Killing With Confidence (2 page)

After a long period
of soul searching he had come to the conclusion that nothing made
him tick at all. The only thing that ‘juiced him up’ – a
phrase from one of the American gurus he listened to avidly –
was killing.

As far as Osiris had
been concerned he wasn’t crazy. ‘How can I be?’ he’d chortle to
himself. ‘I’ve held down jobs all my life, married, raised a
family, killed and killed and killed and never been caught. That’s
not madness – that’s genius.’

His job allowed him
to be a ‘commuting killer’, which meant he was able to put hundreds
of miles between himself and his crime. The problem was avoiding
detection. There was no doubt the police had his DNA profile in
their database. No matter how careful the crime and how much
protection he used, from condoms to surgical gloves, advances in
forensic technology meant that every contact with a victim left
behind a trace – and therefore clues – of some sort.

CCTV was Osiris’s
other enemy. They were next to useless for preventing a ‘live
crime’ – with an estimated 100,000 cameras in operation around
Britain, it would be impossible for their operators to monitor them
all – but they were the perfect crime-fighting tool to trace
criminals after the event. They also provided evidence for their
court trials afterwards.

Osiris was lucky that
with the high mileage of his job he was able to change company cars
frequently. Osiris would make sure each new car was a different
colour, make and model from the last one. ‘I think I’d like a red
Mondeo this time,’ was his running joke with Isabel in
accounts.

‘What are you like?’
she would say with mock annoyance. ‘Most of the other managers
stick with the same models, but not you, Vinnie, always looking to
try something different.’

‘Ain’t that the
truth,’ he’d say with a wink.

Osiris even impressed
himself the way he was able to integrate and communicate with
normal members of society, given he had started life as an outsider
and felt anything but normal. In times of quiet reflection he would
compare himself to an alcoholic. ‘Why do alcoholics drink? Because
they love it. That’s me. I kill because I love killing. No more, no
less.’

The self-help gurus
had helped Osiris find the clarity he craved. In his world he was
no longer the outsider, but a god. He was a God of Fertility. He
knew this to be true. He had only had sex with his wife a handful
of times throughout an unhappy ten-year marriage and she had fallen
pregnant almost every time. He was also a God of the Dead –
the body count left behind lay testament to that. And he was a God
of the Resurrected. His grandparents had tried to terminate his
life when he was still inside the womb, but had failed. A crime
they later paid for with their lives.

It was the self-help
tapes which had made him realise that. They hadn’t even told him
anything he didn’t know already, but they had given him the tools
to work it all out, or as he called it, the ‘almighty kick up the
backside’ needed to achieve his one and only ambition. To be the
biggest serial killer in British history.

3

A Secret Affair

While April
was tucking into her second roll of the morning, Selina Seth
unbuckled the seat belt of the Aston Martin V8 Vantage, unzipped
her passenger’s trousers and sank her head into his lap.

They were taking one
hell of a risk meeting like this in broad daylight, but it was
worth it. For she had in her mouth a man of power. Married, of
course, but then again so was she. God, how she loved its shape,
its sleekness, its thrust. Of course, she’d always loved fast cars.
Her first had been a Ford Fiesta. How many times had she given head
in that old banger? Too many times to remember. But this was
different. This was a man and a vehicle of status.

She had always been
popular with the boys, growing up in Balornock in the North of
Glasgow. There weren’t many Selinas around there, that’s for sure.
With a name like that, a mane of natural blonde hair and eventually
sprouting to almost six feet in height, she literally stood head
and shoulders above the locals growing up in one of the most
deprived areas in the country.

And no one had been
more determined to leave the poverty behind than she. Sure, Selina
had the looks, but she was street smart enough to know that looks
would only get you so far. So, she went into sales, where she
excelled, working in everything from advertising to the retail
industry.

She loved the sharp
suits, her first company car the patter and the wheeling and
dealing. But most of all she loved power. The power that came with
promotion. The power that came with blowing the boss. Funny how
even the biggest boardroom bruiser would melt with the ancient art
of fellatio. Such a simple act, too.

