The Unravelling of Thomas Malone E-Book

Elly Grant

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Angela Murphy has just started as a detective on the mean streets of Glasgow, when the mutilated corpse of a young prostitute is discovered in a squalid apartment.

Called to investigate the grisly murder, Angela is both shocked and surprised. To her boss, Frank Martin, there's something horribly familiar about the scene. He has seen it before.

With limited resources and lacking experience, Angela is desperate to prove herself. But is it really the work of a copycat killer, and will Angela's enthusiasm and determination be enough to bring the killer to justice before another life is lost?

Leseprobe

The Unravelling of Thomas Malone

Elly Grant

Copyright (C) 2012 Elly Grant

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To my husband and children

Prologue

Thomas Malone remembered very clearly the first time he heard the voice. He was twelve years, five months and three days old. He knew that for a fact because it was January 15th, the same day his mother died.

Thomas lived with his mother Clare in the south side of Glasgow. Their home was a main door apartment in a Victorian terrace. The area had never been grand, but in its time, it housed many incomers to the city. First the Irish, then Jews escaping from Eastern Europe, Italians, Polish, Greeks, Pakistanis, they'd all lived there and built communities. Many of these families became the backbone of Glasgow society. However situations changed and governments came and went and now the same terraces were the dumping ground for economic migrants who had no intention of working legally, but sought an easy existence within the soft welfare state system.

A large number of the properties were in the hands of unscrupulous landlords who were only interested in making money. They didn't care who they housed as long as the rent was paid. So as well as the people fleecing the system, there were also the vulnerable who they exploited. Drug addicts, alcoholics, prostitutes, young single mothers with no support, they were easy pickings for the gangsters. The whole area and the people living within it smacked of decay. It had become a no-go district for decent folk, but to Thomas Malone, it was simply home.

Thomas and his mother moved to their apartment on Westmoreland Street when Clare fell out with her parents. The truth was they really didn't want their wayward daughter living with them any more. They were embarrassed by her friends and hated their drinking and loud music. When Clare became pregnant, it was the last straw. Thomas's grandparents were honest, hard-working, middle-class people who had two other children living at home to consider. So when Clare stormed out one day after yet another row with her mother, they let her go. She waited in a hostel for homeless women for three weeks before she realised they weren't coming to fetch her home and that's when Clare finally grew up and took charge of her life in the only way she knew how.

When Thomas walked home from school along Westmoreland Street, he didn't see that the building's façades were weather worn and blackened with grime from traffic fumes. To outsiders they looked shabby and were reminiscent of a mouth full of rotting teeth, but to Thomas they were familiar and comforting. He didn't notice the litter strewn on the road, the odd discarded shoe, rags snagged on railings, or graffiti declaring 'Joe's a wanker' or 'Mags a slag'. He functioned, each day like the one before, never asking for anything because there was never any money to spare.

He was used to the many 'uncles' who visited his mother. Some were kind to him and gave him money to go to the cinema, but many were drunken and violent. Thomas knew to keep away from them. Sometimes he slept on the stairs in the close rather than in his bed so he could avoid any conflict. He kept a blanket and a cushion in a cardboard box by the door for such occasions. Many a time, when he returned from school, he found his mother with her face battered and bruised crying because the latest 'uncle' had left, never to return. It was far from being an ideal life, but it was all he knew so he had no other expectations.

It was a very cold day and, as he hurried home from school, Thomas's breath froze in great puffs in front of him. He was a skinny boy, small for his age with pixie features common to children of alcoholics. His school shirt and thin blazer did little to keep him warm and he rubbed his bare hands together in an attempt to stop them from hurting. He was glad his school bag was a rucksack because he could sling it over his shoulder to protect his back from the icy wind. As his home drew near his fast walk became a jog, then a run, his lungs were sore from inhaling the cold air, but he didn't care, he would soon be indoors. He would soon be able to open and heat a tin of soup for his dinner and it would fill him up and warm him through. He hoped his mother had remembered to buy some bread to dunk.

As Thomas approached the front door something didn't seem right, he could see that it was slightly ajar and the door was usually kept locked. There was a shoe shaped imprint on the front step, it was red and sticky and Thomas thought it might be blood. There was a red smear on the cream paint of the door frame, he was sure it was blood. Thomas pushed the door and it opened with a creak, there were more bloody prints in the hallway.

Thomas took in a great breath and held it as he made his way down the hall towards the kitchen. He could hear the radio playing softly. Someone was singing 'When I fall in love'. He could smell his mother's perfume it was strong as if the whole bottle had been spilled. The kitchen looked like a bomb had hit it. His mother wasn't much of a housekeeper and the house was usually untidy, but not like this. There was broken crockery and glassware everywhere and the radio, which was plugged in, was hanging by its wire from the socket on the wall, dangling down in front of the kitchen base unit. A large knife was sticking up from the table where it was embedded in the wood. The floor was sticky with blood a great pool of it spread from the sink to the door, in the middle of the pool lay the body of Thomas's mother. She was on her side with one arm outstretched as if she were trying to reach for the door. Her lips were twisted into a grimace, her eyes were wide open and her throat was sliced with a jagged cut from ear to ear. Clare's long brown hair was stuck to her head and to the floor with blood and her cotton housecoat was parted slightly to expose one blood-smeared breast.

