Текст книги "Riven"

Автор книги: A. J. McCreanor

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter 32

The view out towards the Campsies was beautiful, the rain creating a fine mist across the countryside, like a watercolour painting, but it was lost on her. Had she looked up she would have seen the hills in the distance, a dark outline against stormy sky. An artist’s dream scene. Instead, Margaret Robertson sat in her parked car and worried at the tissue in her hands, shredding and tearing and reducing it to dust. She listened to the thrum of rain on the car roof and the rhythm of the windscreen wipers for a few minutes before switching on the radio. She flicked through different channels, but there were limited options given the poor reception so she decided not to bother and switched it off again. Took another tissue out of her handbag and began the shredding process again. She was parked in front of the Gospel Hall, blinking at the phrase in front of her.

THE LORD REWARDS EVERYONE ACCORDING TO WHAT THEY HAVE DONE

The two-foot-high letters stood beneath the huge wooden cross that dominated the front of the low, modern building. Rain lashed against glass and concrete, and the railings that surrounded the hall dripped with water. The hall stood in its own grounds at the foot of the Campsie hills, its gates firmly locked against both the elements and non-believers.

The sky had darkened to black and a storm hung in the air by the time the car pulled in behind her. Elder Morrison was behind the wheel. He was in his early seventies; silver hair hung at angles around a pinched face, a hooked nose and thin, tight lips.

Inside, the hall was cold, but she wrapped her coat around her and sat, waiting for him to join her.

‘So, Mrs Robertson, you needed to see me?’ His voice was cold, his words measuring out gravitas with every syllable.

She looked at his face, searching for kindness but instead found righteousness. Her hands kneaded themselves red raw. ‘I need to talk to someone about my husband, Ian.’

‘Yes, I know, the policeman. He’s a good man. I know he works with our Outreach Team.’

‘Yes, he does, but that’s not why I’m here . . . I mean he . . . we . . . I’m not sure how to begin.’

‘The beginning is always a good place.’ His eyes the eyes of a hawk.

So she told him. Starting with their marriage, how she had hoped for a family, how it had never happened.

‘Perhaps it is the stresses of modern life. Your husband has a very demanding and stressful job. Be patient. Don’t become a nag or a shrew. Never become a burden to him.’

She looked at her hands, saw the rawness, heard the frustration in her voice. ‘You don’t understand; he won’t talk about any of this. He just blanks me.’

‘Then you must be patient, wait until he needs to talk. It cannot be all about your needs; the Lord warns us of our desires.’

She blurted it out. ‘I think he’s having an affair.’

Morrison steepled his fingers, pointed them heavenward, sat back in his seat and scowled, ‘Because?’

‘He doesn’t seem to need intimacy; he won’t even touch me.’

‘Again. It’s about your needs.’

Margaret sat in silence, listened to the storm rage outside.

‘Do you love him?’

‘I don’t know,’ her voice small, defensive. ‘He won’t ever say it to me and now I don’t know if I do love him still. I certainly don’t trust him.’

‘Then why on earth did you marry the poor man?’ It was more an accusation than a question.

‘I don’t know. It was different then – he was different. I think he really wanted to get married but . . .’

‘But?’ he prompted.

‘But now I think he’s seeing someone else. He goes out, won’t tell me where he’s going, he comes home late, goes straight into the shower and then goes to sleep.’

Elder Morrison pursed his lips. ‘Then let’s look for guidance.’ He reached across for his Bible, flicked through it for a second, selected the text and read in a sonorous voice, ‘Ephesians five, verses twenty-two to twenty-five. “Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord . . . For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church . . . ”’

Margaret nodded her head, whispered, ‘I know all this . . . but . . .’ She began to cry.

‘Then why are you doubting him? Does he beat you?’

She shook her head.

‘Keep you short of housekeeping?’

‘I have a job.’

‘Abuse you in any fashion?’

‘I told you, he never touches me.’

