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  ‘Give me a few minutes to get him settled,’ Sue said. ‘Help yourself to wine.’

  ‘No more for me, thanks. I’m already flirting with the limit for driving.’

  Sue picked up the remote control. ‘I’ll put on the telly so you can catch the ten o’clock news.’

  Tony turned down the volume on the television when he heard Sue coming back down the stairs.

  ‘Is Jamie okay?’

  ‘A bit hyper, but he’ll be fine. It was really kind of you to get him that jersey. He’s over the moon about it. He wanted to sleep in it. The only way I could get him to take it off was by telling him he wouldn’t want it to be crumpled when he shows it off to Sean.’

  Sue settled down on the settee beside Tony. ‘What time is it?’

  Tony checked his watch. ‘Ten minutes to go.’

  ‘I hope Dad’s going to be okay.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ Tony said, putting his arm around Sue’s shoulders. Tucking her legs underneath her on the settee, Sue snuggled in.

  Charlie found himself alone in the Green Room. He watched the ten o’clock news on a monitor, the lead story being about an amputated hand, with a nine of diamonds playing card and a smiley emoticon attached, having been dropped into a shopping trolley in Sainsbury’s in Braehead. This was followed by an update on the recent murders where the victims’ hands had been cut off at the wrist, the reporter concluding the item by stating that a BBC Scotland programme about the serial killer would be going out on the network immediately after the news.

  When Charlie was called into the studio he saw Fran Gibbons leafing through a clipboard of notes while conversing with a technician. She caught Charlie’s eye and waved him across. ‘Take a seat, Inspector,’ she said, indicating the two black leather chairs facing each other. Both chairs looked to be identical, though Fran’s appeared to be several inches higher off the ground.

  ‘I am in the right place?’ Fran looked at him quizzically. ‘I haven’t inadvertently stumbled into a recording session for Mastermind?’

  ‘Do I look like John Humphrys?’

  ‘I would have to say I don’t see much resemblance.’ Charlie studied the transformation. Black, sling-back, high-heeled shoes; slim ankles, nicely-rounded calves, albeit slightly knobbly knees. Fran was wearing a short, pinstriped skirt and her open-necked blouse was unbuttoned just enough to display a hint of cleavage. Her black hair was sculpted down one side of her face and Charlie noticed the subtle use of blusher to pick out her prominent cheek bone. ‘I’m sure my wife would appreciate getting your hairdresser’s phone number. It takes her hours to get ready when we’re going out.’

  Fran smoothed her hair unnecessarily as she pulled a vanity mirror from a pocket in the side of her chair to check her appearance. ‘You seem relaxed, Inspector. That’s a good sign.’

  Charlie pulled a face. ‘Relaxed is not the word that springs to mind.’

  A floor technician came across and clipped a small microphone onto the lapel of Charlie’s jacket. ‘Just look at Fran while you’re being interviewed, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Don’t look at the cameras.’ Charlie nodded.

  The studio lights dimmed as the closing news headlines segued into the weather forecast. Charlie was only half-listening, trying to anticipate what questions might be coming his way and how he would respond. The programme was introduced live by Fran and then her pre-recorded tape on the serial killer started running. Charlie moved onto the edge of his seat, his eyes glued to the monitor as Fran’s soft, lilting voice gave an account of the gypsy’s corpse being discovered in her caravan in Port Glasgow. She went on to describe the young girl’s body being recovered from the Clyde and the horrific nature of the murder on the London train. ‘In each of these cases,’ she stated, ‘The victim’s left hand was amputated at the wrist.’

  The scene switched to Argyle Street where Fran was talking to passers-by about the murders, the recurrent theme being that, if a serial killer is targeting twenty year-old blondes, the general public are shocked, but the majority of the population don’t feel threatened. However, when his victims are as disparate as a seventy-eight year old woman, a twenty-two year old female accountant and a middle-aged man, everyone is looking over their shoulder.

  ‘Sixty seconds, Fran, and counting.’ As Fran was cued in by the floor manager, the studio lights came up full and Charlie felt the heat as well as the glare. The switch to live action was seamless. Charlie pulled himself up straight in his seat.