Thomas felt his skinny legs give from under him, he sank to his knees and his mother's blood smeared his trousers and shoes. He could hear a terrible sound filling the room, a guttural, animal keening which reached a crescendo into a shrieking howl. Over and over the noise came, filling his ears and his mind with terror. Then he heard the voice in his head.

“It's all right, Son,” it said. “Everything will be all right. I'm with you now and I'll help you.”

He felt strong arms lift him from the floor and a policeman wrapped him in a blanket.

“Don't be frightened,” the voice told him. “Just go with the policeman. Someone else will sort out this mess. It's not your problem. Forget about it.”

“Thank you,” he mouthed, but no sound came out.

The policeman gathered Thomas in his arms and carried him from the room. It was the last time he ever saw his mother and he cannot remember now how she looked before she was murdered. The voice in his head, the voice that helped him then, remains with him today guiding and instructing him, often bullying, it rules his every thought. Sometimes Thomas gets angry with it but he always obeys it.

Chapter 1

It was ten to six on Tuesday morning and Angela Murphy was already showered and dressed. Her charcoal-grey coloured, 'Next' suit was well cut and a perfect fit, it clung to her long, lean frame in all the right places. You could get the wrong impression about Angela when she was dressed in that suit if it wasn't for the austere white shirt, the no-nonsense opaque black tights and the sensible black leather shoes she wore with it. But in fact, today was Angela's second day as a detective and she was excited and edgy because she'd been assigned to a murder case. Some detectives work their whole career without being involved with anything as meaty, but because Angela was to work with Frank Martin, she went where he went, and he was heading up this investigation.

She sensibly made herself a substantial breakfast and, although she had little appetite because of her anticipation and excitement about the day ahead, she forced herself to eat it all. Who knew when she'd get the chance to stop and eat again? Standing in front of the hall mirror for the umpteenth time, she checked her hair and makeup. Her face had the fresh, healthy look of someone who enjoyed an outdoor life, her skin glowed and her blue eyes sparkled even at this early hour of the morning. Rich, thick, black hair framed her pretty, heart-shaped face and she couldn't help smiling at the image reflected back at her.

“You're smart, you're strong and you're ready,” she said to her reflection.

“And you're very hot,” a voice behind her said, startling her.

She turned to see her husband Bobby. He was still half asleep but he'd thrown on last night's shirt and a pair of jeans so he could rush downstairs and see her before she left for work. His sandy coloured hair had a tousled look that Angela found particularly attractive and his cheeky smile melted her heart. Bobby was a teacher, head of Maths at his school in fact, and today was a school holiday so he could have stayed in bed. He was tall and strong and very handsome and he looked more like a professional sportsman than a maths teacher. Angela had fallen in love with him the first time they met. On that occasion, she'd been nine years old and the new girl in class and he was the class clown, the daring boy who made everyone laugh, and he was kind to her. Once they finished primary school they lost touch until years later when, as a young police cadet, she gave a talk to the pupils at the school where he worked. After that chance encounter they began dating and two years later they were married.

“You didn't need to get up this early. You're on holiday.”

“I wanted to see you off, Darling. Have you had enough to eat? Do you want me to make you a cup of tea?” Bobby asked.

“Thanks, but no thanks, if I have any more tea I'll be peeing all day and I can't use the loo at the murder scene. I've already been to the toilet twice in the last half hour with nerves.”

“Don't be nervous, Darling, remember, you're smart, you're strong and you're ready,” he replied with a wink.

“Yes I am, I'm all these things, but I'm also scared shitless.”

“And you need to leave now,” Bobby observed as he glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. He reluctantly steered her towards the front door, she looked so sexy that he would much rather have steered her back to bed.

After a last hug and a quick peck on the cheek Angela made for her car. She had everything she needed with her but obsessively checked her bag once again before driving off to work.

When Angela arrived at the office there were two detectives at their desks, Jack Dobson and Gordon McKay. Their shift was coming to an end, they looked really tired and their clothes were crumpled. The office was artificially warm and the air was fuggy. Being the middle of winter, the two men had left the heating on full blast all night. Angela couldn't imagine what it would've been like had they been allowed to smoke indoors. As it was, both men reeked of stale tobacco.

“Is the Boss not in yet?” she asked innocently by way of a greeting.

“Been and gone,” Jack replied without lifting his head from his 'Classic Cars' magazine.

“Forensics is still at the scene and the body's not been shifted yet. The Boss wants you to meet the corpse in situ. He said you've to grab a driver and make your way over to the scene when you've finally decided to grace us with your company,” Gordon added with a smirk.

“But he told me to meet him here at seven o'clock, it's barely gone six thirty,” Angela protested.

Gordon gave a shrug and Jack didn't even acknowledge her. Bristling with annoyance at the injustice Angela made her way towards the front desk to try to commandeer a car and driver. As she walked down the corridor she heard Jack and Gordon laughing in her wake and she realised they'd been winding up the new girl. She was angry at herself for being so naïve and rising to the bait. Bastards, she thought, that wouldn't happen again.

