Текст книги "Riven"

Автор книги: A. J. McCreanor

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter 10

Tuesday, 9 a.m.

‘. . . And why was that?’ The woman stared at him.

No answer.

The wall clock tick-tocked softly in the background. Outside the window the steady thrum of traffic from Clarkston Road passed underneath the second-floor office. Rush hour, mothers dropping children off at nursery, school, playgroup, childminder. Folk going to work. Day shift driving in to start the day, night shift driving home. HGVs in for the long commute across Europe. A world busy with itself, the everyday noise only mildly dampened by the constant beat of rain against the window pane.

Dr Sylvia Moore sat in a leather and chrome Le Corbusier chair, her long legs crossed, her red hair shorn tight to her head. She wore a fitted black trouser suit, a heavy gold watch and flat patent leather brogues. Her face was free from make-up.

She repeated the question, ‘Why was that?’ adding, ‘Do you think?’

This time an answer. ‘Why was what?’

‘Why did you feel you couldn’t reach out to her?’

Doyle shrugged, ‘Who knows?’

Her voice hard, ‘You do, Andy. You know why you couldn’t reach out to her.’

His fist on the side of the Le Corbusier, skin on chrome, harsh, beating. ‘She’s a fucking woman, I don’t know! I don’t understand you lot.’

‘Us lot?’

‘Fucking women. I mean, I buy her stuff, anything she wants. I paid to go to a charity do, paid to get sat at the same table as some fucking art-house producer who needs “investment” for his next project, some play about fuck-knows-what. All for Stella.’

‘But that’s not enough, is it? She wants more . . . what is it she wants?’

‘Fuck knows.’ He paused. ‘She wants to be a star but she’s got fuck-all talent.’

‘If Stella was here what would she say? Apart from you buying her stardom, or at least a part in a play, what else does she want from you?’

Shrug.

The gentle tick-tock of the clock; outside a police siren screamed past, its wail fading in seconds.

‘Is she in love with you?’

A shrug. ‘Mibbe. But I don’t understand her.’

‘Do you want to understand Stella?’

Another shrug.

‘Would it be different if you were in love with her?’

‘Probably.’

‘But you’re not?’

‘No.’

‘Then you’re just stringing her along?’

‘Love isn’t what I need.’

‘Most people need to be loved, to feel wanted, appreciated, connected.’

‘Good for them, but I’m not most people.’

‘No.’ Moore watched him, saw the anger leave him. ‘So, what is it you need, Andy?’

She waited while the pause stretched over several seconds.

He glanced at his watch. ‘Time’s up. I’m out of here.’

‘We’re not finished.’

‘I am.’ He stood.

‘Then you’re bailing out.’

‘Christ.’ He sat down again.

‘You need to look at your actions, take responsibility for yourself and your interactions with others. You’re not a child, you’re a grown-up. Stop acting like a spoilt child.’

His eyes glittered, one darker than the other, his voice a whisper, ‘I do fucking take responsibility for everything I do. And I am always a fucking adult. And I am not a spoiled child.’

‘We need to work with this.’

‘You need to work with this.’

‘What is it you need from others?’

‘One word. Loyalty.’ He stood, had reached the door in a second.

‘Same time, same place,’ she called after him.

Heard the sound of the door slamming.

Moore stood, crossed to the window and opened it wide, letting the cold, damp weather seep into the room. She breathed in deeply, held the icy air in her lungs for as long as she could before exhaling. The city was bathed in a grey glow made colourful by the umbrellas bobbing beneath her window. Moore crossed the room and lifted Andy Doyle’s untouched water glass, took it into the next room and began to rinse it under the tap. Watched as the water ran clean and cold.

Chapter 11

Watervale.

Ross drove. The scheme was similar to dozens of schemes across the city. Rows of council semis lined the streets; a few empty houses had their windows boarded up, metal grilles securing the doorways. A low one-storey building had a hand-painted sign on plywood: ‘Watervale Youth Club.’ A skinny cat shot across the road into a garden littered with broken glass. Dog shit dotted the pavement. A group of boys huddled together in the cold, their staffie-cross straining at its leash. As Wheeler and Ross drove past, the boys turned and stared hard at them. Wheeler smiled. They gave her the finger.

‘Fucking clichés,’ Ross grinned, turning into the school car park. ‘They look like they’re auditioning to be in a Peter Howson painting.’

‘Bless,’ said Wheeler, ‘making their wee mammies proud.’

