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<h1>16</h1>
<p><em>Interlude:</em></p>
<p>"The trail had gone cold by the time we really started looking,"
Angus McNicol explained. "By God, it was difficult then and the
whole town was in a panic. People were sending their kids away,
rather than have them around here, and nobody could blame them.</p>
<p>"What threw us was the fact that the Rankine boy had fallen off
the quarry and at first it looked just like an accident. There were
always boys coming off the Castle ramparts or the Langmuir Crags,
risking life and limb for the sake of birds eggs. You'll have done
the same eh?"</p>
<p>His face broke into a knowing smile before he cocked an eye at
the spinning reel in the Dictaphone and started talking again.</p>
<p>"We didn't start the search for young Whalen until night and we
got the floodlights set up. It was well after midnight by the time
the frogmen came. The dogs had scoured the whole of the quarry and
there was no sign of the boy, but that didn't mean he wasn't there.
Then there was the business with that boot and the severed foot
which gave that frogman a right old scare.</p>
<p>"Anyhow, it was back down to the station in the early hours of
the morning. We were coming round to the notion that the other boy
hadn't fallen and maybe he'd had such a scare when his friend
tumbled that he'd taken off in a panic. So, at that moment, we had
a missing boy who had probably made himself missing. He'd be out at
some friend's place, or hiding in a gang hut and he'd come home
when he got hungry and even more scared..</p>
<p>"Then Hector Kelso came in now that the boy had been gone for
well over twelve hours.</p>
<p>"Hector got a brief from the inspector. I remember he listened
with a straight face. He asked where the boy's bag was, and said
that if young Rankine had been dodging off school, then he'd likely
have his bag with him unless he'd stashed it someplace. We did
another search of the place and that took us the rest of the day. I
could see Hector Kelso was getting worried, for Whalen never turned
up on the second night and I spent a bit of time with the boy's
mother. That's not a pleasant job, I can tell you. As every minute
ticked away, you could see her nerves getting wound up tighter and
tighter. There was something in her eyes that I'll never forget,
and I swear to you that it was beginning to dawn on her, long
before it dawned on anybody else with the exception maybe of Kelso,
that she would never see the boy again. Not alive, that is.</p>
<p>"Then Crawford Rankine came round in the hospital. "The boy had
a fractured skull and for a while they thought his brains would be
like porridge in there, but he was pretty clear about what had
happened. He told us about the railway wagon and how he'd been
chased and had gone running. He remembered the man all right.</p>
<p>"I recall thinking the boy had a stammer. He was saying
<em>twi-twi-twi</em> like a sparrow with a stutter. Took me a
second to work out he was trying to say <em>Twitchy Eyes</em>..
He'd known who was chasing him.</p>
<p>"We got back to the hill behind the school and down that track
between the pigeon shacks, Kelso, myself, big John Fallon and a
couple of others. I remember a big beast of a terrier trying to get
at us through the fence and later Fallon had it put down, for there
was a big septic ulcer on its nose where it had been pushing
through the wire. We went down to the hut and inside we saw the
blood handprint and all of us knew then that the killer had taken
young Whalen away. The boy was gone and the next week was murder I
can tell you, in more ways than one. By the next morning there was
a team of pressmen camped outside the station and you couldn't move
for flashguns popping in front of your eyes.</p>
<p>"That was in June, fairly close to the beginning of the month.