Elder Morrison rose. ‘Patience is what is required, Mrs Robertson, rather than these continual, perplexing demands. Give it another few months – if nothing has changed, then we can talk again, but it’s my opinion that you need to look at yourself and not to your husband.’

She stood and walked to the door.

He followed her, paused in the doorway. ‘In the meantime, try to see things from your husband’s perspective. Try to understand that he’s doing his best, in all areas. Marriage is more than the demands of the flesh.’

She stared at him, tears rolling down her cheeks.

‘I will pray for you.’ He turned and began bolting the doorway. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Robertson.’

Outside, Margaret stumbled to the car as the storm raged overhead. The clouds had gathered above her and seemed to follow her as she drove away from the hall, turning the car reluctantly towards home.

Chapter 33

The room smelled of sex. The sheets were damp and crumpled and the silver room-service tray lay discarded on the floor, the bottles of wine empty, the napkins stained, plates cleared.

Sometimes one just wasn’t enough. Jay Haddington chuckled to himself as he lay naked on the bed of his London hotel room. He was rolling his third spliff when he remembered to dial his office answering machine and pick up his messages. He lit the end of his spliff and closed his eyes, inhaled and kept the smoke there until the message had ended.

‘Mr Haddington? Detective Constable Alexander Boyd from Carmyle Police Station trying to contact you. Would you mind calling us back on . . .’

Haddington nodded at the phone, took another drag and nodded again. The voice asking him to call the police station was far away, too far for him to reach. He listened to the message again, wondered vaguely what it was about and was still holding the phone when his twenty-year-old girlfriend came out of the shower, leaned across and took his spliff, took a long drag, then listened to the message.

‘Jay, you need to speak to them.’

‘Now?’ he giggled, bit his lip in remorse when he saw that she wasn’t laughing. ‘After this one’s finished?’

She took it from his hand. ‘Not afterwards, you’ll barely be able to speak. Do it now – it could be important.’

She scribbled down the number then tapped it into his mobile, handed the phone back to him. He got through on the second ring. Asked to speak to DC Boyd and was put right through.

‘DC Boyd.’

‘Hi, my name’s . . . Jay . . . Haddington. I’m returning your phone call.’

Boyd heard the spaces between the words and recognised that he was talking to a stoned man. Decided to ignore it – instead he explained why he was calling. Jay Haddington told him everything he needed to know. No, he hadn’t known Andy Doyle before that evening at the charity event. Nevertheless he was very impressed with both Mr Doyle and his lovely girlfriend Stella. He had been particularly pleased by Mr Doyle’s decision to invest in his new play. And of course Stella’s kind offer of playing a small part in return for the investment.

‘No, Mr James Gilmore doesn’t ring any bells either . . . he was in attendance that evening too? . . . Sorry . . . is he in the business? Oh, I see, murdered, how awful . . . no I’m sure I never met him . . .’ and so the conversation continued until Boyd thanked Mr Jay Haddington for his time and hung up.

Haddington lay on the bed and closed his eyes.

‘You okay babe?’ His girlfriend stroked his arm, put the spliff back into his mouth, let him draw on it, ‘only you look kind of upset.’

‘A murder in Glasgow – seems the guy was at the charity do last month.’

‘And?’

‘And from the way the police constable mentioned Andy Doyle, I believe they think he may be involved.’

The two of them sat closer. ‘Is he a criminal?’

Haddington drew on the spliff before answering, ‘All I know is that he’s an investor.’

His girlfriend did the mime, covering her ears with each hand, then her mouth and finally her eyes. Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil.

Chapter 34

Wheeler stood in front of Stewart’s desk. Waited. Ross stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb.

‘Ivan Saunders was admitted to Accident and Emergency at the Royal Infirmary an hour ago,’ Stewart told them.

Ross frowned, ‘Isn’t he the PI who works out of a crappy office across from Central Station?’

‘Exactly the one.’

They waited.

‘His head was split open because he sniffed around the Watervale scheme asking about James Gilmore.’

‘Why was he asking?’ By the time Wheeler finished asking the question, she had the answer. ‘The old lady?’

