth, being forced past the shards of teeth and rush of blood. The metal caught his taste buds and he knew it was the chunky bling. Alec Kirkwood was thrusting Tierney’s necklace down his throat.
He gagged on it, fighting it with what little he had left. As he did he felt stings at his knees and hands, hot comforting stings that ran cool and fresh. The stings came again and again, sharp little reminders that he could feel more than one thing at a time. He could feel blood trickling across his skin, testimony to those sweet cool stings sliced by an unseen knife or knives. He could feel the chunk of the chain and savour its sour tang. He could feel the bile rising from his stomach and the chain sinking to meet it as dear life was strangled from him.
His last sight on earth was his right hand being yanked up and held in front of his face, its bloodied back streaked red, its fingers trembling and stark white. As his sight faded he saw a pair of gleaming secateurs close their grip round his pinkie, their deathly squeeze closing out his vision and his future. One clean cut and never-ending darkness. Bye bye Fleet Street, bye bye.
Kirkwood delivered a final kick to the dead reporter’s bollocks, standing over him with bloodied knuckles, heavy breath and startled eyes, guilt and justice writ large over his face. There was no longer any pretence at sophistication, no businessman in a business suit. Here stood the animal who had fought his way out of Asher Street, the undomesticated version, the thug, the wild dog. From Maryhill to Castlemilk, from the Drum to Easterhouse they would know that if you messed with Alec Kirkwood or touched one of his then you would pay the price.
However, that final kick, that insult added to injury, had barely struck when the forecourt was flooded with light and sound and fury. Kirkwood’s boot had registered its mark when it all kicked off.
The sounds of sirens and shouting announced the arrival of Strathclyde’s finest.
Two birds, one stone. No turn unstoned.
My madness had method.
The
Herald
. Friday, 15 May 2010. Page 1.
By Andrea FauldsThe serial killer who has been terrorizing Glasgow for over two years was yesterday named as being a well-known Scottish journalist. Keith Imrie, chief reporter with the
Daily Record
newspaper, has been identified by police as the man responsible for the six brutal murders which have shocked and horrified the city
.Imrie (32) died on Tuesday night as a result of an alleged attack which is in itself the subject of a report to the Procurator Fiscal. Police sources say they are no longer looking for anyone else in connection with the so-called Cutter killings
.It is believed that several pieces of evidence directly linking Imrie to the killings were found at the scene of his death. These included items belonging to The Cutter victims. Imrie’s colleagues at the
Daily Record
are said to be startled at the news that he has been named as the killer. Members of staff at the newspaper’s Central Quay offices have been banned from speaking to other media and today’s early editions of the
Record
only referred to Imrie as being a journalist
.The 32-year-old rose to prominence by writing numerous exclusive reports on The Cutter case, frequently getting information ahead of other media outlets and, in many instances, before the police. He gained promotion to the position of chief reporter on the strength of his Cutter exclusives
.Imrie is said to have bragged to colleagues about his inside information, claiming that he had much better sources on The Cutter case than the police. Yesterday’s revelations now give that boast a grisly ring of reality
.The dramatic turn of events has brought a sudden conclusion to more than two years of extraordinary tension in Glasgow as The Cutter claimed victim after victim, striking seemingly at random with police unable to establish any link between his prey. The killing spree made the city the unwanted centre of worldwide media attention, particularly when the barbaric nature of The Cutter’s mutilation of his victims was revealed
.Ironically now, of course, it transpires that that revelation was made by The Cutter himself. Imrie was interviewed many times by news outlets from all parts of the world and colleagues have said how he revelled in the attention. At the time that was just taken to be the inevitable consequence of an ambitious journalist being placed in the spotlight but it is now being seen by many as a killer callously laughing at his pursuers and the families of his victims
.Imrie had been a reporter with the
Daily Record
for eight years. He was unmarried and lived in a two-bedroomed Victorian flat in Observatory Road in the city’s fashionable west end. Yesterday neighbours there expressed their shock at the news but none were willing to publicly speak out about the deceased reporter.One did say that he didn’t mix a lot with others in his building but was pleasant when seen around the property. It was felt that the unsocial hours that came with his job was the reason that he often wasn’t around and could be heard coming and going from his flat at odd hours of the night
.Chief Constable Andrew Chisholm said yesterday that while police inquiries were continuing, they did not expect that these would extend beyond Imrie. Mr Chisholm yesterday read out a prepared statement to waiting press
.‘We are confident at this stage that Keith Imrie was the person responsible for the murders of Jonathan Carr, William Hutchison, Thomas Tierney, Wallace Ogilvie, Brian Sinclair and Fiona Raedale. We believe that he acted alone.
