Текст книги "Riven"

Автор книги: A. J. McCreanor

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter 57

The CID suite at the station was dead, deserted except for Robertson and some uniformed officers who were frantically typing at computers. Wheeler could tell something had happened but the atmosphere was all wrong.

‘Well?’ She looked at Robertson, took in the faintly creased suit, the tired expression. He looked like he hadn’t slept. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Clydebank.’

She could tell by the flatness of his tone. ‘And?’

‘Nothing yet, except this.’ He handed her a slip of paper with an address scrawled on it. ‘Stewart says to get out there ASAP. We found the address on two of Gilmore’s old parking tickets at the bottom of one of the boxes. Finally called them; it turns out that the key’s for a steel storage unit in Clydebank – Solid Steel Solutions.’

Wheeler noted the expression, the tone. This was the breakthrough they’d been looking for but something was wrong. Robertson’s tone and the fact that the team had all taken off. For a visit to a storage unit. Gilmore had a big house in Glasgow – why did he need a storage unit too? And why was it way out in Clydebank?

She was at the door before she thought to ask, ‘Robertson, anything else happen?’

He nodded. ‘Better ask Ross.’

Minutes later Wheeler and Boyd were driving out of the city. Clydebank was out at West Dunbartonshire, about thirteen miles from Carmyle, and the journey would normally have taken them around half an hour.

‘Shit,’ Wheeler cursed again as they sat in traffic which was backed up on the M74. Sleet was falling fast and visibility was poor. Boyd sighed, switched on the radio, switched it off again. Tried not to appear agitated but failed. Drummed his fingers on his seat belt. Swore under his breath.

The A814 was the same: traffic was backed up and nothing was moving. Wheeler drove cautiously when they were moving, careful not to let the car slide. Eventually after almost an hour they got to their destination and saw that ‘Solid Steel Solutions’ was set in a remote area on the outskirts of Clydebank. The secure storage on offer was rows of steel shipping containers around ten feet by eight feet. Each had its own padlock. Wheeler looked at the entrance; it would usually be accessed by sliding the electronic key tag over the pad which would activate the huge metal gates. Once a car was inside, the gates would automatically close behind it. Right now the gates were permanently set on open to accommodate the police cars. She glanced around and guessed from the lack of an on-site office that the site was not usually manned, but she could see four personnel in suits standing in the sleet talking to Stewart.

As Wheeler and Boyd approached, Stewart broke off to acknowledge her and point to a storage unit at the end of the row. He needn’t have bothered – it was crawling with CID and uniform.

Ross came out of the unit as she approached. Shook his head, walked on.

Stewart finished with the men in suits and stood beside her. He touched her elbow.

She looked at him. ‘Boss?’

‘A quick look, Wheeler,’ he instructed her. ‘Don’t linger.’

Inside, her footsteps echoed on the concrete floor. There was metal shelving running the length of the unit. On the shelves in neat, ordered packs, were thousands of photographs and pictures. James Gilmore had been methodical in his storage. There were bundles of images, scribbled locations. She glanced at one of the older packages: Stobwent-Hill Children’s Home, Glasgow. As far as she knew the home no longer existed – it was long gone, its child residents scattered across the city. Other labels simply described the images as Downloads 2008–2009, 2009–2010, 2010–2011. On the shelves there were thousands of pictures, some developed, others downloaded. All dated, sorted chronologically, the most recent at the front. All revolting. Gilmore had been a paedophile for decades. He was in some of the photographs – she guessed that he was the man in the mask, holding the chains. Wheeler glanced at one, saw the bleakness in the young boy’s eyes, the leather collar tethered around his thin neck, and felt her stomach heave, her mouth fill with bile, her forehead break out in a cold sweat. She turned away, headed for the exit and was grateful when she stood outside taking in gulps of cold sleet. She tightened both hands into fists. Walked over to Stewart, who was talking to a group of officers. Her throat was sore and she wanted to throw up. ‘Boss?’

‘Right, get this lot dusted for prints, bagged and tagged and shipped out.’ Stewart’s face was grey, his knuckles white as he spoke to the officers. He looked at her. ‘Back to the station. We can’t do any more here and I think you’ve seen enough.’

She had.

Boyd was staying put, so she drove back, insisted on it. Said that she needed to concentrate. Ross sat beside her. She waited until they were out of Clydebank before she spoke. ‘You were right.’

‘Bastard.’ Ross stared out at the River Clyde. ‘Fucking bastard.’