Stewart drummed his fingers on his desk. ‘The wee toerag was employed by Mrs Gilmore to investigate her son’s murder. Seems she doesn’t rate our chances of finding her son’s killer.’

‘Charming,’ said Wheeler. ‘Does she know she’s messing up the investigation?’

‘I mentioned it to her when I called but I’m sending a uniform out to see her, to tell her in the gentlest way possible to keep out of this until our investigation is complete.’

‘No more hiring PIs,’ said Ross.

‘Meantime Mrs Gilmore has been contacted by the Chronicle.’

‘Grim?’

‘Grim,’ Stewart said, ‘offering a sympathetic interview from the grieving mother’s point of view.’

‘The grieving mother who doesn’t rate the police,’ said Wheeler. ‘I can just imagine how the article would read.’

‘So, that’s the update. Oh, one more thing: I’m thinking of bringing in some outside help,’ Stewart smiled. ‘I want our department to be seen to be accessing every resource available to us.’

‘You don’t think we’re working fast enough?’ said Ross. ‘It’s been all of five minutes since we found the body.’

‘This is extra help, Ross. It’s no reflection on the team. It’s doable, something we can access immediately and more importantly be seen to be doing.’

‘By HQ,’ muttered Ross.

‘By HQ,’ Stewart repeated.

‘And we can afford to bring in outside agencies?’ Ross didn’t sound convinced. ‘I thought overtime was cut. Budget, cutbacks, all that sort of thing. How come we can afford this?’

‘Special budget, special rates.’ Stewart sounded irritated. ‘Trust me.’

‘And who’s the special rates guy?’

‘He’s a friend who used to be on the force. Does a bit of pro bono now and again.’

Ross groaned. ‘An old timer.’

‘No, he isn’t retired – he chose to leave the force. He wanted to explore other avenues. Believe me, he’s a professional. Remember the Blackwell case?’

Wheeler did. ‘He got ten years, but it should’ve been double.’

‘There wouldn’t have been a conviction at all if it hadn’t been for Pete Newton.’

‘But bringing in an outsider?’ Ross asked. ‘Won’t it damage morale on the team? All this “work as a team” stuff, and now we haven’t got there fast enough, so you bring in an outsider.’

‘Don’t be so bloody sensitive Ross, Pete Newton’s not just anyone. I mean he’s a bloody good professional and by Christ, we need professionals around here.’

Ross huffed and said nothing.

Wheeler thought for a moment, before the penny dropped. ‘He’s a psychologist, a criminal profiler, isn’t he?’

‘Aren’t they called BIAs now?’ said Ross.

‘Right,’ she waited.

‘Behavioural Investigative Advisers.’

‘I’m glad we’ve got that settled.’ Wheeler looked at Stewart. ‘Whatever they’re called, I’m right, am I not?’

Stewart snorted, ‘We need to use every resource we have. Do you understand what I’ve been saying to you both?’

She nodded.

Stewart had Grim’s article spread out before him and he jabbed his finger at the paper. ‘“Despite the horrific murder, Police have no new leads . . .”’

‘With respect, I don’t think the team want a BIA from outside to tell them how to do their job.’

‘With all due respect, Wheeler, have you anything new on Gilmore’s murder?’

She studied the floor.

‘Are there any more suspects you’ve still to interview?’

‘No.’

‘And other than a partial fingerprint which doesn’t seem to match anything on our database, and two anonymous callers, what do we have?’

Wheeler and Ross were both silent.

‘Well then, we’ve nothing to lose by giving Pete a try,’ Stewart looked at her, held eye contact, smiled, ‘have we?’

She walked to the door, pushing past Ross.

‘Give him a chance, he’s a good guy,’ Stewart called, reaching for the phone. A minute later he spoke into the receiver, ‘Hi Pete. Yeah, I’ve spoken with the team and they’re all very enthusiastic about a meet-up – they jumped at the chance of liaising with a psychologist.’ Stewart waited until the laughter at the other end of the line subsided before continuing, ‘Seriously Pete, we could do with the input; how quickly can you get here?’ He paused, listened to his friend reply and then nodded, ‘Great, looking forward to it. See you tomorrow.’

