Текст книги "Riven"
Автор книги: A. J. McCreanor
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Chapter 28
The press were gathered together in the biggest room at the station. At the front a large, gilt-framed picture of the Queen looked down on the assembled reporters. Stewart, Boyd and Robertson walked into the room. Stewart looked at the reporters, disappointed at the turnout. ‘Looks like James Gilmore’s old news,’ he said under his breath. Boyd nodded as the three officers lined up behind the table. He introduced DCI Stewart, who looked straight at his audience and spoke clearly, enunciating each word. ‘We have gathered a considerable amount of information and leads which we are pursuing regarding the death of James Gilmore. We are heartened by the response from the public and are appealing for witnesses to continue to come forward. We are particularly interested in two callers who wouldn’t leave their names or their contact numbers. We are appealing to them to please call back as soon as possible.’
‘So, what’s the update, chief inspector?’ a woman called from the back of the room. ‘Surely you have something to give us?’
‘At this point we are still gathering leads and once we have solid evidence we will take it forward. For now we are still appealing for information.’
Grumbles around the room.
A young photographer stood at the back of the room watching. He stared at Robertson, waited until he knew that the detective had seen him, then he smiled. Robertson scowled, looked away, studied his notes.
Chapter 29
‘Is that his house?’ Ross had turned off the engine and they sat for a moment listening to the rain dance on the roof of the car.
Andrew Doyle lived in detached splendour in a stone villa in Mount Vernon. The area was close to one of the biggest landfill sites in Europe. Greenoakhill Quarry covered over 200 acres of land and buried half a million tons of waste a year.
‘He’s got a big dumping ground,’ said Ross, ‘right on his doorstep.’
They had parked at the bottom of the drive and looked up at what estate agents would call a substantial detached residence. The garden was big enough to be termed ‘grounds’ and a wide gravel path wound its way to the villa. A blue Mercedes, a black four-by-four and a silver Jaguar were parked outside.
‘Well covered for transport,’ said Ross.
‘Aye and the M74 and the M8 are just over there,’ Wheeler noted. ‘He could be in and out of the city in a heartbeat.’
‘It’s quite nice, though. No quite your Brutalist architecture is it?’
Wheeler started up the drive. ‘Think maybe the brutality goes on inside.’
She rang a bell that sounded way down in the bowels of the house. A few minutes later a skinny woman teetering in high heels opened the door.
‘We’re looking for Mr Andrew Doyle.’
The woman pursed her lipsticked mouth. ‘Who’s asking?’
Wheeler and Ross flashed their ID. Ross gave her his best smile. ‘Mrs Doyle?’
The woman shook her head. ‘Girlfriend. Name’s Stella. Wait here.’ She stepped back into the hallway. ‘Andy’s downstairs in the gym; I’ll just go give him a shout.’
Ross took a step forward. ‘May we wait inside?’
Stella opened the door wide. ‘Suppose. Wait here in the hall though, and no snooping.’
She left them in the hallway. Glanced back as she went through the doorway, green eyes flashing, tight mouth set in a scowl.
A few minutes later Andy Doyle appeared at the far end of the hall and strode towards them. He wore tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt stretched taut over his chest. Wheeler noted the cropped hair, the thick muscles, but it was his expression that troubled her the most. Andy Doyle looked like there was fire behind his eyes. She held his gaze, noted the brown of one eye was far darker than the other; heterochromia meant that it blazed black.
He stopped in front of her, too close. She could smell him, a mixture of expensive cologne and fresh sweat.
‘Now what?’
‘Mr Doyle,’ Wheeler began, ‘I’m DI—’
Doyle cut her off. ‘Aye, so big deal, you’re the polis. I could’ve told you that much from across the hall. What’s the problem?’
Wheeler kept her voice neutral. ‘We just want to ask you a few questions about a man name of James Gilmore.’
‘Doesn’t ring any bells.’
‘You met last month. At the charity gala night, in the River Hotel?’
‘Which night was that?’
She checked her notes. ‘The twenty-second of November; there was a big gala do for a children’s charity – the Lord Provost was there.’
