In Nomine Patris

By Tom Odgen Keenan

Johnston is a proxy killer (Patris: the Father) who uses crime families to kill on his behalf (In Nomine: in the name of). Rooney is failed forensic profiler, who gets one more chance; however, given his own conflicts, can he rise to this challenge which will change or destroy his life? Jackie is a perversely ambitious cop, not above murder in her own right. She gives Rooney the chance, but why? Muir is a Machiavellian civic leader who is the focus of the proxy killer’s psychosis.
Mental illness, alcohol abuse and the tedium of pursuing typical killers, leave Rooney (Sean) a pathetic man, a failed forensic profiler, a bit of a loser. Faced with a multiple murderer, his friend DCI Kaminski (Jackie), induces him from his decrepitude with the possibility that this one might be a proxy killer that would draw him back into the fray. His interest in man’s ability to kill his fellows, that he may be one who manipulates, controls, and exploits others to do the dirty deed, draws Rooney out of ‘retirement’.
Rooney, however, becomes one of the controlled, and is faced with an impossible dilemma: kill this fiend, as the killer’s last act of control or his best friend, a great artist, will die. Can he, Rooney, a good man, kill a man, albeit a monster; thereby, confirming for him that everyone can be controlled, used, made to kill? Dostoevsky’s man was a bad man who kills and finds his conscience; our man Rooney is a good man with a conscience who has to overcome this to kill. The novel weaves together the juxtaposition of Rooney internal conflicts with the psychopath’s pursuit of domination, destruction and death. The subtext of the novel is that everyone is corruptible; and, faced with certain circumstances, we can do bad things.
Latin signatures, e.g. In Nomine Patris (the Father’s) link the psychopath with an ancestor, a prestigious Scot’s Latin poet, cruelly abused by the Lord Provost of Glasgow’s ancestor, provides something of the who and the why; indigenous crime families, fearful of migrant gangs taking over their criminal territory, provide the what; the means to control and manipulate is the how; the dark, gothic setting of Glasgow provides the where; where in Rooney’s words, ‘everything, including multiple murder, corruption and mayhem, has a way of being treated as normal’ All together, makes this a gripping psychological thriller, with all of the ‘dunnits’.
The initial chapters tempt the reader with a sense of catastrophe, defining the characters, and the gothic gritty backdrop of Glasgow’s underworld, pubs and politics. More twists than Lombard Street propel the reader towards a dramatic, yet incredible political drama by the middle of the book, and, enjoying a break from death, destruction and depravity, the final chapters enjoy a psychological battle between Johnston and Rooney: a complex double bind and a great character changing conflict, which leads to the proxy killer’s denouement, defining Rooney and morphing him into something quite unexpected. Three main phases characterise the protagonist and the novel: (a) Rooney is being used (he has always done the right thing); (b) Rooney has a life changing epiphany (a drunk looking at himself through a bottle); and (c) Rooney undergoes a dramatic transformation (Mr Nice Guy becomes Mr Proxy Killer himself, i.e. ‘The Father’: heir apparent?).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Odgen Keenan
• Release date: Dec 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311420183

Tom Odgen Keenan

I write because I just won’t do anything else. Thirty years as a social worker in mental health care was my apprenticeship in understanding people and the dynamics that occur between them. It informs my writing. I live in Glasgow, Scotland, which has a rich tradition: the ‘Tartan Noir’ in crime writing. It is a dynamic city, with the kind of conflicts and characters which are a rich vein for a writer. In Nomine Patris ... is my first major literary work; however, I have my head, heart and soul into my second book. If you think my debut novel is a blast, my second novel is being rolled up to the launching pad! My objective is to get you hooked!

Book preview

IN NOMINE PATRIS …

by

Tom Odgen Keenan

In Nomine Patris …

Tom Odgen Keenan

Published by Tom Odgen Keenan at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Tom Odgen Keenan

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

Tight like my mother’s shawl, my all-in-one safety blanket, I’m in my bed, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets and coats. It’s dark and quiet, safe and warm. Then, the foghorn—my landlady Mrs Gribben—booms from a brogue of Ireland’s west and from the foot of the stair. Get yourself up, di’ye hear? Your friend is here, she cries. I don’t intend answering her, I know where’s best. Jaysus, I don’t know why I bother. He’s been up there for days, in the dark, it’s no bloody life, she says to someone else.

