Текст книги "Riven"

Автор книги: A. J. McCreanor

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter 64

Saturday, 14 December

Doyle sipped his coffee and didn’t bother to rearrange his face into any kind of civil. That kind of shite could wait. He heard footsteps walk towards his office, then pause. The knock on the door was slight, tentative, respectful. Aye, well it had better be fucking respectful.

Smithy inched his way into the room. Tried to say, ‘Okay, Mr Doyle?’ but his voice had deserted him. Stood, hands clasped together, shaking. Blubber glistening, pools of sweat cooling.

Looked like his bowels might let him down.

Doyle shook his head sadly. ‘You like robins, Smithy?’

Smithy shifted uncomfortably. Said nothing. Eyes darting.

‘What about sparrows?’

Smithy stared at the thick carpet, clenched his buttocks. Concentrated.

‘You deaf, Smithy?’

‘Is it like a trick question, Mr Doyle? If you want me to like them, aye, fair enough. But if no, well that’s fine as well. Jist, you know, jist tell me.’ He licked his lips. ‘Whit’s the right answer?’

‘You tell me, Smithy.’

Smithy bit his lip. Hard. Drew blood. Sucked it back into his mouth quickly.

‘I find wee birds handy, you know?’

‘How’s that then Mr Doyle, you one of them . . . things . . . no sure of the name . . .?’ Smithy tried hard, like he was fighting for his life, ‘A tweeter . . . a twitcher?’

Doyle smiled. ‘An ornithologist, is that what you mean Smithy?’

‘Aye Mr Doyle, that’s whit I mean.’ He sounded unsure.

‘Well, see a wee bird told me that you’ve been, now, what’s the right word here?’

Silence.

‘Fraternising, yeah that’ll do. See the wee bird whispered in my ear that you and that bollocks Stevie Tenant have been seen having a wee get-together.’

Smithy turned white, started to shake. ‘I jist bumped into him in a pub, couple of times, Mr Doyle, honest.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Honest Mr Doyle. I jist nodded tae him. Couldnae ignore him could I?’

Doyle sat back in his chair, rested his hands on his boat of a desk. Watched Smithy try for a smile, his face a tangle of spasm. Waited some more. Saw the attempt to smile die on his face. Watched the face grow pale. Kept his voice low, reasonable. ‘See there’s something I don’t like. Any ideas?’

Smithy didn’t trust an answer, shook his head.

‘I don’t like it when folk are lying to me.’

Silence.

‘But worse than that, way fucking worse is something I hate.’ Doyle paused. ‘Care to hazard a guess Smithy?’

More silence.

‘I’ll take that as a no then. The thing I hate most in this fucking world is disloyalty.’ Doyle dropped his voice, held his palm out towards Smithy. ‘Can’t make it any clearer can I?’

‘But Mr D . . .’

Doyle held a finger to his lips. ‘Shhh, Smithy, it’s too late for excuses. Thinking back on it, there was the night that you chased the two wee boys. Seems to me like it wasn’t just a mistake, looks awfully like you were laying a trail for the polis. A trail which started at Gilmore and led to the wee boys, then to you and finally it ended at me. And now there’s a wee lassie lying dead. Now I’m no angel but a dead student isn’t good for business. Can you at least stretch your pea brain around that point?’

Smithy nodded. Look genuinely contrite. Relaxed a little.

A bit too premature.

‘So, what I’m saying is, if her drugs didn’t come from me via Weirdo, then they came from Tenant, McGregor or an independent. But, see, here’s my problem. That wee lassie was at Glasgow Uni, in the West End. Am I correct?’

Smithy nodded. Looked at the floor. Waited.

‘And who supplies the West End?’

‘You do Mr Doyle.’

‘But it wasn’t my gear – see my problem? Which brings us back to the wee bird that told me they’d seen you with Stevie Tenant.’

The penny dropped. Smithy knew that this wasn’t just a slap on the wrist.

‘You know your options?’

Smithy nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing erratically.

‘Relocation’s always the safest bet. Edinburgh’s mibbe too close, Aberdeen’s nice at this time of the year, or further up? Otherwise . . .’

