Текст книги "Riven"
Автор книги: A. J. McCreanor
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Chapter 16
They’d only just left the burned-out shell of a house and were driving towards the city centre when he began whining, ‘The smell of post-mortems clings – I can’t wash the smell off, can you?’
‘You’re exaggerating. It’s psychological,’ Wheeler lied.
‘And there’s a game tonight. Don’t want to go out smelling of death; it’s not good for the reputation.’
‘I’d have thought just turning up, they’d be overjoyed. Dead or alive. Who’re they playing?’
‘Plastic Whistle.’
‘Any chance they might scrape a win?’
Ross shifted uncomfortably on his seat. Stared ahead, concentrated on the road. Said nothing.
‘Too awkward a question?’ She leaned over, pointing. ‘Look at the state of you. You have gone and got yourself a wee pet, haven’t you? Are you that lonely?’ She picked the hairs from his jacket collar. ‘Dog hair.’
‘I’m just looking after a dog for a few days, that’s all.’
‘Poor mutt.’
‘Does all right.’
‘You’re never there.’
‘Old Mary across the road takes it round the block. Feeds it too.’
‘You’re a chancer, Ross – never met a bigger skiver.’
They drove towards Glasgow Cross. ‘Any chance we could have a quick coffee and a bun first? Settle my stomach before all that gore.’
She checked her watch. ‘If we’re quick.’
They settled into their seats in the café, ordered two coffees and a couple of Danish pastries. When the food arrived, Ross started munching happily. ‘It’s that buzz-buzz that gets me.’
She picked up a Danish and bit into it. ‘Mmm, these are lovely, nice and chewy, just the way I like them.’
‘That wee Stryker saw they use?’ Ross continued through mouthfuls. ‘Christ, what an evil wee thing. It’s like going to the dentist, then finding out you’re in a horror movie. Turns my stomach.’
‘Uh huh.’ She chomped happily on the sugar pastry. Sipped her coffee, let the warmth of the café envelop her.
Later he paid and they walked out into the rain.
‘Just a drizzle.’ Ross sounded more upbeat as they got into the car and drove to the mortuary. He parked the car next to Callum’s red BMW and killed the engine. Still he made no attempt to get out of the car.
Wheeler undid her seat belt. ‘Now I don’t want you to come over all sensitive on me, Ross.’
‘I won’t – I’m just saying, that wee saw’s a bastard.’
She climbed out of the car, pulling her coat close around her. ‘’Cause I’m not going to hold your hand if you keel over.’
He was close behind her. ‘Perish the thought.’
‘Aye, me too.’
Inside, Callum greeted them with a cheery wave. Behind him two young lab technicians were silently preparing the body and the photographer stood waiting. Everything would be recorded and photographed and the wounds measured while James Gilmore’s body was neatly dissected.
‘Well guys, let’s get started.’ Callum’s voice boomed around the room, bouncing off the pristine white tiles.
Wheeler watched him work. He was always cool and businesslike, but then this was his business.
Callum switched on the microphone and recorded the date and time, then a list of everyone present. Finally he named the victim and began describing his clothing in detail before standing back to allow the photographer to do his job. Once the clothing had been photographed, Callum carefully began to remove it, before finally passing it to one of the techs, who bagged and labelled it.
There was no jewellery on James Gilmore’s body, no sign of the St Christopher that his father had given him. Gilmore had no tattoos, no piercings and his body showed nothing out of the ordinary, unless you counted the bruises that criss-crossed his torso.
Wheeler stared at the dead body; it had become an object, a slab of meat to be stored in the cooling area of the mortuary. Exactly what Stewart had not wanted to happen in the newspaper report. People quickly forgot about a slab of meat. A few days ago, this body had been a professional man, and according to his mother, a gentle man, so how could this have happened? Wheeler stared at what was left of the educational psychologist and wondered if he could ever have imagined his death would have been so violent.
She watched Callum move around the table, measuring the length and depth of the injuries, still talking, still recording everything, and knew that what he had said at Gilmore’s house had been right. The post-mortem wasn’t going to give up any great secrets; this wasn’t an American cop show, when the case would be solved in sixty minutes or less. Dissecting James Gilmore’s body was only going to reinforce what they already knew – that he’d been battered to death. And that there were very few clues as to who did it.
‘Did he even put up a fight?’ asked Ross. ‘Did he have any chance to defend himself?’
Callum shook his head. ‘There are no signs of defence wounds.’ He picked up one of the hands, scraped under the nails, held up the swab. ‘Clean, no torn skin, no blood, no bits of clothing. Whoever it was came at him like a thunderbolt. And didn’t stop hammering him until the job was done.’
Chapter 17
Tuesday evening
Wheeler was at home listening to Hank Mobley’s Soul Station and getting ready to go out. The CD had just finished when a text came through from her sister. Wheeler read it: same old. She quickly sent a text to Jason.
CALL YOUR MOTHER.
A minute later she had a reply. I already did.
