Witness the Dead
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Scotland 1972. Glasgow is haunted by a murderer nicknamed Red Silk - a feared serial killer who selects his victims in the city's nightclubs. The case remains unsolved but Archibald Atto, later imprisoned for other murders, is thought to be Red Silk.
In modern-day Glasgow, DS Rachel Narey is called to a gruesome crime scene at the city's Necropolis. The body of a young woman lies stretched out over a tomb. Her body bears a three-letter message from her killer.
Now retired, former detective Danny Neilson spots a link between the new murder and those he investigated in 1972 - details that no copycat killer could have known about. But Atto is still behind bars. Must Danny face up to his fears that they never caught their man? Determined finally to crack the case, Danny, along with his nephew, police photographer Tony Winter, pays Atto a visit. But they soon discover that they are going to need the combined efforts of police forces past and present to bring a twisted killer to justice.
Move over MacBride! Witness the Deadis the compelling new thriller from Scotland's hottest new talent.
see real anger rising behind the man’s indignation and toyed with the idea of pushing his buttons further before deciding that he didn’t have time. ‘No, Mr McGann. No joke at all. Tell me, what do you do for a living?’ ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything, but I’m a geography teacher. I work at Whitehill Secondary.’ ‘Uh huh. And were you involved in encouraging people to come down here?’ ‘Yes, I put a message out on Facebook and Twitter and asked people to pass it on. Are you
than his own. He fumbled for his mobile, anxiety making his fingers buttery. Early-morning calls were rarely good news. ‘Yeah. Um, yeah. What? Fuck. Yes, got it. Okay. I’m leaving now.’ He pressed the button to end the call and blew a stream of air from his lips before letting the phone tumble onto the bed. It had been Denny Kelbie, a DCI at New Gorbals. The news was the sort of wake-up call that had you doubting you’d ever been asleep in the first place. A dead girl. Seminaked and found
at each other across the cold of an early Glasgow morning, a body between them. Their relationship had always been a secret from everyone else and now its ending was similarly wrapped in silence. He saw her seek his eyes above the mêlée, a shared moment, nothing more than a raising of eyebrows, but it said everything. This was bad. They watched Addison crouch by the girl’s body, slowly working his way round the tombstone, his head at times uncomfortably close to the girl’s semi-naked body.
remote button and a desktop camera took individual photographs of them. Winter, in particular, was irked at the process, never being comfortable on the other side of the lens. They then had to offer up photographic ID of their own, and supporting proof of their names and addresses. ‘You’ll be in the system now and we’ll be able to confirm your identity if you return,’ they were told. Both men were given keys for lockers where they had to leave everything they had on them, before having to remove
and explain how she still couldn’t bury her daughter. Explain how they still hadn’t caught the bastard who did it. The woman had been drinking heavily, he could see that. Couldn’t blame her, though. She ranted and raved at him a bit, cried on his shoulder, too. She clutched a framed photograph of her daughter to her chest until he thought that the glass might break the way her heart had done. He’d left thinking that the odds of Mrs Jardine killing herself were better than even. When he wasn’t on