Witness the Dead (47 page)

An hour passed, then another. Jason Williams questioned whether they were wasting their time; so did Denny Kelbie on the telephone. His gut still told him this was the most likely place. His heart still hoped they were wasting their time simply because they had the suspect locked up in an interview room in Stewart Street or that they had scared him off from making his move. A deeper, darker part of him, a part of him that he hated and would never admit to a soul, hoped that he was right and that the killer would try it on, try to carry out his crazy plan. He knew what that meant and the saner part of him could never countenance it but . . . Shit, he wanted to catch this bastard. He really wanted it.

‘DI Addison?’

The voice dragged him back from his wonderings, saving him from moral quandaries about what he might or might not settle for happening to achieve what was needed. It was a uniformed cop, his face familiar but the name out of reach.

‘DI Addison? Superintendent Williams wants to know if you still require the full complement of officers here. He says that—’

‘Yes. Tell him we need all the officers that are here. And tell him that if he wishes to discuss it further then he should get his fat arse over here and discuss it with me himself. Feel free to translate that any way you want, Constable.’

Later, no one seemed sure when the white van arrived or even which direction it had come from or left in. All that anyone seemed sure of was confusion. Some had seen it and thought nothing of it, others just watched and stared and were helpless to move. There were those who would tell you there was no van at all and that the red dress appeared out of thin air and fluttered down onto the Gallowgate from an upside-down version of Hell.

The reality, as well as Addison could gather, was all of that and none of it. Officers reported having seen the van turn onto the Gallowgate at the Biggar Street roundabout at the Forge, but no one paid it much attention, particularly with rain just starting to fall. With hindsight, they claimed it was driving slowly but they’d put that down to whoever was at the wheel rubbernecking at the crowds ringed round the cemetery. The van made its way along the length of the border wall, gliding past crowds and cops, nothing unusual at all until it reached the farthest reaches of the graveyard opposite the cinema.

The van was said to have slowed almost to a stop and the window wound down. The few cops and crowd who noticed thought that someone was about to ask what was going on. Instead, something was launched out of the window and all hell broke loose. No one claimed to have known what it was until it landed on the pavement, but hours of nothing became a moment of utter something. They all knew. They knew everything and nothing.

It was like someone opening a window and sound pouring in, an avalanche into a vacuum, copper pennies finally dropping onto a steel tray.

A red dress was thrown at the cemetery wall before the van slowly accelerated away and ghosted down Tollcross Road towards the motorway. Everyone turned and the game was on.

Addison was at the other side of the cemetery, sheltering under the eaves of the stadium from the rain, but he heard the uproar from a few hundred yards away. Moments later, his radio buzzed and his phone rang and people began running.

‘What the fuck is going on?’

‘Addison, it’s Williams. We think someone in a van threw a dress towards the cemetery.’

‘A what? Why the fu— What colour was it?’

‘What?’

‘What colour was the fucking dress?’

‘Red.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

Addison began running, Jason Williams continuing to shout in his ear. ‘Derek, what the hell is happening?’

‘I don’t know but it is happening right now. The dress is either a sign or a diversion. Get as much light on the cemetery grounds as you’ve got, we need to see what’s going on. If you see that clown McGann before I do tell him to get the people round the cemetery to hold hands and make sure no one breaks the ring. We need all the help we can get.’

Addison’s feet nearly gave way underneath him on the wet ground, skidding on before he regained his footing. The rain was lashing down now and he was getting soaked, although barely aware of it. The radio buzzed again and Williams’s voice roared into the darkness.

‘Derek, they’ve had another look at that dress and there’s something written on it. They couldn’t make it out at first because it’s red written on red.’

Addison knew what was coming before it was said.

‘The word “sin” is written in large letters over the front of the dress. We think it’s in lipstick.’

Shit. Shit. Shit.

There were cops dotted all over the sodden cemetery grass now, their hi-vis jackets picked out easily in the spotlights that were being turned on the Necropolis. Trees and statues and headstones, granite and green, all pale shadows in the yellow light. Beyond the wall, Addison could see the human ring of volunteers standing fast in the rain, cops beyond them and inside. Surely to hell he couldn’t think he’d get through that.

