The Ghost...beginnings: volume One

By andrew fox

Twins Andrew and Anthony Beveridge were born into a world of pain, abuse and neglect. Given up at birth and abandoned by their mother, they spend their formative years, in two separate Catholic work sites disguised as Orphanages.

At the mercy of paedophiles and child slavers and allocated a number instead of a name they are merely a commodity!

            Scarred and deeply traumatized the boys learn to fit in and use the rules and facilities to suite. This is an account of ice cold vengeance and ritualistic murder, systematically enacted upon those guilty of possibly the worst crime against children. Sexual abuse and slavery!

            They are sworn to slice through the nefarious echelons of eminence and power and punish those responsible for these heinous crimes against vulnerable, defenseless children.

            The twins set out upon a bloodcurdling and unremitting manhunt throughout Britain and Europe to destroy those who trade, in child sex and slavery!

Ghost reverberates through Scottish society causing panic and fear. Two relentless killers are on the loose, preying upon those responsible for the monstrous trade in human lives. Anyone perceived as a threat to the successful conclusion of their goal is killed!

            The killers sanitise the scenes of their crimes and leave the Metropolitan Police at a loss for answers.

Detective Chief Inspector Robert Ross Detective in charge falters and a specialist from his past comes to his aid.

The Ghost is finally identified because of an impetuous mistake leaving DNA evidence at one of the scenes of murder. In the sting operation that follows the Ghost is shot and killed.

As yet the Police are unaware of the existence of a second Ghost.

Bound to a pact with his brother, the second Ghost vows to continue their task till the bitter end, no matter the consequences. Knowing the terrible danger he faces, he nonetheless attacks the Catholic Curate for Glasgow East in his own home and brutally kills the Policeman who is involved with the organization.

            Tranquillised, incapacitated, Andrew Beveridge is taken by the Police.

            Unbeknownst of her existence, a secret admirer comes to his aid and once again Ross is foiled. The Ghost flees the country and picks up the trail in the Czech Republic and then Germany in a bloody finale to this merciless manhunt!    

While Ross sits in a pub in Hannover, Andrew and June make plans to complete brother Anthony’s plan. Andrew assassinates the Catholic Protector and brings the vendetta to an end.

Meantime, Ross having made up his mind, intercepts the dynamic duo of June and Andrew at the airport moments before they leave Europe and paves the way for their escape from Germany and Europe. Thus ends part one of this trilogy.        

• Language: English
• Publisher: andrew fox
• Release date: Nov 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386593966

andrew fox

Andrew Fox is an author and screenplay writer living in Bulgaria with his wife and a host of domestic animals

Book preview

Synopsis.

Twins Andrew and Anthony Beveridge were born into a world of pain, abuse and neglect. Given up at birth and abandoned by their mother, they spend their formative years, in two separate Catholic work sites disguised as Orphanages.

At the mercy of paedophiles and child slavers and allocated a number instead of a name they are merely a commodity!

Scarred and deeply traumatized the boys learn to fit in and use the rules and facilities to suite. This is an account of ice cold vengeance and ritualistic murder, systematically enacted upon those guilty of possibly the worst crime against children. Sexual abuse and slavery!

They are sworn to slice through the nefarious echelons of eminence and power and punish those responsible for these heinous crimes against vulnerable, defenseless children.

The twins set out upon a bloodcurdling and unremitting manhunt throughout Britain and Europe to destroy those who trade, in child sex and slavery!

Ghost reverberates through Scottish society causing panic and fear. Two relentless killers are on the loose, preying upon those responsible for the monstrous trade in human lives. Anyone perceived as a threat to the successful conclusion of their goal is killed!

The killers sanitise the scenes of their crimes and leave the Metropolitan Police at a loss for answers.

Detective Chief Inspector Robert Ross Detective in charge falters and a specialist from his past comes to his aid.

The Ghost is finally identified because of an impetuous mistake leaving DNA evidence at one of the scenes of murder. In the sting operation that follows the Ghost is shot and killed.

As yet the Police are unaware of the existence of a second Ghost.

Bound to a pact with his brother, the second Ghost vows to continue their task till the bitter end, no matter the consequences. Knowing the terrible danger he faces, he nonetheless attacks the Catholic Curate for Glasgow East in his own home and brutally kills the Policeman who is involved with the organization.

Tranquillised, incapacitated, Andrew Beveridge is taken by the Police.

Unbeknownst of her existence, a secret admirer comes to his aid and once again Ross is foiled. The Ghost flees the country and picks up the trail in the Czech Republic and then Germany in a bloody finale to this merciless manhunt!

In the eleventh hour DCI Ross finds the missing boys and rescues them. The case is closed and all those responsible are placed behind bars!

He takes a well deserved holiday and visits Germany. However, plagued by pangs of conscience his holiday is anything but relaxing.  Many nights in a pub in windy Hanover clears his mind and he takes decisive action.

While Ross sits in a pub in Hannover, Andrew and June make plans to complete brother Anthony’s plan. Andrew assassinates the Catholic Protector and brings the vendetta to an end.

Meantime, Ross having made up his mind, intercepts the dynamic duo of June and Andrew at the airport moments before they leave Europe and paves the way for their escape from Germany and Europe. Thus end part one of this trilogy. 