Three dead, including young Whalen, all of them in the space of a
couple of months or so. We had a pretty good so we had a fair idea
of what the bastard looked like. The fingerprints matched the other
sites and again there were pages of the bible crumpled about and
not to clean either. Hector Kelso never liked the notion of anybody
wiping his arse on the good book."</p>
<p>Angus raised his eyebrows. "Some folk seemed to think that made
it even worse, but as far as I was concerned it was only paper, and
it was a clue. Anything was a clue, but despite that, the trail
went cold very soon and Bryce, the criminal psychologist started
talking about <em>burn-out</em>, saying that the killer could be so
filled with remorse that he'd killed himself. Hector Kelso didn't
put much stock in that, and neither did I, as I've said before. He
said Bryce was talking through a hole in his backside. But the
killings <em>did</em> stop. For the next month or so there was
nothing, at least as far as we knew, and even Kelso could have been
forgiven for relaxing a little at the end of July.</p>
<p>"Then, sometime in August, just before the schools went back,
Johnson McKay went up Blackwood Farm to find out why Ian McColl
hadn't been picking up his mail from the box and the solids really
hit the <em>punkah</em>, as the Commander used to say. What a
mess."</p>
<p>Angus stopped talking and rubbed his chin. He dunked a biscuit
in his coffee, took a bite, washed it down with a mouthful and
started talking again.</p>
<p>"By this time, of course, we knew what happened to Whalen and we
knew about the girl, and that took us by surprise. It must have
been ten days later, less than a fortnight after the boy went
missing. Once I've looked out my old papers from up in the loft
I'll be able to tell you exactly.</p>
<p>"We knew nothing about the girl until we found her, for she'd
never been posted missing. "Sandra Walters, her name was. She was
nineteen and came from Lochend, as you'll probably remember. By the
time we found her, she'd been dead about two weeks, which means she
was killed sometime in May, near the end of the month, and that
figured with the story we got from the family. Some big argument
with her father and she walked out. Now I was in on it when we
questioned them, in a tenement flat about a hundred yards down from
the railway station, I recall. Donald Walters, I remember thinking
there was something funny about him. It was only after the body was
found that the mother came to us to say she was missing and it was
the dental records that finally confirmed who it was, for the face
was pretty much eaten away by the flies and the rats.</p>
<p>"Walters said she'd stormed out, but there was more to it than
that. I got to know the look the more I worked on the force. There
were three girls, two of them still in the house, about fifteen and
thirteen, and the wife, she had the look of a mouse caught in a
corner. The girls never looked at anybody, just sat there, heads
down, scared to move, it seemed. Waters was cocky enough, a fast
talking, skinny little runt of a fellow, and he was adamant the
girl was a whore who'd been putting it about and he for one wasn't
having any of that.</p>
<p>"Now when the post mortem was done, there was plenty of evidence
to show that the girl was no virgin. Dr Bell found old scarring on
the walls of the uterus which he said was classic evidence of
unlubricated sex, or forced entry as he described it unofficially.
We couldn't put anything down to Donald Walters at the time and it
was pretty clear he hadn't killed his daughter, but Hector Kelso
was pretty suspicious. The other girls said nothing and the wife,
well she would have backed up everything he said. He hung himself
from the rafters nine months afterwards, and I had a notion Kelso
had been leaning on the little bastard and I can't blame him for
that. There was something queer about Walters. After that the
family moved away.</p>
<p>"Young Sandra, she'd been hirt bad. Awful. It didn't affect me
as much as little Lucy Sunders broken and torn under the bridge,
but this was bad. You'll get the details in the archives, and the
pictures too, if you've the stomach for them. She's been terribly
damage, and she had lasted a long time. Dr Bell showed us the marks
around her ankles and wrists and the scarring on her throat where
she'd pulled against a ligature. She broke the fuckin' rope. Pardon
me for that, but after all this time I still don't like rememebring
that."</p>
<p>Angus paused again, his eyes inflamed with the recollection of
the dreadful damage. He absently took another swallow of coffee and
swirled it around in his mouth as if it would take away the
taste.</p>
<p>"Now there was another thing we knew about <em>Twitchy
Eyes.</em> He was crazy and he was evil and he liked to cause pain.
