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  Brendan hadn’t struck Bill as a violent punter, not like Minty. He’d confirmed he’d met Terri every Wednesday night, after his regular darts match at the pub. He’d got a bit stroppy when Bill told him they would require a DNA sample. When Bill had pointed out it was either that, or a constable visiting his home on Monday morning, he had changed his tune.

  A general appeal had already been issued for anyone using Terri and Lucie’s services to come forward and avoid having the police turn up on their doorstep. So far, the response had been slow.

  When Bill returned, two wee girls were cycling on the pavement outside Minty’s. The uniform guarding the car was engaging them in conversation, doing his bit for community policing. The lassies only wanted to know if he was carrying a gun, and, if so, could they see it?

  ‘Fingerprint team have left,’ he told Bill when the girls had trundled away. ‘Someone from the council is resealing the door.’

  On the drive back, Bill pondered the dead end the investigation had entered. Everyone working flat out, but no definite line of enquiry, just an endless collection of data. Peter Sutcliffe killed thirteen women before they caught him, in a piss-up of an investigation blamed on too much data, all of it stored on cards, with no proper cross-referencing. The Sutcliffe fiasco had paved the way for HOLMES – the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, which allowed police forces to store, search and match gathered evidence. Strathclyde force certainly couldn’t blame a lack of fast database access, or good forensic facilities, for their failure to identify even one suspect.

  Maybe he was wrong and the professor could provide an insight on the killer. Bill had to admit, if only to himself, that he could use all the help he could get.

  27

  LEANNE HUNG AROUND the church all day on Sunday, keeping well out of sight. She’d explained to the priest about Minty and the money. Father Duffy, suffering from a hangover and the after-effects of mortal sin, offered her enough to pay Minty off.

  Leanne stared at him in amazement. ‘You’ll give me the money?’

  ‘I will.’

  Leanne wanted to hug him. ‘Oh, thank you, Father.’

  He brushed her gratitude aside. ‘I’d like you to make your confession before you go.’

  Leanne nodded, aware that this was the price of her good fortune. They sat either side of the partition and Leanne went through the usual performance.

  ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I let a man have carnal knowledge of me.’

  ‘And who was this man?’

  ‘A priest, Father.’

  ‘And what did this priest ask you to do?’

  As she made her act of contrition, there was a grunting noise through the partition. The confession was Father Duffy’s dessert, before the whisky wore off. When he finished, he passed the money through the space below the grating. Leanne looked down at the notes, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  They had all been there at some time or another, sitting in the confessional, talking dirty. Lucie, Terri, Cathy. Cathy had hilarious stories to tell about Duffy. She never called him Father. Once she swore he stuck his stiff prick through the hole with a crucifix hanging on the end, and told her to kiss it.

  ‘The prick, or the cross?’ she’d asked.

  They’d all laughed at that.

  At least they kept the priest’s money for themselves. Minty never knew about Father Duffy’s little habit. Even Lucie had managed to keep that from him.

  Leanne shut the door behind her and squeezed past the priest’s car. She checked the coast was clear, before making her way onto the street. Her relief at getting the money evaporated when she thought about Terri. A sudden hope that she might arrive home and find Terri there quickened her step.

  When she reached the flat, she found the door sealed, a new lock in place. Leanne tried her key but it wouldn’t work. She longed for something to eat and a hot shower. The Valium she’d taken the night before had worn off, and her nerves were jangling. She could go to the centre, or, better still, find Cathy. Cathy would help, maybe even be the go-between with Minty. Leanne didn’t want to face Minty again, even with the money.

  Leanne dialled Cathy’s number, hoping she wasn’t already working. Cathy answered almost immediately.

  ‘Leanne. Are you okay?’

  The concern in the older woman’s voice brought tears to Leanne’s eyes. ‘Can I come around?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Cathy’s flat was in a 70s block on Duke Street. The caretaker let Leanne in, giving the miniskirt and stilettos the once-over, but saying nothing. Cathy and he were pals. In exchange for services, he never questioned Cathy’s visitors and fixed anything that went wrong in the flat. ‘Better than a fucking husband in all respects,’ Cathy always said.