Doyle shrugged. ‘I go to a lot of functions. Hard to remember.’
‘You were seen chatting to a producer, name of Jay Haddington,’ Wheeler prompted.
‘Oh aye, I remember now, the producer. Good food at the do but crap weather if I remember right.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’ Ross sounded anything but.
‘So the producer guy, what’s he done?’
‘Nothing as far as I’m aware of; it’s another man we’re interested in. Mr James Gilmore? He also attended the event.’
‘Him and a few hundred others. I do remember talking to the producer guy – what was his name again?’
‘Jay Haddington.’
‘That’s it. Haddington.’
‘Do you remember what you spoke about?’
‘He wanted money for his new play. Investors. Thought I might give it a punt.’
‘Didn’t have you down as a thespian, Mr Doyle.’ Ross kept his voice smooth.
‘There might be a part in the play for Stella, so it’s a win-win situation.’
Wheeler brought out the photograph of Gilmore she’d taken from the school records. ‘Can you take a look at this please and see if it rings any bells?’
Doyle took the photograph from her, stared at it for a few seconds before shaking his head. ‘Can’t help you. As far as I can tell, I’ve never met him before. Mibbe he was at the charity do, but I didn’t meet him.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Aye, certain.’ He gave her back the photograph. ‘Why would I lie?’
She let the question stand for a minute.
‘Aren’t you curious why we’re here?’
‘Seeing as you’re polis, I can hazard a guess. Either this Mr Gilmore’s done something or someone’s done something to him. You’re not uniform, so it’s a bit higher up the pecking order. A wee jolly for the CID, so let’s say there’s been some kind of an assault. Am I right?’
Ross nodded. ‘In the general ball park. Amazing.’
Doyle warmed to the subject. ‘Not one but two cops from the CID, so let’s go “double or quits”: he’s either attacked or killed somebody or somebody’s attacked or killed him. Am I close?’
Wheeler: ‘You’re psychic.’
‘Sunday night. Would you mind telling us where you were?’ said Ross.
‘And since you asked about Sunday night, I’d imagine that’s when it happened,’ Doyle smiled, revealing too-even teeth, the result of expensive dentistry.
‘Would you mind telling us where you were?’ Ross repeated.
Doyle looked past them, studied the sky. ‘Would I mind?’
Wheeler kept her voice calm. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Here. I was here with Stella, watching the telly.’
‘What was on the telly on Sunday?’
‘We watched a box set. One of Stella’s – I think it was Mad Men.’
‘And I’m sure Stella will back you,’ Ross said.
‘What do you think?’ Doyle smiled and continued, ‘And since I’ve told you I was home all night and it can be,’ he glanced at Ross, ‘corroborated, then you want me to help you. See if I can recall meeting James Gilmore anywhere?’
They waited.
‘And after that, to see if I can think of any wee toerags that either he might want to harm or who might want to harm him.’ Doyle laughed. ‘Is that not kind of like me doing your job for you?’
Wheeler put the photograph back in her pocket. ‘Not quite. It’s called cooperating with the police. And a man has been murdered.’
‘Has he now? I wonder what he did to piss someone off?’
‘So, if you do remember anything, or think of anything at all, regardless of how small or insignificant it may seem . . .’
Doyle smiled and held open the door. ‘Then you’ll be the first to know,’ he paused, Katherine.’
She spun round. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Wheeler.’
The smile had vanished; instead his dark eye glittered. ‘Whatever you say.’
The door closed quietly behind them.
They turned back towards the car.
Ross: ‘How come he knows your name?’
‘He could’ve picked it up anywhere. I shouldn’t have reacted. He was just playing games.’
‘Very cocky guy, very sure of himself.’
Wheeler opened the car door. ‘Folk that are too sure of themselves have more chance of slipping up.’
‘Still think he’s involved?’
‘Let’s just say I think Doyle is involved in many things. Meantime, let’s go find out who else was on that list for the charity do.’
Chapter 30
They were back at the station within the hour. Wheeler paused at the desk to talk to TC. Ross headed up the stairs. In the CID suite Robertson’s aftershave hung in the air but his chair was empty.
