Текст книги "Riven"

Автор книги: A. J. McCreanor

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter 52

The sleet hammered down over the deserted street in the north of the city. Robertson slowed the car to a crawl, stopped and listened to the steady rhythm of the windscreen wipers for a few minutes before finally killing the engine. He twisted his wedding ring from his finger and threw it into the glove compartment. He felt his heartbeat quicken, felt the tremor in his hand begin. He heard the thrum of rain on the roof of the car, the dying sounds of the engine as the heat escaped. He licked his lips, tasted mint toothpaste and bitter mouthwash. He felt adrenaline work its magic as he waited expectantly. His mobile rang and he glanced at the name: Margaret. He switched it off. Within minutes there was movement from the bushes. Robertson watched as the shadow of a young man left the cover of darkness and sauntered towards the car, hips thrust out, hands in pockets. As if he were only on a night stroll. As if this was the perfect weather for walking. He looked as if he was in his late teens, but early twenties was more probable. His jeans were skin-tight, revealing the outline of his legs and his crotch. He wore a tightly zipped leather jacket and dark trainers. His dark hair was mid-length and swept back from a pale face. Robertson waited. The man approached, opened the door, settled himself in the passenger seat. Robertson inhaled the ocean scent of aftershave. He glanced at the young man, took in a strong profile, a large nose, plump lips, a diamond stud earring. Robertson reached forward and started the car.

They drove in silence to the industrial park. It was deserted and huge metal buildings blanketed the space. Aside from his car, the car park was empty. Robertson did what he always did: he leaned across and began. Gently at first, touching, exploring, pressing. Later he pursued his desire more aggressively and felt adrenaline fly through his body until finally, when he was sated, he stopped and leaned back in his seat, sweat saturating his shirt. He pulled up his trousers, ran a sweaty hand through his hair and sat waiting, until his breathing returned to its regular pace.

They drove back in silence, the sweat on Robertson cooling to a deep chill. The young man combed his hair, adjusted his clothes and stared out of the window. Robertson’s mouth tasted sour – he swallowed a few times before he finally slowed the car, opened the window and spat into the sleet. When they came to their earlier meeting place Robertson leaned over, pushed open the door and shoved the young man into the freezing cold night, then threw the notes after him. Before driving off, Robertson reached into the glove compartment and retrieved his wedding ring. Then he switched on his phone. Saw another missed called from his wife. Ignored it.

Chapter 53

In the East End of the city, in the empty CID suite at Carmyle Police Station, Boyd was answering the phone. ‘Hello, Mrs Robertson . . . no Ian’s not here. As far as I know he left a few hours ago. Of course I’ll tell him to give you a bell if he comes in. Bye.’

The strip lighting glared across the room, blinking now and again as if trying to induce a headache. He stood, walked to the window and stared out. In the distance he could see the M8. Cars were crawling through a fresh downpour, their tail lights creating a hazy, meandering path into and out of the city. He thought of the landfill site beside Doyle’s house and wondered why Doyle, with his kind of money, had chosen to live so close to it. He crossed to the kettle and switched it on, glanced across at his desk; on top of the pile of paperwork was a list of some of the items retrieved from Gilmore’s house. Everything that had been removed after the discovery of the body had been analysed for fingerprints, stray hairs, small particles of fibres, anything that would help identify the killer. But apart from an unmatched partial fingerprint and two anonymous callers, they had nothing.

He heard the kettle click, turned from the window and was spooning coffee into a mug when Robertson came through the door, coat damp, hair dishevelled.

Boyd raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘You’re late back. And by the way, your missus is just off the phone. You need to give her a bell.’

Robertson ignored him.

‘You okay?’ Boyd asked, ‘only you look drookit.’

Robertson looked at him. ‘I didn’t expect to find anyone here at this time.’

‘Doing a bit extra, couldn’t sleep.’ Boyd held up his mug of coffee. ‘You want some? Think I might have a packet of biscuits somewhere if that thieving git Ross hasn’t swiped them.’

