Текст книги "Riven"
Автор книги: A. J. McCreanor
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Chapter 37
Wheeler sat on the sofa, a glass of wine in her hand, Sonny Rollins on the CD, the track ‘St Thomas’ playing. She had left the blinds open and a crescent moon sat in the dark sky. The storm had passed and she watched the raindrops fall gently against the window panes. She had been thinking about James Gilmore and how, other than his mother, no one seemed to care very much that he was dead. Where were the friends and lovers who make up the substance and fabric of one’s life? She wondered who would be at his funeral. She had attended funerals where there had been standing room only and others where she had been one of two attendees. The other being the minister. She guessed Gilmore’s would be more like the latter, although his colleagues at Watervale Academy, St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High might get together to make a bit of a show. Maybe, but she hadn’t sensed any real friendship or warmth towards him from any of the other staff, not even from Nancy Paton.
Wheeler shook herself; she was getting maudlin. She crossed to the wall where she had leaned a cork noticeboard. She did this with every case she worked on – it gave her both the space and the opportunity to think away from the station. She closed her eyes, remembering the scene at James Gilmore’s house, remembering exactly where his body had hung, the distance between the body and the doorway, the distance to the window, and also the shape his outline had taken and its relationship with the other objects in the room. She had carefully stored all the images and the facts in her memory and would hold them there until the case was solved and her part in the process finished. Then it would be over to the authorities and the courts. The prosecution and defence lawyers would argue their points and the judge and jury would reach a conclusion on whoever had been charged. Then the bloody images stored in her memory would fade and finally disappear and she would be fresh for the next case.
‘But not yet,’ she reminded herself, speaking aloud in the empty room. ‘Not just yet.’ Covering a large section of the board were her scribbled notes on the case, a map of Glasgow with pins showing the locations they had so far. Gilmore’s house, his mother’s apartment at the Courtyard Retirement Home in Milngavie, Watervale Academy, St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High. Watervale was obviously in the roughest area; the two other schools were both in the Southside and had a reputation of being ‘good’ schools.
Next, Wheeler looked at Gilmore’s personal details; she’d placed a question mark against his sexuality. If he had been gay, he had decided to keep it quiet. Another question mark was next to the word ‘partner’. There was no indication he’d had either a recent girlfriend or a boyfriend. Or was Ross right and Gilmore was an abuser? A number of children from all three schools had been spoken to, but nothing had ever been reported. Or even hinted at.
Wheeler sipped her wine, looked at her notes, followed the arrows from Doyle to Weirdo, from William MacIntyre to George Grey, who was in contact with Gilmore through Watervale Academy. Wheeler stared at the notes but nothing came from them. Nothing. This was unusual – she usually got some kind of a spark – something triggered her imagination. There was something about this case that was wrong.
‘Right,’ she said out loud, ‘go right back to the beginning.’ Top left in the diagram were Alec and Rab. Two boys, no convictions, would-be petty thieves perhaps, anything more? She studied the line diagrams, the links: they were both at Watervale but there was nothing linking Gilmore’s death and the two boys, other than the school itself. And that would link him to all of the other members of staff, including the head teacher Nancy Paton. Wheeler discounted the staff. They had looked into the list of names. The most they had come up with regarding criminal activity had been a few speeding fines and parking tickets.
There was another list of names bracketed beside the school. Known offenders who’d attended the school in previous years. Not that unusual – most schools had at least a few kids who went off the rails after they left. She counted the names: twenty-three. That wasn’t the impression she had received from either the head teacher, Ms Paton, or the deputy, Margaret Field. According to them, their kids weren’t criminals. Were they just in denial? Or was Matt Barnes right, that kids from such a deprived area made their way outside of society? She checked through the list of their misdemeanours. It was mainly theft and gang fights. One had been done for murder and another two had been done for manslaughter. They were doing time in the Bar-L.
Her mobile sounded; she glanced at it. Another text from her sister.
I’m still worried about Jason – he’s gone AWOL again. I think something’s happened to him.
