Lawless (20 page)

Black held up a piece of paper with her phone number on it.

McBride waved it away. ‘Give it to Richard,’ he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of Double Dick. ‘He looks as though he can do with it more than me.’

‘Arrogant bastard,’ Richardson said without smiling.

McBride deliberately turned his back to the bar so he would not see whether his old friend took the scrap of paper.

McBride cursed repeatedly, spitting the words out so loudly he turned his head to be sure he had not been overheard. It was an unnecessary gesture. In his irritation he had forgotten he was still at home, alone and cursing over the sound of an Elton John track playing on the CD player in the corner. He could not believe his stupidity or the slowness of his thought processes.

He moved swiftly from the chair at the window where he had been contemplating, crossed the room in two strides and grabbed his mobile from the table where he had emptied his pockets the night before. He stabbed in DI Petra Novak’s number and drummed impatient fingers on the wall as he waited for her to answer. She did so within ten seconds but McBride was already starting to transfer his guilt.

‘Christ sake, Petra,’ he said testily, ‘don’t hurry.’

She was taken aback at his ill temper. ‘Campbell?’ she asked, the curtness of his voice making her unsure it was him.

He did not apologise or explain. ‘Yes, who did you think?’ he said loudly, without trying to conceal his annoyance. ‘Look, we’ve boobed.’ He had convinced himself the mistake was partly hers. ‘We haven’t staked out the library or put cameras up.’

‘What?’ She was baffled.

‘The Central Library in Dundee – we should have someone down there – NOW.’

‘What?’ she repeated. ‘You’re not making any sense. Calm down, speak slowly and explain.’

McBride struggled with his exasperation. He chose his words and delivered them like bullets. ‘On the basis that you might actually want to catch this lunatic, you should be at the library waiting for him. If he’s true to form, he’s going to leave his calling card by cutting out a message for me. That’s when you nab him. Simple, isn’t it?’

There was a pause, so long that McBride wondered if there had been a loss of signal. When she finally spoke it was to repeat McBride’s own expression of self-anger. She swore quietly but with equal vehemence at their blunder. ‘I’ll get back to you.’ She rang off with an abruptness that matched McBride’s.

Half an hour later she called back. ‘OK, it’s done,’ she told him. ‘Two officers, a male and female, are in place. One was a student until a couple of years ago, still looks the part. The other is from the Drugs Squad. They usually dress worse than the folk they’re after so he’ll look as if he’s there putting off time till his next fix. Both will just be part of the furniture.’

McBride asked softly, ‘Cameras?’

‘Being installed even as we speak – trained on the files of
The Courier
.’ She answered his next question before he could ask it. ‘No, we weren’t too late. We checked today’s paper which has already been filed and it’s complete – nothing cut out. Don’t worry, we’re there for the duration. If he shows up, we’ll get him.’

McBride’s mind turned to the time of his last visit to the library in downtown Dundee. He thought of the sweating, odious figure of the inappropriately named attendant and his unwillingness to be of assistance. ‘Was a creep called Brad on duty?’ he asked Petra. ‘He’s an unhelpful little shit with a chip on his shoulder. Don’t count on him for much assistance.’

‘Didn’t hear his name mentioned,’ Petra said. ‘From what I’m told, it was a female who was in charge. According to my sergeant, he didn’t notice her face because he was too busy looking elsewhere at her anatomy.’

McBride laughed. ‘If it’s who I think he means, I can understand his fascination.’ McBride might have opened the door of a refrigerator as an icy blast ran down the line.

‘Why are men so prehistoric? Must women always be judged by the size of their chests?’ Petra said. Then, as an afterthought, ‘Besides, the ones who want to show them off are usually pretty thick.’

McBride laughed again, taken aback at her sexism. ‘How unworthy – or do I detect a note of envy?’

Petra spoke again, changing the subject, becoming businesslike. ‘On the subject of messages, I presume you still have the letters which were sent to you by the nutter you think could be behind all this?’

‘Of course. Why?’

‘They’ll have to be checked for prints and DNA. Same as the files in the library. It’s probably hoping for too much that we get a match but we’ll have to complete the process.’

McBride’s muttered response was as much to himself as to DI Novak. ‘Fat chance.’

