Snapshot (3 page)

‘And what did you do? Call the police like a good citizen?’

‘No way, man. Sorry but no way. I was jist laying low in case the guy came back. Nae point in me getting offed as well. I might have fell asleep again. No sure. Next thing I know the place is full of polis.’

‘Did you see the person that did it? Height, hair colour, anything?’

‘It wis dark, man, telt ye. Anyways, didnae lift ma heid tae look. Just listened.’

‘What did you mean when you said he was dragging something? Carrying something with him?’

‘Mibbes. Ah’ve nae idea. Carrying, dragging. Mibbes.’

Addison shook his head despairingly then nodded Monteith back in to take the junkie away and finish taking notes.

‘Tell him anything and everything you remember and don’t go booking any foreign holidays any time soon.’

‘Aye, very funny. Any chance of a few quid for coming forward?’

‘Sure. See the officer at the cash desk on your way back out the market. Mind and duck in case there are any pigs flying past.’

The skelf’s comeback about pigs died on his lips and he slunk off with Monteith’s meaty paw on his arm.

‘Sunday, bloody Sunday,’ moaned Addison. ‘Hurry up and finish photographing that muppet and bring your camera with you,’ he told Winter. ‘There’s a van down the street that does good grub even though most of the folk who go to it are too shit-faced to know the difference. You can photograph me eating two bacon rolls. Brown sauce on it and a cup of coffee. You’re paying.’

Winter didn’t bother asking why. Just as Addison didn’t bother asking why he’d been photographing the dealer’s body with his Canon EOS-1D as well as the standard issue Nikon FM2. The same reason Addison didn’t ask why Winter had sneaked a shot of the haunted look on the skelf’s face as he stared down at Sammy’s corpse. Addison was one of only two people who knew about Winter’s collection. He’d even said Winter should stage an exhibition but that was usually when he was pished.

Suddenly, Two Soups barged in between them, asking if they were quite finished. Big mistake. He could pull that shit with Winter but not with Addison.

‘Mr Baxter,’ he glared down at the forensic and growled. ‘I was interviewing possibly the only witness to whoever killed this guy. Tony Winter was photographing the body. Both of these tasks are vital to this investigation and it was imperative that they be done without delay. The body, on the other hand, isn’t going anywhere. I take it you have no fucking problem with that?’

Two Soups blinked in disbelief at being spoken to that way and struggled for a reply. ‘Well I was just . . .’

‘Fine. I’m glad you agree. We are both finished so now you and the lab monkeys can begin your equally invaluable work. Winter has footprints to photograph and I’ve got stallholders to interview. We won’t keep you.’

With that Addison took Winter by the arm and led him away from Baxter and the body, leaving Two Soups spluttering with discontent behind them before calling his forensic soldiers to the battlefield.

‘That man is an arsehole,’ said Addison with a grin on his face.

‘Where are these footprints?’ Winter asked him.

‘Two pairs of them together on soft ground near a wall on the north side. Suggestion is that it could be our man Sammy and whoever came in with him because they were heading in the direction of where Ross was found before they were lost on tarmac.’

‘So if they are on the north side, why are we heading this way?’ asked Winter with a quiet laugh.

‘Because I want bacon rolls. Jesus Christ, do you never listen to anything I say? Two uniforms have got the area secure and covered over, the footprints can wait but my stomach won’t.’

Addison drove his hands deep into his pockets as he led Winter towards the van.

‘How many times are we expected to do this?’ he moaned. ‘If I’d wanted to sweep the rubbish off the street I’d have joined the council bin squad. At least I’d have been back in my fucking bed by now.’

Bed. She’d still be lying there, thought Winter, probably sprawled over onto his side by now. Addison was still whinging but all he could think of was her. A dead dealer and a bacon roll didn’t really cut it in comparison.

It was less than a five-minute walk. A dark-haired fat guy who was far cheerier than anyone had a right to be at that time in the morning was serving two teenagers as they arrived. The pair immediately spotted Addison for police and couldn’t wait to get their grub and leave. Their hurried departure didn’t bother either Addison or Winter. If there was a soul in Glasgow whose conscience wasn’t bothered by the sight of a cop then chances were it was another cop. ‘Four bacon rolls, Charlie,’ Addison said to the fat man.

‘Three,’ Winter corrected him.

‘Four,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll have your other one if you don’t want it.’

