the constable of the credit of pulling in a suspect.
"I tried to strike up conversation with him, but he gave me the brush-off." The constable gave a wry smile.
"Maybe I'm not his type, skip."
"And what makes you think I am?" Merrick demanded, not sure whether he was being subtly insulted here.
"He's wearing the same kind of gear as you."
Merrick sighed.
"You better point him out to me."
"Don't look now, sir, but he's standing over by the disco speakers.
IC1 male, five foot six, short dark hair, blue eyes, clean shaven, heavy Scottish accent. Dressed like you. Drinking a pint of lager. "
Merrick leaned back against the wall and slowly scanned the room. He got the suspect on the first pass.
"Got him, I think," he said.
"OK,
son, thanks. Look fucked off when I go. "
He shrugged away from the wall and left the constable practising his depressed look. Slowly, Merrick moved round the room until he found himself next to the man who'd been pointed out to him. He had the bulky build of a weight lifter and the face of a boxer. His outfit was almost identical to Merrick's, save that his jacket had more buckles and zips.
"Busy in here tonight," Merrick said.
"Aye. Lots of new faces. Half of them probably polis," the man said.
"See that jerk you were just talking to? He might as well have come in his Panda car. Did you ever see a more obvious busy in all your born days?"
"That's why I fucked him off sharpish," Merrick replied.
"I'm Stevie, by the way," the man said.
"Busy night you're having with the unwanted solicitations. I saw you sort that toe rag out earlier. Nicely done, pal."
"Thanks. I'm Don."
"Nice to meet you, Don. You new about here, then? Accent like that, you're obviously not a local."
"Does everybody know everybody else here?" Merrick asked with a wry smile.
"Pretty much. It's a real village. Temple Fields.
"Specially the S&M scene. Let's face it, if you're gonnae let somebody tie you up, you want to know what you're getting into."
"You're not wrong, Stevie," Merrick said with feeling. "Even more so when there's a killer on the loose."
"My point exactly. I mean, I don't suppose these guys that got themselves killed thought they were up for anything more than a bit of rough. I knew them, you know. Adam Scott, Paul Gibbs, Gareth Finnegan and Damien Connolly. Every last one of them, and let me tell you, I wouldn't have had them pegged for that sort of scene. Just shows you, doesn't it? You can never tell what goes on in people's heads."
"How come you knew them, then? I thought the paper said they weren't known on the scene," Merrick said.
"I run a gym," Stevie said proudly.
"Adam and Gareth, they were members. We used to go out for a drink now and again. That Paul Gibbs, I knew him through a mate of mine, used to have a pint with him and all. And that copper, Connolly, he came round the gym after we had a burglary."
"I bet there's not many around here that can say they knew all the poor sods," Merrick said.
"You're right there, pal. Mind you, I don't suppose the killer had anything more in mind than a wee bit of fun."
Merrick's eyebrows rose.
"You think it's fun to murder folk?"
Stevie shook his head.
"Naw, you're no' following me. See, I don't think he sets out to kill these guys. Naw, it's kind of an accident, if you get my meaning. They're playing their games, and your man just gets carried away, and it all gets out of hand. He's obviously strong, he carts these bodies about and dumps them in the middle of the city, for God's sake. He's not going to be a seven-stone weakling, now is he? If he's a real body-builder like me, he maybe doesn't know his own strength. Could happen to anybody," he added after a moment's pause.
"Four times?" Merrick demanded incredulously.
Stevie shrugged.
"Maybe they asked for it. Know what I mean? Prick teases and that? Promising what they didnae want to deliver when push came to shove? I've been there, Don, and let me tell you, there've been times when I've wanted to strangle the wee bastards."
The detective in Merrick was straining at the leash. Carol Jordan wasn't the only Bradfield copper who'd been reading up on the psychology of the serial killer. Merrick had read cases where killers got off on this kind of justification, swaggering in front of a third party. The Yorkshire Ripper, he knew, had