Mrs G, kindly get to …, please leave me be, I say.

It’s a typical Glasgow night, dreach as sleet, cold as death, and unforgiving as spite.

Tesco delivered your booze order… That’ll get him up.

Extricating myself from my humpy, I shimmy my legs out of the bed. I sit there and shiver. I sniff, there’s no shit. I listen, there’s no smoke alarm. I feel, and I don’t feel much. I click on the bedside lamp, and this don’t-give-a-fuck light turns a previously harmless space into a danger zone. Reality kicking in, I get on my legs, dragging the coats as I stand, wrapping me, hiding me. The floor’s cold on my bare feet. Straightening from my half shape, I orientate by the lamp, from the light giving shapes, to the chair next to it, where I sit to get my bearings.

The ground rumbles, again. Di’ye bloody hear me Rooney? Are you… getting up?

Making for the middle of the room, I zigzag chindit-like along a well-worn route through a jungle of junk, coughing loudly enough to be heard. Verily, dear woman, might be good to get the fuck out of this… igloo, I moan as I put my shirt and trousers on, the coats falling to the floor, into a warm bar, as I struggle with the socks and shoes, where I can find some… feckin privacy.

I sit and take a breath and study the room: this nightmare to the uninitiated of my aesthetic pleasures. I moved here after my last high, after hitting the tarmac. All I have here of any importance are some self-produced paintings adorning the bare walls of killers: a tiger, a great white, a mosquito: remnants of an old hobby, a retreat from a humdrum life and a stressful job, and some scattered books, textbooks mainly, lying across the floor: Freudian, remnants of a professional life, a life of analysis.

My glass lies on the table, surrounded by empty whisky bottles and the occasional empty wine. I never clear them up—this way I keep track of how many I polish off between the occasional sojourn into environmental health—forestalling the invasion of flies, rats, social workers.

∞

I’m Sean Rooney esquire, or Rooney, as no one calls me anything else; a fifty-seven-year-old, former professional gentleman, living in this shitty pied-à-terre in the West End. I am a PhD, a doctor, not the medical kind; not how the body works, but how the mind works, and sometimes how it doesn’t, an erstwhile forensic psychologist.

I was a ‘psychological adviser’, a head-hunter with an ability to track those who left something of themselves behind; whether it be by patterns, characteristics, or sometimes clues. Those men with typical ways and traits—types so dissimilar to their normal fellows—that the field, in ever diminishing breadths, became a path.  For me, however, it wasn’t enough to find the man and establish who he was, I needed to know why: why he did what he did. I got sick of it though, as they always appeared to fall into similar patterns, i.e. ‘been caused pain—will cause pain’; ‘been controlled, exploited and manipulated—will control, exploit and manipulate’; ‘no one cares for me—I don’t care for others’; ‘people hate me—I’ll hate them back’; ‘life hasn’t given me anything—I’ll take what’s mine by right’.  The job became a drudge. Then my illness arrived and the demons with it, invading me, tormenting me, driving me mad. I was a mad man who sought bad men.

I always knew there would be one, however; one who would interest me more than the others; but one who would get to me, to damage me. I feared him, but so great my interest, my perverse interest, I craved him.

Brian Harte was a straightforward one; this man who entered training as a doctor and abandoned his course on the onset of schizophrenia. He had beliefs: a national responsibility for overseeing and punishing poor clinical practice, he believed.

I assessed Harte on a pre-conviction assessment admission to Hillwood Secure Unit. He threatened a doctor with a knife and was arrested. His mental disorder was evident; his future predisposition to homicide less so. The interview room in the high-security ward was hardly twelve by six, yet he managed to swing a chair over his head, missing me by inches, crashing into the door behind me. My report concluded: Hates doctors … pathological need to attack health care staff … will kill eventually. I recommended a hospital order with restrictions. Ignoring my opinion, the sheriff released Harte on probation, with a condition he attended a forensic psychiatrist for treatment; treatment he would never accept.