Wheeler deleted it. She’d looked him up; he was fine. Let them sort it out.
Then a call came through, but Wheeler ignored it, heard it go through to voicemail. Listened – her sister was near hysterical. Wheeler spoke aloud, ‘What the fuck is it with mothers and their sons?’ She deleted the message.
The CD ended. Wheeler went into the kitchen and topped up her wine, brought it back through to the sitting room and flicked on the telly. A documentary was about to start on a group of her favourite Scottish painters. She lifted the remote and turned up the volume.
‘The Scottish Colourists . . . Fergusson . . . Peploe . . . Cadell . . . Hunter . . .’
She settled into the sofa, pushed thoughts of Gilmore’s dead body and the deprivation of George Grey’s life aside. Sipped her wine and let the presenter guide her through the formation of the Colourists.
Chapter 38
The building was a four-storey blonde sandstone close to the university; the top storey had a balcony and she had sunbathed there on the odd day Glasgow’s weather had allowed. Lauren shared the flat with four others.
Lauren scrunched down on the sofa and pointed the remote towards the CD player. Rihanna thundered from the speakers. Jason was sprawled on the floor. ‘And if we drive out tomorrow go easy – it’s my car, remember, Jason. You’re not driving it like you do your old banger.’
He turned towards her, gave her a mock salute. ‘Scout’s honour.’
‘Right and why are you wearing those gloves inside?’
‘My mum bought them for me; aren’t they great?’ Jason looked at the expensive leather driving gloves. They were a bit over the top, like his mum, but he loved them. They were a symbol of what he would become, a great lawyer.
‘So, where are we going exactly?’
‘Hamilton.’
‘Because?’
‘You said you wanted to hear it.’
‘The echo?’
‘The best echo in Europe.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s true,’ Jason said, ‘there’s this big fuck-off vault, which has the longest-lasting echo of anywhere in the world.’
‘The whole world? All the canyons and—’
He cut her off. ‘Well, maybe not them . . . I mean, it’s got the longest echo of anything man-made.’
‘So, you were lying!’ She laughed, her head back against the sofa, her sparkly hair band lying askew. ‘Why do you want to go there?’
‘So I can sing to you, serenade you.’
‘Seduce me more like,’ she said.
‘Lauren, it’ll be amazing.’
‘The seduction,’ she laughed, ‘or the singing?’
‘From past feedback, I’m guessing both.’
‘That’ll be shining bright.’ She adjusted her hair band, smoothed down her hair. ‘Will we be able to get in?’
‘We’ll break in.’
She looked at him sideways, ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Yeah, we’ll just have a look tomorrow; I think you have to arrange special access.’ He reached for the map which was lying beside him, traced the route they would take, follow the M74, on out through Glasgow to Mount Vernon and its sandstone villas and the huge Greenoakhill Quarry. On through Uddingston and Bothwell and then Hamilton. He fired up the laptop and showed her a photograph of the mausoleum. ‘Looks phallic, don’t you think?’
She peered at it. ‘In your dreams, Jason.’
The dome stood over a hundred feet high. A ghostly reminder of the excess of Hamilton Palace and its long-dead duke.
‘What’s its story?’
‘It was a burial chamber for the tenth Duke of Hamilton. He’d a big thing for Egypt so had himself interred in an Egyptian sarcophagus, and the rest of the rellies stored in a crypt underneath.’
‘Charming.’
‘It was all in vain though – they all had to be moved.’
‘Nightmare. Because?’
‘Flooding. The River Clyde burst its banks.’
‘And so no quirky resting place?’
‘Inside the dome are the whispering walls.’
‘The what?’
‘The whispering walls,’ Jason explained. ‘So, if you and me stand at either end of the walls, but facing away from each other, facing into the wall, we could still have a conversation just by whispering to each other – our voices would be amplified.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Really, honestly, wait and see, but we might not be able to see the heads close up.’
‘The heads?’
He flicked through the images on the laptop to show her. ‘The heads are called Life, Death and Immortality. They’re carved over the entrance to the crypt. It’s amazing though, ’cause Life and Death have weathered and faded with age, but Immortality hasn’t.’
