McGuigan took Stark to a vacant interview room on the ground floor of the building. They sat on opposite sides of a bare table, on hard plastic seats with metal legs. Not designed for comfort.
“Tea, coffee?” ventured McGuigan.
“Nothing, thanks. I recognise you from your visits to SJPS. I work there, by the way. I’m their new trainee lawyer.”
“I remember you,” replied McGuigan. He took out a piece of bubblegum from his jacket pocket, unwrapped it, put the small pink brick shape into his mouth.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “It’s not very professional. But it helps the craving.”
“Bazooka bubblegum. I used to chew it when I was a kid. I had no idea you could still get it.”
“You’re still a kid.” He leant back. “I suppose, when you’re my age, most people look like kids. What can I do for you, Jonathan?”
Stark’s lips twitched into a tremulous smile. He fidgeted on his seat. He looks damned uncomfortable, thought McGuigan.
“This isn’t easy to explain. I’m not really sure where to start.”
McGuigan waited, said nothing. Strangely, for a reason he could not fully understand, he believed this moment was important. That something was happening. That this was the cusp of something much bigger. He waited. His heart raced.
“I’ve seen the man called The Surgeon.”
Quite an opener. McGuigan kept his voice level.
“Really?”
“Really. And he looks nothing like the photofit you’ve given to the public. I would like to get that straight from the beginning.”
McGuigan nodded slowly. “This is very interesting, Jonathan. You’ve seen him?”
Stark hesitated. He felt like getting up, getting out. But he had started. He doubted, given he had just admitted to having seen the most wanted man in the country, he would be allowed to leave.
“I’ve seen him, in a manner of speaking.”
McGuigan frowned. He chewed on the gum. Raspberry flavour, he decided.
He said, “Perhaps I should ask a colleague in, to take notes, you understand. Procedure, and all that stuff.” He gave a wintry grin. “As a lawyer, you’ll understand all about procedure.”
Stark became more agitated. “No. Just you. Please, Mr McGuigan.”
“My name’s Harry,” replied McGuigan gently. “Of course. Just me. If that’s what you want.”
Stark considered the man before him. Mid- to late-fifties. Weathered skin, sad wrinkles cobwebbing the sides of each eye. But the eyes were bright. McGuigan chewed his gum. Stark could smell the sugary sweet scent from his breath. This was the man he knew he had to speak to. He hoped, he prayed, for good reason. But where the hell to begin.
“Do you believe in God?”
McGuigan sat back, folded his arms, scrutinised Stark.
“It’s funny, but I’ve been asked this a few times recently. I ask it myself, and I’m not entirely certain of the answer. Do you?”
“I don’t know what to believe.” He licked his lips with the tip of his tongue. He was hungover. His mouth was dry. His throat was raw. “Can I have that cup of tea?”
McGuigan nodded politely. “Indeed you can. It’s from a machine.” He gave a warm smile. “The taste ranges from ‘insipid’, to ‘foul’, depending on its mood. You have been duly warned.”
Stark couldn’t help smiling back. He liked this man.
“As long as it’s wet.”
“Wet, I can do. What do you take with it?”
“Does it matter?”
“No.”
He got up, left the room. Stark wondered if he made a bolt out the door, would he be chased by a posse of coppers across the car park. The scene conjured in his mind made him smile. Something from the Keystone Cops. At this moment, smiling felt good. The dream was still fresh in his mind. It filled him with fear. He hoped to Jesus Christ above, Harry McGuigan had an open mind.
McGuigan reappeared, holding two white plastic cups, placed them on the table.
He gave a sardonic smile. “Enjoy.”
“Thank you.” He sipped.
“You were asking me if I believed in God,” resumed McGuigan. “My wife and I go to church every Sunday. This causes mild amusement amongst my fellow workers, because they think, given the horrific scenes we witness in this job, God cannot possibly exist. But I go, I listen, I sing the hymns – though I use the term ‘singing’ very loosely – I pray, like everyone else there. I suppose I’m looking for something. But do I believe? Really? That’s a leap.” He gave a tired sigh. The kid had asked a question, and here he was, baring his soul. “If he – God, that is – were to give me a sign, a nod, even a wink, then maybe I might take that leap.”
“Maybe I can help with that sign,” muttered Stark. “I read somewhere that on death, our souls leave our body, to travel to the next… phase.”
“Perhaps they do. Someday, each and every one of us will find out.”
Stark leaned forward. “I’m going to tell you something, Harry. I’m going to ask you to take that leap. I’m not mad. I’m not on drugs. I’m not on anything. I just need you to take what I say seriously. And that won’t be easy.”
