‘Enough,’ Addison told him, nodding at Narey to ease the girl’s dress back down over her body.
Winter began to move away again but stopped, a thought occurring to him. ‘I think I might know what it means.’
‘Go on.’
‘Sin. It’s the sins of the father.’
‘From the Bible?’
‘Shakespeare.
Merchant of Venice
. The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children.’
Chapter 43
Saturday morning
The rain came suddenly to the Western Necropolis, crashing down onto the turf and paths and graves, forcing forensics to hurriedly erect a tent over the crime scene before any evidence was washed away. Ashleigh Fleming’s body, broken and slumped in front of the memorial stone, quickly had a river washing at her feet.
Narey and Addison took up shelter in the bowels of the red-bricked crematorium at her suggestion, a hurriedly convened counsel of war that Winter was excluded from. Shaking excess water from their already soaking clothes, they descended marble stairs into a small room that at first glance Addison thought was a library. It was of sorts: a library for the dead.
Large marble stands stood in the middle of the room, polished russet grained with white. Instead of books, the heavyweight stands had spaces designed to hold wooden caskets, each adorned with a brass plaque and containing the ashes of the departed; sixteen caskets on either side and four on each end. The walls, too, were lined with the same marble shelving, identical spaces floor to ceiling and wall to wall, each opening filled with a casket. Some were in teak, oak or ebony but the majority of those on the walls, particularly the older ones, were in white marble, neatly stacked away for eternity.
A white frieze lined the lower half of one wall, its pale marble grained with grey and the words I
N
L
OVING
M
EMORY
etched upon its skin. Above it, soft light drifted into the room through the reds, blues and yellows of a stained-glass window.
‘Cheery place,’ Addison grouched.
‘It’s dry and we won’t be overheard. Not by the people in here, anyway. And maybe it’ll help concentrate the mind.’
‘I think the body of that girl out there is enough to do that, don’t you? This stops today, Rachel. I am not fu—’ Addison stopped, the solemnity of the place curbing his natural instinct to swear. ‘I’m not having this. We get this guy today.’
‘So where are we?’
‘Apart from knee deep in it?’ Addison’s hands went to his head, rubbing wearily at his eyes as he put his thoughts in order. ‘Okay, we assume that Atto is telling us the truth and that his devil spawn intends to kill again. Tonight. We can’t take anything he says as gospel but it’s what we have to work with. Agreed?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he’s murdered three women, all aged within a few years of each other, all out on their own at night. All three fitting the same generic profile as the Red Silk victims of 1972. We’ve got to assume he’s working to the same template. He’s left his victims in the Necropolis and then the Southern and the Western Necropolis. Obviously, there’s four necropolises in Glasgow and that leaves one. The Eastern Necropolis at Parkhead – Janefield Cemetery.’
‘You think that’s his plan?’ Narey asked. ‘To dump a fourth body there? Surely he knows that we’ll be expecting that.’
‘Of course he does, but he’s playing with us, pissing us about. This is some kind of game to him. If he’d just wanted to kill and get away with it, then he’d have stopped after one. Or two. It’s about more than doing it and not getting caught.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t bloody know. Like making his daddy proud of him. Like carrying on a family tradition. We’re obviously dealing with someone who’s a few gravestones short of a cemetery.’
Narey wandered round the room, distractedly examining the names on the old, white-marble caskets, her mind ticking furiously, her fingers running lightly over inscriptions of names long forgotten.
‘If he is the son of Archibald Atto, then maybe that explains why he has a preoccupation with death, and I suppose that might explain the cemeteries. But I can’t help feeling that, if we can work out why he’s so intent on leaving the bodies at the four necropolises, then maybe we’ll be nearer to working out who he is. Don’t we need to get more out of Atto? Go in there and press him hard till we get some answers?’
Addison shook his head. ‘No. We leave that to Tony and to that tube Kelbie. It’s not our job. We catch the killer. That’s what we do. And we make sure that, if he’s intending to leave a corpse in the Eastern Necropolis, he doesn’t get within a hundred yards of the place.’
Narey’s eyes widened in a show of surprise. ‘What? He kills another young woman but at least we stop him from depositing the body in the cemetery of his choice? That your idea of success?’