It took only a few minutes for Angela to locate a driver in the shape of a fresh faced young constable whose enthusiasm about going to a murder scene was actually rather disturbing. He chattered on and on all the way to Govanhill and by the time they reached their destination Angela had been treated to most of his life story. It was a relief to finally get out of the car and into the creepy stillness of the murder apartment.

Frank Martin was standing in the narrow hallway of the red-sandstone, tenement flat.

“You took your time,” he said grumpily. “What've you done with your driver, have you sent him back to the job?”

“And good morning to you too,” Angela replied stroppily. “We had arranged to meet at the office at seven and I was there at six-thirty, so please don't talk to me like that. I might be new but I still deserve your respect.”

“Feisty, I like it. I see you're going to keep me on my toes Missy.”

He smiled at Angela and she calmed down and managed to return a grimace. “And don't call me Missy. I'm Detective Murphy or Angela if we're on our own.”

“Yes, Mam,” Frank replied, laughing. “That's put me firmly in my place. As long as you remember that my place is superior to you. As long as you don't forget that I'm the boss.”

“Yes Boss,” Angela replied determined to have the last word.

“Send the boy away,” he said, now noticing the young policeman hovering by the doorway. I've got my car outside. Then come back in here and for goodness sake suit up and cover your shoes. Although forensics is finished, this place is covered in blood.”

Angela went back out of the front door, she told the young constable that he was no longer needed and he reluctantly left. She wiped her shoes with a tissue before covering them because they were smeared with blood. In her rush to get inside she hadn't noticed just how much of it there was on the floor of the hallway. It was lucky she wasn't squeamish.

When she returned Frank had entered the kitchen and he was kneeling beside the body of a young woman. Frank was a big man. He was tall and broad with a large, square shaped head and enormous meaty looking hands. No one would describe him as handsome in truth he was rather ugly. He had a fat face with little piggy eyes and a squashed nose which had been broken more than once. His skin reminded Angela of a greasy, pork sausage. However, incongruously, Frank was a fastidious dresser and Angela knew that under his protective suit, his clothes would be immaculate and expensive. His hair was perfectly groomed, not a strand out of place and his fingernails were manicured and spotlessly clean.

“Something's not right here,” Frank muttered. “I'm having a de-ja-vu moment. I've seen this crime scene before. That knife embedded in the table and the radio hanging from the socket, I've seen all this before.”

Angela didn't comment. She stood transfixed beside the corpse. She didn't sicken easily but nothing could have prepared her for the brutality of what she saw.

“You see the way the body is draped in that dressing gown with one boob hanging out? And the way she is reaching towards the door? I've seen this same layout before. It was about ten years ago. Just round the corner in Westmoreland Street. I was new to the job, just like you, and there was a child involved, a wee skinny boy about twelve years old. He came home from school to find his mother dead, with her throat cut, just like this poor cow. This is really weird it's the same scene all over again. I think someone staged this. I think there might be a connection.”

After two more hours of Frank's mutterings and copious note taking by Angela, they'd gathered all the information there was to be had from the apartment. As they stepped outside onto the pavement Angela found herself blinking at the brightness of the morning sun. She felt rather dazed by the contrast between it and the dim, dingy, artificial light of the flat and she reached out to steady herself by grabbing onto the railings at the side of the building.

“Your not going to faint on me, are you?” Frank asked as he grabbed her by the elbow. “You look a bit peaky, are you okay?”

“I'm all right. It's just the brightness of the sun after the darkness in there. I don't faint but thanks for caring.”

Angela drew her elbow from Frank's grasp. The big man gave her a sheepish look and cleared his throat.

“We have months of summer without a hint of blue sky just grey and rain every day and now, in the middle of winter, would you just look at that.” He pointed upwards with his thumb. “Bloody cold though, it must be minus something. After the damp in that apartment I need something to heat me up. The mobile incident room's arrived at the end of the street we'll walk down to it and see if they've got the coffee on yet.”

Angela was delighted to be out of the oppressive apartment and she inhaled deeply to try to clear her head. She hadn't realised just how bad it smelled in there until she'd stepped outside. It had been a cloying mixture of dirty cooking oil and cheap perfume mixed with deprivation and despair. Angela thought it unlikely that the dead girl could even imagine how the other half lived, she'd probably never seen inside a clean, suburban home.

Frank and Angela made their way down the street to the mobile unit and, when they entered it, they were immediately handed polystyrene cups of boiling coffee by a young policewoman. Frank commandeered the only two chairs and the small desk and, as they sat in the tiny space sipping their coffees, he planned the rest of the morning's work. He suggested that Angela go and interview the neighbour who'd made the first emergency call.

“You'll have to see if you can take a uniformed officer with you,” Frank said. “I've nobody to spare. We're stretched to the limit because some people are off sick with the bloody flu. It should be quite easy to get what you need from the woman,” Frank added. “I've been told that Mrs Ali is the neighbourhood busy-body so she'll have plenty to tell you. Just try and sift through the dross until you get to what she actually saw and heard. It'll probably take you the rest of the morning. I'm going back to the office.”

“But you have the car,” Angela protested. “How am I supposed to get back when I'm finished with Mrs Ali? You told me to send the other car away.”

