Witness the Dead (44 page)

Shit. That was it, they formed a perfect triangle. He hurried back to the first free computer terminal and brought up a search engine. ‘Glasgow’, ‘Necropolis’, ‘Triangle’. Nothing. He tried ‘Necropoleis’. Nothing. ‘Equilateral’. Nothing.

He scrabbled about in a desk drawer until he found a ruler and returned to the map, aware that Narey and Giannandrea were looking at him oddly and that they were probably making faces behind his back. Never mind. He wasn’t going to say anything, though, because this was going to sound as stupid as anything he had said so far.

He placed the clear plastic ruler on the map from the Southern to the Eastern and measured, doing the same on all three sides of his newly unearthed triangle. He carefully placed three other pins, blue ones this time, within the corners of each of the three cemeteries and measured again. They were exactly the same distance apart. They formed a perfect equilateral triangle, all three sides the same length.

Toshney retreated to a desk and sat down, unsure what to make of his discovery and unsure whether to voice it. Did it even mean anything? The last thing he needed was to draw further mockery or even just to be a pain in the butt for wasting their time by mentioning it. He got to his feet and went back to the map, staring at the triangle, deep into its heart, wishing its secret to reveal itself. He got his ruler again, fully aware he was being stared at, and traced lines from each point to the far side of the triangle, creating a point at its very centre. When he saw the product of that, he sat down again, fretting.

‘What the bloody hell is it, Fraser?’ Narey could take no more of the pantomime.

Toshney curled inside, dreading the words coming out, sure that he would make some stupid joke to cover his doubts. Maybe she’d just ignore him.

‘Toshney!’

‘It’s probably nothing, Sarge.’

She sighed. ‘I don’t have much time today. Spit it out.’

‘This is probably going to sound a bit stupid.’

‘Yes, probably.’

‘Well, I was looking at the map, and the necropoleis – well, three of them at any rate – form a triangle. Well, obviously it’s three of them, as it’s a triangle but . . . anyway . . . it’s an equilateral.’

‘What?’

Toshney got to his feet and pointed at his newly placed blue pins. Narey and Giannandrea following him sceptically.

‘They’re exactly the same distance apart. I measured them.’

‘Okay . . . And . . .?’

‘Well, that’s what I thought, too, Sarge, and then I looked again. This is probably the stupid bit. But our man has a thing for the necropoleis, right? And we’re pretty sure he lives close enough that he can get to them easily. And everything he does has been planned from the start. Well . . .’

Toshney hesitated again and Narey’s frustration went over the top.

‘Well what? Tell me now or get to . . . Whatever it is, tell me.’

‘Well, say he wanted to stay in a place right at the middle of these three. I drew lines and the middle of them is right here.’ Toshney jabbed at the map with his forefinger. ‘Tobago Street.’

Narey and Giannandrea looked at each other.

‘It’s where Ritchie Stark lives. Remember we interviewed him there and I asked why the hell anyone would move into a street like that if they came up from Nottingham? You think that might be our link? It’s only a thought, probably a bit of a stupid—’

‘Fraser, the only stupid question is the one that you don’t ask. The only sensible question is the one that you already know the answer to. You understand?’

‘Um, no. Not really . . .’

Narey sighed. ‘Think about it. In the meantime, get your jacket. We’re going to Tobago Street.’

Chapter 52

Addison could have phoned, of course he could, but he’d chosen not to. He could have sent someone else to do what was basically message-boy stuff, but he hadn’t wanted to. The reason was transparent, at least to him, but he hoped that it wouldn’t be quite as obvious to her.

His fist was drawn back, just about to knock on the door of the lab, when he stopped on seeing her through the glass pane. She had her back to him, unfeasibly long legs slightly apart as she bent over a desk examining something. He stood there for far longer than a man investigating a triple murder should have done. She began to stand up and in an instant of panic he rapped on the door much harder than was necessary.

Sam Guthrie turned, quizzical and annoyed, wondering who felt the need to batter on her door in such a manner. Seeing Addison seemed to explain it all and she let her eyebrows rise in mild despair before beckoning him in.