Now she had her own
company – Seth International – selling jewellery direct
to people’s homes. But not just ordinary jewellery. Oh no, her
jewellery was endorsed by celebrities. She was at home in the
shallow showbiz scene. Combine that with the fakes of the fashion
world and she was in her element. Her most recent celebrity
acquisition had been Dannii Minogue, sister of Australian superstar
Kylie. She had of course wanted Kylie, but ‘her people’ had proved
too difficult to deal with and in the end had simply asked for too
much money – one million to be exact for just one photo shoot
and an endorsement that would last only six months. They also
wanted fifty per cent of the profits. Selina would have had to
shift a lot of necklaces to recoup that sort of outlay.

Her husband Martin,
the brains behind the business, deliberately kept himself in the
shadows, allowing his glamorous missus to hog the limelight. But
when it came to money, he held the purse strings, and in the end
he’d vetoed the Kylie deal. Selina had reluctantly acquiesced,
after nearly bankrupting their company the previous year signing up
the winner from the
Big Brother
series. How was Selina to
know that everyone would have forgotten this so-called celebrity
before the advertising campaign had even kicked off?

Her husband now
refused to pay over the odds for ‘star names’, citing that they did
nothing for sales, anyway. For Seth International’s biggest market
was in fact gaudy, chunky gold jewellery, the sort favoured by
female football fans that usually spelled out their names –
presumably in case they forgot them after too many Bacardi
Breezers.

Selina shivered at
the thought that she, a friend to the stars, had actually made her
fortune selling tat. That’s why she craved the celebrity front so
much. The truth is she wanted to be a celebrity, too, and in a way
she was. Well, sort of. People would stop and stare when she was
out and about. She had once even been mistaken for Penny Lancaster.
So what if Rod Stewart’s latest wife was hardly A-list material,
the fact that Selina looked like someone famous was what counted.
It meant she had an air about her that separated her from the
riff-raff.

As Selina allowed her
mind to wander, her illicit lover reached his climax. The voyeur in
a nearby car with darkened rear windows was busy pleasuring himself
as he watched their tryst in the remote car park at the edge of
Strathclyde Country Park. You couldn’t actually see the act itself,
but it was clear what was going on with that blonde mane of hair in
motion and the man’s face contorted with pleasure.

Shortly afterwards,
Selina’s lover left her after a long, lingering farewell kiss. The
tall blonde stepped out of his car and waved goodbye as the Aston
Martin sped off. The voyeur unlocked his door and wondered to
himself if this attractive-looking blonde fancied some
seconds …

4

All Shook Up

The
Daily Herald
was situated on Albion Street at the north end
of Glasgow city centre. At one time there had been four newspapers
in the vicinity. Warehouses and factories had made way for tapas
bars and fine dining restaurants, making the once thriving
journalists’ haunt, the Press Bar, look distinctly
tawdry.

April felt a bit like
the pub – she was the product of a bygone era. Now she’d
learned she was to be teamed up with some young buck from the news
desk. She had seen him around, but they’d never really spoken.
She’d never wanted to. He was so sure of himself, strutting about
like he owned the place. Strange, him being dumped with her. She’d
thought he was one of the paper’s high-fliers. A favoured one.
Maybe he was being sent over to spy on her, to confirm what her
bosses already believed, that she was past it. Great, another snake
in the grass. She just knew they wouldn’t get on.

The ‘snake in the
grass’ had been christened Connor Presley but would spend his life
being called Elvis. It had followed him all the way from school
through the doors of his local newspaper where he’d started as a
teenage apprentice. Even his own mother called him Elvis. His
attempts to label himself with a cooler variation – The
King – had been in vain. However, one advantage of being
nicknamed after the king of rock’n’roll was the kudos it gave
Connor within Scotland’s substantial crime community – an
invaluable commodity as chief crime reporter on Scotland’s largest
newspaper. Anyone who’s anyone in the crime world has a cool
nickname. Adam ‘The Axeman’ Alexander. ‘Two Shooters’ Sheridan. Or
one of his personal favourites, Barry ‘The Butcher’ Butcher, given
to him without the slightest hint of irony by Glasgow’s Godfather,
who out of a mixture of fear, loathing and respect was simply
called Mr Ferguson.

