McBride cursed repeatedly, spitting the words out so loudly he turned his head to be sure he had not been overheard. It was an unnecessary gesture. In his irritation he had forgotten he was still at home, alone and cursing over the sound of an Elton John track playing on the CD player in the corner. He could not believe his stupidity or the slowness of his thought processes.
He moved swiftly from the chair at the window where he had been contemplating, crossed the room in two strides and grabbed his mobile from the table where he had emptied his pockets the night before. He stabbed in DI Petra Novak’s number and drummed impatient fingers on the wall as he waited for her to answer. She did so within ten seconds but McBride was already starting to transfer his guilt.
‘Christ sake, Petra,’ he said testily, ‘don’t hurry.’
She was taken aback at his ill temper. ‘Campbell?’ she asked, the curtness of his voice making her unsure it was him.
He did not apologise or explain. ‘Yes, who did you think?’ he said loudly, without trying to conceal his annoyance. ‘Look, we’ve boobed.’ He had convinced himself the mistake was partly hers. ‘We haven’t staked out the library or put cameras up.’
‘What?’ She was baffled.
‘The Central Library in Dundee – we should have someone down there – NOW.’
‘What?’ she repeated. ‘You’re not making any sense. Calm down, speak slowly and explain.’
McBride struggled with his exasperation. He chose his words and delivered them like bullets. ‘On the basis that you might actually want to catch this lunatic, you should be at the library waiting for him. If he’s true to form, he’s going to leave his calling card by cutting out a message for me. That’s when you nab him. Simple, isn’t it?’
There was a pause, so long that McBride wondered if there had been a loss of signal. When she finally spoke it was to repeat McBride’s own expression of self-anger. She swore quietly but with equal vehemence at their blunder. ‘I’ll get back to you.’ She rang off with an abruptness that matched McBride’s.
Half an hour later she called back. ‘OK, it’s done,’ she told him. ‘Two officers, a male and female, are in place. One was a student until a couple of years ago, still looks the part. The other is from the Drugs Squad. They usually dress worse than the folk they’re after so he’ll look as if he’s there putting off time till his next fix. Both will just be part of the furniture.’
McBride asked softly, ‘Cameras?’
‘Being installed even as we speak – trained on the files of The Courier.’ She answered his next question before he could ask it. ‘No, we weren’t too late. We checked today’s paper which has already been filed and it’s complete – nothing cut out. Don’t worry, we’re there for the duration. If he shows up, we’ll get him.’
McBride’s mind turned to the time of his last visit to the library in downtown Dundee. He thought of the sweating, odious figure of the inappropriately named attendant and his unwillingness to be of assistance. ‘Was a creep called Brad on duty?’ he asked Petra. ‘He’s an unhelpful little shit with a chip on his shoulder. Don’t count on him for much assistance.’
‘Didn’t hear his name mentioned,’ Petra said. ‘From what I’m told, it was a female who was in charge. According to my sergeant, he didn’t notice her face because he was too busy looking elsewhere at her anatomy.’
McBride laughed. ‘If it’s who I think he means, I can understand his fascination.’ McBride might have opened the door of a refrigerator as an icy blast ran down the line.
‘Why are men so prehistoric? Must women always be judged by the size of their chests?’ Petra said. Then, as an afterthought, ‘Besides, the ones who want to show them off are usually pretty thick.’
McBride laughed again, taken aback at her sexism. ‘How unworthy – or do I detect a note of envy?’
Petra spoke again, changing the subject, becoming businesslike. ‘On the subject of messages, I presume you still have the letters which were sent to you by the nutter you think could be behind all this?’
‘Of course. Why?’
‘They’ll have to be checked for prints and DNA. Same as the files in the library. It’s probably hoping for too much that we get a match but we’ll have to complete the process.’
McBride’s muttered response was as much to himself as to DI Novak. ‘Fat chance.’
She went on, ‘We’ll need a fingerprint sample from you, as well as a mouth swab for DNA, for elimination purposes. Same from anyone else you can think of who may have handled the letters.’
McBride thought back to the morning in the Apex Hotel when he returned from an early morning run and smiled at the recollection of the package Janne had sent to him from his publisher’s office. He did not tell Petra of the black, lacy pants she had included but said she was the only person he could think of who might have touched the letters – her and all the postmen involved in sorting and delivering them.
McBride had more urgent matters to discuss. He needed to know the latest developments in the investigation into the savage slaying of Claire Bowman. He needed answers about how she was dressed, what she had to drink. Needed information of sexual contact between her and her killer. Most of all, needed an update on the hunt in Aberdeen for a possible killer cop.
Petra listened without interrupting, then replied. She could have been marking a tick sheet. ‘She was well made up, well dressed – smart. She and the killer had apparently drunk wine, quite expensive stuff – both glasses are being checked. The matter of sex is less straightforward. Because of the internal injuries and all the blood, we’ll probably never know for sure if intercourse had taken place. But there was some sexual activity.’ She hesitated, picking her words. ‘Semen was found on her face. By the looks out of it, the killer may have stood over her, masturbating – probably after she was dead.’ Petra paused once more. ‘Depending on how long he had been with her, it’s probably unlikely that he would have had the desire, or ability, to ejaculate twice within a short timescale. That changes the profile of the bastard. It elevates him to the weirdo category. Sex with corpses – not nice.’
McBride had listened in silence. He started to speak but once again Petra anticipated what he was about to say. ‘Yes, in addition to checking the usual databases for a DNA match, steps are being taken to get samples from every officer in Grampian Police,’ she explained. ‘Some of them are already on record, the ones who’ve been processed before for elimination purposes. Most of the others should volunteer. The politically correct types, who decline on the ground of an infringement of their human rights, will still be checked out – covertly. In fact, the ones who refuse will be given priority. The forensic science squad will follow them round for sweat traces on canteen cups etc. It might be a slow business but it will be completed eventually.’
McBride spoke at last. ‘Impressive,’ he said. ‘What about the baton? Anything on it?’
‘You won’t be surprised to hear that, Claire Bowman’s blood and gore apart, it’s as clean as a whistle. Worse, it doesn’t carry any numbers linking it to an individual officer.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means it’s a needle in a haystack,’ Petra said. ‘If it had been officially issued, it would have had an identification number. But anyone as bright as our killer appears to be would hardly have left a murder weapon that virtually bore their name.’
‘Where does that leave us?’
‘Up shit creek – that’s where. Maybe the person who used it to such sadistic effect on Claire is a cop. Then again, an ASP baton isn’t exactly the most difficult thing to acquire. You’d manage to get one in five minutes off the internet.’
‘So, it’s back to square one?’
‘Worse.’
‘Can’t be – but tell me anyway,’ McBride said.
‘When Claire Bowman’s father was informed of her death, he couldn’t take it in. Not because it was so shocking but because he’s doolally – Alzheimer’s. He’s never going to be able to explain why him having been a policeman might have had something to do with her losing her life.’ She paused, then added slowly, ‘Come to think of it, for him, that’s a blessing … definitely.’