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minute they heard about Hutchison’s missing digit. Two words. Serial killer.
    One word. Nutter.
    Another word. Overtime.
    The cops would have been loving it and hating it all at once. A psycho killer on their patch. Good and bad all in the one package.
    A stubby, nicotine-stained finger lying there on an evidence bag on a standard-issue desk. Hard and white. Rigid edges of skin where the blades of the secateurs had ripped it away from the hand.
    Sharp intakes of breath. Shouts. Swearing. Jokes. More swearing. Every pair of eyes in the place on that finger but the prize was Rachel’s.
    She’d have been thinking the same as them. Why her? I hoped a little bit of her would have run scared at the knowledge that she had been picked out by a double murderer. I was certain that a bigger bit of her would have been pleased.
    The other cops would have hated her for getting the finger. Some – the lazy, the old and the unambitious – would have been pleased it wasn’t them but hated her all the same. That’s the way people are.
    The young ones, those with a hungry eye on quick promotion through the ranks, would have fucking despised her for getting it. They’d have killed to be the name on that label on that envelope with that finger. Why that fucking bitch? Her boss, Robertson, was probably more pissed off than most.
    Too bad, it was hers. And it was hers because it was in my power to make it hers.
    Billy was dispatched on the Thursday night, the finger posted the next day. Rachel Narey got it on the Saturday, no weekends off for her or me.
    Early on Saturday evening, perfectly timed to catch the Sunday papers and the evening news, Rachel did another news conference. This time DCI Robertson stood at her shoulder rather than the other way about, probably trying to appear supportive but only managing to look vexed. It was her show now and everyone knew it.
    She wore a dark suit with a white blouse underneath. She looked a bit nervous at first but soon hit her stride. She said she would be making a short statement but would not be taking any questions.
    ‘Yesterday morning, the body of William Hutchison was found in the premises of his bookmakers on Maryhill Road. We have good reason to believe that there were suspicious circumstances relating to Mr Hutchison’s death but are not prepared to go into the details of those at present.
    ‘We would ask anyone who was in the vicinity of 670 Maryhill Road on the evening of March the 8th to contact us. All information will be treated in confidence.’ She was looking directly at the camera now. Into the camera. She was looking straight at me.
    ‘There is someone out there who knows what happened to Mr Hutchison and I am asking that person to go to his local police station. It is very important that you speak to officers now before things get worse.’
    She must have been screaming inside. Desperate to tell everything. Two murders, one killer. Two severed fingers, one maniac.
    ‘You have information which may ease the suffering felt by Mr Hutchison’s widow, Agnes, and their family. I am asking you now to come forward with that information.
    ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming along this evening. We will provide you with any further information when it becomes appropriate to do so. Thanks for your help on this matter.’
    Immediately there was a clamour among the reporters who were standing off camera. One shout came through the hubbub. ‘DS Narey, is this a murder investigation?’
    She levelled the questioner with a stare that put the brakes on every other reporter’s attempt to talk to her.
    She held his gaze long enough that he must have been squirming. The contempt was dripping from her.
    ‘I said I wouldn’t take any questions.’
    She clearly wouldn’t take any shit either.
    *  *  *
    A big, black dog appeared on our street. An overweight Labrador cross, with red eyes. Didn’t seem to belong to anyone. But it looked at me.
    It didn’t bark or growl.