Daily Record journalist Keith Imrie (32) was the killer of all six victims in The Cutter case. DI Frank Lewington and DCI Lewis Robertson told a packed media conference that DNA, fingerprints and shoe imprints were among the evidence that definitively identified Imrie as the killer. All investigations into The Cutter murders have now ceased and the case is considered to be closed. Imrie was named as the serial killer last week after his body was found outside a lock-up garage in Springburn. A man is to face trial over his death. DI Lewington and DCI Robertson listed a number of items belonging to The Cutter’s victims which were found both at the scene of Mr Imrie’s death and his home in Glasgow’s west end. These included a business card belonging to murdered solicitor Jonathan Carr, a betting slip from the premises of bookmaker William Hutchison and an ashtray taken from Mr Hutchison’s flat. There was also a necklace belonging to drug dealer Thomas Tierney, a supermarket shopping receipt from a till operated by Fiona Raedale and an asthmatic inhaler owned by her. There was a credit card in the name of murdered businessman Wallace Ogilvie and a running shoe belonging to dentist Brian Sinclair. DCI Robertson revealed there were also various photographic prints of homes, premises and favoured haunts of the victims. These were discovered inside Imrie’s Observatory Road flat. Detailed forensic evidence included a footprint found at the scene of the first murder, that of Mr Carr, which has been formally identified as being a match to a size seven Reebok trainer belonging to Imrie. Ridge markings on the shoe, recovered from the reporter’s flat, were an exact match to a cast taken at the scene. Even more damningly, DNA extracted from hairs found on the clothing of Brian Sinclair, the fifth victim, showed an exact match with Imrie. There is estimated to be, at worst, a one in 3.4 million chance that the hair was not Imrie’s. Imrie was also revealed to have been caught on CCTV cameras in the Tesco supermarket on Maryhill Road where Fiona Raedale worked, just a short time before her death. Most gruesome of all perhaps was the pair of secateurs found taped to the underside of Imrie’s bed. The shears were famously used by The Cutter to clip off the right little finger of his victims. This trademark act was the killer’s signature and was the first thing to alert police that they were chasing a serial killer. The secateurs found hidden in the west end flat were discovered to have DNA samples – said to be skin, tissue and blood – formally identified as belonging to Wallace Ogilvie and Brian Sinclair. It is believed that partial matches were made to three of the remaining victims on the basis of low copy DNA. DI Lewington confirmed for the first time that Mr Sinclair was choked to death using a rolled-up newspaper. However he also made the startling revelation that the police have since learned that the newspaper used was the Daily Record and that the front-page story was an article on The Cutter killings written by Keith Imrie. It is believed that the newspaper was removed from the scene or destroyed but that small fragments of it were recovered from Mr Sinclair’s throat. Painstaking investigative work established the edition of the newspaper and then the story that it contained. DI Lewington said that the fact that the newspaper had an article written by Imrie was in itself circumstantial but he had no doubt that it added to the body of evidence against him. He said that it also gave a ‘frightening insight’ into the egotistical mind of the killer. ‘There is a huge catalogue of evidence against Keith Imrie, enough that we can disregard the particular newspaper that was used in terms of establishing guilt. However, this does go a long way to determining motive, something that has naturally proven difficult because of Imrie’s death before we could have an opportunity to question him. That this man, a callous and brutal killer, felt driven to use his own story as an instrument of murder gives us a frightening insight into his warped mind. Criminal psychologists have reported that they are in no doubt that this is an example of what they term Roman Emperor Syndrome, a man who believes he is lord of all he surveys. This was an incredibly egotistical man, someone who considered himself to hold the fortunes of others in his hands, to be judge, jury and executioner. ‘It was not enough that he killed a newly-married man with no apparent motive other than a thirst for blood, he had to taunt his victim and his pursuers in this manner. The psychologists believe that he was sending some twisted message that his pen was mightier than the sword, that he could kill by his words alone. ‘There is complete confidence among Strathclyde Police that Keith Imrie was the serial killer known as The Cutter. It is vital that the physical information that was available to us was put to the utmost forensic examination so that we could say with certainty to the people of Glasgow that the threat which they have so understandably feared is no longer present. The Cutter is dead.’ DS Rachel Narey, the officer formerly in charge of the investigation, said that the weight of forensic evidence was overwhelming. ‘It is quite clear that with the amount and quality of physical evidence against Mr Imrie that there is no other conclusion for the force to draw other than that he committed the six murders. ‘While it is not clear how he managed to carry out these killings unnoticed or what his motive might have been, the evidence found on his person and in his home clearly indicates his guilt. It is highly unusual for someone to kill without motive and with no connection to his victims. That obviously made this investigation extremely difficult for officers trying to apprehend the perpetrator of these murders.’
