Snapshot (31 page)

Petrie ran his index finger down a column and stopped with a point. ‘Melanie.’

They ran their eyes across the line he indicated.

Number 476. Sunday 11 September. 11.42 p.m. Wellington Lane. Melanie. Black anorak man.

‘You didn’t know the punter then, Johnny?’

‘I’d seen him a couple of times but he wasn’t really what you would call a regular.’

‘Do you remember what he looked like?’ Narey knew that he would but wanted to fluff Johnny’s ego a bit.

‘Course. He was tallish. Maybe about five foot ten with short hair. Wore a dark anorak and trousers. Medium build. It was very dark, though, and he kept out of the lights.’

‘So tell us what you actually saw, John,’ prompted Narey. ‘Don’t be shy about it.’

‘Well, I didn’t actually see them . . . at it. The guy was glancing over his shoulder all the time as they walked down the lane, like he was nervous. I just stayed round the corner and . . .’ Petrie’s voice trailed away.

‘You listened to them, John?’

The man had the cheek to look a bit sheepish, dropping his eyes away from them.

‘Aye . ’

‘So tell us what you heard,’ Narey demanded.

‘Well, they were talking a bit. Couldn’t really hear what they were saying. Prices, I suppose. Then there was a bit of heavier breathing . . .’

Neither of the cops really wanted to hear this.

‘And I guess he was getting going. Melanie was moaning a bit but I’m sure she was just putting it on for his sake.’

Petrie was excited now and Corrieri felt the urge to punch his head.

‘I heard him gasp and then it sounded like Melanie was getting it good and hard because she got loud. Muffled like, but much louder.’

Narey and Corrieri swapped glances but said nothing.

‘Loud like what, Johnny?’

‘Like . . .’ he cleared his throat and mimicked the prostitute. ‘Ahhh, AHHHH, then higher pitched and louder, AHHHHH then hnnnuuuh, muffled. Then I thought he had finished off, cum real quick, like, ’cos it got quiet and that was sort of it.’

‘Nothing more? Narey asked.

‘Well, there was the noise of clothes again. Them sorting themselves. And a metal bang like one of them had hit the metal door that’s there. Oh aye, and there was a noise like someone falling against one of those big bins they got out there. Thought maybe he was just drunk and had walked into it.’

‘Johnny, did you hear Melanie say anything after you heard her get loud?’ the DS asked.

‘Naw. She never said a word. Why, what’s happened?’

‘And you didn’t hear him speak either after they were finished?’

‘No. What happened? Tell me. Did that guy do something to Melanie?’

‘Thing is, John, Melanie’s dead. We think the punter killed her.’

Petrie opened his mouth and closed it again. He was struggling to take it all in.

‘So when . . .’ the penny had dropped. ‘When I picked up the condom, Melanie was already dead? But where was she?’

‘She was behind one of the bins.’

Petrie’s face turned to fury.

‘That fucking bastard. Bastard.’

‘Did you see him leave, John? Did he go past you again?’

‘No, he must have gone down Wellington Street towards Bothwell Street.’

‘Did you see the guy’s face, Johnny?’

‘No.’

‘But you’ll testify in court about what you did see and what you heard?’

‘Too fucking right I will. Too fucking right. I can’t believe I . . . and she was dead when I went in there. Fuck’s sake. I’ll testify, don’t worry about that.’

‘Okay, Johnny, here’s what I want to do,’ Narey said. ‘I’m going to call forensics and get them over here to take the sample from your fridge. They won’t move anything else while they’re at it, I promise, and then take the bag down the lab to run some tests. Okay?’

‘And can I get it back after that?’ Petrie asked hopefully.

‘No, John. Sorry. We need to keep it.’

‘Aye, okay.’

Half an hour later Cat Fitzpatrick was standing in Rubber Johnny’s kitchen, the look of utter professionalism on the forensic’s face hiding the disgust that burned behind her eyes.

Fifteen minutes after she arrived, they were all making their way down the stairs and back to their cars.

‘Sometimes,’ Cat was saying, ‘Sometimes . . .’

‘Is this going to be a sentence that involves the word men?’ guessed Corrieri.

‘I can see why you’re a detective, Julia,’ the forensic answered with a rueful smile. ‘This has been a day of strange job requests. Just when you think it can’t get any weirder, you get dragged away from
EastEnders
to pick up bags of days-old spunk from an autistic pervert’s fridge.’

