‘The same thing occurred to me,’ Addison agreed. ‘Unless she walked in here alive.’
Narey shook her head.
‘You’re thinking like a man. I don’t scare easy but I don’t think I’d be in a hurry to go into the creepiest place in Glasgow in the middle of the night. Not with someone capable of murder.’
Addison shrugged. ‘Well, maybe some girls are a bit more adventurous,’ he answered, a sly smile playing across his lips. ‘But you’re probably right. I have a fair bit of experience of persuading young ladies to do odd things but I can’t think of too many who’d be keen on coming in here in the dark.’
A sudden voice from behind them cut off Narey’s sarcastic response.
‘Detective Inspector?’
Cat Fitzpatrick had turned to face them.
‘You better see this.’
As they looked, the pathologist began to slowly ease up the young woman’s top, exposing the pale flesh of her midriff. As Fitzpatrick pulled up the material, the other cops crowded in to see what she had discovered.
Inch by inch, she revealed daubs of bright red on the woman’s stomach and it slowly dawned on them that the scarlet marks were forming words.
With an unconscious flourish, Fitzpatrick stood back to let them see properly, one gloved hand still holding the top just below the girl’s chest.
Some of the cops muttered darkly, someone let out a gasp, Addison swore and Winter lifted his camera.
Written in a heavy hand was a single word.
SIN
Chapter 2
Winter pushed his way silently past Addison and Narey. Fitzpatrick continued to hold the young woman’s top above the lurid red lettering and he zoomed in on the wording, seeing clearly that it had been written in lipstick, its waxy swathe standing starkly against her pasty skin. Winter could see the anger that the thick block capitals had been written in. The lipstick had been pressed hard, furiously even, onto the girl’s flesh, the wording thick and smudged where the material had clung to it.
Winter stood back, then smartly to the side to cut off Addison, who was attempting to get a closer look. Winter raised his camera again and rattled off a number of full-length shots, the lettering appearing darkly, almost comically Gothic, on the granite canvas of the gravestone.
Instinctively, he stepped forward again, filled the frame with the word and snapped. Winter knew this photograph was going straight onto his wall. Just three letters, one colour, no blood, no broken bones, but it would hang there with the best and worst of them because it hit every mark.
‘Fucking great,’ Addison was muttering softly. ‘As if this wasn’t bad enough already.’
Narey turned to look at Addison.
‘Worse? A girl is murdered and left draped across a gravestone and you think it can get worse?’
‘You know what I mean,’ he snapped back at her. ‘
That
’ – he gestured broadly towards the girl – ‘is murder. But
that
’ – he pointed directly at the lettering – ‘
that
is frightening. It’s psycho stuff.
That
worries me.’
Narey didn’t respond beyond a shrug that suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced. Murder was as bad as it got in her book. She edged past Addison and took Winter’s place standing over the body. Almost unconsciously, she traced the shape of the letters in the air with her index finger.
‘What shade of lipstick is that?’ Addison asked behind her.
An amused look flashed between Narey and Fitzpatrick.
‘Rimmel’s Autumn Red?’ the DS suggested.
‘I’d say almost definitely,’ the pathologist replied.
‘Great. But how can you be sure th—’ Addison spotted the grins on the women’s faces. ‘Are you two taking the piss?’
‘Um, yes, sir. It could be a thousand shades and a hundred manufacturers. There’s no way we could tell by looking at it.’
‘Aye, very funny. I haven’t got time for you two—’
‘There’s tests we can run that will tell us what it is,’ Fitzpatrick said, quickly interrupting him, attempting to soothe the savage beast. ‘But it will take a while.’
‘Yeah? Well get it done quicker than that. And, seeing as you two are such experts, one of you explain to me why the lipstick she’s wearing is a different colour to the one that’s been used to write this on her stomach.’
Winter turned to see Narey and Fitzpatrick exchange more wry glances.
‘Women aren’t usually that good at organising their handbags,’ Fitzpatrick explained. ‘If we wear a lipstick for one night out, then we’ll probably still be carrying it around the next time we go out, even though we’ve put something else on.’
‘Or the killer brought this one with him?’ Addison asked them.
‘It’s possible,’ Narey conceded.
‘Well, find out. It’s obviously women’s work, so you two sort it. And, while you’re at it, find if the bastard that wrote this is right or left-handed. Same goes for the way the chain’s been pulled round her neck.’
