McBride had turned off the coastal path that led from the river and was running towards the series of rises that would test his stamina when an unseen hand flicked a switch. Floodlights flashed inside his head and with the light came the blinding certainty that he had been headed in the wrong direction – not in the route he had taken that morning but in the course of his mind ever since he had left the frozen file room of The Courier.
The riddle of the missing section of the Bryan Gilzean murder trial report that had taken him up a succession of mental blind alleys and culs-de-sac was finally making some sort of sense. The sentences that had been excised had not been removed by a warped souvenir hunter – they were making a statement. ‘The bastard!’ he suddenly spat out, oblivious to the astonished looks from a pair of dog walkers. ‘He didn’t take something away from the library – he left something behind.’
The realisation that he might have cracked the problem that had swirled almost ceaselessly round his head for days took McBride completely by surprise. He had not even been aware that he had been wrestling with it at that moment. With the dawning came physical release. He subconsciously lifted his pace, lengthened his stride and pushed hard up the first, and steepest, of the short hills, feeling the urgency to somehow make use of the new information.
As he ran, McBride inwardly repeated the words that had become etched into his brain, though this is not unique. These activities happen from time to time and can be confusing. Care has to be taken to ensure a dispassionate analysis and conclusion. It wouldn’t be the first time someone got it wrong and it won’t be the last. McBride became convinced that whoever had taken the passage away from the filed newspaper in the Central Library was giving out a message. The more he contemplated its meaning, the more he began to wonder if the most important part wasn’t the opening five words – the ones which did not even form a sentence. He cursed himself for not having come to that conclusion the second he laid eyes on them. Unless they had deep significance, why leave them standing alone, sentence-less and otherwise meaningless? ‘Christ,’ he muttered, ‘they should have been in capital letters!’
McBride covered the remaining four miles back to his new flat faster than he would have believed possible. By the time he arrived, the volume of sweat that usually only poured from his body on warm, heavy days was dripping on to the off-white carpet of his bedroom, leaving a trail of damp stains. Instead of following his usual routine of stretching then showering, he hurriedly towelled his face and armpits while simultaneously lifting his mobile with his free hand.
He rang the offices of The Courier but did not ask for Richard Richardson. Instead, he requested to be put through to Cuttings, the department that every newspaper office cannot exist without. As he waited to be connected, he offered a prayer that Gwen Kissock was on duty. Long before the paper had invested in an electronic retrieval system for recovering selected news items, she had performed the same function as fast as any computer, especially when the story being sought related to crime. She was a human encyclopaedia and could have enjoyed a prosperous existence if she had been interested in television quiz shows on the subject. At the very least, she should have become a police officer. Happily, she had done neither and had remained as one of the paper’s most valuable but underappreciated assets.
She answered the phone and recognised McBride’s voice instantly for she had also been born with a ‘photographic’ ear. It had been more than a year since they had spoken – back when he had called her from London for assistance with research for his book. ‘Hello, Campbell,’ she said confidently, before he had a chance to announce himself, ‘what do you want this time?’ She could also be direct.
‘I just wanted to hear your dulcet tones once again,’ he replied with what he hoped was humorous charm. ‘It’s been more than a year and I’ve been pining.’ McBride could almost visualise her raising her eyebrows in feigned exasperation.
She replied, ‘Me too but not for you – just for some of the cash you’ve made from the book I wrote for you.’
‘That’s part of the reason I’m calling – to arrange a dinner date in the near future. But, just while I’m on, can you do me a quick favour?’
‘Keep speaking.’
‘Can you dig into that unique mind of yours and tell me if you recall any murders in the area where someone was strangled?’
‘Oh, is that all?’ she retorted. ‘Be more specific. Male or female victim? Solved or unsolved? Timescale?’ Gwen was already pressing her memory buttons.
‘Probably female. Maybe solved, maybe not. Say, in the last five or six years.’ It did not occur to him that what he was asking might just be a touch unreasonable.
‘Thanks for the assistance!’ She stopped speaking to McBride for more than two minutes but broke the silence with occasional brief discussions with herself. ‘Let me think … no … yes … right … OK.’
Suddenly she returned to share her deliberations. ‘Don’t know if this helps but off the top of my head I can think of a half a dozen, maybe eight. Nine if you count a hanging of sorts that was probably suicide.’
She ran through her list. ‘There were three in Dundee, one in Perth, one in St Andrews and another one in either Montrose or Brechin, can’t remember which but it was in Angus somewhere.’
McBride was grateful but not satisfied. ‘Great – but do you have any more details?’
Gwen sighed. ‘The best I can do is tell you that I think most of them, but not all, were solved. I’m fairly sure there was no one in the frame for the Fife one and at least one of the Dundee ones.’
‘You’re a marvel. Can I ask one more thing?’
Before he could expand, Gwen broke in. ‘Yes, I know. You want me to look them up and supply you with copies of the cuttings.’
‘Christ, Gwen, on top of everything else you’re a bloody clairvoyant. What a woman!’
‘Yes, and I also have total recall of every conversation we’ve ever had and I’ve heard all that crap before. But you can keep saying it. I’ll dig the stuff out later today and leave it down at reception for you, OK?’
‘Brilliant. You’re a gem. Oh, just one other thing – last one, promise – if you happen to bump into Richard Richardson, don’t tell him I rang or what I was after. Will you do that for me?’
‘Okey-dokey. Why all the mystery? What’s all this about?’ She hesitated for all of a second before adding, ‘Why did I say that? There’s not a chance you’re going to tell me, is there?’
‘Of course I will … but not right now. When I take you to dinner, I’ll give you complete chapter and verse – well, more or less. Anyway, you’ll be first to know.’
Both of them laughed as they hung up.