A ticket to board this deadly runaway train of murder and mayhem is written in blood! Hold on tight! You had better not be involved in this evil business. The Ghost will be watching you and at a propitious moment he will strike!!

Chapter One

Present.

10 March 2009.

Glasgow.

––––––––

A shadowy figure stood at the corner of the two streets and stared at the building across the road. Tall trees grew in a long row along the entire one side of the fence. It seemed a forbidden and gloomy place. Rain fell in sheets, half translucent almost opaque, effectively veiling the building from sight. He didn’t bother with the rain. His face was dripping, but his body was protected by a plastic rain suit.

He walked into the rain run street, splashing through the water he stepped onto the opposite pavement and snorted with irritation. The shadowy figure stopped. Baleful eyes looked right then left. At once he ran forward, jumped onto the wall and down the other side.

Using the trees to remain hidden he slowly approached the building in front of him.  

He peered up at the window above his head. A flash of white phosphorous as lightning split the dark sky and almost immediately, thunder rumbled close by. The rain suit had kept him dry, but now he had to gain access without the restrictions the suit presented and without arousing suspicion from passers-by and indeed, from inside the building.

Where would be the best place to breach? At the back? There was a low wall between the outer perimeter and the admin block. Two vicious Doberman guard dogs roamed the back of the complex, keeping burglars out. They were also noisy. Despite the cars passing by on the street, here in the front seemed the best place. The back had security lights and together with the dogs, would present its own problems.

It seemed that the administrators had decided that nobody would take the considerable risk of being caught, when attempting to break in from the front.

It was three in the morning. Few cars were about so early on Sunday. Everybody was sleeping it off.

Again his eyes rose, he concluded that the only quick way up the side of the building was utilising the drain pipe.

He wasn’t a member of the local mountaineering club so had no equipment for scaling buildings. He would have to use his wits, guile and physical strength to accomplish his objective.

Chewing his lip, he slipped out of the plastic rain suit and placed it against the wall of the building below the drainpipe he planned to climb. Latex gloves would give much needed traction in these inclement conditions.

He looked up again and rain struck his upturned face. Grasping the drain pipe he started his climb. He grunted with the effort, but each grasp of the pipe took him higher and higher off the ground. He just hoped that the drainpipe was fairly new and not rusted through. It would be disastrous if it came away from the wall and sent him backward to the ground below.

The rubber gloves assisted with grip and traction, but it was still hard going. He reached the first floor, where he had noticed that a window had been left open.

It was just wide enough for him to reach in with a hand and release the locking screw. Old building this, they had used the   imperial window frame and mechanism from the sixties. He held on with his left hand and reached across the space between himself and the locking screw. His arm was now at full stretch. A fresh wet breeze caressed his face.

Snoring! It was coming from inside the room beyond the partially open window. He clenched his teeth and gripped the locking nut between thumb and index finger. It was quite loose. Either it wasn’t tightened properly, or otherwise whoever did lock the screw was unable to exert enough force to properly screw it down.

Either way it made his task somewhat easier. No noise was emitted while the screw was being loosened and the window pushed open. Foot on window sill, grab the window frame and then heave yourself across. Keep your mouth firmly shut!

He was now perched on the window sill. The snoring continued unabated. Gently pushing the curtain aside, he slipped into the room. He suffered an almost overpowering assault upon his nose, from the rank odour of mothballs.

He hated them, had for years. Whenever they were placed in the cupboards he removed them and flushed them down the toilet.

He entered the room like a phantom. A quick glance at the occupant of the bed and then he slowly returned the window to its former position. He slunk across the room. It was fine until he stepped off the rug which covered most of the floor in the bedroom.

A squeak as he stepped forward. He stopped dead in his tracks. His shoes were still wet. How can the shoes still be wet? He ground his teeth together and bit his lip. The occupant in the bed had stopped snoring. There was a grunt. He had to think fast. Should he remove the shoes? Or should he simply carry on and get out of this room? Remove the shoes and the socks! He sat on the carpet and undid his laces. A quick glance over at the bed confirmed that the sleeper had once more settled down. Several bottles on a side table next to the bed suggested the occupant was ill. The smell of disinfectant confirmed his speculation. Was this the infirmary?

He tied the laces together and slipped the shoes across his neck, with them hanging over his chest.

He was at the door. A penlight torch appeared in his hand. He had no idea what the regime inside this place did to old and infirm occupants or to young children. No key on the inside of the door. He depressed the handle. The door wasn’t locked. No squeak from a dry mechanism. He slipped out into the passage.

It was deathly quiet inside. The only sound came from the rain striking the metal roof. He hurried down the long dark passage and down the stairs to the ground floor. Ghost-like he slunk forward and stopped outside the Secretary’s door.

A Yale lock kept all and sundry out of the office. Just as well that it was a Yale. He wouldn’t have been able to pick a two lever lock. The different combinations were almost infinite.

He disabled the lock and was in the office in less than one minute. Carefully noiselessly, he closed the door.

Footsteps! What? This time of night? He ducked behind the desk. A torch beam swept to right and left and then the footsteps were past. He pulled a face. That was close. They now have a security guard. Why? Why now, after all these years? Was it because of a series of burglaries?

