CHAPTER 41
Cold wind was creeping through every layer of his clothing as Kevin glanced up and down the road, waiting for a break in the traffic.
The towers of the Kelvingrove Art Gallery were outlined against a deep blue sky, an orange haze of light pollution throwing the architectural shapes into relief. He crept in there sometimes, looking at the stuffed animals with their glassy dead eyes staring back at him. But it would be closed now, the big doors slammed shut, locking him out from the warmth.
As he crossed Kelvin Way he could see the police tape still flapping across the entrance to the park but there was no uniformed officer standing guard, blocking his entrance to the walkway. Nor was there any pedestrian making their way along the road, not a dog walker or jogger to be seen at all. As he walked down the familiar path, hearing the rush of water to his left, it was as if the entire place had become his alone.
What Kevin Haggarty could not see were hidden eyes watching him from a control room deep within the heart of the city; the eyes of a police officer who, at that moment, had just identified the hooded man.
‘He’s going down the same route,’ the officer spoke into his headset. ‘Definitely Haggarty.’
The man in the control room would continue to sit there but even he felt a thrill in his blood as he imagined police cars being mobilised from all parts of the city, knowing that in a matter of minutes the path along the Kelvin would be swarming with his fellow officers.
The hooded man heard the stamp, stamp, stamp of running boots.
Something was happening on the path above him.
He turned to see figures darkening the space between earth and sky then pressed himself against the railing. Only a few feet separated him from the brown river water rushing a few feet below the bank. He hesitated for a moment but it was too late. The black-garbed men were upon him, cutting off any thoughts of escape.
Kevin Haggarty’s mouth opened in a soundless cry as the first two policemen caught him by the arms.
Then, hearing those awful words flung at him, Kevin tilted his head back and uttered a roar of anguish that chilled the blood of everyone who heard it.
‘God, it was like some sort of wounded animal.’ Wilson shook his head as he sat in Lorimer’s room. ‘Desperate, really desperate.’
‘You sound almost sorry for him, Alistair,’ Lorimer remarked.
The DS sighed. ‘Well he’s no’ right in the head, is he? Cannae help but feel for the poor bastard. Some terrible things must be going on in that sick brain of his.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘In the cells. But he’s to be taken to Interview Room Three just as soon as you give the word. Is DI Grant…?’
Lorimer shook his head. ‘I’ll see Haggarty,’ he said. ‘But I’d like you there too. And Allan Martin’s the duty solicitor. Dr Lockhart feels that the presence of a woman might unsettle him right now.’
As the detective superintendent entered the room he saw Kevin Haggarty sitting by the table, hands cuffed together. He winced, seeing how gaunt this man was, the sharp angles of his face reminding Lorimer of pictures of Japanese prisoners of war. Haggarty shared that same defeated look; eyes sunk in hollows, the bones in his long fingers protruding through a scant covering of skin. When had he last eaten? Lorimer wondered.
‘Mr Haggarty?’ He stood over the man for a moment, looking intently to see if he would raise his eyes. But he seemed oblivious to anyone, even the solicitor who sat beside him.
There was the merest nod from Allan Martin and so Lorimer sat down opposite, making room for Alistair Wilson beside him.
‘I’m Detective Superintendent Lorimer and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Wilson.’
There was no reaction from Haggarty who had cast his eyes down as though reluctant to acknowledge the presence of the two men who had entered the room.
‘Have you had anything to eat or drink?’ Lorimer asked. Then, as the prisoner sat mute and unresponsive, Lorimer looked at the duty officer by the door.
‘He was offered something, sir, but didn’t take it,’ the officer replied.
‘You look hungry, Kevin,’ Lorimer said softly, staring at the lowered head in front of him. ‘I could send out for a burger, if you like? Double cheese? And a cup of tea?’
He saw Haggarty’s Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed. The very mention of food seemed to be getting to him.
The instant Haggarty looked up he was caught and held by Lorimer’s blue gaze.
‘How about it? I can have it here in just a few minutes.’ Lorimer shrugged as though it was no big deal to him whether the prisoner had food or not. ‘It’s just that we’re going to be here for quite a long time tonight, Kevin, and I need you to be able to concentrate, see?’
Lorimer smiled, the avuncular schoolteacher explaining matters for his wayward pupil.
Haggarty swallowed again then his tongue traced a line across his lower lip. ‘With chips?’ he asked, his voice husky as if from hours of weeping.
By the time the food had arrived and been wolfed down, Lorimer had established the basic information that was required: Haggarty was twenty-nine years old, lived in rented accommodation in Govan and was in receipt of state benefits.
As he watched the man wipe away traces of red ketchup from his mouth, Lorimer decided to ignore the psychiatrist’s advice to go easy on her patient.
‘The women you attacked were all like Caitlin, weren’t they, Kevin?’
The man’s mouth opened at the suddenness of the question.
‘Weren’t they?’ Lorimer insisted. ‘I am showing Mr Haggarty pictures of Eva Magnusson, Fiona Travers, Lesley Crawford and Maria Campbell,’ he continued firmly as he placed the photographs on the table between them, never once taking his eyes from Haggarty’s.
The man glanced down as Lorimer pushed them nearer. Then, as Haggarty caught sight of the women, a whimper escaped from his bloodless lips.
The detective watched him, those eyes darting over the images from left to right and back again as though devouring them. Haggarty’s body language was something the tape could not record, the shoulders hunched, arms circling the photographs of the women as though to contain them: Eva Magnusson, Fiona Travers, Lesley Crawford and his latest victim who had been identified as dental hygienist Maria Campbell.
Haggarty lifted a finger as he looked at the first picture.
‘You killed these women,’ Lorimer told him sternly, ‘and badly injured this one. I am indicating Lesley Crawford to the prisoner,’ he added for the benefit of the machine that was recording the entire interview.
He wanted to ask ‘why’, but such questions were best left to the medical professionals who would, no doubt, have years ahead of them to find the answer to that question.
‘That one,’ Haggarty said slowly, tapping the picture of the Swedish girl. ‘I don’t know her.’
He looked up at Lorimer. His expression was impassive as he tapped the photo again. ‘I didn’t do that one,’ he said again.
‘The prisoner is indicating the picture of Eva Magnusson,’ Lorimer said, keeping his voice neutral, trying not to show his disappointment.
‘And the others?’
Haggarty looked at them again and as he studied the pictures, Lorimer was struck by the man’s complete lack of emotion.
He nodded at last.
‘Please speak for the tape,’ Lorimer advised.
‘Yes, I did them,’ Haggarty said, his glance shifting from right to left. ‘But not that one.’ His voice was firm and assured as his finger hovered over the image of Eva Magnusson.
More than an hour and several polystyrene cups of tea later, the detective superintendent kneaded the knotted muscles on the back of his neck and stifled a sigh.