Witness the Dead (50 page)

‘Like death? Cemeteries?’

‘Yeah. What’s wrong with that? My dad and my gran were buried in Cardonald Cemetery. At least I
thought
he was my dad. I’d go up there to visit them and it was all right. But the Necropolis was so much better and I’d go there and imagine that’s where they were buried. I had graves there that I’d picked out for both of them and I’d go there and talk to them. Then I started going to all the old ones, looking for graves that were a wee bit special and choosing them for my dad and my gran. I got really into them.’

‘This was before you knew about who your real father was?’

‘Yeah. The old whore told me about it when she was dying. I’d always hated her. Always. And she’d always hated me. It was her last revenge, I think. Telling me as if it explained how I was. So maybe I decided to prove her right.’

‘Prove her right? You murdered people, innocent girls not much older than yourself.’

‘They weren’t innocent. They were part of the people that made me different. Those kind of girls always hated me, so I hated them. Like her . . .’ She pointed the blade of the knife at Chloe’s throat. ‘She’s one of them. Normal, pretty, popular. So I hate her.’

‘She’s never done anything to you. Please, let her go. I’m begging you.’

‘Beg all you want. My dad used to make the girls he killed beg. I read all about him. Everything that had ever been written about him. He’s pretty famous, you know. So beg, old man. I’m going to kill her, anyway, but beg me not to. She might even be dead already from the amount of Rohypnol I gave, but the knife will make sure. It’s your fault she’ll get stabbed. All yours. If you hadn’t turned up I’d have just strangled her.’

Danny inched closer, dragging his body forward, desperately trying not to be seen, desperately trying to move the twisted conversation away from any mention of the knife.

‘How did you get your boyfriend to help you with this?’

Foster shrugged. ‘He’s a bit weird, too, I suppose. But he’d do anything for me. You want to know why? I give great sex. Really great sex.’ She smiled at him and licked her black lips. ‘You want some?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘You sure? If you’re fit for it and fuck me good, I might kill her fast so that she doesn’t suffer.’

Danny was aware of the blue lights that were tingeing the glass curves of the Kibble, strobing above their heads as they sped past. The girl didn’t seem to have noticed but the lights were followed by sirens, the noise filtering through glass and steel and closing in on them.

Foster swung her head towards the gates where the sirens were blaring and Danny took another tired step. The girl turned back, saw he was closer and licked her lips.

‘No time for anything but this, then. Say bye-bye.’

She drew the knife back and Danny just threw himself at it. He didn’t have the strength or coordination to wrestle her for it, so he aimed his bulk at the knife itself, intent on stopping it or taking it for himself. All he could do was hope.

As he landed, he felt his knees crash into the ground and a pain rip through the wound on his neck. Foster’s head snapped back as his weight hit her and crashed against the concrete floor. All at once he felt the slice of cold deep inside him as the knife penetrated his soft flesh and sought his internal organs. He tried to lift his head to look at Chloe but darkness swallowed him up and he dived into a whirlpool of oblivion.

That was the way they were when Addison, Narey and Winter led the charge of cops through the doors of the Kibble. Danny lying on top of Foster. Chloe to their side. All three unconscious.

Chapter 61

Monday morning

It was to be his last visit to Blackridge Prison, a grudging thanks to Atto for the information that led the police to Kibble Palace. A final opportunity, in Atto’s mind at least, to let him boast about the appalling acts he’d committed. For Winter, it was his last chance to get the man to tell the truth.

There was a sense of an ending and maybe of something starting anew. He doubted his ability to cope with it and even whether there was enough available space in his head, given all that had happened on the night after the final body was found. Raw emotion, death and failure – an impulsive, reckless mix.

He and Rachel had gone back to her flat, hand in hand, clinging to the safety of the truth inside each other. Waiting wordlessly for news from the hospital, letting their bodies speak, moving together in echoes of old times and not thinking what the morning would bring.

He’d held her and watched her sleep, fighting off slumber of his own so that the moment wouldn’t end and be replaced by an awkward reality. He didn’t know much but he knew he couldn’t let her go again.

