‘Right . . . it will only be important if you continue to be allowed to do it. And the decision on that is down to me.’
McGann stopped waving his arms and looked at Addison, trying to suss him out. ‘You do realise that there’s a life at stake here?’ he argued. ‘We’re all here to stop anyone getting in that graveyard. I’m organising them.’
‘Yeah, they all look very organised,’ Addison offered with more than a hint of sarcasm. ‘And what about you, Mr McGann. What’s your interest in this?’
The man seemed taken aback at the question, surprised that someone could question his motives.
‘I just . . . I’m a concerned citizen.’
Addison laughed, not caring if it offended and largely hoping that it would.
‘That’s what we need more of, Mr McGann. Concerned citizens. If there were more people like you then there really wouldn’t be a need for people like me, and I could go get a job as David Cameron’s butler.’
‘Are you . . .? Do you think this is some kind of joke?’
Addison could see real anger rising behind the man’s indignation and toyed with the idea of pushing his buttons further before deciding that he didn’t have time. ‘No, Mr McGann. No joke at all. Tell me, what do you do for a living?’
‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything, but I’m a geography teacher. I work at Whitehill Secondary.’
‘Uh huh. And were you involved in encouraging people to come down here?’
‘Yes, I put a message out on Facebook and Twitter and asked people to pass it on. Are you saying I shouldn’t have?’
Addison just shrugged. ‘I’m not sure that too many of the people here are on Facebook. I think they came because of word of mouth. The community rallying to the cause and all that.’
McGann pouted a bit. ‘Maybe. But some of them are. And I’ve been round the rest. They’re listening to me. I have guys at various points round the Necropolis waiting for my word.’
‘Really? Mr McGann, you want to help and you’re organising people. That’s good. But I need you to organise them a bit differently. Can you do that?’
‘Of course.’ The man seemed eager to help. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to get them to hold hands.’
‘What?’
‘Hold hands. I want them in a ring round the cemetery, arm’s length apart. No gaps. No one on the walls or next to it. Form a human ring round the place and no one breaks it. Can you sort that?’
‘Um, yes. I don’t know how many guys will be keen on holding hands, though.’
‘Tell them to get over it. And I want you to form part of the ring.’
‘What? Would I not be better going round and—’
‘No. I’d like everyone that’s down here to help to form the ring. No exceptions. It’s either that or you go home.’
‘No . . . I’ll organise it.’
‘Good. Leave me your mobile number before you go, will you? Just in case I need to get in touch with you.’
‘Um . . . okay.’
Phone number handed over, McGann looked to Addison expecting some thanks for the endeavours of his concerned citizenship, but it wasn’t forthcoming. He backed off before turning towards the crowds, melting into them and the gloom. Addison waited until he couldn’t see the man any more and leaned back till his head was staring up at the parapet of the stadium above him and spoke to it.
‘What can you see from up there, auld yin? Can you see what’s going to happen? See if you can, gonnae tell me because I’d really like to know.’
Chapter 55
The light was falling by the time Narey and Toshney got to Tobago Street, Narey parking her Megane under the pseudo-safety of the lamppost outside the remnants of John’s Bar. Looking up, she saw a light on in Stark’s flat, presumably meaning that his girlfriend, Faith Foster, was in there.
At the door entrance on Stevenson Street, rather than push the intercom button for Stark’s flat, Narey hit three others and one of them duly obliged by releasing the entry catch without bothering to ask who was there. They climbed the gloomy concrete stairwell to Stark’s flat in silence, not pausing when they passed a door that creaked open just long enough for a shadow to check them out then close again.
At Stark’s door, Narey stood for a few moments, listening for movement inside or the sounds of a television. There was nothing. She rapped on the door, not too loudly and trying not to pull off the practised authoritative knock of a police officer. There was no response, so she chapped again, louder this time.
Another door creaked at the other end of the corridor, throwing a shard of light into the hall as someone else wanted to know who the visitors were. Narey held out her warrant card and it was evidently recognised even from the length of the corridor, as the other door promptly closed again. As Narey knocked the door for the third time, Toshney dropped down to crouch by the door. He dipped his finger on the landing and brought it up to his face to examine what he’d found.