‘Autistic?’ Corrieri asked.

Cat shrugged.

‘Petrie. Autistic. The precise labelling. The obsessively ordered bags. The extraordinary memory for detail. The near-hysteria when his perceived reality is challenged. Almost certainly autistic. I’m dropping this off at the lab then I’m going home to have a long shower.’

Narey wasn’t sure why but she was annoyed by their chummy chat. She wanted to get this done and not piss about. She knew the condom was easily the best lead she was going to get.

‘What are the chances of getting a positive DNA result out of that?’ she asked Cat.

‘Very good, I’d say. Disgusting as it is, the fridge is the best place he could have kept it from our point of view. I’d say the seed in this condom will be nearly as fresh as the day it was sown. If this is your killer then I’ll have his DNA on a plate within a day or two.’

Wednesday 22 September

Winter and Narey’s mobiles went off within seconds of each other, although neither realized it. He was in Charing Cross and she in Highburgh Road. His was the call that they were both hoping it would be. Cat Fitzpatrick. Hers was the last call that she needed.

‘Morning, Cat. You got news for me?’ Winter asked as soon as he picked up the phone.

‘What happened to, “How are you?”. I’m fine, thanks for asking.’

“Sorry, I’m just a bit anxious to hear what you’ve got.’

‘It’s okay, I’m kidding. Although maybe you’re right to be anxious.’

‘What is it? Have you got the results?’

‘What I have got is only one pair of hands. You and DS Narey need to learn some patience.’ The reference to Rachel threw him completely.

‘Ra— DS Narey?’

‘Yes. She wants everything yesterday as well. I can’t say what it’s about but it’s Weirdsville. Even stranger than what you wanted.’

Winter’s mind was in a whirl, thoughts of mobile phones and snipers scaring the shit out of him. Whatever it was, it probably made it all the more urgent that he got what he needed to know.

‘So do you have the results?’ he tried again.

‘I don’t have anything that I’m going to discuss over the phone. Meet me in an hour.’

‘Your office?’

‘No. Too many busybodies wandering in and out. Meet me in the car park. My car.’

An hour. Winter was going to drive himself crazy before an hour was up. He needed to know what Cat’s pet pathologist had found. Too much was depending on it.

Within moments of ending his call to Cat, his mobile went again and, with a pang of guilt, he saw that it was Rachel.

‘Hi. I phoned just now but you were engaged.’

‘I was on to the hospital,’ he lied.

‘Any change?’

‘No.’

‘Okay. Listen, there’s been another one.’

Rachel sounded more nervous than he’d ever heard her. It wasn’t like her at all.

‘Where? Who?’

‘Jo-Jo Johnstone. He was shot at the front door to his detached villa in Bishopbriggs. We’re sure it’s our man but he’s missed this time. Jo-Jo’s got it in the neck and he’s bleeding like a geyser but they think he’ll live. There’s more though. Terry Gilmartin’s kid died in hospital this morning. The poor wee bugger never regained consciousness after the firebomb.’

‘Christ.’

‘It’s out of control out there, Tony. Those animals are ripping each other apart. It’s kicking off everywhere.’

‘Okay, what’s Johnstone’s address? I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

‘No you won’t.’

‘What?’

‘The Temple says you’re off the case. I shouldn’t even be phoning you.’

‘You’re kidding. What the hell has he done that for?’

‘Tony, he knew how close to Addy you were. From his point of view it makes sense. I’ve got to say I understand why he’s done it.’

‘Thanks a fucking bunch.’

‘I’m on your side, you know that. But he can’t take any chances. If Addy was on the wrong side of this . . .’

‘He wasn’t.’

‘You don’t know that for a fact and neither do I. If he was wrong then you’re going to be at arm’s length till we know otherwise. Look, I’ve got to go. This is fucking terrible. Speak later.’

And she was gone, his reply cut off before it started. He gripped his mobile tight and resisted the temptation to hurl it to the ground. Mobiles, fucking mobiles. Addison had been shot because he’d answered his phone, McConachie too. He couldn’t stand the thought of Rachel being out there and at risk.

Shit, he so wanted to be at the scene. And he knew that he wanted to be there for all the wrong reasons. It wasn’t just about joining the dots that were Ross, McCabe, Strathie, Sturrock and McKendrick. It was also about his
sgriob
and the itch to see the Dark Angel’s handiwork. He needed to see it but knew Shirley was going to let him nowhere near it.