He waited with his heart in his mouth for another minute. Make certain that the guard had returned to wherever he had come from.

The penlight torch was switched on. The key for the filing cabinet was in the top left hand drawer. He set his mouth in firm lines. There was no going back. Enough was enough.

He opened the filing cabinet and then to enable him to use both hands, he placed the torch in his mouth. It was small enough for him to almost completely close his mouth if the diameter was too great, he would salivate and leave his DNA in the office.

With trembling fingers he rifled through the name headers. He stopped and extracted the file, placed it on top of the cabinet and took his mobile telephone from his pocket. In case some idiot called him at three in the morning, and it had happened before, he had set the answer tone to vibrate. He photographed each page. There were fifteen of them. Now finally, the files of the incoming and outgoing.

It took another hour to completely document all links and records available to him.

All that remained was for him to get out as unobtrusively as he had entered.

Without too much sound, he closed the office door with the Yale lock. He scratched his head. This bloody ski mask made his scalp itch.

A glance behind him confirmed that the reception was empty. Once again the sound of footsteps squeaked somewhere down the hall. Where does this guard sit? Good God, how long was I in that office? No time to look now. An hour and a half? Would the guard check the premises so diligently every few hours? He thought not. Perhaps he required the toilet!

He flew up the stairs. No noise. Climb silently with the balls of the feet. Third door on the right. He slowly opened the door and slipped in. He was now prepared to take measures, if the occupant of the bed woke up, but he would rather not... if at all possible.

He opened the window and climbed onto the window sill. A car was approaching. It hissed past, its tyres cutting noisily through the rainwater on the tar surface. Water sprayed in all directions with its passage.

He didn’t bother to carefully adjust the window a second time, he simply pushed it closed and gently locked the screw. Reaching out, he grabbed the drainpipe.

Within two minutes he was on the ground. He retrieved his rolled up rain suit and slunk away into the dark of early morning.  

. .

Present.

15 June 2009.

Glasgow.

06.30am.

Like a ghostly entity, a thin veil of fog drifted and swirled across the road and around the tall stone built steeple of a Roman Catholic Church.

Detective Chief Inspector Robert Ross chewed on his lip to remain focused on the sight that was causing his early morning scrambled egg to rise from the pit of his stomach and into his throat.

He swallowed hard, blinked several times and drew a breath of frosty air. He clamped his jaws shut and exhaled fiercely. He was not going to display any weakness with this one. The horror of what he beheld could not have been carried out by someone with a stable mind.

Who found the body? He turned to uniformed Sergeant Alec Campbell.

I’m told it was one of the grave diggers, sir, Campbell replied. Excuse... Campbell turned away and heaved. A thick column of vomit erupted from his mouth and spilt onto the grass next to the footpath.

Where’s the photographer? DCI Ross turned left then right, finally studying the small group gathered in curiosity. Campbell, pull yourself together, man! Now, keep this media rabble away from the scene, he warned. "Look! He pointed with his yellowed fingers and smoking cigarette. There’s one of the vultures already circling. Get that cordon up and deprive the bastards of a wee look at the corpse," He fished inside his trousers and produced a mobile telephone. Snorting, he angrily punched the keypad.

"Yes DCI Ross! Don’t you bloody well know the number yet? He didn’t wait for the telephonist on help desk to reply. Where is the bloody photographer? No! Down at Saint Enoch’s Catholic Church! Where did you think it was? In Edinburgh? Get the man down here now! For the love of Mike!" He angrily punched the cut call button and again snorted with frustration. He pushed his right hand into his pocket and extracted a packet of cigarettes. 

The Forensics tent was up, together with a blue Police tape cordon. The public was effectively cut off from seeing the corpse.

His anger had diverted his focus long enough for his stomach to settle and now he could get a better look at the cadaver.

It was a middle-aged woman. Her ankles had steel cable tied around them and she was lying with her back against the front of one of the taller headstones in this section of the graveyard. Her knees were bent over the top of the headpiece and the steel cable was tied around a tent peg that had been hammered into the ground behind the slab of granite. The top of her head just touched the close cropped grass at the base of the tombstone.

She was naked but her legs had not been prized apart.

A folded piece of paper was pinned to the palm of her left hand, by a six inch nail. The pathologist had still not removed it from the pale hand.

The smell was simply overwhelming. Despite the cold inclement weather, swarms of flies disturbed from their feast hovered, attempting once more to access the cadaver.

DCI Robert Ross searched for and found his Detective Sergeant talking to a man who was leaning on a shovel. He studied the scene with a smirk on his face. Puffed furiously at the half smoked weed and exhaled with an audible snort.

Detective Sergeant Martin Beale broke away from the conversation and hurried towards him.

Robert Ross was a short man who had joined the Police Service on the back of his Chief Superintendent father’s bullying. He was overweight and coass hair covered most parts of his body. It grew in profusion over the back of his hands and legs and his chest and even his back had wisps of hair on it.

He had deep set brown eyes and black hair. His cheeks were almost always flushed and his nose was long and hooked. He never smiled and used his sharp wit and his tongue to good effect, to cow and otherwise intimidate lesser mortals within the Police Service.