‘No!’ Smithy held up his hands. ‘No. Please Mr Doyle, I’m out of here. Honest. I’ve a mate in Aberdeen I can stay with. First thing tomorrow morning . . .’ He stared at Doyle, saw his expression. ‘Just wanted to say cheerio to ma girlfriend?’

Saw that Doyle disagreed with that plan of action.

‘Aye, okay, I’m on my way to Buchanan Street bus station. Last bus . . .’

Doyle shook his head.

Smithy waited. Eventually asked, ‘I’ve no to go to Aberdeen?’

‘Aberdeen’s fine but you’ll be going by train. Faster. I want you gone. Understand?’

‘Next train leaving. Honest, Mr Doyle.’

‘You see be on it. Otherwise . . .’

But Smithy was already out of the door. His bowels had moved.

Chapter 65

Later on, when she’d thought about it, when she had traced the events of that morning back to the beginning, Marjory Watkins decided that it was all the fault of her husband, Rory, like so many of the other things that had gone wrong in her life. It had been Rory’s idea to get the dog in the first place, a small border collie. A very handsome dog with a gentle face, a long nose, soft brown eyes and neat paws. Answered to the name of Prince. There wasn’t much wrong with Prince, Marjory thought, but he was a dog and dogs needed to be walked. Daily. That morning Rory had complained of flu again and that was why at 7.15 a.m. Marjory had been trailing after Prince in the cold morning drizzle.

Marjory had crossed the bridge and had been walking along the Clydeside when she’d spotted it. She’d stared at it for a few seconds but her eyesight was impeccable and she knew what she saw. The shape bobbing head-down in the freezing water was a human being, a man. Marjory gave a short cry and pointed, but other than the dog there was no one else to see the floating body. Marjory had not taken her phone with her that morning and so had to run into the road and flag down an early-morning bus. The driver called it in and had the kindness to pour her a cup of sweet tea from his flask as they waited for the police to arrive. Marjory had never cursed in her life, but that morning she called her husband a lazy bastard in front of the policeman. The policeman had nodded.

Chapter 66

Weirdo stood in the train station sipping a takeaway coffee from a cardboard cup. The station was open-plan, which meant every chill from the weather outside travelled through, keeping the place about the same temperature as a freezer. He blew on his coffee and watched the steam rise through the cold air. He checked the timetable again; the train to Aberdeen was due to leave in ten minutes. So far no Smithy. His mobile rang. ‘Mr Doyle.’

‘He there yet, Weirdo?’

‘No, he’s not shown a face yet.’

‘Stay there.’

‘Aye, will do.’ He paused. ‘Is Smithy definitely meant tae be in this station, Mr Doyle?’

‘Aye.’

‘Only he’s cutting it fine – the train’s already in.’ Weirdo watched the rest of the passengers step onto the train. He glanced up and down the platform; there was still no sign of Smithy. He listened to Doyle speak.

‘And you know what to do if he doesnae show?’

‘Aye, Mr Doyle.’ The line went dead. Weirdo resumed his wait. Two teenagers passed, staring at his Mohican. Weirdo gave them a second then turned, staring hard at them as they passed, forcing them to look away. He sipped his coffee. Then he saw him. Smithy waddled towards the train, dragging an overstuffed holdall behind him.

Weirdo watched Smithy get on the train, waited until it had pulled out of the station. Checked that he hadn’t jumped off. Then he called Doyle. ‘All okay Mr Doyle.’

‘He’s definitely gone?’

‘Aye, wee prick left it to the last minute but the train’s away.’

‘He alone?’

‘Aye.’

‘Good.’

Chapter 67

Wheeler was sitting at her desk in the CID suite doodling on a piece of paper. She hadn’t needed to be at the station – the team’s meeting with Stewart wasn’t for two hours – but she’d decided to finish up some paperwork. But instead of staying focused, she was finding it easier to waste time. She saw a text from Jo.