  ‘Further upsetting details have come to light.’ Fran spoke to camera. ‘As reported on tonight’s news, an amputated hand materialised in a shopping trolley in Sainsbury’s in Braehead this morning, with a playing card, the nine of diamonds, and a yellow smiley emoticon stapled to the palm.’ She paused as the director cut to a full-screen shot of the front page of the early edition of one of the Saturday morning tabloids. “The Curse of Scotland Strikes Again!” in large, scarlet letters, dripping with blood. ‘That shopping trolley belonged to Mrs Kay Anderson,’ Fran continued, ‘the wife of the chief investigating officer, Detective Chief Inspector Charles Anderson of Glasgow CID. The BBC was contacted by an anonymous caller at lunchtime today and told that the dismembered hands of the first two victims had been sent to DCI Anderson – both of them with the murder’s calling card, the nine of diamonds and a smiley. This afternoon, Superintendent Hamilton confirmed to me that the information the caller had given the BBC was accurate – and Inspector Anderson has kindly agreed to be with us this evening.’

  The camera panned back slowly to include Charlie in the shot. Fran swung her chair round to face him. ‘Inspector, the city is on edge. What assurance can you give the public that the ‘nine of diamonds’ won’t strike again?’

  ‘While this person is on the loose, I cannot give any such assurance.’ Charlie could feel the sweat trickling from the tufts of hair on the nape of his neck and running down the inside of his shirt collar.

  ‘Is there any link between the victims?’

  ‘We have not established one so far.’

  ‘How many officers are involved in the hunt for the killer?’

  Charlie was taken aback by the question. ‘Er… let me see. Three of us are on the case full time and in addition to that there are several officers working on support activities and forensic analysis.’

  ‘Do you consider that level of manpower to be adequate?’

  ‘Yes… Yes, I think so.’

  ‘You think so?’ Fran queried. ‘Is it adequate, or not?’

  Charlie felt his mouth go dry. ‘What… what I mean to say,’ he said, trying to lick moisture back into his parched lips, ‘is that once you go beyond those kind of numbers, you introduce coordination and communication difficulties.’ Charlie sat on his hands to prevent himself pulling out his handkerchief to mop his glistening brow. ‘I can call on any additional resources I require, but, quite frankly, I wouldn’t know how to deploy anyone else right now.’

  ‘Two amputated hands were sent to you and a third one was put into your wife’s shopping trolley. Surely that must mean the killer is known to you?’

  ‘That’s a logical conclusion and it’s the assumption we’re working on.’

  ‘Could it be someone bearing a grudge against you?’

  ‘That seems probable. The problem is I’ve been on the force for over forty years and in that time I’ve made a lot of enemies – including some I probably don’t even know about.’

  ‘Have there been any eye witnesses? Anyone who might be able to identify the ‘nine of diamonds’?’

  ‘There have been three possible sightings. The murderer was seen at Irene McGowan’s campsite on the morning she was killed, but only from a distance. We believe he handed a parcel to a young boy in Sauchiehall Street, although the description the lad has been able to give us is sketchy. And we’re reasonably sure he was responsible for assaulting Ryan Ferrie, Zoe Taylor’s boyfriend, on the morning of her murder, but on that occasion he was wearing a balaclava t
o cover his face.’

  ‘Do you have enough of a description to publish an e-fit picture?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no.’

  ‘Why the nine of diamonds? What’s the significance of that?’

  ‘Apart from it being known as ‘The Curse of Scotland’, I have no idea.’

  ‘The smiley?’ Charlie shook his head. ‘Did your wife see anyone acting suspiciously while she was in Sainsbury’s?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And no one saw the amputated hand being put into her shopping trolley?’

  ‘Apparently not. We’ve launched an appeal for witnesses, but so far no one’s come forward.’

  ‘Was nothing picked up by CCTV cameras in the shop?’

  ‘That’s being checked out.’

  Fran’s line of questioning switched to Charlie’s personal feelings about his wife being terrorised by the killer and before he realised it she was turning full-on to the camera and saying goodnight. The title music cut in, the credits started rolling and the studio lights dimmed.

