Jack in the Box, page 26
Slater jerked his head into Shane’s eyeline. ‘Don’t joke about it, wee man,’ he growled.
Lomond chose two of the bulkiest PCs to flank the boy in the back of his car, leaving Smythe to get checked over by the doctor they’d had on stand-by. He put McGill in charge of the crime scene until Tait arrived.
‘Bit sexist of you,’ Shane sneered, as the two officers squeezed him into the middle of the seat. ‘Picking the big boys. Not wanting me to chat up your bitches?’
‘All above board,’ Lomond said benignly, signalling to the officer guarding the bottom of the street before pulling out. ‘But, yeah, if I’m honest, I don’t like you kicking my colleagues.’
‘Especially if it’s a lassie,’ Slater said, turning in the passenger seat to glare at the young man. ‘Brave guy you are, going after women like that.’
‘I’ll do anybody,’ Shane said, chin up. ‘Anybody at all. Doesn’t matter who they are. Men, women, whatever. I’ll do them.’
‘Not any more, son,’ Lomond said.
‘I told you not to call me that.’
‘Touchy about that, eh?’ Slater remarked. ‘Maybe a daddy issue there? Keep having to remind myself who your da actually is. It’s the nutty professor, isn’t it? Vincent Finch? No need to remind me who your ma is, like. Or your granda.’
‘One for the psychologists,’ Lomond said dismissively, indicating to join the main road. ‘And folk who’re into that kind of thing. Not for us.’
‘Is it my turn now?’ Shane said brightly. His eyes locked with Slater’s in the mirror. ‘OK. You’re some kind of fitness freak who decided to be a cop because there was nothing else out there for you. Your hair’s never coming back and you’re never going to be promoted. It looks like you’re second fiddle to Inspector Chocolate Labrador here, and, honestly, I think most people would rather be unemployed. Your big old dome makes you look years older than you are, and I can’t see anyone ever taking you seriously.’ He sat back, pleased with himself.
Lomond drew breath to riposte, but Slater saved him the bother by laughing out loud. ‘You say all that, but we caught you.’
‘Probably cutting corners, relying on technology, some CCTV or something,’ Shane scoffed. ‘Forgive me if I don’t think I’m dealing with two street philosopher geniuses here.’
‘It doesn’t take geniuses,’ Lomond said. ‘You put your hands all over that fake bomb. Like a cat marking out its territory. Strange thing to do with a thing that could blow you to hell. Almost like you wanted to make sure you got your DNA on it. To deliberately contaminate it. That’s what it suggested to me.’
‘Wowee,’ Shane said, pretending to yawn. ‘Call Mensa. My lawyer will demolish you in court. So, yeah, be ready for that. I am.’
Slater turned to Lomond and exhaled loudly. ‘Looks like he’s got us right where he wants us, gaffer. In control of the situation.’
Shane sighed. ‘Proper double act, the pair of you. Comedians. You tried doing a podcast?’
‘We might,’ Slater said, brightening. ‘How to Catch a Perv. You’ll be in it – for maybe half an episode.’
‘Honest?’ A new note crept into Shane’s voice. He cocked his head as he eyeballed Slater in the mirror. ‘I think I’m worth more than that. And there’ll be plenty of podcasts about me.’
‘I wonder if there’ll be a TV drama,’ Slater mused. ‘They’ll have to find some gawky wee virgin to play you. Always a poisoned chalice for an actor, isn’t it? Could end up typecast, if you’re not careful. Anthony Perkins was a cracking actor, but . . . Anthony Perkins, gaffer. First film you think of? Go.’
‘The Black Hole,’ Lomond said, without a pause.
There was a silence for a beat or two.
‘I like the way you’re thinking here,’ Shane said. ‘I like the way it’s going. It’s all sitting nicely, isn’t it? They’ll be reading about this all across the planet. Hey, they even gave me a name. Exactly the one I wanted. Planned it that way. Boxes and such.’
‘You didn’t plan on getting caught,’ Slater said.
‘No, but I knew I would. Luck runs out eventually.’
‘It wasn’t luck, son. We just caught you,’ Lomond said.