I spoke to a counsellor at university. She agrees Jason is traumatised by the death of his friend. He will be getting extensions on all of next term’s deadlines. Also counselling/extra time in exams. They will have support in place for him when he returns after the break. Jo.

Wheeler stared at the text. Fuckssake, she thought. Jason would have his day though, one day. She’d make sure of it. She deleted the text, then she checked her emails; nothing urgent. Finally she scrolled down the news link on her mobile, saw another article by Grim. Read on.

Dead Body Discovered in River Clyde

A man’s body was discovered in the River Clyde around 7 a.m. this morning.

The body was spotted by a passer-by. Mrs Marjory Watkins, 64, had taken her dog for an early-morning walk and made the gruesome discovery. Mrs Watkins, a receptionist at the Green Leaf Medical Centre, immediately raised the alarm.

The police were contacted and police divers recovered the man’s body. The man has yet to be identified and a post-mortem will be held later today to establish the cause of death. Police are appealing for witnesses and are at present continuing their enquiries.

Ross stood in the doorway, carrying two takeaway coffees and a greasy paper bag. He placed one of the coffees on her desk, opened the bag and offered her a pastry. ‘Any news?’

She took one and was chewing on it before she answered. ‘Another body’s been washed up in the Clyde.’

‘Suicide?’

She shrugged. ‘Too early to tell.’ She sipped the hot coffee. ‘Thanks for this, Ross, it’s lovely.’

‘You’re welcome.’ His voice was tired, flat.

‘Still down about the case?’ Wheeler took another bite of the pastry.

Ross glanced around the room, checking that they were alone. ‘Yeah, but a bit of news on the personal front.’

Wheeler waited.

‘Sarah thinks she’s pregnant.’

The pastry turned to cardboard in her mouth. ‘Pregnant?’

He nodded.

‘But I thought you’d told her you didn’t want kids?’

‘I did.’

‘And that it was over?’

‘That too. She came off the pill a month ago. Didn’t bother letting me know.’

‘Right.’

‘I can’t see us together long-term. It was only ever going to be a temporary thing.’

Wheeler sipped her coffee. ‘What are you going to do?’

He looked across to the window. Studied the weather.

The phone on her desk rang; she ignored it. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Trapped.’

‘She definitely plans to have the baby?’

He nodded.

The phone continued ringing. She sighed and grabbed it. ‘Yes?’

‘Not having a good day, Katherine?’

‘Callum, I’m sorry, I was miles away. How can I help you?’

His voice boomed down the line. ‘It’s I who can help you.’

‘Go on.’ She watched Ross, saw his miserable expression. Felt for him.

‘Some interesting news: the body washed up in the Clyde early this morning?’

‘Yes, I just read Grim’s report.’

‘It was someone known to you.’

‘Go on.’

‘It was Maurice Mason.’

Wheeler perched her backside on the edge of her seat. ‘Maurice Mason’s dead?’

Ross overheard, put his coffee down. Listened.

‘Oh completely dead and has been for some hours,’ said Callum.

‘How’d he die?’

‘He drowned.’ She could hear Callum snort down the line.

‘Excuse me a sec.’ She put her hand over the receiver and spoke to Ross. ‘The body they found in the river this morning? It’s Maurice Mason.’

She returned to her conversation with Callum. ‘I got that he was in the water; tell me more.’

‘There were no obvious wounds, no knife or bullet wounds. His hands weren’t bound. He did have a broken nose, but that may have happened after he was in the water. He simply drowned.’

‘But did he fall or was he pushed?’

‘Immersion in water leaves the body in a particular state – for example swelling, and also the skin may become wrinkled. Kind of like when you spend too long in the bath.’

‘Prune-like?’ suggested Wheeler.

‘Exactly,’ Callum agreed, ‘and from what I’ve seen of his inner workings, I’d suggest that he was alive at the time his body entered the water.’

‘Could it have been suicide?’ Wheeler didn’t believe that Mason would have killed himself but she needed to ask.

‘Oh absolutely – he could have jumped in.’

‘Or he could have been pushed?’

‘That too. There’s Rohypnol in his blood.’