‘Brown sauce, Mr Addison?’ asked Charlie.

‘Does the Pope shit in the woods? Of course, brown sauce.’ Addison turned his collar against the morning chill and took in the smell of pork and fat coming from the van’s grill.

‘This place should have a Michelin star,’ he said to Winter. Then, ‘What time did you start this morning, Charlie?’

‘Half six. Think your boys and girls were already at the market by the time I turned up if that’s what you were thinking.’

‘Who was on before you?’

‘Jimmy Frize. He’d been on since eleven last night. Never mentioned anything out of the ordinary. Usual shit.’

‘Drunks and druggies?’

‘Does a bear wear a big hat?’

‘Aye, aye. Where can I get hold of Jimmy?’

Charlie wrote Frize’s number on a piece of paper and handed it over to Addison who had already scoffed his two rolls even though Winter had only managed half of one.

‘Another roll, Mr Addison? On the van.’

‘You trying to bribe a police officer, Charlie? Aye, go on then.’

‘No as if you are going to put on any weight, is it? Put a slice of black pudding in there too, Mr A. Ah know how you’re partial.’

‘Plenty of brown sauce, Charlie.’

Addison started on his third roll as they turned their backs on the van and ambled back towards Blochairn, the debris of a good night out still kicking at their feet. Like its people, Glasgow looked at its gallus best on a Saturday night and at its worst on a Sunday morning. Empty Buckie bottles, vomit and broken windows. This was the Glasgow they didn’t put in the glossy ads. It was a ten-minute drive from Princes Square and the designer shops on Buchanan Street but it was a world away.

Two seagulls fought over the cold remains of a fish supper dropped by a drunk. The wind and rain made an empty can of Irn Bru scoot along the gutter.

‘Fuck this,’ complained Addison. ‘There are times I hate Scotland and it’s usually when it’s raining. Which is most of the time. Having to scrape a dealer off the floor of the market sure isn’t doing much for my mood either.’

‘Ah, cheer up, big man,’ Winter laughed. ‘Maybe by the time we get back that twat Monteith will have solved the case and we’ll know the secret of the mysterious death of Sammy Ross.’

Addison snarled.

‘Sammy Ross? Waste of fucking space, waste of fucking time. He’s just more paperwork.’ The DI’s phone rang and he swore as he transferred the remains of his roll from one hand to the other, digging his mobile out of his jacket pocket. Swallowing food down, he held it to his ear and grunted a hello.

‘Yes? Yes, sir . . . You’re fucking joking me . . . No sir, I don’t suppose you are. Sorry . . . Shit. Okay, I’ll be there in half an hour.’

Winter was stuck between trying not to smirk and worried about what he’d been told.

‘What’s up?’

Addison shook his head wearily.

‘This town will be the death of me. They’ve found the body of a hooker in Wellington Lane. Some bastard’s strangled the poor cow.’

Winter tried to conceal the look that wanted to flitter over his face, a look that would register somewhere between disgust and excitement.

‘We finishing up here before we go?’

‘
We’re
not going,’ replied Addison. ‘Just me. Monteith can run the show here but forensics are already photographing the prossie so you’re not needed. And don’t even bother arguing, it’s out of my hands.’

‘Fucksake,’ blurted out Winter. ‘They pull you off one fucking murder for another. Why? Because it’s more important. Yet they don’t want to photograph it properly!’

Addison smiled gleefully at his friend’s irritation.

‘You know how it is, wee man. Everything’s got its place in the scheme of things. Some scumbag getting stabbed on a Saturday night is worth about the same as an A in Scrabble but a murdered prossie is a J. And photographs of deid bodies are the same whether they are taken by you or a trained monkey.’

Winter knew that he was winding him up but, despite himself, he bit.

‘Fuck you. Fuck right off and stick your letter J up your A for arse.’

Addison laughed loudly.

‘Nice comeback, wee man. And so eloquently put. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a date with a young lady.’

It was raining harder by the time Addison got to Wellington Lane, one of the handful of narrow alleyways that cut their way across the lower city centre. With just enough room to drive a car or van through, the lanes acted as a service for the rear entrances of upmarket shops, offices and hotels. At night, dark and out of sight, they serviced a different type of business altogether.

