Easy Kill Read online

  When Rhona reached the jazz club, she found a queue leading to the entrance. Dave the doorman waved her past, eliciting some caustic comments from those left outside.

  ‘Health and Safety’ll have our guts for garters if I let any more in,’ he growled at them. ‘It’s like sardines in a tin already.’ Hearing the bad news, the waiting group decided to call it a day, heading off down Byres Road to look for fun elsewhere.

  Three young women on saxophone and a male guitarist were easy on the eye and the ear. It was no wonder the place was packed. The barman spotted Rhona looking around for Sean and motioned her towards the back office, looking worried. Rhona wondered if it was the three-deep crowd at the bar waiting to be served that was the problem, or something else entirely.

  She soon found out.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Sean winced as though her raised voice were another blow on his bruised face. He removed an ice pack to reveal a fast-swelling eye.

  ‘Come on. I’ll take you to A and E.’

  ‘No thanks.’ He shook his head, wincing at the pain that generated. ‘It looks worse than it is,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Who …’ she began before he cut her off.

  ‘Two guys wearing balaclavas. The back door was open because of the heat. They were looking for Sam.’

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘Seemed to think I knew where he was hiding, somewhere in Glasgow.’

  ‘Sam’s alive?’

  ‘He won’t be if they find him.’

  Rhona pulled out her mobile. ‘I need to tell Bill.’

  ‘Leave Bill out of this.’

  She shot Sean a curious glance.

  ‘We don’t want the police looking for Sam too.’

  Rhona’s joy that Sam was alive was tempered by fear that his life might still be in danger.

  ‘The men who attacked you, they don’t know about Chrissy?’

  ‘They knew Sam had worked here. That’s all.’

  Rhona hoped that was true. If the thugs got hold of Chrissy …

  ‘We’d better warn Pastor Achebe.’ The Nigerian Church of God in Maryhill had been Sam’s second home. Rhona couldn’t imagine Sam not making contact with the pastor, if he really was in Glasgow.

  ‘I’ve called Achebe already. If Sam’s meant to be in Glasgow, only God knows where.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  Sean rose to his feet.

  ‘You take me home and treat me nice.’ The smile he attempted gave him the look of a punch-drunk boxer.

  ‘I hope at least one of them looks as bad as you.’

  ‘Difficult to tell under a balaclava.’

  They left by the back door, so as not to frighten the customers. The sensation of being watched stayed with Rhona all the way to the flat. Sean kept his good eye on the rear-view mirror. Once or twice he ordered her to turn off the route and double back just in case, but it was obvious no one was interested in them. The Suleimans’ men could come to the club any time they wanted, a good reason for asking for a police presence. But Sean wouldn’t hear of it.

  When they reached the flat, Sean went straight for the whisky bottle and poured a large measure. He knocked it back, grimacing as the alcohol stung his cut lip. Then he poured one for each of them and sank down on the sofa.

  ‘You’re sure they don’t know about Chrissy?’ said Rhona.

  ‘They didn’t mention her.’

  ‘But they did say Sam was alive?’

  ‘They seemed pretty sure he was in Glasgow. How, I don’t know.’

  Sean laid his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes.

  ‘If he’s here he’s bound to get in touch with Chrissy. I have to warn her,’ said Rhona.

  This time Sean didn’t argue.

  Chrissy’s mobile rang unanswered, then went to voicemail. Rhona paced up and down, trying at tenminute intervals. Finally she left a message asking Chrissy to call back as soon as possible.

  Sean was stretched out on the sofa with his eyes closed. Rhona hardly dared look at his face, it was such a mess. His knuckles were also skinned and bruised, testament to his attempts to give as good as he’d got. He’d said the voices were definitely Glaswegian, so the Suleiman family must have made contact with the city’s criminal underworld. Sean was lucky he’d only got a beating.

  Rhona fetched a blanket and covered him, then realised she hadn’t seen Tom since they’d got home. They’d confined him to the kitchen, both for his safety and to prevent him scratching every piece of furniture in sight.