‘Is there now?’ She mouthed Roofies found in Mason’s blood at Ross. ‘So he could’ve been drugged and tossed into the water?’

‘Possible. Or he jumped or fell. I can’t prove conclusively either way.’

‘But if he . . .’

Callum finished her sentence for her. ‘No, I’m afraid it’s not possible to conclusively prove it, Katherine. All I can tell you is that he was alive when he went into the water.’

‘But he was drugged.’

‘He had taken drugs. And he had also been drinking. It’s not unknown for people to mix both, is it? Fell, jumped or was pushed, that’s your department. The police get to figure it out.’

They carried on for some minutes, until Wheeler said in frustration, ‘So we don’t know for certain?’

‘There’s no scientific evidence to point either way, as far as I’m concerned. It’ll be down to what the police uncover.’

She was about to thank him and put the phone down when out of habit she asked, ‘Anything else?’

‘For example?’

‘Anything Callum, anything at all.’

Callum sounded as if he were reading from his notes. ‘He was wearing a shirt, trousers, coat, all the usual items of clothing, shoes, underwear. His wallet and other belongings have been bagged. There wasn’t much in his wallet, just loose change. Also, included in his effects was his jewellery, a gold bracelet and another piece which was quite distinctive.’

‘What?’

‘A thick medal of St Christopher – I haven’t seen one of those in years; they used to be very popular—’

‘Stop,’ she cut him off. ‘Back up, Callum – describe the St Christopher.’

‘A chunky piece – it looked to be of very good quality. Maybe half an inch in diameter. Good solid chain. Why?’

Wheeler quickly explained, checked the similarity again and then put the phone down.

Ross had heard enough. ‘Mason was wearing Gilmore’s St Christopher, wasn’t he?’

She nodded. ‘Looks like it.’

‘So Mason was our man all along? He killed Gilmore?’

Wheeler nodded unconvincingly. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

‘Because?’

‘He ended up dead after he had taken Rohypnol. Or at least it was in his system.’

‘Took it? Or was given it?’

She shrugged.

‘So, he murdered Gilmore, then killed himself? Convenient.’

‘Mason didn’t strike me as the suicidal type. He was a career criminal. They’re not usually the reflective kind.’

Wheeler spent the next two hours arranging for the medal to be identified by the only person who would recognise it: Moira Gilmore.

The team eventually reconvened in Stewart’s room.

Stewart updated them. ‘Moira Gilmore has been given a general outline regarding the images we found in her son’s storage unit.’

‘How did she respond, boss?’ Ross asked.

‘Classic denial. She’s flatly denied that it could have been his storage unit.’

‘She still going to sue us, even considering what we found in Clydebank?’

Stewart shrugged.

‘And the medal, boss?’

‘She did however positively identify the medal as belonging to her son.’

Stewart looked at Wheeler. ‘Update on the body in the Clyde, please.’

She nodded. ‘I spoke with Callum. Maurice Mason had a broken nose but it could have happened in the water, hitting against the bank. The only thing Callum could tell me with certainty was that Mason had been drinking and that there were traces of Rohypnol in his system. He was wearing a gold bracelet, Gilmore’s St Christopher and there was some change in his wallet.’

‘Anyone speak to his ex, Lizzie Coughlin?’

Boyd said, ‘I spoke to her. She’s very bitter about the break-up. Says once he got out of the Bar-L, he chucked her and left their house. She didn’t seem too upset to hear that he’d died. Told us he often used roofies.’ Boyd checked his notes. ‘“Mason used uppers and downers all the time; he used anything he could get his hands on.”’

‘Where was she the night he died?’

Boyd glanced at his notes. ‘She was with her pal, Stephanie Roberts. To quote Lizzie, “Me and Steffy got absolutely blootered.”’

‘And Steffy backed her?’

Boyd nodded.

‘Right, so Grim’s on his way. What do we have for the press?’ Stewart looked around the room.

Silence.

Ross summed it up. ‘Unofficially, we’re not looking for anyone else in connection with James Gilmore’s murder? Case closed?’