‘Where’s the boy wonder then?’ Ross threw his jacket over his own chair and settled himself at his desk. The room was busy and hummed with the sound of both CID staff and uniformed officers talking on the phone, tapping at their computers, reading notes and compiling reports.
‘While you were skiving off to visit Andy Doyle, some of us were doing the real police work.’ Boyd finished off a chocolate biscuit and brushed the crumbs from his shirt.
‘Oh aye, what’s that then?’ Ross said. ‘Scoffing biscuits, chatting with our local reporters after the press conference?’
Boyd tut-tutted his disapproval. ‘Nope, I’ve been collating vital evidence, Ross. Surely you must remember it? It’s part of police procedure. Cast your mind back to what they taught you at Tulliallan. I know it’s a bit of an ask but go on, give it a go.’
‘Ho ho ho. Very funny,’ said Ross.
‘Aye, hysterical – am I not just Santa’s little helper?’
‘So what have you come up with apart from your “I’m a proper little helper elf” routine?’
Boyd swallowed the last of his coffee and licked his lips before replying, ‘Forensics eventually got back to us. A fingerprint, well not a whole one, that would be too much to ask, but a partial turned up at Gilmore’s.’
‘You get a match?’
‘Robertson’s off trying to find a match, but it’s quite an unusual fingerprint, so there’s hope.’
‘How so?’
‘It’s the shape of the whorl – it seems too flat, it’s an odd shape.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ Ross said.
‘Look.’ Boyd pointed to the copy of the fingerprint. Ross went over to him, stood behind him, ‘Go on.’
‘Whorls on fingerprints are usually kind of like a spiral, going round; this one looks like it’s been flattened. And also there’s an old scar. So it looks pretty hopeful – if our guy’s on file then we’re onto him.’ Boyd couldn’t keep the enthusiasm from his voice.
‘I hope we’ve got him on file.’ Ross went back to his desk. ‘Maybe we’ve turned a corner in the case.’
‘If we have, you owe me one.’
‘It’s not a bloody trade-off. I was out talking to George Grey and seeing Andy Doyle – hardly a wee jolly.’
‘Since when does skiving off for a wee chat count as work?’
Ross scrunched up a piece of A4 and lobbed it at Boyd’s head. It struck home.
Boyd ignored it. ‘As I said, we do the real police work here. Talking of the man, did you get anything from Doyle?’
‘Not a sausage. He’s the complete innocent.’
‘Aye right, he just employs others to do his dirty work for him. Anything from the wee boy, George Grey?’
‘Zero. Saw nothing suspicious, heard even less. The last time he saw Gilmore, he was the same as usual, nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Waste of time?’
‘Guy who’s living there, William MacIntyre, was freaked about Gilmore’s death. Didn’t strike me as the caring type. Did you lot find anything else or is the partial it?’ asked Ross.
Boyd shrugged. ‘Not much. Still wading through the boxes and Robertson’s trying to identify all the keys. The poor wee lad’s cross-eyed with concentration. I think he reckons if he can crack the case single-handedly then promotion will be the next step. If not that then a wee stint somewhere cushy on a secondment. The only flaw in his plan is he’s underestimating just how much you’ll miss him. I think he’s inspired by you getting the acting job, Ross, and he reckons it’s his turn next.’
‘That’ll be shining bright,’ Ross huffed. ‘He’s got no chance of a secondment; the boy’s a dreamer. He needs to put in the graft first, like I did.’
Boyd guffawed.
‘And the keys could just be some old set,’ Ross continued. ‘Folk hang onto all sorts of rubbish.’
Boyd belched. ‘Suppose. You getting any more grief about the accident? TC was going on about it again. He reckons that you should resit your driving test and that we should all get to watch. A wee afternoon of spectator sport.’
‘He’s an old shit-stirring git.’
‘Is it going any further?’
Ross shook his head. ‘They’re letting it lie.’
‘You’re a lucky bastard Ross, you know that don’t you? Teflon fucking coated.’
Ross sniffed, crossed to the kettle, switched it on. ‘There was no harm done.’