‘Robertson said there was something else.’

‘Yeah, I finally got a reference for Arthur Wright. And a phone trace for the two calls about Gilmore.’

‘The ones about Gilmore being linked to him and not being a good guy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And?’

‘They were from a payphone in the Watervale scheme. Near the youth club. Someone had done their homework. Maybe they didn’t want to talk to the polis but they found out about Gilmore and passed the info along.’

‘Took us long enough to find it though.’

‘It was a long shot. Arthur Wright had been deported from the US, went back to his original name, then an alias. It was cross-referenced, but it took forever to trace.’

‘And?’ her voice trailed off.

‘Same as back there.’ He jabbed his thumb back the way they’d come.

She drove to the station, parked, and they were in the CID suite, taking off their damp jackets, when Stewart arrived. ‘Meeting in my room in ten.’

She nodded but knew that the atmosphere in the suite had lost its charge. James Gilmore had been murdered but now that he had gone from victim to perpetrator, the energy for a conviction had dissipated.

‘Changes everything, doesn’t it?’ Ross pushed a cup of coffee in front of her. Slid a wrapped chocolate beside it. ‘Eat.’

She ate. ‘It shouldn’t change anything though, should it? Gilmore was brutally murdered and we still need to find out who did it.’ But she heard the weariness in her voice, the lack of emotion. An image from the storage unit flashed into her mind, a young boy’s face. The dead expression in his eyes. She sipped the black coffee, sighed, swallowed the chocolate, felt a rush of sugar and warmth. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

Ten minutes later and they were crowded into Stewart’s room.

Chapter 58

Friday night

The strip lights in the Royal Infirmary were too bright for him. William MacIntyre half closed his eyes and watched while the doctor chatted to each patient in turn. He cursed under his breath as he waited for her to make her way around the ward. He clawed at his arm, felt the shakes begin again. Forced himself to lie down on the bed. Closed his eyes, prayed that the pain would disappear. Cursed again, this time loud enough for the man in the next bed to hear and respond. ‘Christ, will you shut up. You’re not the only one suffering.’

MacIntyre ignored him, focused instead on the progress of the doctor. He thought she looked about sixteen but he knew she had to be older. He studied her: she was small, about five two, but she had an athletic build and a fresh, open face and her long blonde hair was tied back in a pony-tail. She looked like a different species from him. Healthy. He felt his stomach spasm. Took a deep breath. Felt into the pain. Watched her smile at another patient, touch their hand. ‘Fuck,’ he hissed; the pain was worse. He closed his eyes. ‘Fuckssake,’ he whispered.

‘Shut it you,’ the man in the next bed snarled. ‘Think you’re the only one in pain, you junkie tosspot.’

Eventually she came to him, read his notes. A wee lassie telling him what he should be doing, what he should be taking. What a cunt. MacIntyre sat up in the bed, screwed his eyes at the name badge. Dr Susan Armstrong was still droning on.

‘Mr MacIntyre, we can help you with a withdrawal programme. I can get you signed up today if you like. It might not be available right away, it might take a week or so, but there are agencies that could help you. It would be a managed withdrawal, with plenty of support, including counselling. It wouldn’t be like going cold turkey on your own.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m no interested.’

‘Because?’

He shrugged – why bother going into it?

She moved closer to the bed. ‘You don’t understand. After an attempted suicide, we need to put help and support into place.’

He glared at her. ‘Mibbe you don’t fucking understand hen.’

‘I won’t put up with bad language.’ Her voice cold.

‘Well then shut it.’

The doctor took a step back, frowned, started again. ‘Mr MacIntyre, I’m here to help you. At least try to be civil.’

He felt his fingers twitch. Felt the ache deep in his bones. ‘How long have I got? How long can I stay here?’

‘In this ward?’

‘Aye, in the infirmary.’

‘Until tomorrow morning. Then I’m afraid we need to move you on. Which is why I’d like to get you signed up to the programme.’

MacIntyre shut his eyes. His voice cracked, ‘I took a fuckin’ overdose, could you no have just let me be?’

She glanced at her notes. ‘You were at home when you took the overdose.’

‘Aye, so?’

‘Your neighbour found you and called the ambulance.’

MacIntyre closed his eyes. ‘The neighbour’s a thieving git. Should never have been prowlin’ about ma hoose in the first place.’

‘That may well be but he saved your life and now I suggest that you accept help in managing your addiction. We have outside agencies who can help you. In the meantime I can get you on a methadone programme.’