Stewart stood and crossed to the window. Outside it was dark; the lights of the houses shone in the distance and he could see the twinkle of Christmas lights. The orange street lights threaded their way down the London Road, casting a weak light into the darkness. Stewart crossed to his chair and pulled on his jacket. On the way out he hit the light switch before closing the door.

Chapter 35

Lizzie Coughlin opened the door, and a blast of freezing air hit her. ‘Shit but it’s cold,’ she complained, ushering her friend Steffy inside before double-locking the door and putting the snib on. ‘That bastard’s not getting back here. Fucker tried to kill me.’ Her voice rasped. She fingered the scarf that she’d tied around her swollen neck.

Steffy held up a bottle. ‘I got us a wee vodka, hen. Thought you might need cheering up. He’s a fucking waste of space that Mason.’

Lizzie eyed the bottle of vodka. ‘Whit’s this? Thought you’d nothing till next Wednesday? Did Kenny gie you child support at last?’

Lizzie snorted.

‘Or wee Sammy or Vinnie?’

Steffy snorted, ‘You’re joking, right? Hell’ll freeze over before I see a penny from them fuckers. Naw,’ she patted the bottle, ‘I got this wee baby from the Co-op. Some poor wee auld soul fainted and they had to call an ambulance. So I just nipped in and helped myself. Wee drink to toast you being a single wummin again. We can go out on the razzle together next week when your neck’s better. Be like old times.’

Lizzie was confused. ‘Dae they no have CCTV in the Co-op but?’

‘Smashed – that wee sod that tried tae ram-raid the place last week, he smashed it. Wee nutter, did us all a favour.’

Lizzie got two glasses and watched her friend pour vodka to the top of both. ‘Cheers hen, but who’s watching the weans?’

‘Angelica’s at my da’s and Tamzyn and Nathaniel are at my ma’s.’

‘Where’s the baby?’

‘She’s with wee Sharlene next door. That lassie’s a wee pet. An’ she’s great with the kids.’

‘Should mibbe have her own then.’

‘Nae chance. I hope she’s always there tae help wi mine. It’s no likely though is it, Lizzie, that she’ll have her own. You’ve seen her, right?’

‘Aye well, she could dae more with herself, I suppose,’ Lizzie suggested tactfully.

‘And I repeat, Lizzie, you’ve seen her, right?’

Lizzie relented. ‘Right enough, she’s a pot-ugly wee cow. Anyhow, she’s better off without men. I should know.’

‘Is it no awfully quiet in here?’ Steffy looked around. ‘Where’s the wee bird? Did you not have its cage in here?’

‘The cage is in the shed in the garden.’ Lizzie’s eyes filled up.

‘How’s that then, hen?’

‘That bastardin’ shite killed her.’

‘Mason killed wee Duchess?’

Lizzie nodded.

‘How come?’

‘’Cause he’s an evil bastard.’

‘That much you knew already, but why did he kill the wee yellow thing?’

‘Harmless wee pet, he just opened the door and grabbed her. Broke her neck.’

Steffy shuddered.

Lizzie sniffed, ‘She never stood a chance against the fucker.’

‘Naw, she’d have nae chance,’ Steffy repeated.

Warmed by the vodka, Lizzie took off her scarf. Her neck was swollen and the purple bruises had begun to ripen. ‘He threatened tae kill me.’

‘And after you waiting for him to get out of the jail?’ Steffy tut-tutted. ‘That cunt’s nae manners.’

‘And, I spoke wi Sonny down at the Smuggler’s. Mason’s been in there flashing the cash and chatting up the twins.’

Steffy shuddered. ‘Filthy, manky bitches – hope he catches something painful.’ She took a long draw from her glass. ‘Got any fags?’

Lizzie threw her the pack. ‘Two-timing me with them slags.’

‘But the cash, though, where’d he get it?’

