Killing With Confidence (22 page)

Right now, she’d give
anything not to be standing on a freezing street corner just off
Blythswood Square. A couple of potential punters had just driven
slowly by, inspecting the ‘goods’ and thought better of it despite
April’s best efforts to tempt them, leaning forward provocatively
so that her ample chest nearly spilled out of her top. Each time a
kerb crawler sped off she’d chuckle to herself ruefully, ‘I can’t
even tempt the pervs any more.’

Crosbie’s
surveillance team were stationed directly opposite April’s ‘patch’,
with an officer happily photographing the number plates and
occupants of every car that approached her. The two officers had
been given an intense briefing by DCI Crosbie, who had strenuously
warned them to be on full alert, saying, ‘I want pictures of
everyone, but even more importantly than that, do not, whatever you
fucking do, cunting lose sight of April Lavender. We’ll be in
enough shite if this cocking operation goes tits and fanny up for
using a civilian as bait in the arsing first place, never mind the
pissing crap the
Daily Herald
will pour over us.’

The surveillance team
had sat slack-jawed throughout Crosbie’s expletive-ridden briefing.
Afterwards one of them had remarked, ‘Do you think he’s alright? He
doesn’t half swear a lot.’

But they had remained
alert as instructed, with the 35mm lens of a Nikon camera trained
on April’s feeble attempts to drum up custom. A bin lorry was
slowly working its way down the road, warning lights flashing,
while its ‘sanitation officers’ collected the blue wheelie bins
stuffed full of paper for recycling from the numerous city centre
offices. It wasn’t long before the lorry’s giant yellow frame
filled the lens of the Nikon, as the bins were loaded and lifted
mechanically, and the contents dumped into the rear of the machine.
The lorry then rumbled on noisily.

The photographer put
his eye to the viewfinder before gently swivelling it left and then
right. He then peered out the back of the unmarked van with the
one-way glass to look at April’s street corner with the naked eye
before turning to his colleague in a state of mild panic and
swearing, ‘Oh fuck – she’s gone.’

45

Raw Fear

April had
known her fair share of men. She’d been married three times and had
several lovers before, after and occasionally during her marriages.
April had considered the Pill one of the greatest inventions ever
made, believing the claims that it was empowering and had given
women control of their bodies and their lives. But she would later
scoff at these opinions. Women could still contract sexually
transmitted diseases, many of which were far more serious for a
woman than the male carrier.

It also didn’t stop
certain men from forcibly having sex when they wanted. Nowadays
that was rightly called rape. But when April was first married it
became a normal part of her relationship. Her husband would come
back from the pub drunk, and whether April was sleeping or watching
the telly, they would have sex. How did the Pill empower women to
prevent that happening? The truth was, it didn’t.

April began to think
that the only people that the Pill truly benefited were men. She
had sometimes been slightly scared when her first brutish husband
had been in one of his moods. She could sense what was coming.
Mercifully, he wouldn’t hit her, although that was only after she
learned not to resist. But the middle-aged man who had just picked
her up truly terrified her. There was something primitive and
powerful about his whole demeanour and even his musk.

He had been perfectly
polite to begin with, explaining, ‘I’m a stranger in this town, so
I didn’t know where to come, if you know what I mean. But then I
saw you standing on the corner and thought,
bingo
! Yip, as
soon as I set eyes on you, I said to myself, “So this is where they
keep the disease-ridden, filthy old slags.”’

His smile had
remained fixed at first, making April wonder if she had really
heard what he’d said. But she was left in no doubt, when he turned
to face her while driving, with raw hatred in his eyes, and said
coldly, ‘I’m right, aren’t I? You’re a filthy old whore?’

April knew her
‘client’ was deliberately working himself up into a fury. She
attempted to steer the conversation away from the dangerous ground
it was heading and shrugged, saying mildly, ‘Well, we’ve all got to
earn a living, haven’t we, love?’

The chummy chat
wrong-footed Osiris momentarily before he regained his focus. He
had expected April to be rigid with fear after his cold threat. All
the others had been. Instead, she had acted as if she had misheard
him at first – which wasn’t uncommon where April was
concerned – then nonchalantly given a banal response as if
defending her profession on some tacky daytime talk show.