Watervale Academy was a two-storey building thrown up in the seventies and then forgotten. It was covered in graffiti and the windows had a protective covering of wire mesh, through which crisp and sweet wrappers had become entangled together with assorted plastic bags. The door was locked. Wheeler pressed the buzzer beside the intercom and heard a voice ask who they were. She spoke into it, heard the door click open and they were through to the reception area where a small woman with a round, kind face held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Margaret Field, the deputy head teacher.’

They showed her their ID.

‘It’s dreadful news about James Gilmore. Just awful. Nancy Paton called me – what a nightmare.’ She pushed a book across the desk. ‘I’m afraid you’ll need to sign in, just name and time. Rules.’

They signed.

‘I’ve set up an interview room for you; I hope it’ll be okay.’

‘Great, thanks,’ said Ross.

‘Every class has a classroom assistant,’ she continued, ‘so I’ve arranged for each teacher to come and speak with you, then go back and then the assistant will come. That way you get to see everyone, but the class remains covered at all times. Does this suit?’

‘Perfect,’ Ross said.

‘Did you know Mr Gilmore?’ Wheeler asked and she could feel the woman draw away from her.

‘No, not really. A hello now and again. Tuesday was his usual day. I take assembly on Tuesdays, so I was never in the staff room much. He seemed to just pass in and out.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘What is it about the police that always makes me feel a bit guilty?’

‘Everyone feels a bit like that.’ Ross gave her a wide smile.

They walked through the main corridor; there was pupil artwork on the walls and a glass case with two large silver trophies. Wheeler glanced at them – they were two years out of date. She saw various framed photographs of winning teams at other presentations. Again out of date. A few Certificates of Merit were more recent.

‘I hope you don’t think the death is connected to the school?’ The deputy’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘The kids here can be a handful but none of them would do that. I’m sure of it. Neither Alec Munroe nor Rab Wilson had anything to do with this awful mess.’

‘Ms Paton’s already told us as much.’

‘I’m sure she did and she was right to.’

‘Do you know the boys well?’

‘Alec needs to be getting an apprenticeship for painting and decorating; it’s his best chance of work. Rab could do a few things, loves drama, always nattering on about NCIS or the other shows. He was a good boxer too. They are good kids who are struggling with different challenges. This place was their refuge against a hostile world. It becomes home to many of them, when their own home is a place of neglect or hostility. We do our best to make the building as welcoming as possible. Except the exterior – the council are refusing to come out and paint over it again. Seems we’ve been vandalised once too often, taxpayers’ money, accountability, that kind of rubbish response.’ The deputy head wasn’t happy. ‘How can the kids feel safe and protected when the council won’t even paint the place?’

‘About Mr Gilmore,’ Wheeler reminded her.

‘Yes, sorry, I didn’t really know him well – he was peripatetic.’

‘But you must have had meetings, surely, about the children?’

‘Of course, but they are usually multi-departmental and I’m often called away. He was a quiet, professional man who seemed content enough in his job. Not someone who made waves. He wasn’t loud or challenging. He seemed decent enough . . .’ she trailed off.

Three hours later and they’d heard the same thing a dozen times, different variations on Gilmore’s lack of presence.

‘I didn’t really know him – he just came in and out of the school. A couple of times he came to meetings with the social worker, Mary Burns; she’s off long-term sick. Stress. Her husband . . . poor soul.’

‘No idea he lived alone. Never really knew him. Sent a note to class when he needed to interview any of the kids, then I’d send them off to him. Hardly had any dealing with the man. Mary Burns might know, but she’s off sick.’

‘Seemed a nice enough man. Was he married? Leave any family? It’s a tragedy, isn’t it? We were all in shock.’

‘Just awful. No, I never really spoke to him. Just sent the kids he wanted to work with along to him and then he sent them back, typed up his reports and emailed them to me.’

‘He could’ve been a ghost, weaving his way in and out, not leaving a trace.’ They were alone together and Ross sipped the coffee the school secretary had brought them. He helped himself to another chocolate biscuit from a plate piled high with biscuits, cake and fingers of shortbread. He saw Wheeler look at him. ‘What? I’ll work it off at the gym. Right now I need to refuel.’

Wheeler heard the frustration in his voice. They’d seen the desk James Gilmore had used; nothing personal had been stored there. They’d asked to speak with George Grey. ‘George is off sick today. When he didn’t come in this morning we called home. He said he had a bug.’ Wheeler had copied down his address – a wee home visit was in order.