‘It’s blood, Sarge.’
‘Great. Kick that door open, Fraser.’
‘We don’t have a warrant, Sarge.’
‘That blood means we’re in hot pursuit and have reason to believe a life is in danger. Kick the bloody thing open.’
It took Toshney three attempts, twice ramming the heel of his shoe against the lock before finally crashing his shoulder into the door and it gave way. It fell back against the far wall and Narey and Toshney walked into the narrow hallway before pushing the door over behind them again, seeing dots of blood on the beige carpet.
‘Miss Foster?’ Narey called out. ‘Faith? It’s the police. If you are there, please come out and show yourself.’
She didn’t particularly expect an answer but had to go through the process. She followed the trail of blood to the end of the hall, where they knew the living room was, opening the door and seeing the light on but no other sign of life. The black leather sofa sat unoccupied in front of the window looking onto Tobago Street, and the television was switched off.
‘Check out the other rooms, Fraser. I’m going to look round here.’
The blood came to an end in a pool below one of the framed posters on the wall, a replica of a Nirvana gig in New York in 1994. Whatever caused the bloodstains had started here and led to the front door and presumably down the stairs, even though they’d missed it in the gloom.
‘Sarge!’ Toshney’s voice signalled urgency and alarm.
Narey went into the hallway, seeing the second of the other two doors being wide open, and followed him in.
‘Jesus Christ!’
The walls of what was obviously a bedroom were outlandishly, wildly, maniacally decorated. They were daubed in garish Gothic swirls of red and black like some lunatic, nightmare vision of Hell.
One wall was blood red adorned with paintings of gravestones and crosses, plus the scrawled letters of ‘RIP’ and ‘
Memento Mori
’. Lines had been drawn linking the painted headstones into triangles.
A second wall was dominated by a tall, slim figure in a white gown, a human form but with a ram’s head and cloven hooves, the background streaked in Satanic reds and blacks. The third wall was a hellish montage that included suffering, screaming angels caught up in an intricate spider’s web; blood and bones resting below the salivating mouth of some devilish creature; and babies, four of them, sitting blank-eyed and staring straight into the room.
On the final wall, there was a single image. In broad strokes, someone had painted the full-length form of a woman, seemingly ordinary compared with the abominations around her, dressed as if ready for a trip to the shops or to take a child to school. Except that where her eyes ought to have been were opal pools of jet black and at her feet was a pool of blood that could be seen to have run down her leg from somewhere under her black dress.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Narey repeated.
‘What the hell is this, Sarge?’
‘What Hell is this, you mean? Someone’s crazy idea of it. Check out the other rooms but try to avoid touching anything you don’t have to. This is likely to be a crime scene.’
Narey put her hand inside her coat pocket and grabbed hold of the handles to the tall, black-pine wardrobe and opened it up. It was split left to right with male clothes, then female. Stark’s side had shirts and jeans, while his girlfriend’s half contained mainly dresses, all in either red or black or a combination of the two.
She edged back drawers to find T-shirts, socks and knickers belonging to Stark, then one containing skimpy thongs and matching bras, all inevitably in red or black. Another drawer was half full with various sex toys that made her glad that Toshney had left the room: vibrators, a cock ring, handcuffs, a strap-on dildo and wrist restraints.
As Toshney came back into the room, Narey slid the drawer shut with her knee. ‘Find anything?’ she asked him.
‘The cooker’s not been used for a while, television is stone cold. I’d say the blood was spilt quite a while ago, hours at least.’
‘And Stark has been in custody since noon.’
Narey pulled out her phone and called the operations room. Rico Giannandrea answered within a few rings.
‘Hi, Rico, is Addison there?’
‘No, Rach, he’s at the Eastern. He’s still convinced our man’s going to try to dump a body there. How did you get on at Stark’s place? The girlfriend in?’
‘No, she’s not here. But there’s a trail of blood from the living room and out the front door. Check with Andy if he’s around. Was the girl here when he picked Stark up?’
Rico relayed the question to Teven, who answered that, no, there had been no sign of her.
‘Okay. Ta. What’s Stark saying?’
‘Not a word. He hasn’t said a thing since we took the DNA swab.’