The other advantage
of being called Elvis was that
all
of the underworld were as
passionate about the King as they were about making money. The
American Mafia could keep their Sinatra, as far as Scottish
criminals were concerned. In fact, it was rumoured people had been
killed in Glasgow just for trying to compare the two.

In Barry ‘The
Butcher’ Butcher’s council house, pride of place over his
mantelpiece, was a bronze portrait of the King from his chubby Las
Vegas era. After suffering decades of accumulated nicotine layers
left by Barry’s chain-smoking ninety-year-old mum Jessie, you could
just about make out the words ‘Gone – but not forgotten’
inscribed below the King’s bloated neck. With Barry’s infamous
temper, visitors were well advised to enthusiastically appraise his
favourite piece of Elvis ‘art’ – preserved for eternity by the
tar from a million of Jessie’s Benson & Hedges. Connor always
made sure to remark, ‘That picture’s fucking magic, Barry,’ each
and every time he visited.

This was Connor’s
calling in life. Sure, he had to deal with scumbags, but it was a
fact of life that their stories sold newspapers. Connor called it
‘West of Scotland showbiz’ for a country that lacked truly big
showbiz stars – Sean Connery, Ewan McGregor, James McAvoy and
Billy Connolly the exceptions to the rule. But it was more than
made up for with a thriving underworld scene. Ironically, it had
been covering this sparse showbiz scene where Connor had first made
his name. He was not afraid of ruffling feathers and he had
trampled over the cosy relationships the country’s actors and TV
personalities had enjoyed with his predecessors.

As a kid he’d
voraciously read as many papers as he could get his hands on and
had come to understand the different tales favoured by certain
newspapers and their political leanings. He’d had no time for
school. He couldn’t be bothered learning the periodic table when he
was more interested in what was making the headlines that morning.
Although bright, his grades suffered as a result.

Fortunately, he
wanted to be part of an industry where lack of qualifications was
never an inhibitor. His first editor Danny Brown had once laughed,
‘Qualifications? Kelvin MacKenzie was the most famous Fleet Street
editor of modern times and he only had one O-level. I’ve seen
young, so-called journalists qualify from universities top of their
class who wouldn’t know a good story if it came up and bit them on
the arse. Reporting isn’t something you can be taught. It’s an
instinct – and you’ve got it.’

After four years
pricking giant-sized egos on the showbiz scene Connor was called in
to his editor’s office and told he would be replacing Badger on the
news desk. Russell ‘Badger’ Blackwood, the country’s
longest-serving and most legendary crime reporter, was about to
take an unwanted early retirement.

‘But Russell covers
crime,’ Connor protested.

‘I know that,’ barked
the editor, ‘but I need someone to replace him before he drinks
himself to death or strokes out on me. The change will do you good.
Add some strings to your bow.’

So, Connor was placed
under the supervision of Badger, who had spent his entire career
crafting exclusives and his most distinguished feature, a large,
veiny, purple whisky-drinker’s nose. He had greeted Connor on his
first day with, ‘So, you’re the cunt after my job,’ but from then
on the pair miraculously hit it off. Badger’s job was to take
Connor round all his police and crime contacts to show him the
ropes.

Basically, it was one
big booze-up that lasted for about three months. Badger would
arrange to meet Connor in pubs down Glasgow’s old Fruitmarket,
sometimes at seven in the morning, where they’d enjoy a ‘breakfast
pint’ with market workers and postmen at the end of their shifts,
all on the pretence of meeting some valuable underworld contact.
When the mysterious contact failed to show – presumably
because they were still in bed – they would try to source him
out, which meant drifting in and out of pubs in Glasgow’s East End
for the rest of the day.

Occasionally, when
they did actually bump into some of the crime world’s hierarchy it
seemed to come as much as a shock to Badger as it did to Connor.
These occasions meant even more drink and late nights, with Badger
telling whoever would listen, ‘You can trust Elvis as if he was my
own fucking son,’ followed by Badger demanding a version of ‘Blue
Suede Shoes’.