any other time, he would have lingered at his good fortune to be living where he was but all that crowded his mind was a picture of a New Zealand lawyer lying perfectly attired but even more perfectly dead in her apartment in St Andrews, ten miles away as the seagull flies.
At least he was now fairly certain he did not need to concern himself with the deaths of Nicola Cassidy and Roberta Kerr, disturbing though they were. Deeper reflection suggested greater differences between their murders and those of Alison Brown and Ginny Williams than he had first imagined. Apart from the longer timescale since Nicola and Roberta had died, both had literally perished ‘at the hands’ of their killer, signifying more impulsive, unpremeditated acts than the ones where ligatures had been used. In the case of the call-centre worker, a petty theft had also occurred. A discrepancy with the other victim was the timing – she had arrived home drunk in the early hours after a night on the town with her friends. They really didn’t fit very well at all , he told himself. Besides, no ‘message’ had been sent about either of them .
The music stopped and McBride hit the replay button on the remote. Briefly, incongruously, he wondered how anyone with the talent of Coldplay’s frontman could also be so inconsiderate as to name his children Apple and Moses. It made almost as little sense as the message someone was so painstakingly trying to deliver.
Whatever way he viewed it, he ran into the same brick wall. How could the person who had taken such trouble to so deftly wield the razor be certain anyone would come across the results of their efforts? Was there really any connection between the murders of Ginny Williams and Alison Brown or was a warped mind simply setting up a tormenting game for him to play? And were there any other participants?
He wanted a drink but even he couldn’t contemplate the cold sharpness of a beer after getting out of bed at that hour. He poured an inch of Metaxa brandy into a straight glass and filled it to the top with Coca-Cola. For the next ten minutes, he sipped easily at it and watched as the tide carried two empty detergent bottles back and forth on to the beach.
Then he returned to bed to gaze at the ceiling again – only now he was thinking of Caroline and his beloved bike. Christ, he’d always lectured her about her grasshopper mind and her inability to switch off. At least the new images were preferable to the two dead women who had come uninvited into his life.
The woman who used to share his bed was still in his head when sleep overtook him. It was 3.20 a.m.
18
When he jerked back to life less than four hours later, sunshine was flooding the room. It was the kind of morning that folk who ran prayed for – bright, cool and windless and with a rising winter sun for company. But McBride resisted the desire to put on his trainers and head for the beach. Miraculously, what had passed for sleep had cleared his head and so there was no need to sort out his mind with the consumption of several miles by his legs.
He knew exactly what he must do. He needed to consult the police but it had to be someone familiar and not necessarily someone still serving. What he required was contact with an officer with enough seniority to have been informed of the background of the Alison Brown case, even if they had not worked on it, and who was prepared to speak off the record. Such a man, he believed, was David Novak.
He could not remember when they had last spoken but thought it had been when the then detective inspector had thoughtfully called him in London to express his sadness at Simon’s death. There were few officers in Dundee who were tougher or more demanding. There were also few more compassionate or caring. If DI Novak had arrested you, there was little prospect of an acquittal but, if the evidence was not there, the lanky Novak would not indulge in dishonest investigative techniques to create it. It was
Brenda Novak
Italo Calvino
C. C. Hunter
ylugin
Mario Puzo
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Toby Neal
Amarinda Jones
Ashley Hunter
Riley Clifford