‘I’m DI Grant and this is DS Wilson,’ Jo said shortly. ‘I gather you were the man who called this one in?’
‘Christopher Gifford,’ the man told them. ‘It was such a shock. That poor woman lying there… all that blood…’
‘Mr Gifford’s had a bad shock,’ the uniform offered. ‘Doctor said to let him stay here quietly till you got here, ma’am.’
Jo nodded then dragged a chair from a corner to sit beside Gifford.
‘Sorry to seem so insensitive, sir, but we do need to take a statement from you. Understand?’
Christopher Gifford nodded.
‘Right, tell us exactly what happened this evening.’
‘I was taking a run through the park. Decided to go down towards the river. See if there were any migrants.’
‘Migrants?’ Jo’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Birds,’ Gifford explained hastily. ‘Migrating birds. Like redwings. Or waxwings. Only see them at this time of year in the cold, you know,’ he offered, looking from one officer to the other.
Jo Grant tried not to heave a sigh. Lorimer would love this guy, she thought; a fellow birder to share stories with.
‘And you ran which way?’
‘Across Kelvin Way and down the side path, the one that takes you beside the river and beyond. She was just lying there near the bushes,’ he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘I thought she’d had an accident. Till I saw her head.’ He looked up. ‘Then I knew. She must have been mugged.’
Grant and Wilson exchanged a glance.
‘It’s the same fellow, isn’t it?’ Gifford asked eagerly. ‘The one who’s been targeting these other women?’
‘Did you touch her at all, Mr Gifford?’
There was the merest hesitation before the man nodded. ‘Just her wrist, mind. To find a pulse. That was when I called 999. But it was no use.’ Gifford’s face crumpled in despair. ‘They’ve told me she died even before she got here.’
‘I’m really sorry you’ve had this awful experience,’ Jo said, touching his sleeve. ‘But there’s just one more thing. Can you remember seeing anyone, anyone at all who might have been coming up from that path before you arrived?’
Gifford pursed his lips as he thought. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘A bit too cold and dark for most people to be out, I’d say. Plenty of cars coming up and down, of course. Had to wait a bit before I could cross the road, I remember that now. But, no, there was nobody else on that path, Inspector. No one at all.’
CHAPTER 40
The psychiatrist put down the telephone with a sigh. Kevin had missed his clinic appointments for more than a month now and although she had written a report to his care worker, Gwen Lockhart couldn’t help feeling that she ought to have done more for her patient. And now, this. The police officer had explained that, yes, they knew all about patient confidentiality, but they wanted to be made aware of anyone who might have come off their medication, someone who could consequently be a danger to themselves and to others. Gwen looked thoughtful as she twirled a pencil between her slim fingers. The death of his partner had changed the man, something that was not to be overlooked.
The last time she had seen him, Kevin had twitched and fidgeted in front of her, his OCD worse than ever. She’d talked to him about Caitlin, encouraging him to express his feelings, but the harder she’d tried, the more bottled up he’d become. Then, as if he had simply had enough, Kevin had stood up, walked out of her room and she had not seen him again since that December day.
Professor Brightman was part of the investigative team, the officer had told her, and somehow that reassured the psychiatrist. Gwen laid down the pencil, her hand stretched out to the diary that sat to one side of her desk: all her patients’ details were there, safe from prying eyes. Her face was impassive as she flicked through the notebook, coming to a stop as she reached the page with Kevin Haggarty’s address.
DS Wilson turned up the collar of his winter coat as they left the warmth of the car. It had been a short drive across town, past the fancy new yuppie flats lining the banks of the Clyde over the Squinty Bridge towards the Glasgow Science Centre before reaching the old part of Govan, a remnant of the Dickensian streets that had been ripped apart and modernised in the eighties. There was still a vestige of dignity lingering on these Victorian red-sandstone tenements, at least from a distance. Close up they looked what they were: run down and dishevelled — even the graffiti was poor stuff. There was a black metal gate across the entrance to the tenement that swung open at the detective sergeant’s touch. A few stairs separated the pavement from an inner door, its dark red paintwork gouged out by scores of wilful kids trying out their knife skills.
‘Not exactly the place you’d choose if you were the depressive sort,’ Wilson remarked to Jo Grant.
The DI glanced upwards and shook her head. ‘There but for the grace of God,’ she murmured.
Haggarty’s flat was on the ground floor and Wilson pressed the lowest button on the metal keypad then waited.
‘Could be out,’ Jo Grant suggested.
Then, as though to give the lie to her words, there was a buzzing sound followed by a metallic click. She nodded at Wilson and they both entered the building.
There was a short flight of steps rising to the landing for the ground floor flats, lit only by a lamp fixed into the cement wall between the two houses.
‘Would you look at this,’ Wilson remarked, pointing at the door. Instead of nameplates there were several scraps of paper held by drawing pins, showing the names of whatever tenants happened to be currently in residence. One of them was Haggarty’s.
‘Here today and gone tomorrow,’ Jo Grant remarked.
‘Well, let’s hope our man’s here at any rate.’
A brisk knock brought the sound of scurrying feet and then the door swung open to reveal a rat-faced young man, a brown dressing gown wrapped hastily around his skinny body. He looked at the two police officers through dirty, lank hair that hung in strings across his waxen skin.
‘What d’youse want?’ he growled.
‘Kevin Haggarty?’ Jo held out her warrant card.
‘’S no’ here,’ the man replied. ‘What’re ye wantin’ him fur?’
‘May we come in?’ Jo asked, stepping into the hallway before the man had time to refuse. ‘Funny smell here, don’t you think, DS Wilson?’ she said, her nose tilting upwards as she sniffed. The unmistakably pungent smell of cannabis filled the flat.
‘Aye,’ Wilson grinned. ‘Been having a party or do you grow the stuff in the bathroom?’
‘Are youse here tae see Kevin or what?’ The man stood to one side now, shivering as he regarded the two detectives.
‘Och, aye, but maybe you could tell us a wee bit about Mr Haggarty, seeing as how you both live here,’ Wilson cajoled. ‘Is there a kitchen down this corridor? I’m fair gasping for a cup of tea, son.’ He nodded towards the end of the hallway.
‘Ye cannae jist come in here an’-’
‘And what, son?’ Wilson turned suddenly, his face darkening. ‘Ask questions? Maybe if we get the right answers we won’t mind that funny smell, what d’you think, Inspector Grant?’
The man eyed them in turn, then gave a resigned shrug before leading them along the corridor, his bare feet slapping against the cold linoleum.
‘Which one is Kevin’s room?’ Jo asked as they passed several closed doors on either side.
‘Wan nearest the kitchen.’ The man jerked his thumb at a badly painted door that had once been white and was now edged in greying patches where countless fingers had pushed it open.
‘Him and Caitlin stayed there,’ the man offered. ‘’Fore she OD’d.’ He shrugged off the girl’s death in a careless manner that made the detective sergeant shudder.
Wilson let the others walk ahead so that he could try the door but it was locked fast.