Easy Kill Page 3

  The network of dismal streets that made up the east end of Glasgow’s red-light district, looked even shabbier in daytime. When Leanne reached the entrance to Terri’s alley she hesitated, afraid of what she would find. When she finally plucked up the courage to enter, she picked her way across cobbles slimy with wind-blown rubbish and a scattering of used condoms. As her eyes became accustomed to the dimmer light, she was relieved to see the alley was empty.

  Someone had vomited in Terri’s doorway, splattering orange gunge on the scored wood of the door. On a nearby wall someone had spray-painted, ‘Fuck you!’ in red.

  Leanne walked the length of the lane, looking for any sign of Terri, but found nothing. On the far wall was the mounted camera that was supposed to keep Terri safe.

  Leanne passed the police station on her way to the free food van. Even now, she didn’t think of going inside and reporting her fears for Terri’s safety. A missing prostitute with a drug problem wouldn’t be high on their list of priorities. And she was still hoping that Terri would turn up some time soon.

  The van was serving breakfast. The smell of frying bacon hung in the air as Leanne approached. There were half a dozen folk in the queue, two of them women, neither of them Terri. Leanne scanned the faces, registering the ones she knew. Three of the men were strangers, the fourth a regular visitor at the van. She was relieved to see the elder of the women was Cathy, still on the game at forty-five going on sixty, everyone’s pal and confidante. Her companion looked barely eighteen and hung on her arm like a wet dishcloth.

  ‘Have you seen Terri?’

  Cathy registered Leanne’s worried expression immediately.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘She never came home.’

  The girl beside Cathy was stoned, her eyes glazed. There was a bruise on her cheek the size of a walnut. A cold sore on her lip had lost its scab and was seeping. Leanne realised Cathy was the only thing keeping the girl on her feet.

  ‘She needs some food inside her,’ Cathy said. She took a firmer hold on her friend, preventing the girl from swaying. ‘You checked Terri’s spot?’

  ‘There’s no sign of her.’

  ‘Her phone?’

  ‘Not answering.’

  Leanne knew what was going through Cathy’s head. Terri had bought a fix and was flaked out somewhere until the trip was over.

  ‘She’s not using.’ Leanne said.

  Disbelief flickered across Cathy’s face.

  ‘She’s not,’ Leanne repeated, more to convince herself than Cathy. ‘Did you see her last night?’

  Cathy thought for a moment. ‘In the queue for the food van. Then she headed off like the rest of us.’

  They had reached the front.

  There were two people serving – an earnest young man with red hair, and an older woman called Liz, who all the girls knew and liked. Cathy ordered two bacon rolls and two mugs of tea.

  ‘How about you?’ Liz asked Leanne.

  Leanne shook her head. ‘I’m looking for Terri. She never came home last night.’

  Liz turned to her colleague, who was wrapping Cathy’s order.

  ‘You manage on your own for five minutes?’

  As soon as Liz emerged from the van, she hugged Leanne. The motherly embrace brought tears to Leanne’s eyes. She had to bite her lip hard to stop herself bawling like a baby. Cathy had propped her companion on the steps of the van and come to listen.

  ‘Terri was here last night. Ate a good meal. I saw to that. She left around nine thirty.’

  Cathy chimed in, looking as concerned as Liz. ‘I’ll check the drop-in centre. See if she’s been there.’

  ‘And I’ll ask everyone who comes to the van. Have you got a photo?’

  Leanne took out her purse and extracted the one picture of Terri she had. She hesitated before handing it over.

  ‘I’ll stick it in the window. It’ll be safe there,’ Liz said. ‘Has Terri ever gone off before?’

  Of course she had. Just like Leanne herself had done. But things had changed since they got clean. Since they got together.

  Leanne shook her head. ‘Something’s happened to her.’

  ‘What about the police?’

  Fear gripped Leanne. She’d spent too many nights sweating in the cells and paid too many fines.

  ‘How about if I go?’ Liz said.