  He was behind the door as she pushed it open. His mew was plaintive, demanding food and affection. Rhona scooped up the small furry body and hugged it close.

  If she hadn’t visited Magnus, she would have been at the club when the thugs arrived. Rhona recalled her feeling of being watched in the car park, and later at Magnus’s. Experience told her that if she sensed she was being observed, she probably was.

  She glanced at her watch again, wondering why Chrissy wasn’t answering her phone. Like many women in early pregnancy, Chrissy looked constantly tired as her body adjusted to its new role. Rhona consoled herself with the thought that Chrissy had probably simply gone to bed.

  She tried to focus on the fact that Sam was alive. That Chrissy’s baby did have a father after all. But she could not forget that Sam was a wanted man, both here and in his homeland; wanted by the authorities and, worse still, by the Suleiman family. If she told Bill about Sean’s visitors, he would be obliged to look for Sam. The best outcome would be for Chrissy to see Sam, then for him to disappear again.

  The spotlight had come on in the convent garden below Rhona’s window, illuminating Madonna and child, their symbolism more poignant now than ever.

  Rhona promised herself she would decide the best course of action tomorrow, when she saw Chrissy and Bill. Above all, Chrissy must be kept safe. Chrissy and the baby.

  The call came through at 2 a.m. Rhona had placed the mobile on her bedside table and set its ring to loud. Chrissy’s voice was thick with emotion.

  ‘Sam’s alive. He called me. He’s coming here now.’

  ‘Chrissy.’ Rhona didn’t want to tell her about the thugs, but she had to be warned. ‘Two men came to the jazz club tonight, looking for Sam. They know he’s in Glasgow.’

  But nothing could dampen Chrissy’s joy at knowing Sam was alive and she was going to see him.

  ‘Warn Sam,’ said Rhona, and hung up.

  Rhona heard footsteps behind her and realised the call had woken Sean.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Sam contacted Chrissy. He’s on his way there now.’

  ‘You told her they were looking for him?’

  ‘I did.’

  Sean groaned as he eased himself onto the bed and lay back.

  ‘Do you want me to help you undress?’

  ‘That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.’

  Rhona switched on the bedside lamp. The shadows it cast only emphasised the swelling around Sean’s eye. Rhona helped him off with his shirt, exposing three large bruises around his ribcage.

  ‘God, you look awful.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’ He tried to laugh and groaned instead.

  She pulled down his trousers. His legs were the only part of his body that wasn’t bruised.

  ‘Do you want something for the pain?’

  ‘Too right I do.’ His grin was wickedly suggestive.

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘I never joke about sex.’ He pulled her to sit astride him. ‘You’ll have to do all the work.’

  Rhona lay in the dark, Sean’s steady breathing punctuating the silence. She thought of Chrissy lying in Sam’s arms. Of Sam’s face when Chrissy told him about the baby. If Sam needed a reason to stay alive, he had one right there.

  21

  LEANNE STEPPED OUT of the shadows as the car slowed.

  The Valium was wearing off, allowing fear and despair to surface. The smell of the last punter was stil
l thick in her nostrils; stale beer and a tongue furred by smoking. She’d flinched as he’d shoved her against the wall, the stone scraping her bare back. It was over so quickly she’d been worried he wouldn’t pay, but he’d thrown the money in the gutter just to watch her bend and pick it up.

  She didn’t have enough for Minty yet. She needed one more punter, then she could sleep.

  As the car drew up, a hand gestured to her from the open window. Leanne began the walk, telling herself she could still change her mind. She would rather service a drunk in the alley than climb into a car she didn’t recognise.

  When she reached the vehicle, the door swung open. The inside light came on, illuminating the occupant.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Leanne, surprised.

  22

  MARJE HAD COME looking for Nora at ten o’clock. ‘We won’t see Leanne now.’ Marje didn’t add that the girl would be out on the streets, but Nora knew that was what she meant.