“For a clever girl you can be really dumb sometimes. I do hope you're not going to be one of these moaning minnies, whining all the time,” Frank answered quietly so as not to be overheard. “When I leave this incident room you are the most senior officer here. You are in charge. Just call for a car when you need it and someone will come and fetch you. For God's sake don't let anyone here think you're not up to the job or they'll fall on you like a pack of dogs. Remember, you're in charge, right?”

“Yes Boss,” Angela replied embarrassed by her faux-pas. She'd never been in charge before and she was thrilled by the prospect. When Frank left Angela made a quick telephone call to Bobby.

“Guess what, Pet,” she began. “I'm in charge. Isn't that so cool?”

“Fantastic,” he replied enthusiastically. “I knew you'd be okay. You're smart, you're strong and you're ready, right?”

She laughed softly unable to hide her delight.

“I've been to the twenty-four hour ASDA in Toryglen and I'm cooking my special pasta for dinner. There's a bottle of Rose chilling in the fridge to wash it down. Is that okay?”

“Perfect, it sounds perfect. I'm so glad you didn't buy steak because after what I've just seen, I couldn't have stomached it.”

Angela noticed that the young policewoman who'd made the coffees was waiting patiently for her to end the call.

“Gotta go now, we'll liaise later,” she said into the phone, trying to sound businesslike.

“I'll liaise with you any time you like,” Bobby replied suggestively.

Angela smiled to herself, “Bye now,” she said ending the call.

“I've been assigned to you,” the policewoman said when Angela returned the phone to her pocket. “I'm Constable Brown, Liz Brown.”

“Pleased to meet you Liz,” Angela replied proffering her hand. “I'm Detective Murphy, Angela Murphy.”

Liz took Angela's outstretched hand and shook it vigorously. The two women couldn't have looked more different. Liz was short whilst Angela was tall. Liz was sporty looking and had better muscles than most of her male colleagues where Angela was slim and elegant. Angela could pass for a model but Liz looked more like an athlete. Both had naturally pretty faces. The two women sat at the table for a few minutes and discussed how they were going to handle the interview with Mrs Ali then they left the confines of the mobile unit and made their way down the street towards her home.

Chapter 2

Stupid, stupid, bitch. Look what you made me do. He was right. I knew he would be, all the signs were there, cheap booze, cheap perfume and that filthy kitchen. I tried to ignore it. I almost convinced myself you were my friend but he knew you were just a whore. Why did you do it? I don't understand. If you needed money I would have given it to you, that's what friends do, they help each other. You only had to ask me.

Stupid, stupid, bitch. Now look at you, lying in the dirt. I could have been your friend. But no, you had to offer me your disgusting body for money to buy drugs. As if I would want you that way. I'm not a loser. Dirty, dirty, whore. It's all your fault. Everything is your fault. Look what you made me do.

* * *

Angela found it difficult to get the image of the dead girl out of her head. It was just so shocking. She thought that once she was out of the apartment she could push it all from her mind, but instead everything seemed more vivid as she walked along the street in the fresh air. If Frank Martin was right about the death scene being staged and linked to a previous murder, what kind of monster would they be dealing with she wondered?

“Are you all right, you're very quiet and rather pale. Are you not feeling well?”

Liz's words broke Angela's train of thought. “I'm sorry Liz, I was miles away. I'm okay, just a bit dazed from being in that apartment. It was pretty awful in there.”

“We could take a walk around the block before we go to interview Mrs Ali, if you'd like,” Liz offered.

“Thanks, Liz, but we'd better not. Time is important and she might know something that will help us nail the bastard who did this.”

The terrazzo steps leading to Mrs Ali's main-door apartment were scrubbed and gleaming and the brass surround of the front doorbell was polished to within an inch of its life. When Angela rang the bell the door was opened by a short, plump woman aged about forty. She had a clear, pale complexion and she was dressed in a two piece suit made from burnt-orange coloured chiffon fabric. The sound of children's squeals and laughter drifted from behind her.

“Mrs Ali?” Angela asked. “I'm Detective Murphy and this is Constable Brown.”

“School holidays,” the woman said by way of a greeting. “Doesn't it drive you mad?” It was more of a statement than a question.

They were ushered into the large, front room and offered a seat on the leather, cream-coloured suite. Mrs Ali disappeared for a couple of minutes to chase her curious and noisy children into another room leaving Angela and Liz to take in their surroundings. The room was an odd mix of style and colours. The carpet was a patterned blue and, at the window, heavy curtains of plum and gold brocade hung from a pelmet to the floor. Wine-coloured, Regency striped wallpaper adorned the walls. From the ceiling hung a magnificent crystal chandelier and gold-coloured, glass-topped, occasional tables were placed at various parts of the room. Everything was spotlessly clean and smelled of polish. Angela was very impressed, although not to her own taste, there was no doubt that a lot of money, time and effort had been spent creating and maintaining this room.

“Would you like tea?” Mrs Ali asked in a broad Glasgow accent when she re-entered the room. Angela glanced at Liz who smiled and shook her head.

“Thank you, no, I'd like to get started on my notes if you don't mind,” Angela replied and Liz took her notebook and pen from her pocket.

