Craig Robertson - Random

Different for us though. We were glad Wallace Ogilvie was dead.

We were just one separation away from it. A single step. And we were glad.

We didn’t say it. Not to each other or anyone else but there was no doubt about it. She denied it after that first time when she read about his death and broke down and swore. She maybe even denied it to herself but she was glad. And I was very glad. It meant she wanted to talk about the killings every chance she got. She never missed a news bulletin. Just in case.

There had been a special report on the BBC the night before. A Crimewatch special. The whole programme devoted to it. Reconstructions. Witnesses of sorts. Relatives. Police. So-called experts. She stayed up to watch it, of course. Left her pills till later. Didn’t want to take the risk of snoozing through it.

Rachel Narey was live in the studio. Whisked down to London to film it then doubtless back up to continue the chase. She looked good. Camera still liked her. Dressed well, composed, in charge. Strain behind the eyes though. Could see that. Couldn’t miss it. Taking its toll.

The presenter was asking her to reassure. Asking her what the public could do to help. Not a whole fucking lot it seemed.

Rachel said that someone must know who the killer was. Said that there must be someone in Glasgow whose behaviour had changed, who had unexplained absences, whose actions were causing suspicion. Urged anyone who had doubts, even about a partner, a member of their family, to contact the police.

I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. Watched for a reaction but there was none. Nothing at all.

Rachel had practised this, I was sure of that. So smooth. Full of nothing but well delivered. There was a plea from the heart from Sinclair’s widow. The recently married, recently widowed Mrs Sinclair. She looked like shit.

Could barely look at the camera. Hadn’t slept since it happened. Hadn’t stopped crying since it happened. I didn’t need to see this. Looked at my wife and saw in her some of what Mary Sinclair was going through. Tired. Haunted. Gaunt. Shocked, still.

Programme ended with yet more showings of the numbers to call. All treated in the strictest confidence and you may be eligible for a reward. Businessman from Glasgow had put up?125,000. Others had put up smaller amounts.

She sank deeper into her chair and breathed out. Like she’d been through a boxing match and had taken a beating. She didn’t say anything for a few minutes and I certainly wasn’t going to. Then she started.

‘Still can’t believe this. What’s happening to this place?’

She was glad.

‘Did you see the state of that poor woman? Shocking. How could anyone put her through all that? Would have been better killing her too.’

She was glad.

‘Someone must know something. That polis woman is right. There’s no way you wouldn’t know if it was one of yours. Your husband or your son or your brother. How could you not know? Someone must be hiding him, covering for him.’

I knew she was glad he was dead.

‘Maybe someone’s too feart to speak out. Murderer like that it stands to reason. Things he’s done. Unbelievable.’

She was glad.

‘Because there’s no way you wouldn’t notice. Guy must be a lunatic. Might pretend to be normal but he couldn’t keep that up for long. Capable of doing all that then how can he act like nothing’s happened? What do you think?’

I think you’re glad Wallace Ogilvie is dead. That means you are glad they are all dead. Think the killer can act normal because he is normal. He has a job to do. He has a promise to keep. He is doing what is right and you are glad.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘People are strange. Never know what’s going on in someone else’s life.’

‘Well, no. That’s true. But, oh my God, how can he do that? How can he get away with it?’

He does it because he has to. Because a wrong needs to be put right. Because a drunken bastard killed the most precious thing in his life. Because you cannot let a person get away with something like that.

He gets away with it because he is smart, because he plans well and because he has thought it all the way through. He gets away with it because what he is doing is right.

‘I don’t know. Who knows what people are capable of doing? I’m sure the police will catch him eventually.’

‘Eventually? Eventually? How many more are going to die before that happens?’

Two more. And you are glad it has happened. You are glad they are dead. We both know that.

‘I’m sure they will get him soon. Don’t worry about it. You have to stop thinking about it. Isn’t your soap opera on the other side?’

‘Can’t watch that. Not now.’

Her eyes were wide. As if I’d suggested she go swimming at midnight or walk to London. She was glad.

‘Well, I’ll get you a cup of tea then.’

‘No, no tea. I don’t want tea. Do you, do you think he…’

She rarely mentioned him by name.

‘Do you think he was picked somehow because of what he had done?’ Her words trailed off quietly.

‘Don’t know,’ I mumbled.

‘But you’ve thought about it. Don’t tell me you haven’t. You have. Do you think that was why he was picked?’

Yes, of course it was. It was why he was killed. It was because of what he did that they were all picked. Why they were all killed.

‘No, it was just coincidence. Police have said so.’

‘Too much of a coincidence. That Thomas Tierney was a drug dealer. Maybe that’s why he was picked out.’

She was glad.

‘Not what the police say. Anyway, the others hadn’t done anything wrong.’

‘Well, not as far as we know. Might all have sinned.’

Everyone sins. Stop talking like that. You are glad. Admit it. Thank me. You are fucking glad.

‘There has been nothing in the papers about any of the others doing anything wrong,’ I said. ‘What about that dentist? What did he do?’

She looked at me in despair. Reaching for an answer.

‘I’m going to take my other pill. Should have had it by now. Getting late. I’m tired.’

She was glad. She was glad he was dead. She was glad they were all dead.

Within fifteen minutes the questions had stopped. Another quarter of an hour and she was going to bed.

I was left alone again, safe from her conversation and her worries. No more theories or guilt trips, no more pretending. No more talk of sin or reason or knowledge. No more fucking words. Just give me the silence of the room and the night and the road and the city. Give me peace.

Give me fucking peace.

My boss, Cammy Strang, ran a legit taxi operation. As legit as a private hire firm gets in Glasgow anyway. Cammy was ex-army. He would look after himself and his drivers and sometimes that meant hurting people. But an occasional swing of a baseball bat didn’t make Cammy a bad guy. Not compared to some.

Bribes and bungs, threats and lies, punters hijacked and flyers taken down. That kind of stuff was just business. It was what you had to do to survive, what was needed to turn a profit but it didn’t make you a crook. Not compared to some.

He’d started out with just one cab, driving it himself. Established private hires tried to put him out of business but Cammy wasn’t having it. He paid a couple of late-night visits and made his point.

He bought more cars and took on more drivers. Ended up with a fleet of eight, made himself a bundle.

Working for Cammy was a good deal. You could work hours that suited you both and he’d be straight with you. No need to worry about all your money being there or that he’d take someone else’s side over yours. Play fair by Cammy and Cammy would play fair by you. Above all, if you got a call for a job from Cammy then you knew there would always be someone in the taxi. Sounds obvious enough but elsewhere, other firms, that wasn’t always the case. Plenty of them ran ‘drops’.