Finally she stood. ‘Let’s go, Ross, nothing much’s happening here.’ She took the tray back in to the secretary. ‘Thanks for the coffee and biscuits.’

‘Awful shock about Mr Gilmore.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Only to say hello to when he signed in and out.’

Figured.

‘Not one to talk about his social life then?’

‘I think he did mention his mother once, said that she was quite poorly.’

Wheeler put the tray on a table. ‘Yes, we’re on our way there now. Did he say much about her?’

‘Only that she was often poorly. I said mine was too. It was just in passing.’ The secretary screwed up her eyes in concentration. ‘I think she’s in a home out by Milngavie. I can’t be sure but I got the impression it was out that way. I could check if you like?’

‘We already have her address thanks,’ said Wheeler.

They walked to the car in the rain. Wheeler spotted him first. ‘Looks like we’re being watched.’

Ross looked at the boy who was sitting on his bike, watching them. His knuckles showed white as he gripped the handlebar. His hood was pulled tight around his face; only two dark eyes and a scowl were visible. Ross walked towards him, but immediately the boy pushed off on his bike and a second later he had disappeared around the corner of a house.

‘Too old to be a schoolie.’

‘So are Alec Munroe and Rab Wilson but they seem connected to the place.’ Wheeler stared at the houses. ‘You think there are kids behind those curtains watching us?’

Ross glanced down the road; he could feel eyes watching but there was no one in sight. ‘Probably – we’re the pigs, remember.’

‘Come on,’ Wheeler opened the car door, ‘let’s go to Milngavie and speak to James Gilmore’s poor old mother. I hope she’s not too much of a wreck.’

‘She’s bound to be in pieces. Her only son’s dead. I just hope she can hold it together long enough to talk to us.’

A few minutes later they were on their way.

Chapter 12

The car was idling at a red light on the road to Milngavie. The radio was on, a debate about the recent spate of violence against the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender community in Scotland was just finishing. Wheeler reached for the volume and turned it up. She knew Callum Fraser was very active in the community and may have been interviewed for the programme.

‘Shocking statistics have just been revealed which suggest that hate crimes that target individuals because of their sexual orientation are on the increase. The number of reported cases of homophobic abuse, including violent attacks, has increased dramatically in the past four years.

‘Strathclyde Police spokesperson DI Andrea Sinclair had this to say: “We are aware of the on going struggle to bring the perpetrators of these crimes to justice, but we are committed to doing so. We firmly believe that, while the statistics show an increase in attacks against the LGBT community, there is also an increase in convictions. We work hard with the LGBT community and hope that all incidents are reported. This way, a firm message is sent out to the wider community that these kinds of hate crimes will simply not be tolerated. Prejudice, whether based on gender, race, religion or sexual orientation, has no place in a modern Scotland.”’

The lights changed. The programme ended and a jingle advertising The Sandy Shack Nite Club began. Ross reached forward and switched off the radio. ‘You think Gilmore might’ve been gay?’

Wheeler stared out of the window, watched the grey clouds scudding across the sky. ‘Could have been. Nothing seems to point at much in the way of relationships, either way.’

‘But he wasn’t openly gay, like Callum. I mean, no one even hinted at anything at Watervale.’

‘No, but I’d imagine it wouldn’t be easy to come out if you were part of the educational establishment.’

‘Especially when you’re working with kids who might give you a bit of a hard time.’

‘Yep, it wouldn’t be just a bit of joking from the kids themselves. The usual prejudices might emerge from the other teachers or parents. It could’ve been tough going and maybe he preferred to keep his sexuality private.’

‘Do you think it might have been a hate crime?’ Ross asked.

‘From a group of anti-gay vigilantes? Doubt it somehow.’

‘Or maybe an ex-lover? Or back to square one and keep an open mind?’ Ross stopped the car at a red light.

‘Square one for the time being; until we gather more of the pieces of the jigsaw, we can’t see a pattern emerging.’

Ross watched the light change to green, moved the car forward.

She reached across and touched his shoulder.

He glanced at her, ‘What?’

‘Is that dog hair on you?’ She picked off the offending piece of fluff.

He ignored the question. ‘Do you think that maybe instead of going to visit old Mrs Gilmore, we should go see George Grey? Gilmore was working one-to-one with him. Maybe they chatted; maybe Gilmore let something slip. Or maybe wee George isn’t quite the angel Ms Paton made him out to be and he’s going to do a runner. What do you think?’