Robertson shivered. ‘No thanks. Just came in to pick up . . .’ he paused, looked around. His desk was, as ever, an altar to neatness. ‘I thought I’d forgotten something.’

‘Anything important?’ Boyd looked at his colleague’s desk, at the neat rows of pencils, three pens evenly spaced apart, all paperwork aligned. Anal, Ross had called it. Certainly it was organised.

Robertson sighed, ran his hand through wet hair.

Boyd saw that Robertson’s hands were trembling. ‘You okay?’

‘Me?’ asked Robertson. ‘Why wouldn’t I be okay?’

‘Fuck knows, I’m only asking.’ Boyd paused, stared at him. His tie was off and despite his obvious chill he was sweating. ‘You getting the flu?’

Robertson said nothing.

Boyd took his coffee back to his desk and flicked through the paperwork he’d laid out. There was a list of the phone messages that had come in after the police appeal for information had aired. There had been dozens of sightings of ‘suspicious’ people who’d been seen around the area at the time Gilmore had been killed.

He tried again. ‘You seen the number of dodgy sightings that’ve been called in?’

Robertson nodded.

‘Trouble is, it’s not that unusual to see people acting suspiciously in Glasgow. I guess we’re like most cities – we have our fair share of suspicious characters.’

‘We just need the right one,’ Robertson said.

‘True,’ agreed Boyd. ‘What we need is a very particular type of character, a murderer and preferably seen on Sunday night carrying a bloody baseball bat dripping with James Gilmore’s DNA.’

‘Aye right.’

Boyd flicked through the updates. ‘Nothing much of interest here.’ He sipped his coffee and once again read the neatly typed notes taken from the staff at St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High. ‘Word for word the notes from the other two schools could have been from Watervale Academy for all the insight they offer into who James Gilmore was.’

Silence. He looked up at Robertson, saw that he had pulled his shirt collar around his throat, held it there with shaking hands, struggled to keep his voice steady. ‘I’m off then.’

‘Did you get what you came in for?’ Boyd nodded to Robertson’s desk.

Robertson looked blank for a second before muttering, ‘It doesn’t matter.’

Boyd watched him leave. ‘Okay, see you in the morning.’

But Robertson had gone.

Boyd settled himself and began scrolling down the new list of messages. He was on the third message when he saw one that might actually be helpful.

‘Hello, I saw your appeal about James Gilmore. Me and James . . . we went out for a while. It was years ago though. Not sure it matters much. Haven’t seen him in donkey’s – maybe it’s wasting your time? Anyway, here’s my number. I could tell you a wee bit about him. Not sure it would be anything you didn’t already know. But let me know if you want to talk. Bye-bye.’

The woman’s name was listed as Ms Debbie Morgan and her home address was in Sighthill. She’d supplied both her home telephone number and her mobile. Boyd jotted them down. They could call her but it was always more helpful to meet with an individual; sometimes it was what they didn’t say that was the most useful. Boyd wondered why Gilmore’s mother hadn’t mentioned the woman. Maybe Gilmore had a secret life after all? He flicked to the next message.

DREAMER

The Dreamer sleeps fitfully. He dreams of that night, of the storm. He dreams of leaving the house just as the big man was arriving. Both of them had had the same intention, had wanted the same outcome. Gilmore dead. The Dreamer hadn’t known that; he had felt that he had to do it. The Dreamer’s eyelashes flutter against his face, tears fall and his hand automatically rises to brush them away. He dreams of walking through the graveyard, of the storm soaking the blood from his clothes. Listening to the voice above the storm, being told what to do. Understanding that everything had changed.

Chapter 54

Robertson parked his car in the driveway and as the overhead security light came on he saw a fox disappear through the hedge. He walked to the front door and put his key into the lock, turned it, pushed open the door and went inside. Despite the two painkillers he felt the headache spread across his skull.

He stood in the hall and knew that she was behind him before she spoke.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Out.’

‘I called the station.’

‘I know.’

‘You haven’t been at work, have you?’

‘No.’