There were cop cars and riot vans beyond the far wall; there were dogs straining at leashes, their senses picking up on the anxiety around them; there were almost as many people in and around that graveyard as there were bodies buried inside it.

Surely to hell he couldn’t think he’d get through that, he thought again. Unless he already had . . .

Addison started running again, back towards Janefield Street, his fingers furiously punching the buttons on his radio, the rain lashing down and his light-grey suit streaked with dark.

‘Williams? Come in.’

‘Addison?’

‘There’s a cadaver dog among the pack of them that’s here, right? We did ask for one just in case.’

‘Yes, there is. It’s still in the van, near the creamery. Why? Oh Jesus . . . How could . . .?’

‘Just get the van over here and get the dog out, sir. I’m hoping I’m wrong.’

He dashed across the turf, dodging headstones and monuments, mud beginning to spatter his trousers and cake his shoes, pushing his wet hair back on his head. Even as he ran he could see the lights of the dog unit van on the move towards where Williams was on Janefield Street. By the time he got to the wall, a dog and a female handler were halfway towards him. In their wake were Williams and two other figures: Tony Winter and DS Andy Teven.

‘What’s your name?’ he demanded of the blonde-haired dog handler who had a black-and-white Border collie restless at her side.

‘PC Jackie McNally, sir. And this is Davie.’

‘Okay, Jackie. I can’t be sure but I think we have a body in the cemetery. One that shouldn’t be there. Can Davie find it?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s not exactly the easiest place for him – a graveyard makes for a real needle-in-a-haystack job – but, if it’s recent enough that the body’s still decomposing, then he should be able to pick up that scent and separate it from the rest. I think he might even have something already. He’s anxious.’

‘Oh, the one we’re looking for is recent all right. Come on, then, let’s go. Andy, you as well. Tony you stay here.’

Winter argued immediately. ‘That doesn’t make sense. If you find what you’re looking for then you need me to photograph it.’

‘Fuck’s sake, I don’t have time to argue. Stay where you are.
If
we find something, then you’ll get to do your job. Superintendent Williams, I need you to keep everyone else as they are in case I’m wrong and that nutter is still trying to get in there.’

McNally and the dog led the way, haring towards the cemetery wall and over it, Addison and Teven making sure they kept behind them, the rain torrential now. Once in the grounds of the Necropolis, the group moved on a hundred yards or so until they paused under the relative shelter of a huge beech tree circled by hundred-year-old headstones. The dog kept sniffing at the air, distant strains of something definitely interesting him, but the swirling wind was adding confusion.

‘It’s a huge area, sir.’ McNally was surveying the cemetery, just as her dog was. ‘I’d rather just let Davie off his lead and we do our best to follow him. If I keep hold of him it could take all night.’

Addison shrugged. ‘Whatever. You know what you’re doing, so let’s just do it.’

McNally crouched in front of the dog, holding him on either side of the face and making him look directly at her, setting out a familiar regime before he went to work. She held the pose for maybe ten seconds then gave the single command ‘Search’, simultaneously releasing her hands from Davie’s face.

The collie immediately bounded away in pursuit of the wind, dashing west towards the creamery for forty yards or so before coming to a halt and veering left and south, back towards the Janefield Street wall. Davie stopped and sniffed at the ground before moving off at a pace again. His pursuers had barely made it to his first port of call when he was off again towards his third. The dog could move at some speed and was inevitably much less inconvenienced by the wet and increasingly muddy ground than those following him.

He chased towards a white marble monument and snuffled his way round its base before taking off east, his nose low, then high, as he ran. He stopped, seemingly confused, as if he had lost the scent altogether, standing almost on his hind legs as he sought to place his twitching nostrils as high into the wind as he could. He circled for a while, giving time for McNally and the two cops to almost catch him up, but before they could draw breath he was running, further east this time and at full pace.