Later, during his mission, he took a dislike of and an iron crowbar to Doctor John Gilbert, an old friend and colleague of mine during a busy morning of consultations. Fastidious in dress, with oiled, sweptback hair, he walked without hesitation or respect through a packed waiting room. Time to protect the weak and vulnerable, he said, as he entered John’s treatment room, where he casually and brutally bludgeoned him to death. Before he left, however, he gouged out John’s eyes with his fingers—this man who no one saw; understood, you get no evidence from onlookers of a man who kills. His characteristics, however, were clear to all; in particular to me.

In the Whitechapel murders in 1888, Thomas Bond, an eminent British physician of the time, assumed the Ripper to be ‘probably solitary and eccentric in his habit’. He postulated that some people ‘may have grounds for suspicion he is not quite right in his mind at times’ and how they may be ‘unwilling to communicate suspicions to the police for fear of trouble or notoriety’; though ‘a prospect of reward might overcome their scruples’.

Bond’s theory informed my work. It helped me track Harte to a grotty homeless hostel in Bridgeton. I knew he would seek sanctuary in a place where no one would ask the obvious questions, such as: Who are you? Why are you here? Where did you come from? There, Harte’s delusions set him apart. I asked around the homeless men’s shelters of the East End; and although many a fine man graced their barren spaces and lay on their finer horsehair mattresses—with no more than inches between each mattress and body—a man there would be conspicuous by his actions and attire.

A real dandy; slicked hair and smart clothes, said the officer in charge. ‘I’m a medical man,’ he says; a real nutter.

I asked—with the assistance of a few pounds—if he could check, perhaps when he was asleep, ‘upon his person’, to ascertain if he was carrying anything ‘particular’. In his revulsion, he found John Gilbert’s eyes in Harte’s coat pocket. Subsequently, he was arrested, charged and committed to Hillwood, a place where deranged folk like Harte seldom left.

I was pleased about this man’s incarceration, but therein lay one of my imponderable dilemmas: to treat or punish? I seriously wanted to hurt this man. He had killed my friend, but he needed help, and I was about helping; or so I thought, then.

I had a supporting role too, which was a diversion from the analytical and psychosleuth roles, away from those who harm or kill. Supporting victims provided a way of keeping in touch with humanity. Though, courtesy of the ever-resourceful Glasgow cabs, I always delayed my arrival at an incident to just after the paramedics; I was no expert at stemming blood. Dodging traffic lights to arrive at a scene I would never get used to, I’d be on my mobile to Ben, my social work colleague and leader of the major incident support team. Ben, with his failsafe leather-bound journal, would track them in minutes, via wives, liaisons, hotel receptions, and pubs used by professional listeners: for people in pain for people in pain.

We were well known in those places, where we drank large amounts of beers we could just about afford and even larger amounts of stronger spirits, the quality of which did not matter to the same extent. There, we would seek our own debriefing, oust our feelings, put them away, to bed—temporarily—some refusing to retire, however. Seasoned in the art of the soothing discourse and sometimes the caring touch, we never tried to overpower or overwhelm those mostly unaware of our presence anyway. Our experience was based on years of learning what not to say.

I had issues, they said. Issues! Bloody problems I had, life damaging problems. One, a decidedly pronounced alcohol problem; a consequence of dulling a life of pain—my internal pain and dealing with the pain of others—an ever increasing means of self-medication, and two, a bipolar disorder, or manic depression to some. Self-destruction on both counts: destruction of the self. Mental illness, for me, arrived in my mid-forties, just when everything was going well. There was I, on the crest of a wave, attached to the Strathclyde Police; until I hit the buffers.

∞

I reached the top of the stair as Jackie and the Gribben were gabbing at the bottom. They always found something useless to talk about.

Ah hah, the thought police have arrived? I growled downward. DCI Jacqueline Kaminski, Glasgow Pitt Street, appearing there, only meant one thing: big-friggin-trouble.

