A press conference was held at 11am that morning. In attendance, Chief Constable Robert Blakely – the man in charge of Police Scotland – and Detective Chief Inspector Harry McGuigan. The venue was a function hall forming part of Hampden Stadium, chosen because parking was easy, and congestion could be controlled. This wasn’t the first such conference. Over the last five years – the period The Surgeon had so far been active – there had been five. Each similar, to the extent they did not reveal anything new to the public, which only heightened the perception the police were incompetent. It was an embarrassment. Plus, it was political. The previous chief constable and deputy chief constable had both been sacked over it. A new broom had been appointed, all guns blazing, a firebrand, promising overhauls and shake-ups and radical changes, and most importantly, results.
Which was three years ago. And so far, zilch results. The new – not so new, mused McGuigan – chief constable was staring into oblivion. Now however they had a real lead. Something substantive to show, and as soon as the chief constable was made aware of the development, he called the press conference with a renewed and shining confidence.
McGuigan watched the congregated mass before him. The place was packed. All seats were full. Reporters, cameramen. If they didn’t have a seat, they stood, along each side, and at the back. Media from all over the world. Same old faces, thought McGuigan. And some new faces. Five years. The world kept spinning. People had retired, died, changed jobs, moved on, got married, had kids, got divorced. Human life fluctuated, changed, went through a million permutations. But one constant throughout was the psychopath named The Surgeon. Every year, he raised his head, reminding people with a jolly wave and a dreadful deed. Still here, he was saying. See you next time. Love you.
McGuigan heaved a sigh. He was bone weary. Weary to the core. He was sick of the circus. Sick of the murders. Sick to death. But they had a lead. Which was more than they ever had. He ought to have been positive. Pleased, almost. He glanced at the chief constable at his side, who was most definitely pleased, and who appeared to have forgotten a young woman horrifyingly mutilated, and two men shot to death.
It was all politics. All fucking politics.
Behind them, on the wall, hung a huge photograph of the photofit likeness of the killer, as described by the lawyer called Bronson Chapel. McGuigan craned his head round, and for the hundredth time, gazed at the face staring back out at the press. There it was. The face of a psychopath. And yet… McGuigan experienced a niggle. A flicker of doubt. He’d been a cop all his life, and a damned good one, and somehow, something didn’t seem right. He had a feeling. A bad feeling. He felt it deep in his bones, in his gut. Something vague and insubstantial. But persistent. A feeling that wouldn’t go away.
Chief Constable Robert Blakely spoke into a microphone. He was a man in his early fifties, lean as a whippet, balding grey hair. Significantly greyer than when he was first given the job. The pallor of his skin was grey too, his eyes dark and brooding. A tired reflection of the man brought in to sort things out. That’s another thing, reflected McGuigan. Our neighbourhood psychopath had the ability to age people. Surely this man is magical.
“Thank you for coming at such short notice,” Blakely said. His voice was low and soulful. He waited for the general rumble of activity to quieten to silence. Tension was wire tight. Lenses focused, cameras flashed, tape recorders clicked on, notepads were opened. No one spoke.
“You will all be aware of the dreadful events which took place last week. For the record, three people were killed in a house on Kelvinside Gardens, in Glasgow’s west end. We believe, given the circumstances, this was perpetrated by the same individual who has carried out several attacks over the last few years.”
Several. Few. McGuigan found the descriptions almost humorous. More like ten, over five years. And more than attacks. More like goddamned mutilations both bizarre and grotesque, beyond the imagination of any sane person. The bullshit was flowing, and the chief had only started. McGuigan could hardly blame him.
“However,” continued the chief, “thanks to robust and dedicated detective work…” Jesus. “…we believe we have a major breakthrough. The picture behind you is an accurate representation of a man we would like to question in connection with the attacks. I’m appealing to the public. To anyone watching this. Please consider the face carefully. If you think you know this person, then it’s important you speak to us, any time, day or night. Please come forward. This man, we believe, is dangerous. He is not to be approached.”
A pause. Then, “If you have any questions, then please ask. I’ll hand you over to Detective Chief Inspector McGuigan, who is in charge of this investigation, and who can provide you with any relevant details.”