“I'm sorry for that poor lassie's mother. Imagine finding out your daughter was a prostitute. Imagine the shame of it,” Mrs Ali began. “Her name was Magrit you know, everyone knew what she was.”

“Margaret as in M.A.R.G.A.R.E.T.?” Liz spelled.

“Aye, that's right, Magrit, Magrit Deacon. When she first moved here she said she was a nursery nurse and she asked me if there was any baby-sitting work about. As if anyone would leave their children in the care of a junkie prostitute. We all knew what type of girl she was. Men visiting day and night, she couldn't fool anyone. This used to be a decent community you know. Then the Council began renting flats to all and sundry and now we have a dead prostitute on our doorstep. I've told my man we'll have to move. I'm not having my children exposed to that sort of rubbish.”

“Could you tell us what you saw and heard last night that made you think something was wrong?” Angela interrupted.

“Aye, aye, let me think now. I was standing in the street outside Mrs Rehman's house speaking to Mrs Rehman. She lives next door to Magrit. It was about six o'clock and I had just been to the fruit shop to buy onions when Magrit and a tall, slim, man in a hoodie went into the house. I just thought it was another of her customers. At eight o'clock I was walking past again because I was collecting my daughter, Nusrat, from her friend's house where they'd been studying together. She is such a good student my daughter, my man and I are expecting her to get five 'A's' in her 'Highers' you know. He says she can go to University if she gets good grades. In my day girls rarely went to University because you got married young and had a family so there was no time for further education. But it's different now, girls have much more opportunity.”

“What happened at eight o'clock?” Angela prompted trying to get Mrs Ali back to the question.

“I was passing Magrit's house and the door was open. I could hear shouting coming from inside.” She hesitated and looked uncomfortable. “I'm sorry, but I don't swear I can't say the words I heard.”

“Could you write it down for us Mrs Ali?” Liz asked. “I have some paper here.”

“It's so embarrassing, I hate bad language, but as it's just us here, I'll tell you if one of you stands at the door to make sure that none of my children overhear.”

Liz handed Angela the notebook and walked over to the door then she nodded and mouthed an okay to Mrs Ali.

“He shouted 'stupid bitch', stupid bitch, over and over again. Then he shouted the 'F' word over and over again. I thought I heard Magrit shout, 'get out' then there was a scream. To tell you the truth, I was a bit frightened so I didn't stop. I went to pick up my Nusrat, I thought it was just Magrit and one of her customers. Mrs Rehman told me there was often a lot of noise coming from that house. I didn't know the lassie was being murdered.”

Liz returned to her seat retrieving her notebook from Angela. They gave Mrs Ali a moment to blow her nose and regain her composure. She was obviously much more upset than she'd first let on.

“What happened that prompted you to call the police?” Angela asked.

Mrs Ali concentrated she touched her forehead with the fingertips of her right hand then said, “I was walking along the street at about twenty past eight with Nusrat. We were talking about making her a new three piece suit with some pretty fabric she'd seen in the sari shop. We were just passing Magrit's house when a man ran out and he bumped into my Nusrat. If I hadn't caught hold of her arm she would have been knocked to the pavement. Her schoolbag fell and her books were all over the place. It was the same man I saw earlier, the tall man in the hoodie. He didn't stop to apologise, he didn't stop, period. He just ran down the street towards the main road. As he passed us I'm sure I saw blood on him. His hoodie was light grey and it was covered in dark red patches.”

She stopped to blow her nose again. “Please go on,” Angela said.

“I saw that Magrit's door was still open, but I didn't want to go in because I was frightened and besides, I had Nusrat with me. So I rang the bell at Mrs Rehman's. There was no answer because Mrs Rehman and her family were visiting her son round the corner. Her daughter-in-law just had a baby, a boy, eight pounds ten ounces and they'd gone to see the baby.”

“So you came home with Nusrat then you phoned the police from here?”

“Aye, that's right. I telephoned Govanhill police station and told them what I'd heard and seen.”

“You didn't call 999?”

“No, I didn't want to waste police time. I didn't know she was murdered. How could I know?”

“Would you recognise this man if you saw him again, could you give us a description?”

“Not really, I didn't see his face, he was tall and he was wearing a hoodie that's all I know. Are you sure you won't have tea?”

“No, thank you Mrs Ali, I think we're about finished now,” Angela said and stood up. “I'll prepare your statement then, if you don't mind, would you come into the station to sign it?”

“I'm not going to the police station. I don't want the neighbours to think I'm complaining about them. These Albanians are dangerous, you know. They could stick you with a knife as soon as look at you. I don't mind going to the incident room on the street because they'll know then it's about Magrit and not them.”

“That's fine Mrs Ali, I'll be in touch.”

Angela and Liz left the house and made their way back down the street.

“She saw the murderer, didn't she?” Liz asked.

“Yes, I'm sure she did. I just hope he didn't see her. He's a very dangerous man and by the sound of things he's got a short fuse. According to Mrs Ali there wasn't much time between his shouting and Margaret's scream.”

“And Magrit sounded delightful, a junkie prostitute. Her mother will be so ashamed.” Liz said mimicking Mrs Ali's voice with comical accuracy.