  ‘That wasn’t too bad now, was it?’ Fran said as the technician come across to pluck the microphone from Charlie’s lapel.

  Charlie tugged out his handkerchief with a shaking hand and smeared the soggy make-up across his brow. ‘Did I survive?’

  ‘The public know when someone’s trying to pull the wool over their eyes, Inspector, but you came across as sincere. I told you you’d be better off not knowing the questions in advance. What did you think of the programme?’

  ‘It’s hard to judge when you’re on the receiving end. I thought that plastering the blood-dripping, Hammer House of Horror tabloid headline across the screen was over the top.’

  ‘Too melodramatic?’ Fran smiled disarmingly. ‘If you think we were a bit B-movie, you should see what STV do with it.’

  ‘You had me going when you asked how many officers were assigned to the enquiry.’

  ‘I considered asking you if Superintendent Hamilton had allocated another three officers to compiling statistics about the murders, but that might have been below the belt.’ Fran’s fingers gripped her hairline and tugged off her wig.

  ‘Hey! That’s cheating.’

  ‘I don’t normally resort to the wig, but it’s useful for continuity purposes when I want my hair to look the same as in the pre-recorded item.’

  ‘So there’s no hope for my wife, then?’

  Fran teased out her crumpled hair with both hands. ‘It would appear not.’

  ‘Now that my ordeal by fire’s over, how about some reciprocal cooperation?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The anonymous caller to the BBC – what, exactly, did he say?’

  ‘I’m told he identified himself as the ‘nine of diamonds’ and stated that the first two murder victims’ hands, along with his calling card, had been sent to you at Pitt Street – and that a third hand had been put into your wife’s shopping trolley in Sainsbury’s this morning. He hung up before we could get anything else out of him.’

  ‘What about his accent?’

  ‘Run of the mill Glasgow, I was told.’

  ‘Who took the call?’

  ‘A switchboard operator.’

  ‘Would the call have been recorded?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so. It isn’t our practice to record calls.’

  ‘I’d like you to record all incoming calls from now on, in case he phones back.’

  ‘You’d have to discuss that with the Director.’

  ‘Can you arrange for me to see him?’

  ‘I can call his secretary and find out when he’s available.’

  Sue sat up straight on the settee and picked up the remote control to switch off the television. ‘I thought Dad did pretty well, under the circumstances.’

  ‘He did okay.’ Tony hesitated. ‘Do you think he might’ve had a drink before he went on?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Sue bristled. ‘What made you think that?’

  ‘It was just that he seemed a bit confused at one point, which isn’t like him.’

  ‘He’s under a lot of stress. That’s all it was.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Sue stared hard at Tony, then settled back with her head on his shoulder. ‘What do your instincts tell you?’ she asked. ‘You must have a theory.’

  Tony put his arm around her and started to stroke her hair gently. ‘I’ve got too many. That’s the problem. Too many possibilities – with nothing to link any of them to the murders. It’s needles and haystacks time.’

  A shiver ran the length of Sue’s spine as she snuggled in closer. ‘You realise we’re going to have to tell Dad about you coming here for dinner tonight? There’s no way Jamie’s going to keep quiet about who gave him his new Partick Thistle jersey.’

  Tony continued stroking Sue’s hair. ‘I’d come to that conclusion. The question is – who’s going to break the news to him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t leave it to Jamie, if I were you. He’ll tell Dad you didn’t know who Partick Thistle’s all-time top goal scorer was – and then you’ll really be in the shit.’

  ‘Would you like me to tell him?’ Tony asked.

  ‘I think it might be better coming from me.’ Sue got to her feet and crossed to the dining table where she re-filled Tony’s wine glass.

  ‘No more for me, thanks,’ Tony said, raising both hands in front of his face as Sue brought across the glass ‘Not when I’m driving.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Am I sure of what?’

  ‘That you’re driving?’

  ‘I have a choice?’

  ‘Never let it be said I don’t give people a second chance. If you can tell me who Thistle’s top goal scorer of all time was, there might be some afters after all.’