‘That’s not what I mean and you bloody well know it. Our first job is to make sure he doesn’t kill again, of course it is. We flood the streets with cops; we warn everyone who remotely fits the profile to stay out of the city centre; we hit every door that we think might have a suspect behind it; we make sure Tony gets whatever he can out of Atto. We do all that and anything else we can think of. But we also take away the option of him finishing this the way he wants. If he knows he can’t dump the fourth body in the Eastern, then maybe, just maybe, he won’t even try to take that body in the first place.’
‘You really think that?’
‘I’ve got to. It looks like he’s had some crazy plan all along and, if he knows that he can’t see the plan through to the end, then we throw him off course. We put a ring of steel round the Eastern. We protect it like it’s Fort bloody Knox.’
Narey sighed and scratched at her head. ‘Okay, I get that. It’s just . . . I want to nail this bastard. We should have done it before last night. We must do it before tonight.’
‘What a good idea. Okay, so what have you got? You were hinting at something back at the scene.’
‘It’s just a half-arsed theory and it’s going to sound stupid if it’s wrong. Let me go chase it. I won’t give it too long and I’ll be back in not much more than an hour.’
Addison held her gaze for a bit, deliberating whether to ask the obvious question but deciding to give her her head.
‘Okay, go. Get Toshney and take him with you.’
‘Oh for fu— Why are you so intent on me having to take that halfwit everywhere with me?’
Addison grinned. ‘He’s Lacey to your Cagney.’
‘Aye, very funny. Count that as Strike One.’
‘Whatever. Anyway, having that annoying prick with you should ensure you don’t piss around too long on whatever this wild-goose chase is.’
‘And what are you going to do? Sir.’
‘Some old-fashioned police work. Maxwell’s been working her way through the 1972 files, looking for any link to the recent killings. Tony’s Uncle Danny has copies, too. Rico Giannandrea’s been doing the same with the names that Teven got from Atto’s case files of rapes down south. We’re going to cross-check those, knock on doors and even – God bless the Tories – get bobbies on the beat asking stupid bloody questions. Find me as soon as you’re done, okay?’
‘Will do. You got a plan for sealing off the Eastern? It’s a big place.’
‘I’m going to get Shirley on the case. I hear he went mental when he heard about this one this morning. He’s with the chief constable and that’s why he isn’t down here. There’s going to be outright panic as soon as this hits the papers.’
‘There is. And that’s probably the only bit of good news we’ve got going for us. A bit of panic is probably the only thing that’s going to keep girls indoors and out of harm’s way.’
‘And us. This guy won’t be able to kill anyone because I intend to have him locked up.’
Chapter 44
Later
Winter closed the car door behind him, the wind almost whipping it out of his hand, and girded his loins for yet another visit inside Blackridge. Both times he’d sat down with Atto, he’d felt a layer of resistance being stripped away from him and he wasn’t sure how many more of these chats he could handle. It wasn’t just Atto’s apparent ability to see inside Winter’s head that was bothering him: it was also the extent that Atto was revealing himself, every disclosure darker than the one before.
A gale blew across the exposed terrain of the prison car park, causing puddles to scurry east and all noise to be eaten up. Winter couldn’t hear his own footsteps on the tarmac and he seemed to be taking one pace sideways for each one he took forward. The flags in front of the gatehouse looked fit to rip from their poles and rain was coming at him horizontally.
It was because of the wind that he couldn’t hear the words coming from the two figures standing in front of the gatehouse, being buffeted by the gale, their voices stolen as soon as they gave them up. When he lifted his chin from its protected position huddled against his chest, he could see them looking at him enquiringly. They said something to each other, obvious only by the opening and closing of their mouths, and then the taller of the two, a slight grey-haired woman in her sixties, tried to call out to him again. The sound didn’t get within yards of him and the woman tried again, anxiety written all over her face.
Winter pushed his way through the invisible barrier until he was under the eaves of the gatehouse and standing next to the women. Behind them and through the glass door, he could see Denny Kelbie and the Blackridge governor Tom Walton waiting impatiently for him. The tail of an already spoken sentence drifted weakly to him on the wind.
‘. . . for asking, but we need to know. We don’t mean to bother you.’
The accent was English, south coast somewhere, and the voice was so fragile that it would have faced a losing battle against even a gentle breeze. The woman’s face was lined and old before her time, her eyes wet and nervous.
