Witness the Dead (23 page)

‘How did you pay for your pizza?’

‘What?’

‘Cash or card?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Cash. But we phoned up so the shop will probably have a note of the delivery. You can check.’

‘We will, thanks. And on the Saturday?’

The girl sighed sulkily, her eyebrows theatrically reaching for the ceiling. ‘Much the same, except we had a Chinese rather than pizza. And Stevo Barclay was here. We watched telly and had quite a bit to drink. Only difference is we didn’t have sex. Not until after Stevo left, anyway.’

‘And what time was that?’

Foster shrugged expansively. ‘Don’t know. After one o’clock, anyway. Probably nearer two. I couldn’t give you an exact time when we had sex. Sorry.’

Narey wanted to give the girl a slap. ‘Look, this isn’t anything personal, Miss Foster. It’s just routine. We need to check everything. Everything and everyone that we can rule out brings us one step closer to finding who did it.’

Faith made a face but nodded reluctantly. ‘I know. Sorry. I get it.’

‘Do you ever go to the tattoo parlour?’

The girl seemed to relax slightly, the tension and the confrontation easing out of her. ‘Yes, sometimes. I pop over for lunch now and again and if Ritchie isn’t busy then we can go out or just hang out in the shop.’

‘Did you ever meet Kirsty McAndrew? The girl who was murdered.’

‘No. At least I don’t think I ever did. I saw her picture in the paper. Her and the other girl. But I don’t think I recognised either of them. There’s been so many people in and out of the shop. Jesus, I can’t bear to . . . It’s horrible.’

‘Do you have tattoos yourself?’

Faith hesitated, looking at Stark and then at Toshney. ‘Well, yeah. Ritchie does them for me. But I’m not showing you them. Not here. Not in front of him. They’re . . . in a couple of personal places.’

Narey saw Toshney try to hide a sudden burst of interest in the conversation and she made a mental note to chin him about it when they were finished.

‘It’s okay, you don’t have to show us. I just wanted to get an idea of how much you were around Ink Sync. Do you know Stevo Barclay well?’

Faith screwed her face up a bit, then shared another look with her boyfriend. ‘He’s Ritchie’s boss. I’m . . . not exactly a fan, though. I don’t like him very much.’

‘And yet he was over here eating Chinese and drinking on Saturday night?’

‘Yes, he was. We said so,’ Stark butted in. ‘Stevo’s all right. He’s a good guy and he gave me that job. I know he’s a bit . . . hot-headed, but he’s okay. He’s just got a bit of a temper on him sometimes. He had nothing else to do so he came over and we had a few beers.’

Narey looked straight at the girl. ‘And do you ever feel threatened by him, Faith?’

Instead of answering, Foster looked at Stark, but Narey wasn’t having that. ‘No, Faith, look at me, not Ritchie. It’s me that’s asking you the question. Do you ever feel threatened by Stevo?’

‘Um, well . . . yes. Sometimes. He’s just a bit . . . angry, I suppose. Nothing definite. Just kinda angry.’

‘Is he ever violent? Again, don’t look at Ritchie. Just tell me what you think.’

‘No. Not that I’ve seen. Well, when he’s had a drink he sometimes tries to start fights but I’ve never seen him actually have one.’

‘Me neither,’ added Stark, even though he hadn’t been asked. ‘And, like we said, he was here on Saturday till late.’

‘Okay. Okay. Do you think Barclay ever saw Kirsty McAndrew again after he tattooed her?’

Stark shrugged, looking doubtful. ‘If he did he never mentioned it. Look, I’m sorry but I don’t know what else I can tell you. I can’t believe that girl was murdered and she’d been inked in our shop. But it’s just a coincidence. It’s got to be.’

‘Maybe, Mr Stark. Let’s hope so. But you understand that we will have to continue with our enquiries and we may need to speak to some of your other customers.’

‘Really? Well, okay. Whatever you need, I suppose.’

‘Well, that’s exactly it, Mr Stark. Whatever we need.’

Back on the cracked pavements of Tobago Street, Narey was relieved to see that her car had indeed survived intact. One of the mongrels from the wasteland opposite was sniffing around the rear tyres and thinking about marking its territory but retreated when Narey strode towards it. She glanced up at Stark’s flat and saw a shadow step away from the window as she did so.