‘No problem, guvnor,’ Narey mocked. ‘It’s a privilege for us wee women even to be given the opportunity to work. God bless Emmeline Pankhurst.’
‘Just do it,’ Addison grouched. ‘Cat, get on with examining the rest of her. Tony, you come with me. Murray says the guy who found her is at the bottom of the hill.’
Winter fell into line behind Addison with an apologetic shrug to the two women as soon as the DI’s back was turned. The cop and the photographer walked back onto the gravel path, dodging the puddles that had formed on the rutted surface, and headed back down the hill. Addison paused at the top of the bend and looked at the city waking up below them.
A mist was lifting like steam rising from a pot left to boil too long, the city emerging beneath it, half asleep and half awake, lights on and lights off. High-rises and office blocks, shops, homes and factories, all stretching and scratching and reaching for the first cigarette of the day. The Necropolis overlooked it all, untouched and another world away. Winter quickly reached into his bag and changed the lens on his camera so that he could photograph the emerging cityscape, noting how it was cast in its own sepia tones without the need for fancy filters or Photoshop.
‘Used to come here when I was a kid,’ he told Addison. ‘My pals and I knew the place like the backs of our hands. We even camped out here one night for a dare. It’s based on the Père Lachaise, you know?’
‘The what?’
‘The Père Lachaise, ya heathen. It’s the cemetery in Paris where Jim Morrison’s buried.’
‘Did he no’ used to play for Dunfermline?’
‘Piss off. Anyway, why am I going with you to see a witness? I’m guessing you don’t want me to photograph him.’
‘Well, I do hear he’s a picture, but no. I just wanted some company and those women were doing my head in. Anyway, if I leave Narey up there, then we get finished sooner, and the sooner we get finished—’
‘The sooner you can get breakfast.’ Winter finished for him. ‘You ever think with anything other than your stomach? Actually, don’t answer that. I know the answer.’
Addison grinned.
‘I’m thinking the King’s Café on Elmbank Street,’ he said dreamily. ‘Two rolls, bacon and black pudding on each. Mind you, they do the best chips-and-cheese in the city. You know the secret? They double-deck the cheese. Above
and
below the chips. Amazing.’
‘It’s a miracle of anatomy that you aren’t a fat bastard, Addy,’ Winter chided him.
Addison was a lanky six foot four, carrying barely an ounce of fat despite his unrelentingly patriotic diet of stodge.
‘It’s the truth,’ the DI admitted. ‘But it would be rude not to take advantage of it. So let’s go interview our star witness so I can get fed.’
The man was waiting nervously for them at the foot of the hill, standing between the Bridge of Sighs and the menacing doors of the Façade – the entrance to a tunnel that was to have been built into the heart of the hill to contain catacombs but now protected nothing more than a collection of lawn-mowers. Addison was right, Winter thought: the guy was a picture all right.
In his late fifties, he was wearing a navy-and-white-striped dressing gown over pale-blue pyjamas and black slippers. A couple of days of grey grizzle adorned his face and thick locks of dark hair were pushed back on his head. Most strikingly, though, was the ginger cat that he was holding at the end of a leash.
‘It’s a well-known fact that most dead bodies are found by people taking their dog for a walk,’ Addison murmured to Winter as they neared the man. ‘But this is a first for me.’
Winter stifled a laugh as well as the urge to take the man’s photograph.
‘Mr Gibson? I’m DI Addison. I understand you found the deceased.’
The man looked up, startled, and began nodding fiercely.
‘Yes, yes. Yes. I was just telling this officer. It . . . I was so . . . I mean, this is just so . . .’
Addison sighed, not exactly famed for his patience.
‘Take your time, Mr Gibson. I’m sure it was very upsetting, but please start from the beginning and just tell me what happened.’
The man nodded, less fiercely this time.
‘Well, I had to take Lulu outside for her ablutions. She’d had sardines, you see. It’s my fault, really, because, although she loves them, I know they don’t always agree with her. It’s the oil. The vet says she’s just being a madam, but she’s a sensitive soul, her breeding, you see. She’s very—’
‘So you had to take her out,’ Addison interrupted.