MacIntyre gripped his hospital gown around him and sniffed. He heard more questions but ignored them all. He waited until the young doctor had moved off, exasperated, before he opened his mobile and dialled home. It took a while ringing before she answered.

Her voice was slurred. ‘Yesh?’ She didn’t have her teeth in.

‘I’m no coming back.’

‘Who’s thiss?’

‘Who the fuck dae ye think it is, ya daft cow?’

A long pause. ‘Wullie?’

‘Aye.’

‘Are ye no still in the Royal?’

‘Aye but I’m meant tae be out the morrow.’

‘Hame? You’re gonnae be hame in the morning?’

‘I’m no coming back but.’

‘How’ss that then?’

‘The fucker that got Gilmore’s coming for me next. I’m oan the list. I’m oan Doyle’s fucking list. Weirdo told me. Ma name’s right under fucking Gilmore’s and look what happened tae him.’

A long pause, the penny dropping. ‘How doess he know, how doess Doyle know? How doess Weirdo know?’

‘I don’t know. But they fucking know. And George has disappeared. I think he told them about whit was happening.’

‘Fuck.’ Her voice a whisper.

‘Aye, I’m fucked. And I’m no letting them dae tae me whit they did tae Gilmore.’

Silence.

‘You still there?’

‘Aye.’

‘So I’m off, away oot of it.’

A long pause. ‘But where will you go?’

His voice hardened. ‘There’s no a lot of choice is there? Whit I’m saying is my options are very-fucking-severely-limited.’

‘Well. Jist come hame then? Ish that no the besht thing?’

‘Fuck off.’

Silence.

‘That’ss no nice.’

‘Well, the-games-a-fucking-bogey for me.’

‘Kin ye no sort it?’

‘How? It’s over fir me.’

Silence.

‘You hear me?’

‘Aye.’

‘So.’

‘Aye. That’s me on ma own now?’

MacIntyre switched off the phone. Lay on his back, felt the tears come, hot, salty. Turned onto his side and faced the wall. Closed his eyes. He felt the ache in his kidneys begin again and he stretched his right hand around to the soreness. The three stumps on his hand kneaded uselessly against the searing pain. MacIntyre knew about the list – Christ, everyone in Glasgow knew Doyle had a list. And now MacIntyre’s name was on it. MacIntyre knew it was over. Knew where he had to go.

The bridge.

He waited until the shift change had started, watched the nurses congregate around the desk at the far end of the ward. Looked at the clock: it was eight p.m. Through the window he saw sleet hammering down on the city. He crossed the ward, stumbled down the corridor to the lift. A few minutes later he was walking past a group of smokers at the hospital doorway; one of them spat on the ground as he passed. MacIntyre ignored them and walked out into the cold night and kept walking until he reached it.

The bridge.

He waited until the bus was in sight before he stepped off the bridge.

Chapter 59

It’s Friday night, surely you have some time off . . . are you around for a drink?

Wheeler read the text from Paul Buchan. Pressed delete. She sat alone in the CID suite; it was silent apart from the distant thrum of traffic. Even the sleet outside had ceased battering against the window panes and had lessened to a drizzle. The overhead strip of fluorescent light was turned off. Wheeler sat under a halo of light from the desk lamp. There was just enough light for her to read the reports, to examine the evidence bags. The photographs had been dusted for prints, everything had been logged, recorded, noted. In the still calm of the night Wheeler reached for one of the bags, noticed the tremor in her hand as she pulled out the photographs and stared at each one in turn. Finally she began to stuff them back into the plastic bags. A few remained. Holding one of the pictures in her hand, she tried to imagine the reality of life for these boys. The boy in the photograph had his back to the camera and was completely naked, his skin blue-white with cold. The room was empty, only the boy standing alone, his skin pale but for the smear of red that seeped down his thighs.

Wheeler put the photograph back with the others.

Downstairs, Tommy Cunningham was at the desk sipping coffee and finishing off a chocolate biscuit. He looked up as she approached. His voice was soft when he asked, ‘That you done, then, for the night?’

Wheeler glanced at him. ‘I’m done, TC. I’ve had more than enough of this case for today.’

‘Aye,’ Cunningham agreed, ‘I think we all have.’

‘Goodnight TC.’

‘Night hen.’

