Witness the Dead (13 page)

Feeling slightly better for it, he turned away from the bar, pint glass in hand, and, as he did so, his elbow clattered into that of a girl standing behind him. Half of her glass splashed onto the floor at her feet. She just looked at him in mild astonishment, but her friend, a tall brunette, didn’t hold back.

‘That wis a Martini and lemonade. Now it’s jist
half
a Martini and lemonade. The bar’s ower there.’

He didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. He spun on his heels and queued at the bar again, returning minutes later and proffering the glass towards the redhead, who was draining the last of the glass he’d spilled. He’d seen her only from behind as he’d queued to get in, but it had to be the girl who had said she was friends with the DJ. Hair as red as that wasn’t very common, even in Scotland. She wore black, fake-leather hot pants, brown, knee-length suede boots and dark nylons. Her top was the same colour as her boots and seemed to hug a good figure. Her eyes were a vivid, lively green.

‘Sorry,’ was all he managed to say. Hardly the sharpest of patter but, then, he wasn’t there to talk. He would have come armed with snappy chat-up lines if that had been his purpose, but he had something more serious in mind.

‘Not much of a talker, are you?’

‘Sorry.’ He said it again, regretting it immediately. He wasn’t there to chat her up but he didn’t want to sound like an idiot, either. The snigger from her pal, the brunette, suggested he’d failed.

‘Aye, so you said.’ The redhead laughed as she pushed her hair back out of her eyes. ‘Do you just go around elbowing women and saying sorry?’

‘Not at all. Sometimes I don’t say sorry.’

‘That’s not very nice, is it? Did your mammy not teach you any manners?’

‘She taught me to be wary of girls with red hair.’

‘Ah. A wise woman. Did she teach you how to dance as well?’

‘No. My big sister taught me that. She wasn’t very good, though.’

She looked at him as if waiting. Her eyebrows rose in part exasperation and part amusement until she finally sighed in frustration.

‘So . . . are you dancing?’

This wasn’t quite in the plan. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. That would be far too risky. But was it more risky to dance or to refuse? There was no doubting that she was very easy on the eye, the flames of her hair shimmering under the glitter ball and her green eyes sparkling with the capacity for mischief. To hell with it, he’d dance. Just the one, though.

‘Aye. I’m dancing.’

They placed their drinks on the nearest table and took to the floor. He knew the song, Jo Jo Gunne with ‘Run, Run, Run’. Could he dance to that? He’d just have to. He was a big guy but he was light enough on his feet and had done enough ‘proper dancing’ in his day, and this couldn’t be that different. He just had to move, whether it was to follow her or do his own thing.

She was into it; he could see that right away. The bright-green eyes closed over and a smile spread wide across her face as her hips swayed and her feet danced. Her arms were above her head and then by her side, the leather-look hot pants shimmying and her slim legs always on the move. She looked good and she danced well.

He looked beyond her as well, though, taking the chance of being on the dance floor to look and to watch. The dancers round him were into their moves and their partners and so not paying any attention to where his eyes were going. It was too good an opportunity to miss. He saw where they were looking and read what he could into their clothes, expressions and mannerisms. And then he looked back at her.

When the song faded, segueing into America’s ‘Horse With No Name’, she smiled coyly at him, looking him straight in the eyes. Before they had started, he’d decided it would just be the one dance but, when she said thanks and turned away, something still stung. She took a couple of steps, then looked back over her shoulder.

‘What’s your name?’

He hesitated, wondering whether to make something up or give her his real name. What harm could it do? Anyway, something inside him wanted her to know.

‘I’m Danny. Danny Neilson.’

Chapter 17

Monday. Noon.

The lurid pink shop sign on Alexandra Parade read S
CISSOR
S
ISTERS
in a large florid font. Just in case the pun wasn’t crushingly obvious enough, there was a huge pair of silver scissors underneath the lettering and a pair of identical blonde manes, one at either end.

Narey had for once managed to ditch the insufferable presence of Toshney and instead had the much more relaxed presence of DC Rebecca Maxwell, who had not long moved over from uniform but could be relied upon not to stick her feet in her mouth. Almost as one, they turned to look at each other on seeing the sign and raised their eyebrows in disapproval. This was going to be good.

The sisters in question were Melanie and Maria McAllister – M&M’s, as Maria had blurted out before Melanie had glared at her to remind her why Narey was there to visit them.