Lizzie took a cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply, ‘Fuck knows, it’s no like they hand them a load of cash when they get out of the Bar-L. He’s got a plan. Thinks he’s coming intae big money.’

‘What’s the plan?’

‘No chance he’d tell me. Said I wis history. Something happened inside the Bar-L. He’s got together with somebody. Now he thinks he’s going intae business with Stevie Tenant and he’s come over all Mr young, free and fucking single.’

‘He’s a shite.’ Steffy puffed furiously on her cigarette. ‘You’re better off without him.’

‘I want to get him done, Steffy. It’s him or me. I don’t feel safe with him having it in for me. Wee Duchess was a warning. Next time he’ll come after me.’

‘But how? And mind you remember what he was in the jail for – you need tae be careful, hen.’

‘Aye, I know what he did, but he’s got this coming.’

‘Right enough, but how?’ Steffy repeated as she scratched thoughtfully at a scab on her arm, watched the blood pool, spat on her fingers and wiped it. ‘You should go down tae the Royal, go intae Accident and Emergency. Go now, show them the bruises. Then call the polis. Get him done for assault and battery.’

‘You mad, Steffy? That the vodka talking? Whit can they dae? It’s a domestic – they’d no get involved. Gie him a warning, mibbe.’ The vodka had hit home and Lizzie started to cry, ‘I miss my wee Duchess.’

Steffy reached across and patted her friend’s arm. ‘Aye hen, I know but there’s nae point in going to the polis about Duchess, it’s only a wee bird. They’d piss themselves laughing. And even though they hate his guts, they can’t really arrest him for killing it.’

Lizzie pointed to her friend’s arm. ‘Gonnae no get blood on my settee, Steffy, it’s no even paid for yet.’

‘Sorry hen.’ Steffy licked the blood from her fingers and then sucked at the scab.

Lizzie sipped her drink.

Steffy studied the scab. ‘Clean enough now?’

‘Aye, fine hen, but I want revenge for him doing this tae me and for killing ma wee bird.’

‘You’re your father’s daughter, right enough Lizzie.’

‘Mason forgets I know where the bodies are buried.’

‘Whit bodies?’ Steffy’s voice was too high.

‘No literally, ya numpty. It’s when you know a lot about somebody. Stuff that can get them into trouble.’

‘So, how’s that work then?’

‘Speak to somebody.’

‘Who?’

Lizzie blew a whorl of smoke into the air and watched it float. ‘Andy Doyle. If Mason’s going into business with wee Stevie Tenant, then it’s got tae be drugs.’

‘Thought you had tae marry intae the Tenant clan?’

‘Stevie must be expanding, going out on his own. My guess is the two of them are going up against Andy Doyle.’

Steffy coughed up some of her vodka, ‘Christ, Lizzie. Andy Doyle.’

‘Aye, I know,’ Lizzie agreed.

Steffy stubbed out her cigarette and reached for the bottle. ‘Let me just fill us up again hen – if you’re getting involved with Doyle, I think you’re going to need it.’

Outside the storm had returned and a thick curtain of rain fell from the dark sky. A flash of light accompanied a siren as an ambulance sped into the night, illuminating the road for an instant before plunging it back into semi-darkness.

Chapter 36

Mason stood in the shadows behind The Fern Hotel. There was a smoking shelter and a bin for butts but most of the smokers had tossed them onto the concrete. Stella had driven around the back of the hotel and parked the four-by-four. In the distance, the sound of a police siren faded into the night. Stella approached him. He bared his teeth in a smile. ‘Stella doll, good of you to come. Sorry we cannae meet in public.’

She waited.

He tried to make conversation, his voice friendly. ‘Did you not used to be called Maggie?’

Stella’s voice was sour. ‘What’s it to you?’

His tone changed as he tapped the video. ‘Stella, Stella, star. That why you changed it, you wanted tae be a star?’

Stella chewed gum, stared at Mason through narrowed eyes, waited.

