Random (15 page)

‘I didn’t mean to be insensitive. But you take my point.’

‘Do I?’

‘A man gets drunk and gets in his car and knocks down an eleven-year-old girl and kills her. I think her father is entitled to be angry.’

‘Are you always so aggressive towards the families of drink-drive fatalities?’

‘I am sure I would be angry.’

‘You said that.’

‘I’d maybe be angry enough to kill the person responsible.’

‘You have a lot of anger. You should see someone about that.’

‘Did you want Ogilvie dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you kill him?’

‘No.’

‘Did you have someone kill him?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know who killed him?’

‘No. Detective Sergeant Narey, I think you just accused me of being a serial killer. Of murdering four people.’

‘Did you?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’m sorry for the insinuation. As I said, we have to explore every avenue. We have to speak to those connected to every victim whether they are connected to the others or not.’

‘I do understand that.’

‘Did you know any of the other victims?’

‘No.’

‘Had you ever heard of any of them?’

‘No.’

‘We are trying to establish a pattern. Trying to see if there is any link, however small, between the victims.’

‘If there is I’m unaware of it. Ogilvie was the only one I had heard of or met. The papers said they were random killings.’

‘They appear that way. They most probably are but we . . .’

‘Need to explore every avenue.’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t think I am one of those avenues, DS Narey. I can’t help you.’

‘Would you help me if you could?’

‘Of course I fucking would. I once wanted Ogilvie dead but that doesn’t mean I’d do something to protect the maniac that killed him or the others.’

‘I’m sorry for the insinuation.’

‘So am I.’

‘We would be grateful if you would agree to provide a sample of DNA. It’s a matter of procedure.’

‘Is it?’

‘We are asking a number of people. It is so we can rule you out of the investigation. It is quite voluntary.’

‘It would need to be, wouldn’t it?’

There were some obligatory pleasantries then she left, saying she’d be back when my wife was in, leaving a number and an assurance she’d be in touch if she learned anything. I wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a warning.

I watched her back as she and the DC walked down the path to their car which was being guarded by two kids and the black Lab cross that had been hanging around again the last few days. Dawson, the DC, got into the driver’s seat and Narey went round to the other side. Before she got in, she looked back, saw me standing at the window and smiled.

They were all talking about it now. Every single one of them. It had been two weeks since Wallace Ogilvie’s death and everyone had joined up the dots. All of Glasgow knew there had been four of them. Four slain by a single hand. All of Scotland knew. Everyone in the UK too and quite a bit beyond.

There was barely a soul got into my taxi cab that didn’t mention it. I always stopped short of pointing out the irony to them. They still talked about the weather and the football and argued about the quickest way to wherever they were going but now they talked about him. The killer. Me. The one they were calling the Ripper. Stupid bloody name. I didn’t mind the Ripper bit so much but this ‘Jock’ nonsense, it really riled me. The London papers and the news had picked up on it too. The way they said the word Jock with a sneer, that pissed me off.

‘A twisted psychopath nicknamed Jock the Ripper has been responsible for four brutal murders in Glasgow.’

I cringed every time I heard the word. Jock. The people in my taxi didn’t use the word. They probably hated it as much as I did. They said killer. They said Ripper.

Have you heard? What’s the latest? I used to live near the third one. I don’t walk anywhere now unless I really need to. What are the cops doing about this? I can’t sleep for thinking about it.

Gallus Glasgow was still not supposed to show fear. I think they were afraid to be frightened. So instead they were funny, or at least tried to be. Some succeeded, some failed miserably. Jokes about serial killers were risky things.

I picked up four young guys from Esquire House on Great Western Road near Anniesland Cross to take them into town. All early to mid twenties. They spilled out of the pub, boisterous and loud, and clambered into the cab. Three of them fell into the back seat and one got onto the bucket seat behind me.

‘Telling you,’ the one nearest me was saying. ‘Best thing that happened to Glasgow this guy.’

‘Away to fuck, ya muppet,’ laughed one of his mates. ‘How the fuck is it?’

‘Dazza, you are a sick bastard,’ howled another one. ‘The fucker’s killed four people.’

‘No the point,’ came back Dazza. ‘It’s all publicity, isn’t it?’

His pals laughed. Dazza wasn’t deterred, he was loving it.

‘Look, Glasgow is all over the telly, right? London and everything. America, Japan, the lot. Fucking everywhere. No such thing as bad publicity, right?’

‘You’re a fud, Daz.’

‘Should put you in charge of tourism at the council chambers, Dazza.’

‘Telling youse,’ said Dazza with a cackle.

‘Yer baws, man,’ shouted another. ‘Good crack, right enough. Tell you what I heard though . . .’

He paused for effect.

‘Spit it oot, big man.’

The big man laughed.

‘Well, way I heard it, it’s some mad Tim that’s doing the killings,’ conspired the big man.

‘Ah, for fuck’s sake, big yin. You’re making Daz sound like a genius.’

‘Blacky, I’ve heard it all now, man. A fucking Catholic conspiracy. Yer arse.’

‘Just telling youse what I heard. That lawyer was a Rangers season ticket holder, right? Cops said so. Everybody knows that Tierney worked for Alec Kirkwood an he’s a big Bluenose. And that last guy, Wallace Ogilvie, come on. A Hun name if ever I heard one.’

‘Bollocks. My old man knew that Billy Hutchison and he was a Thistle man. How’s that fit into your theory?’

‘Aye, but who did he really support?’

They all laughed. Funny guys.

‘Here, Neilly. Tell them what you did with wee Janice.’

‘Aw, fuck off, man,’ said Neilly.

‘Spill, ya bam. What did you do?’

Neilly laughed.