Osiris hadn’t planned
to take another victim. But, still excited by the thrill of leaving
Martin Seth swinging from the rafters of his lodge, he simply
couldn’t suppress his bloodlust when he spotted the opportunity to
pick up the ageing streetwalker.

The killer calmly
took control of the steering wheel with his left hand, before
throwing a short, powerful right jab across his body which caught
April squarely on the jaw, instantly knocking her out.

Osiris said, ‘Am I
making myself loud and clear now, bitch? You are going to die.’



DCI Crosbie
had also briefly lost sight of April as the bin lorry passed. But
he had been quicker to respond than the surveillance unit, slipping
his unmarked BMW into gear and moving into the unusually heavy
traffic to follow the dark red Mondeo in front.

He could clearly see
a blonde-haired woman in the passenger seat beside the male driver.
‘I cunting know this is my motherfucker. Who else but a crazy
serial killer prick would go to the red light cocksucking district
when he knows the coppers will be trawling the joint?’ Crosbie
caught sight of his own gleeful expression in his rear-view mirror
and moaned, ‘I don’t have a clue who I am any more.’

The man in the mirror
smiled back. ‘Don’t worry arsehole – together we’re going
right to the top. Imagine the fucking fun, frolics and damage we
could do as Chief Constable. Jeez, it’d be a laugh – and we’ll
get there by catching this twathead.’

Crosbie picked up his
radio to speak to the controller, ‘I need a number plate checked
out. It’s ‘SC08 TWF – that’s Shit Cunt Zero Eight Titty Wank
Fuck. Did you get that?’

‘Er, yes, DCI
Crosbie,’ replied a twitchy controller, ‘we’ll get that checked out
right away.’



Connor was
also finding the traffic tricky to negotiate. The
Daily
Herald
photographer in the passenger seat urged the reporter to
drive closer to the red Mondeo. ‘Come on, Elvis, I can’t get any
snaps from this distance,’ Jack Kennedy complained.

No matter how
meticulous Crosbie, Connor and April had been plotting their
streetwalker sting, it had still managed to implode over an
unexpected bin lorry and heavy traffic from a concert at the
Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre.

Connor suddenly felt
the need to quote the Bard, Rabbie Burns: ‘The best-laid plans o’
mice and men. Gang aft agley.’



DCI Crosbie
had the Mondeo in his sights. After April had got in at Blythswood
Square, the car had hung right into Hope Street and headed towards
Charing Cross, where it could join the M8 motorway in either
direction. Crosbie knew he’d need to have his wits about him. The
traffic was almost gridlocked around the junctions thanks to the
concert at SECC, with 8,000 music fans all heading over at the same
time.

The red Mondeo was
waiting at the lights. Crosbie focused on his prey as he sat just
three cars behind. He could see the heads angled slightly towards
each other – maybe April was still negotiating a price. ‘Or
maybe the dirty bastard is trying to get some discount after seeing
the goods.’

Crosbie’s alter ego
let out a cackle that made his skin crawl. His inner self both
appalled and impressed him. He hated his callousness but loved his
confidence. He could actually feel the self-belief coursing through
his veins when his alter ego asserted himself. It felt dangerous
but invigorating at the same time – as if he could tackle
anything.

Right now he was
confident he had a serial killer in his sights. This was a murderer
of prostitutes the length and breadth of the UK – someone who
had always managed to evade the long arm of the law since god knows
when. It just had to be him. The car’s description matched the
grainy photo supplied by the cousin of April’s friend. This
multiple murderer would be unable to ignore his urge to kill. DCI
David ‘Bing’ Crosbie finally had him in his sights.

‘You won’t be a DCI
for much longer when you feel this cunt’s collar,’ his inner self
cackled once more. But, like many over-confident people, Crosbie’s
split personality was also arrogant.

His smile cracked
when the Mondeo suddenly indicated and pulled out of the queue of
traffic for the motorway. He had no choice but to break cover and
follow the target along Argyle Street into Anderston district,
where the car indicated right and performed a U-turn. Any last
pretence of following discreetly would be blown if Crosbie
performed the same manoeuvre. Instead, he waited until the car
passed him on the opposite side of the road, when he took a very
clear mental picture of the driver, before performing his own
U-turn and following.