Well hallo Rooney, the hermit, said she, in the smart-cop kind of way which emancipated female officers in Glasgow have, having developed confidence way beyond their station. ‘Brass neck’, came to mind. No’ answering your phone these days, nor your door intercom?

Might’ve done so, had it been a nice kindly woman, not an annoying bad-hat like you, I growled. Why, may I ask are you invading my privacy?

Just dealing with a multi-fuckin-murder, Rooney she said, staccato style, using profanities matter-of-factly, in her own imitable way.

Fine, cheerio, I said, turning away.

Her voice lowered as she turned towards the Gribben. No’ wanting to hear the gory details?

Not the least bit interested, I said, heading back to the flat. It didn’t stop her though.

There’s a psycho out there.

So what, there’s one here too, I said, gesturing towards the Gribben.

You bring the best out in me, the Gribben replied, matter-of-factly.

He’s one of yours, Jackie said, question-like.

Feck-all to do with me.

This guy does it in groups.

So do swingers….

Up on the Cobbler, four stiffs.

Multiple?

An elderly councillor and a good whack of her family.

When?

Couple of hours ago.

Not my stuff no more.

I want you there, with me. I’ve been in touch with Ben. Friends and relatives are heading there.

The shrink retired on health grounds, mind?

Rooney, I need you there. Let’s just get the fuck over there, okay?

There was no choice between Arrochar and my bed. I’m ill, I said.

Aye, a walking liver disease. Your car’s waiting pal, she pushed, this woman who had no interest in my sorry state. Reluctantly, I moseyed down towards these sentinels of my sure destruction.

I am not up to this, I said, pulling my scarf from the coat rack and wrapping it python like around my neck. I just hope you’re not taking the manneken.

The car’s out there, she ordered, pointing, sensing a last stance at the door. Get the fuck into it.

Absolutely, ma’am, I said, realising the futility of argument.

See you’re in your working gear, going begging?

My dear, it used to be a white suit.

Aye, before it was a table cloth in a curry house, after a crowd of students ate aff it.

The Gribben smirked.

Sartorial elegance not my strong point, Mrs G?

Good to see you alive, you shite, the Gribben said, tight through cig holding lips, as she held my Duffel open, awaiting my arms and adding my bunnet. I’ve been worried about you, as she folded her arms, in a wee-Irish-wuman-wie.

Alive, alive oh, I said. From Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty—shame about you!

I left with her with a face like a camel eating a sour ploom to find the cop-cor there right enough. Growling moodily, I pulled the car door behind me to head for the incident. The weans were gathered around the car. In this city, polis cars turn incidents into circuses. Jesus, I was an incident, a veritable circus clown.

∞

Klaxons blazing, the car shot through early evening traffic, arriving in Arrochar in forty-five minutes, into the car park at the head of the loch.

I dragged myself out of the car. Get these on, Jackie ordered, like a mother with a wean in the rain, handing me a fluorescent jacket, a hardhat, and pair of rubber boots. And no lip Rooney, I don’t fucking need it. I decided not to. It would’ve only increased her determination to dominate me, as she had since I came out of hospital. In the car, she introduced me to Archie Paterson, detective. He was to be my aide, again ‘no fucking lip’.

We transferred to a Landover and rumbled up the forest tracks until we were around a thousand feet or so above the side of the hill, then the walking began. I didn’t need this. I prided myself in being a ‘bit of a walker in my time’, having climbed these hills most of my earlier adult life, but the old knees weren’t so good these days. Overlooking Loch Long, we climbed paths, she leading the way. This was a bitterly cold night in the glens; so said my ever-freezing feet and other exuberances. After twenty minutes or so of slog, she pointed ‘up there, on the clearing, just by the flood lights’.

Who’s there? I asked, hearing the hubbub. I was in no mood to socialise.

Some locals, the village GP, the local polis, firemen; the forestry worker who made the first call, some walkers; and some others, who the fuck knows.

Fine thanks, I said, wishing I hadn’t asked.

