It was a matter of opinion whether Angus Patterson was alive or not. A heart still beat in his chest, although feebly. His body was present in this world, emaciated and grey, despite their efforts to get him to eat. His mind, however, was frequently absent.
A project to help dementia patients to remember, which consisted of presenting them with photographs and music from World War Two, would send him into a paroxysm of rage. Whereas page three of the Scottish Sun brought a leery smile to his countenance.
He was infamous in the nursing home for trying to squeeze female buttocks whenever he had the chance, going even further if a skirt was worn. At times, nurses would spot a small limp white sausage exposed in his lap. They would promptly shove it back in and zip him up, which was what he’d wanted them to do all along.
When he was aware of his surroundings, he conceded that life had dealt him a reasonable end. Surrounded by women, most of them young, many of them pretty, wasn’t a bad way to end your days. They washed and fed him. All of which meant he had their hands engage with his body. And he didn’t have to pay for it either.
At this moment, he was seated in the day room, sun streaming through the glass, a pretty woman by his side. She was plump, which he liked, her breasts straining the shirt she wore. Although his wits and memory deserted him at times, his sense of smell never had. And he could smell skirt. Young skirt.
‘Mr Patterson. I wanted to ask you about your family,’ the pretty mouth was saying.
Angus licked his lips.
‘Have you any family? Nieces or nephews? Grandchildren?’ She smiled her encouragement.
Angus thought about other painted lips. Of all the colours worn, he’d always like red the best.
‘Have you any family, Mr Patterson?’ she said again.
‘Give us a fuck.’
She sat back, surprise on her face.
‘I’ll pay,’ he promised, his hand reaching for his zip.
She stood up and retreated.
Anger swept over him. What was wrong with the bitch? He’d offered to pay, hadn’t he?
A couple of figures rushed in. One came towards him and told him to stop swearing like that. The other swept the skirt away. Fury exploded in Angus’s brain and everything turned red. He was frightened by the red mist. It made him think of hell.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ the attendant said when they reached the hall.
Janice waved her concerns away. ‘In my line of work, you hear much worse than that,’ she said.
‘You were asking about his family?’
‘Yes.’
‘He has a photograph in his room in a drawer. Of a woman and small boy. He told me once it was his sister.’
‘May I see it?’
The woman led her along a corridor lined with doors. Noises drifted out. Weeping, muttering, odd-sounding laughter. It reminded Janice of prison. Only in here the inmates were imprisoned by their minds and not by bars.
They had reached a door with ANGUS PATTERSON, 117 on it. The attendant slipped a key in the lock and turned it.
‘If we don’t lock the rooms, people get muddled and go in the wrong one. It causes problems.’
She stood aside to let Janice enter.
Angus’s room was simply furnished. In a corner was a pile of Sun newspapers, some yellow with age. The woman opened a drawer and brought out a photograph.
Isabel Kearney wore a frightened look, as though something evil lurked just beyond the camera. She was with a dark-haired boy, with large empty eyes. He was almost as tall as his mother, gangly, big-footed, with the promise of more growth to come. Janice guessed he was about ten. Was he the possible link they were looking for?
‘Angus has moments of lucidity. We know about his criminal background and all about his sex life.’ The attendant pulled a face. ‘This is the only relative he’s ever mentioned.’
‘Does anyone visit him?’
‘Not as far as I know, but I can check our records and get back to you.’ She paused. ‘Is this in connection with an old crime?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say, although I do need to take this and get a copy made. I can get it back to you by tomorrow,’ Janice said to allay the woman’s obvious concern.
Janice tried McNab’s mobile again before she started up the car.
She didn’t expect him to answer and he didn’t. McNab was renowned for going it alone, so this wasn’t that unusual, but he was a DI now. Something he should remember.
The mobile rang as she engaged gear. She went back to neutral and answered.
‘Janice? It’s Patrick Menzies here. Any chance we could talk? It’s urgent.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Another victim.’