‘Sorry, sorry. Oh, ma Goad. Ah’m sorry. We pure loved Hannah, so we did. She was a great wee worker and never any bother. Brilliant wi’ highlights, so she wis. Ah’ve been greetin’ my eyes oot since we were telt. We both huv. Ah didnae mean—’

‘Oh, zip it, Maria, for God’s sake!’ her sister ordered her. ‘Stop babbling oan. The sergeant’s no here to listen to you talking rubbish.’

The Scissor Sisters were in danger of giving hairdressers a bad name. Matching big blonde cuts that were a dare away from platinum, fake bakes that might have been browned in a Greggs oven and teeth so white you needed shades. With matching green eyes and dolly smiles, they could have been twins, but Melanie was clearly the elder of the two, even if only by a matter of minutes. She was the one in charge and wee sister Maria knew her place.

‘Sorry, Mel. It’s just that ah get nervous, you know that. An wi’ wee Hannah getting . . . Oh, ma Goad, ah cannae say it. I cannae even say it.’

Melanie’s eyes closed over briefly and she shook her head at her sister for what Narey guessed to be the millionth time in her life. ‘Oh, shut up, Mar. Seriously. You’re showing us up. Again. Sorry, Sergeant. What can we dae for you?’

Narey smiled gratefully while sighing inside. She needed an easy one, just a simple ‘here’s what you need to know’ all wrapped up in a pretty piece of ribbon. Mel and Mar didn’t seem to represent a great chance of her getting that.

‘Thanks for seeing me. I know it’s a difficult time.’

The Scissor Sisters nodded in unison.

‘How long did Hannah Healey work here?’ Bog-standard technique. Start with questions you already know the answer to and work your way towards those that you don’t.

‘About a year and a half?’ Melanie looked towards her sister, who nodded. ‘Yeah, about a year and a half.’

‘And how would you describe her?’

‘Brand-new.’ ‘Great.’ ‘All the clients loved her.’ ‘She was a star.’

The replies spun one over the other and Narey wasn’t entirely sure who said what, but she got the idea. Hannah was well liked. More than that, she had her ‘in’ for the question she really wanted to ask.

‘So she was popular with the customers?’

‘Oh, aye, definitely.’

‘So I suppose some of them would be regular clients? Booking their appointments with Hannah?’

The sisters with the scissors nodded enthusiastically. ‘Oh, yeah. She had her regulars. We all do,’ Melanie agreed.

‘Just women, or men too?’ Narey steered them where she wanted to go.

‘Men anaw,’ Maria answered proudly. ‘We’re unisexual.’

Narey did her best not to catch DC Maxwell’s eyes, instead forcing herself to remember why they were there. Melanie McAllister tutted at her sister. ‘Hannah had male clients as well. We dinnae get as many men as women, but there’s a few. Guys who like to look good, like.’

‘Anyone in particular ask for Hannah?’

Melanie and Maria looked at each other.

‘Well . . . aye,’ one of them started. ‘There’s—’

‘Ronnie,’ the other one answered.

Bingo. Narey made sure she didn’t respond too quickly.

‘Who’s Ronnie?’

Maria did an exaggerated shudder. ‘Ronnie Dance. He ayeways asked for Hannah and if she wisnae available he’d just go away and come back another time.’

‘Was ayeways glad he did,’ Melanie agreed. ‘Wouldnae have wanted him to get me to do him.’ The sisters looked at each other and shuddered again.

‘Oh, Goad, me anaw,’ blurted out Maria. ‘Pure weird, so he is. Ah wouldn’t trust him alone in a room with a rubber doll.’

‘Mar!’ Melanie tutted again. ‘But she’s right, though. Pure weird.’

‘In what way?’

‘Just kinda . . . sleazy. Pervy sleazy. When Hannah did his hair he wis always just, like, staring at her in the mirror. Ugh.’

‘So what does this Ronnie look like? What can you tell me about him?’

Mel and Mar looked at each other, confused and a bit scared.

‘Ronnie? You think . . .?’

Narey turned her mouth down at both sides, making a show of looking doubtful that there was likely to be anything at all in the route she was taking.

‘We’re just checking everything out. We have to consider all possibilities in a situation like this.’

‘Oh . . . okay.’ Melanie took charge. ‘He’s quite a big guy. About six foot. Maybe early forties. Grey hair. No’ really the kind that would come in here normally. More of a barber’s kind of man. He’s got these dark eyebrows, bushy things. Would be awrite-looking if he wisnae so creepy. He said he was a painter. No’ a decorator, like. A proper artist painter.’

‘I didnae believe him,’ butted in Maria.