When she was finally wakened by the straws of spring leaking through the bedroom window, he caught the look of uncertainty on her face, silencing her with a finger placed gently across her lips. He’d had her mobile phone in his hand, a number already on the display, ready to be called. She’d smiled and nodded. He’d pressed the call button and had left her alone to talk to her dad while he made their first breakfast in far too long.

To go from that to this . . .

Atto was in full flow in front of him, discussing murder as if it were an electrical appliance like a toaster or a microwave. ‘If I am what I am because of the wiring in my brain, then how can I be held responsible for my actions? How can I continue to be locked up if it’s not my fault?’

Winter, weary after the opening sentence, had heard the same pointless arguments from him again and again.

‘Well, if you are the way you are because of your brain, then that’s why you have to be locked up. Because you’re incapable of not doing it again. Society needs to be protected from you.’

‘That’s not the point, though,’ Atto yelled. ‘I am ill. You wouldn’t lock someone up for being ill. You would treat them.’

‘You cannot be treated.’

‘Not yet maybe. But one day. They will be able to treat all illnesses one day and I will be ready to be set free.’

Winter couldn’t take much more. ‘But you don’t want to be treated, not really. You enjoyed it. You took pleasure in what you did.’

Atto smiled, almost shyly. ‘Yes. Yes I did.’

‘And that’s why you can never be released. And why what you did was monstrously wrong.’

He used the word deliberately, knowing it would rile Atto. Being called a monster was something he couldn’t abide. Winter saw the anger in the man’s eyes and enjoyed it.

‘I am not a monster,’ Atto seethed quietly, the lower register of voice a sure sign that he was on the point of fury. ‘I am ill. It is the fault of my brain.’

‘No, you’re a monster. You did terrible things to innocent girls. You can never get away from that. You took everything from those girls, yet you claim you feel nothing. No regret, no remorse, no guilt.’

‘I took their lives, nothing else.’

‘That’s not true. You took their future, their innocence, their dignity. And you stole from them too. You took your grubby little mementoes, the jewellery. What were they, trophies?’

Atto shrugged dismissively. ‘Perhaps. They’re not important.’

‘Of course they’re important or you’d never have taken them. What was it, something to remind you of them? Taking a bit of those girls with you so you could play with yourself later while looking at their brooches or necklaces?’

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

They loved me. They’d have wanted me to have something of theirs to remember them by. To be close to them.’

Winter recoiled at the sentiment, revolted by Atto’s pathological self-serving. He caught the look on Tom Walton’s face and the prison governor obviously felt the same.

‘You believe that they liked you?’

‘Loved me. Yes.’

‘And that’s why you took items from them? The watches, bracelets and the rest.’

‘That’s between me and the girls. It’s personal. Nothing to do with you or the rest of them.’

‘I guess I can understand that. I’ve loved people and lost them. Having something of theirs makes them feel closer, like they’re still a part of you.’

Atto looked at him warily but nodded, some of the anger seeping away. ‘Yes. You still have things of people that died?’

‘I have a necklace and a bracelet that belonged to my mother. And a watch that was my dad’s. I don’t look at them all that often but I like to know that they’re there if I want to.’

‘Yes. That’s it. I knew you’d understand, Anthony.’

Winter’s skin itched but he continued to push.

‘Most people wouldn’t, I suppose. But it makes sense, really. It means, in a sense, that you’ll always have them.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Do you have a favourite piece?’

Atto shrugged coyly. ‘I like them all. Or I did until they were taken away from me.’

‘That must have been hard. The police taking the jewellery away like that. Must have been like having a little part of you cut away.’

Atto looked at Winter strangely, surprised that anyone could understand but still wary that he did. He edged closer in his seat, speaking softly, seeking a kindred spirit.

‘I hated it when they took it all away. It was, it really was, like losing part of me. Those things were mine, not theirs. They meant something to me but they were completely meaningless to them. They only took them out of spite.’

‘There was no need for that. Come on, tell me. What was your favourite? Was it the silver fish brooch?’

Atto opened his mouth and Winter could see the word ‘Yes’ forming on his lips before he stopped and clamped it shut. It was enough.

