Witness the Dead (27 page)

It changed. Not only did Brenda become a real person with a sister and parents and friends whom he had to talk to, but before long she wasn’t alone. She was joined by Isobel Jardine, then Mary Gillespie. He’d been picked up by a tornado and placed at its eye, Brenda, Isobel, Mary and half of City of Glasgow police revolving around him till his head spun.

No one on the force ever called it the Red Silk murders. It would be the Springburn murder for victim one or the Govanhill Park murder for victim two. Not until the third killing, the London Road murder, when the Klass connection had been made and the major-incident room set up, might they collectively be known as the Klass murders. Even then, that was informal. The Red Silk tag was a figment of the press’s imagination and for their use only.

It wasn’t just another case – or just another three – but in many ways it had to be tackled as if it were. Same procedures, solid police work, lots of boot leather worn out, lots of doors knocked on, lots of familiar faces spoken to. Notebooks filled with barely legible scribbles that had to be transcribed quickly or their sense was lost for ever. Pieces of paper for everything.

They would work for all they got and hope to force that little something extra. A guilty conscience, an informer or a set of fingerprints. Fingerprints were the holy grail of detection. Stick-on certainties for conviction and brilliant, except for the bloody mess you had to make to get the things done. If he had a pound for every time he covered his hands in black bloody ink he’d have been able to afford a fortnight in Spain.

He was regularly banging on to his inspector about how they should get some training in how to do this properly, but he’d have been as well shouting at the moon. Jock Binnie was old-school and training was something you did round football parks in the dead of winter. When he’d suggested to Binnie that they get specialists to do that sort of thing for them he was told that soft modern coppers didn’t know they were born.

So it was, quite literally, a case of getting your hands dirty and hoping for the best. Flicking through endless A4 sheets of prints, giant blow-ups of offending loops, whorls and arches, seeking a match. And, if you were lucky, you might even have forms that had been filled in properly.

Each page of prints had a descriptive form filled in by the arresting officers, but sometimes the guys got bored on long night shifts and filling in forms got old pretty quickly. So, after a while, instead of being asked ‘eyes’ and putting blue, brown or whatever, they’d put ‘two’. He’d even seen forms where, when asked if suspects had any distinguishing peculiarities, some jokers had written ‘Roman Catholic’.

God knows, they’d all either done that sort of thing or been tempted to, but it wasn’t what you wanted to read when you actually needed proper information and some other idiot had done it.

Still, the fact that he had an absence of usable fingerprints made it someone else’s problem for now. He had the streets, the tenements, the nights in Klass and an array of contacts to speak to. All the open doors and the closed ones. All the avenues that might be lubricated with the help of a little alcohol.

It was a fact that the best way to crack a case was often to crack open a bottle. Pub owners were usually glad to see a familiar face from CID at closing time, as it would be guaranteed to get any lingering bampots on their way without too much fuss. Once the doors were closed, a bottle would be opened and all sorts of secrets and interesting gossip would tumble out. Few people heard more about what was really going on than the boss man behind the bar.

The same trick worked for contacts, informants, call them what you will. Whisky was much more likely to get them talking than a set of thumbscrews. He remembered Jock Binnie telling him that the heat of the sun would take the coat off a man’s back more quickly than the strongest wind. So pour them a large dram, sit back and listen. Although, wouldn’t you know it, all that was changing too.

A year earlier, they’d got a new chief constable, David McNee, and he’d come down on them like a ton of bricks. Nae bevvying. It was as if he’d told them they had to stop arresting crooks, the fuss that was made.

McNee had come up through the ranks from being a beat bobby, so he knew just how much booze the guys were shifting before, during and after their shifts. Legendary amounts, so it was, and everyone could tell you a tale about their mate being pissed on duty. Listen, they were good guys doing hard jobs in a city where people liked a drink, so it was hardly surprising that they did the same; but McNee knew it had to stop.

He put the word round, backed it up with action, and within no time everyone knew the score and everyone knew the rhyme. Only drink tea or you’re in front of McNee.