  In the preceding hours, Nora had drunk endless cups of tea and watched too many young girls buying condoms. Tea and condoms, condoms and tea.

  She wondered what David had done when he discovered she wasn’t at home. Nora glanced at her phone. There were no messages. David wasn’t keen on voicemail anyway. His normal routine in recent months had been to come home to eat, and then go back out. Nora presumed it was because he couldn’t bear to be alone with her. Even with the television on, the silence between them was deafening. Nora longed to be held in his arms, to have him kiss her cheek and tell her he loved her.

  They’d survived Philip’s death because they’d had Terri to think about. When Terri became ill (Nora always thought of her drug-taking as an illness), it was hard not to think that as a couple they produced only grief and disappointment. Nora wondered if they could stay together after this.

  Marje had told her that Terri and Leanne were partners. Nora found herself unfazed by the idea that her daughter and this girl had a relationship that was more than just friendship. Picturing Terri in the caring arms of a woman was better than her earlier imaginings.

  Nora forced her still-swollen feet into her sandals. Marje asked if she knew her way to the station, and whether she wanted a taxi. Nora’s sense of thrift won, and she assured Marje she would walk. It was cooler now.

  At the door, Marje gave her a bear hug and told Nora she would give Leanne her number.

  ‘She’s a nice girl. Life’s just been bad to her.’

  Nora knew all about that.

  When the catering trolley came down the aisle of the train, Nora ordered a gin and tonic. She should have bought a sandwich, but knew she wouldn’t be able to eat it. The drink was warm, but Nora was glad of the gin’s kick. She decided she would tell David where she’d been, and explain about Leanne, who she intended to get in touch with. Nora imagined him reacting like the old David, the one who cared.

  When she got home, she found the house in darkness, David’s car gone from the garage. The effects of the gin were wearing off. Nora stood on the step for a moment, breathing in the scents from the garden, allowing herself to think of happier times.

  Later, sitting alone in the dark, she thought about her wee girl alive somewhere. Terri desperately needed her help, and all she’d done was visit a drop-in centre and drink tea. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She was a middle-aged woman, invisible and useless.

  How could she blame her daughter for taking heroin, if it dulled the pain? If she’d had some there, Nora could almost imagine wanting to take it herself.

  23

  ‘GET IN.’

  Father Duffy’s face gleamed red with perspiration. Leanne could smell whisky on his breath. Duffy only came looking for her when he was on one of his benders. Leanne hadn’t seen him for a month, at least.

  She slipped into the passenger seat.

  The routine was always the same. If she did what she was told, he remained calm. If she turned him down or argued the toss, his temper got the better of him and he said things he had to apologise for later.

  God knows how much whisky he’d consumed, but his hands were steady on the wheel, and they were only minutes away from the chapel house. When they drew in at the back of the building, Leanne saw a light on inside. Father Duffy operated an open door policy. If you didn’t have a bed for the night, you could doss down in the church. That’s why his parishioners thought him a good man. And he was, in his own way. The drink brought out the other side of him.

  He hurried Leanne in through the back door and locked it behind them. She wasn’t frightened. Father Duffy had never hurt her, except sometimes with words.

  As soon as she was in the bedroom, he ordered her to undress. A bottle of whisky stood on an ancient wooden chest of drawers. He’d already drunk three quarters of it. Above the bottle was a painted plaster moulding of the Virgin Mary, whose eyes seemed to follow you around the room.

  The priest gazed at her naked body for a moment, before handing her the loose white shift she’d worn on countless occasions before. It always smelt clean and fresh. Leanne wondered if Father Duffy got his housekeeper, Mrs Hughes, to wash and iron it for him. Did Mrs Hughes know what he used it for?

  Leanne slipped the gown over her head. It was too big for her small frame, and hung off one shoulder. The room was warm and stuffy, but she still shivered as though cold, knowing what was about to happen.

  Father Duffy poured another glass of whisky and quickly drank it down.

  ‘You’re a virgin?’