‘DI Addison, how nice to see you again. Have you not settled on a shade of lipstick you prefer yet?’

Just in the door and the woman was busting his balls already. Maybe he should have just phoned.

‘No, not this time. Same case but different tack. I need some DNA profiling done and I need to know how quickly you could do it.’

Guthrie tilted her head to the side and smiled knowingly. ‘How quickly
I
can do it? I’m not sure why you think I’d be the person responsible. Should you not have approached Campbell Baxter in the first instance? Or could you not simply have telephoned to ask?’

He decided to brazen it out.

‘Yes, I could have done either of those things but, as your lab will be responsible for carrying out the sampling, I thought you would be best placed to tell me what I need to know. And, as I will be personally asking a favour to get these delivered as soon as possible, it seemed only courteous to ask face to face rather than over the telephone.’

Guthrie nodded thoughtfully. ‘Okay, DI Addison, you have my full attention. What can we do for you?’

‘I have suspects in the cemetery killings investigation. I want to do a DNA profile on them and match it against the sample taken from the Caledonia Road church. And I need it done today.’

Guthrie leaned back against the desk behind her and crossed her arms.

‘Suspects? Plural? To compare with a particularly poor sample? And today? DI Addison, are you confusing us with those television programmes, where the difficult is done immediately and the impossible merely takes a little longer? How many suspects do you have?’

Addison sighed, knowing the reaction he was going to get.

‘Five.’

‘Ha. Five? Seriously? DI Addison, is this some new approach to police work where you just bring in everyone you can think of who has a certain letter in their name?’

‘Look, Miss Guthrie—’

‘Don’t Miss Guthrie me, Detective Inspector. Five DNA profiles cannot and will not be done in any accelerated manner. When were you hoping this would be done by?’

He swallowed, almost beaten. ‘Ten hours.’

She laughed in his face. ‘Try again.’

‘Sam, this guy has killed three young women. He’s planning to kill another one tonight. Yes, I’m desperate. And, yes, I’m clutching at straws. But I need help with this.’

‘Okay, I don’t appreciate the emotional blackmail of being told there are women’s lives on the line. I’ll help, we’ll help, all we can. But there is only so much we can do. Five samples in that time is not physically possible. If we put everything else on hold, if we put everyone we have on it and if we work flat out, we can do two profiles in that time. That’s my best offer.’

‘Okay, I’ll take it.’

‘You can choose between the five?’

‘Yes, if I need to.’

‘You do. And if you can make the choice then perhaps you shouldn’t have five of them in custody, or helping with your enquiries or however else you are putting it. If I were representing any of them, then that’s what I’d be telling you.’

‘Then I’m glad you’re not duty solicitor for any of them. When can we get started?’

She looked at her watch, a silver band on her slim wrist. ‘Now. Let me get my kit. Who are your two suspects?’

‘Stevo Barclay. He runs the tattoo parlour where Kirsty McAndrew was inked and he did the job. He’s admitted fabricating an alibi for the night of the second killing. And Ritchie Stark, the other tattooist. He provided the fake alibi, and Rachel Narey and one of the DCs are off to his place with some nutty theory about his flat being in the middle of some triangle.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘You obviously know that, unless they volunteer a sample, you don’t have a right to swab them unless they’ve been arrested.’

‘Obviously I do know that. Which is why I’m going to arrest them. Ready? Let’s go.’

Chapter 53

Every minute spent talking to Atto felt like a lifetime. Even the scraps that Atto threw his way were laced with poisonous prices that had to be paid.

The little information that he was prepared to part with about Melanie Holt or Louise Shillington was of the double-edged-sword variety. The obvious relish with which he told of their murders was as loathsome as the details themselves. He spoke of the softness of their flesh and the brittleness of their neck bones, casually mixing perverse sensuality with psychotic brutality as if they were one and the same. He told of the noises they made, luxuriating in the memory.

He forced Winter and the watching prison governor to listen to how he had raped Louise Shillington under the pretence of giving clues to where she was buried. Atto’s delusional insistence that she enjoyed the atrocity committed upon her was spiked with references to a wood outside Ipswich with a stream running through the centre of it. The hints as to the location were the bait; the sickening details were the trap.