‘Me neither. Full of shit if ye ask me. I’ve got an address for him if you want.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. We keep a list so we can send out Christmas cards at the end of the year. Somewhere in Dennistoun, I think. I can get it for you.’

‘Hang on, sis. Is that no’ breaking that client privy . . . privy . . . um, thingy.’

‘Naw, Mar. We’re no’ bloody doctors. Hang on, Sergeant, I’ll get it.’

A couple of minutes later, Melanie McAllister returned, a vivid pink leather book in her hands, thumbing through its pages.

‘Here it is. Ronnie Dance, 103 Roslea Drive, Dennistoun. Flat 3/1.’

Narey and Maxwell were there in less than ten minutes. They’d have been there even sooner but they had to go through the process of asking the Scissor Sisters some more questions that they were barely interested in the answer to. They were interested in Ronnie. Mr Grey.

A hundred and three Roslea Drive was a blond sandstone tenement behind a robust hedge, the street-level windows protected from view, one by vertical blinds and the other by net curtains. Up on the third floor, Flats 1 and 2 had their windows topped with dark stone lintels, curtains open and a light shining on each side.

‘You think this guy might be our man, Sarge?’ Maxwell sounded hopeful and anxious all in one go.

‘One way to find out. But he’s a definite maybe, I’d say.’

She pushed the button for 3/1 and waited. A few moments later a gruff male voice answered.

‘Aye?’

‘Mr Dance?’

‘Who? Naw.’

They heard the intercom close and Narey buzzed again. The voice was more irritable now.

‘Whit is it?’

‘I’m looking for Mr Dance.’

‘Piss off. There’s no Mr Dance here. Gie’s peace.’

The intercom died again. Narey buzzed long and hard.

‘Whit the fu—’

‘This is the police. Open the door. Now.’

Silence. Then a heavy sigh. ‘Prove it.’

‘Jeezus. Look out the bloody window.’

Narey backed away from the door looking up at the window and holding her warrant card up by her head. She saw a figure by the window, flashes of a grey hoody coming close to the glass, then disappearing. The intercom crackled and the latch dropped.

When they got to the third floor, the hoody was waiting for them by the door. Inside it was a young guy, early twenties maybe, with a thick head of dark hair, looking half worried, half angry.

‘DS Narey. DC Maxwell.’ Narey introduced them and offered a closer inspection of her ID.

‘What is it?’

‘We’re looking for a man named Ronnie Dance. We are led to believe he lives here.’

‘Well he disnae. Never heard of the guy.’

‘What’s your name, sir?’

‘Aaron Pearson. And I’ve lived here for nearly a year. The guy before me was called Davis or Davidson, something like that. You can check with my landlord.’

‘We will, thank you. The person we are looking for is about six feet tall, with grey hair and dark eyebrows. Early forties. Ring any bells?’

‘Naw. Whit’s this all about?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that, Mr Pearson. Now, can you give me a contact number for your landlord?’

Pearson sighed and nodded.

Narey and Maxwell knocked on every door in the block, getting answers from three out of the other five, but no one knew of anyone ever living there who fitted the description of Ronnie Dance. Mr Grey, whoever he was, had given the sisters a false address.

Narey made a call into Stewart Street and minutes later got word back that a check on the voters’ roll failed to find a single Ronnie Dance in all of Glasgow, far less one that fitted Mr Grey’s age.

False address, false name. Mr Grey was very interesting but very hard to find.

Chapter 18

Monday afternoon

DS Rico Giannandrea pushed through the door of the Ink Sync tattoo parlour on Stockwell Street, DC Sandy Galbraith in his wake. The bell on the door alerted the guy behind the counter but he didn’t look up as they entered, just shouted out to them. ‘Be with you in two minutes. Just finishing something off.’

The skin-coloured walls of InkSync were lined with enlarged examples of tattoo designs and photographs of the shop’s handiwork. Tigers and scorpions fought for wall space with Celtic crosses and flaming skulls. A bandana-wearing Jimi Hendrix was squeezed between a distraught angel and a gun-toting, basque-wearing warrior maiden. Babies’ footprints complete with names and dates of birth were next to a dripping-maw zombie.

Giannandrea had never fancied the idea of having a tattoo, and his mother would have killed him if he ever did. Still, he couldn’t help but stare at the dedication to their art by customers whose inked bodies were on display. An exposed left arm showed a blue-skinned tiger advancing south towards the wrist through jungle foliage, every piece of skin covered and the beast looking ready to spring from the painted biceps. A girl’s back, blonde hair just showing at the nape of her neck, was covered in a beautiful depiction of a female samurai in front of a blooming cherry tree.