‘Where then?’

He stared at the carpet. It was over. ‘Out, driving around, thinking.’

‘About?’

‘Us.’

She waited.

‘We’re over. I’m leaving.’

Saw her look at him; she was hollow-eyed from crying. She started to shake. Robertson left her in the hall and went to the bedroom, took the case out of the cupboard and began packing.

Heard his wife crying, heard her anger rage into words, then sounds. Ignored it; it was white noise in the background of his journey.

A few minutes later and he was in the car again, driving through the empty streets, finally stopping at a cheap hotel. For the time being, it would do. He heard his mobile shrill, checked the number. It was Margaret. He switched it off.

Chapter 55

Friday, 13 December

Morning

It was the constant buzz that unnerved him, like the sound of a million hearts beating as hard and as loudly as his own. George Grey gripped his holdall and walked behind a young couple who’d also been on the overnight coach. They walked into the sea of bodies, their heads down, marching resolutely towards the exit. The young man was adamant. ‘It’s a different scale here altogether. London’s massive compared to Glasgow.’

His companion buttoned her coat up to the neck, shivering. ‘You’re not wrong there. Glasgow’s population is around what? The half million mark?’

‘Wee bit over but that’s the ball park.’ He walked beside her. ‘It’s a village in comparison.’

‘What’s London then?’

‘Seven point five million and still growing.’ The man hoisted his bag over his shoulder. ‘As I said, it’s a different scale.’

They followed the sign for the tube station. George Grey did as he’d been told and turned towards the taxi rank, where he queued for a quarter of an hour before climbing into the back of a black cab. His hand shook as he gave the piece of paper to the driver; the address had been neatly written out. He sat back in the cab and gnawed at the nail on his thumb. The nail was ragged and torn and his fingers were translucent with the cold. Forty-five minutes later they drove through wrought-iron gates and down a long gravel driveway. Huge oak trees lined either side of the drive, casting shadows over an already cold day.

‘This used to be the lunatic asylum.’ The driver pulled up in front of the building and switched off the meter. ‘What’s it now then?’

George Grey blinked, said nothing, thrust the notes into the driver’s hand and stepped out of the taxi and into a wind that whipped his face and tore at his clothes. The icy rain made his face feel raw. He waited until the taxi had driven off before turning towards the house. The place was in darkness save for a single light upstairs. The huge wooden door was closed; a bell on the left rang far into the house. He heard footsteps on a wooden floor, then the door opened. George Grey stood on the step in the rain and blinked at the man.

‘Come in George; I’ve been expecting you.’

George heard the door close behind him and the lock fall into place.

Chapter 56

Wheeler opened the door and a blast of heat from the station hit her. She took the stairs to the CID suite two at a time and walked into the room just in time to overhear something positive.

‘Well, it’s a result.’

‘Cheers, boss.’

Stewart was perched on the edge of her desk, still talking. ‘We’ll get someone out there to interview her.’ Boyd was finishing his morning coffee and was looking very pleased with himself and she guessed it wasn’t just because he was scoffing the last of a Belgian bun and was on a sugar hit.

Boyd brushed the flakes of the bun from his shirt.

Wheeler dumped her coat over her chair. ‘What?’

‘Boyd’s traced an ex-girlfriend of James Gilmore’s,’ said Stewart.

‘And not Angela Meek,’ added Boyd.

‘Aye, right.’ Stewart smoothed his tie and fiddled with his cufflinks. ‘Well, Angela Meek was cremated thirty years ago and her ashes scattered on the Clyde, so no, not her.’

‘His mother didn’t seem to think he’d dated again,’ said Wheeler.

‘This woman says she dated him a while back, but she phoned in, left a message. Mammies don’t always know best,’ said Boyd.

‘So, go see her, Wheeler.’ Stewart stood and arched his back, groaned. ‘Bloody squash.’

‘On my way.’ As she watched Stewart leave the room, she tried to shake the image of him in a dress. Failed.