He smoked ceaselessly and for his trouble the fingers of his right hand were always nicotine stained. He flouted the law of not smoking indoors, stating that if you don’t like it, the hell with you! Robert Ross knew the Police Service Code of Conduct off by heart and knew how far he could go when chastising some unfortunate subordinate Officer. He was probably the most disliked Police Officer in the Service.

Was that a grave digger Beale? He asked as his Sergeant approached to within hearing distance. Ross’ mouth twisted out of shape with his constant anger.

Aye sur, Acting Detective Sergeant Martin Beale replied in a heavy Glaswegian accent. It was he who discovered the body. He came upon the scene this morning at five to dig a grave, and saw the corpse draped over the tombstone, Beale explained.

Right Beale, acquire any CCTV camera discs that may throw a light on the person who deposited the body here. He couldn’t carry it without drawing attention to himself. It’s obvious that he didn’t kill her here, otherwise we would have found a shit load of blood around the body. So he must have a van or a car, Ross instructed.

Right sur, Beale turned away.

Ross walked over to the tent and addressed the pathologist who was examining the cadaver.

Gordon, he greeted. How did she die?

"The top of the morning to you DCI Ross, Doctor Roy Gordon said. Your usual cheerful self I see, Ross. She was bled until her heart arrested would be my preliminary prognosis, however I’ll be able to tell you more, when I do the post mortem."

Time of death, Doctor Gordon? Ross asked.

Approximately fifteen hours ago but again with this inclement weather, it could be as long ago as twenty four hours. You know the cold plays havoc with determining time of death, he said. However, what is certain is the fact that she was brought here from another location, probably the one where she was killed, he explained.

Right Gordon, what else? Ross lit another cigarette.

Well, notice the paper nailed to her hand. I’ve been waiting for you so we could do this together, Doctor Gordon said.

Really, why wait for me? Ross frowned.

Just because. I thought you might be happy. This is probably the single most important feature of this unfortunate scene, Gordon replied acidly.

Yes, all right Doctor Gordon, point taken. Remove it, let’s have a look, Ross sighed.

Doctor Roy Gordon grasped the head of the nail and simultaneously held onto the cold hand that had been skewered.

The nail resisted but he applied more strength and it slid from the hand of the dead woman.

Doctor Gordon handed the folded piece of paper to DCI Ross. The dectective unfolded the paper, a deep frown on his face. He read it out loud:

"Shame poor lonely old lass.

Alas, I cut her fine, I cut her deep.

I drained her life and blood to keep.

No-one in sight her soul to catch.

Naught her death to mourne or weep.

Soon she will return to the soil

Glasgow alert! It is time to watch

Gnash their teeth in helpless rage

Everyone will read this page.

Death is better than life in the dark

The match it lit a bright sunny spark

The time of pain has come at last

Soon the pigs’ eyes will boil.

My guile, my art them all shall foil"

A silly little poem, I personally am not impressed, Ross growled. Here you go Gordon it wasn’t such a media event after all. I’ll see you in an hour at the mortuary. Within which time I’m certain you have identified her and, even know where she lives, Ross said and turned away but once again he stood and studied the burgeoning group of the curious hoping to see something ghoulish. "bunch of twats!" He growled.  

. .

Detective Chief Inspector Ross walked into the pathologists’ lab.

Chewing at his cheek, he moved down two aisles of equipment. Bottles, pipettes and flasks. Microscopes, electronic scales and several computers.  

He glanced to the left and saw that the enormous computer screen against the far wall, the Action Board was still blank. He turned a corner and approached a glass door. Behind was the pathology theater. The cutting room as Doctor Gordon affectionately called it.

He donned the necessary garments and foot overwear and pressed a button next to the door. A buzzer sounded in the silence. The door slid out of his way and Ross entered the scrubbed environment. Almost  immediately the odorous waft of disinfectant irritated his nose. He sniffed several times ridding his olfactory nerve of the stinging sensation.

Ross stepped up to the stainless steel operating table and sidled closer to Doctor Roy Gordon. What have you found out? he simply asked without the niceties of a greeting.

Gordon shook his head, but declined to make another sarcastic remark about how nice the day was. He pointed at the deceased. She died approximately fifteen hours ago and was tortured before she died. She wasn’t killed as such, but the cuts administered to her body tapped all the blood from her until she simply died from a cardiac arrest, he explained. Look here, let me direct your attention to this subcutaneous bruising, Gordon pointed with his metal telescopic pointer.

Ross leaned forward and almost gagged. The smell emanating from the corpse was nothing short of disgusting. However, he maintained his proximity to the corpse and studied the skin of the deceased.

Here, see the swelling? Gordon pointed out. The radius has been broken below the elbow, his metal stick touched the other arm with similar injuries. Notice the swelling here below the knee on both legs. The tibias of both legs have been broken. This was done pre-mortem, Chief Inspector, Gordon said. Now allow me to point out the cuts she suffered. Here on the inside of the thigh, the femoral vein under the femoral artery has been severed, but only on the right leg. Here, he pointed at the upper arm of the victim. The Axillary artery and vein has been severed. Cutting these conduits of blood would cause severe haemorrhaging and more than a little anxiety in the victim. No doubt this was the plan, Chief Inspector, Gordon said. "Her pupils remain dilated, evidence of the adrenaline in her bloodstream. Fear Chief Inspector," he concluded.