‘I think we go see George Grey later. Let’s go visit Gilmore’s mother first – she deserves it.’

‘Okay, but I’m glad Stewart delegated it to uniform. Telling an old dear that her son’s been murdered ranks up there with the crappiest part of this job.’

‘Stop being so bloody sensitive. Maybe she can shed some light on who Gilmore was; we’ve not got much of a picture to go on. If he was a ghost to his colleagues, I’m hoping that he will have meant much more to his mum. And besides, while poor Boyd and Robertson get to visit Manky Miller at the youth club, we get a nice old lady in Milngavie. So stop whining.’

They drove into Milngavie. According to their directions the home was just off Mugdock Road and close to Tannoch Loch. ‘We’re looking for The Courtyard Retirement Community,’ said Wheeler.

‘Death’s waiting room.’

‘Hold that thought,’ Wheeler said, ‘here’s the turning.’

Chapter 13

‘That heater’s fucked. It’s boiling in here.’ Boyd’s shirt showed signs of sweat under his armpits as he parked the car outside the youth club and killed the engine. He had deliberately kept the sports news channel on full volume for the entire journey, which meant that conversation between him and Robertson would have been impossible. He glanced across at Robertson, noting that despite the heat, Robertson’s navy-blue suit and white shirt remained in pristine condition. His hair retained its dull sheen and today’s aftershave was lime-based.

‘Look.’ Boyd pointed to the end of the road. A group of boys stood huddled in the rain, hoods up close around their faces, watching them. Boyd waited for a couple of seconds until the boys moved off, then he opened the car door and stepped into the drizzle. He breathed deeply, theatrically. ‘Christ, Robertson, your aftershave is a bit strong in an enclosed environment.’

Robertson ignored him and strode ahead towards the club. ‘Let’s get this over and done with; if Munroe and Wilson were involved in Gilmore’s murder, then this place might hold some of the missing information.’

Boyd lumbered along beside him, wheezing hard. ‘Aye, maybe. Hard to tell if they were involved but there’s not much chance that anybody from round here’s going to talk to us.’

‘If the two boys are not directly involved, then they know something – they’re not the innocents they pretend to be.’

‘How come you’re so sure?’

‘A hunch.’

‘Aye, right. A hunch didn’t do much for Quasimodo, but knock yourself out, Sherlock.’

As they approached the building the sign suggested that it was open. The padlock around the gated entrance told them otherwise.

Boyd glanced around, noted that the group of boys had returned and were watching. ‘A wee audience for us.’ He ignored them, read the sign: Watervale Youth Club and in smaller letters, Support, advice and mentoring for those struggling in society.

‘Shite.’ Boyd shook his head, felt a burst of annoyance. ‘I’ve seen what vicious criminals can do, how they ruin lives. Folk like Manky Miller think every fucker has rights – the marginalised have a right to get enough support to live within a society they hate.’

Robertson watched a figure turn into the road and saunter towards them.

Boyd built up steam for his argument, his voice rising. ‘Helping the marginalised, ignoring the law, encouraging and supporting people to live outside the law? This Manky’s an ex-con and a spineless cunt.’

The figure approached. Malcolm Miller scowled at them. ‘You the polis?’

Boyd and Robertson flashed their ID cards. Boyd could smell the body odour from the man. ‘We’d like a word if it’s convenient, Mr Miller.’

‘It’s not. I’m just on my way out.’ Manky checked his watch.

‘You’re not even in the place yet, Malcolm,’ said Boyd.

‘Mr Miller – we’re no pals.’

‘Mr Miller,’ Boyd corrected himself, ‘we’d still like a chat.’

‘I’m just here to collect some information, then I’m off. I’ve things to do, folk to help. Folk who’ve been intimidated by some of your lot in uniform.’

Boyd sighed, ‘Good of you to invite us in out the rain – we won’t keep you long.’

They waited until Manky had reluctantly unlocked the door, then followed him into an open-plan office. Robertson busied himself looking at the photocopied sheets that had been stuck around the wall offering advice. Boyd pulled a plastic chair over to Manky’s desk and made himself comfortable. ‘We won’t keep you long, Mr Miller. We just need some information.’

‘Information on what?’

‘The people who use this place, specifically the people who were here on Sunday night, the night of the Christmas party.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘In particular Rab Wilson and Alec Munroe – were they at the party all night?’

