‘What do I think of a serial killer roaming the streets and murdering folk at random? That’s a strange question.’
‘I’d still like you to answer it.’
‘It’s sick. Scary. Depraved. I feel sorry for their families.’
‘All four families?’
‘Yes.’
‘Including Mr Ogilvie’s?’
‘I said all four.’
‘After what he did?’
‘You asked me that already. I said I felt sorry for his family. I didn’t say I felt sorry for him.’
‘Do you?’
‘Feel sorry for him? No.’
‘You don’t feel sorry for him but you don’t feel angry? And yes, that’s a question.’
‘One I’ve already answered.’
‘Indulge me.’
‘I am doing. I don’t feel sorry for him. I don’t feel anger towards him.’
‘He killed your daughter.’
‘I don’t need you to remind me of that. I remember.’
‘I didn’t mean to be insensitive. But you take my point.’
‘Do I?’
‘A man gets drunk and gets in his car and knocks down an eleven-year-old girl and kills her. I think her father is entitled to be angry.’
‘Are you always so aggressive towards the families of drink-drive fatalities?’
‘I am sure I would be angry.’
‘You said that.’
‘I’d maybe be angry enough to kill the person responsible.’
‘You have a lot of anger. You should see someone about that.’
‘Did you want Ogilvie dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘No.’
‘Did you have someone kill him?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know who killed him?’
‘No. Detective Sergeant Narey, I think you just accused me of being a serial killer. Of murdering four people.’
‘Did you?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’m sorry for the insinuation. As I said, we have to explore every avenue. We have to speak to those connected to every victim whether they are connected to the others or not.’
‘I do understand that.’
‘Did you know any of the other victims?’
‘No.’
‘Had you ever heard of any of them?’
‘No.’
‘We are trying to establish a pattern. Trying to see if there is any link, however small, between the victims.’
‘If there is I’m unaware of it. Ogilvie was the only one I had heard of or met. The papers said they were random killings.’
‘They appear that way. They most probably are but we…’
‘Need to explore every avenue.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t think I am one of those avenues, DS Narey. I can’t help you.’
‘Would you help me if you could?’
‘Of course I fucking would. I once wanted Ogilvie dead but that doesn’t mean I’d do something to protect the maniac that killed him or the others.’
‘I’m sorry for the insinuation.’
‘So am I.’
‘We would be grateful if you would agree to provide a sample of DNA. It’s a matter of procedure.’
‘Is it?’
‘We are asking a number of people. It is so we can rule you out of the investigation. It is quite voluntary.’
‘It would need to be, wouldn’t it?’
There were some obligatory pleasantries then she left, saying she’d be back when my wife was in, leaving a number and an assurance she’d be in touch if she learned anything. I wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a warning.
I watched her back as she and the DC walked down the path to their car which was being guarded by two kids and the black Lab cross that had been hanging around again the last few days. Dawson, the DC, got into the driver’s seat and Narey went round to the other side. Before she got in, she looked back, saw me standing at the window and smiled.
CHAPTER 24
They were all talking about it now. Every single one of them. It had been two weeks since Wallace Ogilvie’s death and everyone had joined up the dots. All of Glasgow knew there had been four of them. Four slain by a single hand. All of Scotland knew. Everyone in the UK too and quite a bit beyond.
There was barely a soul got into my taxi cab that didn’t mention it. I always stopped short of pointing out the irony to them. They still talked about the weather and the football and argued about the quickest way to wherever they were going but now they talked about him. The killer. Me. The one they were calling the Ripper. Stupid bloody name. I didn’t mind the Ripper bit so much but this ‘Jock’ nonsense, it really riled me. The London papers and the news had picked up on it too. The way they said the word Jock with a sneer, that pissed me off.
‘A twisted psychopath nicknamed Jock the Ripper has been responsible for four brutal murders in Glasgow.’
I cringed every time I heard the word. Jock. The people in my taxi didn’t use the word. They probably hated it as much as I did. They said killer. They said Ripper.
Have you heard? What’s the latest? I used to live near the third one. I don’t walk anywhere now unless I really need to. What are the cops doing about this? I can’t sleep for thinking about it.
Gallus Glasgow was still not supposed to show fear. I think they were afraid to be frightened. So instead they were funny, or at least tried to be. Some succeeded, some failed miserably. Jokes about serial killers were risky things.
I picked up four young guys from Esquire House on Great Western Road near Anniesland Cross to take them into town. All early to mid twenties. They spilled out of the pub, boisterous and loud, and clambered into the cab. Three of them fell into the back seat and one got onto the bucket seat behind me.
‘Telling you,’ the one nearest me was saying. ‘Best thing that happened to Glasgow this guy.’
‘Away to fuck, ya muppet,’ laughed one of his mates. ‘How the fuck is it?’
‘Dazza, you are a sick bastard,’ howled another one. ‘The fucker’s killed four people.’
‘No the point,’ came back Dazza. ‘It’s all publicity, isn’t it?’