So Doctor Gordon, do you think this is a revenge killing? Ross inquired.

I have no idea, Chief Inspector, but the killer needs a van or station wagon in order to relocate the body. This is a calculated act of violence. It also appears that he was uncertain about where he should inflict the cuts and how many, Gordon showed Ross the experimental cuts, which were not very deep and appeared to have stopped bleeding after a while. I’ll have the toxicology report in your office when it becomes available. Perhaps later this afternoon, Doctor Gordon added.

"Well thank you Gordon. Anything else you can’t tell me?" Ross studied the older man.

The killer sanitised the scene of the crime and the victim. Not a trace of anything on the body. He actually washed the corpse before transporting it so we can’t even begin to narrow down the location where she was killed, Doctor Gordon said.

What do you mean? Ross frowned.

Normally fibres, pollen from trees or grasses can narrow it down for us. You know the normal miniscule indicators. There aren’t even traces of foreign saliva on the body, Gordon pursed his lips. An extremely careful man who still wants to make a statement, he concluded.

Could he have been a medical student who dropped out of Unie? Ross asked.

Possibly, nowadays with the way anything goes on the Internet... a lot is possible! Gordon turned away.

Once again many thanks Gordon, and with that Ross left the theater.

. .

Detective Chief Inspector Robert Ross walked into the open plan office, where ten women from the Police Service sat and worked every day. They were the tireless sloggers who dug into the backgrounds of various people including the victims of assault, murder suspects, informants to the Police and witnesses interviewed or otherwise identified by the Officers who worked various cases.

The identification of the latest victim found in the graveyard, was already their focus of attention.

Glasgow was a city where crime was taken extremely seriously and the Police Service, if unable to stamp it out, was determined to seriously crack down upon the incidents of violence.

Ross walked into the Incident Room. Already the dead woman’s name and a photograph of her prior to the attack were on the huge electronic Action Board.

Her name is Laura Morrison sur, DS Martin Beale pointed out.

She lived in number Ten Mafflat Road in South Lanarkshire.

Come on Beale, let’s take a look, Ross turned away and made his way across the open plan office. He noticed that all the computer monitors had a color photograph of the deceased on the screen. He walked over to the nearest one and addressed the operator.

Give me a copy of that, will you? he requested. The operator manipulated her mouse and within thirty seconds the hard copy was emerging from her color laser printer.

Without looking up at Ross, she handed it to him. He snatched it away and glowered down at her. "Your attitude needs adjusting Connery. You had better toe the line or you’ll find yourself on a disciplinary charge." He pointed his yellowed finger at her.

Robert Ross was an angry man. Every day he rose from his empty bed and ground his way through the day. He didn’t particularly like being a policeman, but having said that, he was a good detective. He had wanted to pursue a career in economics, but after being turned down at Edinburgh University he was brow beaten by his father to join the Police Service.

He stomped his way to the door. He was developing a headache. He experimentally flexed his jaw and winced. He had been clenching his jaw and chewing his cheek and lower lip for hours and now after all this silent abuse, he had paid the price. He sighed and shook his head. He would have to take a strong analgesic.

Ross reached the door of the office, but Beale was not at his side. "Beale!" he shouted. The Detective Sergeant was still crossing the floor.

. .

09.45 am.

"This is it! Beale stop the car. Stop the car man!" Ross shouted when Martin Beale didn’t immediately comply.

Ross climbed out of the car and slammed the door. He marched over to the front gate that stood ajar. He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Fumbled one from the soft packet and placed it between his lips. He lit the weed and puffed furiously, much like a man who was anxious and was under interrogation.

Beale stood just behind him and spent several minutes to study the row of houses on both sides of the street.

He looked right then left, eyes scanning the doors and windows, flashing over gardens.

Over there a small boy playing with a football. A man with a huge belly in shorts without a shirt was washing his car. His stomach seemed obscene and out of place. On the other side of the street a woman with a violently colored dress walking a reluctant child on a leash, like a truculent dog.

Music blared from the open window of a house. Beale’s breathing became lighter, slowed. Slowly his head cleared of the stormy tension that was building... a result of Ross’ shouting.

A small child protested at being called for tea. A taxi driver heaved several bags from the boot of his car.

Sweat moistened his forehead.

Beale waited for his superior to say something, walk forward?

Ross’ eyes blazed with inexplicable rising anger. He didn’t need a murder inquiry today. He had other fish to fry and this... duty was playing havoc with his plans.

He ground the cigarette under the toe of his shoe and once again dug into his jacket pocket.

Ross sighed and some of his anger was purged from his tense body. He pulled a packet from the pocket, opened it and extracted the latex gloves. Studying the front of the house he donned the gloves. DS Beale standing next to him had done likewise.

Gate is open and look Beale, the front door is also ajar, Ross pointed with his gloved hand.

DS Beale followed Ross up the garden path and up three steps into the house.

Ross looked at the coat rack on the wall in front of him. There were several coats and two scarves hanging from hooks. On the floor below the rack was a pair of blue Wellingtons and a pair of brown flat heeled shoes.