The target was
driving back towards Blythswood Square. Maybe he wasn’t horny any
more after just five minutes in April’s company. Crosbie scoffed,
‘I know how you feel, pal.’ He reckoned listening to the ageing
hack prattling on would have the most law-abiding person in a
homicidal rage. ‘Come on, man – don’t chicken out. Do her!’
Crosbie screamed at his windscreen. He could still bring him in for
soliciting even if he didn’t actually attack April.

The Mondeo pulled up
outside the plush boutique hotel Malmaison on West George Street.
Alarm bells started ringing in Crosbie’s ears. ‘This can’t be
right – no murderer would take a manky old hooker into such a
posh hotel.’

Crosbie parked across
the street just as the driver stepped out of his car. He was tall,
well built, wearing jeans, a bomber jacket and trainers more suited
to a man at least half his age. His frame obscured Crosbie’s view
of April as she got out of the car. A concierge appeared as the
driver shouted in a loud American accent, ‘Jeez, buddy, this place
is hard to find, especially when you make me drive on the wrong
side of the road.’

Crosbie felt sick to
the pit of his stomach. The big Yank moved to the boot of the car
to retrieve his luggage, giving Crosbie a clear view of his
passenger. The peroxide hair and stature were all the same –
but it was most definitely not April Lavender.

46

Death Becomes
Her

After
gagging April and restraining her hands behind her back with
plastic ties, Osiris had heaved her unconscious, bound body into
the back seat of the Mondeo. He had ripped open her blouse and
pulled up her bra. ‘Just look at your saggy old tits. You disgust
me,’ he snarled, before slapping her hard with the back of his
hand.

The car was parked in
a deserted street in Glasgow’s Kinning Park, outside a plumber’s
merchant. He had chosen his spot days previously, noting how the
street had little traffic, no CCTV and was long enough to easily
spot anyone approaching at a distance in either direction.

Satisfied he had
prepped properly, he congratulated himself on following his
American life guru’s advice to the letter. ‘Make a plan, work out
every little detail and just do it, people! What are you waiting
for? Do it, do it, do it!’ The studio crowd had reached fever
pitch, screaming, ‘DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!’

If only they all knew
what they were just about to encourage Osiris to do.

He ripped April’s
underwear off. The reporter came to, with fear and confusion in her
eyes. Osiris was unbuckling his trousers. He grabbed her painfully
by the throat and told her, ‘I am going to fuck you and kill you at
the same time, you fat old whore.’ He smashed his fist into April’s
face, before punching her body repeatedly.

The pain was
excruciating. April could hardly breathe. She knew death was upon
her.

Suddenly, a female
voice shouted, ‘Aye, that’s the cunt, alright!’ before 50,000 volts
from a Taser stun gun coursed through Osiris’s body. He had never
felt pain like it before. After the sharp jolt the killer lay
paralysed and helpless as his hands and feet were bound with
plastic ties, similar to the ones he’d so often used on his own
victims.

Osiris was then
hauled to his feet by three men the size of gorillas. He looked at
the face he’d just smashed to a pulp in his red Mondeo. Blood was
splattered all over the inside of the windows. His victim had been
a gusher, probably because she was on medication for high blood
pressure, he guessed. It had happened to him before with the older
ones.

Scottish newspaper
legend April Lavender was now barely recognisable. Her battered and
bruised body lay crumpled in the back of Osiris’s car.

A whiny female voice
said, ‘Look at the state of that poor auld burd. That’s whit he’d
huv dun tae me, the fucking beast. I hope youse fuck him up
good.’

In what felt like
slow motion Osiris turned his head and managed to focus on the
source of the most guttural Glaswegian accent he’d ever
heard – which was quite something in a city where it seemed
everyone spoke their own version of English. It was a girl. Or, to
be more accurate, the prostitute who had given him oral sex two
nights previously, before he’d stuffed money into her mouth and
chucked her out the car.