She went on, ‘We’ll need a fingerprint sample from you, as well as a mouth swab for DNA, for elimination purposes. Same from anyone else you can think of who may have handled the letters.’

McBride thought back to the morning in the Apex Hotel when he returned from an early morning run and smiled at the recollection of the package Janne had sent to him from his publisher’s office. He did not tell Petra of the black, lacy pants she had included but said she was the only person he could think of who might have touched the letters – her and all the postmen involved in sorting and delivering them.

McBride had more urgent matters to discuss. He needed to know the latest developments in the investigation into the savage slaying of Claire Bowman. He needed answers about how she was dressed, what she had to drink. Needed information of sexual contact between her and her killer. Most of all, needed an update on the hunt in Aberdeen for a possible killer cop.

Petra listened without interrupting, then replied. She could have been marking a tick sheet. ‘She was well made up, well dressed – smart. She and the killer had apparently drunk wine, quite expensive stuff – both glasses are being checked. The matter of sex is less straightforward. Because of the internal injuries and all the blood, we’ll probably never know for sure if intercourse had taken place. But there was some sexual activity.’ She hesitated, picking her words. ‘Semen was found on her face. By the looks out of it, the killer may have stood over her, masturbating – probably after she was dead.’ Petra paused once more. ‘Depending on how long he had been with her, it’s probably unlikely that he would have had the desire, or ability, to ejaculate twice within a short timescale. That changes the profile of the bastard. It elevates him to the weirdo category. Sex with corpses – not nice.’

McBride had listened in silence. He started to speak but once again Petra anticipated what he was about to say. ‘Yes, in addition to checking the usual databases for a DNA match, steps are being taken to get samples from every officer in Grampian Police,’ she explained. ‘Some of them are already on record, the ones who’ve been processed before for elimination purposes. Most of the others should volunteer. The politically correct types, who decline on the ground of an infringement of their human rights, will still be checked out – covertly. In fact, the ones who refuse will be given priority. The forensic science squad will follow them round for sweat traces on canteen cups etc. It might be a slow business but it will be completed eventually.’

McBride spoke at last. ‘Impressive,’ he said. ‘What about the baton? Anything on it?’

‘You won’t be surprised to hear that, Claire Bowman’s blood and gore apart, it’s as clean as a whistle. Worse, it doesn’t carry any numbers linking it to an individual officer.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means it’s a needle in a haystack,’ Petra said. ‘If it had been officially issued, it would have had an identification number. But anyone as bright as our killer appears to be would hardly have left a murder weapon that virtually bore their name.’

‘Where does that leave us?’

‘Up shit creek – that’s where. Maybe the person who used it to such sadistic effect on Claire is a cop. Then again, an ASP baton isn’t exactly the most difficult thing to acquire. You’d manage to get one in five minutes off the internet.’

‘So, it’s back to square one?’

‘Worse.’

‘Can’t be – but tell me anyway,’ McBride said.

‘When Claire Bowman’s father was informed of her death, he couldn’t take it in. Not because it was so shocking but because he’s doolally – Alzheimer’s. He’s never going to be able to explain why him having been a policeman might have had something to do with her losing her life.’ She paused, then added slowly, ‘Come to think of it, for him, that’s a blessing … definitely.’

The detective sergeant did not like McBride. He made it obvious as soon as they looked into each other’s eyes. He didn’t smile at the reporter. Didn’t attempt small talk. Just introduced himself in a voice that froze in his mouth. ‘My name’s Sergeant Rodger,’ he said. ‘DI Novak says you have letters I need to collect.’ Icicles hung from every word.

McBride looked at the figure standing on his doorstep. He wasn’t short, wasn’t tall – just somewhere in between. Good shoulders. Intelligent eyes. Nice face. If he learned how to smile, he’d be attractive.

McBride was tempted just to leave him out in the rain while he went for the letters that needed to be examined in the science lab. Instead, he beckoned him in.

‘Nice to meet you, Sergeant,’ he pretended, offering a hand. ‘Come in. Dry off. Cup of coffee?’

Detective Sergeant Rodger even managed to make the handshake cool. He looked as though he would have preferred to remain outside but politeness forced him over the threshold. He declined the coffee and the offer of a seat and made the same excuse for both refusals. ‘No thanks – in a bit of a hurry.’ Still no smile.