  Leanne looked at the woman’s kindly expression and wanted to kiss her. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Give me your phone number. I’ll go as soon as we finish here.’

  When Leanne left the van, Terri’s photo was already stuck to the glass with Sellotape. If anyone had seen Terri after the food run, Liz would be the one to find out.

  Despite this, Leanne didn’t feel any better. A sense of dread was churning at her empty stomach. Instead of going back to the flat, she cut through Bain Street to the Gallowgate, and from there up Barrack Street. Some punters didn’t like the brightly lit district and took you somewhere less obvious. The area, close to the brewery, was popular for that reason.

  A police car passed her, heading up John Knox Street towards the Necropolis, quickly followed by a mortuary van. Leanne watched their progress with mounting alarm, registering the line of parked police vehicles, and the white shape of an incident tent halfway up the slope of the Necropolis.

  Worry brought Leanne to a standstill. What if the hive of police activity had something to do with Terri?

  5

  Glasgow Pussy – Internet Blog

  Wednesday July 28th

  There are basically five types of flesh for hire in Glasgow. The first is the cheapest and not always value for money.

  Class 1

  Known as streetmeat, they can be found hanging around the Finnieston area or by Glasgow Green. Mostly mangy crackheads and criminals, there are two kinds. The dried-up worn-out clits brigade who’ll do anything, ANYTHING for the money including crap and pee on request. Then the juveniles. Young, some VERY YOUNG and still fresh. Get them before the smack does. If you fancy beating up a whore, this class is for you. Nobody gives a shit what happens to them, including the police.

  6

  THE PROFESSIONAL ROUTINES required for a murder enquiry were like the preparations for a family funeral. They kept those involved busy and their minds off the proximity of death. For policemen and women death was, if not an everyday event, certainly a frequent one. Working in a post-industrial city like Glasgow – with a murder rate twice that of London – gave detectives the opportunity to hone their skills, and pathologists an interesting and varied workload. Dr Sissons had been heard to say at some dinner or other that he wouldn’t have chosen to work anywhere else.

  The incident room was buzzing, exuding a sense of purpose. Although no one would ever admit it, any investigation team would be less than thrilled to be assigned to another prostitute murder enquiry. After all, the previous eight remained unsolved. There was also an underlying belief – in the force, as well as among the general public – that, like a soldier on the front line, a street prostitute knew the dangers when they took on the job. However, the discovery of a second body buried under the first had turned the case into something much more interesting than a violent punter or a pimp taking out his anger.

  The strategy meeting had been scheduled for eleven o’clock. Bill had gone home late the night before and come back early that morning. Margaret had been in good form when he’d arrived home. They were making a point of not talking about her illness, at her request. As life continued, if not as normal, then with a semblance of normality, Bill realised they were, as the literature said, ‘living with cancer’. Margaret behaved the same, although now she had her bad days, which he recognised and did as she’d asked. Kept quiet and let her get on with it. The strange thing was, Bill felt the cancer was eating at him, rather than her. He was the one who looked ill.

  Subsequently, he’d found Margaret surreptitously checking him for signs of fear or worry. A murder enquiry meant longer hours away from home. Bill was afraid t
o admit that being in the office was less of a strain than worrying about Margaret worrying about him.

  The identity of the initial victim hadn’t yet been established, but a call from a woman who worked on a charity food van had revealed that one of her regulars was thought to be missing. Liz Paterson had agreed to come to the mortuary later that day to check the identity of the dead woman. Even on a brief description, it sounded like a possibility. No match on fingerprints didn’t mean the victim hadn’t been working as a prostitute. It just meant they hadn’t booked her yet.

