Craig Robertson - Random

So sweet Rachel was off the case. Gone. The men in suits had bowed to their own bad press and had booted her. She would no longer be tied down by the everyday routines of the inquiry. The emphasis of her role had shifted.

A bit of me was relieved. Couldn’t deny that. Narey wasn’t the same as the rest of them. Just as I wasn’t the same as the psycho that they thought I was. The rest of them saw bodies piling up and newspaper headlines and swallowed every word that I had fed them. They were robots. Almost too easy to toy with. She seemed to be the only one that doubted what everyone else saw to be true.

They all looked for the one they dubbed The Cutter. She left room for other possibilities. Of course she hadn’t established a dialogue with me. I had established it with her. I wrote to her. I posted to her. I brought her to the fore of their investigation. I made her. I put her in charge.

They had no right to remove her. My choice. I was in charge here. It was me who was in control. And she was smarter than them. Maybe too smart. Maybe it was better without her. But it was my choice that she was in charge of the investigation, not theirs. They had dismissed her because they were under pressure. MPs, media, the public. Journalists and television stations from all over the world were coming to Glasgow to write and talk about their so-called serial killer. And every word that was written made them sweat. Every word that was spoken made them look bad. Couldn’t be their fault. Oh no. Had to be someone else. Call for a scapegoat. Call for Rachel.

They didn’t know they were doing me a favour. They were taking away the one threat, other than Alec Kirkwood, that didn’t buy into everything that I put before them. It made me laugh. Made me angry.

I had thrown the paper across the room when I read about her being ditched. About her being replaced as the principal officer on the investigation. She was a threat to me but that was my choice to run that risk. I think I had known from the first time I saw her on the TV news that she was a bit different. I certainly knew the day she first came to the house to interview me. Someone had to come, I’d known that. Matter of procedure. Had to question me, had to consider even in the face of all the other evidence that the killings weren’t linked, that they weren’t personal. That had to be done.

But it would be cursory, I’d been confident of that. No sane person could think that one grudge connected to only one victim of a four-time serial killer was the motive for them all. Yet Rachel had been persistent. She had needled me. I’d risen to it. Just a bit but I had risen to it. Maybe that was what got her interested, maybe she was just thorough, maybe she was just a genius or a complete fucking bitch. Maybe she really did stick to those principles of policing that said random killings don’t happen very often and that they should always look close to home before thinking a murder might have been committed by a stranger.

Whatever, I knew she had not ruled out the chance that it was me or that I had something to do with it, unlikely as it seemed. She was a risk that I was happy to run with.

It was felt she had established dialogue with the killer and that it would prove beneficial if she was in charge of the case. Almost right. I was in charge. Not her. The dialogue, my dialogue, was beneficial to me. She would have known nothing unless I chose to reveal it.

Strathclyde Police said they now felt that dialogue had now run its course and was no longer an asset in trying to track the murderer. No shit, Sherlocks. I would decide when the dialogue had run its course. I would decide when it would stop. The murderer would not be tracked down.

I could restart dialogue with Rachel any time I wanted. As long as it was still an asset. They couldn’t tell me who to talk to at Strathclyde. Not their decision.

I had no idea who this jumped-up English bastard Lewington was. Lewington of Nottingham and his five other Nottingham cops could get to fuck. I would deal with who I wanted. The Englishman would bring a fresh approach he said. Convinced the murderer would be caught. Bollocks. They had taken over because the men in suits had said so. Brought in to show the Jocks how it was done.

He said he would build upon the excellent work already carried out by his colleagues in Strathclyde. Probably laughing at them. Laughing at Rachel. Well, he could get to fuck. Robertson and Narey have worked long and hard to catch the killer, he said. Patronizing cunt. He means they tried but weren’t up to the job. You think you are up to it, Lewington? You won’t catch me. Guaranteed. Will take a header off the Science Tower before that happens.

Says he will rely heavily on local knowledge. Thinks the Glesga plods will do the dogsbody work for him and he will take the credit. Wise up. I’ll decide what happens from here on in. Just like I have up to now.

I’d thrown that paper across the room and had sworn out loud. Raged at their nerve. I wasn’t dealing with this Lewington, he was getting nothing from me. It was Rachel or no one. I’d kill who I fucking wanted, post to who I wanted to fucking post to. This was my plan, my rules.

But maybe this was what they wanted. Was that their game? Were they messing with me, trying to throw me off balance? Were the cheeky bastards trying to fuck with my head?

Think, think. I was posting to Narey. They said she had established a dialogue with me. Knew it was me that had started that dialogue. They knew that. They were trying to take that away from me. Break that connection so that I couldn’t get what I wanted. They were cutting me off from her so that I would make a mistake. The bastards.

They thought they were smarter than me. Thought they could control my mind.

I’d seen through them. Saw their little game. They’d need to be a lot cleverer than that. I wasn’t rising to it, not angry any more, I was in control. I picked the paper up and sorted the pages. Placed it back on the table, smoothed it down. In control. Patted the paper so it looked untouched.

But what if they weren’t clever at all? What if they weren’t trying mind games and had simply kicked Narey into touch?

Head bursting with this. Needed to think straight. Concentrate. Sort it.

Bastards. Messing with me. My plan. My rules.

Stick to the plan. Whatever their game was I would stick to the plan. They wanted me to switch course and make a mistake but I’d do what I intended to do. When I wanted. Wouldn’t be rushed. Wouldn’t be panicked.

I knew my next move and I’d make it when I was ready. I’d decide. They’d made me think but they couldn’t make me change course. Too long in the planning, not for changing for anything. I resented them getting rid of Rachel Narey, for whatever reason they’d done it. But I wasn’t getting angry, not for long anyway, I was getting even.

I got on a bus. The number 40 from Maryhill into town.

Three of us at the bus stop. Me, a drunk and a woman doing a fair impression of Maw Broon. They were safe. Whoever it was, it wouldn’t be them.

The drunk was making a fair bid to be elected, right enough. He was doing the lurching tap dance and mumbling to himself. A look in his direction brought a glare, that special Glasgow glare that happens when a guy has drunk enough to think he is six inches taller, two stone heavier and a whole lot harder than he actually is.

I let it go. Other fish to fry.

When I wouldn’t play the game, he tried Maw Broon instead but she had seen plenty of his kind and didn’t bat an eye.

‘Who do you think you are looking at?’ she demanded.

‘Eh?’

‘I said who do you think you are looking at? Don’t fucking look at me like that. Away and fuck off.’