McCullough wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, wild-eyed and fraught. His self-control and military bearing had disappeared.
‘I didn’t know what I was doing. I think maybe I thought that if I just got away then no one would know. Maybe no one would even find out who she was and then her mother wouldn’t need to know . . .’
McCullough broke off, a desperate thought interrupting his confession.
‘She doesn’t need to know, does she? Not about what happened, I mean. But about what I . . . I . . .’
Narey shook her head at him, a mixture of disgust and wonder.
‘Of course she will need to know. There’s no way round that. You can explain it to her yourself.’
A pitiful wail came from the man then suddenly his hands flew to his face and he began to claw at himself, digging his fingers feverishly at his skin and eyes. His nails drew blood on his distorted features and he howled like an animal.
Narey directed Corrieri towards the door with an abrupt nod of her head and the DC went to bring in the two uniformed constables who were waiting outside. Narey could have restrained the man while she awaited their arrival but she didn’t.
The PCs burst in at a trot and quickly pinned McCullough’s arms to his sides. Blood leaked from the corner of one eye and vivid scratches marked his cheeks as his head lolled from side to side.
‘Your own flesh and blood,’ Narey rebuked him. ‘And that’s what you left behind. In every sense of the words. The science team were confused by the DNA that was retrieved from that condom you threw away. It was so similar a match to Oonagh’s that they thought they’d perhaps made a mistake and mixed up samples. But they hadn’t, had they, Mr McCullough?’
‘I will kill myself in prison. You do know that?’
Narey just looked at him.
‘That’s someone else’s problem, Mr McCullough. Not mine. Take him away.’
Corrieri led the officers to the door as they half pulled, half carried McCullough to it and on to the waiting police van.
Narey watched them leave then turned back to the body of Oonagh McCullough, standing over her for just long enough to wonder how the young woman had made the journey from Giffnock to the streets and to the morgue. She gently eased the cover back over Oonagh’s head and wished her a silent goodbye before switching off the light and returning the room to darkness.
He was standing outside the mortuary room, with his back leaning against the wall. When Narey came out, he raised his eyebrows by way of a question.
She looked around before shaking her head ruefully in reluctant agreement.
‘You’ve got two minutes, Tony, but if you get caught then as far as I’m concerned, you broke in here and you’re getting nicked.’
Winter’s eyes fell to his camera where they dallied in thought before he lifted his head again and studied the pain etched on Rachel’s face. It was his turn to shake his head.
‘No, you’re right. There will be other times and other photographs. Glasgow isn’t going to turn into Disneyland overnight. That girl deserves some peace. Come on, I want you to come with me.’
‘Where to? I’ve got to deal with McCullough.’
‘After, then. I can wait. I want you to come with me to my mum and dad’s graves. It’s about time you were introduced.’
‘Okay. I’d like that.’ She smiled for the first time that day.
As they emerged blinking into the glare of a watery September sun, Winter was reminded of the basic law of photography which dictates that the process is only possible because of darkness as well as light. For every thing of beauty there has to be an ugly truth.
Writing is a solitary occupation that is best done with the help of others. I am grateful for the skills, patience and kindness of my editor Maxine Hitchcock and all at Simon & Schuster, particularly Emma Lowth.
I must also thank my agent Mark ‘Stan’ Stanton at Jenny Brown Associates, not least because he moaned at not being acknowledged in my previous book. Stan’s wise words dispensed over pints of a certain Irish stout were the foundation of much of the character that became Tony Winter.
Inevitably, authors steal from all around them; collecting ideas, information, phrases and stories then hoarding them like literary magpies. It is impossible to name all those that were stolen from but I’d like to thank Gordon Blackstock for introducing me to the word sgriob; Adam Docherty for alerting me to the remarkable work of Enrique Metinides; Brian Moran for the tale that became John Petrie’s repulsive fridge; Dr Andy McCallion for his insight into torture methods; and Arlene Kelly for being the font of all Glasgow knowledge. All were fundamental to this story in their own way.
I must also thank photographers Chris Austin, Andrew Cawley, Barrie Marshall and Ritchie Miller for allowing me to steal from them over the years too. Tony Winter is all of them and none of them.
Finally but most importantly, I would like to thank my friends and family for their support and advice – and their recommendations of ways to kill people. Keep them coming.
Table of Contents
Cover
Half-title page
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication page
Contents
About the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Acknowledgements