He hustled into his clothes and made for Pitt Street as fast as he could. He couldn’t afford to wait an hour on Cat. As it turned out, his office was empty, no doubt because of the Bishopbriggs shooting.

Winter hurriedly fished out the blown-up sectionals of the bruise marks on Sammy Ross and Stevie Strathie, showing the identical circular marks and scanned them into his PC. He cursed himself for not doing it before then, realizing he’d put it off but now couldn’t do it quickly enough. The computer let him crop and scale until the two images were the same size and there was clearly no doubt that both had been caused by the same thing. It was like the men had been branded, although he was sure it was far from deliberate.

He popped the first image, Sammy’s, into Photoshop and used the software to map out the rest of it. He filled in where the lines disappeared and made guesses where they were needed. He adjusted the tone, removed the purplish colours of the contusion and eventually had a complete image which he was able to separate from the original photograph.

It was almost certainly a ring, a signet ring of some sort. The symbols on it seemed to be a sword or a dagger, with two wavy lines on either side. An insignia? He desperately needed to find out.

A look at his watch told him it was nearly time to meet Cat and he closed the image down and hurried towards the car park. He quickly found her sporty green MX-5 and saw that she was already sitting behind the wheel, the look on her face suggesting she had news.

‘You were right,’ she started as soon as he’d climbed in beside her.

‘I don’t know how you knew and I’m not sure I want to know but you were right. There was something else with Ross. Something that was missed.’

His heart dropped through his stomach and he struggled to find an answer but thankfully she didn’t wait for one.

‘It might not be much but it
is
odd. We found pollen fibres in his nose and in his throat which we think come from something like a face cloth, the kind of thing that you might find in any bathroom. There was also some unexplained damage to his lungs which would have been easily overlooked if you hadn’t been actively searching for it. It had routine stabbing written all over it though. My friendly man in the morgue was a bit embarrassed because he was the second hand on the original PM.’

‘What sort of damage to his lungs?’

‘It’s difficult to say. I think
he
’d define it as “distress”. Nothing major in itself but it would probably have caused him severe breathing difficulties in years to come if he’d lived that long.’

‘And the cloth fibres?’

‘Well, I have a theory but without more information from you, that’s all it is. What’s this all about, Tony?’

‘I don’t know yet. What’s your take on it?’

‘You know more than you’re telling me, Winter, that’s my take on it. The cause of death was definitely the stabbing. The blood coagulation was consistent with that and it would have stood out like a sore thumb otherwise. But tell me one thing, do you think someone was trying to get information out of our Mr Ross?’

Winter’s heart missed a beat with excitement.

‘Yes. That’s exactly what I think.’

Cat tilted her head to one side and upwards as if thinking the answer she sought might be up there somewhere.

‘Okay,’ she said finally. ‘Unlikely as it may be, it fits with something like waterboarding. You know what that is?’

‘A torture technique? Something to do with Guantanamo Bay?’

‘Not just a pretty face,’ she smiled grimly at him. ‘Yes, but not limited to Gitmo. It’s a Special Forces favourite, used in operations from Baghdad to Beirut to God knows where. It’s classed as a professional interrogation technique. You put a wet cloth or cellophane over the subject’s face and pour water over it till they start telling you whatever you want to hear. It triggers the mammalian reflex and makes the subject believe they are actually drowning. The average that anyone lasts before they give in is fourteen seconds. The beauty of it is that it doesn’t leave a mark. Not so much as a bruise.’

In Winter’s mind, one dot just joined to another.

‘So who would have the knowledge or the skill to do something like that?’ I asked her.

‘The CIA, MI5, MI6, SAS, Barlanark Boy Scouts. Take your pick.’

‘The Navy?’

‘Yes, maybe, but it would more likely be the Special Ops boys. SBS or US Navy Seals. What the hell is going on, Tony? What has this got to do with what happened to Addison, McConachie and the others?’

He knew that she deserved an answer but he didn’t want to get her into trouble. He was likely to be in enough for both of them.

‘How about I do us both a favour and don’t tell you?’ he answered. ‘And you don’t tell anyone else? Ross was just a two-bit drug dealer who got stabbed. No one cares.’