“You're terrible Liz. How can you poke fun at a time like this?” Angela asked unable to stop smiling at her.

Chapter 3

He sat in the steaming hot bath and scrubbed at his hands and arms with a nail brush but he couldn't get rid of her stink.

'I told you she was a slut. I told you she was a dirty whore but you wouldn't listen. You just wouldn't listen'. The man's voice pounded his brain. 'All the signs were there, you saw them, the cheap perfume and that filthy kitchen. But you knew better, didn't you? You stupid little shite.'

He began to sob, great, loud, painful gasps. “I thought she was my friend. I just wanted her to be my friend. Please leave me alone,” he begged.

'Friend, hah, you don't have any friends, just me and I don't like you very much, you useless piece of crud, I don't like you at all, but I'm stuck with you and you're stuck with me. Remember that the next time you ignore me. I'm inside your head and you're stuck with me until I choose to leave.'

“Choose to leave? What do you mean choose to leave?” His voice sounded thin and reedy like a frightened child. “I can't manage without you. You know that. Why are you threatening me? Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me again. I'll be good, I'll listen to you, I promise I will.”

Thomas Malone ran more scalding water into the tub and scrubbed and scrubbed at his skin with the nail brush until it bled.

* * *

Thomas liked his job, it empowered him. After his mother died his life was one rejection after another. His Grandparents didn't want to take him in. His Grandfather told the authorities that he could barely cope with his wife, who'd been disabled by a stroke, so a traumatised and disturbed twelve year old would probably finish him off. Thomas didn't even get to meet his family because his Grandfather insisted on no contact. He said it was kinder not to give Thomas any false hopes. Kinder for who?

He hated the children's home because being an introverted, slightly-built child, placed him well down the pecking order and being bullied by the older, more street-wise children became an almost daily ritual. Even the younger children stole his meagre belongings then challenged him to take them back which he, of course, didn't. Thomas was too unhappy and frightened to even try.

The authorities did try to place him in foster care but it wasn't successful. The first foster mother complained and said he upset her own children with behaviour that 'creeped them out', whatever that meant. She also said he had an inappropriate affinity to knives and she was rather frightened of him. So Thomas was removed and returned to the local authority's care. The second home might have worked out because the couple were kind to him, but unfortunately they were not kind to each other and they separated, so once again, Thomas was returned to the home. After that the social workers stopped trying. It was a relief when he could finally leave the place and move into his own bed-sit because, for the first time in a long time, he felt safe.

At the beginning it was a real struggle for him trying to live within the benefit system, but Thomas was smart and he soon learned how to make some extra money on the side. He also attended college where he made sure to always conduct himself in an appropriate way. He was well-mannered and polite and his landlord and lecturers respected him. Thomas's life changed completely when his college principal helped him to get a job as a traffic warden. Mr Barker, 'barking mad', as he was called by the other students, wrote Thomas a wonderful reference which won him the post.

Suddenly Thomas found himself in a position of power. He was in charge and he had a uniform to prove it. It didn't matter if the recipients of the tickets he wrote were nasty or nice, polite or rude because his word was law. He was less lonely at work because people spoke to him and not just the public asking for directions. The police spoke to him and treated him like a colleague, bus drivers and taxi drivers passed the time of day with him cracking jokes and telling stories. The manageress of 'Tasty Bakers' in Victoria Road gave him free coffee when he went in to buy his lunch.

Thomas liked his job very much and most of the time, when he was working, he functioned normally. It was the rest of the time that gave him grief, the times when his mind was not fully occupied. It was then that the voice sneaked in and took over his thoughts. At first, he didn't know who the voice belonged to, but after a while he believed it to be his father. His mother always said his father was dead and they were better off without him. She never told Thomas anything about him she just said he was gone and he was never coming back. Thomas believed her and he was sad because he'd never known what it felt like to have a 'Dad'. He often wondered how and when he'd died.

Before his mother died Thomas's life was much different. He was introduced to many 'uncles' who drifted in and out of their lives. Every time a new one arrived he hoped that this man would become his Dad. They came and went like the changing seasons and mostly he only remembered the cruel ones, but Uncle Mal was different from the rest because he stayed for almost two years. His Mum didn't bring men home when he lived with them, instead she went out to work in the evenings and brought her pay back to Mal. Clare seemed happy with Mal and Thomas really liked him because he bought all the latest computer games. He stayed home and played 'Super Mario' with Thomas while Clare went out at work. He called Thomas, 'wee man' in a chummy sort of way that made him feel like part of a family. In fact Mal was the closest thing he'd ever had to a father.

Then, like all the others before him, Mal suddenly left. Thomas's mother was bereft. She couldn't understand how he could just go without a word. She searched every pub and every bookie's for three weeks before she discovered he was dead. Clare eventually found out that he'd been killed by a bus in Argyle Street when he fell off the pavement while blind drunk. One of Mal's cronies came round to see her and he told her that Mal had been married and his widow had already held the funeral. She also discovered that he'd had other 'second families' and, in the words of his friend, 'Mal got around a bit'. This news threw Clare into a deep depression that went on for months. During this time she developed a very expensive drug habit. Thomas was upset when the computer console and games were sold as it was his only tangible connection to Mal, but they needed the money so, as usual, he accepted his lot without complaint.