‘There was no one else on the road, you mean.’ Boyd dropped his voice. ‘Were you pissed?’
‘What do you think?’ Ross tried for his best hurt look. ‘I’m a cop. Remember?’
‘I’m only asking, so, what happened?’
‘Nothing bloody happened – it was a dark night, stormy. Typical winter weather. End of story. Accidents happen all the time.’
‘All’s well that ends well, then?’
‘Aye, will be if we crack this case. At least the partial fingerprint’s a breakthrough. And there’s a wee link to Doyle.’
‘And Rovers might get promoted,’ Boyd laughed.
‘I’m not holding my breath.’ Ross spooned coffee into the mug, poured boiling water over it.
‘Best not to, given their form.’
‘Ho ho ho.’
‘Very festive.’ Wheeler marched into the room, dumped her coat on the chair. ‘That coffee for me?’
Ross handed it over.
‘Got the full list of people who attended the charity do at the River Hotel.’ She gave Boyd her best smile. ‘It’ll be painstaking work, sifting through it.’
‘I’ll bet.’ He stared at his computer. ‘I pity the poor sod that gets it.’
‘But for the right candidate, the right kind of CID guy . . . an ambitious go-getter, who’s also a team player . . .’ she trailed off.
The penny dropped. ‘You’re joking, right? More desk-bound stuff? I’ll be losing the use of my legs.’
‘That’s more to do with the new girlfriend,’ muttered Ross.
‘I’ll stand you a bacon roll and a coffee,’ Wheeler offered.
‘Already had one earlier, thanks.’ Boyd stared harder at his computer.
‘And a biscuit a minute ago,’ Ross added.
‘Can’t be tempted?’ Wheeler held out the list of names to Boyd. ‘As a big favour? You know I’m rubbish at lists.’
‘Only the girlfriend’s doing a sponsored walk,’ Boyd said, changing the subject.
‘That right?’ Wheeler said. ‘What’s it for?’
‘Local cat and dog home. She’s a soft muppet for strays.’
‘She must be if she took you on.’ Wheeler glanced across at Ross. He ignored her but Wheeler saw the blush rise up his neck; he was waiting for her to tell Boyd about his ugly wee three-legged pal. She sighed, ‘I’m surrounded by nutters – what’s the damage?’
Boyd slid the sponsor form across the table. ‘A fiver and we’re on, a tenner and it’ll get priority.’
Wheeler took a five-pound note from her purse. ‘It’ll be a fiver and it’ll be priority.’
Boyd relented. ‘Throw in a chocolate bar as well then. Looking at that lot I’ll need another sugar hit in an hour or two.’
‘You know I’ve got a soft spot for you, Boyd, don’t you?’ Wheeler handed him the list and signed the sponsor form.
‘Aye,’ he took them, ‘it’s a ditch in the Cathkin Braes, where all the bodies are buried.’
Ross opened his drawer and took out the notes, opened the search engine on his computer and typed in Arthur Wright, London. Waited. ‘Shit.’
‘What, you Googled him?’
‘Yep.’
Boyd smiled. ‘About a million hits?’
‘Yep.’ Ross scanned a few, closed the link. ‘There must be thousands of links to Arthur Wright or Arthur or Wright.’
‘Might be bogus – you know how many nutters there are out there. Trying to be helpful but muddying the waters instead. You get a trace on the calls yet?’
‘Not yet,’ Ross picked up the phone. ‘I was just going to chase that up.’
In the corner a young uniformed officer picked up a file from the desk and made for the stairs; once outside he paused to quickly text.
In the offices of the Chronicle Grim read the text: Found partial fingerprint, no one we know. Still searching database in hope of match.
Grim smiled – he had more for his next article than Stewart had given the rest of them at the press conference. He texted back: Keep at it and keep me informed – we have a deal remember. Clicked send. Grim looked out of his office window; the sky was grey and the rain had started again. He grinned.