‘Well, I suppose you have become a kind of a star, Stella,’ he paused. ‘You mind of Davey Tenant? Good-looking boy. Ended up doing time in the Bar-L?’

Stella waited.

‘That’s where we met,’ Mason continued. ‘He’s got a nickname in the jail – they call him Pretty-Boy. It wisnae very pleasant, if you get my drift, so Pretty-Boy needed a bit of protection. See, he needed to pay me to keep the worst of the vultures away from him. A boy that good-looking gets passed around. My protection cost, though. And Pretty-Boy didnae have much. Only one thing that he thought might be worth something. And it was on the outside. Any ideas what your ex-boyfriend had, Stella?’

Silence.

‘A wee home-made video. But I can get it copied onto a DVD. Anyway, I think the correct term for it is sex tape. You and him had a wee fling. Pretty-Boy Davey was specific about the dates.’

She waited.

‘See and the dates mean that you were two-timing Andy Doyle. Can’t think of him being pleased about that.’ Mason’s eyes shone. ‘What do you think, Stella-star?’

Her jaw moved rhythmically, gum being pushed around her mouth. ‘It was a long while ago. I was a different person then.’

Mason held out his hands palms up. ‘Fair enough, then Doyle won’t be too bothered that the lassie he’s shacked up with has the starring role in a wee home-made porn movie. See if this gets out, every gangster in Glasgow will be laughing at Doyle. How do you think he’ll take to that? Don’t know about you, Stella hen, but I’m guessing, not very well.’

Silence. Stella chewed, stared at Mason unblinking. Ground the heel of her shoe into the ground.

Mason continued. ‘The stuff ye get up to in that wee film, I wis dead impressed.’

‘Davey’s a bastard for recording us.’

Mason shrugged.

Stella chewed.

Mason kept his voice pleasant. ‘You on the stage now an all?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Mibbe it’ll help them see you in a new way. For different roles, I mean. More exotic.’ He cast a sly glance at her breasts, then held her gaze. ‘Ye understand whit I’m getting at?’

‘I’m already an actress, Mason.’ The rhythmic chewing, the steel in her voice, the hate in her eyes.

‘You did a good job of looking like you were enjoying it.’

‘Everyone’s had sex. It’s not a big shock.’ Stella’s voice held. Almost.

‘Aye, mibbe not, but you’re Doyle’s property now. And Davey Tenant’s wee brother Stevie is up against Doyle for territory. Think it’s getting a bit complicated? You having sex with the enemy?’

‘It’s not like Andy thought he was getting a virgin.’

‘Aye but what happens in private is one thing – see, this wee video nasty makes it public. See, it’ll look like you’re soiled goods. Kind of second-hand.’

Stella looked hard at Mason. ‘So, big shot, what is it you want?’

He reached across and stroked her arm. She flinched. ‘Don’t be like that, Stella doll, let’s keep this friendly.’

Stella grabbed his hand, dug her nails in. ‘Fuck off.’

Mason pulled back, saw that she’d drawn blood. ‘Okay, you want to keep it purely professional? Fine. I want six grand for this tape. Or,’ he held it up, ‘Doyle gets a private screening and gets to know the dates.’

‘So, what’s the payback time, a few months? Six?’

‘Oh no, Stella,’ Mason winked, ‘two days max. Forty-eight hours. It’s not that I don’t trust you but there’s no point in giving you time to make up some dross for Doyle. This needs to be kept fresh. Forty-eight hours, hen.’

Stella turned, crossed the dark car park and climbed into her four-by-four, the red sole of her shoe flashing. When she put the key into the ignition, her hand shook. She glanced at the CCTV camera above the exit, put her foot down on the accelerator and drove, missing Mason by inches.

Twenty minutes later Stella parked the car in the darkest spot behind the Smuggler’s Rest. She opened her mobile, punched in the number and waited for it to be answered. ‘Sonny, it’s Stella. I’m round the back. I need to ask a favour.’

A few minutes later, Sonny climbed into the four-by-four.

Ten minutes later he stepped out again and Stella drove off, alone.