Witness the Dead (3 page)

Gibson nodded enthusiastically and stood up straight, pulling at Lulu’s lead to get her the same.

Winter rattled off a succession of frames of the strange man in the blue pyjamas and the striped dressing gown with his preening ginger tabby. He wasn’t sure if he wanted them just for the novelty value or as some bizarre photographic counterpoint to what was on top of the hill, but it didn’t matter. The picture was his for ever.

‘Fruit loop,’ was Addison’s assessment as the two men climbed back up the path to the scene.

‘Because he has a cat or because he might be gay, you bigoted sod?’

‘
Might
be gay?’ Addison retorted. ‘He owns a cat.’

‘That’s it? You rest your case? Did the entire second half of the twentieth century pass you by?’

‘Fuck
that
case,’ Addison snarled. ‘It’s the one up there that I’m bothered about.’

‘What do you think the noise was he heard in the bushes?’

‘Who knows? Rabbits, deer, some other “cat walker” looking for companionship. Anybody’s guess for now. We’ll get Baxter and his people down there to see what tracks they can find.’

‘Deer?’

‘There’s loads of deer in here. Cute-as-fuck Bambi types, if you like that sort of thing. Some bastards even hunt them with dogs. Eric Paterson, the super over at London Road, is really hot on it. He makes it a personal mission to chase down the sods responsible.’

‘The same way you’re going to deal with whoever did that on top of the hill?’

‘The very same. Come on. Let’s see what they’ve got.’

They climbed the hill again and, as they did so, the sun came up and the glowering figure of John Knox could be seen towering over the sepulchres, mausoleums, monuments, obelisks, statues and cherubim. The frown worn by the man who led the Protestant Reformation was perhaps caused by the multidenominational
memento mori
below him in Gothic, Celtic, Moorish and Jewish.

‘Think he saw who did it?’ Winter asked with a nod to the twelve-foot-tall figure of Knox perched on a sixty-foot-high Doric column.

‘Probably too dark,’ Addison replied. ‘But, even if he did, chances are he’d blame it on a Catholic.’

When they got back to the scene, they saw Narey and Baxter standing off to the side, discussing the scraps of evidence they had accumulated. Fitzpatrick was still working her way fastidiously over the body, the poor girl’s naked form not yet afforded the dignity of being covered.

‘Okay,’ Addison said as he breezed into the scene, not waiting for anyone else to finish their conversation. ‘Listen up.’

Narey, Baxter and Fitzpatrick dutifully stopped and paid attention, their annoyance at having to do so barely concealed.

‘Our only known witness is worse than useless,’ Addison went on. ‘All we have to go on for now sits on top of this hill. Here’s what we need. Her name. And we need that as soon as possible. Shoes. I want to know where her fucking shoes are. Lipstick. I want to know the make and colour that wording was written in. Her movements. I want to know where she was last night and who she was with. Most of all, though, I want to know who had a reason to write “SIN” on this girl’s stomach. Someone who knows her would be the best guess. A boyfriend maybe. Or ex-boyfriend. Find him and find the person most likely to have done this. Okay?’

Narey and Baxter looked at each other ruefully, but it was Fitzpatrick who replied.

‘I might be able to give you a partial answer to the last of those, Inspector. And Tony? You might want to get your camera out again.’

Winter’s itch twitched as he and Addison converged on the pathologist as she raised the girl’s purple-tinged body onto its side so that they could see her back. Narey and Baxter had obviously already been let in on the discovery and Addison looked pissed off at being the last to know; but, far more than that, he was eager to know what it was.

‘I’m no expert on tattoos,’ Fitzpatrick continued. ‘But I would say this was done fairly recently.’

Under the glare of the temporary spotlights and the fleeting brilliance of Winter’s flashgun, they saw it. Arched across the curve of the girl’s lower back was the depiction of a writhing snake, working its way round bold letters separated by beating hearts. Despite the skin’s discoloration where the lividity had settled after death, the name could clearly be made out.

Addison stared at the tattoo as Winter fired off a series of shots. Finally, the DI spoke low and steady, little more than an angry rumble that they had to strain to hear against the rising wind.

‘Well, what are you waiting for? Find out who the hell Razor is and bring him in.’