‘Immortality through death then?’
‘Suppose so.’
‘Cool.’
Jason moved across to the window, opened it and peered out. Dark clouds momentarily obliterated the moon. The wind seethed and howled.
‘Jason and Lauren were bewitched by the dark beauty of the landscape.’ Jason looked at her and laughed. ‘Only one thing would improve this.’ He closed the window and walked towards her.
She snuggled into the sofa. ‘You’ve a one-track mind.’
‘Not that; I’ve got something.’ He reached across her and grabbed his rucksack, unzipped it. Heard Lauren start to laugh. Started laughing himself.
‘What is it?’
‘Liquid G.’
‘GHB?’
‘Yeah.’ He placed a small plastic bottle on an empty CD case, went into the kitchen and returned with a glass and a bottle of cordial. He looked across at her. ‘Want me to go first?’
‘Yeah, but where’s your glass?’
He reached into his rucksack and pulled out a hip flask. ‘I keep this with me always.’ He began to pour.
The song had ended and the next one had begun when Jason lay back on the floor and let the sensation wash over him. He looked across at Lauren – she was lying flat out on the sofa, a smile on her face, her eyes closed.
Chapter 39
The television was on in Ian Robertson’s sitting room, the sound turned down. Images of the Scottish Colourists and their art flicked in silence as Robertson paced the room. Finally he heard the noise of a car outside. He was at the window in a second and stood watching his wife’s car pull into the driveway. He drummed his fingers on the sill, frowning. When she saw him Margaret blushed, looked at the ground. It was then that he knew. He waited until she was in the hall before going to meet her. He kept his voice casual, neutral.
‘Where’ve you been?’
She wouldn’t meet his gaze; instead she concentrated on hanging up her coat. ‘Out.’
‘I can see that. Where?’
‘I went for a drive.’ She crossed to the kitchen, put on the kettle. Stood with her back to him.
‘Margaret, we don’t have secrets. We’re not that kind of a couple.’
She turned to him, her eyes filling up. ‘But we do have secrets, Ian. I feel as if I’m in this marriage alone. You come and go without even waking me sometimes. You go out at night and never tell me where you’re going. It’s as if I don’t matter. Sometimes I feel I don’t exist.’ Her shoulders began to shake; the familiar sobbing began.
He reached out and held her, let her cry for a few minutes before he spoke. Kept his voice even. ‘What brought all this on?’
‘It’s been building for a long while.’
‘What has?’
She held out her hands. ‘All this, me being kept out of your life. I’ve tried to talk to you about it, but . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
He turned from her, looked out of the window, watched the outside light go on and illuminate the garden. A fox padded across the lawn, its bushy tail amber in the light. Robertson watched it disappear into their neighbour’s garden. He could hear the noise it made as it ate the dog food his neighbour insisted on leaving out for it. Robertson sighed, turned back to her. ‘I’ll need to see to that fence. Get it sorted once and for all – it’s like a zoo out there sometimes.’
Margaret said nothing.
The kettle had boiled and he went to the cupboard, took down two mugs. ‘Tea or coffee, Margaret?’
Her voice was calm. ‘I went to see Elder Morrison.’
He froze, let his hands fall to his side, struggled but failed to keep the anger from his voice. ‘You went to see Elder Morrison? About what?’
It came out in a rush. ‘I went to talk to him, about us, about our issues. How we’ve not been getting on. How we barely see each other and we never talk.’
He waited. ‘And?’
‘And how we don’t have any . . .’
‘Any what exactly?’
‘Just that we don’t . . . we haven’t, you know, in a long while.’
‘You spoke to him about our sex life?’
‘I was desperate – you won’t talk to me, we hardly touch.’
‘So, the best way to resolve this is to go and speak to someone outside of our marriage? To air our dirty laundry in public?’ His voice bitter, accusing.
‘I didn’t mean to talk about it,’ Margaret pleaded. ‘I didn’t know who to turn to.’