  Cathy was waiting at the door. Leanne hadn’t realised how bad she must look until she saw Cathy’s reaction.

  ‘Jesus, girl, what the hell happened to you?’

  Cathy handed her a large glass of vodka.

  ‘The old bugger gave you enough to pay off Minty?’ she looked impressed. ‘Christian charity, or to keep your mouth shut?’

  The priest didn’t normally cruise the red-light district. He preferred ordering by phone. A check on his mobile calls could provide Panorama with a whole programme on the dissolution of the Catholic clergy.

  ‘Will you pay Minty off for me?’

  Cathy understood her fear. ‘If I can find him. The police raided his flat. He’s gone to ground.’

  That changed things. If the police picked up Minty, Leanne might be able to keep the money. Cathy knew what she was thinking.

  ‘Minty’s got pals it’s better not to cross,’ she said, pouring them both another vodka.

  Leanne swallowed a mouthful, enjoying the warmth as it slid down her throat. She felt safe with Cathy, just as she had with Terri.

  ‘I’ll find Minty and pay him for you.’

  ‘How?’

  Cathy shook her head. ‘I have my ways.’ Despite her light-hearted tone, Leanne knew Cathy had her doubts. The rule was usually to avoid Minty at all costs.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Cathy caught her hand and gave it a squeeze. They’d evaded the subject of Terri until now.

  ‘There’s something else,’ Cathy said. ‘A whisper, nothing more, that Terri’s still alive.’

  Leanne couldn’t bear to believe it.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. I’ve got to go out later to meet someone. Maybe I’ll know more after that.’

  Leanne’s eyes were closing. A hot shower, food, vodka and the possibility that Terri was alive were all helping her shut down. At Cathy’s insistence, Leanne stretched out on the settee and sank into oblivious sleep.

  She woke with a start. A full moon shone in through the open curtains, and the flat was completely silent – eerily so. She was used to noise on the stairs, raucous voices. Nine storeys up, there was nothing.

  She threw off the blanket Cathy had spread over her, and stood up. Her legs felt shaky and she steadied herself on the arm of the sofa. Was Cathy back?

  Leanne listened hard – nothing, not even the tick of a clock. She went looking for the bedroom and found the door lying open, the bed unoccupied. There was a digital alarm on the bedside table. It said 3.30.

  Cathy had told her Terri was alive. Leanne had nursed herself to sleep with that thought. Cathy had gone to meet someone. Someone who had news of Terri.

  But she hadn’t come back.

  What if Cathy was wrong and Terri was dead? Leanne sat down on the bed, a small but insidious voice telling her that of course Terri was dead. She was a fucking idiot to think otherwise.

  Leanne tried to take a deep breath to quell the panic that seized her. Her chest was so tight the air hurt her lungs as it went in. If she took some more Valium, she would feel better, and be able to think. Leanne opened the bedside drawer. No pill strips. Cathy had given her two Valium with the first vodka, so they had to be somewhere.

  Leanne made for the bat
hroom and checked the cabinet above the sink. When she’d no luck there, she returned to the living room and tried to remember. Cathy had brought her the vodka and pills from the kitchen.

  Leanne headed there. A mug of tea sat congealing next to an overflowing ashtray. Nearby, a strip of pills was wedged behind the vodka bottle. Leanne poured a glass and swallowed two pills with the vodka. She felt better almost immediately, although the drug had had no time to work. She contemplated taking a couple more, just to make sure, then decided against it. She wanted to stay awake for Cathy.

  A police siren broke the silence. Leanne watched it wail past on Duke Street, her heart pounding. A light flickered on in the derelict building across the road. It moved from window to window on the ground floor, then went out. Someone was using it as a squat, no doubt. Good luck to them.

  The moon had disappeared behind thick cloud. Leanne gazed down at the lights of the city spread out beneath her.

  ‘Where are you?’ she whispered, not knowing whether she was talking to Cathy or Terri. As though in answer her phone rang out. Leanne stumbled to her bag.

  ‘Yes?’

  In the silence that followed, she could make out the sound of someone breathing. Leanne glanced at the screen, but didn’t recognise the number. A new punter, or someone who wanted to get off on phoning a prostitute?