Chapter 3

Glasgow, July 1972

He checked himself out in the mirror, tilting his head left and right, trying different expressions on for size. He’d do. He’d more than do.

The cut of his suit was pretty special; two weeks’ wages that had cost him but it had been worth it. Three-piece, royal blue with a thick gold stripe running through it. The guy in Slaters who had sold him it said that it had come from Carnaby Street and was the only one in Glasgow. The trousers had four buttons on the waist and the waistcoat was cut high enough to show them off. Nice flared bottoms on them, too, above a pair of righteous three-inch platform shoes. Dead gallus, if he said so himself.

The tie was as wide as the Clyde and he’d thought twice about wearing it. What the hell, though. It looked good;
he
looked good. You couldn’t be going to the dancing wearing just anything: you had to look the part. That was true even if you were just going there to try to get off with a lassie. Which he wasn’t. Not quite.

It still mattered, though, making the effort. Same with his hair. He pushed his hands through it, making it appear even bigger, his sideburns thick and dark. Some guys still wore Brylcreem like it was fashionable. Could you believe that? The idiots wouldn’t know style if they fell over it. Like he’d listen to what they had to say about anything.

It was going to be a big night, he could feel it, the nerves just bubbling under the surface. His blood was pumping with what-ifs and he already felt the need of a drink to slow them down. He couldn’t have more than a couple, though. Big night. He needed to keep a clear head. Anything else was far too risky.

He blew a stream of air towards the mirror and flapped his lips, making the noise come out in a jumpy rat-a-tat-tat, shaking his shoulders at the same time. He wanted, needed, the worry out of his system. He couldn’t afford to be nervous, not tonight.

He played with the knot in his tie, fingering at it, easing it towards his throat and away again until he was comfortable with the look. It wasn’t like he was really into it; the clothes and that. But he could pull it off. Better than that, he’d look like he wasn’t even trying to pull it off.

He pulled his hand up towards his mouth and breathed hard into the palm, trying to catch the smell of his breath. He did it again, just to be sure, but it seemed okay.

Moving closer to the mirror again, he made his eyes crease at the side the way that Steve McQueen did. Took him ages to get that right. He’d gone to see
The Thomas Crown Affair
at the Cinerama on Eglinton Street. Loved that film. Totally cool, like McQueen himself.

Smile. Then look mean. Grin. The McQueen eyes. Mean and moody. ‘Are ye dancing?’ he asked out loud. Too loud.

‘Did you say something in there?’ came her voice from the other side of the bathroom door.

He froze. Guilty way before the event. Stand still, say nothing, pretend he hadn’t heard her.

‘Ah said, did you say something in there?’

‘Eh . . . no, no. I was just thinking out loud, love. Wondering where the hairbrush was.’

He stared at himself in the mirror, not seeing McQueen. Not seeing cool. Seeing embarrassed. Seeing guilty. He shook himself again, blowing away the shamefaced cobwebs. It was going to be a big night and he didn’t need his head full of shite. Get a grip.

She was standing there when he came out of the bathroom, looking at him oddly, seeing the suit for the first time. He could see that she liked it and yet she didn’t.

‘You’re looking kinda smart, are you not? Where did you say you were off to?’

‘Ah didn’t. I’m working, though. Look, I’ll try not to be too late back, but don’t you bother waiting up for me. Sorry, I’m running late as it is. Better rush.’

The front door closed behind him and he could hear the theme tune from
The Thomas Crown Affair
echoing in his head. Echoing like windmills in his mind.

The bus into town was busy, full of people chattering away as if it were just a night like any other. He knew it wasn’t, and they should have, too.

Behind him, two girls were singing ‘Get it On’ by T.Rex and in between verses they were giggling about how the band were coming to Glasgow and they’d die if they didn’t get to see them. They were both in love with Marc Bolan and each said they loved him more than the other one. All he could think of was how unlikely it was that not seeing a band would be the death of them.

Someone else started a singsong at the back, three young blokes who quickly drowned out T.Rex with a raucous version of ‘Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep’. The two girls glared at them at first but soon gave in and within minutes the entire bus, conductor and driver included, were singing the song on the way into town. Everyone but him.