We crunched through icy boggy ground, moving up and over some hillocks. Then, as if to confirm I was out of my depth there, I slipped and slid down the other side of one. Archie’s fingers ripped from my coat as I went. I remembered the risks of this area from years of climbing this hill. This was the Cobbler, or Ben Arthur—its proper name. We explored the caves on its slope, the ‘New Year caves’, where crazy Glaswegians, the Creag Dhu guys, spent New Year holidays deep in their recesses, around wood fires. There they smoked, drank, and told stories of notable climbs in these hills. Sheep, dogs, even walkers, had fallen into fissures scarring these slopes, and some were never found. My slide ceased, however, and there I sat until Jackie and Archie reached me.

You aright? she asked.

Oh, just fantastic, I said, sitting in the icy mud.

I knew this was a shite idea, said Archie, helping me to my feet.

Archie was right. He wasn’t always right; however, his cheek got him away with it. This time he was right.

He’s fine, he’s used to being on his arse, Jackie said, with all the concern of a Nazi storm trooper.

Thanks darling, I said, turning to locate a sound of groaning. What’s that?

That is why you are here, she said.

Aye, I hear you’re good with the auld wumen, Archie said, reassuringly, leading me to her.

It’s her, Jackie said. She’s a City Councillor, a kind of mother figure in the Council.

Great, a coonty councillor and a clapped out counsellor, a perfect match, laughed Archie.

Very fuckin’ funny, did you make that up yourself? asked Jackie, you silly bugger.

What do you expect me to say to her? I asked.

Shite, just do what you do, she said.

I moved towards her. I’d to ‘talk to her’, so said the blue serge brigade who had a problem talking to victims.

Reaching her, I asked, Hallo my dear, how are you doing? At the same time cursing myself for asking such a ridiculous question—she was far from ‘doing’ anything.

I have been better son, she said, with Eastern European vowels coming through the scots.

She was stretched out; and, from what I could hear from the paramedics, she had multiple injuries, her life was ebbing fast.

No, I think you have.

Do not worry sir, she said. I don’t feel very much, and I don’t need a doctor to tell me I am done.

I edged closer to her and, as gently as my gruff voice would produce, I asked her name. I’m Irena, Irena Zysk, she replied, grasping my arm, trying to pull me to her. Like an old lady trying to put money in a wean’s pocket. My family, they are safe, yes?

I held her hand and just looked at her.

Listen to me, I need to tell you, she said.

I am listening Irena, take your time my darlin’, I said. More crass statements, she had little time.

There were these men, but one of them, this man.

I’m not the police Irena; you don’t need to tell me anything. I am just here—

Yes, good, but please listen to me, she said, anxious to get it out. They came to our house, when we were having dinner, they had guns. They forced us into their cars and brought us here. We were told to get out and to kneel down. Then this man came around to the front of us and stood over us. He was just looking down on us, she said grimacing. Then he said something, in Latin. I knew it was Latin, I’d heard it often at our mass.

I knew what she meant. I remembered the old mass and how the Latin made my skin creep. Later, as my illness developed, these words brought on shades of gold in my head.

‘In Nomine Patris,’ he said. I know what that means, she said, making a mini sign of the cross. Then he turned to me and looked into my eyes, with those eyes, dead eyes; and a smile; well, not so much of a smile, a grin; a funny face without the fun. Get my meaning? Pressing closer to her, her voice dimmed as she whispered in my ear: He nodded to one of the men, like a SS officer in Auschwitz giving the death command. One hit me hit hard on the head, then kicked me over the side of the hill. Down here, until the police arrived. It was dark, cold, and so long, and I was scared, really scared.

I’m sure you were my darling.

Her soft tones reminded me of my dear mother as she lay there, dead three years then. I sat there holding her hand, her fingers growing cold in mine, the chill ascending her arm.

The paramedics moved in, to do what they could, but they had no chance. Tears welled up in my eyes. I was a psychologist, an expert on feelings; I could control them for god’s sake, but I couldn’t stop the tears sliding down my face, dripping off my chin. Who were they for? I felt the pain of this old woman in my head, in my heart, and in my soul, as the darkness arrived in my mind, as I sat there cursing whatever brought us together.