  ‘Fuck off,’ she said, when she figured she’d waited long enough.

  ‘Leanne?’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Your friend asked me to call. She wants to see you.’

  ‘Terri?’

  28

  BILL PULLED INTO the drive. The lights were on, but when he opened the front door the silence suggested no one was at home. He made for the kitchen and heard the chat and laughter coming from out back. God, he’d forgotten about the barbecue. Bill glanced at his watch. Nine o’clock. They must have given up waiting for him.

  They were all there. His little family. Robbie playing the man of the house, cooking the meat. Lisa and Margaret talking. Bill stood for a moment at the kitchen window, feeling immensely grateful to have something like this to come home to. Grateful and guilty at the same time. Bill didn’t want to disturb them. He felt as if he were bringing a taint of evil into a circle of love. He went upstairs, showered and changed before heading outside.

  Lisa spotted him first. ‘You’re very very late!’

  Margaret looked relieved, yet anxious. Bill shook his head, indicating he didn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘Any food left?’

  Robbie began piling meat onto a plate.

  ‘Wine?’ Lisa asked, ‘or would you prefer something stronger?’

  ‘Wine’s fine.’

  Bill tucked into the food while Lisa and Robbie filled him in on the day’s events. Margaret sat quietly watching their animated faces. She wore a brightly patterned headscarf and dangly earrings, in the shape of Celtic crosses. Her face was too thin, but she had some colour today. Bill wanted to sweep her in his arms and crush her tightly. He smiled over, hoping she would get the message.

  Bill thought of Cathy, not much younger than they were. A victim of life’s great lottery. They said it was about life choices, but what if you didn’t have any? Most people would dismiss Cathy’s life as useless, but he knew better. Cathy understood humanity – the evil and the good in men. It’s easy to be good, when people are good to you. It’s easy to be nice, when you’re happy.

  Margaret brought him a whisky with his coffee. The pale colour told him it was a malt. The sky glowed with the setting sun. Bill loved the long summer light of Scotland. They’d played golf at midnight on that Orkney holiday.

  ‘Remember Orkney?’ he said.

  ‘Shipwrecks,’ Robbie smiled. ‘We played on them on the beach.’

  ‘That funny little Italian chapel made out of a Nissan hut,’ Lisa added.

  ‘I have a criminal psychologist working with me.’ Bill didn’t tell them which case. ‘Professor Magnus Pirie. He’s an Orcadian.’

  He wondered why he’d brought up Magnus. Margaret was looking at him, surprised. He normally never discussed colleagues, or work, in front of the kids.

  ‘He reminds me of that guy in the film you like, Highlander. He’s kind of … rugged.’

  ‘Christopher Lambert?’ Robbie said.

  Lisa looked impressed. ‘When are you inviting him for dinner?’

  Bill imagined Magnus there, and realised he would fit right in. Magnus would read Bill’s family and act accordingly. They would all like him.

  Bill realised his family had fallen silent, and Lisa and her mother were exchanging glances. Lisa had obviously been waiting until he was fed, watered and relaxed before she asked him something.

  ‘Dad, Mum thinks it’s okay, but said to ask you.’ The words came out in a rush.

  Bill was immediately on his guard. ‘Ask me what?’

  ‘I’ve got tickets for a gig at the Barrow …’

  He didn’t give her time to finish. ‘No,’ said Bill firmly, avoiding Margaret’s eye.

  ‘But Dad, I’m going with Susie. We’ll stay together. It’ll be okay.’

  Bill stood up. ‘No.’

  He walked away, before Lisa’s distress could change his mind. Anger bubbled up inside him. Margaret should have realised there was no way he would let his daughter near the Barrowland at night, with a maniac on the loose.

  He heard Lisa’s wail from the garden as he climbed the stairs.

  Later, in bed, Bill held Margaret close, stroking her bare head.

  ‘You can’t keep her a wee girl for ever.’

  ‘The area’s too dangerous.’

  ‘What if I drop them off and pick them up afterwards?’

  Margaret, the voice of reason.

