Craig Robertson - Random

I shook my head. Shook the interfering thoughts out. No time for that. A distraction I didn’t need. I mentally apologized to her for doing so but it had to be done. Out damn thoughts.

They kept coming back though. Maybe Sarah and Lara would be friends. Maybe Sarah would have been on her Facebook list, swapping messages with Maz, Ash and Christine. Maybe she’d have been in that happy group in Jinty’s with white wine, vodka and cranberry and bottles of beer.

I’d been mugged by my memories again. Sarah came flooding back, pushing at me, arguing with me. She was saying no, I was saying it had to be. The plan, the dice, Facebook. They all demanded it.

I shook the thoughts out of my head again and screwed my convictions to the sticking place. It had to be done. That neck. I was still looking at it when I became aware of someone standing at my shoulder. I hadn’t paid any attention to the door opening or the two sets of feet that had walked near me.

I looked up and saw the inquisitive face of Detective Sergeant Rachel Narey looking back down at me.

We were back outside the pub, standing on Ashton Lane, groups of people passing by on their way to the Loft, Vodka Wodka or Brel.

Me, DS Narey and wide, balding DC Dawson.

‘How nice to see you again.’ DS Narey.

‘Is it?’

‘I’m just being polite.’

‘Oh well, they say it’s nice to be nice. You not making house calls these days? I missed you the last time when you came round to chat to my wife.’

‘She confirmed that you were with her and asleep when two of the killings took place.’

‘I know. Strangely enough it did come up in conversation.’

‘You must be pleased that she put you in the clear. And yes, I suppose that is a question.’

‘Hardly. I had no need to be put in the clear. Instead I had to comfort an already troubled woman after her husband was accused of being a serial killer.’

‘I’m sorry about that.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘OK, maybe I’m not. I didn’t accuse you of being a serial killer but I understand why you might resent the suggestion. I had to look into all aspects of the case but then I explained that to you before.’

‘You did.’

‘You see we are trained to always look close to home before examining the possibilities that a murder might have been committed by a complete stranger.’

‘Are you now?’

‘The percentage of what we call stranger murders is pretty low. Most victims know their killer. There is usually a reason for it in my experience. Random killings just don’t happen very often.’

‘But they do happen?’

‘Oh they do, yes. But I’m an awkward sort. Someone tells me something I tend to doubt it. I blame my parents.’

‘I’m sure they are very proud of you. The newspapers seem certain that these murders are being done at random.’

‘Don’t you know you shouldn’t believe everything you read? I wouldn’t believe the date on half those rags. Maybe they’re right but I’m keeping an open mind on things.’

‘Well done. So is that why you are speaking to me again?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh good. And are you having me followed or did you just pop in here for a quiet drink with DC Whatsisname here. I thought they frowned on officers drinking on duty.’

‘They do if we get caught.’

‘Does that go for serial killers too?’

‘Oh most definitely. But no, my visit wasn’t entirely accidental. I fancied a quick word with you and a wee birdie told me you were in here.’

‘The wee birdies are awful well informed. So why do you want to talk to me then?’

‘Oh it’s not just you. All aspects of the case remember? All of the victims of this killer had given someone a reason to want them dead. Just that in some of the cases we maybe don’t know what the reason is yet. In your case, maybe we do.’

‘I told you. I didn’t kill him.’

‘I know you did. And I told you I’d understand it if you had wanted to. I don’t have children of my own but I think I know how you must have felt.’

‘Believe me, you don’t. Not even close.’

‘A drunk that knocked and killed a daughter of mine? I’d want him hurt. I’d want revenge. I’d maybe do anything to make him pay.’

‘Maybe you would.’

‘I understand that need to make things right. That’s my job. To sort things.’

‘You don’t seem to have made too good a job of it, DS Narey. No offence.’

‘None taken. You can surely see why you would make a good suspect for the killing of Wallace Ogilvie though.’

‘Maybe. But I didn’t kill him. And I certainly didn’t kill the rest of them. You tell me what makes me a good suspect for the others.’

‘Nothing does. Not a thing. That would be a puzzle right enough.’

‘I’ll leave you to your puzzle then, DS Narey, if there’s nothing else. Was there anything specific you wanted to ask me?’

‘Oh no. Just a wee chat. Helps me get things straight in my mind. I might need to chat to you again sometime.’

‘You do that. If you get a spare minute from catching the serial killer that is terrifying Glasgow then you come and have a chat.’

‘Thanks. I’ll do that.’

I had just turned away from her and could hear the two lots of detective feet ringing on the cobbles when the door to Jinty’s opened. Out came Christine, Maz, Lara and Ash. They were on their way to the Loft, I heard Christine say so. They were on their way for some food and some more drinks. They were on their way to sanctuary and salvation for Lara.

If I ever saw her again it would be pure chance.

I wanted to turn and watch them walk across the lane but I was aware that the two cops might also have turned and might have been looking at me. I caught the door to Jinty’s that they had left swinging behind them and went back in to finish off a pint of Guinness that was about to taste sweeter than it did before. A voice in my head said ‘Good’ and I didn’t disagree.

I silently wished Lara Samoltowski a long and happy life.

I was doing everything I could to avoid conversation with her. Wasn’t too difficult. I badgered Cammy for as many back or night shifts as were going. He was happy to oblige.

It meant she was out all day on her pointless crusade against drunk drivers while I slept or planned. I was on the streets while she was in bed. At most it left a short awkward time when she got in from her day and before the pills kicked in and sent her to dreams, nightmares or nothingness.

I was quiet, reluctant. She was used to that by now. Didn’t put her off talking. Got little back in return but ploughed on regardless. I could see the topic coming a mile away and would do my best to head it off. Sometimes wondered if she noticed that I spoke most when I was trying to avoid saying anything. She could never resist it for long. Probably like every other household in Glasgow. But ours was different. We were touched by it.

Maybe they all thought they were. No more than six degrees of separation between them and a victim of the man they called The Cutter. Heard that all the time when I was driving.

‘My sister works beside this guy who’s dad knew that Billy Hutchison. You know. The bookmaker. Says the guy was in the bookies the very day that the man was murdered. Terrible, ain’t it?’

‘My cousin Johnny is going out with a girl who was a patient of that dentist Sinclair. Brian, isn’t it? Was. She hadn’t seen him for a while right enough. Good teeth this girl, our Johnny says. Anyway she says he was a really nice guy. Very professional. Sin what happened to him, wasn’t it?’

When you live in a village like Glasgow then you can be sure everyone would have known someone. All over the papers. All over the TV. Only thing anybody talked about. That and the football.