The DI parked on West Campbell Street, cursing at the downpour that forced him to turn his collar up and hustle past the rain-soaked constable who guarded the entrance to the lane. Up ahead, spotlights and a tent had already been set up where a knot of uniforms, CID and forensics gathered in the gloom. Addison, head down, marched by a procession of large red, industrial wheelie bins and found his DS, Rachel Narey, waiting impatiently by the last of them – the one that was covered by the white crime scene tent.

Addison walked straight past her, only a raising of his eyebrows letting her know that he was duly pissed off, stopping inside to pull on coveralls and a pair of disposable gloves. She shook her head and followed him inside the tent where examiners were huddled over the woman’s body.

‘Okay,’ barked Addison. ‘Let the dog see the rabbit.’

The white protective suit immediately in front of him turned and looked up.

‘The epitome of decorum as ever, Detective Inspector.’

Addison saw the green eyes of Cat Fitzpatrick looking up at him disapprovingly but he wasn’t in the mood to be lectured to.

‘Aye, aye, whatever. I know it’s not even opening time yet but it’s already been a very long day. So if you don’t mind, doll, I’ve got a job to do.’

‘That’s fine, don’t mind me. I’m just waiting for my nail varnish to dry,’ she replied sarcastically.

‘That’s nice,’ replied Addison, not remotely listening but taking Fitzpatrick’s place as she moved out of the way.

The girl lying tangled on the pavement was in her early twenties, her eyes and mouth wide open in shock, her short skirt rucked up above her waist and her underwear round one ankle. Her pale neck bore violent compression marks where her young life had been strangled out of her.

The girl’s platinum-blonde hair was darker at the roots and her make-up was as thick as her lipstick was red. Her arms were skinny and her face gaunt behind the war paint. Addison noted the discolouration of her fingers, her decaying teeth and the raw red marks at her nostrils. They were as sure signs of her habit as the black platform boots, the micro skirt and the halterneck top were of her employment.

The DI moved slightly to the side and saw a dark patch of dried blood on the back of the girl’s head that made a good match with her lipstick.

‘So which killed her?’ he asked the scene examiner. ‘The strangulation or the blow to the head?’

‘Either could have done it,’ Fitzpatrick replied. ‘But I’d suggest the injury to the skull was secondary, or at least incidental to the primary attack. As he compressed her neck, he forced her back and in doing so banged her head off whatever was behind her. Which wasn’t here, by the way.’

‘So where?’

‘Twenty metres further up the lane. There are flecks of blue paint in her skull which matches an opening there. If it took place here then she’d have traces of this brickwork but she hasn’t.’

‘We got a name for her yet?’ Addison asked.

‘No,’ replied Narey from behind him. ‘There was nothing on her, no bag, no ID. She’d either stashed it somewhere before she began working or someone stole it from her.’

‘Robbery?’ asked Addison doubtfully.

‘Doesn’t seem likely, I agree. It looks as if he killed her during or immediately after sex and that suggests a whole different kind of motive.’

‘Fucking great,’ muttered Addison.

He gently lifted up one of the girl’s hands, noting the dirty fingers and cracked nails and, more importantly, no obvious signs of skin beneath the nails where she might have clawed at her attacker.

‘It looks like she didn’t fight back.’

‘Stoned out of her head, most likely,’ offered Narey. ‘She didn’t know if it was Friday or Falkirk and by the time she did, he’d strangled her.’

‘Looks that way,’ agreed Fitzpatrick. ‘I’ll need to wait on the toxicology tests and have a more thorough look beneath her nails but I think DS Narey is right.’

Addison nodded soberly, their opinions confirmation of what he thought.

‘Okay, Rachel, seeing as you are on form, what do you make of this?’ he asked, pointing his finger at a patch on one side of the girl’s face where her make-up had been partially scrubbed away from her cheek.

‘It’s strange,’ admitted Narey. ‘Might just be part of the struggle or it could be some weird attempt by the killer to leave his mark on her.’

‘Could be,’ murmured Addison. ‘See the sweep of it? Looks like it was done with fingers then gone over again with something like the sleeve of a shirt to wipe away any fingerprints. Who have you got here with you?’

‘DC Corrieri,’ Narey replied. ‘She’s outside.’

‘When you get back to the station get her onto the Police National Computer and see if this marries up with any known sex offender, marking his territory kind of thing. It’s probably a long shot but if this fucker has done this before then we need to know about it. And I need you to find out who she is. You got people you know down here?’