‘I’ve seen the photograph of you wearing it. My Uncle Danny found it in the Operation Oslo files. You wearing a brown jumper and posing next to a teenage girl. We also got hold of a photograph of Christine Cormack on her twenty-first birthday in which she was wearing the same brooch. My Uncle Danny remembered that too.’

Atto said nothing but Winter could see the anger gradually stoking flames in his eyes.

‘Do you remember when we first met, Mr Atto? You told me that you were grateful that the police didn’t have such sophisticated techniques forty years ago? Well, we do have them now. I have very sophisticated equipment in my lab that allowed me to take both of those photographs and isolate the brooch, enlarging them to many times their original size without losing any quality. There’s no doubt at all. It’s the same brooch.’

Atto said nothing but just sat and glared at Winter like a petulant child, eyes open but rocking back and forth from his waist, his mouth tightly pursed. Winter enjoyed his discomfort but couldn’t afford to let the man slip into a sulky silence.

‘Was it your favourite? We know you had it, there’s no point in denying that. Share it with me. Was it your favourite?’

Atto looked as if he couldn’t choose between anger and a desire to talk about it. His deep, bleak eyes troubled and searching Winter’s own.

‘Yes. It was my favourite.’

‘Because she was your first?’

‘Yes. She . . .’

Atto faltered, realising what he’d said, and closed his mouth, his eyes beginning to close over and his head to rock forward rhythmically. Winter pressed on.

‘You told me that you never forget. First kiss, first love, first lover, first kill. Was Christine Cormack all of those?’

Atto continued to rock, eyes locked shut and emitting a low humming sound from tightly pursed lips.

‘She was your first but supposedly Red Silk’s fourth. Wasn’t she?’

‘Hummm. Hummm.’ Atto tried to block out the world the way a child would. Not listening, I’m not listening.

‘You didn’t keep anything from the first three Klass killings because you didn’t do them, did you? Christine was your first. And, because she was, you kept that brooch, kept it beside you, even more precious than all the other bits of jewellery that you stole from those other poor girls. My guess is that you always kept it on you, somewhere secret and safe. So that when you were arrested you were able to keep it from the police.’

The obsessive rocking got faster and the humming got louder.

‘I’m guessing that it was so special that you kept that brooch pinned inside your clothing. Had it on you when you were arrested and kept it ever since in your civilian bundle that is locked away awaiting you if you’re let out. And you thought you would get out if you could ever get someone to believe your fabricated theory about your brain being wired wrongly. Isn’t that right?’

Atto’s eyes had screwed tighter than ever at the mention of the clothes he wore on admission and that were held by the prison. By the time Winter finished, he could stand it no longer and his eyes opened wide and frenzied.

‘You better not go near my things!’ he screamed.

‘Too late.’ Winter didn’t take his eyes off Atto but shouted behind him. ‘Danny!’

The door at Winter’s back slid open and in walked Danny Neilson, a swathe of dressing at his neck and the signs of considerable padding below his ribcage. In his gloved hand, something small and silver was glinting.

‘Recognise this?’

‘That’s mine,’ Atto shrieked, quickly on his feet and his face turning purple with fury. He moved towards Danny and the guard behind him smartly moved off the wall and wrapped his arms around him. Atto shrugged him off, surprisingly easily throwing the officer back and reaching behind to throw his chair out of the way, his eyes an inferno. He got within two feet of Danny, who stood stock still, welcoming the threat despite his injuries and ready for the struggle, before the guard recovered and threw himself at Atto, knocking him to the floor and this time pinning him securely.

Atto lay on the floor, the beefy prison officer on top of him, his legs kicking furiously but helplessly. Danny stood over them, looking down at the little man, squashed and full of impotent rage.

‘You really think this is yours?’ Danny held the brooch out so that Atto could see it from his position of humiliation on the floor, taunting him with it, intent on making him angrier and angrier. ‘This isn’t yours. This is Christine Cormack’s.’

‘It’s mine!’ he screamed. ‘You have no right.’

‘Oh, and you have a right because you killed her? You really think so?’