‘Yeah? Well, I’m coming back in and I’ve got plenty to say to him. Make sure he goes nowhere. And send a squad car over to Tobago Street. I need them to secure the place because the door’s been kicked open.’
‘Us or them?’
‘Us. We were in hot pursuit.’
‘Of course you were. I’ll get someone sent over right away.’
Narey and Toshney closed the door to the flat the best they could, jamming it pretty lamely against the broken hinge. As they did so, the neighbour’s door at the end of the landing opened again.
‘Excuse me!’ The door had closed again before Narey could get the words out but, undeterred, she marched over and rapped firmly on it. She had to knock again before the door finally edged back, half a face hiding behind it. Narey again held up her ID card.
‘DS Narey. Can I ask your name, please?’
The lone eye visible beyond the door blinked furiously. ‘Sweeney,’ squeaked a thin female voice.
‘I’d like to ask you some quick questions, Ms Sweeney, if that’s all right.’
‘I’d rather no’.’
‘Would you rather I sent officers back with a search warrant for your flat? There’s a car already on its way.’
The door opened wide enough for the stick-thin woman to step out from behind it, her cheeks drawn and her eyes hollow. She was mid-twenties going on dead.
‘Do you know your neighbours well, Ms Sweeney?’
‘No’ really. Keep masel’ to masel’. They seem awrite though.’
‘What kind of people are they?’
‘How’d you mean, like?’
‘Are they noisy? Do they socialise with the neighbours? Do they have many people going in and out of the flat? That kind of thing.’
‘They can be noisy sometimes. At night. Enjoying themselves if you ken what I mean. But don’t see them much. Never seen anyone else going in there, though. Except you.’
‘And when did you last see either of them today?’
‘Polis were here this morning. Lunchtime mibbe. Took the fella away but he wisnae cuffed or anything. Just walkin’.’
‘And have you seen his girlfriend today? Either before that or after it.’
‘Naw. No’ seen her at all.’
‘Okay. Thank you. We’re going now but, as I said, there’s a police car on its way. Should be here any minute. If they find anyone in that flat, they’re under my instructions to arrest them. You understand?’
The woman frowned. ‘Aye. Ah widnae go in onyway.’
‘Good.’
Toshney’s flashlight picked out bloodstains all the way down the stairs, sporadic spots a few feet apart. They continued through the front door and onto the pavement, a few circular drops visible in the light of the shopfront, running until the edge of the kerb where they promptly disappeared.
Chapter 56
Saturday night
Darkness came quickly to the Eastern Necropolis but nothing else did. Not unless you counted tension, frustration, anxiety and the ever-increasing edginess of the assorted nutters and do-gooders who had assembled round the perimeter in the misplaced hope of keeping Glasgow safe.
They worried Addison almost as much as the killer did. At least he had a fair idea of what that bastard was going to do.
As nothing happened and continued not to happen, the hordes were stuck between being glad at that and restless in their expectations. He knew them well enough to know that they’d rather the killer tried to take them on. They’d love it if he turned up – the bogeyman appearing out of the gloom with a body over his shoulder, trying to leap the wall into the graveyard. As one they would rise up and try to headbutt him. They’d certainly rather it be that than stand waiting and not knowing, and they’d rather have it before last orders were called at their local boozer. None of which Addison would disagree with.
He was getting regular reports of nothingness through from the operations rooms. An entire city with crime undoubtedly taking place in various parts of it, yet the word was no news. He’d worked the streets long enough to know that some silly wee sod had surely stabbed another silly wee sod, that an off-licence somewhere between Burnside and Bearsden had been robbed and that there had been a rammy between two groups of kids who thought they were angry about race or religion but were actually just pissed off with their crappy lives. No news should have been good news but he still wanted to hear it, wanted to know that the only bit of news they were all interested in had happened or not.
He knew he was in danger of losing the accidental vigilantes to the call of the pub or their wives and girlfriends, their instincts for good being eroded by boredom and overtaken by much more basic feelings. It was a long night when the bogeyman had until daybreak to do his worst. The Gorbals Vampire free to strut the earth until the sun turned him to dust; his adversaries staying out to challenge him until their mammies called them in for their dinner.