would make me look crazy enough but not a complete psycho. Didn’t want them to think that.
Of course there was a risk in posting it to the cops but I was certain I had covered myself. I bought enough padded envelopes in one go so that I wouldn’t have to go back for more. I bought them long before I began. They were cheap, mass-produced and bought from three separate chain-store stationers.
The postage was correct, a tricky matter given the Royal Mail’s introduction of Pricing in Proportion. Anything thicker than 5mm or heavier than 100g has to be in a large letter rather than a letter and is priced accordingly. Anything thicker than 25mm or above 750g has to be classed as a packet. 25mm could take most pinkies quite easily and the weight was clearly not an issue. I posted two clothes pegs to myself as a trial run.
I wore surgical gloves from start to finish. There wouldn’t be so much as a ridge or a spiral, far less an identifiable fingerprint.
I printed the address labels off on my bog-standard, thousands-sold-every-month PC printer rather than take any risk of handwriting analysis. The labels were self-adhesive. CID, Strathclyde Police, Stewart Street, Glasgow G4 0HY.
I didn’t lick the envelope to seal it, I used water. Life must have been so much easier for those of us with things to hide before the advancements in DNA.
I would use a different postbox each time, each of them nowhere near the prying eyes of CCTV cameras. Each posting would be done at a busy time, a baseball cap tight to my face, the package hidden away till the last moment.
The secateurs were bought from B amp;Q months before. Sharp enough for the job, sold by the thousand, small enough to slip into a pocket.
Above all, the finger meant nothing. They would think it had some other significance, some hidden meaning. It didn’t.
It was my signature but it wasn’t my hand. That made me laugh.
The finger might point them in the wrong direction. Funny.
The little finger is the strongest on the hand. Because it has a dedicated muscle and is the shortest, it gets the most leverage.
The finger hadn’t been mentioned in any of the newspaper reports though. It had probably arrived at the cop shop too late for it to make the morning editions. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next time.
I’d read every one, scoured every line. Watched every news bulletin too. I wasn’t glorying in it though. It wasn’t my fifteen minutes. Not yet.
I wanted to know what they knew. Getting caught was not part of my plan.
They all carried the story. Some had it tucked away, some splashed it. Some just reported the facts as they knew them, others made wild guesses about criminal links, revenge and bitter clients. Mostly it was just bollocks. The Herald. Wednesday, 11 February 2009. Page 2.
Solicitor found murdered. by Andrea Faulds. The body of a solicitor was found in a lay-by outside Milngavie yesterday morning. It is believed he was murdered. Jonathan Carr, a 37-year-old solicitor in the firm of Salter, Fyfe and Bryce, was found around 6.30 a.m. by a man walking his dog. Police have not revealed the cause of Mr Carr’s death but it is thought that he received severe injuries in an apparent attack. Detective Chief Inspector Lewis Robertson of Strathclyde Police said, ‘Mr Jonathan Carr, a solicitor in a Glasgow firm of solicitors, was found dead this morning. Strathclyde Police are treating the investigation of his death as a murder inquiry. ‘We will not, at this moment in time, release details of the injuries perpetrated on Mr Carr. However we can say that they were violent and severe. We would urge anyone who was in the vicinity of the lay-by on Glasgow Road between 11.00 p.m. and 1.00 a.m. or anyone who has knowledge of Mr Carr’s last movements to come forward and help in this investigation. All information will be treated in the strictest confidence. Members of the public can contact the CID room at Stewart Street or telephone Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111.’ DCI Robertson would not be drawn on any possible motives for the attack on Mr Carr. The man who found Mr Carr’s body, Mr Stephen Costello, said that his pet springer spaniel Asterix had become agitated and pulled him to the spot where he discovered the lawyer. Mr Costello immediately called the police. Jonathan Carr was a married man with no children. His wife Rebecca was said to be extremely distressed last night and was being comforted by her family. Mr Carr had been in the firm of Salter, Fyfe and Bryce for five years. He was said by friends to enjoy playing golf and snooker and was a prominent member of his local Rotarians club. Neither the police nor Mrs Carr knew why the solicitor was on that road, whether he had been visiting friends or clients in Milngavie or was just driving through. The victim’s car, a silver Audi TT, was found near his body. The car’s keys were still in the ignition and it was believed to have a flat tyre. The police would not speculate on whether it was a chance killing but did concede that robbery did not appear to be a motive as the car had not been taken.
That was day one. Day two it got less room in most. By day three there was no mention at all in a couple of them. Still nothing about the finger being cut off. Nothing about it being posted to the cops. There was no way the papers wouldn’t write about that if they knew so it could only be that the police hadn’t told them.
Why?
Procedural reasons. Operational. That was what they always said when they didn’t release information. What the fuck did it mean though? They didn’t want people to know about the finger being cut. Wanted to stay a step ahead. Of me? Yeah, right. OK, I’d watched enough TV programmes. Read enough books. They would get crazies down the station, confessing to the killing. My killing.
The cops would ask them about the finger. Ask them to prove they’d done it. The crazies wouldn’t know about the finger and would be thrown back on the street in two minutes. And the police would worry about copycats. Some real crazy would murder someone and slice off their finger to claim credit for the first one. Fuck that for a laugh.
Day two in the papers had seen a new name. Detective Sergeant Rachel Narey. Robertson was still quoted and he was obviously the main man. But two of the papers quoted this Narey. I liked her. The Herald . Thursday, 12 February 2009. Page 5.
Carr speculation dismissed. by Andrea Faulds. Strathclyde Police yesterday rejected claims about the murder of Glasgow lawyer Jonathan Carr as ‘wild speculation’. Detective Sergeant Rachel Narey said that they were still keeping an open mind on the investigation but branded some press conjecture as ‘extremely unhelpful’. DS Narey said, ‘Our investigation into the murder of Mr Carr is still at a very early stage and we will explore every avenue in our determination to find the person or people responsible. ‘However, there has been some wild speculation about both Mr Carr and the reasons for his killing which have been little more than guesswork or gossip. There is no reason to think that any of the theories put forward in certain sections of the written media have any foundation whatsoever. ‘At best this is extremely unhelpful and at worst it is irresponsible. Some of the people that have written this rubbish should think of the implications before they do so. It gets in the way of a police investigation and is distressing to Mr Carr’s family. When there is something concrete to report then you can be sure that we will let you know.’
Yes, I liked her. Feisty bitch. She was on television as well. Robertson spoke and she stood by his shoulder in most of the clips. The camera liked her too.
CHAPTER 4
Four years I’d driven a taxi. Still didn’t feel like a proper job. Still just something to see me through.
Nine years I had worn a suit and pushed numbers round spreadsheets. Nine years of balancing budgets, making projections, income and expenditure. Accounting for this, accounting for that. No accounting for eventualities.
After it happened, I was in and out of the office for a few months. Compassionate leave, then back, signed off ill, then back.
Drinking too much, thinking too much, arguing too much, threatening to beat people up too much. Sent home to think again. Then paid off. All very sorry that it had to come to this. Nobody’s fault. Sure. Fuck you.
After that I had eight months at home, looking at walls and going up them. Then I went to work for Cammy Strang driving a taxi. It worked for me, I guess. They called me mate. Or driver. Sometimes they’d call me pal or buddy. When the booze or the pills or the anger or just the sheer fact of living in Glasgow got to them, they’d call