Still the dog had to change his route, but he was more frenetic now, something driving him almost to distraction. He stopped and spun, his tail wagging furiously behind him, his nose moving constantly but unsure where to go. McNally caught up with him and knelt down, repeating the process of staring into the dog’s eyes with a hand either side of his head, calming him and resetting him to go again.

Reassured, Davie trotted off and quickly settled onto the paths that ran almost due south towards the football stadium. He was so quick over the tarmac that those behind him couldn’t hope to keep up. He bounded over what was almost an island roundabout in the road with a large tree at its heart and several headstones ringing its perimeter. Davie raced on as far as the end of the path, in the shadow of Celtic Park itself, pausing only once or twice to check his bearings or being distracted by conflicting smells. Just before the path’s end he abruptly veered left, back onto the grass. McNally, Addison and Teven lost sight of his tail as he did so but soon knew where he was as the dog began barking furiously.

‘He’s got it,’ McNally announced.

As they charged up to join the dog, they found him standing stock still, his head high, continuing to roar his findings. With no light in that corner of the cemetery, the length of the north stand away from where Williams and Addison had previously been standing, at first they couldn’t see anything to confirm or deny Davie’s success. McNally reached into the deep pockets of her flak jacket and produced a heavy-duty torch, which she shone at the dog’s feet. In the artificial light of its beam, they could see the contours of the ground slightly raised and loose earth to its side.

Teven crouched by the gravestone at the head of the defined area and ran his fingers over its surface, McNally obliging by shining her torch on the granite.

‘James Henderson,’ Teven announced. ‘Died August eighth, 1932. Seems to have taken a while for the earth to settle.’

Addison sighed heavily as he reached for his radio. ‘I’m usually happier than this when it turns out I’m right. Superintendent Williams? I need at least two men over in the south-eastern corner with spades. We need lights as well, and get forensics here with a tent . . . Yes . . . Yes I think so. I think we’ve got a body.’

Chapter 57

According to Rico Giannandrea, Ritchie Stark had continued to stay silent since the moment he had a swab taken from him to be profiled for DNA. He hadn’t been a happy bunny at all at having the sample taken, and had struggled, forcing them to hold him tight and his jaw open until they could wipe his gums with the cotton stick.

When Narey went into the interview room with Giannandrea, she found Stark stripped to the waist and staring at the far wall. She hadn’t particularly expected that, and nor, once she had walked round to face him, had she remotely expected to see his torso to be emblazoned with a large, thick, red triangle.

She raised her eyebrows accusingly at Giannandrea, pointedly saying, Thanks for the warning, Rico.

Stark continued to stare ahead. His skinny white arms – the one heavily tattooed with the spider’s web and captured angels like the wall of his bedroom, the other unblemished – were crossed over his triangled chest. His eyes were focused and grim.

‘Good evening, Mr Stark.’

Not a flicker.

‘Do you wish a lawyer present, Mr Stark?’

Nothing.

‘We’ll take that as a no, then, shall we?’ Still nothing.

‘You’re in a bit of trouble, Mr Stark. You do know that, don’t you? This is not looking good for you at all. You could spend the rest of your life in a room no bigger than this. Let out once a day to take your chances in the showers with men twice your size.’

Stark persisted in staring through the wall in front of him.

‘I would seriously suggest that you speak, because, if you do not state your case, then you cannot defend yourself. And you will need to do that. You said that you didn’t meet Kirsty McAndrew when she had a tattoo done at your shop. Is that correct?’

Still nothing. Narey needed a reaction. She got close, standing inches away from his naked and inked torso, the spiders and angels clinging to his arm and the triangle decorating his chest like a warning signal.

‘Interesting tattoos, Mr Stark. Just like the ones on your bedroom wall . . .’

The man’s eyes widened then tightened but he didn’t move or speak.

‘Who did your tattoo, Mr Stark?’ Rico asked. ‘Because when I first interviewed you you told me that most tattoo artists don’t ink themselves. Don’t get the same quality of work, you told me. Did your friend Mr Barclay do that for you? The friend that you lied for and gave a false alibi for murder. If so, I think we might need to have another word with him.’