Craig Robertson - Random

I was over him then. A newly gloved hand pinching his cheeks and encouraging his mouth to open.

I carefully forced the end of the paper into his mouth and turned it slowly as I fed it to him. Three, four, five inches of it disappeared easily. Easily for me.

Then it hit the back of his throat and went no further. Until I used my hand as a hammer again and hit it hard.

When it didn’t budge, I hit it harder. His throat opened and the newspaper moved down it.

His eyes suddenly opened, bulging wide. They strained down, trying desperately to see what was being forced into his mouth. As if seeing the intruder would free it. It wouldn’t. It didn’t.

I pushed further.

Sinclair waved his arms like a drunk. No power and no direction. They barely flapped. He was choking. Slowly. Hopelessly. It was fascinating to watch.

His eyes watered. His cheeks strained red with effort. His neck was swollen, muscles stretched tight.

Then there was blood at his eyes. Amazing. He cried blood.

The strangest thing was his throat where I could see the outline of the paper. It thrust against his tight skin, trying to burst free.

I hit the top of the paper again. I forced it. I pushed down on it. I literally rammed it down his throat.

The process was incredibly simple if not particularly pretty.

He choked to death in front of me. Silent all but for a few pathetic gasps and a scream that stayed deep down inside him, strangled at birth.

I worked the newspaper back out, a far easier job than putting it in. Wet with saliva, blood and traces of vomit, it slid along his surrendered throat and out.

I sat it on the rock I’d been sitting on and took a cigarette lighter from my pocket. One spark was enough for the damp paper to light and burn and dance and disappear before my eyes. One murder weapon gone.

I swapped the lighter for the secateurs and severed his pinkie.

CHAPTER 28 The Herald, 18 March 2010

Newlywed found murdered in woods

Has Ripper killed again?

The Daily Record, 18 March 2010

NUMBER FIVE!

Ripper kills again

EXCLUSIVE by Keith Imrie The body of a Glasgow dentist was found in woods near Inchinnan yesterday – the fifth victim of Jock the Ripper. Brian Sinclair (32) had been on his daily run through the woods when the killer struck. It is not yet known how Mr Sinclair was murdered but police have confirmed that his right little finger was severed. Officers are bracing themselves for the finger to be posted as has become the norm after the Ripper has killed. Mr Sinclair had been married for only six weeks and his devastated wife Mary was last night being cared for by her family. The brutal murder will bring even greater fear to a city already haunted by the shadow of the Ripper. Full Story on pages 2 and 3. The Courier, 18 March 2010

Dentist murdered as police fear serial killer has claimed new victim

The Daily Express, 18 March 2010

RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN

The Daily Star, 18 March 2010

RIPPED

The Daily Record, 19 March 2010

THE CUTTER

EXCLUSIVE by Keith Imrie The infamous Glasgow murderer who struck for the fifth time on Wednesday has revealed himself to the Daily Record as The Cutter. The serial killer sent a harrowing package to this reporter containing a house key belonging to murdered dentist Brian Sinclair. It was accompanied by a ‘business card’ adorned by the printed words ‘The Cutter’. The package and the printing were identical to a previous envelope from the killer which contained the finger of slaughtered businessman Wallace Ogilvie. Police have confirmed that the key was for the front door of Mr Sinclair’s Inchinnan home and that he always carried it with him while out running. Strathclyde officers have also confirmed that they took delivery of a package which held the severed right little finger of the victim. Psychologists have told the Daily Record that by allocating himself a nickname, The Cutter was affirming his ownership of the killings. They say that it was his method of declaring that he was in control of the situation, not the police or the media.

That and because he hated the fucking name Jock.

Alec Kirkwood had changed tack. Ally McFarland told me so.

Number five had changed his thinking on the whole issue. Seems he now accepted that the killing of Spud Tierney was not done to taunt him. Realized that Tierney’s finger wasn’t a great big Get it Right Up You to him.

That was the good news.

The bad was that Kirky was still hell-bent on finding out who murdered his dealer. Maybe more so than before. He had put the word out that he wanted Spud’s killer. Made sure everyone knew just how much. Kirky was used to getting what he wanted so was not a happy man when it didn’t deliver. And because he had made his wishes so public, it was left all over his face when he got nothing. That just made him angry.

What bothered Kirkwood most was that people, the people that mattered, might see this as weakness. Being top dog in a world where one ate the other was always a precarious business. If they think you are on the slide then they boot you up the arse to help you on your way.

One opening, that was all that they were looking for. Searching for a wound where they could stick a knife and twist until it was left wide and festering.

Well Kirky wasn’t about to give them an opportunity. He’d fuck every one of them over before he let that happen. He needed to re-establish his authority. Smack some heads together, break some legs.

That meant finding the cunt that had killed Spud and took the piss out of him and that was what he was going to do. Maybe it wasn’t all about him but that wasn’t going to stop him from finding whoever shanked Spud.

This serial killer wasn’t the only one that had taken the piss. Mick Docherty, still blazing about Jimmy McIntyre, the bullet through his window and the torture of Billy Hutton, hadn’t missed his chance. He let it be known what a joke Kirkwood had become. How everyone was laughing at him for not being able to look after his own. How he had made all this big noise about making someone pay and then doing sweet fuck all about it.

That would have been enough to make Kirkwood furious but Mick had also been getting a bit naughty. Two pubs in Cowcaddens had been turned over. Bottles, beer and cash taken and both places trashed. Two pubs in Alec Kirkwood’s pocket and under his protection. Penny stuff really but it was cheeky.

Everyone knew that it was kids who worked for Docherty who had done it. They had been selling the booze cheap and knocking back a fair share of it too. Cheeky little bastards, Kirky had said.

They were sorted without too much fuss. Three doors kicked in at the same early hour of the morning. Three disrespectful wee shits beaten about the knees with baseball bats. One of them would never walk unaided again but the other two would be back on their feet in a few months. Lesson learned.

But the boys that had robbed the boozers weren’t the issue. Mick Docherty was. He might not have given them the word to plunder the pubs but he didn’t stop it or turn them over to Kirky once he knew the score. That was out of order. That was ripping the pish.

Kirkwood said it was simple. His reputation. The serial killer. Mick Docherty. All three needed sorting. He figured that by doing one he could maybe do all three. It was all about coming up with a plan.

He had advantages when it came to catching a killer. Kirkwood could send his guys to talk to people that the cops couldn’t. He could get answers where they would only get knock-backs or no comments. Kirky’s people played by different rules.

Davie Stewart and Charlie Grant spoke to Jack Fyfe, a partner in Salter, Fyfe and Bryce. Jonathan Carr’s boss. Seems Fyfe had more than a few clients on his books that were known to Kirkwood. Criminals needed lawyers like anyone else – more than most – and there were always lawyers more than happy to take their coin. Jack Fyfe was one of those.