‘We cannot give a definitive statement on Mr Imrie’s guilt until exhaustive forensic work has been completed but we believe that will confirm that he was responsible for these brutal killings.
‘This has been a terrible episode in Glasgow’s criminal history but we believe that this episode is at an end. Strathclyde Police have worked tirelessly to bring the killer of these six people to justice. The identification of Mr Imrie as the person responsible for these heinous crimes was a victory for police intelligence, sheer hard work and a dedication to duty. The people of Glasgow, of Strathclyde and of Scotland can sleep safer in their beds knowing that this man is no longer a threat
.‘There was some criticism of this force, perhaps understandable, through the course of the inquiry. However, I believe that today is the vindication of the efforts of my officers and everyone involved in this case
.‘While it is regrettable that Mr Imrie is not to face trial, an issue sadly beyond the control of this force, it is nevertheless a relief to everyone that the so-called Cutter will never strike again. If, as we believe, Mr Imrie was responsible for these killings – and all the evidence that we have points in that direction – then his untimely death is the lesser of two evils in a case that has been heavy with evils
.‘More details on the forensic evidence available to the investigation team will, of course, be made public in due course. Strathclyde Police would like to thank everyone who assisted in this investigation, one of the most difficult that the force has ever known. It was only with the assistance of various members of the public allied to the professionalism of serving officers that removed this threat from our midst.’
Detective Inspector Frank Lewington of Nottinghamshire Police, who assumed control of The Cutter investigation, said that all available information pointed to Imrie being the murderer
.‘There is considerable evidence suggesting that Keith Imrie was the killer of Mr Carr, Mr Hutchison, Mr Tierney, Mr Ogilvie, Mr Sinclair and Ms Raedale. However, much of the evidence we currently have would perhaps be considered circumstantial by a judge. We shall now be endeavouring to establish firm forensic proof that he was the killer of these six people
.‘While we have particular reason to believe that Imrie is the man responsible, we will continue to rule nothing out until we have completely determined the circumstances surrounding these murders
.‘However, our message to the people of Glasgow is that they can sleep easier in their beds tonight. The threat from the so-called Cutter is at an end.’
Page 2: CUTTER TIMELINE
Page 3: IMRIE’S VICTIMS: FAMILIES SPEAK OUT
The
Herald
. Saturday, 16 May 2010. Page 4.A well-known Glasgow businessman appeared in court yesterday charged with the murder of a 32-year-old man in the city on Tuesday. The Crown Office said Alexander Kirkwood (age 34) of Braidwood Gardens, Baillieston, appeared in private at Glasgow Sheriff Court charged with murder. He was also charged with attempting to pervert the course of justice. A spokeswoman said Kirkwood made no plea or declaration and was remanded in custody. She added that an application for bail had been made but had been denied
.The
Herald
. Friday, 22 May 2010. Page 1.By Andrea Faulds.