Our elderly councillor makes the full house, Jackie said, as she joined me.

Four of a kind.

What?

Four of a kind, the family, and gran the ace my dear. Four of a kind is three of one and two of the other.

Aye right, the rest are up there, decapitated, laid out side by side. You okay?

Verily, just dicky-fuckin-doo.

Archie helped me to the path where I caught my breath, just as Ben ‘phoned. I held the mobile tight against my right ear, trying to block out the whistling wind with my hands.

Hi Roon, it’s good to have you back.

Ben, you know it’s not official.

Aye, we’ll see, he said, unconvinced. We’re in a marquee in the car park, with some of the relatives and friends.

How’s it going?

I’ve just talked to her daughter, he said. She was out of town when the family was taken. She’s pretty… well you know how she’d be.

Indeed, not so lucky white heather.

The family?

Murdered.

Sure Roon; but any more, you know, the circumstances?

Not my business, you know that.

Roon, you okay?

Just dandy.

Sure?

Ben, with the greatest of respect, you’re not my social worker.

Aye sure Roon, phone me, later, he said, switching off.

We returned to the safety of the car park. Jackie’s team was yelling above the din, trying to maintain the cordons. The paparazzo was getting through. Photographers or parasites, I wondered. My mind flashed to stills of war correspondents taking pictures of victims being shot. What could they do? Take the picture—tell the world—put their lives in danger? What would I have done? I’d have taken the picture, capturing the image said as much, if not more, than any evidence from witnesses.

They’re away to the makeshift mortuary, Archie said, to an empty barn, for forensics, for the night. The army set it up. They’ll help search for evidence.

I imagined green land-rovers spewing out camouflaged soldiers to head up the hill in horizontal waves, just as the farmers did when they burned off the bracken, the fire moving up the hill, fanning out.

Well used to exercises in these hills, I add, remembering times when coming down the hill we would encounter platoons of paras in camouflage heading up.

Jackie turned and headed off, to do her police work, no doubt. Don’t worry about me, I muttered. 

We lit up and coughed, drawing in the cold air mixed with smoke, looking down Loch Long. A few minutes later, Archie escorted me to Jackie’s trailer, where outside she was delivering a statement to a BBC Scotland camera team. She expressed ‘deep shock’ at ‘a heinous crime’, offering ‘sincere condolences’ to the family and friends of councillor Zysk. She was in full flow in her best presentational voice. The investigation is at a very early stage in establishing the circumstances, and finding those responsible for the deaths of councillor Zysk and the members of her family, she said. Our detectives are carrying out enquiries and gathering details. Anyone with any information is asked to call Pitt Street on 0141 532 2000.  Alternatively, Crimestoppers may be contacted on 0800 555 111, where anonymity can be maintained. She finished her statement and made her way to me.

Well said, I said.

I try.

What’s the Council saying?

Muir made a statement from the City Chambers, expressing deep shock. Irena was a respected councillor, an ambassador for the multi-ethnic subgroups on the council.

The polish community’ll be devastated, I said. She looked too tired to enter into a discussion over local multicultural politics. You look well and truly knackered.

And you look like shit.

Correct, I said, feeling my coat and wet trousers. I need a drink my dear; you on escort duty?

Well George Clooney asked me earlier, but I’ve a real soft spot for the afflicted.

Well, you’re not going to catch the killers here, I said, then mumbled to myself, Even though there’s more filth here than on Sauchiehall Street on a Saturday night.

Archie, take over, she instructed. His look said ‘Aye, on you go, leave it all with me.’ Okay, let’s get the fuck outta here, she said. She had enough for then, and so had I.

We weaved through the cordons, the line of media and the onlookers—the ‘disaster-tourists’ as she put it. We found ourselves in the open, in the car park. Some people looked stunned, locked in, refusing to move—rabbits in headlights—fearing they would miss something. She seized a local patrol car from an arriving officer, who immediately felt involved, if only to get us to the Village Inn, the local boozer. At well past three in the morning the bar was still open.