‘I’ll drive.’ Boyd pulled on his padded anorak, stood waiting for her like an eager puppy. A very round puppy.

‘No chance. I’ve seen your driving; it’s worse than Ross’s.’

‘That bad?’

‘Uh huh. And don’t sound so pleased about it.’

Beside her in the car, Boyd was dipping into a bag of crisps. ‘We going past the stone circle?’

‘Come again?’

‘The stone circle up by Sighthill.’

‘You kidding me?’

‘Nope. There was a stone circle built in the 1970s up by Sighthill. Properly aligned and everything.’

She peered at him. ‘Glasgow’s very own Stonehenge?’

He tucked into the last of the crisps. ‘You mind?’ He pointed to the radio.

‘Go ahead.’

Boyd turned the dial to hear the sports discussion. Wheeler tuned out, thought about a Glasgow stone circle and decided she might check it out at some point, see if it really existed. Right now she needed to get to Gilmore’s ex-girlfriend. Debbie Morgan lived in a flat on the thirteenth floor of a high-rise in Sighthill. One of the remaining high-rises which had so far escaped demolition. Wheeler drove through the city, towards the Tron theatre, turning up the High Street and driving on past the Royal Infirmary.

A few minutes later she turned the car into the car park. The weather meant that they trotted from the car to the entrance to the building. They took the lift; it smelled of cheap air freshener. Boyd sniffed. ‘Could be worse.’

The thirteenth floor was immaculate; potted plants lined the corridor and little welcome mats sat outside doors.

The woman who opened the door was in her late forties, bleach-blonde, skinny. Smelled like a smoker. Sported a black eye. ‘You the polis?’

Wheeler and Boyd flashed their ID cards.

They followed her into a sitting room that could have rivalled Santa’s grotto. A huge silver tree stood in the corner of the room, every branch dripping with baubles, tinsel, ropes of glittering beads and multicoloured fairy lights. A pink angel sat on top of the tree, one eye winking. Boyd stared at it. ‘That thing winking at me?’

Debbie flushed with pleasure. ‘I know, it’s brilliant, isn’t it? Runs off a wee battery.’

‘My girlfriend would love that,’ Boyd said.

‘I got it from the Barras . . . and—’

Wheeler cleared her throat.

Boyd flushed. ‘Sorry boss, just stuck for a pressie and—’

Debbie tried to save him by changing the subject. ‘Yous two want coffee?’

‘No thanks, we’re fine.’

‘Wouldn’t mind, thanks.’

They’d spoken in unison.

Debbie Morgan looked at them. ‘What’s it to be then?’

Wheeler spoke. ‘Nothing for me but if my colleague here wants something.’

‘It’s okay,’ said Boyd.

Debbie patted Boyd’s arm. ‘It’s no problem, I’ll make us a coffee. I fancy a wee Bailey’s coffee myself. What about you?’

Boyd glanced at Wheeler. ‘Maybe just the coffee then.’

‘On duty? Ach I’m sure your boss’ll no mind,’ she stared at Wheeler, ‘will you?’

‘Actually I do.’ Wheeler smiled. ‘No point in drinking this early.’

Debbie shot Boyd a sympathetic glance. ‘I’ll away and make you a straight coffee. No wee treats,’ she stared reproachfully at Wheeler, ‘even though it is nearly Christmas.’

When she returned with the tray, she joined them on the sofa, slotting herself neatly between the arm of the sofa and Boyd. It was a tight squeeze. ‘So, I read about James, that’s why I phoned you and left a message. I read that he got killed last Sunday but I’ve been away for a few days or I would’ve called in straight away. I had a wee accident.’ She touched her blackened eye.

‘You okay now?’ Boyd asked.

‘Fine, ta.’

‘I’m sorry about how you heard of James Gilmore’s death.’ Wheeler kept her voice compassionate. ‘You said in the message you’d been dating.’

‘Ages ago, I mean years ago. It didn’t last long.’

‘We spoke to his mother,’ said Wheeler. ‘She seemed to think he’d only ever had one girlfriend.’