But he also waited around with the bodies, sitting vigil with them,
for at least three days, probably more. By then, they'd be pretty
well blown and that didn't seem to bother him.</p>
<p>"He waited until the maggots had hatched. He stayed until they
were covered in flies."</p>
<hr />
<p><em>June:</em></p>
<p>A match flared in the dark, blinding bright, cut a flaming arc
in the blackness and stopped. Don Whalen watched it waver through a
film of tears as his eyes watered. They trickled hot down his
cheeks and ran cold onto his neck. The light floated and a
candle-flame swelled slowly to life, hardly flickering at all. He
blinked away the tears, trying to stay still, wishing his heart
would stop thudding against his chest. His shoulder shrieked with
every movement he made and his throat was on fire.</p>
<p>He had listened to the sirens, huddled against the wall of the
boxcar. The man had been there, a silent presence in the gloom, his
breathing low and slow and unhurried. The sound of it carried
infinite menace. Don tried to call out, tried to say something, but
the pain in his throat burned in a caustic rasp and all he could
manage was a hoarse whisper. It felt as if something was broken in
there where the hand had squeezed him. The longer the silence went
on, the more frightened Don Whalen became. He couldn't understand
any of this. But the deadly silence was somehow even more
frightening than the pain.</p>
<p>The sirens had wailed in the distance, howling urgency and
emergency. They'd stopped for a while and then they'd started up
again, rising to a crescendo as they passed along Lochend Road,
before fading as they got to the old bridge. The silence had
descended then, broken only by the fluttering of pigeon flocks as
they took off from the nearby huts, and by the savage rumbling
growl of the pit bull terrier, like a leopard in a bush. Much
later, the bell had rung and there had been shouts and calls and
the sounds of school spilling out. A crowd of boys came down the
track, made the terrier snarl and pound the fence, and then they
went on their way. The man had gone out, opening the door quickly
and rolling it closed. When he came back, some time later, the said
nothing at all. He roughly grabbed Don about the waist, dumped him
on the flat of the wagon and quickly wrapped him up tight in a roll
of something that might have been an old carpet. He felt himself
being picked up and slung over a broad back and carried away. The
material covered his eyes and he couldn't tell whether it was day
or night. Don could hear the twigs crackle underfoot and he knew he
was in trees. There was some traffic noise close by and he figured
he was being taken along Lochend Road, but through the belt of
trees that bordered the winding route to the west side of the town.
Out of the trees, he sensed the clamber over rough ground and then
the descent down a flight of stairs. A door squealed open and Don
Whalen was lowered to the flat surface.</p>
<p>He was still wrapped tight in a rough bundle of thick material,
slanted across a flat surface against a wall. Strong hands unrolled
it. He felt his clothes ripped away from him until the cool air
told him he was naked. The hands pushed him down onto a chair and
then very quickly bound his hands behind him and tied his feet to
upright posts that felt like chair legs. The smell in the air was
dreadful, sickening and thick. The pain in his throat stopped him
from retching.</p>
<p>The match flared and a dark shape moved out of the light, and a
faint humming sound rose stronger. Black stars floated in front of
his eyes and for a moment he thought he was going to pass out
before he realised they were not stars, but flies hundreds of them
wheeling in the air, disturbed by the light. He turned his head,
just a little, trying to see the man, scared to let his eyes light
upon him, deadly afraid of him taking him unawares again. His eyes
swept round.</p>
<p>The thing on the table screamed silently at him.</p>
<p>For a second his mind refused to accept what it had seen. His
eyes continued their sweep and then jerked back at the shape on the
table. A catastrophic fright exploded inside him and his heart
kicked violently behind his ribs, one solid <em>thump</em> that was
so powerful his body spasmed sideways.</p>
<p>The head was twisted at the end of a scrawny neck and the mouth
was open so wide it looked inhuman. An arm, grey in the dim light
and bruise-mottled was stuck out straight, the fingers clawed.</p>
<p>Absolute terror rocketed through him. He was trembling
violently, shuddering as uncontrollable fear rampaged through him,
making his head tap against the wall in a rapid staccato. The eyes
were crawling with flies. The skin shimmered and rippled with a
life of its own.</p>
<p>The dead body's silent scream went on and on and on and the
flies crawled over the skin. Don bucked against the string binding
his wrists as the realisation hit him. He had been brought here by
the man who had done that. His muscles convulsed in a violent
contortion powerful enough to drive the thick twine into the skin
of his wrists and open up two abraded lacerations.</p>
<p>He heard himself gibbering uncontrollably, incomprehensibly,
though hardly a sound escaped his throat. In his mind he called out
for his mother and his father and he prayed to God to get him out
of this and all of the time he knew there was no way out.</p>
<p>The horror on the table screamed on and on and on and Don Whalen
echoed that scream in his own mind. After a while the overload of
terror and dread was too much and he passed out in a dead faint,
banging his head against the wall, to leave yet another clue for
Superintendent Hector Kelso.</p>
<p>When he came round he was lying on the table and the man was
leaning down towards him. The eyes were blinking rapidly and Don
Whalen dimly realised this was something he should remember.</p>
<p>He felt rough hands on him and tried fruitlessly to squirm away,
His legs were spread-eagled and he knew his ankles were tied to the
legs of the table and he felt a huge scream building up inside him.
He twisted his head and saw the other scream, frozen and fly-blown,
only a yard away, slanted against the back of the chair. The flies
hummed busily and Don Whalen's pain began.</p>
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