Strathclyde Police have confirmed that extensive forensic evidence proves beyond any reasonable doubt that
Daily Record
journalist Keith Imrie (32) was the killer of all six victims in The Cutter case
.DI Frank Lewington and DCI Lewis Robertson told a packed media conference that DNA, fingerprints and shoe imprints were among the evidence that definitively identified Imrie as the killer. All investigations into The Cutter murders have now ceased and the case is considered to be closed
.Imrie was named as the serial killer last week after his body was found outside a lock-up garage in Springburn. A man is to face trial over his death
.DI Lewington and DCI Robertson listed a number of items belonging to The Cutter’s victims which were found both at the scene of Mr Imrie’s death and his home in Glasgow’s west end. These included a business card belonging to murdered solicitor Jonathan Carr, a betting slip from the premises of bookmaker William Hutchison and an ashtray taken from Mr Hutchison’s flat. There was also a necklace belonging to drug dealer Thomas Tierney, a supermarket shopping receipt from a till operated by Fiona Raedale and an asthmatic inhaler owned by her. There was a credit card in the name of murdered businessman Wallace Ogilvie and a running shoe belonging to dentist Brian Sinclair. DCI Robertson revealed there were also various photographic prints of homes, premises and favoured haunts of the victims. These were discovered inside Imrie’s Observatory Road flat
.Detailed forensic evidence included a footprint found at the scene of the first murder, that of Mr Carr, which has been formally identified as being a match to a size seven Reebok trainer belonging to Imrie. Ridge markings on the shoe, recovered from the reporter’s flat, were an exact match to a cast taken at the scene
.Even more damningly, DNA extracted from hairs found on the clothing of Brian Sinclair, the fifth victim, showed an exact match with Imrie. There is estimated to be, at worst, a one in 3.4 million chance that the hair was not Imrie’s
.Imrie was also revealed to have been caught on CCTV cameras in the Tesco supermarket on Maryhill Road where Fiona Raedale worked, just a short time before her death
.Most gruesome of all perhaps was the pair of secateurs found taped to the underside of Imrie’s bed. The shears were famously used by The Cutter to clip off the right little finger of his victims. This trademark act was the killer’s signature and was the first thing to alert police that they were chasing a serial killer. The secateurs found hidden in the west end flat were discovered to have DNA samples – said to be skin, tissue and blood – formally identified as belonging to Wallace Ogilvie and Brian Sinclair. It is believed that partial matches were made to three of the remaining victims on the basis of low copy DNA
.DI Lewington confirmed for the first time that Mr Sinclair was choked to death using a rolled-up newspaper. However he also made the startling revelation that the police have since learned that the newspaper used was the
Daily Record
and that the front-page story was an article on The Cutter killings written by Keith Imrie. It is believed that the newspaper was removed from the scene or destroyed but that small fragments of it were recovered from Mr Sinclair’s throat. Painstaking investigative work established the edition of the newspaper and then the story that it contained
.DI Lewington said that the fact that the newspaper had an article written by Imrie was in itself circumstantial but he had no doubt that it added to the body of evidence against him. He said that it also gave a ‘frightening insight’ into the egotistical mind of the killer
.‘There is a huge catalogue of evidence against Keith Imrie, enough that we can disregard the particular newspaper that was used in terms of establishing guilt. However, this does go a long way to determining motive, something that has naturally proven difficult because of Imrie’s death before we could have an opportunity to question him. That this man, a callous and brutal killer, felt driven to use his own story as an instrument of murder gives us a frightening insight into his warped mind. Criminal psychologists have reported that they are in no doubt that this is an example of what they term Roman Emperor Syndrome, a man who believes he is lord of all he surveys. This was an incredibly egotistical man, someone who considered himself to hold the fortunes of others in his hands, to be judge, jury and executioner
.‘It was not enough that he killed a newly-married man with no apparent motive other than a thirst for blood, he had to taunt his victim and his pursuers in this manner. The psychologists believe that he was sending some twisted message that his pen was mightier than the sword, that he could kill by his words alone
.‘There is complete confidence among Strathclyde Police that Keith Imrie was the serial killer known as The Cutter. It is vital that the physical information that was available to us was put to the utmost forensic examination so that we could say with certainty to the people of Glasgow that the threat which they have so understandably feared is no longer present. The Cutter is dead.’
DS Rachel Narey, the officer formerly in charge of the investigation, said that the weight of forensic evidence was overwhelming
.‘It is quite clear that with the amount and quality of physical evidence against Mr Imrie that there is no other conclusion for the force to draw other than that he committed the six murders
.‘While it is not clear how he managed to carry out these killings unnoticed or what his motive might have been, the evidence found on his person and in his home clearly indicates his guilt. It is highly unusual for someone to kill without motive and with no connection to his victims. That obviously made this investigation extremely difficult for officers trying to apprehend the perpetrator of these murders.’