It was a warm night and the windows of the bus were open, letting the singing escape into the night air, treating Maryhill and then St George’s Cross to chorus after chorus. They weren’t fooling him, though: it was whistling in the dark, showing that Glasgow wasn’t afraid of the bogeyman that nobody mentioned. Was that why he wasn’t singing, because he knew that they should have been afraid?

When the bus hit the city centre, he got off at Buchanan Street and walked the rest of the way. Klass was on the third floor of a building at the top of West Nile Street and, as it was a Friday night, it was easily recognisable by the queue of people that snaked all the way down onto the pavement.

The queue wound up the narrow stairs and left only enough room for those not allowed admittance to make their way back down the steps and onto the street. When he got nearer to the entrance, he could see people doing their first dance of the night, a nervy quickstep as they moved from one foot to the other, waiting to find out if they’d be knocked back. It was the best disco in town and tough to get into. ‘Not tonight, boys’ was the usual line from the bouncers, and he saw shoulders sag as they had to deal with the embarrassment of not getting in. He’d get in, though; there was no doubt about that.

He scanned the queue, looking for likely candidates. Glasgow in all shapes and sizes but not one that immediately jumped out as being what he was looking for. There would be plenty more inside, though, and more still as the night went on.

The bouncers gave him the once-over and then the nod.

The place was teeming with people, sticky with summer-night body heat. It smelled of beer and cigarettes, perfume and hormones. It was light enough to see everyone and dark enough to hide a few imperfections.

Ages ranged from distinctly underage up to early thirties. On another night he’d be interested in the underagers, but not tonight. Everybody was glammed up but the styles were all over the place. The Brylcreem boys were still there, refusing to give up their slick. The hippies and the rockers were there, too, mimicking London and New York fashions but doing it their own way with whatever clothes they could lay their hands on. A few of the guys had classy suits but he reckoned his more than held its own. The gold stripes were getting a few looks.

You’d have thought that maybe people would seem nervous, but it didn’t look that way. Maybe it was all front. Like him. All show. But, inside, hearts going nineteen to the dozen. It would have to be playing on your mind, surely. Especially the girls. You wouldn’t know it, though. If you’d landed from Mars you’d never have thought they had anything more to worry about than when the band would be on and whether they’d pull by the end of the night. Life was in that room and nothing else mattered.

That night’s band was at number three in the charts and had played at Green’s Playhouse the month before. They’d gone down a storm then but this place would have been full anyway. It was where it was happening, in more ways than one. They came on and played and half the crowd danced and the other half stood and watched or sat at the tables at the side and clapped. He watched too. He watched other people’s eyes and where they were looking. He watched for signs of something wrong, something that didn’t quite fit. And he watched for the person he was looking for, even though he had little idea of what he might see.

As the hours slipped by, the room got hotter and louder, the walls closing in as the bodies multiplied, hazy mirages under the glitter ball’s shimmer, all wrapped in a fug of cigarette smoke. He got himself a lager to slake his thirst and to make sure he looked right, his back against the wall and everything before him. He checked out the room for the umpteenth time, careful not to catch the eye of anybody who looked likely. The last thing he wanted to do was let them know he was hunting them. It wouldn’t do to scare them off.

He was aware he was breathing heavier than he should and that his senses were heightened like a wolf ready to attack. He had to calm down. Could people tell that he was like that just by looking at him? Could they sense that he wasn’t the same as everyone else there? It would ruin everything if they could.

There was a couple standing by the far wall, the bloke a bit too close for the girl’s liking. The fellow was leaning in on her, his face leering just inches from hers. She wanted to retreat but couldn’t, her back against the wall and nowhere else to go. She was uncomfortable. He could see that, even from the other side of the room, and it made his pulse quicken. He saw another bloke circle the room, clearly checking out the talent but making no effort to ask anyone to dance or to chat them up. He was a watcher, too.

The band had finished their set and the DJ had taken over again: a tall, blond-haired guy wearing an outrageous black leather suit with a red waistcoat and towering platforms. He soon had the dance floor full and the temperatures raised another notch. The dancing was good; it always had been in Glasgow but people were learning new moves now that the old dance-hall steps had had their day.