It didn’t stop them all. For some, it was so ingrained that they’d take their chances. But it was the beginning of the end. The irony for him, of course, was that he was boozing officially, supping lagers and whisky in Klass on Davie McNee’s tab.

Irony wasn’t exactly in short supply, though, so he didn’t fuss too much. The rules said that treating the victim as if she were one of your own would lead to the bottom of the bottle, but that was probably okay, since the boss had knocked drinking on the head yet was actively encouraging you to do it on duty. There was no point in trying to work out the sense of that one.

He’d learned a different truth. Wee lassies might always get killed in big cities, but only if people like him didn’t stop it from happening in the first place. Catching the bastards who did it was all very well, but stopping it from happening – that was the thing. It was too late for Brenda, Isobel and Mary, but not for the next one. And if he got his fingers burned by caring too much then so be it.

Chapter 32

Thursday morning

The swivel chair behind the desk in Alex Shirley’s office was empty, almost ominously so, but in front of it three seats were already filled. Addison, Kelbie and Winter sat silently in mutual resentment. None of them and all of them wanted to be there.

All three seemed to find a disproportionate fascination with the bare walls of the office, it being preferable to looking at each other. Only Addison, being Addison, allowed his gaze to drift occasionally to the family photograph that sat on the superintendent’s desk. It wasn’t the first time he’d admired the portrait of Shirley’s wife and 20-something-old daughter, and probably wouldn’t be the last.

When the door behind him flew open and just as quickly slammed shut again, he wrenched his eyes from the photo and joined the other two in studying the paintwork. He sensed rather than saw Shirley storm past them and drop forcefully into the chair opposite. Only then did all three pairs of eyes switch dutifully to the man behind the desk. It took one look to see that Shirley was raging.

He stared fiercely, taking them in in one all-encompassing glare that managed to be an accusation and a string of questions. Each of them sat and wished that one of the others would say something so that Shirley would stop bloody staring. Finally, he spoke.

‘What the frigging hell is going on?’

None of them spoke. Winter was sure it wasn’t his place to do so, knowing that, if anything, he was there to get bollocked. Or worse. However, neither Addison nor Kelbie seemed keen to put his neck on the line first. Shirley had to make the choice for them.

‘When I ask a frigging question, I expect a frigging answer. DI Addison, I understand that you were the one who spoke to the lab, although I would like to know why that was the case, so you’re it. What is going on?’

Addison took a deep breath and began to open his mouth, but, before he said a word, Kelbie cut across him.

‘I’d also like to know why the lab gave the DNA results to you, Addison. If you were trying to subvert procedures, then I for one won’t be happy.’

‘Shut up, Kelbie,’ boomed Shirley. ‘If there’s points-scoring to be done, then I’ll be the one doing it. Addison, speak.’

Addison allowed himself a sideways glare at Kelbie before answering, taking satisfaction in the smacked look on the DCI’s face.

‘Well, you know the basics, sir, and the basics are still pretty much all we have. DS Narey’s sweep team found the shoe at the ground adjacent to Caledonia Road church. We have since confirmed that the shoe belonged to Hannah Healey and that it matched the one that she was wearing when her body was found. Mr Baxter’s team collected trace evidence from the scene, strands of hair caught in the wall of the church, and proceeded to extract DNA. The results came back and were passed on to me. The reason for that being that I was trying to solve this case and catch a murderer.’

Kelbie sighed but got only a glower from Shirley in return.

‘The DNA was put through the system and they came up with a positive match. It was only a partial match but a match nonetheless. To Archibald Atto. Obviously this presents more questions than answers, but the computer doesn’t take this into account. The computer says Atto.’

‘Please tell me how this can be,’ Shirley asked wearily. ‘Because I’m only a simple old polisman and I can’t get my head round this.’

‘I’m not sure any of us can, sir. Atto hasn’t left the prison. Sounds obvious, but it was the first thing we had to ask. No home visit, no transfer to court or hospital. He hasn’t been outside the walls of Blackridge since he had a minor op six years ago.’

Shirley’s eyes were closed over and his face scrunched, his breathing deep. ‘The match is definite?’