Manky stared at him. ‘And you’re sitting here asking about them because . . .? Suddenly you care about the kids round here? How’s that then?’

‘Because of recent developments,’ said Boyd.

Manky snorted. ‘You mean the murder? The old guy who worked at the school, the one who copped it?’

Boyd shifted in his chair. ‘So much for sympathy or compassion.’

Manky smirked. ‘I’m fresh out. What dae they call it, “compassion fatigue”? Think I’m suffering from a wee dose of that myself. And I can’t tell you anything about the two kids who found the body. They might’ve been here, hard to tell. It was a busy party, know what I’m saying?’

‘We’d like a list of the folk who were here.’ Boyd tried for a patient tone, failed. ‘Just print out your contacts list.’

‘Printer’s fucked.’ Manky studied his filthy nails. Chewed on a rag nail. ‘And there’s nae money tae repair it. And I cannae remember who wis here. Folk running in an out all night.’

Robertson walked over to the printer; it was in pieces.

Boyd leaned forward, his voice a hiss. ‘We want a list of names, Malcolm.’

Manky waited a minute before yawning in Boyd’s direction. ‘And you think one of the weans must automatically be a killer because they live round here? Nice detective work. No prejudiced thinking, jist clean solid police procedure and hard evidence.’ He leaned towards Boyd. ‘You dae have evidence?’

Boyd sucked his teeth.

‘Aye, I thought so. Sweet fuck all.’

Boyd sat back in his seat and slowly crossed one leg over the other. ‘I’m just asking for some information on people who attend the party, folk who use this place. At the moment that’s all.’

‘Not some folk, vulnerable folk.’ Manky took his time shifting papers, organising his in-tray, making sure he let them wait. Eventually he continued, ‘You wouldnae be here grasping at straws if you’d any leads. I imagine that the heid high yins are delighted with your lack of progress; it shows just how shit the polis at Carmyle station are.’ He pointed his finger at Boyd. ‘And instead of getting something concrete, you come in here sniffing about for some wean you could stitch up for the murder. Am I right?’

Boyd stood. ‘So, were you here all Sunday night yourself?’

Manky sniggered. ‘You want tae blame it on me now? Talk about clutching at straws. Have you nae imagination? I wis here all night. Ask anybody.’

Boyd walked to the door.

Robertson approached Manky.

‘Whit now?’ Manky was impatient.

‘I think you should reconsider. There’s a killer who is watching, waiting. He’s in this community and at the moment he’s getting away with murder. Even your clients aren’t safe.’

‘Our wee community looks after its own.’

‘A few names are all we’re looking for.’

‘No can do. You heard about client confidentiality? Well, if my clients cannae trust me, who can they trust? Certainly not you lot.’ He stared at Robertson. ‘This here is all those weans have,’ he paused, ‘so mind you two muppets shut the door on your way out.’

Robertson’s voice was harsh. ‘So you’re telling me that you can vouch for all of your clients on the night of the murder?’

‘I didnae say that.’

‘No you didn’t because you can’t, can you?’

‘You’ve no reason tae suspect any of the weans here. Or me. This is polis harassment. If you’ve got anything in the way of evidence then let’s see it.’ Manky reached out his hand. ‘Well?’

Robertson ignored the hand, sweat breaking out on his forehead. ‘You’re okay with the idea that you might be harbouring a murderer?’ He leant towards him. ‘You’re absolutely sure you’re okay with that?’

Manky grinned, showing a row of dark mercury fillings. ‘You’re fucking pathetic. I’m not harbouring anybody. Now get going.’

Robertson pulled out a card and dropped it onto the desk. ‘If you hear anything, anything at all. You call me.’

Manky didn’t do them the courtesy of waiting until they were out of the room before he picked up the card and dropped it into the wastepaper bin.

Outside, Boyd stalked ahead to the car. The rain had started again and he was soaked before he’d even opened the door. ‘Fucker knows more than he’s letting on.’ He settled himself into the driver’s seat and barely waited until Robertson had closed his door before he shot off.

‘Definitely lying,’ Robertson said.

They drove to the end of the road, turned and felt a hail of empty cans hurtle into the back window. Robertson gasped. Boyd ploughed on. ‘Bastards.’

The group of boys stood laughing and pointing as the cop car retreated. At a house at the end of the road, at an upstairs window, Rab Wilson stood in his bedroom and watched.