‘Never met her. Didn’t even know his mum was still alive – he never mentioned her. James didn’t talk about much; he was a bit secretive. But also a bit of a show-off.’

Boyd leaned forward. ‘In what way?’

‘He wouldn’t talk about his work much, said it was confidential. And we hardly went out on our own, you know, just the two of us? He always wanted to go to the same places his work cronies would go to; it was kind of like he was proud that we were dating. It’s not that he especially liked them or anything. But . . .’

‘But?’ prompted Boyd.

‘But he never really wanted to spend time with me on my own, only if we were out and about being seen by others. He was a cold fish at home.’

‘How long were you dating?’ asked Wheeler.

‘On and off for about six months.’

‘Why did he break up with you?’ asked Boyd.

‘Oh, he never broke up with me,’ Debbie laughed, ‘I chucked him.’

‘Can I ask why?’ Wheeler recognised something in Debbie’s tone. Resignation, disappointment. Something had been far wrong. She wondered if Debbie would tell them.

‘He couldn’t get it up.’

‘Sorry?’ Boyd had gulped his coffee so quickly it had burned his mouth.

‘Happens to most men now and again; I suppose you’ll be aware of that,’ she nodded to Boyd. He studied the pattern on the carpet.

‘Go on,’ said Wheeler.

‘Well he could never do it – it was never on the “on” button if you get my drift, it was always on the “off”, so I told him to sling his hook. Us girls need a bit of fun, don’t we?’ she grinned at Wheeler. ‘And I wasn’t having any.’

‘How did he take it?’

‘Badly. He proposed.’

‘Marriage?’

‘Aye.’

‘Why would he do that?’

Debbie sat back in her sofa and drained the last of her coffee. ‘I’ve thought long and hard about that over the years. Me, I was working in the local chippy; he was a graduate. He never loved me, I knew that.’

‘So why the proposal?’ prompted Wheeler.

‘I don’t know for sure, but I reckon he might have needed a . . .’ she put her hands in the air and made the shape of quotation marks, ‘a wee wifie.’

‘Because?’ Wheeler asked but she already knew the answer.

‘Because, I reckon he was gay and needed a wee wifie to keep up appearances. Had to be – couldn’t have sex, didn’t fancy women. Couldn’t even fake it.’

‘Not many men can,’ muttered Boyd.

‘Anything else?’ asked Wheeler.

Debbie paused. ‘Nothing else that I can remember.’

‘Thanks very much for your time.’ Wheeler stood to leave.

‘More coffee?’ suggested Debbie.

‘We’ll let ourselves out. Thanks again.’ Wheeler offered her hand, Debbie shook it then turned to Boyd, winked at him. ‘You mind visit any time you like. I reckon we’re a couple of kindred spirits you and me.’

In the corridor the smell of air freshener seemed to have intensified. ‘Let’s take the stairs.’ Wheeler strode on. ‘You were certainly a hit back there.’

Boyd had the decency to blush. ‘You think Gilmore was gay?’

Wheeler took the steps two at a time. ‘Or maybe he just didn’t like his girlfriend that much.’

‘She’s a bit scary right enough but he still wanted to keep her as a cover. What was he hiding?’

‘I know, it looks quite suspicious.’

‘Or sinister.’ The word hung in the air.

She paused. ‘But there was nothing in his past to suggest . . .’

But Boyd was there before she finished. ‘Kids?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Nothing turned up in any reports; there were no accusations. Nothing.’

‘Uh huh.’ They both knew that meant very little.

‘Pete Newton said the killer hated his mother. Sounds like Gilmore wasn’t so keen on his old dear if he never mentioned her in the six months that he was dating Debbie.’

‘I’ve met his old dear and she’s anything but a dear.’

‘Gilmore’s ghost is taking on form.’

Outside the cold hit them. ‘Where to now?’ asked Boyd.

‘Back to the station to carry on our sleuthing work. I’ve got a gut feeling.’

‘Go on.’

‘Something’s changed in this case. The station will be a hive of activity.’