  Leanne bowed her head, as she knew she must. ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘No man has touched you before this?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  He set the glass beside the bottle and approached her.

  ‘Kneel before me child.’

  Leanne dropped to her knees.

  He always wore a cassock at these times, forsaking the usual shirt and collar. She could feel the heat emanating from his body in waves, through the heavy black material.

  ‘You wish to know a man?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  This was the point when his mood could change. Leanne had to sound as though she meant what she said, or he would grow angry, call her names and threaten her with the fires of hell.

  ‘Oh yes, Father.’

  Leanne waited, breathless, in the silence that followed. Father Duffy’s face was contorted, fighting whatever drove him to do this thing. Then the struggle ended. This time the man, not the priest, had won.

  He reached out and raised the shift, exposing her body and covering her face.

  Leanne changed out of the white gown and left it in a bundle on the bed. The first time this had happened, she’d felt profound shock and disgust for the sixty-year-old man who now slept soundly on top of the bed. Then she’d learned that this was a regular occurrence. Terri had been here, Lucie, most of the other younger women Leanne knew from the centre.

  As far as she was aware, no one had told the police about the priest’s nocturnal forays into the red-light district. Leanne wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because they didn’t believe he was the killer. Father Duffy was fucked up, but weren’t they all? She’d taken drugs to kill the pain, he drank. When he was sober, the priest was kind. He helped people. People no one else cared about.

  Leanne made her way through the sleeping inhabitants of the church and found a vacant corner. With her busted door and Minty out there somewhere, it was safer to stay the rest of the night in the chapel. Minty would never come here, not even for her.

  Leanne relaxed among the grunts and snores and murmured sleep of her fellow inhabitants. In the red glow of the constantly burning altar light, she closed her eyes and prayed for Terri.

  24

  MAGNUS CLOSELY STUDIED the calendar of yachting events. It was a long shot, but a geographical profile could be a powerful tool. Serial killers enacted their fantasies within their own world, a world with boundaries. Ted Bundy’s ‘world’ had comprised the university campuses of half
of North America, each of his victims resembling the girl who’d spurned him during his college days.

  It would be wrong to assume their killer’s life was contained within the environs of Glasgow. The notorious Scottish serial killer Robert Black had killed young girls on his lorry route from England into Scotland. The lorry was his home, the route his geographical area. The Clyde was a gateway into Glasgow, much as the road north had been a gateway into Scotland for Black.

  A careful examination of approximate times of death provided a reasonable match with the timings of certain yacht races. What would DI Wilson say if he presented such a proposition tomorrow? Probably he’d think it the product of an overripe imagination.

  Magnus rubbed the back of his neck. He’d been sitting at the computer for far too long. He glanced over the profile of the killer, as complete as it could be with the evidence he had. He couldn’t predict the reaction of the investigative team. Or could he? DI Wilson would regard him as an academic upstart, who thought a fancy degree trumped police officers’ power of deduction. Dr Sissons was only interested in the pathological aspects of the case. Dr MacLeod – Rhona – what would she say? Probably nothing, but that wouldn’t mean she didn’t have an opinion.

  Thinking of Rhona, surely at home with her boyfriend right now, enhanced Magnus’s feeling of loneliness. Man was a social creature, he thought, a pack animal. Physical or emotional separation from the comfort of others could create a ‘rogue male’ – someone with no reference points, who took what he wanted. Someone like the man they were searching for.

  After Anna, Magnus had vowed that he wouldn’t sleep with a woman again unless it meant something more than just sex. He had to feel the relationship might have a future, the way it should have been with Anna. Not just for a few weeks or months, but perhaps an eternity. It was a tall order. Yet his parents had achieved it. Why couldn’t he? They’d spent their whole lives together, against the odds. That was what Magnus wanted.

  And, against the odds, they would find this killer.

  Refocusing on the case, he decided against presenting his profile on the overhead screen. He would present it in words, as the killer’s narrative history. The story he lived and breathed. The reason why he killed.