‘She was over at mine and I was getting nowhere fast. She was for the off so I started laying it on thick about the Ripper and all that. Didnae actually say she’d get murdered if she walked home but I think she maybe got that impression.’

‘Genius, man.’

‘I was giving it, “Oh the cops have no idea, could strike anywhere at any minute, wisnae safe for someone as nice as her, would hate it if anything happened to her.” She caved, stayed the night at mine and I pumped her rotten.’

‘Sweet. Was she safe walking home the next morning?’

‘Oh aye. Sound as a pound.’

The four of them were still sniggering like halfwits when I dropped them on Bath Street. Talked about nothing except the killer. Said nothing to me except ‘Kushion, driver,’ and ‘Cheers, mate.’

The same night two girls got in. Late twenties maybe. Obviously had a good night. Picked them up outside the Garage on Sauchiehall Street. I was third in the rank when I pulled up and saw the queue shivering in late October chill. Doesn’t matter what time of year it is, Glasgow clubbers wear as little as possible. I got to the front and they tottered over in high heels, holding hands.

It took all of two minutes for the conversation to turn to the serial killer. I seemed to hear the word and read it from the blonde’s lipglossed mouth at the same time. Ripper. The words before it didn’t register but that one did. I heard from that point on.

‘. . . Ripper, don’t you think?’

‘Nah, he didn’t look like he could rip open a packet of crisps. That creep in the yellow shirt though. Definite candidate.’

‘God, aye. He was a freak. Weird eyes, right stare on him.’

‘I think that might just have been your tits.’

‘Well true, he wasn’t the only one having difficulty looking at my face when he spoke to me. Disnae mean he wasn’t a weirdo though.’

‘Place was full of them the night.’

‘No change there.’

‘Ah know, but I didn’t use to think there was maybe a psycho serial killer among them. Just thought they were chancers and pervy bastards.’

‘Scares the shit out of me, Mel.’

‘Ah know. Didnae think something like that could happen here. It’s no New York.’

‘Has though. Four times. Christ.’

‘Mental.’

‘Ah know. My old man has an Annie Rooney every time ah go out. Would be staying in till this freak’s caught if he had his way.’

‘Right, we’ll get the driver to stop at yours first so you’ll no be left on your own.’

‘Naw, naw, it’s cool. You get dropped off first. I’ll text my dad and he can meet me at the door to the close.’

‘No, I’ll just be worried. Drop you off first. Then I’ll no worry.’

‘Yeah, but then I’ll be worrying.’

‘Well, why don’t we both just get dropped off first and you can stay the night at mine.’

They giggled.

‘Aye, your Raymond would love that.’

‘Aye, he probably would actually.’

They both burst out laughing.

In the end, some sort of sense prevailed. The one whose dad could come down to meet her got off last. Didn’t seem to occur to her that the danger she was so worried about was sitting right in front of her. Not that she was at any risk whatsoever, either of them. Probably safer than any other two girls in the city that night. Safe as houses.

I breathed hard after the second one got out. Their words sticking in my head. Freak. Psycho. Mental.

Sticks and stones. Girls that age, though. Made me think of my own. Some judgements hurt more than others.

It was harder now. Wallace Ogilvie was dealt with and I could feel some of my hatred going with him. But there were still things to do. Still a plan to stick to. Had to go on. Much harder now. Had to be harder to deal with that. Hard as Glasgow. Hard as those who joked to me about a killer that sat in front of them.

They wanted this Ripper to kill football managers, politicians, and celebrities. They seemed sure I’d want him to kill traffic wardens or managers from the roads department. Hard people with ready black humour. People with no understanding. They didn’t know me. They didn’t know why. Never would if things worked out right.

My plan. My daughter.

Didn’t, couldn’t, care for their opinions. Only one thing mattered. Only one person mattered.

Had to shut them out. Had to turn a deaf ear to them again. They weren’t hard, they were stupid. Stupid and dull. Only thing hard was my heart. Hardened against their jokes and fears, their theories and bleatings. They weren’t gallus, they were just in the way.

Fuck Glasgow. Job to do. Job to finish.

The thing with sending out messages is that if they are not received and understood then you have to keep sending them out until they are.

Alec Kirkwood had clipped Jimmy Mac’s finger and dumped him in the street with a hole in his eye. It hadn’t been enough. He had broken the arms of two neds who had acted the big-man when they were asked for info. It hadn’t been enough. He had had a bullet put through Mick Docherty’s front window and it hadn’t been enough. He had put the frighteners on everyone he could and no one had coughed with a name. It wasn’t good enough.

The newspapers said it was a serial killer. Said it was a random hit. Kirkwood wasn’t so sure and didn’t care anyway. He had let half of Glasgow know that he wanted to know who had claimed Tierney and someone had to know. He’d made it the talk of the underbelly. The talk of the steamie and the steaming. The chattering classes like Ally McFarland spread the gospel according to Alec Kirkwood to anyone who would listen.

Yet still he didn’t have what he wanted. Did they think he wasn’t serious? Could they be that fucking stupid? It left him boiling that they were going to make him prove himself all over again. If he had to demonstrate to these arseholes that he was not to be disrespected then they would only have themselves to blame.

He offered them the easy way or the hard way to do things and they made the choice. They gave him no option but to behave like the bampot that fought his way out of Asher Street. He had left that slum behind years ago and knew there were other ways of doing things, but they kept dragging him back there. Well, fine.

An example had to be made and Alec Kirkwood knew just the man. There was a guy by the name of Hutton who hurt people for Mick Docherty. Billy Hutton, a violent type who liked being a bit of a name. He was flash with his cash and his mouth and had a reputation with the women. He was maybe six four with slicked-back hair and gym muscles. He thought himself a looker and by some miracle his face had escaped a doing over the years.