Ross glanced to the left; the living room led off the front room of the house. He looked at his companion. "I’ll go and look upstairs Beale, you start down here. Give Forensics a call and that bloody useless photographer who is always late! Why the bloody hell don’t they simply train someone in Forensics how to be a photographer? How difficult is that?" He stomped away and started climbing the stairs to the sleeping area of the house.

Acting Detective Sergeant Martin Beale raised his eyebrows and silently fished out his mobile. He dialled the number of the Forensics Services.

Hello yes, this is DS Beale. I’m at number Ten Mafflat Road in South Lanarkshire. I need a Forensics and fingerprints team at the stipulated address, together with your photographer, he requested.

Half an hour Sergeant, the telephonist promised.

Yes that’s fine. He rang off.

Beale stopped in the middle of the living room and studied his surroundings. A fireplace dominated the longest wall. Above the fireplace was a broad mantle and perched upon this stood three framed photographs.

An ugly settee and two easy chairs upholstered in a gaudy floral pattern squatted in the middle of the floor. Thin carpet tiles covered the entire living room area. A short legged coffee table sat in front of the three seat settee. Two small occasional tables stood next to each easy chair. Against the wall in front of the settee, stood an antique sideboard. He glanced at the portraits of hunting dogs, one on each of the other walls.

It was a typically old fashioned Scottish home where nothing had been changed in fifty years. A collection of porcelain ducks flew up the wall behind the settee.

He approached the fireplace and studied the photographs one by one. There was a girl, a young man and an older man, probably the husband. He was not in the house on this Sunday morning, so he was more than likely deceased.

So the deceased had two children by the look of it, he speculated. On impulse Beale rang the office and asked to speak to WPC Jane Connery.

Hello Jane. yes it’s Martin. Tell me, have you found her two children yet? he asked.

"She has three children Martin, WPC Connery replied. The youngest is Polly and she lives in Northern Ireland, in Belfast. She’s  twenty four and a twin to John. We’re checking on her movements during the last twenty four hours. Ian is the eldest... twenty eight. He’s a Chemical Engineer living in Edinburgh. So you can see there are two boys. We’re also running a check on his movements and whereabouts during the last twenty four hours. Get this, Martin. Her son John, Polly’s twin, lives here in Glasgow. He’s unemployed as far as we can tell. He has form. He went to gaol for two years for GBH with menaces. He’s also a known drug user. Should we go and pick him up?"

Aye Jane, that would be grand, Beale replied. He rang off. He noticed that the deceased had a telephone with an answering machine standing on a round wooden table. He pressed the message button. The answering service advised him that Laura Morrison had two voice messages. First message, ‘Mum I’m really sorry about the fight we had the other day. I am not a lazy lay-about. I’m really trying hard to pull it all together. You have my number. Please call me when you get this message. Bye mum,’ he rang off. To save the message, press one. To erase, press two. Second Message, ‘Hello Mrs Morrison, this is Maureen McGovern at the Video shop. I see that you have a movie that has not been returned. Please could you return it to us as soon as possible, as other customers have requested it for Sunday morning,’ End of second message. To erase this message press one. To save it, press two. To listen to your messages, press nine. To return to the main menu... He pressed the stop button.

On another impulse, he rang British Telecom. Hello, this is Detective Sergeant Martin Beale. I need a printout of all the calls made to telephone number 041 924 7214. Going back two months, he requested.      

You’re not on my list Sergeant, or whoever you are. I need your Police Service number and warrant card reference please, the Technician demanded.

My Service number is 909142 and my warrant card reference number is... he fished the card out of is pocket, turned it over and quoted the three numbers on the back of the card.

"Right, now I’ve got you on computer. If you are not who you say you are, I’m covered, the technician chuckled. Where must I send the report," He asked.

"[e-mail] he replied.

By the time you get back to the office it’ll all be there, Sergeant Beale. Have a good day, the technician rang off.

Beale looked up as he heard a creak from above. It was Ross who was coming down the stairs. Well Sergeant, I haven’t seen anything  suggesting that anyone except the deceased was ever up there. Let’s get Forensics to have a look. Ross stepped into the living room and still with a frown, he looked at Beale. So what have you discovered Beale? he asked looking up at the taller man. For a moment, he studied his Sergeant.

Martin Beale was tall, about one hundred eighty five centimetres.

He had dark blonde hair, China blue eyes, with a broad forehead and prominent cheekbones. His nose was long and straight, but with a slight flare to the nostrils. His mouth was actually boringly normal. Not too big or too small. He had an easy smile. A strong chin with a muscular neck, probably because he played at number eight for his High School and the Police College. His girl friends said that he snored.

Beale had wide shoulders and a flat abdomen. His legs were moderately well built. He was the catch among the girls in the office. Ross sighed, how he envied tall people. They didn’t continuously have to prove themselves to anyone.

I’ve requested Forensics and the photographer sur, Beale began. Have you seen this sur? Beale knew of course that Ross hadn’t. He was simply being polite. He really needed this job. He had only been drafted in because Detective Sergeant Jennifer Moray was off on maternity leave. If he really performed well, the next time he might get a permanent position here in CID.

Laura Morrison has three children, Ross frowned. He could only see pictures in frames of two.