Chapter 31
Ivan Saunders sat in his office looking out of the window at the crowds streaming into Glasgow Central Station, their umbrellas bobbing in a haphazard dance. He held his mobile in one hand, clamped to his ear, and a cigarette in the other, on which he puffed furiously between sentences. In his ten years as a private investigator, he had yet to encounter a tone as condescending as the one adopted by his newest client.
He listened to the old lady rant ‘. . . feral this . . . scum that’. Apparently she knew her son would wind up dead; she’d been waiting for the visit from the police for years. Saunders stubbed out his cigarette on a cracked saucer which was already overflowing with butts and began doodling some of the phrases the old lady was wittering about. He’d bet his fee that she’d hit the sherry bottle already. ‘. . . James . . . worked with . . . underprivileged kids . . . tough area of the city . . . Watervale.’ He gently placed the mobile on the desk top and quietly relit another cigarette; when he picked up the phone again, she was still talking. He puffed on his cigarette, greedily inhaling the nicotine as he listened to her talk out her rage, only occasionally interjecting, ‘Yes, the police aren’t the brightest bulbs in the box, are they? No, I agree, couldn’t find a needle in the proverbial . . . Of course I’ll report directly back to you . . .’
He ground the butt of the second cigarette on the saucer and wound up the conversation. ‘Yeah, I’ll start right now, I’ll go along to the area, yep, I’ll check out Watervale and ask around a bit, then take a look around the other areas . . . Yep, Mrs Gilmore, I’ve got it, but we already covered this when I came out to the Courtyard to see you.’ He hadn’t liked the old woman’s tone then, even less now.
He ended the call, reopened his packet of cigarettes and lit his third. He was sure that the old lady was onto nothing and that he was wasting his time and her money: whoever battered James Gilmore to death was a professional and knew enough to cover his tracks. If the police had no new evidence – and Saunders presumed that they didn’t – then he could easily bank on a few days’ work from the old lady. He doubted that he’d find anything but he’d be earning money for a change. He picked up his keys, pocketed his cigarettes, turned off the lights and locked the office. He hoped, not for the first time, that Strathclyde Police wouldn’t turn up with fresh evidence just when he was getting started. He badly needed a break. He would go to the Watervale scheme and ask around, but first he needed a wee detour into the city centre to the pawnbroker to retrieve his wedding ring. His ex had left him a message – she wanted to try again. Saunders sighed, a waste of time but he’d give it a go.
He’d parked his car in a piece of waste ground about half a mile’s walk from the city centre but it was free and, with his finances, well worth the inconvenience. He walked down to Clyde Street and kept to the path that hugged the river. He heard the comment just as he passed the deserted area around the Jamaica bridge: ‘Hey mate, any spare change?’
Saunders glanced at the man, took in the grubby outstretched hand, the skeletal face. Saunders walked on, not wasting his voice. He had only managed a few paces when the bottle hurled past his head, whistling softly before smashing at his feet. He spun round – the homeless guy had been joined by three mates and they were all walking towards him, their hoods up, faces concealed. Saunders glanced around him. The road was empty – there was nothing for it. ‘Bastards’ he muttered and started running, took a right along the darkened arches running under the bridge, felt his lungs explode with the exertion and cold air, heard his feet slam into the wet tarmacadam, heard the noise of traffic up ahead and took a second to look behind him. They were standing where he’d left them, just doing nothing. Only laughing. ‘Taking the fucking piss,’ Saunders gasped, letting himself bend over, catching his breath, spitting phlegm onto the wet pavement, ‘fuckers were only taking the piss.’
He straightened himself, took another look – they were still there, watching, smirking. One gave him the finger. Useless jakies. Saunders felt the bile fill his stomach, felt every fear and frustration come back to him. Decided to slip back. Kept to the shadows, heart beating, put his hand in his right pocket and felt the rubber flex. He took a left and doubled back; now he was behind them. They stood huddled, numb with the rain, their sport over for now. Surprise always worked. He sprang at them, whipped out the flex and started on the backs of their knees, thrashing and whipping until they’d folded, screaming in pain, blood pouring from their wounds.