“Madness is a subjective thing, don’t you think? Please. Try me.”
Stark took another sip, collected his thoughts. But they swarmed in his head like angry bees.
“I… I seem to have very specific and detailed dreams. In these dreams, I witness events. More than witness. I share the suffering.”
McGuigan took a drink from the plastic cup. The bubblegum helped to soften the taste. He said nothing.
“Last night, I dreamt about Marie Thomson.”
McGuigan raised an eyebrow. He knew each of their names, branded deep in his mind. “His first victim. Five years ago.”
Stark recollected the sequence of events. He shuddered. He continued, because he had to.
“I dreamt how she died. I dreamt where she died. The details were vivid. I felt her pain. Her despair. Every inch of her terror.”
McGuigan pursed his lips. The young man before him spoke with an earnestness he found disarming. The sceptical portion of his brain reared up and burst out laughing. A much smaller portion took a reflective view, and paused in its judgement.
“You had a dream,” said McGuigan. “Despite its vividness, that’s all it was.” He fell silent, then said, “Surely?”
“A dream can be much more,” said Stark quietly. His voice changed. Became robotic. “Her body was found by the side of a country road. He sat her up, against a fence post. He had rearranged her hair. He had changed her face to suit his requirements.”
McGuigan nodded slowly. He knew each case intimately. Unlike Stark, he hadn’t dreamt it. The fence post was interesting, but not enough.
“This is true,” he said. “But these are details anyone could get from the internet. The country knows that he – for want of a better word – mutilates their faces. Hence his nickname.”
“Details,” repeated Stark. “All right. When she was found, she was wearing a dark blouse, a dark skirt, black heels. He not only mutilates. He changes their clothing. I’m not sure, but if I were to hazard a guess, when found, each victim was dressed in exactly the same manner.”
That is interesting, thought McGuigan. He responded with a tilt of his head, suggesting he would like to hear more.
“Marie Thomson was a final year vet student. She was celebrating with friends in a pub called the Fox and Hound.” His voice didn’t change tone as he recounted the event of that particular evening. “It’s a spit-and-sawdust pub for students in the west end. You probably know it. She was wearing jeans, suede boots, a university sweat top, a red leather jacket. She had a necklace of a little golden crucifix, though she wasn’t religious. A present from her mum. She had a tattoo on the nape of her neck. Mandarin symbols, denoting ‘harmony’. She was a happy girl. She’d just sat her last exam. There were six of them altogether, that night. Six friends. Letting off a little steam. They sat at a table in the corner, and drank pints of lager, then shots. There was live music. He was there, already. Watching. Waiting for his moment. He had targeted her months before. He could hardly contain his excitement. They left the pub, and went to a club called Ringo’s in the city centre. It had just opened. It was late. They got split up. She was drunk.” He took a shuddering breath, held back his anger. “All she wanted was to get home. Shall I go on?”
“Please.”
“He spiked her drink, rendered her almost unconscious. He put her in a car. A dark Mondeo. He took her back to a house.” A scene formed in his mind, one he would never forget. “He killed her, then drove her body to the lay-by.” He fell silent. He bowed his head. He had summed up the last shocking moments of a young woman’s life in less than a minute of conversation. Somehow, he felt ashamed. She deserved much more. He met McGuigan’s eyes once again. “Well? Did I get it right?”
McGuigan pondered. “He took her to a house? You saw this in your dream? You would recognise this house?”
“Of course.” A sudden thought struck Stark. He looked at McGuigan, his hangover forgotten – “You didn’t know this.”
McGuigan held Stark’s stare. Intriguing. “You dreamt all this?”
“There’s more. I think I know why he does it. Why he chooses certain types. Why he feels the need to recreate their faces.”
McGuigan waited. He had stopped chewing. He realised he was holding his breath. Now, this was more than intriguing. This was gripping.
“He had handcuffed her to a bed. Above the bed, on the wall, was a portrait of a woman. This woman is important in his life. He models his victims on this woman.” He looked away, as he recalled the face, pale and unsmiling. Haunted eyes. Skin so deathly white. “Here’s the thing, Harry. I’ve seen this woman before. Somewhere in the past. I just can’t remember where.”
McGuigan considered the man sitting on the other side of the table. Jonathan Stark. Trainee lawyer, so claimed. The obvious link, once again – the firm of SJPS. Always, the path seemed to wind back to them. And how the path wound and twisted.
“You understand, of course, that by providing me with this abundance of information, there are two possible conclusions I can draw.”
