Cutting Edge Page 9

  Charlie flicked through the second page of the report, which included Zoe’s address and information about her boyfriend, Ryan Ferrie. It stated that her mother had been informed that her daughter’s body had been recovered from the Clyde and that her father, Sam Taylor, a long distance lorry driver, was en route from Germany and was expected back in Glasgow on the evening of Thursday 23rd June. Mrs Taylor had been requested to go to the city mortuary, together with her husband, on the morning of the 24th June to formally identify their daughter’s body. The report went on to say that the police had not been able to trace Ryan Ferrie. Mrs Taylor had provided the address of the flat that Ferrie shared with Zoe and also the phone numbers for the flat and Ferrie’s mobile – neither of which he was answering.

  While he was reading, Charlie heard a tentative knock on his office door. ‘Come in!’ he called out, placing the report back in his in-tray.

  Mhairi Orr eased open the door and stuck her head round. ‘I’m Dr Orr, Inspector. Am I too early?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Charlie said, getting to his feet. ‘Can I get you something to drink, doctor? Coffee? Tea?’

  ‘Nothing for me, thanks.’

  Mhairi put her briefcase down on the floor and slipped her jacket from her slim shoulders. Her short, brown hair was pulled back from her narrow face and held in position by a silver clasp. She was wearing a midnight-blue blouse that was a perfect match for her straight, knee-length skirt.

  Charlie sat back down as Mhairi draped her jacket neatly over the back of the chair opposite his desk. Even in her high heels, he reckoned she couldn’t be an inch over five feet tall.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Inspector?’ Mhairi said as she settled down on the chair.

  ‘It looks like there could be a serial killer operating,’ Charlie stated. ‘And if that’s the case, as you know, Superintendent Hamilton has issued instructions that you should be consulted. However, I don’t think you’ll be able to contribute much at this stage as we have very little to go on.’

  Mhairi moved forward onto the edge of her seat. ‘What do you have?’

  ‘On Monday morning, an elderly woman was murdered in a gypsy encampment on the outskirts of Port Glasgow. Her body was found in her caravan.’

  ‘I read about that in the papers. Her hand had been cut off, I believe.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘What you didn’t read in the press was that her amputated hand was sent from St Vincent Street post office on Monday morning, in a shoe box, addressed to me.’

  Mhairi stretched down for her brief case and took out her iPad. ‘I’ll take notes as we go along, if that’s all right,’ she said, flipping back the cover of her tablet and balancing it on her knees.

  ‘Are you aware that a young girl’s body was recovered from the Clyde last night?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘I heard about that on the news. The report said that her hand had been cut off, too.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Apart from the fact that both victims had a hand amputated,’ Mhairi asked, ‘do you have any reason to believe the murders are connected?’ She had her eyes cast down, tapping at her keypad as she spoke. ‘Might it be possible that a different person carried out a copycat amputation when he, or she, read the press reports about the first victim?’

  ‘Not in this case.’ Charlie spoke emphatically. ‘The second victim’s hand was also sent here. A man gave a parcel to a kid in Sauchiehall Street and told him to bring it here and say it was a present for me. Both hands were delivered in identical shoe boxes, both shoe boxes had a playing card, the nine of diamonds, with a smiling emoticon attached, stapled to the side.’ Mhairi glanced up quickly, frowning, before resuming typing. ‘We’ll need to wait for the post mortem for confirmation,’ Charlie continued, ‘but it’s probable the same instrument was used to cut off both of the victims’ hands – some kind of serrated blade. The fact that two murders have been committed – and both victims had their left hand amputated – has been reported in the press, but the information that the hands were sent here, in shoe boxes, addressed to me, with the nine of diamonds and the smiley, isn’t in the public domain. There is no doubt that the same person committed both murders.’

  Mhairi’s fingers skated over her keypad, then she looked up. ‘Have you been able to establish any connection between the victims?’

  ‘Not so far. Irene McGowan, a seventy-eight year-old gypsy, was strangled. There appears to have been no physical assault prior to her being murdered. I’ve just seen the initial report on the second murder,’ Charlie said, indicating the document on his desk. ‘The victim there was a trainee accountant who worked in the city. It seems she was strangled and her neck was broken. As far as we’re aware, there’s nothing to link the two victims. Chalk and cheese, you might say.’

  ‘And the only common factor in all this, Inspector – appears to be you?’

  ‘So it would seem.’ Charlie let out a sigh. ‘Chalk, cheese – and Charlie Anderson.’

  ‘Are there any precedents for this kind of attack?’

  ‘Precedents?’

  ‘Have there been any other murders in Glasgow recently where the killer amputated his victim’s hand?’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, there’s been nothing like that, here or elsewhere.’

  ‘What do you know about the assailant?’

  ‘Very little. All we have are a couple of sketchy descriptions. The person who murdered Irene McGowan was tall – and he was wearing a cap, on backwards – and the man who gave Zoe Taylor’s hand to a kid in Sauchiehall Street was wearing a baseball cap, on backwards.’