She pulled on her coat, shoved a hat over her damp hair and wandered into the rain. She could feel a tension headache start at the base of her neck. Her mobile rang. She glanced at the name. Ross. When she answered there was music in the background. ‘Wondered if you fancied a drink, maybe a chat about the case?’ Ross paused. ‘But maybe you’re shattered. And we’ll get the official debrief from Stewart tomorrow.’

‘It’s okay, I thought you were off to see your girlfriend?’

‘Ex-girlfriend.’

‘Thought you went round there the other night?’

‘It was a relapse for both of us. It’s over. Sure you don’t fancy coming into town for a drink?’

Wheeler felt the rain run down her neck, felt the cold of the wind against her face, felt her headache retreat. ‘Maybe. Depends. Where are you?’

He paused. ‘Bar 99.’

She laughed, ‘Could you have aimed any lower?’

‘There was supposed to be live music.’ He sounded defensive.

‘Is there a band on?’ she groaned. ‘I couldn’t face music tonight.’

‘It was cancelled.’

Bar 99 was right next to the River Clyde. It was a pub to get lost in. Usually crowded, dark and with enough nooks and crannies to talk without fear of being overheard. A place where you could talk about a case without anyone hearing. So ideal in some ways.

‘Tempted?’

‘Okay. Let me drop the car off first.’

She drove home, parked the car and walked through Candleriggs and its ropes of twinkling fairy lights and glowing Christmas decorations. She passed the Bluestone Theatre and turned, kept going until she heard the roar from the River Clyde. A few minutes later and she walked into Bar 99, all low ceilings, dark wood panels and a warm atmosphere. It was busy in the back but there were stools free at the bar. She looked around, saw Ross ensconced at a corner table with two heavyset women. Both women wore thick eyeliner, even thicker foundation and painted smiles. Wheeler nodded to Ross, he rose, and the smiles on the women’s faces turned sour. Wheeler settled at the bar and ordered a Chardonnay.

‘Medium or large?’ asked the barman.

She had to stop herself asking for a bottle. ‘Large, thanks.’ She watched it being set in front of her.

Ross shuffled onto a stool beside her. ‘Out of your depth there, Ross,’ she smiled as she sipped the cold wine.

‘Christ, you’re telling me. I just came in for a quick pint and they pounced.’

‘You’re fresh meat.’ She glanced back; the two women looked like they wanted to kill her. ‘Sure you don’t want to go back, be the meat in their sandwich?’

He shuddered. Nodded to the barman. ‘Pint of heavy please.’

The barman began to pour. ‘No interested in the two lassies back there then, son?’

‘No way.’

‘They’ll be gutted – they must’ve thought it was their lucky night.’

‘Think they’ll get over it,’ said Ross, paying for both his pint and Wheeler’s wine.

‘Think they already have,’ the barman grinned.

They turned to look. A small, thin man in his late sixties wearing a pencil moustache and a freshly pressed tweed suit had perched himself at the table, fitting snugly between the two women.

‘Carnage.’ Wheeler shuddered and turned back to the bar.

The barman gave Ross his change. ‘Och, he’ll die happy, hen. Ye cannae begrudge him that.’ He left them alone and went to the far side of the bar.

They sat in silence for a few minutes; the new development in the case had robbed them of their adrenaline. Both of them knew they would have to find it again.

‘So, what brings you out on a night like this?’ Ross gave her his smarmiest smile.

‘Is that your best chat-up line, Ross?’

‘Would it work?’

‘Tell me, has it ever worked?’

‘True.’ He sipped his pint. The music was loud, Snow Patrol.

She kept her voice low. ‘So what are we left with?’

‘James Gilmore died because he was abusing children. There are hundreds of victims and it could be any one of them. And to be honest, Wheeler, I wouldn’t blame them for killing the bastard.’

‘That’s it exactly,’ she sipped her wine, ‘I think the whole of the station wants to just let this one go.’

‘Yeah.’

‘But that’s not our job.’

He studied the clientele in the pub. Said nothing.

Wheeler continued, ‘We’ve nothing new and eventually Grim will write up what was found at the unit in Clydebank. No one will come forward and there’s no chance of a conviction, is there?’

‘Some folk will believe that it’s a waste of taxpayers’ money to go searching for whoever did this; they’ll believe the killer did us a favour in the long run. And I can’t blame them.’

‘You think Andy Doyle had anything to do with it?’

‘Evidence?’ asked Ross.

She looked at her glass. ‘Nothing, other than they met at the charity do.’

‘Him and a few hundred others; it’s not enough, is it?’

‘No.’