CHAPTER 47
Who’d have thought it? Hotshot reporter Keith Imrie a cold-blooded serial killer. They didn’t see that one coming down at the old Daily Record. Must have fair put the editors and executives at Central Quay on their padded arses. Shame.
Well, maybe they should have thought a bit more carefully about the kind of person they hired. Perhaps they shouldn’t have taken on the kind of evil cunt that would do a thing like that.
Most people think all journalists are low-life shit and fuck knows there’s a lot of truth in that. Pushing out their lies and half-truths, selling their souls to sell stories. Writing shit that might not be entirely untrue but untrue enough so that by the time it appears in print it is a mile away from what is really going on. They know it and they simply don’t give a fuck.
Not all of them. Only the ones that make it big. Wave a ticket for what used to be Fleet Street in front of their faces and some just can’t say no. Greed, ambition and low moral fibre make a bad combination.
But I knew it wasn’t like that for all of them. There were laws for a start. Ninety-nine per cent of what you read is completely true. Get them in court if it’s not. Most of it is just what happens. If the news is bad you can’t blame the messenger. I’d learned that.
The first time I saw Sarah’s name in print, I screamed. Not in anger, not in rage, just in shock. The noise just came out of me. Couldn’t stop it. I thought maybe it might be in the paper. Had prepared myself for that. But it was on page three. Didn’t expect that.
Took the breath out of me. It just escaped. A wheezing gulp exploded out of me. It turned into a strangled scream after half a thought. I felt her mother’s arms round me and that quelled the surprise a bit but it still hurt. Her name shouldn’t have been in the paper, not unless it was for winning a prize or getting to university or being married or in some kind of celebration. Fuck’s sake. That wasn’t the fucking way it should have been. Not right. Wrong. On page three. So fucking wrong.
Felt weak. Should have seen it coming. Didn’t.
Not all reporters though. A lot of them were genuinely decent. Or so they appeared anyway. Sure, some tried to pass themselves off as being on our side and then turned round and shat on us, but most were true to their kind words. There were people, reporters, who turned up at our place and talked to me and to her. They actually cared. Some cried. Genuinely cried and genuinely cared.
These people, the good guys, had kids of their own and were actually fucking angry, really enraged and infuriated, about what Ogilvie had done. I saw their eyes. They could have done what I was about to do. One guy, maybe mid-thirties, looked away as he talked to me. He looked out of our window and saw nothing, shook his head and said ‘If it was me…, if it was my sons…’ He shook his head again but he could have done it. I saw it in his eyes. One step, one fine line, one outrageous fucking horrible life-changing, mind-wrecking, drive-you-fucking-crazy happening and he was where I was. Didn’t wish anyone to be where I was. God forbid. Not God. Too late for that but forbid it anyway. Couldn’t wish it on anyone.
The good journalists, they were sort of reassuring. Nearly gave me some kind of comfort, nearly gave me belief in the decency of man. But not enough.
Because all it took to defeat the few good men was one arsehole.
Well fuck the arseholes. Well fuck Keith Imrie.
The Record ’s hotshot was a prince among arseholes. A king amongst cunts. He had been the worst of the worst. He had asked and he had received.
What sort of father wouldn’t do anything for his daughter?
Before I drove out to Milngavie to kill Jonathan Carr, I thought of Keith Imrie. I saw his face in my rear-view