When he thought back on his life it made him angry because it was a rotten life. His mother was a junkie and she was a whore and he'd deserved better. He knew that now because the voice in his head told him. When he heard the voice it upset him because it told him things he didn't want to hear and it made him do things he didn't want to do. But a boy must obey his father so Thomas always did as he was told.

Chapter 4

On Liz's advice Angela had some lunch before heading back to the office. Liz was the third generation of her family to be a cop and both her brothers were policemen.

”Trust me,” she said, “Eat whenever you can when you're on a job because the high heed yins think you're a machine. They think you can run on hard work and air.”

When Angela got back to the office it was practically empty. There was just one typist clicking away on her computer keyboard and a detective called Paul Costello in the room. The office was overdue for refurbishment and nothing had been upgraded since the nineteen-sixties. The grey, metal desks and filing cabinets, strip lighting and vinyl floor covering, had seen better days and the whole place looked dingy and depressing. Angela had just laid her bag on a desk when a voice boomed out from the small room at the end of the main office.

“Murphy,” Frank Martin roared. “Get your arse in here and bring coffee with you, milk, no sugar.”

Paul Costello chuckled and shook his head.

“Is he always that polite, or have I been singled out for special attention?” Angela asked.

“Naw, it's not you, Hen, he's always a grumpy old bastard. You'll get used to it.”

“I don't think so,” Angela said, setting her jaw in a determined way that made Paul chuckle again.

“What are you doing Murphy? I'm dying of caffeine deficiency here. Get a bloody move on.”

Paul winked and smiled. “You'd better get going before he blows a gasket. The coffee will calm him down. I'm sure he'd rather have a Scotch, but he doesn't drink on the job, well not much, not like some of them.”

Angela picked up two polystyrene cups and filled them with coffee then headed for Frank's room.

“You took your time,” he said as she placed the cups on his desk. “Typical, you wait for ages then two turn up at once,” he added eyeing the coffees.

“One's for me,” Angela said stating the obvious. “I don't appreciate being bellowed at across the office. I know you're the Boss, but your manners are atrocious and it's against all policy to speak to me like that. Would you please try to remember I'm a professional,” she added primly.

“Oh, for fucks sake, Angela, this isn't some namby pamby girl's finishing school. If you're going to survive in this job you'll hear a lot worse than me. Get over yourself girl. Now pull up a chair, sit down and shut up.”

Angela bristled with indignation, but rather than create a fuss, she did as she was told and sat down on the ripped leather chair facing Frank. It surprised her that, although he was fastidious about his person, his office was a mess. The bin was overflowing with rubbish and pieces of screwed up paper lay around it on the floor. His wooden desk was pitted and marked with rings and the cork message board behind it had aged notes, curled and brown, attached haphazardly with drawing pins.

“What did you find out from the witness?” Frank asked.

“Not a lot, I'm afraid. She saw a tall, slim, man wearing a grey hoodie, but as Mrs Ali is very short, to her, a tall person might be anything over five foot six. The timing was right though and she was close enough to see what she thought were blood stains on the hoodie. Are these the photos from the scene?” She asked nodding at the images strewn on the desk.

“No, these are the photos from the other murder, ten years ago. It could be the same apartment. You thought they were from this morning's job. I told you it looked staged.”

“Oh my God, you're absolutely right, it looks the same. The radio plugged into the socket and hanging off the worktop, the way she's lying with the robe slightly open and her hair stuck to the floor with blood, it's identical.”

“Aye, the only thing missing from the scene, as I remember it, is the victim's son.”

“I didn't realise you were actually at the first scene. It must have been quite disturbing to witness today's murder with it being so alike.”

“It freaked me out. I don't mind telling you. It really freaked me out.”

“Do you think we're dealing with the same killer?”

“I just don't know. If it is, where's he been for ten years? The original killer was never caught, so it's not like he was in jail. In fact, when I read the case file, I was shocked at how little we'd had to go on. There were no witnesses and hardly any evidence. The woman was a prossie, dozens of men visited the house. It could have been anyone.”

“You said she had a son, didn't he see anything? Couldn't he give the names of any of the men?”

“No, the lad was traumatised. The only men he mentioned were his Uncle Mal, who was dead, and his father, who he'd never met, and who was also dead.”

“What happened to the boy?”

Angela, it's been ten years, who the hell cares what happened to a dead prossie's son? Let's concentrate on the job in hand. We need to get out on the street and talk to people. If Mrs Ali saw something then maybe other people have information too.”

“So you want me to go back to Govanhill? I've just got into the office. Could you not have phoned me and told me to stay put?”

“What's your problem? You're being paid. Are you worried about missing your lunch?”

“No problem, Boss, I've already had my lunch,” Angela replied smugly. So that's his game, she thought. Keep the junior on her toes. Give her a hard time and toughen her up. Nice try.

“I'm requesting a uniformed officer to assist me. Have you any objections?”

Frank smiled slowly, “I take it you have someone in mind for the job?”