‘I think Doyle maybe knows who did it, but whether or not it was him . . . who knows? We have no motive.’

She sipped her wine. ‘I know. And Lauren Taylor’s death, just horrible. It’s been a fucking awful week.’

‘You got the update on Jason?’

She nodded. ‘They dragged him into the station in the West End. He swore he wasn’t involved. Eventually they let him go. They’re convinced that the evidence points to her getting off her face and accidentally falling from the balcony.’ She paused. ‘Do we know where she got the GHB?’

Ross drained the last of his pint. ‘We’re pretty certain it came via someone in the Tenant clan.’

‘Wee Stevie?’

‘Maybe, if he’s trying to go it alone.’

‘But he doesn’t operate near the university. Could Weirdo have supplied it? So then it would be Doyle that we’d be looking at?’

Ross shook his head. ‘No evidence to point that way.’

Wheeler drained her glass, waited until Ross had ordered again and the fresh drinks sat in front of them before she spoke. ‘Even if he’s not involved, Jason’s a heartless fuck.’

‘You reckon he gave her the stuff at some point in the last week?’

‘Highly possible.’

‘But he’s denying it?’

‘But I already know that he’s a liar.’

‘You sure about the drugs though?’

She sighed.

‘Burden of proof?’

She nodded. ‘And I’m not allowed to investigate because he’s fucking family. He’s involved in some way, I’m sure of it, but he’s going to get away with it. He could be done for supplying.’

The barman switched CDs. Van Morrison sang about a brown-eyed girl. The bar was getting busy and people were crowding in from the street. Ross nudged her. ‘Let’s get a comfortable seat.’

She followed his gaze; the two women and the thin man were disappearing out of the door, leaving their table free. ‘Result,’ the barman smiled as he followed them to the table and collected the empty glasses.

Wheeler’s phone chirruped. A text from her sister: I demand to know what’s going on.

‘I bet you fucking do,’ Wheeler muttered, deleting the text.

Her mobile rang. ‘Let me just take this quickly, Ross.’

Her sister sounded hysterical. ‘I want to know what the problem is, Katherine.’

Wheeler kept her tone the right side of pissed off. ‘There’s a big problem, Jo. Fucking Jason.’

Silence, then, ‘He’s in trouble?’

‘Big trouble.’

‘Tell me.’

Wheeler told her.

Jo’s voice rose. ‘He won’t be involved – how can you even think that?’

‘He knew her. He knows a lot more than he’s saying.’

‘So? You need to clean up this mess.’

‘How come it’s now my mess?’

‘You’re police. You can sort this.’

‘Think Jason already tried that approach. It failed.’

‘And he’s family.’

‘He’s your family.’

‘You’ve never cared about family. I suppose you think that it’s my problem and you can’t be arsed helping us.’

Wheeler held the phone out in front of her, shook her head in disbelief. Let her sister rant for a few minutes, heard key phrases – ‘you were always rubbish at emotions’, ‘hopeless at being part of a family but then . . .’ a pause as if she was holding back. Then a new list of why Wheeler wasn’t a good sister, hadn’t been a good daughter, blah, blah, blah. Finally Wheeler clamped the phone back to her ear. ‘You finished with the character assassination?’

Jo hadn’t. ‘How would you even know how a mother feels? You’ve no idea what I’m going through.’

‘You’ve no idea how clichéd you sound.’

‘Let me explain something: it’s like a physical pain. An actual pain.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake get off your cross.’ Wheeler was losing patience. ‘A young girl has died and Jason could be involved. He’s certainly lying through his teeth about something.’

But her sister still hadn’t finished. ‘I’m suffering, Katherine.’

‘Yes you are,’ Wheeler paused, ‘from a terminal case of melodrama.’

‘You fucking cow!’

The phone went dead. Wheeler looked up, caught Ross watching her. ‘Played that one well, didn’t I? Didn’t exactly get her on board.’

‘Could’ve been better, I suppose. You going to call her back?’

Wheeler shook her head. ‘First time I heard her swear.’

‘You must have touched a nerve.’

‘She said I was rubbish at emotions and family. This coming from a woman who’s produced a fucking psychopath for a son.’

‘Charming.’

She sipped the chilled wine. ‘But I’m right.’

‘You think she’ll come round when she realises the trouble he could be in?’

‘I doubt it.’ Wheeler looked at him. ‘I think he’s like his mother; it runs in the family. Besides, officially he’s off the hook.’