Stewart pursed his lips. ‘Officially we are still continuing with our investigation and the case remains open until we conclude. But realistically, Ross, that would be a nice neat ending, wouldn’t it? HQ would be delighted with that. We have a suspect who was recently released from jail, who was wearing jewellery that had been taken from a murder victim when he was killed. It’s a result.’ He looked at Wheeler. ‘Anything more from the PM on Mason?’

‘Callum says there’s no way to tell if Mason was pushed or jumped. Or simply fell in.’

Stewart looked around the room. ‘What’s the consensus?’

Ross spoke. ‘I think Mason was framed.’

‘Evidence?’ asked Stewart.

Ross shook his head. ‘None.’

‘So, we spend time and resources trying to clear his name?’ said Boyd sourly. ‘And even more time trying to find out who killed that evil bastard Gilmore?’

‘Or just be glad that both Gilmore and Mason are gone and we have a result.’ Ross looked out of the window. ‘It’s the obvious way forward. Why carry on throwing resources at the case when it’s already been resolved?’

Stewart sighed. ‘Let’s just keep an open mind on it.’

They filed out of his room in silence.

Chapter 68

Saturday evening

Wheeler sat in the empty CID suite, the photographs spread out in front of her. The case was closing, there was nothing new to add and the team had a result. Grim would eventually write an article about James Gilmore and what police had discovered in his Clydebank storage unit. Public perception of the murder would change to outrage. The next article would report that Maurice Mason, a convicted killer who had recently been released from prison, had murdered again. This time his victim was the paedophile. A few days after the murder, Mason had been high on drugs and alcohol when he accidently slipped and fell into the Clyde. What could be neater? A feel-good story for Christmas.

She crossed to the kettle, switched it on, and while she was waiting for it to boil she looked out of the window. Outside, a busker was doing a half-decent rendition of ‘Have Yourself a Very Merry Christmas’. Wheeler stood at the window and watched the lights from the trail of cars going along the A74. She thought of the M74 and the huge landfill that existed between the two roads. She stared at the Glasgow sky and watched as the weather changed and it started to snow.

Behind her the door swung open and she heard snuffling. First through the door was the mutt – its plastic cone had been removed – and behind it Ross came into the room carrying a large carrier bag stuffed with Christmas decorations. ‘These are for you.’ He sat down, tied the dog to his chair and smiled at her.

‘What?’

‘Nothing, I’m just happy to have some time off. What are you up to over the holidays?’

She paused. Paul Buchan had texted, asking her for dinner – she still hadn’t replied. ‘Not sure, what about you?’

‘Sarah wants to give it another go.’

She looked at his face, saw the tension. ‘And?’

‘I’m not sure. Need some time to think. She lied to me.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, you fancy going out for dinner, celebrate the end of the case?’

‘Not much to celebrate.’

‘Still.’

‘You paying?’

He smiled. ‘Might do. Take it as another bribe towards my promotion.’

‘You’re on. You take Fido back first, okay?’ She bent and patted the dog. It wagged its tail.

Ross nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘Meet you outside Kelvingrove Art Gallery in an hour?’

‘You’re on.’

‘And thanks for these.’ She gestured to the Christmas decorations.

‘No problem. See you in an hour.’

Wheeler watched Ross and the mutt leave before returning to the photographs. She flicked through them for a few minutes, wondering about the children, what had happened to them, where they were now. She looked at their faces, saw a range of emotions: hope, despair, fear. Finally she gathered the photographs together and started to pack them away. Then she stopped. One photograph was left on her desk. She looked at the line of children, all staring at the camera. Some smiling, some looking nervous; one was scowling into the camera. The boy had faced the camera head on, one eye blazing darker than the other. Wheeler checked the back of the photograph. It was labelled Stobwent-Hill Children’s Home. She checked her notes. Gilmore had worked at the home in the eighties. The children would have ranged in age between three and eleven. She studied the photograph again, noted the direct gaze of the boy, the bitterness behind his scowl. The flash of aggression in dark eyes. She reached for the phone. Called Ross. ‘Listen, there’s something about the case, can you come back to the station?’