Her third child has form. GBH with menaces, he went down for two years. He’s a known drug user and lives in a commune here in Glasgow. WC Connery tracked him down and as we speak, uniform branch is picking him up, Beale proudly announced. I also got BT to send me all the phone calls made to and from this number for the past two months. Perhaps we’ll find a pattern in the list. Ah sur, Beale continued with his diatribe. The son John had a fight with his mother earlier this week. He left a message on her answering service to apologize for his bad behaviour.

They heard the car doors slam shut outside and knew that Forensics had arrived. They trooped into the house as if they had reheassd it a hundred times. They all knew exactly what to do and  simply got stuck in. 

Right DS Beale, I have an appointment in an hour and I don’t want to miss it. You get a lift with Forensics, Sergeant. See you later at the shop, Ross nodded and left.

Beale pulled a face. Ross hadn’t said anything about his initiative. He sniffed softly and shrugged. He would be expected to think on his feet. After all he was a Detective. He stepped outside into the pale morning sunshine and looked up at the sky.

Well thus far there was still no sign of rain and he smiled. They hadn’t had any warm weather for some time now and he missed the sun.

A small crowd was busy forming outside in the street. He studied them for a moment and then noticed an old lady hobbling her way through the people who had crowded forward on this side of the street. He hurried forward and stopped in front of her. Do you want to talk to us? he asked. In his hand was his warrant card so she could see that he was in fact a policeman.

Yes officer, I am Emily Rotherton, I live next door to Laura. What is this all about? she asked.

Emily, I’m afraid that Laura has met with an untimely death, he replied and he saw her face blanch, her legs start to bend. He grabbed her under the left elbow and assisted her forward. Emily, why don’t you come with me and we can have a chat inside the house, he suggested. She nodded and he continued to assist the frail old lady up the stairs and into the living room. Sit here, I’ll make you a cup of tea, Beale said.

I’m all right now Sergeant, I know where everything is. She sniffed softly and wiped her eyes with a tissue she had fished out of the sleeve of her jersey. Emily hobbled into the kitchen switched on the kettle and arranged a tray with cups and the utensils necessary for a cup of tea. Beale waited until they were seated in the living room and drinking their tea before he spoke. What is it that you want to tell me? Beale questioned.

John only came to visit his mother when he needed money or when he came and stole her things to sell, for his drugs, Emily Rotherton told him. He was here last Tuesday and I heard them screaming at each other, all the way from my living room.

Could you hear what they were arguing about? Beale asked.

No, but he left soon after. I was looking out of the window in my lounge and he turned round and called her a bitch. He was carrying a long flat object in his hand, Emily explained. Later I came over here and she told me that he had taken her DVD player. Emily recalled.

Tell me Emily, where is Laura’s husband? Beale asked.

Oh, he died many years ago. It was cancer. She replied.

Did you know the other two children? Beale asked.

Yes of course, Sergeant. We’ve been neighbours for nigh on twenty year, she smiled. I saw them grow up. Lovely children they were, only John was an odd ball. She drained her cup.

Well thank you Emily, you have been a great help, allow me to escort you home. He walked with her until she was inside her house.

Beale saw that Forensics had completed their work and he realised that his mobile phone was ringing in his pocket.

Hello Beale,

Hello Martin, its Jane. Uniform has picked him up. Laura Morrison was a pensioner. Every month she visited the home Office centre in Glasgow and drew her pension. She had no car and caught a bus, WC Connery told him.

Thanks Jane. I’ll see you later, back in the shop. He hurried forward. The Forensic team were climbing into their van. One of them was stringing Police demarcation tape across the front gate. Already the front door had been sealed. A sign proclaiming Police Crime Scene was tacked to the front door.

I need a lift, DCI Ross had another engagement, he said and climbed into the mini bus.

When they were on their way he turned to Sean MacLeod, the Forensic assistant to Doctor Roy Gordon and frowned. Tell me Sean, do you think her son could have done to her what that bloke did? he asked.

Well personally I don’t believe any son would do that to his mother however, Martin, you have to view this in context. If there was molestation or other types of abuse, I suppose it might become conceivable, he concluded.

Not even drugs could induce a mental condition bordering on complete psychotic melt-down, to evoke a state necessary to perpetrate such a crime. No, I don’t believe it either, Doctor Sean MacLean explained.

I didn’t think so. Her youngest son John has form. He was in prison for two years and is a drug user, Beale told his captive audience.

It is possible the son did it, but improbable, Doctor Jennifer Baxter said.

Well he had a stand-up fight with his mother last week, called her a bitch, stole her DVD player, then phones back a few days later and crying over the phone he apologizes, Beale raised his eyebrows.

Not the actions of a killer, Doctor Roy Gordon said from the front passenger seat.

. .

14.20pm.

Glasgow was rapidly growing and expanding. All around the city centre, including the Clyde, space was unavailable. Suburbs were being developed outside the precincts of the city. This one however, was old and had been completely established as long ago as the mid eighties of the last Century. 

He lowered his binoculars and set them aside. He sneered. It was almost time. He grunted with annoyance as a van pulled up outside the house across the street. He ground his teeth and punched the wall in front of him not realising that he had caused a small tear in the skin. He picked up the binoculars and studied the van driver as he climbed out of the vehicle and walked up the driveway and knocked on the door.