  ‘And the same calling card each time, the nine of diamonds and a yellow smiley,’ Mhairi said. ‘Any idea what that might be about?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘He may be wearing the baseball cap because he wants to be noticed, which might mean he’s egotistical to the extent of being arrogant. That may be part of his game.’

  ‘What is his game?’

  ‘I’ve no idea – but we need to find out quickly. I don’t think he’s finished playing.’

  ‘You think he’s liable to strike again?’

  ‘Once serial killers get a taste for it, they rarely stop at two. But already, this is an unusual pattern.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘What we normally see with serial killers is a comparatively long interval between the first and second murders, then the attacks become more frequent as his self-confidence grows. But this guy has struck on consecutive days – Monday and Tuesday. He’s a man in a hurry.’

  ‘Where do you go from here?’

  ‘My area of expertise is in building up a profile of the killer by analysing the nature of the crime and comparing it to the types of people who have committed similar offences in the past. In order to do that, I’ll be looking for patterns in the motivation for the crimes.’

  ‘Such as whether or not he’s got a down on womankind because his mother didn’t love him or his girlfriend gave him the shove?’

  ‘A more targeted approach than that. Psychological gratification is the driver for most serial killers and usually a specific group is targeted, such as people of the same religion, ethnicity, sex or age group – and there is often sexual contact with the victims.’

  ‘As far as we know, that doesn’t appear to be the case.’

  ‘Attention seeking is a prime motivational factor – and the method of killing is usually similar each time.’

  ‘This guy’s method of killing was more or less the same – and on both occasions the left hand was amputated, but I’m at a loss to see anything that would link his victims.’

  ‘There must be a link – and that’s what I want to establish. To that end, I’d like to see all the documentation you have on the murders: forensic reports, locations, method of attack, as well as the statements from the people who saw the killer, and also the background reports on the victims.’

  ‘I can organise that for you.’

  ‘I’d also like
to see the case notes for all serious assaults perpetrated by males on females in the city in, say, the past five years – whether or not the criminal was caught.’

  ‘Do you realise how much data you’re talking about?’

  ‘A lot, I would imagine.’

  ‘A hell of a lot. What purpose will it serve?’

  ‘Serial killers don’t always start out as murderers. There’s often a build-up. They might begin with assaults, perhaps migrate to rapes – and when that no longer does it for them, they up the ante. The cases I’ll focus on are those where a female was attacked by a stranger – I think we can rule out domestics – and I’ll include all the cases where there was a tendency towards exhibitionism. I’ll run the data through my computer module and see if anything resembling a pattern emerges. However, from what we’ve got so far, Inspector,’ Mhairi said, tapping her iPad screen, ‘it would appear that the killer only really wants one person to notice. You. So I’d like you to compile a list of all the criminals who might consider they have a score to settle with you.’

  ‘I’ll have a go,’ Charlie said, scratching at his bald head. ‘But I’m warning you, it’s going to be a long list.’

  ‘If you could provide me with copies of all the relevant reports and case notes, I’ll trawl through them and run a preliminary analysis this afternoon. I’ll drop by tomorrow morning to pick up your list and cross-match it with the data to see if that throws up anything. If you need to contact me in the meantime,’ Mhairi said, taking a business card from her briefcase and placing it on Charlie’s desk, ‘those are my home and my mobile numbers and also my office number.’

  CHAPTER 6

  By the time the train from Oban pulled into Queen Street Station, Pete Johnston had less than fifteen minutes to get to Glasgow Central to catch his connection. He hurried along the platform, across the concourse, and down the flight of stone steps into George Square. The pavement was crowded as he weaved his way down the side of the square and turned into St Vincent Street. He glanced longingly at The Drum and Monkey as he rounded the corner into Renfield Street, then broke into a trot as he crossed Gordon Street and hurried through the main entrance to Central Station.

  Johnston stood with his right hand on his knee, bent almost double, breathing heavily as he scanned the large, electronic departures board, searching for the platform number for the twelve o’clock train to London. When he found it, he hurried to the platform. Having memorised his carriage and seat number, he saw he was in the second carriage from the ticket barrier. Clambering on board, he collapsed into his aisle seat in the middle of the compartment, panting for breath. He balanced the attaché case on his knees and leaned back in his seat, breathing in and out deeply as he heard the guard sound his whistle. He felt the shuddering motion as the train started to trundle forward.

  Ten minutes out of Glasgow, a tall, bearded figure, carrying a small suitcase, came through the door from the rear compartment. Adjusting his black-framed spectacles, he tugged the peak of his baseball cap low over his eyes as he made his way up the aisle, swaying from side to side with the rocking motion of the train. When he was level with Johnston’s seat, he barged into his shoulder.

  ‘Go easy, mate,’ Johnston said, holding out a steadying arm.

  ‘Sorry!’ Grabbing hold of Johnston’s wrist, he thrust a folded slip of paper into his hand before moving on quickly towards the front of the carriage. With a puzzled frown, Johnston unfolded the note. The message was typed in capital letters.

  INSTRUCTIONS FROM HASSAM SALMAN.

  THERE’S BEEN A CHANGE OF PLAN.

  FOLLOW ME TO THE TOILETS.

