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Authors: Craig Robertson
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Ferry.’
Kelbie gave the briefest of nods, his face moulded into a picture of earnestness. Addison stared ahead as if Kelbie’s name had never been mentioned.
‘The young woman with the blonde hair behind me is Kirsty McAndrew. She was twenty-two years old from Elcho Street in Bridgeton. She was a shop assistant and lived with her parents. She was murdered sometime in the early hours of Saturday morning and her body was found in the Necropolis. The young lady with the dark hair is Hannah Healey.’
The name landed heavily. To Winter, she had been decaying flesh and broken bone but now she had a name. Now she was real.
‘She was twenty-three years old, a hairdresser and lived with her mother in a flat in one of the high-rises on Caledonia Road. The flat overlooked the Southern Necropolis, where she was found this morning. Her neighbours later made a positive identification from the crime-scene photographs.’
Shirley paused, seemingly finding something else of interest in his notes but, in truth, giving everyone in the room time to catch their breath along with their thoughts.
‘We have no doubt that the two deaths are linked and that the killer was almost certainly the same person. That is not information we shall be sharing outwith the confines of this room. If asked, you refer them to media services or to the agreed statement, which you will be provided with on leaving this briefing. But be in no doubt that we are dealing with a potential serial killer.’
The phrase jagged its way across the room, screeching like nails down a blackboard. Shirley let the thought settle on his audience as he bent to click the mouse at his fingertips, causing the photographs behind to be replaced by two more that Winter had taken: the matching stomachs of the two girls and the identical lettering. Enlarged as they were, the similarities in the handwriting were obvious. Small involuntary gasps slipped from the mouths of some of those who hadn’t seen them before.
‘The images before you were written on the victims in lipstick. That information remains sacrosanct. If it goes into the force at large or, God forbid, into the public arena, then I will be holding people in this room responsible and I will not be pleased.’
The Temple glared round the room, seeking any wavering eyes, determined that his message hammered into the skulls of his detectives. There was no dissention.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, forgive me for stating the frigging obvious, but we are dealing with an extremely disturbed and dangerous individual. Both girls were raped. Both were strangled. Hannah Healey also suffered severe and violent head injuries. What I want you to do is to apprehend him before this’ – he gestured behind him – ‘happens again. Whatever else you are working on takes second place. No, it takes third place. This investigation takes first and second place. I will not have another victim, not under my watch. Do I make myself clear?’
‘DI Addison,’ Shirley started again, his tone as fierce as before, ‘bring everyone up to speed, please.’
Addison got to his feet, the briefest of unrequited glances over at Kelbie as he did so.
‘Kirsty McAndrew had been on a night out with friends. They were in Citation in the Merchant City and also Bacchus. We have . . . this image from Citation’s CCTV.’ A grainy still shot showed five attractive young women dressed up for a night out. ‘Kirsty walked home alone and we believe she was attacked en route. CCTV has some images of her walking on the Trongate at twelve-thirty. Time of death is estimated at around two a.m. She was strangled, partly by use of the necklace that she was wearing.
‘Her bag was present at the scene, its contents found dumped some distance away. Her shoes were not present and remain missing. She was wearing them in the CCTV, so she may have lost them in a struggle or the killer may have taken them.
‘We’ve only known of Hannah Healey’s identity for a couple
Kelbie gave the briefest of nods, his face moulded into a picture of earnestness. Addison stared ahead as if Kelbie’s name had never been mentioned.
‘The young woman with the blonde hair behind me is Kirsty McAndrew. She was twenty-two years old from Elcho Street in Bridgeton. She was a shop assistant and lived with her parents. She was murdered sometime in the early hours of Saturday morning and her body was found in the Necropolis. The young lady with the dark hair is Hannah Healey.’
The name landed heavily. To Winter, she had been decaying flesh and broken bone but now she had a name. Now she was real.
‘She was twenty-three years old, a hairdresser and lived with her mother in a flat in one of the high-rises on Caledonia Road. The flat overlooked the Southern Necropolis, where she was found this morning. Her neighbours later made a positive identification from the crime-scene photographs.’
Shirley paused, seemingly finding something else of interest in his notes but, in truth, giving everyone in the room time to catch their breath along with their thoughts.
‘We have no doubt that the two deaths are linked and that the killer was almost certainly the same person. That is not information we shall be sharing outwith the confines of this room. If asked, you refer them to media services or to the agreed statement, which you will be provided with on leaving this briefing. But be in no doubt that we are dealing with a potential serial killer.’
The phrase jagged its way across the room, screeching like nails down a blackboard. Shirley let the thought settle on his audience as he bent to click the mouse at his fingertips, causing the photographs behind to be replaced by two more that Winter had taken: the matching stomachs of the two girls and the identical lettering. Enlarged as they were, the similarities in the handwriting were obvious. Small involuntary gasps slipped from the mouths of some of those who hadn’t seen them before.
‘The images before you were written on the victims in lipstick. That information remains sacrosanct. If it goes into the force at large or, God forbid, into the public arena, then I will be holding people in this room responsible and I will not be pleased.’
The Temple glared round the room, seeking any wavering eyes, determined that his message hammered into the skulls of his detectives. There was no dissention.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, forgive me for stating the frigging obvious, but we are dealing with an extremely disturbed and dangerous individual. Both girls were raped. Both were strangled. Hannah Healey also suffered severe and violent head injuries. What I want you to do is to apprehend him before this’ – he gestured behind him – ‘happens again. Whatever else you are working on takes second place. No, it takes third place. This investigation takes first and second place. I will not have another victim, not under my watch. Do I make myself clear?’
‘DI Addison,’ Shirley started again, his tone as fierce as before, ‘bring everyone up to speed, please.’
Addison got to his feet, the briefest of unrequited glances over at Kelbie as he did so.
‘Kirsty McAndrew had been on a night out with friends. They were in Citation in the Merchant City and also Bacchus. We have . . . this image from Citation’s CCTV.’ A grainy still shot showed five attractive young women dressed up for a night out. ‘Kirsty walked home alone and we believe she was attacked en route. CCTV has some images of her walking on the Trongate at twelve-thirty. Time of death is estimated at around two a.m. She was strangled, partly by use of the necklace that she was wearing.
‘Her bag was present at the scene, its contents found dumped some distance away. Her shoes were not present and remain missing. She was wearing them in the CCTV, so she may have lost them in a struggle or the killer may have taken them.
‘We’ve only known of Hannah Healey’s identity for a couple
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