‘I suppose you told the women at the meeting too; I suppose now the whole Hall knows?’
‘No, just Elder Morrison.’
‘I see. And what did he say?’
Her shoulders slumped. ‘He told me to be patient, that you had a stressful job. That it’s not all about my needs.’
‘Your bloody needs! That’s all you think about. Maybe you should never have got married – maybe being an old maid would have suited you better because you don’t seem to be able to handle being a good wife, do you?’
The tears fell steadily. Margaret didn’t bother trying to brush them away.
‘Well, Margaret?’ he bellowed.
‘I want to have a baby.’ Her voice a whisper, ‘I want us to have children.’
‘So then maybe you listen to him, maybe you think about me for a change and all the stress I’m under at work, instead of your own selfish needs. I work fucking hard to keep a roof over our heads.’ It was the first time he had sworn at her.
‘I work too, you know.’ Her voice was quiet, losing conviction.
‘You’re unbelievable. Can you really compare your shitty part-time job at the bakery with my career? Do you know what it’s like to work in the real world?’
She reached for the kitchen towel, began shredding it. ‘I only took it until the babies came along. You encouraged me.’
‘I encouraged you to take it to get you out of the house, to give you something to do instead of obsessing about children all day.’
‘I’m not obsessed. Mum agrees that it’s time I had a family of my own.’
‘You’ve spoken to your mother as well? Well, that’s just great. Is there anyone who doesn’t know?’
Margaret was confused. ‘But I always talk to Mum.’
‘Then maybe it’s time for you to grow up and be an adult for once. Anyway, how can we afford a family with our mortgage? You do the sums.’
‘We could sell the house.’
‘And live where?’
‘We could ask Mum and Dad if we could stay there for a bit. They could help us.’
Robertson rubbed the back of his neck, flexed his fingers, stared out at the back garden. ‘Listen, that is never going to happen. And I don’t want you ever, do you hear me, EVER to go talking to others about me behind my back. Got it?’
Silence.
He turned to her, leaned into her face. ‘DO YOU HEAR ME?’
Margaret nodded.
‘And if anyone needs help it’s you. You need to get to the doctor again, get some tranquillisers or something to calm you down. You’re losing it, you know that don’t you?’
She began sobbing again.
He grabbed his coat, slammed the door behind him. He drove as fast as the speed limit would allow, desperate to get away from her nagging and far away from their claustrophobic home. Robertson felt the familiar band of pain tighten around his head and press in on his thoughts. He gripped the steering wheel, fought the desire to press hard on the accelerator, kept driving, out of Glasgow, out to the Campsies, past the Gospel Hall and out into the dark hills. Far away from his wife, Elder Morrison and a marriage that was choking the breath out of him.
Chapter 40
Wheeler switched off the television and went through to the kitchen, put on the kettle and scooped a spoonful of coffee into a mug. While waiting for the kettle to boil she reached for the radio, switched it on and heard the start of the news. ‘A body has been found in Glasgow’s West End, believed to be that of a student from Glasgow University . . .’
The ringing wove its way through her concentration. Her mobile flashed a familiar number. ‘Ross?’
‘Boss. They’ve just found a body off the Great Western Road.’
‘I heard it on the radio just now.’
‘You want me to call them?’
‘Quicker to go over?’
‘I’ll pick you up. Ten minutes.’
She was pacing the pavement when he arrived. She had texted Jason. Nothing.
Wheeler’s stomach churned as she heard another text come through. She glanced at it. Her sister.
I’m worried. I think something may have happened to Jason.
Wheeler pulled on her seat belt. Christ, she hoped her sister wasn’t psychic.
They drove in silence, arriving at the scene in a few minutes. She joined Ross inside the police cordon. Beyond, a crowd had gathered, muttering and staring at the ominous tableau. Police cars and an ambulance had killed their sirens but their lights still flashed danger. The shiny red BMW was parked nearby. Callum.
Wheeler felt the rain seep into her bones; she was freezing cold.
A stout DI marched towards them. ‘Morag Bruce,’ muttered Ross.