  I HAVE THE KEYS FOR THE HANDCUFFS AND I

  WILL NOW TAKE CHARGE OF THE BRIEFCASE.

  Johnston’s eyes flicked up from the page, but the man had already disappeared from sight. His mind started to race. What was going on? Was this some kind of trick? Should he go after him? He licked hard at his lips and read the note again, trying to figure out what to do. How could it be a con? The man knew Hassam Salman’s name. He knew about the briefcase and, if he had the keys for the handcuffs, surely it had to be genuine? Deciding he needed to find out what was going on, he stuffed the note into his anorak pocket and pulled himself to his feet, steadying himself with his right hand against the sides of the seats as he swayed his way up the aisle towards the front of the compartment. When he passed through the narrow corridor leading to the adjoining carriage, he saw the toilet door was swinging on its hinges.

  ‘In here!’ the insistent voice urged. ‘Quickly.’

  As soon as Johnston had lurched into the cubicle, the door was slammed shut and the bolt rammed home. There was barely room for both of them to stand upright in the cramped space. The man facing him was now wearing an ankle-length, black, plastic mackintosh and his hands were encased in thin rubber gloves. His baseball cap was twisted round backwards.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Johnston pulled the note from his pocket and waved it in the taller man’s face. ‘Who the hell are you and what’s all this about a change of plan?’

  ‘You got the message. You’ve to give me the case.’

  Johnston glared at him. ‘If I’ve to give you the case, mate, where are the keys for the fucking handcuffs?’

  ‘I’ve got them here,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. Johnston’s bloodshot eyes went out on stalks when he saw the glint of steel and the startled look remained frozen to his features as the stiletto blade was plunged deep into the pit of his stomach. Johnston clawed at his bleeding paunch with his right hand. The blade was wrenched out and driven again and again into his guts, jets of warm, crimson blood splattering against the walls of the cubicle.

  When Johnston tried desperately to twist away, the knife was pumped several times into his kidneys. Within seconds, he passed out. There was no room for him to fall to the ground and he slumped forward against the wash hand basin, blood still seeping from his wounds.

  Propping the lifeless body in a sitting position on the toilet seat, the assailant took a thin hacksaw blade from his suitcase and used it to saw through Johnston’s left wrist, the brittle bone splintering as a fountain of blood cascaded from the lanced arteries and spurted in all directions.

  When he’d sawn through the wrist, he tugged off his bloodstained mackintosh and wrapped it around the severed hand. Taking a zip-up, plastic freezer bag from his suitcase, he inserted the still-oozing parcel, then sealed the freezer bag before placing it inside his case. He slid the handcuff over Johnston’s dismembered wrist and placed the attaché case, with the handcuffs still attached, inside his case.

  He checked his watch. The whole operation had taken less than four minutes – comfortably within his schedule. He picked up the note Johnston had dropped onto the cubicle floor and then went through Johnston’s pockets methodically, removing all his possessions and his rail tickets, as well as the ticket stub for the Mull ferry. Tugging off his blood-soaked gloves, he dropped them into his suitcase. He took a long scarf from his case and wrapped it around his neck, using it to cover his nose and his mouth, then he twisted his baseball cap round and tugged the brim low over his eyes. He snapped his case closed and wrenched open the opaque toilet window to check where they were. As the train started slowing down on the approach to Motherwell station, he slid back the bolt on the cubicle door to the accompaniment of the complaining squeal as the engine’s brakes started to be applied. Waiting until the train had come to a juddering stop, he picked up his case and stepped out into the corridor, pulling the toilet door closed behind him. He moved quickly through the forward compartment until he got to the far end of the carriage. Opening the door, he stepped down onto the platform and he kept his eyes cast down as he hurried towards the exit, his suitcase tucked firmly underneath his arm. Outside the station, he got into the back seat of a black Ford Focus that was waiting there.

  ‘Did you get it?’ the driver asked, as he accelerated away.

  ‘Everything went according to plan.’ When the
y were clear of the station, he carefully peeled off his false beard and removed his spectacles. Taking the attaché case from his suitcase, he slipped it under the passenger seat. ‘You know where to drop me off?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  The man in black, who had been sitting a few rows behind Johnston, had started to become concerned about the time Johnston was taking in the toilet. As the train rumbled to a halt in the station, he got out of his seat and made his way up the aisle. When he reached the corridor he saw a trickle of blood seeping from under the door of the nearest cubicle. He kicked hard on the toilet door and, as it swung open on its hinges, he was confronted with the gruesome sight. Swearing under his breath, he yanked the door closed and moved quickly up the train, following the trail of bloodstained footprints until they petered out near the open carriage door. He yanked on the communication cord before getting off the train. Hurrying towards the station entrance, he pulled his phone from his pocket and clicked onto a number. He spat out his matchstick as soon as the call was answered.

  ‘This is Farrell,’ he snapped. ‘I need to speak to Kenicer – right now!’

  ‘Hold on, I’ll get him for you.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Mitch Kenicer asked when he came to the phone.

  ‘They got Johnston.’

  ‘Fuck! Where?’

  ‘On the train – at Motherwell Station.’

  ‘The consignment?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘How the hell did they manage to get it?’