She reached the bar first. Whisky, doubles, two of, and lots of ice? she demanded, no messing; then, turning to me, Alright wi’ you?

It’s not for me to be the party pooper, I said drooling. Mine’ll avoid the ice; waters down the whisky, I said. I was in a hurry, downed it in seconds, and ordered the same. We drank and we drank more. It was obvious to all there we were AWOL from the ‘murders on the Cobbler’; something to do with my filthy clothes and a desperate need to get rat arsed.

Phil, the manager, played his part in the event. No local cops were going to invade his domain and dictate local licensing times, invariably liberal anyway. A guitarist and a fiddler, accompanied by some badly out of tune voices, were in the corner by the fire. Free booze, they’re no’ complaining, Phil said.

So, why me? I asked her.

I knew you’d be good with the old lady, she replied. You’re useful, when you’re not depressed, high or pished that is.

Depressed and high permitting, but sober, when did that ever matter to you?

I need you sober now pal.

Look, I used to do the profiles, provide the therapy; this is something different.

Being here’s good enough for now, she said, in a way which denied a proper reason. Now, time for some TLC.

She thanked Phil for saving the only room available, quietly secured as we arrived. He held the room as if he knew it would be needed ‘this night’.

It’s no’ for the meja shite, he said. For those folk who’re involved in a… proper way?

He was happy to provide his small support and a bottle from the gantry. We headed up the stairs, these two drunks, where we found our room and a single bed—it would do.

We sat on the bed, and I reached out for the mini bar. Then she grabbed me, pulled me to her; for security, comfort, sex—I knew not which. We held each other, not needing more for then, but after a while we did. Then it was demanding, but more from her. Clothes were lifted upward and kicked downward. Flesh melded with flesh. Drink mixed with adrenaline and basic human comfort. There was no script—neither led nor followed, we just did. Although my medication prevented me from getting a hard on, we improvised. Then the aggro started, a scratch at first, then a flurry of slaps. I grabbed her and held her tight, more for protection, as—in time—a gentle snore said sleep had arrived as a salve for us both.

A few hours or so later, I was first to rise, still early morning. I reached for the bottle and finished what was left while sitting by the window facing out across the Loch, the moon shimmering on the water, a quiet moment to myself, by then approaching dawn, and it was calm—deathly calm.

Jackie, we need to talk.

She awoke with the sound of my voice.

Please Rooney, no proposal, I need my wits about me before I commit myself to a booze bag, she said, groggily.

Do not flatter yourself my dear, I said, shutting the mini-fridge, a miniature Red Label in my hand. I saw her face. It sorts out my thoughts, I said.

Aye, sure.

This is not for me, Jackie, I can’t do this again.

And what have I asked you to do Rooney? she asked, in a way to make me feel I shouldn’t have said it.

I recounted Irena’s story and the man who said the ‘In Nomine Patris’ thing, and how she said it was Latin.

We know all that Rooney, but I’d like to know what I don’t know.

She knew I liked a challenge and this was a challenge. It gave me a feeling of value. It coursed across my synapses like a hit. It triggered my spiel.

Well, I said, professorially, this typically hinges on…, with the assistance of my fingers, one: modus operandi; two: the signature; and three: the victims. That is: a, why did he do it; b, what was his mark; and c, why did he select these people?

Great Rooney, sounds a bit like the old crap you used to talk, she said. The poor bastards. Irena Zysk was the senior citizen. Her mobile lit up. Now, there’s a strange thing, she said, answering it. Okay, we’ll be there soon.

What, where?

We need to go to Lewis’s, to the gents’ toilets.

Buchanan Galleries in the January sales, for-friggin-get it.

Shut-the-fuck-up, you’re going.

 I guessed we were going, as we dressed, went downstairs, and headed off via her police taxi, and without breakfast, all-the-more evident by my groaning tummy.

An hour later, we were in Lewis’s, being escorted into a gent’s toilet by two security men. I know, could’ve been a compromising situation.

