chance
to even get their samples off to the laboratory, and would splash
that a violent serial killer was on the loose. He hated the term
‘serial killer’ as it made his life a whole lot harder. Apart from
the public hysteria, which would be whipped up into a frenzy by the
media, he believed it would cloud the investigating team’s
judgment. They would look for links that weren’t there.
The same thing had
happened in Glasgow in the 1960s, when three women who had been to
the city’s popular Barrowland Ballroom had been strangled. The
killer had been dubbed Bible John by the press because a tall,
fair-haired, bible quoting man had allegedly been witnessed leaving
the nightspot with one of the victims.
Bible John was never
caught. For a year and a half – from his first victim to his
third – the city had been gripped by fear. Then suddenly he
stopped. Rumours circulated of Bible John’s true identity, from a
criminal who’d been jailed for another crime to a rogue policeman
and a cover up by the force.
Crosbie, too young to
remember the case, always believed his colleagues of old had simply
botched the original investigation. He’d spent hours going through
the case files – with the murders unsolved they were still
active – and could almost feel the hysteria screaming from the
formal reports. Everyone working that case was looking for a serial
killer.
Of course, the
original investigation team didn’t have the benefit of DNA
evidence, but the modern police force did, and in 1998 they exhumed
the body of a prime suspect. At the time Crosbie was new to CID but
even as a rookie detective he suspected this was an unwise move
from a glory-seeking top brass, and unfortunately he was proved
right. The DNA from the dead murder suspect did not match the
evidence left at the scene of the crime. Crosbie believed that the
mysterious Bible John had killed just one, perhaps two, of the
three unfortunate girls whose night on the tiles ended in
violence.
And he certainly
didn’t believe that the same hands which had killed Selina Seth had
killed the battered prostitute in front of him. By the positioning
of her limbs, twisted into the same shape as Selina’s corpse,
someone clearly wanted him to believe that, but this copycat killer
must have seen Selina’s last moments as the crime scene picture of
her body had never been released. He now needed to catch two
killers.
Martin Seth
was calmness personified as he sat by himself in Maryhill nick,
sipping coffee from a plastic cup and flicking through a copy of Metro . It was an old one – no mention of his dead wife.
He looked at the date at the top of the page: 5 September. That was
just three days ago. Before his world had been turned upside down.
Before Selina’s death. Before he’d become a prime suspect. He’d
like to think that on 5 September life had been comparatively
normal, but that wasn’t true.
Being married to
Selina these past few years could never have been described as
normal. She hadn’t bothered covering up her affairs or, to be more
accurate, her one night stands. Arriving home at dawn, drunk,
underwear in her handbag, had almost become the norm. Martin had
even learned to accept it. With his self-esteem at rock bottom he
hadn’t even felt humiliated any more. It was trying the keep the
business afloat that had really taken its toll.
A picture in his
study at home showed him posing with his five-a-side football side.
He looked at least ten years younger. But the photograph had been
taken less than two years ago. Now his hair and skin were greying,
his face heavily lined from worry and a permanent frown. He no
longer played football, he just didn’t have the energy, and his sex
drive was in his boots, which might have explained why his wife
played away.
Every waking minute
of every day was spent with his head in the company’s books. They
were actually making money thanks to Martin’s hard work, but
jewellery is
to even get their samples off to the laboratory, and would splash
that a violent serial killer was on the loose. He hated the term
‘serial killer’ as it made his life a whole lot harder. Apart from
the public hysteria, which would be whipped up into a frenzy by the
media, he believed it would cloud the investigating team’s
judgment. They would look for links that weren’t there.
The same thing had
happened in Glasgow in the 1960s, when three women who had been to
the city’s popular Barrowland Ballroom had been strangled. The
killer had been dubbed Bible John by the press because a tall,
fair-haired, bible quoting man had allegedly been witnessed leaving
the nightspot with one of the victims.
Bible John was never
caught. For a year and a half – from his first victim to his
third – the city had been gripped by fear. Then suddenly he
stopped. Rumours circulated of Bible John’s true identity, from a
criminal who’d been jailed for another crime to a rogue policeman
and a cover up by the force.
Crosbie, too young to
remember the case, always believed his colleagues of old had simply
botched the original investigation. He’d spent hours going through
the case files – with the murders unsolved they were still
active – and could almost feel the hysteria screaming from the
formal reports. Everyone working that case was looking for a serial
killer.
Of course, the
original investigation team didn’t have the benefit of DNA
evidence, but the modern police force did, and in 1998 they exhumed
the body of a prime suspect. At the time Crosbie was new to CID but
even as a rookie detective he suspected this was an unwise move
from a glory-seeking top brass, and unfortunately he was proved
right. The DNA from the dead murder suspect did not match the
evidence left at the scene of the crime. Crosbie believed that the
mysterious Bible John had killed just one, perhaps two, of the
three unfortunate girls whose night on the tiles ended in
violence.
And he certainly
didn’t believe that the same hands which had killed Selina Seth had
killed the battered prostitute in front of him. By the positioning
of her limbs, twisted into the same shape as Selina’s corpse,
someone clearly wanted him to believe that, but this copycat killer
must have seen Selina’s last moments as the crime scene picture of
her body had never been released. He now needed to catch two
killers.
Martin Seth
was calmness personified as he sat by himself in Maryhill nick,
sipping coffee from a plastic cup and flicking through a copy of Metro . It was an old one – no mention of his dead wife.
He looked at the date at the top of the page: 5 September. That was
just three days ago. Before his world had been turned upside down.
Before Selina’s death. Before he’d become a prime suspect. He’d
like to think that on 5 September life had been comparatively
normal, but that wasn’t true.
Being married to
Selina these past few years could never have been described as
normal. She hadn’t bothered covering up her affairs or, to be more
accurate, her one night stands. Arriving home at dawn, drunk,
underwear in her handbag, had almost become the norm. Martin had
even learned to accept it. With his self-esteem at rock bottom he
hadn’t even felt humiliated any more. It was trying the keep the
business afloat that had really taken its toll.
A picture in his
study at home showed him posing with his five-a-side football side.
He looked at least ten years younger. But the photograph had been
taken less than two years ago. Now his hair and skin were greying,
his face heavily lined from worry and a permanent frown. He no
longer played football, he just didn’t have the energy, and his sex
drive was in his boots, which might have explained why his wife
played away.
Every waking minute
of every day was spent with his head in the company’s books. They
were actually making money thanks to Martin’s hard work, but
jewellery is
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