McGuigan addressed the group of men and women sitting round the table in the briefing room. All competent police officers. All taking notes, listening attentively, all confident enough to voice opinions, if required. Ten in all. The same number as the victims The Surgeon had dispatched over his five-year murder frenzy. The thought made McGuigan more despondent. Behind him, on a large white display, photographs of the same ten victims. Each fresh-faced and pretty, oblivious to the tragedy to befall them. Each vaguely similar; similar jawline, similar cheek structure; perhaps, at a push, same sparkle in the eyes. Beside each, various names. People they knew – friends, children, boyfriends, husbands. Nothing to connect them. They each could have lived on different planets.
Other photographs had been placed on the board. A man, smiling broadly, tanned, perfect teeth, looking damned pleased with himself. Bronson Chapel. Under him, pyramid fashion, two more photos. The other dead men in the house. Each had a label – “Billy Watson” and “Frank Fitzsimmons”.
McGuigan hadn’t slept. His mind was in overdrive. Doubtless he would stall midday, but he had his coffee and his bubblegum and sheer undiluted adrenaline to keep him afloat.
He addressed Kenny Dawson, sitting nearest him.
“Give me some wonderful news.”
Dawson shook his head, assumed a doleful expression. “No CCTV. Not just the single lane going to the crime scene. No CCTV near the turning point from the main road. In fact, no CCTV on the main road at all. There is one camera in the centre of Aviemore.” He looked at his boss, looked at the others. “But it wasn’t working. Total loss.”
McGuigan reacted with a resigned shrug. The fates, as ever, were against them.
He turned to another – DC Primrose. An astute and dedicated young woman, keen for promotion. Graduate, on a fast-track programme. She responded with analytical detachment. “Forensics, so far, have found nine bullets. It’s early days. Ballistics are testing them. We should know by the end of the day if they were fired from the same weapon used at that scene and also at Evelyn Stephens’ crime scene.”
McGuigan moved on. “And door-to-door?”
A middle-aged man wearing heavy black-framed spectacles cleared his throat, answered. “‘Door-to-door’ is reaching a bit here, sir. There’s not that many doors. Bronson’s house was in the middle of a forest. There are houses on the main road, two miles from the scene, though not a lot. There’s also a fairly large hotel. We’re asking guests and staff if anyone saw anything. A lot of the people visiting are the ‘great outdoors’ type – dog walkers, hikers, cyclists, joggers, climbers, skiers, and such.”
McGuigan nodded like a wise owl. “Keep at it.”
Primrose spoke up. “A lot of the ground around the house is grass. We’re checking tyre tracks.”
“Right.” He chewed on his gum. The taste had gone an hour ago. It was like chewing on elastic. “And our two visiting pilgrims?”
A voice came from the end of the table. “This is interesting, sir. We knew both men had previous. Fitzsimmons – affectionally known by his peers as ‘Lemonhead’ – was a driven career criminal. Violent and sociopathic and highly motivated, and with a record both long and varied. Billy Watson, however, was altogether different. He had a couple of convictions years back, but for the most part, kept himself under the radar. I’ve spoken to some contacts. The word is, he was running a highly lucrative business in supplying Class A drugs to the rich and famous. He chose his clients carefully. Doctors, accountants, politicians…”
“…and lawyers,” finished McGuigan.
“Correct. Everybody paid Billy Watson, because they knew if they didn’t, they’d end up having an intimate chat with Lemonhead, which, I dare say, would end badly. A two-man outfit.”
McGuigan stroked his eyebrow with the tip of his index finger, an unconscious habit when thoughtful.
“What about Mrs Shawbridge and her son?”
Another: “A wealthy widow. Her husband died, left her a business which she sold for a fortune.”
“And her son?”
“We’ve had access to his medical records. He was diagnosed with cancer six months ago. He’s in a chronic state. He’ll be lucky to be alive by the end of the week.”
“And Bronson’s mobile phone?”
The meeting had gone full circle, back to Kenny Dawson, who gave the same doleful shake of his head. “No sign.”
“Of course not,” responded McGuigan. “Why would there be?”