‘Yes, yes. Sorry. Yes. She just won’t
go
inside the flat. She’s very particular that way. Just too . . . respectful for that. Well bred, you see. Anyway, we normally go for a walk when we go outside for her business. She expects it and is rather partial to a tour round the Necropolis.’
‘She is or you are?’ asked Addison, failing to keep the note of scorn out of his voice, knowing full well the Necropolis’s reputation as a late-night meeting place for men.
‘
She
is,’ Gibson replied indignantly.
‘Even though the cemetery gates are locked at night?’ the DI queried.
The man had the good grace to look embarrassed.
‘I just live over there,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘I know where the gaps in the fence are.’
‘Do you, now?’ Addison asked pointedly.
Gibson ignored the question and continued.
‘Lulu and I went up the hill and she did her business near the big tombstone of Corlinda Lee. You know? Queen of the Gypsies? She read Queen Victoria’s palm at a Gypsy ball in Dunbar. No?’
Addison shook his head brusquely and Winter knew he was bitterly regretting asking Gibson to start at the beginning.
‘Anyway,’ the man continued blithely, ‘we did our stuff near Corlinda and continued up the hill. I think Lulu must have sensed something. Cats are very perceptive that way – the well-bred ones are at any rate. She led me there. Better than a bloodhound, I’d say. I couldn’t see what it was at first but I knew there was something wrong. Her hair was standing on end and she was hissing something terrible. And then we saw her, the girl.’
‘What time was this, Mr Gibson?’
‘About five. It was still pitch black and when I shone my torch on her . . . well, I just couldn’t . . . I mean, I’d never seen anything like it in my life.’
Neither Addison nor Winter doubted that.
‘Did you touch her, Mr Gibson?’ asked Addison.
‘No!’ the man shrieked crossly. ‘I am a great fan of crime dramas and I know police procedure. I did not contaminate the scene.’
‘Okay, okay,’ accepted Addison. ‘Did you see anyone else anywhere near the body? Anything unusual at all?’
Gibson shook his head dolefully.
‘No. If there was anyone else in, and there are usually a few . . . resident undesirables who are terribly rude to Lulu and me, then they were asleep or unconscious. We went back down the hill as quickly as we could and went back into the flat where I called nine, nine, nine immediately. Well, I had a large brandy then I called. I hope that was okay?’
Addison sighed again.
‘Yes, Mr Gibson. I don’t think the delay was crucial. So you saw or heard nothing all the time you were in there?’
‘Well, yes. There was the noise.’
‘The noise?’
‘Yes. I nearly died. Oh . . . I mean, I shouldn’t have said died. I’m sorry. Sorry.’
‘What noise?’ Addison growled irritably.
‘Well . . . Lulu and I were halfway down the hill when she suddenly stopped, and so I did too. I listened and there was nothing, but then there was this scuffling sound in the bushes and a noise like someone hurrying away. I nearly had a heart attack on the spot.’
‘And did you hear anything after that?’
‘No, no. But I wasn’t for hanging around to find out. I was back in the flat as quick as my feet could take me,’ Gibson answered breathlessly.
‘Well done,’ replied Addison with the fakest smile that Winter had ever seen him muster. ‘Mr Gibson, I’ll need you to show the constable the spot where you say you heard this noise. If you could go with him now, please. You’ve been very helpful. We will be in touch.’
‘Oh, it’s no problem. We’re glad to help. Aren’t we, Lulu? If there’s anything else at all that we can do to help, then please let us know.’
Addison turned his back on the man with a cursory nod and walked closer to the constable who had been taking Gibson’s statement.
‘Have you been inside this guy’s flat yet?’ he muttered softly.
‘No, sir,’ the uniform replied equally quietly. ‘Not yet.’
‘Well, do it. Mark off the area where he heard his noise, then take him inside on the pretence of getting his statement down in full and check his place out. I never trust a man who likes cats.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Addison turned to leave but saw Winter chatting to Gibson.
‘That’s a beautiful cat you have there, Mr Gibson,’ the photographer was saying.
The man beamed and looked down at his pride and joy sitting patiently at the end of its pale-pink lead.
‘Would you mind if I took a photograph of the two of you?’ Winter asked.
Gibson brightened considerably, puffing himself up.
‘Well, if it helps. It’s the least we can do. Will it help?’
‘It might,’ Winter assured him. ‘You can never tell what might make the difference in a case like this.’