In there, Jamie, the toilet attendant, was recounting his story. Well it wis like this, he said. Ah dragged ma mop and bucket into the gent’s and tried tae get intae this cubicle, pointing into a now open door. Ah couldnae see any feet under the door, but it wis loaked. ‘Whit’s wrang wi’ the door,’ ah said. ‘Is thur anybidy in there?’ I wis thinking some junkie or boozer hid fell asleep in there. Ah emptied ma pail intae the sink, turned it o’er, and pushed it wi ma fit tae the edge ae the door.

He was milking this, his fifteen minutes of fame.

Ah grasped the tap ae the door and stepped up tae edge ma eyes o’er and inside intae the cubicle. ‘Jesus Christ, whit the fuck’s that?’ I said. Right there, in big black letters on the back ae the cubicle, there it wis, ‘Artir’ somethin’.

Let’s see, Jackie said, moving into the cubicle. It says, ‘Artor… ius, ad… inter… nec… ion… em’.

Latin! Gold flashes appeared in my head.

Jist look at this place? Jamie moaned over us all. Hiv ye finished wi me? he asked. Fucking shit hoose, he said, his voice diminishing as he went out of the door, visibly annoyed at the mess from our mucky feet.

Aye, on you go, Jackie said. But don’t go too far, we might want to talk to you again.

Aye, fine darlin’, anytime, he said, then whispered to me, She’s no’ bad—you shaggin’ her, and then back to Jackie. Mind the bag as well doll, he said, disappearing out of the door.

It’ll have to be checked, she said, clearly aware of the sensitivity around unexplained baggage."

Latin, the Latin, I said to her.

It’s just graffiti.

Graffiti… Latin? A bit of a coincidence, don’t you think? Well, you obviously think so; we’re here, aren’t we?

Look, she said, this is the kind of nutter that turns up at times like this. You’ve seen it before. They come right out of the woodwork; must be the press attention or a perverse need to be part of something; makes their insignificant little lives interesting.

The Latin.

Aye?

Number two: the signature.

Signature?

His mark, remember; next comes three: why those folk?

See, you’re getting into this Rooney, she said, turning to the bag. ‘As per protocol’ she said she would leave it for the bomb squad to check it out. Then, in one fell swoop, she picked up the bag from the floor. Stuff procedures, I can’t stand the suspense, she said, roughly grabbing and opening it.

I stepped back, coward that I am.

Argh, she uttered, dropping the bag. A head; shit, a head; fuck me.

There was no need for further description. The councillor’s family were decapitated on the Cobbler.

Hold on, what’s that, she said.

What?

A piece of paper, it fell out of the bag.

So pleased about that, I said, relieved.

Folded twice, let’s see, she said as she coaxed the paper open with a pen.

Delivery note?

There’re some words. ‘Sal… va cons… ientia,’ the same as on the wall.

Latin, I said. ‘Salva consientia’ lit up my mind, just as Irena’s words, ‘I knew it was Latin’ echoed in my head. The words took me right back to the days when I was an altar boy, when a particular priest used it to dominate me. For me, it was a language of control. After my illness, glittering gold colour flashed through my mind every time I heard Latin words, and I was transported back to those days.

 This needs to be based on facts, she said. She was clearly intent on stopping this getting out, not letting it cloud the investigation.

Facts, I said. Five dead, four without heads, one with, one head found, three to come. What other facts do you need?

Fact, we have one big problem pal.

We? You, you mean.

Smirking at me, she snapped commands to all there, in or out of her jurisdiction. Nobody utters a word of this, right? Secure the area for forensics. Her words spread throughout the room like cooled air from a rotating fan, then stopped at me. I need to get into Control, but… I want you on board, officially; you up for it?

Fuck off Jackie, I’m retired, mentally ill, useless—can’t do his job, remember?

I want you on this, right? It’ll keep you focused; something to…

Keep me off the booze?

A brief look and she was gone; me thinking ‘off again… official capacity… Latin… him… but I don’t do… I can’t do…’.  I ran the tips of my fingers lightly