  Tony smiled as he took the proffered glass. ‘What about Jamie?’

  ‘Once he’s asleep, he’s out like a light – and he never wakes up early.’

  Tony took a sip of wine, then put the glass down on the coffee table. Standing up, he took Sue in his arms and started nibbling gently at her earlobe.

  ‘I’m waiting for an answer,’ she whispered.

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Who was Thistle’s top goal scorer of all time?’

  ‘Willie Sharp,’ he breathed in her ear.

  ‘Well done. Would you like to try for a second helping?’

  ‘I’ll give it a go.’

  ‘How many goals did Sharp score in his career?’

  ‘Let me think. How about five hundred and twenty seven?’

  ‘Close enough.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Saturday 25 June

  Charlie was sitting in his office, flicking through his mail, when his intercom buzzed.

  ‘I’ve got the Director of BBC Scotland on the line for you, sir.’

  ‘Thanks, Pauline. Put him through.’

  ‘Fran Gibbons left a message that you wanted to talk to me, Inspector.’

  ‘Thank you for calling on a Saturday morning. It’s concerning the anonymous phone call to the BBC yesterday, by the individual who identified himself as the nine of diamonds. In case he contacts you again, I’d like you to record all incoming calls to your Glasgow switchboard.’

  ‘Our legal department would have to clear that, Inspector, but as long as certain conditions are met, I wouldn’t anticipate a problem.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘We wouldn’t be prepared to give you carte blanche access to all our calls. However, I think we could agree to taping the incoming calls and letting you have the recording, if and when this nine of diamonds character phones us again.’

  ‘That’s fair enough.’

  ‘And we wouldn’t be willing to give an open-ended commitment about recording calls. There would have to be some kind of time limit.’

  ‘How about if you agree to record everything for the next week – and then we take a checkpoint?’

  ‘I can go along with that.’

  ‘Wake up, sleepyhead,’ Sue whis
pered. Fully dressed, she stood by the side of the bed and rocked Tony’s shoulder gently. ‘I let you sleep as long as I could, but Jamie’s liable to wake up soon and when he does I don’t want him to find you here.’

  ‘What time is it?’ Tony said, yawning as he sat up in bed.

  ‘After nine o’clock.’

  Interlocking his fingers, Tony yawned as he stretched both arms high his above his head. ‘And here was me hoping to break Willy Sharp’s scoring record.’

  ‘Not this morning, you won’t. Get up!’

  ‘What about my freshly-squeezed orange juice and scrambled eggs with smoked salmon?’

  ‘It’ll be scrambled brains you’ll be getting if you’re not out of that bed in one minute flat.’

  Tony reached across and wrapped his arms around Sue’s waist, pulling her towards him. He rested his head gently against her stomach. ‘Nine out of ten for last night’s meal,’ he said.

  ‘What do I need to do to get ten out of ten?’

  Sue slammed her hand over Tony’s mouth before he could answer. ‘I think I heard Jamie getting up,’ she whispered, straining her ears. ‘I’m sure I did. Get dressed – quickly – and tiptoe down the stairs. Don’t stand on the second step from the bottom. It squeaks,’ she said, untangling herself from his arms. ‘I’ll go to Jamie’s room and distract him.’

  ‘You mean – you’d be prepared to try to con a seven year-old?’

  ‘Will you be quiet!’ Sue said in a forced whisper.

  ‘Okay, okay. I’m on my way.’ Scrambling out of bed, Tony pulled on his underpants.

  ‘Leave the Yale lock on the front door on the snib so it doesn’t make a noise when you pull it closed behind you,’ Sue said, snatching up her mobile phone from the bedside table.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ Tony whispered, pulling on his shirt and his trousers before planting a kiss on the middle of Sue’s forehead.

  Jamie was out of bed when Sue rapped on his bedroom door. ‘How about you put on your Partick Thistle jersey so I can take some photos of you in it?’ she said. ‘Then you can choose the ones you want to send to Sean.’ When she heard the sound of a car engine starting up, Sue stole a glance out of the bedroom window in time to see Tony’s car pulling away from the kerb.