Stark shrugged. He was weary. He had given as much as he could. He hoped he had done enough, that whatever force was driving this situation, was satisfied. Somehow, he thought not. Somehow, he thought the shit had only just begun.
“You’re right,” he said. He took another swig of tea, which was cold. “It truly is disgusting. Two conclusions? May I?”
Again, McGuigan responded with a polite tilt of his head.
“One – I’m mad,” said Stark. “Or two – I’m the killer.”
McGuigan allowed a crooked grin. “If you were the killer, it would seem odd that you would come to me, a policeman, and admit your crimes by the weirdest of implications – by way of a dream. And as for the first conclusion – you don’t appear to me to be mad.”
It was Stark’s turn to grin. “‘Madness is a subjective thing’. Your words.”
McGuigan took a long breath. If only he had the bite of nicotine to sharpen his thoughts. Bazooka bubblegum just didn’t crack it. He decided to play along.
He took his phone out, found a photograph he had taken of Mrs Shawbridge’s son, and showed it to Stark, an action he scarcely believed he was doing.
“Is this the man you saw in your dream?”
“Very similar.”
McGuigan put the phone back in his pocket. The affirmation meant nothing. The man opposite could simply be lying, but McGuigan had gut feelings about things.
“My wife truly believes God works in mysterious ways,” he said. “Perhaps he does. Or perhaps he doesn’t work at all, and everything is a smorgasbord of random events and situations, without pattern or meaning. Or maybe it’s a bit of both. I don’t know the answer. But I do know I need help. And suddenly here you are. Look for the signs, I say. Right now, I need all the signs I can get. You might be mad, Jonathan. We might both be mad. But you’re here. And you know stuff that you shouldn’t know. I’ll take that leap, because I have no choice, and I have no other place to go. And the clock’s ticking. You said you knew the house he took her to?”
“In my dream, I saw the address. Clock’s ticking? What do you mean?”
McGuigan clicked his teeth, looked askance at Stark. Where was the harm?
“I need to move quickly. I believe he – The Surgeon – has taken another. Last night. A doctor, as she was leaving A and E. I have a very limited window of opportunity. If you have this address, then give it to me now. Please.”
“A doctor? A and E?” Stark stared, heart pounding in his throat. Conclusions swirled in his mind, too horrific to consider. “Which hospital?”
McGuigan read the sudden concern in his voice. “Why is this important to you, Jonathan?”
“Which hospital?”
“Hairmyres.”
“And this was last night? You said ‘she’?”
“Yes.”
Stark could hardly speak. He dreaded his next words, because they would come as a question he had no desire to ask. But he had no choice. He spoke, his voice leaden.
“Do you know her name?”
“What is it, Jonathan?”
“Do you know her name?”
“Margaret Sinclair. Doctor Margaret Sinclair.”
Stark’s world imploded. He felt dizzy. He bent over, retched. Nothing came up. He felt short of breath. He focused on the floor. The floor moved; his vision swam.
He sensed movement – McGuigan standing up, coming round, hovering beside him.
Stark took some deep breaths. His straightened, swallowed back a surge of nausea.
“You know her,” said McGuigan.
“She’s my sister.”
Stark shook his head, tried to gain clarity to his thoughts. “Sinclair’s her married name,” he mumbled. “None of this makes any goddamned sense.”
“Or maybe it does,” countered McGuigan. “I really don’t know if I believe you, Jonathan, or whether you’re deluding yourself, but if this dream really is…” he groped for the right word, “…something, then maybe you had the dream precisely because of what’s happened to your sister. Tell me! What’s the address? I can have it checked out now.”
Stark stood, fought the shakiness in his legs, faced McGuigan.
“No. You might have it checked out. You might not. I really don’t know if I believe you, Harry. But one thing is for certain. I’m going to check it. This is my sister. Not yours. You have a choice, Chief Inspector. You can come with me now. Or not. But I’m leaving. And I’d welcome your presence. I think, going with an officer of the law would make life a lot easier. But I’m leaving, with or without you.”
McGuigan nodded. Fruitless to remonstrate. Stark would remain undeterred. He was on a mission – who could blame him? Plus, McGuigan needed the address, to follow this line of enquiry through, regardless of whether it was a figment of Stark’s imagination. Procedure be damned.
“Fair enough. But we take my car.”
As they were leaving the building, the desk sergeant raised his hand, caught McGuigan’s attention for the second time that morning.
“Sir! The chief wants a chat. Says it’s urgent.”
McGuigan stopped in mid-stride, turned.
“Pass this message. Tell him…” and here he mouthed rest of his sentence, “…to fuck right off.”