Craig Robertson - Snapshot

‘We finishing up here before we go?’

‘ We’re not going,’ replied Addison. ‘Just me. Monteith can run the show here but forensics are already photographing the prossie so you’re not needed. And don’t even bother arguing, it’s out of my hands.’

‘Fucksake,’ blurted out Winter. ‘They pull you off one fucking murder for another. Why? Because it’s more important. Yet they don’t want to photograph it properly!’

Addison smiled gleefully at his friend’s irritation.

‘You know how it is, wee man. Everything’s got its place in the scheme of things. Some scumbag getting stabbed on a Saturday night is worth about the same as an A in Scrabble but a murdered prossie is a J. And photographs of deid bodies are the same whether they are taken by you or a trained monkey.’

Winter knew that he was winding him up but, despite himself, he bit.

‘Fuck you. Fuck right off and stick your letter J up your A for arse.’

Addison laughed loudly.

‘Nice comeback, wee man. And so eloquently put. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a date with a young lady.’

It was raining harder by the time Addison got to Wellington Lane, one of the handful of narrow alleyways that cut their way across the lower city centre. With just enough room to drive a car or van through, the lanes acted as a service for the rear entrances of upmarket shops, offices and hotels. At night, dark and out of sight, they serviced a different type of business altogether.

The DI parked on West Campbell Street, cursing at the downpour that forced him to turn his collar up and hustle past the rain-soaked constable who guarded the entrance to the lane. Up ahead, spotlights and a tent had already been set up where a knot of uniforms, CID and forensics gathered in the gloom. Addison, head down, marched by a procession of large red, industrial wheelie bins and found his DS, Rachel Narey, waiting impatiently by the last of them – the one that was covered by the white crime scene tent.

Addison walked straight past her, only a raising of his eyebrows letting her know that he was duly pissed off, stopping inside to pull on coveralls and a pair of disposable gloves. She shook her head and followed him inside the tent where examiners were huddled over the woman’s body.

‘Okay,’ barked Addison. ‘Let the dog see the rabbit.’

The white protective suit immediately in front of him turned and looked up.

‘The epitome of decorum as ever, Detective Inspector.’

Addison saw the green eyes of Cat Fitzpatrick looking up at him disapprovingly but he wasn’t in the mood to be lectured to.

‘Aye, aye, whatever. I know it’s not even opening time yet but it’s already been a very long day. So if you don’t mind, doll, I’ve got a job to do.’

‘That’s fine, don’t mind me. I’m just waiting for my nail varnish to dry,’ she replied sarcastically.

‘That’s nice,’ replied Addison, not remotely listening but taking Fitzpatrick’s place as she moved out of the way.

The girl lying tangled on the pavement was in her early twenties, her eyes and mouth wide open in shock, her short skirt rucked up above her waist and her underwear round one ankle. Her pale neck bore violent compression marks where her young life had been strangled out of her.

The girl’s platinum-blonde hair was darker at the roots and her make-up was as thick as her lipstick was red. Her arms were skinny and her face gaunt behind the war paint. Addison noted the discolouration of her fingers, her decaying teeth and the raw red marks at her nostrils. They were as sure signs of her habit as the black platform boots, the micro skirt and the halterneck top were of her employment.

The DI moved slightly to the side and saw a dark patch of dried blood on the back of the girl’s head that made a good match with her lipstick.

‘So which killed her?’ he asked the scene examiner. ‘The strangulation or the blow to the head?’

‘Either could have done it,’ Fitzpatrick replied. ‘But I’d suggest the injury to the skull was secondary, or at least incidental to the primary attack. As he compressed her neck, he forced her back and in doing so banged her head off whatever was behind her. Which wasn’t here, by the way.’

‘So where?’

‘Twenty metres further up the lane. There are flecks of blue paint in her skull which matches an opening there. If it took place here then she’d have traces of this brickwork but she hasn’t.’

‘We got a name for her yet?’ Addison asked.

‘No,’ replied Narey from behind him. ‘There was nothing on her, no bag, no ID. She’d either stashed it somewhere before she began working or someone stole it from her.’

‘Robbery?’ asked Addison doubtfully.

‘Doesn’t seem likely, I agree. It looks as if he killed her during or immediately after sex and that suggests a whole different kind of motive.’

‘Fucking great,’ muttered Addison.

He gently lifted up one of the girl’s hands, noting the dirty fingers and cracked nails and, more importantly, no obvious signs of skin beneath the nails where she might have clawed at her attacker.

‘It looks like she didn’t fight back.’

‘Stoned out of her head, most likely,’ offered Narey. ‘She didn’t know if it was Friday or Falkirk and by the time she did, he’d strangled her.’

‘Looks that way,’ agreed Fitzpatrick. ‘I’ll need to wait on the toxicology tests and have a more thorough look beneath her nails but I think DS Narey is right.’

Addison nodded soberly, their opinions confirmation of what he thought.

‘Okay, Rachel, seeing as you are on form, what do you make of this?’ he asked, pointing his finger at a patch on one side of the girl’s face where her make-up had been partially scrubbed away from her cheek.

‘It’s strange,’ admitted Narey. ‘Might just be part of the struggle or it could be some weird attempt by the killer to leave his mark on her.’

‘Could be,’ murmured Addison. ‘See the sweep of it? Looks like it was done with fingers then gone over again with something like the sleeve of a shirt to wipe away any fingerprints. Who have you got here with you?’

‘DC Corrieri,’ Narey replied. ‘She’s outside.’

‘When you get back to the station get her onto the Police National Computer and see if this marries up with any known sex offender, marking his territory kind of thing. It’s probably a long shot but if this fucker has done this before then we need to know about it. And I need you to find out who she is. You got people you know down here?’

‘I’ve got a contact over at the drop-in centre,’ Narey nodded. ‘But there’s not going to be anyone around at this time of day.’

‘Same goes for the other girls who would have been working down here last night. Okay, I’ll organize a sweep of the place for tonight and see if anyone will talk to us. In the meantime I’ll get someone to go through the CCTV. You find me a name for her.’

‘Will do.’

‘Ms Fitzpatrick, do you have an approximate time of death for me?’ Addison asked.

‘For you, Detective Inspector? Any time soon, one would hope.’

‘Funny. I did mention that it had been a long day, didn’t I? When do you think she was killed?’

‘Best guess right now is around midnight. I’ll be able to give you a slightly better idea later.’

‘Okay, I guess that will have to do for now. Rachel, talk me through how and where she was found. I take it the cops who were first called are still here?’

‘Yes, PCs Dwyer and Watt. They’re outside with Corrieri.’

‘Okay, let’s go talk to them. Cat, do what else you need to then cover her up and get her out of here for fuck’s sake. The poor cow has suffered enough for one day.’