‘What did you make of them?’ she asked Toshney.

‘Stark and his girlfriend?’

‘No, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Of course Stark and his girlfriend.’

‘Oh, right. Em, she seemed a bit nervous. Always looking to him to see what she should answer.’

‘Yes, good spot.’

‘And those clothes she was wearing. Weird, man. Never understood goths.’

‘Right, stop while you’re ahead, Toshney. Let’s get back to the station. And, before we get in the car, no bloody whistling. This case is doing my head in as it is.’

Chapter 27

Wednesday mid-morning

Winter and Danny were led through a narrow corridor, other visitors before and behind them, until they entered a large open room that resembled a school dinner hall – although, if it had been used to serve up lunch to pupils, then it appeared they’d spread dessert on the walls, as all four were the shade of pink blancmange. The room was studded with tables painted in a neutral yellow with matching yellow chairs parked in front of them.

The handful of visitors shuffled left and right, seeking their allocated tables and quickly taking their seats. Winter and Neilson slid into the chairs behind Table 14, Danny looking tense and ready for a fight. Winter tried to catch his eye but the older man was having none of it. He stared at the door on the far wall and was seemingly willing it to open. He wasn’t alone: almost every pair of eyes was on the door that linked to the prison halls. Each of them was waiting for someone from the segregation unit – prisoners separated from the herd, either for their safety or someone else’s.

An officer advanced to a glass panel by the door and seemingly got the nod from someone on the other side, because he pressed buttons on the wall and the door slid open. Seconds later, the first of five identically dressed men walked warily through the door, his eyes lighting up as he saw the person there to visit him. Some looked more pleased than others at the sight of their visitors but all seemed at least grateful to be somewhere different. Last of all was the man they’d come to see. He emerged slowly, his eyes scanning the room until they alighted on them. He stood there looking at them curiously, impassively, seemingly enjoying the power of making them wait. Visitors on other tables were looking at him, ignoring their own loved ones and staring at the infamous serial killer.

The prison officer tried to take him by the elbow but the gesture was casually shrugged off as if by someone unused to physical interaction. Instead, he stood for a moment longer, then strolled to the table, gliding across the polished floor, making no more sound than a breeze whispering across a dark street. Without looking at them, he eased back the chair that faced them and slid his frame into it, barely brushing the floor as he settled it in front of the table again.

He kept his eyes down as he rearranged his clothing to suit him, pulling at the crease in his trousers and the folds of his jumper until he was satisfied that all was as he wanted it to be. Then he patted them down again, pulling here and tugging there. At length, he slowly lifted his head and took in the men opposite, knowing full well that he had every ounce of their attention.

The most immediately striking thing about Archibald Atto was how ordinary he looked. A nondescript face under a neat, sensible haircut in mildly greying brown, with regular features devoid of distinguishing marks. He was a man who wouldn’t get a second glance or be remembered two minutes after being seen. You’d maybe take him for a retired accountant or librarian if you bothered to look at him at all.

He wore the same navy-blue jumper and light-brown trousers as every other prisoner who had come through the door, but he would have been anonymous even without the prison-issue clothing. Of medium build and average height, middle-aged, he was cloaked in the invisibility of his ordinariness. The only things you might have noticed as being uncommon about Atto were sleepy dark eyes that could have been stolen from a corpse, so little did they reveal about what was inside.

Yet the inside was the one place where Atto was markedly different. Winter often wondered whether the world would be a better place if people were turned inside out and everyone could be seen for what they were. If, instead of false smiles or hidden personalities, they wore words like ‘Liar’ or ‘Thief’ or ‘Murderer’, the lettering running through them like sticks of Blackpool rock. Most people are content to suffer their own failings as long as they’re not on public display. Atto’s were locked behind his Mr Average façade.

He looked slowly from Neilson to Winter, then back again, weighing them up but showing little interest in what he saw. He looked back at them blankly, clearly waiting for them to make the first move, armed with the patience of someone who had been locked up for fourteen years.

Danny looked back, but his face was far from as expressionless as Atto’s: his had resentment and anger smeared all over it. He pushed himself back in his chair and crossed his arms, ready to play the pointless game and not give Atto the satisfaction of talking first. His resistance lasted as long as it took him to lean forward again.