Gee – thanks a bunch. Talk about arse covering.
McGuigan stood, assumed a solemn face. He was hit with a barrage of sudden noise. A hundred people all talking at once. All talking to him. At him. He pointed to a young woman on the front row, who immediately asked the inevitable question.
“Were these murders committed by The Surgeon?”
“This is a name concocted by the tabloid press. I would say the recent killings bear a resemblance to previous incidents.”
“What type of resemblance?” came another voice from the front row. Why ask that? McGuigan wondered. They already knew the peccadillos of the killer. Hence The Surgeon. The ghoulish nature of the media. Everybody loved the macabre.
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Stock answer. “But there are definite similarities.”
“Are the police sure that’s the picture of the killer?” came another voice.
No, we’re not.
“As sure as we can be.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
An obtuse question, thought McGuigan. What the hell did he think it means? Absolutely nothing.
“With the information we have, this seems a reasonably accurate picture of the killer’s face. I would also like to mention, we think the attacker was wearing a blue ‘boiler suit’-type garment. The type a tradesman might wear. Also, we believe he was possibly driving a white van.”
Another voice – “Do you think the attacker knew his victims?”
“Our investigations are continuing.”
Another – “With respect, investigations have been continuing for the last five years. Are the police any closer to catching this person?”
Not really.
“I believe we are.”
Another voice piped up, from the back, and asked the question he knew he would be asked, and the one he dreaded.
“There’s a strong public perception that the police are out of their depth. That they simply do not have the resources, or the ability, to catch this man. What do you say to that, Chief Inspector?”
What the hell do you want me to say! That it’s true? That this guy’s running circles round us? That we’re incompetent?
McGuigan glanced down at his chief, who sat, rigid, staring stonily ahead, face set.
Thanks again.
“I want to say to the public that we are doing our utmost to catch this individual. And make no mistake, he will be caught. We are focused, and determined. We’re getting closer.” Another stock cliché coming up. “We’re leaving no stone unturned.” As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. It sounded trite and superficial. And pathetic.
“You said that five years ago,” shouted a man from somewhere in the middle.
McGuigan offered no response. The man was right. There was little argument to the accusation.
“What do you have to say to the families of the victims? With still no closure after such a lengthy period?”
McGuigan swallowed, tried to think of a reply which was not inane and insulting. The chief constable stood, at last.
“Our liaison officers work closely with the families,” he said. “Now, I would again like to thank you for coming. Once more, we would ask you look closely at the picture, and if you think you have seen this person, or know this person, then please contact us. Any information, however small, might be vital in apprehending this man. Thank you.”
The conference was over. Blakely left, via a side door, McGuigan following, emerging into a corridor, at the end of which, an exit, where Blakely’s car waited. As soon as the door was closed, Blakely turned, leaned in close, his voice low and harsh.
“What is it with you, McGuigan?”
McGuigan frowned. “I’m not sure I follow, sir.”
“Follow this. You’re out there, speaking to the press like a bloody robot. Unconvincing. Paying lip service. If you’re trying to calm the population, then I suggest you up your game, and at least sound like you believe what you’re saying. Because if you don’t, you can bet your bottom fucking dollar, no one else will. You get the gist of what I’m saying? You follow now?”
“Apologies, sir. I hadn’t realised this was about me.”
The chief’s eyes narrowed. “Your sarcasm stretches so far. Then it hangs you. Make no mistake. We look like bloody fools. I’ll not have it. Not on my watch.” He leaned in close, an inch away. McGuigan got the faint whiff of aftershave. Old Spice? Surely not.
“I’ll not go down over this,” Blakely hissed. “Shape up. Look the fucking part. Next time we arrange one of these circus sideshows, I’ll be expecting to tell the world we’ve caught this psycho. And get this into your head, McGuigan.”
“Yes, sir?”
“This isn’t about you. It’s about me.”
He turned away, marched off.
McGuigan watched him go. And then, suddenly, the flicker sparked into a flame. A brief bright moment of intuition.
He tapped the screen of his mobile, got Kenny Dawson’s number.
“It’s the photofit,” he said. “I know what’s wrong.”
“Which is?”
“Let’s renew our acquaintance with Bronson Chapel.”