He drew a breath, gazed at the flat ceiling as he arranged his thoughts.
“Bronson disappeared from his office on Monday. Presumably he high-tailed it to his boat house. Why? If Mrs Shawbridge is to be believed – and we have absolutely no reason to doubt her – Bronson attempted to blackmail her, by claiming he had taken a picture on his phone of The Surgeon at the scene of Evelyn Stephens’ murder, and suggesting it was Mrs Shawbridge’s son. The idea that such a scheme would work is ridiculous. But my belief is that Bronson’s head was scrambled by drugs, and that he was desperate for cash.”
He paused, considered, carried on. “He needed the cash because our ‘Good Samaritan’ Billy Watson was supplying him with white fairy dust, and Billy Watson was looking for his money.” He flicked a look at Primrose. “Have forensics discovered any traces of drugs, either in the house or his car?”
She gave a curt shake of her head – “Nothing yet, sir.”
“Make sure they know to look. Even the faintest spec. They’ll find something for sure.”
She scribbled it down on her notepad.
“Bronson and his two Comancheros were shot at the boat house,” continued McGuigan. “My guess – they knew where Bronson was, and had gone up north to pay him a visit. Not the friendly type of visit, I might add. And then?”
Another spoke – “If we assume Bronson really did have a picture of The Surgeon, and The Surgeon knew this, then it would be only logical for him to want to retrieve the picture and wipe Bronson out of the equation.”
“Which would mean,” said Primrose, “that The Surgeon would have to know about Bronson’s boat house, and that he would be there.”
“Or at least hope he would be there,” said Kenny Dawson. “As we did.”
“And so,” said McGuigan, “The Surgeon toddles up to the Highlands, to the boat house. But disaster! He not only has to deal with Bronson, but Billy and Lemonhead, which he does in his usual and decisive manner.”
Primrose raised a hand, as if she were at school, which McGuigan found quite fetching.
“Two prerequisites – The Surgeon would not only need to have known that Bronson had the photo, but that Bronson owned the boat house.”
“Indeed. Very specific knowledge. To know one is good fortune. To know two? Damned good fortune.”
The man with the black-framed spectacles spoke – “We have to find the connection.”
“Bronson could have told any number of people about being a witness to the murder. He certainly told Mrs Shawbridge. He showed her a picture. People talk. And whoever knew, also knew about the boat house.” He fell silent, turned to the board behind him, gazed at the photos. He turned back, appraised those sitting.
“Bronson Chapel was a partner in the firm of SJPS. Mrs Shawbridge was a client of Bronson, and, as such, a client of SJPS. Mrs Shawbridge told us she had threatened SJPS with litigation over Bronson’s conduct. The admin department of SJPS knew about Bronson’s boat house. As I said, people talk. People love gossip. Wouldn’t surprise me if half, if not all, of the prestigious and respected firm of SJPS knew all about Bronson and his photo and his boat house. Am I seeing a connection?”
Silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a start. And it’s more of a start than we’ve ever had. We need to wait for ballistics to confirm that the bullets came from the same gun. Then we have something tangible. Then we work from there.” He focused on Primrose again.
“Get ballistics to shift their arse on this one.”
“Yes, sir.” She hesitated. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to get a picture of Mrs Shawbridge’s son? If he’s supposed to look like the killer?”
“Never thought you’d ask,” replied McGuigan.
At his feet was a frayed and battered satchel. He had been using the same one for the last twenty-five years, sometimes for files, mostly to hold his packed lunch. This time, it was holding something a little different. He put it on the table, unclipped the flap, produced an A4-sized manilla envelope, opened it, and took out a sheaf of photographs, which he distributed to each of the officers.
“This is Wallace Shawbridge. Taken before his illness. If his mother is to be believed, that Bronson showed her a picture of someone he claimed was The Surgeon, and that person bore a strong resemblance to her son, then effectively…”
“…we’re looking at him,” breathed a detective sergeant, his freckled face crumpled in mild wonder. A hush fell; each gazed at the photo they held. McGuigan debated as to who would be the one to raise the obvious issue.
Primrose looked up, uncertain.