  Bill lifted the mug of coffee, now cooled to tepid just the way he liked it, and moved towards the meeting room. A guy from IT was already there, firing up the overhead projector. The screen image of the crime, with its gothic gravestones and bloodied corpse, looked like the opening of a horror movie. Once again Bill pondered the setting. Probably the two most important features of any investigation were where the crime happened and how the crime happened. The murderer had persuaded a prostitute to leave the safe area, probably by car. He’d taken her into the Necropolis, which involved parking the car somewhere along the way. How had he convinced her to go there? It was both a sensible and a stupid question. If she was a junkie, she would go anywhere and do anything for a fix. The fashion was to swallow Valium before going out on the street. Valium took the edge off, meant you didn’t care what the hell was done to you, and didn’t remember much afterwards. It wasn’t that long ago a prostitute had been found wandering along a motorway, with her arm severed at the elbow. She couldn’t remember whether her assailant had done it, or if it had happened after she had got out of the car.

  Bill was startled from his reverie by the arrival of the other participants. DS McNab acknowledged him with a nod, Rhona with an inquisitive smile. He hadn’t been able to discuss Margaret’s illness with anyone except Rhona, although he had informed his superior officer. Detective Superintendent Sutherland had requested he be kept in the illness loop, as he put it, which Bill had so far studiously avoided.

  The Super was next in, accompanied by Dr Sissons and a stranger. The unknown man was tall and broad-shouldered with slim hips, his thick brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. What intrigued Bill most were the clothes. Dressed in a brown suede jacket, open-necked checked shirt and well worn jeans, he looked uncomfortable, like a man in the outfit of an age to which he didn’t belong. Bill realised his silent analysis was being matched by the stranger’s equally appraising gaze. He held out his hand to Bill.

  ‘Magnus Pirie, Department of Psychology, Strathclyde University.’

  Pirie’s voice exhibited the lyrical quality of the Orkney Isles. Bill recognised both the accent and the Nordic name, having spent three consecutive family holidays in a rented cottage by the harbour in Stromness. He’d loved the place, even thought of retiring there.

  ‘Professor Pirie,’ Sutherland said. ‘This is Detective Inspector Bill Wilson, who is in charge of the case.’

  The man’s grip was firm, his hand warm. Bill had a strong sense from that grasp, and from his clear gaze, that this was a man to be trusted. Pirie released him and turned to Rhona. Bill could tell she was curious and equally impressed.

  ‘I read your paper on the DNA characteristics of bacteria and virus samples,’ said Magnus.

  Rhona looked surprised. ‘I didn’t think psychologists were into hard science.’

  ‘My first degree was physics, before I saw the light.’

  A proponent of psychology in action was impressive to behold. Bill pondered whether Pirie had checked them all out prior to the meeting. If not, the man could read people like a book.

  Superintendent Sutherland waved them to their places. Pirie waited until they were all seated before he took his own.

  ‘Professor Pirie has been making a study of our unsolved cases of murdered prostitutes, eight over the last ten years,’ Sutherland reminded them.

  ‘There’s no evidence to suggest they were committed by the same man,’ Bill said defensively.

  ‘I am aware of that. However, in view of the nature of the current case, I have asked the professor to sit in on these proceedings.’ The Superintendent smiled reassuringly at Bill, then signalled to McNab to begin.

  While McNab talked them through the crime scene recording, Bill watched Professor Pirie from the corner of his eye. He estimated him to be in his late thirties or early forties, which seemed young to have achieved a professorship. Orkney, Bill knew, had produced more professors per head of population than anywhere else in the UK, so maybe the man’s status wasn’t so strange after all. Pirie’s manner, as he watched and listened to the gory details, was of studied and interested calm. He flinched neither at the images nor the descriptions. Then it was Sissons’ turn to report.

  ‘The victim was in her mid to late teens, five feet two inches in height and of slim build. She’d not eaten for some time. Various sites on the body, including the inner thigh and arms, suggested drug abuse. Tests are still being run on the breakdown of those. The sample harvest showed evidence of a number of recent sexual partners with a variety of sperm deposits evident on low vaginal, high vaginal and cervical swabs. There were also traces of condom lubricant. The six puncture wounds on her genital area were made by a blunt-ended object, probably the stiletto heel found inserted in her vagina. That is still to be confirmed by forensics. The wounds were inflicted before death, causing a large loss of blood. However, death was by asphyxiation.’ Sissons paused at a small gesture from Professor Pirie, who wished to ask a question.