The other woman was of a similar vintage, dark-hair flecked grey with time and a stocky build that looked capable of withstanding the best efforts of the wind to shift her, yet beaten and vulnerable for all that. She stood at the shoulder of her companion looking out for her and seemingly set to pounce if Winter didn’t agree to whatever it was that he hadn’t heard.
‘Sorry? I couldn’t hear you.’
The woman’s face fell slightly at the realisation she was going to have to go through it all again.
‘Oh. Sorry. I didn’t . . . Are you Mr Winter?’
He immediately felt himself go on the defensive. Who the hell were these women and how could they know who he was?
‘Um yes, I am. How did you . . .?’
The woman brightened, a tired smile lighting up her face and forcing the rigid lines to make an uncommon upward turn.
‘Oh. Good. We’ve been waiting for you. We drove through the night to get here. This is really important. We need your help, Mr Winter.’
‘How do you know who I am? And how can I . . .? Sorry I don’t understand and I’m in a bit of a hurry.’
The woman, took half a step towards him so that she didn’t have to shout to be heard.
‘You’re going to see him, aren’t you? Atto. You’re visiting Archibald Atto. We can’t say who told us you were coming to see him today but we know you are.’
Winter felt ambushed. The idea had been that no one, not press or public, was supposed to know about this.
‘I can’t really say. Look I’m sorry but I have to—’
The smaller woman took a step forward. She was no more than five foot two but something about the certainty of her manner intimidated Winter enough that he thought she was going to have a swing at him. She got close enough that she was within inches and he could smell cigarettes and perfume on her. She spoke for the first time, her Midlands accent stronger and cracklier than the other woman’s southern tones, vulnerability masked by the rumble of a smoker’s croak.
‘We’re . . . I’m Eleanor Holt. This is Marjorie Shillington. Archibald Atto murdered our daughters.’
The taller woman nodded almost apologetically, confirming that she was who her friend said she was. She edged forward till she was shoulder to shoulder with the other, both looking up hopefully at Winter for a response.
‘I don’t . . . I’m not sure what to say. I’m sorry about . . . I need to go. I’m expected inside.’
‘To meet
him
.’
He hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘We need your help, Mr Winter. Both of us. And others. Far too many others. Atto knows where . . .’ The woman’s face fell, her eyes dropping to the ground, where she must have found the courage to finish her sentence. ‘. . . where our girls are. And
we
need to know.’
Shit. This day was bad enough without this. The women were right next to him now, years of hurt etched on their faces. He felt cornered, pressurised, trapped. He had to run.
He moved towards the door but Eleanor Holt instinctively moved with him, barring his path with her stout frame. Marjorie Shillington moved swiftly alongside her, finding her frail voice again.
‘We need you to talk to him, Mr Winter. This is our first chance in years. He sometimes talks when he thinks he can get in the papers. Please. You need to get him to talk. To tell us. To tell us where they are.’
Winter sidestepped the women. He hadn’t signed up for this. It was way too much for him to deal with. He reached for the door handle but Mrs Holt had another gambit up her sleeve.
‘I’ve got cancer, Mr Winter. Lung cancer. My own fault for smoking all these years, but cancer all the same. I might live six years; I might live six months. The doctors don’t know and sometimes I think they’re just making it up. Guessing, you know. I need to know . . . I need to know about my Melanie. I’ve not got the time to wait.’
Winter swallowed back the bile of imposed guilt that surged in his throat. He nodded, shrugged and shook his head in one unintelligible movement that even he didn’t understand. He pulled the door wide and with a final, apologetic look, seeing hot tears run down both their cheeks, he stepped inside the prison and left them to the mercy of the wind.
The moments that he sat alone at his side of the wooden table, the governor, Walton, silent against the far wall, waiting for Atto’s arrival were possibly the worst. Four bare walls and not a chink of daylight. It was oppressive and claustrophobic and reminiscent of a six-foot-deep hole in the ground. The worst thing, however, was anticipating the look on Atto’s face when he sauntered into the room with the prison guard at his back. Would he be taciturn or angry, dismissive or taunting? Bad or unhelpful as all of those moods could be, the one that Winter least wanted to see was the one that he got on his last visit: Atto being
pleased
to see him.