‘Mr Atto, I am—’

‘Daniel Neilson. Detective Sergeant Daniel Neilson.’ The response came within a heartbeat of Danny’s beginning to speak, the voice level and calm. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t recognise the name? You were mentioned in dispatches, Sergeant Neilson. Or “Mr Neilson”, as it must be by now. It was such a long time ago, but I still remember vividly reading about the so-called Red Silk case in the newspapers. You never did catch your man, did you, Mr Neilson?’

‘Not yet.’

Atto laughed at Danny’s growled response, a high-pitched chuckle that seemed out of place and came without an accompanying smile.

‘Well done, Mr Neilson. Never give up, that’s the spirit.’

‘You better believe it.’

‘Oh, I do.’ The tone was now patronising. ‘And Mr Winter here . . .’ The sound of his own name snapped Tony from a strange reverie and he realised he’d been looking at Atto’s hands as they rested on the table, imagining the things that they’d done. ‘Mr Winter here must be your . . . nephew. You look a bit alike but you don’t share a surname. Given the age difference, nephew would seem the most likely thing. Am I right?’

Neither Winter nor Danny said a word and Atto took that as his answer. ‘I am, aren’t I? So, tell me, Mr Winter, what is it that you do? I’d say that you haven’t followed your uncle into the police. I don’t get that feeling from you. Not quite.’

‘I work for the SPSA. I’m—’

‘Ah, the Scottish Police Services Association. I hear lots of good things about them, although not from many people locked up in here. Don’t mind telling you that there’s some of us grateful that the kind of fancy techniques you have now were not available forty years ago. But I rudely interrupted you and for that I apologise. Please continue.’

Winter hesitated, unsure of how much of himself he actually wanted to reveal to Atto. However, they did want him onside. ‘I’m a police photographer.’

Atto’s head tilted to the side in a show of mild confusion. ‘I thought that kind of thing was undertaken by scenes-of-crime officers these days.’

‘They generally are, but I’m a specialist.’

‘Well, well. How impressive. A specialist. And so you fill your days photographing victims? Bodies? Is that your speciality, Anthony?’

The sound of his first name stung and Winter snapped back. ‘I photograph lots of things.’

Atto nodded, his sleepy eyes beaming as if something had achieved the rare feat of making him happy. ‘I see.’

‘Are you aware of the two murders in Glasgow last weekend, Mr Atto?’ Danny had tired of the conversation and wanted to talk business. Atto’s eyes never left Winter, but he was clearly listening.

‘I am aware of them, yes. We’re only locked away, not living in a cave. Murder is something of a popular topic in here.’

‘Something of a specialist subject of yours, too.’

‘That’s really funny, Mr Neilson. Maybe you would have been better suited to being a stand-up comedian than detective. At least you could have caught a few laughs.’

‘If you are aware of the killings, then perhaps you’ll be aware of the nature of them. Was there anything in them that seemed at all familiar to you?’

A hint of a smile played on Atto’s lips. ‘In what way “familiar”, Mr Neilson?’

Danny leaned forward and lowered his voice, dropping both volume and pitch. ‘In the sense that they were carried out by a sick psycho freak that gets his kicks from humiliating and torturing innocent women before murdering them in an attempt to prove that he’s some kind of big man.’

Winter saw it, however briefly. The fleeting shadow that passed across Atto’s eyes. It was like the eruption of a solar flare, except happening somewhere on the dark side of the moon. All three of them blinked and it was gone, replaced by the calm scorn that had preceded it.

‘That’s not really much in the way of detail for me to go on, Mr Neilson. Sadly, I can see why your police career didn’t reap much in the way of success.’

Danny took a breath. ‘You got real successful in your ventures, didn’t you? That’s why you’ve been locked up in here for fourteen years.’

‘Ah, but the fun I had in the meantime. And all the fun I had that the likes of you never found out about.’

‘Like I said, not yet. There are similarities between the two recent murders and your own . . . pathetic little attempts at making a name for yourself. They were carried out by someone with a similar need to make up for his inadequacies by proving himself more powerful than a woman half his size.’

Atto’s dark solar flares surged again and Danny knew he’d found a tender spot. ‘But the person that did this didn’t prove himself more powerful than anyone, did he? He just showed that he was weaker. A pathetic little prick with a tiny little prick. Someone craving attention to shore up their own lack of self-esteem.’