‘Nah, I just slipped up,’ Shane said, reduced to a petulant teenager. ‘I knew I would get caught. See, when it comes to doing people in, I like it. And when I like something, I like a lot of it. It’s like when some guys who take to the bevvy . . . You on the bevvy, Inspector Roundarse?’
‘Nope,’ Lomond said cheerfully.
‘Nope? Boring. Anyway, some guys get on the bevvy, some guys get on the drugs. You know what my hit is?’
‘Being a creepy wee pervert?’ Slater said.
‘The answer to that question is no, you don’t know what my hit is. Not really. That’s what fascinates people, isn’t it? They don’t know. They can’t. Anyway, you can bet on this – I’ll get out. I’ll do it again.’
‘You do have the right to remain silent, you know,’ Lomond reminded him. ‘And I wouldn’t bet too much on getting out.’
‘Fresh air might be as good as it gets. But only if you’re good,’ Slater said. ‘Only if you play nice with the big boys. They’re going to love you in there, pal. Hey, I just thought – what’s your motive again? The stuff you wrote in your wee manifesto with the laptop you sent to your dad? You don’t like houses? That it? Property? The stuff that puts a roof over your head? Well, here’s the good news: you’re going to move into a really big house soon. With lots of other boys in it. Big boys.’
‘I’ll be separated from the apes, don’t worry about that,’ Shane said. His face morphed into a pathetic mask, eyebrows steepled in the middle. ‘Oh, please, please, my mental health . . . those boys are making me do things! I might kill myself!’
‘You’ll feel great about doing that,’ Slater said. ‘Alpha behaviour. Real manly stuff.’
‘Clever, actually. And don’t forget who my granda is. Mum too.’
Slater’s tone grew dark. ‘She’s going to be very, very disappointed in you, young man. Very disappointed indeed.’
‘She won’t. She’ll just move on. We’re two of a kind. She’ll turn it to her advantage. She might even hire a cracking lawyer and get me a good deal. Who knows . . . I might be out and about at some point. Back on the streets. Same streets that you’re on. Same streets as your families.’
‘Cling on to your dreams,’ Slater said, in a lounge singer’s half-croon. ‘Never let them go . . . Reach for the stars . . .’
‘You married, guys? Got kids?’ Shane glanced at Lomond. ‘Even if I don’t get out, there’s more of me out there. There are ways round your CCTV and bully-boy surveillance. Technology’s not everything. And it’s a cert you catching me isn’t down to your genius. You’ve got some IT nerd to thank for this.’
‘We do,’ Lomond agreed. ‘And he’s not a nerd; he’s a very nice guy. A grafter. He was a massive help. Wanted you caught as much as the rest of us. You’ll probably see him in court, if you’re daft enough to go for a trial. He can tell you all about it then.’
‘Whatever.’ Shane yawned. ‘End of the day, I did it. You couldn’t stop me. Three down . . . or are there more? Did I do some others? Easy to get a dosser on a hook, you know. That first idiot, I got him a sixty pence tin of beans. He ate it cold. He was so grateful. I was talking about the economics of the situation before I snuffed him.’
He laughed uproariously. His mirth went on far too long. It was a slap. The PCs on either side of him tightened their jaws and tried to keep their faces still, their eyes forward.
‘And that Symes bitch, God, I wish I’d taken my time there. Made a mess of her. I wanted to, if you’re wondering. Could have had her all ways. But had the old forensics to think about. You didn’t have a clue back then, did you? I could have done one a night if I’d wanted. Then the wee guy listening to his albums. Stronger than he looked, him. But not stronger than me. I improvised with the bean bag – inspired! Then that barrel of a woman. You should have heard her squeal – she thought she was for it. I’m surprised she lived! She’ll be in a loony bin soon. What a cracker. If I’d told her she could just jump head-first out the window and save me the effort, she would have! It was in the palm of my hand. I was in control. It was easy, always. Slip in, slip out. Maybe I’ll do it in prison, if my lawyer doesn’t get me off? Anyone dies unexpectedly? Unexplained fatalities? Happens in the jail, eh? Some lifer dangling from a bedsheet in the cell next to mine. You’ll wonder if it was me, but you’ll never know. I’m good at this. I won’t stop. I can’t be stopped. Prison’s nothing, mate. Just another box to go into, and I’ll get out, I promise.’