The DI smiled. ‘Hey Ross.’
He nodded. ‘What have you got, Morag?’
‘Young girl. Poor kid. Out here in this weather. No place to die.’
Wheeler felt a rush of guilt at the relief which washed over her. It wasn’t Jason. But still, the girl had been someone’s daughter.
Bruce leaned across the cordon. ‘Want to go see, Ross? Does it tie in with anything you’re working on?’
Ross looked at Wheeler. She thought about it. ‘No,’ she turned to the woman, ‘we’ll leave it to you. She doesn’t belong to us.’
Bruce nodded. ‘It’s an awful shame to go like that. Looks like she fell from her balcony.’ The policewoman glanced up at the fourth-floor window; bright lights illuminated it. The police were already inside.
Wheeler thought about Jason and his friends, all of their lives ahead of them. She nodded to Bruce. ‘A bloody waste.’
‘Aye. Poor lassie, horrible way to go. And wearing a wee sparkly hair band.’
Wheeler felt sick. She swallowed. ‘Maybe a quick glance, see if I can shed any light on it?’
‘Be my guest. Looks pretty straightforward though.’
Wheeler trudged towards the body. Her mobile rang and she snatched it from her pocket, expecting her sister. Saw that it was Paul Buchan. She paused for a second, aware that rain was trickling down her neck. Then she switched the phone to mute and stuffed it back into her pocket before following Ross through the throng.
Callum was coming towards them. ‘Just finished. Tragic.’
‘Uh huh,’ Wheeler agreed.
‘So why are you here?’ Callum was curious.
She walked on. ‘Christ knows.’
He called after her. ‘Any further forward with our Mr Gilmore?’
She told him the truth. ‘Going round in circles and getting nowhere fast.’
She stood over the body. She had known when she had heard about the hair band. Must be hundreds of them sold, but she had known. She’d just wanted to make sure. She turned to Ross. ‘Fucking nightmare.’ Knew she should say it. Knew that she should tell them the girl was a friend of her nephew Jason. Said nothing.
Ross finished reading the notes and handed them back to Morag Bruce, who stood waiting. ‘Student ID says her name’s Lauren Taylor.’
Wheeler nodded. Kept waiting to find her voice and tell Ross that Jason knew the girl. Tried to still the voice that told her, so what? Half of Glasgow University must have known Lauren. Why drop her nephew in it? A student death wasn’t unknown. Then she came to her senses – what the fuck was she thinking? Wheeler pulled Ross aside, found her voice and told him she’d seen Jason with the dead girl. ‘And he had his arm around her minutes before he scored from Weirdo.’
Ross shook his head. ‘Fuckssake, Wheeler.’
‘I know. He swore it was just dope.’
‘And you believed him?’
‘Students take dope all the time – doesn’t mean he’s involved with this.’ She pointed back to the scene.
‘Doesn’t mean he’s not. So, what’re you going to do?’
She walked ahead of him. ‘Check the facts.’ She spoke to Bruce: ‘Thanks for letting us take a look. You sure it’s straightforward?’
Bruce nodded. ‘Looks like she fell or . . . jumped maybe. There was no sign of a struggle, but we’re keeping an open mind. Investigation will be thorough. There was only one glass on the table inside, nothing to suggest anyone else was there – looked like she’d been drinking.’
‘Definitely alone?’ Wheeler asked.
Morag Bruce peered at her. ‘Looks that way but . . . as I say, the investigation’s just getting started.’
Wheeler stood in the rain, felt it soak into her skin. Said nothing.
‘Got what you needed?’ Bruce had already turned back towards the body.
Wheeler wasn’t sure what she needed. She fingered the mobile in her pocket, thought of calling the station. Getting them to pick Jason up. She called Jason again, left another message on his mobile. Told him to call her ASAP.
Ross was waiting for her at the car and he did the universal mime for going for a drink. She realised she was still gripping her phone. She let it drop into her pocket and gave Ross a firm nod. A few minutes later they were back in his car.