  She raised her face to his, and he kissed her. She felt frail in his arms. Bill could feel bones that he hadn’t felt before, but he fought the fear that rose in his chest and tried to concentrate on the moment. His mobile buzzed on the bedside table.

  Margaret drew away, assuming he would answer.

  Bill reached across and switched it off.

  29

  THE MEETING ROOM was hot and humid. Someone had brought in an electric fan, but its whirring combined with the hum from the overhead projector had made it too difficult to hear. Bill had eventually switched the fan off.

  Sissons was currently delivering his report on the third body.

  ‘Unfortunately the usual signs of asphyxiation, petechiae on the eyelids and cyanosis, were all obliterated by decomposition and saponification.’

  Sissons caught the Super’s puzzled look and put up his first photograph of the corpse. Grave waxing had retained the contours of the face, but it was still difficult to envisage the girl whose photograph they’d found online.

  ‘She was young, mid teens, still carrying what we call puppy fat. Nothing in the remains to identify her, apart from a ring with the initials AS. The combination of fatty tissue, damp warm conditions and alkaline soil began the formation of adipocere, a soap-like material. Difficult to say how long she’s been in the ground. At a guess, between four and six months. Mode of death assumed to be strangulation, like the others, although this can’t be proved. There is, however, evidence of injury to the pelvic area.’ He also confirmed that the heel of the victim’s shoe had been found inserted into the vagina. ‘One more thing. The girl was four months pregnant, with a male child.’

  Sissons passed the baton to Rhona, who brought up enhanced images of the knots.

  ‘Skin flakes have been retrieved from all three knots. They have a hundred per cent DNA match.’

  ‘So the same man killed all three women?’ Sutherland asked for confirmation.

  ‘The same hands tied all three knots. The chirality, or usual direction of movement, makes it more likely that the person was left-handed. Also, Judy Brown and I sifted through a large quantity of soil from both burial sites. In the case of victim three, I found a single hair in the soil taken from the grave.’<
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  A magnified image of a hair appeared on the screen.

  ‘As you can see, the hair is blond and approximately one inch in length. I can confirm the hair is human and does not belong to the victim. A DNA comparison with the skin cells was again one hundred per cent positive.’

  ‘The killer’s blond,’ Bill said.

  ‘There was no evidence of chemical colouring.’

  Rhona had had the same feeling as Bill, when, after hours of sifting, she’d discovered the hair. This was the first concrete feature they had of the killer. Now they could at least imagine him.

  It was Magnus’s turn. He pointed the remote at the overhead projector and switched it off. The sudden and complete silence startled them.

  ‘I thought I would just talk this through with you, then if you think it’s helpful, you’re welcome to a copy of my preliminary profile.’

  His manner was modest and unassuming, but with an underlying confidence. Magnus Pirie was passionate about his field and believed he had something to contribute, but he wasn’t going to browbeat them into acceptance. Rhona found herself willing Bill to listen.

  ‘Dr MacLeod has given us a partial image of the killer. What I’d like to do is examine his character, and try and make some sense of his world.’ Magnus’s gaze swept around the expectant faces. Rhona smiled supportively.

  ‘Mercifully, serial killers are rare. Unfortunately, this means data is scarce. Scotland produced four last century, but only Bible John operated within Scotland; rather bizarrely, in the same area as our current killer. He also strangled his victims.’ Magnus gave a wry smile. ‘I’m not suggesting Bible John has returned. One thing we are reasonably sure of is that killers don’t stop killing, not unless they’re dead themselves. A gap of thirty-seven years is a long time not to re-offend,’ he paused strategically, ‘assuming he stayed in the UK.’

  Rhona stole a quick glance at Bill and found him leaning forward, listening intently.

  Magnus took a sip of water.

  ‘Because Bible John was never caught, we were never able to psychologically examine him. We don’t know what happened to him in childhood, or when he began offending. In the mid 70s, in the north of England, Peter Sutcliffe murdered thirteen women and attacked another seven, while living as a married man. Sutcliffe claimed God told him to kill the women. Bible John also referenced God in his dealings with his victims. Sutcliffe’s attacks on his victims were particularly violent; one was stabbed twenty-five times.’