He leaned forward in his seat, teeth bared. Lomond felt his body heat, spittle misting the back of his neck. He reached forward to trigger the stand-by switch on the MP3 player resting in front of the gear stick.
The Lighthouse Family blared out, and Lomond sang along at the top of his voice. ‘We could be lifted . . .’
Shane stopped talking. He frowned.
The two PCs’ eyes widened in surprise. Slater threw back his head and laughed, then joined in with Lomond. ‘Lifted . . .’
‘Shut up!’ Shane said.
The PC to Shane’s left swayed, barging into the boy and roaring, ‘Lifted!’ in a powerful baritone.
‘Lifted!’ all the officers sang, a capella.
Slater spun around and conducted the line with a finger barged into the teenager’s face.
‘Shut up,’ Shane whined as all four roared their laughter at him. He slumped back, chin trembling slightly, eyes watering.
‘Liiifted!’
The car disappeared into the mist, the throbbing music and the raised voices a faint pulse fading into the gloom.
59
Lomond pulled his seat in, smoothed down the front of his second-best working jacket, tucked in his tie, straightened his cuffs, and folded his hands on the table of interview room one.
‘Shane, first of all I’d like to talk about William Ross. Do you know William Ross?’
Shane Kingsley – or Shane Finch, as he sometimes admitted to – stared directly at Slater. The harsh lighting of the room bred hard shadows, and he leaned into those. He was flanked by a designated adult, a woman who had set out her stall early as no-nonsense, but was quiet when the interview began, and a solicitor, a woman in her late twenties, beautifully turned out for this time of night, in a bright red jacket that it hurt to look at under the lights.
‘Do you know William Ross?’ Lomond repeated.
‘No comment,’ Shane said.
‘Did you lure William Ross out to the Heights, Shane? Did you promise him money? Did you give him food?’
‘No comment.’
‘Shane, a young man answering your description was seen talking to William Ross in Garnethill, back of Sauchiehall Street, at least four times just before he went missing. Did you speak to William Ross in Glasgow around that time? He had a pitch in the street where he would ask people for money. Wore a baby-blue knitted bobble hat, you might recall.’
‘No comment.’
‘Shane, did you smother William Ross with a bin bag in a shipping container at the Heights?’
‘No comment.’
‘Shane, did you tie a ligature round his neck to finish him off? To be sure?’
‘No comment.’
‘Shane, did you store his body in a fridge and then hire Daniel Laybourn to take the fridge to the high-rise flats?’
‘Pas de comment.’
‘Did you find out about Daniel Laybourn through your mother or your father’s contacts?’
‘No . . . comment.’
‘Did you hire him for cash, using a burner phone and a fake address?’
‘Not fast learners, are you? No comment.’
‘We’ve got a lot more questions,’ Lomond said. ‘And we’ll be asking them if you don’t mind.’
‘No comment to that, either.’
‘Did you steal and hack into your father Vincent Finch’s drones?’
‘I don’t want to answer your questions.’
‘Did you stalk Kathryn Symes using your father Vincent Finch’s drones?’
‘No comment. Heh. That was it, wasn’t it? Dad’s new drone. You were tracking it. You found something. Bravo.’
‘Did you use the drones to physically disable parts of the security systems on the houses – collisions, that kind of thing?’
‘Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.’
‘Did you know Mrs Symes from business discussions with her husband with regard to a property deal?’
‘No comment.’
‘Were you responsible for sending pests to various sites to sow discord between your mother, your father and Benny Kettles?’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you hack into the FiveBarGate database to target people?’
‘I really can’t say.’
‘Did you use a drone to pinpoint a date to kill Mrs Symes and Rowan Beattie?’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you use the drones to zoom in on their wall calendars and trace their movements?’
Shane grinned. ‘I’ll let your imaginations fill the next couple of seconds of silence. Now, imagine what my response is.’
‘Did you use your driving lessons to help you stake out their neighbourhoods?’
The eyes widened a little at that, then he said, ‘No comment.’
‘Did you use your mother and father and stepfather’s business records to select targets, using the garden coverings and flooring as a green screen?’