‘Jakey bastards.’ Saunders felt the laugh rise in his throat, slapped the flex into a face, saw blood spurt. Gone was the veneer of professional respectability he’d constructed for his clients; now he was back to Ivan Saunders, the boy from Barlanark, who as a youth was a local gang leader. All that was behind him now but he still missed the rush of adrenaline.
‘Ivan Saunders isnae a coward,’ he spat. He waited for a second but knew that they weren’t getting up and so sprinted back towards his car, heart beating, adrenaline surging through him. He unlocked the door, slid in and started the engine, decided not to go back the way he’d come and nosed the car out into the traffic, turning left. He felt that he was flying. The visit to the pawn shop to retrieve his wedding ring was completely forgotten.
He drove straight to the Watervale school and parked the car on the main road. As he locked it he felt eyes on him, spun around, but there was nothing. The road led into the academy and he followed it, waiting for the inevitable gangs to secrete themselves from the buildings. But no one appeared, leaving him with the sensation of being watched. He walked to the youth centre; it was locked. Rab Wilson walked by, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his fleece.
‘Hey son,’ Saunders called, ‘mon over here, I need a wee chat.’
Rab stood watching him.
‘It’s okay son, I just want a wee bit of info. You from round here?’
Rab nodded.
‘Got a name?’
‘Aye.’
Saunders waited.
Rab let him wait.
Saunders began talking. They stood in the rain and Saunders briefed Rab, told him how some poor old woman was in tears because her only son had been murdered. Asked Rab if he’d heard anything about it. Anything at all.
Rab shook his head, ‘Nothin’. Only that it happened. You polis?’
‘Private.’
‘How come?’
‘Gilmore’s wee mammy doesn’t trust the polis to find out who killed her son.’
‘That right?’
Saunders nodded. ‘See if you’re from around here, maybe you can tell me who would know something? Who’s part of the community, who’d have heard a wee whisper?’
Rab stared at the wet pavement. Said nothing.
‘You not worried that there’s a murderer around here son?’
Rab blinked. ‘Shit happens.’
‘What about the youth club – who runs it?’
‘Malcolm Miller.’
‘He around?’
‘Mibbe. Later, when it opens.’
Saunders watched the boy walk off. He knew the boy was lying. Knew that the body had been discovered by two youths – that much his contact at the station had given him – but still he had to be careful. He couldn’t be seen to be treading on polis turf, compromising their investigation as they liked to remind him. Still, he would check out the shops in the area, find out who knew Gilmore, get some insight into who the man was. Then later he’d come back and speak with Malcolm Miller.
Saunders knew after an hour of chatting to the locals that the word was out. They knew someone was looking for information. And would pay for it.
He just didn’t expect it to be him.
He was two-thirds of the way down the road, going back towards his car to eat a greasy sausage roll, when they appeared, three youths, hoods up, scarves around their faces. Same old, same old he thought. Except these weren’t tired old jakies. He stopped, waited for them to approach. At the same time he felt more than saw a couple of others move in behind him, cutting off his escape. He waited, his fingers on the flex. Tried to summon adrenaline. Failed. Balled the sausage roll into its wrapper and tossed it. Took a step forward and heard a car screech to a halt behind him.
Saunders turned and was felled by the man who was behind him, felt a solid boot crunch into his mouth, felt teeth loosen, closed his eyes as blood began to pour onto the street. Tried to grasp the flex but someone was standing on his hand, biker boot crushing bone. Saunders looked up through the wet and blood and saw a halo surrounding the man. He remembered his childhood, raised as a Catholic. The halo shone as it had in the picture books at his school, only this time it wasn’t gold, it was purple. Saunders closed his eyes and let himself drift into unconsciousness.
Across the city, Doyle took the call. ‘Our friend’s not playing nice today? Okay Weirdo. And Weirdo?’ Doyle paused. ‘Make sure Rab stays in touch with you via Manky.’
‘Will do, Mr Doyle.’
‘I spoke to Smithy. If he pulls any more of his stunts, I want to know.’
‘Okay, Mr Doyle. Manky was just saying he got a visit from the filth.’
‘And?’
‘He told them nothing.’
‘Tell him to keep it that way.’ Doyle put down the phone.
