McKay stood in the doorway, chewing pensively on a stick of gum. The sun was up by now, but it did little to improve the appearance of his surroundings. A desolate decaying backstreet in a city he’d come to love, even if, like most of the country, it was going through tough times.
The street had been sealed off at both ends, the boundaries protected by uniformed officers. That didn’t prevent groups of rubberneckers from gathering to peer curiously in his direction. He was tempted to wave to them, but decided it would be undignified.
From behind him, he heard Jock Henderson’s less-than-dulcet tones. ‘Christ almighty, Alec, I don’t for the life of me know where you find them.’
‘It’s a gift,’ McKay said without turning. ‘And years of training. How’s it going?’
‘Ach, we’re having a whale of a time.’
‘Aye, you and a crucified corpse, Jock. That has all the makings of a party. What can you tell me?’
‘White male. Forties, probably. Looks fit and healthy–’
‘Apart from the whole being dead thing.’
‘Looks as if he’d been fit and healthy. Until some bugger started hammering nails into him, aye. Cause of death – well, my guess would be simply loss of blood. There are no signs of any other major traumas as far as a I can see, though the doc may spot something.’
‘Which would mean a fairly slow death, I’m assuming.’
‘I’d have thought so. He’d have been in a lot of pain generally. Not just the nails but also the pull on his joints from hanging like that. I imagine he’d have lost consciousness at some point.’
‘Aye, always look on the bright side, eh, Jock? What sort of bastard does something like that?’
‘A pretty sick one.’ Henderson stepped past McKay out into the open air and produced a cigarette packet from somewhere. He held it out to McKay. This had been Henderson’s idea of a running joke since McKay had finally given up a few years before. ‘We have an ID, by the way.’
‘Simon Crawford,’ McKay said.
Henderson raised an eyebrow. ‘You psychic or actually the murderer?’
‘Just a wild shot in the dark,’ McKay said. ‘He’s been missing. Someone wanted us to find him. Just as they wanted us to find Gary Forres.’
‘You’re right, anyway. There’s a wallet in his pocket. Including a driving licence with his likeness on it. So looks pretty definite.’
‘Crucifixion,’ McKay said.
‘Not something I come across every day,’ Henderson said. ‘You think this is some religious nutjob?’
‘Anything’s possible,’ McKay said. ‘But putting aside the Christian connotations, crucifixion was just a form of execution, wasn’t it?’
‘I suppose so,’ Henderson agreed. ‘It’s not an area where I’d claim expert knowledge.’
‘Me neither,’ McKay said. ‘But it fits the pattern. Burning. Hanging. Decapitation. Death by lethal injection. And now crucifixion.’
‘Can’t be much else left.’
‘Whoever’s behind this seems to be full of surprises,’ McKay said. ‘So who knows?’
‘So what’s the message, then? That these people deserve to be punished?’
‘That would be my reading. In fairness, from what we know of most of the victims, that’s probably a fair judgement. Anything else?’
‘It looks as if Crawford spent some time in that room before the killing. We’ve found his fingerprints around the room. Mainly on the frame of the camp bed, but also in a couple of other places. So it looks as if he might have been held there until–’
‘He was nailed to the cross. That would make sense. We know he’s been absent from his home for a few days. No other prints?’
‘Nothing useful. Whoever did this must have worn gloves. Forensics may come up with something more, but that’ll take a while.’ Henderson finished his cigarette and ground the stub out under his heel. ‘We found some papers too.’
‘Papers?’
‘Aye. Quite a mishmash of stuff. What look like copies of bank statements, company accounts.’
‘What sort of names on them?’
‘Some of the names we know. Forres and Prebble, for example. Others didn’t mean much to me. William Emsworth?’
‘Emsworth? Can you show me?’
‘Hang on a sec. We’ve got them all bagged up in what seemed like sensible groups.’ Henderson disappeared back into the shop, and then reappeared a moment later with a selection of large evidence bags, each filled with a stack of papers. He carried them over to one of the marked cars lined up along the street, and spread the bags out across the bonnet. ‘These ones look to be bank statements. Those seem to be company accounts with Emsworth as a named director. I didn’t know what to make of these ones, though.’
McKay picked up the bag and peered at the document inside. It was very different in nature from the other material. A copy of an article from what McKay initially thought was an old copy of Private Eye. The layout and font didn’t look quite right, but McKay wasn’t sure if that was simply because the piece dated back some years or because it was from some other source.
It was a piece that had clearly been written shortly after the publication of Emsworth’s first book, and was headed: ‘William Emsworth: Too Much of an Insider?’ The gist of the article was that Emsworth’s book drew heavily on his own dubious business background. Much of the content seemed to be little more than innuendo, but the implication was that Emsworth had had gangland connections and had acquired a non-inconsiderable fortune through a range of criminal activities. Again, the detail of the activities wasn’t spelled out, but there were hints at money laundering, people trafficking and enforced sex work. Nasty stuff, if there was any truth in it.
The article implied that Emsworth’s supposed reclusiveness primarily stemmed from a desire to conceal his real background, and concluded by querying whether Emsworth’s publishers were aware of his history and the sources both of his insider knowledge and his personal wealth.
McKay’s view was that Emsworth’s publishers probably wouldn’t have given a flying one about Emsworth’s history, and had probably been disappointed only that he wouldn’t allow them to use it for promotional purposes. But McKay tended to be cynical about things like that.
The article was relatively thin on convincing detail, but, along with the bank statements he’d already seen, it began to confirm the picture that was already coalescing in McKay’s head. It would be interesting to hear what Wally Kincraig had made of the statements.
‘There’s more on the other side,’ Henderson said, gesturing towards the bag in McKay’s hands. ‘There were two pages. I put them back-to-back so you’d be able to read them in the bag.’
‘Very smart, Jock.’ McKay turned the bag over and continued reading. The article ran for another half page, the content adding little other than more innuendo. But next to the article was a picture, apparently of Bill Emsworth.
It was an old picture, McKay knew. But he still couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. He looked up at Henderson. ‘Can I hang on to these, Jock? I need to check something. I’ll make sure they’re booked in properly.’
‘Too right you bloody will,’ Henderson said. ‘I’ll make sure it’s all recorded by the book, with your name firmly against it. But, aye, if you think they’re going to be useful.’
McKay was still staring at the picture. ‘I think they’re more than useful, Jock. I think they’re bloody terrifying.’