  ‘Are you able to deduce at which stage in the murder the sexual act occurred?’

  ‘We can’t assume that the murderer had sex with the victim,’ Rhona said.

  Dr Sissons agreed. ‘The victim had more than one partner shortly before she died. However, as Dr MacLeod rightly says, we cannot assume that one of those men killed her.’

  ‘I appreciate that, but is it possible to deduce whether a sexual act took place after death?’

  ‘Of course, that would be important,’ agreed Rhona.

  ‘Crucial, from a psychological perspective. The contact a murderer has with his victim leaves a behavioural trace, just as he leaves chemical and biological traces.’

  ‘Unless significant non-vital injuries have been sustained, you cannot say when sex occurred,’ Sissons confirmed.

  ‘I removed the stiletto on site,’ Rhona said. ‘There was little obvious damage, which probably suggests the victim wasn’t resisting by this time. Does that help?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ The professor fell silent.

  Bill had listened to this interchange with growing concern. It wasn’t that he dismissed psychological profiling per se, but just because Cracker made good prime-time TV, didn’t mean it worked in real life.

  Sutherland, on the other hand, looked impressed by the professor’s contribution. Bill wondered if this was his superior officer’s pet project, designed to show Strathclyde force was at the forefront of new developments in detection.

  The rest of the meeting continued as normal. Bill revealed a prostitute had been reported missing by a member of a Christian organisation, which provided free food to those in need, and told them that Ms Paterson would be coming to the mortuary that afternoon to view the body.

  Rhona began her report on the various samples taken from the scene, and the grim discovery of a second body with similar injuries beneath the first.

  The professor interrupted again. ‘How well buried was it?’

  ‘Sufficiently to avoid being dug up by marauding animals.’

  ‘Was there any evidence to suggest he might have attempted to bury the second one with the first?’

  ‘No. The Victorian grave has a metal lid a couple of feet below the surface, so there wasn’t much room.’

  ‘How long had the first body been there?’

  Sissons answered this time. ‘We can’t be exact because of the degree of decomposition, but probably upwards of a month.’

  Pirie was silent for a m
oment, then said, ‘I think there’s another nearby, either buried or hidden.’

  ‘Why?’ Rhona asked.

  ‘He took the two women to the same place and killed them in the same way. The distinguishing feature between the two murders is his disposal of the body. Organised killers hide their kill, unless they become confident they can’t be caught. To have reached that level of confidence, he must have killed before, more than once.’

  Bill had already worked that out without a degree in psychology. That’s why he had men combing the graveyard and surrounding area. That’s why he already had a team headed up by DC Clark on the streets of Calton, and another going through missing persons. Bill realised Pirie was watching him, no doubt reading his expression.

  ‘Nothing I suggest will be new to you, Inspector. Everything I’ve learned has come from people in the front line, like yourself.’

  It was a nice little speech. Suitably deferential. Bill wasn’t impressed, but from the look on his face Sutherland was. Bill silently wondered, if Pirie had really meant what he’d just said, then how the hell having him around was going to help at all.

  7

  ‘HAVE YOU TIME for a coffee?’

  Bill had made a swift getaway after the meeting. Superintendent Sutherland had ‘left the professor in Dr MacLeod’s capable hands’, suggesting she help him in any way she could. Rhona decided to play along, if only to give Bill peace for a while.

  ‘If you don’t mind having it back at the forensic lab?’

  Professor Pirie’s face lit up and Rhona realised that was what he’d wanted all along.

  ‘I’d love to take a look at the evidence you collected.’

  ‘Superintendent Sutherland ordered us to welcome you into the fold.’

  He looked discomfited by the remark and Rhona relented. ‘A joke,’ she said hastily. A good psychologist would be able to tell she was lying. Pirie was a good psychologist.

  ‘I’m sorry if Superintendent Sutherland has made things difficult by asking me in. But I do appreciate the opportunity to study the case.’

  It was strange, even eerie, to meet a man who could read mood and manner so accurately.