McBride abandoned the struggle. He left the room without speaking and went to collect the letters the frosty cop had called for. When he returned, DS Rodger was holding open a transparent, polythene sample bag and making it clear he expected McBride to drop them into it without his own cold hands having to touch them. McBride silently complied and said nothing until he was showing the sergeant out.

‘Give Petra my love and tell her I’ll ring this evening,’ he said, trying to imply an intimacy.

Rodger said nothing. His nod of agreement was practically imperceptible and, if McBride had blinked, he would have missed it. But the policeman’s reaction answered McBride’s question to himself. Detective Sergeant Rodger didn’t like him because he believed Petra Novak did. McBride felt reassured and unexpectedly possessive.

Two hours later, he called Petra for a progress report on Claire Bowman. But first he asked about her detective sergeant to tease her and because he wanted to be sure he understood the relationship between her and the unfriendly visitor to his home. ‘Thanks for sending round the iceman,’ McBride said. ‘I’ve received warmer receptions in the mortuary. Joke-a-minute, isn’t he?’

She laughed softly. He could imagine her lips parting and her eyes crinkling at the corners. He wondered how her head looked on a pillow.

‘Gavin? He’s just suspicious of reporters – especially flash gits from London. Tries to protect me from your unscrupulous methods.’ She laughed again.

‘If he thinks I’m the enemy, he can’t be very bright,’ McBride said.

‘On the contrary,’ she countered, ‘he’s accelerated promotion too. Social and management sciences graduate – first-class honours.’

‘Oh, a right clever Dick. Actually, I think that’s his problem.’

‘What is?’

‘His dick. He seems to want to hold it in his hand when he thinks about you.’

This time Petra’s giggle told him it was not something she had ever witnessed or even contemplated. ‘Hmm – now, that might be interesting.’ It was her turn to tease. She laughed again. ‘You can be very basic, Campbell. At least Gavin’s refined – and not some kind of machine out to shag the entire female population of the world. Just a pity he’s so young. I prefer my men with a few more cobwebs. Besides, I outrank him. It would be a right wham, bam and thank you ma’am with him. On the other hand, he might stand to attention all night!’

McBride snorted. But he was satisfied that, whatever the bond was between Detective Sergeant Gavin Rodger and Detective Inspector Petra Novak, it was not physical.

He changed the subject and asked about the progress of the stakeout at the Central Library in the centre of town.

‘Still nothing happening,’ Petra said. ‘The usual regulars have been reading
The Courier
and the other dailies but, so far, no one has shown up with a razor – beginning to think no one will.’

McBride shook his head dismissively. ‘He’ll turn up. Put money on it. It’s part of the little games the bastard is playing with me. He won’t be able to stop himself.’

Petra was not convinced. A doubtful look, which he could not see but felt, passed across her face.

‘He must know that sooner or later –
later
, as it happened – we’d get round to staking the place out,’ she said. ‘Whatever else he may be, I don’t think an idiot is among them. Why would he walk into a trap he knows is there?’

‘Because he’ll be driven to it. Same as he is driven to kill young women who are the daughters of policemen. Being intelligent doesn’t preclude a person from being unable to resist acting compulsively. There wouldn’t be many smokers if that wasn’t the case.’

Petra did not reply.

McBride gave up trying to explain the urges which can persuade otherwise rational males to commit irrational, self-damaging acts. He could have used himself as an example but didn’t. Instead, he changed the subject again, ironically turning to the theme which had punctuated his own life with episodes of foolishness. He spoke of a woman. ‘What of the stunner at the library? Is she still behind the counter?’ he asked.

‘Seems so – much to the delight of some of my hormonally challenged officers. Your friend Brad is on holiday, apparently.’

McBride tried to imagine the odious library assistant lying in the sun somewhere but was unable to. Sun cream being applied to the sweating little man’s face and body was not a vision he could comfortably conjure up.

Petra spoke again – this time to impart information that gave her control of the conversation. ‘Forensics have made some progress up in Aberdeen. Amidst the blood and semen, they found a pubic hair on Claire Bowman – on her face. Not her pube but his. It’s a perfect DNA match with the semen.’