A drop of blood was collecting at the point of his knuckle. He grunted and again he ground his teeth. The blood fell from his knuckle and disappeared into the pile of the chocolate carpet.

He lowered the binoculars and it was only then that he noticed the blood once again collecting on his injured knuckle. Oops! We can’t have any DNA being left behind, can we? He licked his injured knuckle, sneered and still on his haunches, he turned and unzipped his green shoulder bag. From inside he took a small digital camera with a strap and placed it around his neck. He stepped towards the passage and opened the door to the basement. Feeling on the left he remembered that the light switch was exactly two hundred millimetres from the door frame. He flipped the switch and immediately light banished the darkness.

Descending, he hummed to himself. At the bottom of the steps he paused and studied the couple he had secured to two chairs taken from the dining room. 

Both people were old and decrepit and in a poor condition. He had been in their house and they had been his prisoners, for seven days. After the second day he had given them a litre of water each. This was not done out of concern for their welfare, rather because if they had expired before he was ready, they would have started decomposing, which would have raised an intolerable stench and might have attracted undue attention to the house and interfered with his work. 

Now it didn’t matter. The old lady groaned when the sudden light lanced through her eyes. The old man raised his head. His face was gaunt, his lips cracked from dehydration. They were both still alive. Splendid he thought.

He walked to the work bench and studied the tools on display against the wall.

Hmm decisions, decisions. How can a fella make up his mind? He smirked. I know, Ray, it’ll have to be the two pounder He lifted a two pound claw hammer from its hook.

Hefting it in his hand he liked the feel and good balance. Good British steel this, he remarked as he walked over to the old woman and stood behind her chair.

Any final words Marjorie? he asked and chuckled. The old woman whimpered. She closed her eyes and prayed Oh my God forgive me... A huge explosion of light burst upon her tightly shut lids.

The blow from the hammer immediately extinguished the flame of life within her. Her head drooped and a sigh of escaping air from her lungs filled the void of silence in the basement.

He glanced over towards Ray and saw the consternation on the old man’s face. Saw tears of helplessness run down the flaccid cheeks.

He struck her again and he clearly heard the crack of bone as the hammer impacted with her skull.

Sneering he stepped over to the man. "Now it’s your turn Ray." His eyes widened and he raised his eyebrows.

Ray’s face was flushed with outrage and agony seeing his wife   killed in front of him. The gag in his mouth prevented him crying out and he struggled helplessly, uselessly with his bonds.

This was also meticulously planned. He knew that Ray would cry out when his wife Marjorie was killed. Again this might have alerted a nosy neighbour. Hence the gag. He stood in front of the old man and raised the hammer. His face was devoid of expression, his eyes hard and cold. The hammer descended and struck the old man on the top of the head. He used additional force thinking that his skull was probably thicker and harder to penetrate, and the hammer was buried in his skull. A splash of crimson sprayed him in the face.

Bastard! He struck the dead man again and then a third time. "Dead yet, Ray?"

He took a cloth and wiped the hammer clean, then still holding it with the cloth he dropped it and stepped back. He readied his camera and the flash exploded four times within the confines of the basement.

Back upstairs in the kitchen the cat rubbed herself against him and meowed. So you decided to come home eh, cat? He opened the cupboard and removed the packet of Whiskas cat pellets. He filled the bowl then on impulse he filled a breakfast bowl to capacity and placed it next to the cat’s food bowl. Now it would have food for several days. He picked up the water bowl and filled it from the tap above the sink.

The cat was purring. Again it rubbed itself against his leg and he bent over to scratch it. At that moment a patrolling Police car passed in front of the house. The patrolman in the passenger seat glanced at the house but couldn’t see anything untoward.

He opened the back door and slipped out and the cat followed, running towards the gate. He watched it bound over and head towards the street. He heard a car approach.

Shit! he gasped. Cat, stop! He ran towards the gate and crashed it open.

The cat sat in the middle of the road cleaning itself, warming in the early morning sunshine.

Quick glance to the right. The car approached-fast. Loud music reverberated from the interior. Too much bass buffeted his ears and he winced. He sprinted forward, his own ignominity forgotten. The car was almost upon the cat who it seemed was unaware of approaching death!

He scooped it up from the leaf littered tar and simultaneously took a large step towards the other side. There was a loud blast from the horn.

Stupid fucking idiot! the driver shouted from his open window. He bit his tongue, narrowed his eyes and glowered after the disappearing car. The driver stuck his hand out of the window, raised it and gave him a sign.

The cat lay dociley in his arms and started to purr. His arms and legs trembled from the injection of adrenaline into his system. So, cat now you only have eight left, he said turned and returned to the house of death. Only now he once again became cognisant of his vulnerability. Rushing forward like he had was foolish and he might have made a spectacle of himself.

Surreptitiously he scanned the area but nobody seemed too interested. It was a working day.

He placed the cat on the ground and stepped past it. His bicycle was at the back of the house. Casually he wheeled it towards the gate. A quick glance to left and right to ascertain that the coast was clear and within a minute he was back on the street.

Slowly pedaling, he nonchalantly made his way to