“But, with all due respect, sir, it looks nothing like the photofit.”
McGuigan took a long breath. He had been warned by the chief constable. More than warned. Threatened. And here he was, disobeying his superior officer. Two words leapt into his mind – fuck him.
“You’re absolutely right. There is zilch resemblance. Which goes a long way to legitimising our theory that Bronson really was blackmailing, and really did have a photo of The Surgeon. My view is that Bronson purposefully sent us in the complete wrong direction, so we wouldn’t interfere with his ploy, and catch the bad guy before he collected his money.”
Another silence, as they pondered this latest revelation.
“Was he mad?” It was the freckled sergeant who ventured this question.
“Possibly. Certainly desperate.”
“Which means,” said Dawson, “that the world and their brother are looking for a figment of Bronson’s imagination.”
“We let it play,” said McGuigan. “For now. At least until we have ballistics, and we have some certainty the murders are connected.” He swept his gaze round the table, ensuring eye contact with each person there. “Meanwhile, let’s take another look at the form of Stoddart, Jeffrey, Pritchard and Sloss.”
McGuigan went to his office, sat, and pondered. His desk was cluttered with files and memos and random notes and a silver goblet full of biros, some of which he knew didn’t work. Also, a photograph of two girls. His daughters, giving impish smiles for the camera, taken… he had to think back, when and where… five years ago, he remembered, at a pizza restaurant in the trendy west end of Glasgow. The occasion – Merryn’s eighteenth. He couldn’t recall what they had ordered, but he had a good idea. Merryn – meat-feast pizza. Katie – hot and spicy pizza. Their choices never changed. In the photograph, Merryn was clutching a rather complicated cocktail, as if to say, hey ho, dude, I’m eighteen and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. The memory brought a small smile to his lips, as it always did. His therapy, when things went to shit. Merryn, the younger, was now twenty-three. Katie, the elder, thirty-two, their ages qualifying them as possible targets of The Surgeon, he thought sombrely, as indeed were most young women in the country.
He emptied his gum into a paper tissue, folded it over, dropped it in the bin, and immediately replaced it with another, his mouth suddenly bursting with the sweet sugary taste of something mildly disgusting. He glanced at the wrapper. Wild Strawberry Flavour.
His mind retraced the recent events, the patterns, the links. The connection between SJPS and the killer was tenuous. There was nothing concrete, nothing to join the dots. His theory was exactly that. A theory. Based upon a foundation of supposition and assumption and leaps of faith.
Faith. He had none. God wasn’t listening. His wife had said that God worked in mysterious ways. Cliché, he had thought at the time, and still did. God, he had said, was an absent landlord, and his house was burning, to which his wife had replied – God never started the fire, but he empowers good men to rise and put it out.
The taste of the gum was disappearing. He chewed, and would have preferred the sweet bite of nicotine filling his lungs.
Soon, he would have an enraged chief constable on his back. Possibly – probably – he would be flung off the case for revealing to his staff the photofit given to the masses was all to shit.
And none of it would make a blind bit of difference. The Surgeon would keep going, like some unstoppable, remorseless machine.
He needed a miracle. The problem was, they didn’t exist. But then… he gazed at the photograph of his two sweethearts, and the smile came back, and he realised that of course miracles existed.
The problem was that he needed one with immediate effect, and God, being God, was never in a hurry.
Perhaps for once, he thought, he could jump the queue?
There was a knock on the door.
The dependable, solid figure of Kenny Dawson entered. McGuigan relied on his scepticism, his somewhat dour disposition. It anchored him.
“You’re not going to believe this, sir.”
McGuigan regarded him, chewed the last of the sugar away. What now?
“Enlighten me. What is it I’m not going to believe?”
“A body’s been found in Chatelherault Woods.”
“Yes?”
“It’s one of the lawyers from SJPS. The one that stormed out the room. Paul Hutchison.”
McGuigan stood. He couldn’t think of any instant response.
The baffled look on Dawson’s face was almost humorous. “What does it mean?”
McGuigan suspected the bafflement on his own face was equally as humorous.
“I have no earthly idea,” he heard himself say. “I really don’t.”