Addison nodded. ‘Partial but definite.’

‘Christ almighty! So could he have somehow got out of Blackridge and then back in again? The perfect alibi?’

‘We’re looking into it, sir. Doesn’t seem likely, but it’s possible. Obviously, Blackridge swear it couldn’t happen, but they would say that, wouldn’t they? The DNA is his.’

The Temple seemed to be ageing by the minute. ‘Check everything. If he’s got out . . . if he’s done this . . . Holy shit. Somebody will get crucified and I’m damn sure it’s not going to be me. Give me an alternative – how else could this have happened?’

Addison spread his arms wide, groping for possibilities. ‘The alternative is transference. Somebody was in physical contact with Atto, that person was then at the scene and, accidentally or intentionally, left the hair behind.’

‘Okay, so who do we know that has been in contact with Atto?’ Shirley finished his question and let his gaze swing slowly round to Winter. Addison had anticipated the query and was ready with an answer.

‘Tony has met with Atto but it was after the murder of Hannah Healey and after the evidence was recovered from the church. We’ve checked the visiting records and he hasn’t visited before. Atto doesn’t get many visitors at all. Hardly surprising really. The odd, probably very odd, psychologist, social worker and appointed prison visitor. That’s it. We are checking all of them out. Apart from that he only comes into contact with other cons and the prison staff.’

‘Are we checking them out too?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Kelbie interrupted again. ‘I’ve taken charge of that, sir. It’s obviously a long process but we’re looking at every prisoner in the segregation unit that has been released in the past six months. If that draws a blank, then we’ll look at everyone that’s come out in the past year. And we’re pulling files on all the staff.’

Shirley shook his head slowly, despairingly. ’Okay, okay. That brings us to you, Mr Winter. Tell me why I shouldn’t have you sacked right here, right now.’

‘Sir, I think that Tony—’ Addison’s intended defence didn’t get started.

‘DI Addison, may I suggest that you shut up and let Mr Winter speak for himself. Unless you want to run the risk of following him into unemployment.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Winter felt the need to stand up and make his speech but wasn’t entirely sure why. It wasn’t just his neck on the line but Danny’s and possibly Addison’s as well.

‘Detective Superintendent Shirley, I know how bad this looks. But I was only trying to help my uncle, Danny Neilson, because he was convinced that there was some connection between the cemetery killings and the case he was working on in the seventies. We weren’t trying to interfere with the current investigation. We were trying to . . . help it.’

Shirley looked back nonplussed. ‘I need more than that, Mr Winter. Much more. I knew of your uncle back in the day. A good policeman with an excellent record. He’s the reason you haven’t been sacked already.’

‘My uncle worked the original case. It means a lot to him. It’s . . . unfinished business. He approached a member of the case team but didn’t think he’d been taken seriously. He felt the need to take things on himself and persuaded me to help him. He . . . we thought that if we could talk to Atto then we could come back with something that could convince others that Atto was somehow connected to these killings.’

‘Hmm. Regardless of the fact that Mr Neilson felt he wasn’t taken seriously, and that is something we will address’ – Shirley fired a look at Addison – ‘your behaviour has been unacceptable. You are under suspension, Winter. If you or your uncle go near Archibald Atto again, you will be arrested. If you or your uncle approach officers actively involved in this case, you will be arrested. And I still reserve the right to charge you over what has already happened. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you will make sure your uncle understands?’

‘Yes, sir. Although he’s . . . single-minded about some things.’

Shirley sighed. ‘Did you not hear me properly? He will be charged. I’m not having bloody vigilantes getting under my feet on this. Get to your office, take what you need and then piss off out of my sight.’

Winter avoided Addison’s gaze as he got to his feet, shoving the chair back into position and leaving the room. Being suspended he could handle – it was the chance he’d taken as soon as he’d agreed to help Danny – but being off the case meant not being there if this killer struck again. Missing out on that hit home hard. It wasn’t his only problem, though: telling Danny he ran the risk of getting arrested was likely to be of as much use as shouting at a rainstorm and telling it not to hit the ground.