“I don't care who it is,” Angela replied, not wanting to give anything away. “As long as they're smart and don't get under my feet.”

“Choose who you like, it makes no difference to me as long as their boss is okay with it. Just get you're arse back out there and come up with some answers before the press remember the previous case and crucify us. Now fuck off back to work and give me some space.”

As soon as Angela got back to her desk she put in a request for Liz Brown. Although she was a junior officer she had a lifetime of experience dealing with cops and that was just what Angela needed. With a bit of luck Liz might be able to help her understand what made Frank tick.

Chapter 5

By the time Angela got home she was exhausted. She found a space at the side of the house to park her car, although it was more abandoned than parked. She didn't have the energy to negotiate the garage and she knew that Bobby would take care of it later for her. As soon as she entered the hall he was there to greet her.

“How was your day, Darling?” he asked. Before she could answer Bobby noticed her drawn look. “I'll run you a hot bath, you look beat,” he said. “There's a bottle of wine in the kitchen, it's open, pour yourself a glass.”

Bobby briefly embraced her, kissed her forehead then disappeared upstairs. After getting herself some wine, Angela went into the lounge and flopped into the recliner. The chair was an extravagant purchase they'd made to celebrate her new job and, as she sank into the luxurious, plush leather, she felt it had been worth every penny. Angela gulped at the wine swallowing but hardly tasting it and, by the time Bobby returned to usher her upstairs, the glass was empty and she was practically asleep.

When Angela returned after her bath she felt revived, Bobby had dinner ready and she was now able to discuss her day. She quickly ran through the events leaving out the more gory details, not just to spare Bobby, but also to avoid having to remember them herself.

“Your Boss sounds like a bit of a prick,” Bobby said. “Will you manage to work with him?”

“He's actually okay, just a bit rough round the edges. He's let me have an assistant which I'm pleased about. I'll have to use my own car though, all the work vehicles have been signed out, but I'll get a mileage allowance. I prefer my car anyway, it'll be fine, and I'm not likely to be doing any high speed chases,” she replied, smiling.

“John Kerr phoned me today,” Bobby said changing the subject. “Do you remember him?”

“Yes, he was a physics teacher, wasn't he? Nice guy but a bit of a geek. You haven't heard from him for ages, didn't he move to the Borders?”

“Yes, that's right he went to teach at a private school. Anyway, he's done rather well for himself. The school's great, there are only about twenty pupils in each class and the kids are keen to learn. He said the head of Maths is about to retire and he immediately thought of me for the job.”

“Nice of him to think of you,” Angela replied, “But surely he knows our life is here in Glasgow. You can't just drop everything and move to the Borders.”

“I know, I know, but I can dream, can't I?”

Angela looked at Bobby's face. He seemed sad and rather defeated. She was so caught up in her own job recently she hadn't noticed this before. “I didn't know you were unhappy. I thought you loved your job,” she said.

“I do love my job, Darling, I love teaching, but the school I'm in is a shit hole. The classes are huge, thirty kids at least. Half of them don't want to be there, they're disruptive and bored and the other half struggle to concentrate because of the constant disturbances.”

“But didn't one of your pupils win the National Maths Challenge last year?”

“Yes, Keiran Bedi, she was my star pupil. She got five 'Highers', each one a high band 'A'. I was all set for her sixth year, she was practically guaranteed a place at a top university, but she didn't come back after the holidays.”

“Why ever not?”

“She was married off. Her husband owns a fruit shop and he's nearly twice her age. Instead of becoming a doctor or a lawyer she's the wife of a shopkeeper who's old enough to be her father. All her hopes and aspirations have been swept aside. In ten years time she'll have five kids, her husband will be middle-aged and she'll still be in her twenties.”

“But maybe that's the sort of life she wants, maybe she wants to be a wife and mother,” Angela argued.

“Not a chance. After her 'Highers' last year she was planning which universities to apply for. She was excited about learning. Her life's been thrown away. She's the oldest of three daughters. Her parents have fulfilled their duty then wiped their hands of her.”

“Is that why you're looking at other jobs? Why don't you apply for a post in a private school nearer home?”

“I plan to,” Bobby replied. “It's just that they don't come up very often.”

“I'm so sorry you're unhappy, I had no idea,” Angela said. “I interviewed a woman called Mrs Ali, today. Her daughter Nusrat is doing very well at school and she told me her husband wants the girl to go to university, so not every Asian parent chooses marriage as a first option for their daughters.”

“Ignore me Darling, school holidays give me too much time to think. I'll get over it tomorrow when I'm back at work. We've got a great life, I'm sorry I moaned, and my job's a pushover compared to what you've been through today.”

Angela was unsettled by the conversation and although they began to watch a film on television, she couldn't get into the plot. She relied on Bobby to be her rock and hadn't considered his needs. What if he became more and more disillusioned? She'd heard about teachers who'd had complete breakdowns because of the pressures of the job. Angela realised she'd have to pay more attention to Bobby. He'd been supporting her and she'd let him, without thanks or even acknowledgement. She'd acted like a selfish child. Her earlier conversations with Frank Martin came flooding back to her and she realised how prim and foolish she must have sounded. 'Time to grow up', she thought.