Winter’s principal task was to get him to talk about the son, but Atto insisted that the price to be paid for that was a foul indulgence. If Winter also wanted dialogue about the whereabouts of the lost girls, then Atto would make sure he would be charged for that too.

‘Tell me more about the wood with the stream where you took Louise. Is it far from the main road?’

‘Far enough. It has to be, you see. When you know that they are likely to try to scream, then you don’t want that to be overheard. Louise tried to scream but it’s difficult to do when you have two strong thumbs pressing against your windpipe, two hands clasped round your pale, slender neck. Louise was so fair-skinned and she bruised so easily. The moment my hands were on her neck, I could see it begin to change colour. Her face too. It was so red, like it was on fire. Of course’ – and here Atto looked at him and sneered – ‘none of this might be true.’

‘Did you kill her near the stream?’

‘Did I? I really can’t remember. Let me try and picture it. She is underneath me, naked from the waist down. Her pretty brown eyes looking up at me, wanting more. I can smell sex and a sweet perfume. I know my hands are going to go round her neck again. This time will be the last time and she will be gone. You know, I can hear the stream, Anthony. Not too far away, off to my right. It must be close.’

‘Was she your favourite?’

Atto looked up, surprised at the question but intrigued by it.

‘Do you have a favourite, Anthony? Of all the dead creatures you’ve photographed, do you have one that you prefer over the others?’

Winter sank inside, forced by his own game to reveal more of himself to the man opposite. His mind flashed to the wall in the second bedroom of his flat in Berkeley Street, twenty photographs in five obsessively neat rows of four; each framed in black ash, each representing a moment of death. These were his favourites, his chosen few.

‘I have one or two, I suppose.’

‘One or two. Like being asked to choose between your children, isn’t it? But all parents have favourites, whether they admit it or not. Who is yours, Anthony?’

Winter had the answer ready but still had to steel himself to give it, knowing he was about to soil something by sharing it with Atto.

‘Her name was Avril Duncanson. She went head first through the windscreen of a Renault Clio. I photographed her lying in a shroud of glass, the top of her skull smashed and her ribcage caved in. The remarkable thing was that her face was almost completely unmarked, spared by the way she’d ducked her head just before the point of collision.’

‘And why is she your favourite?’

‘She was my first.’

Atto smiled happily and broadly, his dark eyes full of approval.

‘Yes. Yes, that’s it. You never forget your first, do you? Your first kiss, your first love, your first lover.’

‘Your first kill?’

Atto shrugged, more defensive now. Winter sensed it but wasn’t for stopping.

‘Is your favourite the first one? It is, isn’t it? She was more special because it was your first taste of it. Do you remember her more than the rest?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

Winter had hit the nerve he’d hoped for. He’d always said that Danny Neilson was the smartest man he’d ever known and he had no reason to change his mind.

‘Why not, Archibald? You are usually very keen to talk about them. Why is that?’

‘I just don’t want to.’

Winter pushed. ‘Well,
I
want to. I want to hear about your first.’

Atto responded the way he usually did when challenged or offended: like a petulant child, either hiding away from the perceived insult or lashing out.

‘You don’t get to hear about it unless I want you to. I try to talk to you, man to man, Anthony. Like two people who understand each other. But you’re abusing that privilege.’

‘Well, maybe I’ll just have to take that chance.’

Atto’s eyes darkened and his lip rose in a snarl. Winter saw it again, the look on the monster’s face that must have been the last thing seen by so many.

‘You’re already taking too many chances. You
and
your uncle. I’d be very, very careful about taking any more. You are both on extremely dangerous ground.’

‘Is that a threat? If so, it’s not from you. You’re in here.’

Atto laughed coldly. ‘
Fishing
, Anthony? There’s no need. I’ll tell you. My newfound child has been watching you and your uncle. He knows where you both live. He knows where you go, what you do.’

Danny had already dismissed Atto’s talk of the son knowing that he and Winter were on his case as an empty threat, not believing that he would target them rather than the police who were also after him. He’d told Tony it was just Atto trying to be in control despite being behind bars.