‘That’s a very fancy accusation. I have no comment to make.’
‘Did you tamper with the materials and the security systems on the new-build homes to set up a system where you could get into and out of properties without the cameras picking you up?’
‘Nah, no comment.’
‘Did you enter your mother’s business premises to access a skeleton key to get into and out of the back doors of those properties?’
‘Ask her. No, on second thought, seriously, I wouldn’t. Don’t ask her anything. No comment.’
‘Did you hack into your father’s drone to use it to stalk another customer connected to your family and stepfamily through FiveBarGate – Kelly Martin?’
Shane tapped his lips. ‘Give you credit for that one. Fancy move, that. God knows how you swapped her for the little piglet. They call it a Texas switch in the movies, you know.’
‘Did you use your father’s new drone to stalk her?’
‘You kind of told me already – you must have had it tracked. Planted. And you must have picked her out the way I picked her out, with a database. I didn’t expect that. Just shows, you can’t plan for everything. Well played.’
‘Don’t make any more comments,’ his lawyer said sternly.
‘I mean, no comment,’ Shane said. He licked his palms and slicked down his fringe, a mimicry of Bart Simpson smartened up for church.
‘Did you have seven more targets lined up?’ Lomond asked.
‘No comment. Obviously.’
Slater looked up. He had not blinked since Shane had tried to stare him out, and he didn’t blink now as he said, ‘Think your mother is impressed with you?’
‘Deep down?’ He grinned. ‘Yeah.’
‘Is there anything you’d like to say to us, Shane?’ Lomond asked.
‘It’s all in the eyes.’ He pulled back the skin of one eyelid, displaying one bloodshot, glassy lower eyeball.
‘How about to the friends and families of the people you killed, and the one you frightened half to death?’
‘It’s all good. That’s my only comment. All is as it should be. The world’s wrong. Isn’t it?’ He turned his full attention to Lomond. ‘That’s a question for you.’
‘No comment,’ Lomond said. ‘I’m now terminating this interview. You’ll be held in custody. We’ll talk again soon, if you like. I’ll see you again before you’re in court, and you can answer a few questions for us in detail.’ He stood up.
Slater scribbled something on a notepad and sat back to show Shane, fingers flattening the page. He had drawn a reasonable sketch of a box with a big padlock on it. Then, without a word, he closed the notepad and left the room in Lomond’s wake.
60
It wasn’t particularly warm in the interview room, but Nicole Kingsley had chosen to take her coat off. She looked around in vain for somewhere to hang it, before reluctantly draping it over the back of her chair. The trailing hem on the faded beige carpet somehow got on Lomond’s nerves; he almost wanted to help her look for a suitable place to put it.
In a plain silk ivory shirt, she looked more fragile than Lomond remembered. She folded her hands and said, ‘There’s a reason you don’t have a coat stand or hangers in an interview room, I guess.’
‘Probably for the best,’ Lomond replied.
‘For the eyes, right?’
‘I’m sorry? The eyes?’
‘Yeah.’ She stiffened a thumb and jabbed it towards her eye. ‘Hook on a rack, coat hanger . . . could cause you a problem with the eyes. If you were in here with a wrong ’un, I mean. Wouldn’t it?’
‘I suppose it would.’ Lomond turned to the second person on the other side of the table. ‘Would you care to sit down, Mr Finch?’
‘I think I’d prefer to stand,’ Finch said. His hair had been doused in a sudden heavy shower on the way over. Lomond had been caught in it too; his own overcoat sagged, sodden, on the back of his chair. While Nicole Kingsley was flat calm except for a slight fluttering at the nostrils, Vincent Finch was a constant pulse of anxiety.
‘Dear, the inspector’s being polite,’ Kingsley said, looking up at her ex-husband. ‘He means you should stop pacing up and down.’
‘And I said I preferred to stand, dear.’ The last word was filed into a jagged edge.
‘If you wouldn’t mind taking a seat, Mr Finch, it would be a lot less awkward for all of us,’ Lomond said agreeably.
Finch shrugged and sat down heavily. More of a teenager than his son, Lomond reflected. Side by side – the first time Lomond had seen them together – their incongruence was almost comical.