Liar.
She glanced at the clock; she just about had time. She called her sister, kept it brief and insisted that Jo did the same. ‘So shoot – what’s with all the texts?’
Five minutes later she had a clear understanding of what Jason was up to. He was stone-walling his mother and she was going nuts down in Somerset. Wheeler heard Jo’s frustration.
‘Okay, just this once, I’ll go check on him. Where’s he likely to be, at home or out and about? Has he got a favourite pub?’
‘The Vineyard.’
‘Fine.’
Wheeler grabbed her boots and coat, pulled her hair into a bit of a quiff and within ten minutes was standing outside her flat in the wind and rain. She waited until the wrought-iron gates closed behind her before turning, head down into the wind and walking to Ingram Street. She stood in the entrance to a hotel and waited and watched four taxis pass, their orange lights dimmed, telling her they were not for hire. Eventually one turned off the High Street and made its way towards her, its light glowing. She flagged it down, climbed into the warmth of the back seat and settled herself.
‘The Vineyard, Byres Road, please.’
The driver switched on the meter before driving off.
From the window she watched the festive crowds mill around the city centre, saw parties of office workers on their Christmas night out, the girls in tiny sequined dresses and bare legs flashing fake tan and sky-high heels, some walking like newborn colts as they navigated the icy pavements. Five minutes later the driver stopped outside The Vineyard and Wheeler handed him her fare, adding a tip. At last a smile.
Wheeler walked to the pub entrance. The Vineyard offered a healthy student discount and the music was loud. It was a bit of a long shot that he’d be there. There were at least a half dozen student pubs in a small area around Byres Road. She decided that if she had to, she’d at least look into them all.
Once inside the pub, she went to the bar and ordered a large glass of Chardonnay. If she had to babysit her nephew, she reasoned, then she might as well enjoy herself. She paid for her drink and strolled to the back area, sat in one of the huge red banquettes and made sure that she had an uninterrupted view of the bar and also that she could see out of the large window onto the street outside. Byres Road was one long road full of cafés, pubs and restaurants. It was close to the university and students seemed to spend most of their time in the area. If Jason was out drinking this would be the best place to find him.
The place began to fill up, mainly with students, killing time till they went back to waitressing or maybe just waiting until the clubs opened. Lazy sods, thought Wheeler. A few groups of office workers came in looking for a quick drink on the way home. She had almost finished her wine when she saw him. He arrived with a group of three others, two boys and a girl. Wheeler saw Jason’s pallor, grey and wan. She hoped it was from studying hard but she doubted that it was anything as sensible. The trio with him were all as bad, all super-skinny, with sunken cheeks and attitude, heroin chic she’d heard it called. The girl was the thinnest, bony arms dangling from a black T-shirt. She wore a tiny miniskirt over thick black tights, a thick smear of black eyeliner and what looked like purple lipstick. She looked like a goth model, all long limbs and big doe eyes. On her head she wore a wee sparkly hair band. Jason was the tallest of the group, but the boys all wore the same uniform of skinny jeans, sloppy retro T-shirts, baseball boots, floppy hair tumbling over as-yet unlined faces. One boy wore a beanie hat fixed at a specifically cool angle.
Wheeler watched her nephew; he was smiling, looked happy, draped an arm casually over the shoulder of the girl. Mr Cool-as-Fuck with not a care in the world. She waited. After a few minutes she saw it, noted the car on the road outside cruise to a stop at the lights. She watched Jason peel himself away from the girl and slip out of the door. All very casually done, nipping out for a cigarette maybe, or darting round to the cash machine, perhaps taking a quick phone call? Any of the above, except that he wasn’t. He returned a few minutes later, having leaned into the car and apparently done nothing more interesting than shake the hand of the driver. Maybe he was an old friend, a fellow student? Aye shite. The car moved away and the driver’s purple Mohican created a distinctive outline. Weirdo. She caught a glimpse of another man in the passenger seat. Fat neck, greasy face. Smithy, Doyle’s lackey. She slipped out of the back door, stood underneath the window and texted Jason.
Hi Jason, we need to meet up and have a wee chat. Where r u just now?
She watched him text back. Sipping from his pint, glass in one hand, phone in the other. A natural. Kids today. Multitasking.
Sorry, no can do, I’m still at work, have taken on another shift for friend who’s sick. Holed up here, probably need to work an all-nighter. This sucks. Wish I wasn’t here! I’d rather be down the pub. U ok?
It took her twice as long to text. Me fine. Let’s meet up soon.
Read his reply. Yeah. Defo! Whenever I get a min I’ll be in touch. J xx
She watched him tuck his phone into his jeans, laugh at something his friend said and drape his arm once again around the skinny shoulders of the gothic princess with the sparkly hair band. Well, Wheeler thought, she had given him a chance. She tucked her mobile into her jeans. Back in the pub she marched over to him, grinned at his look of surprise. Kept her voice the right side of fucked off: ‘Jason, we need to have a word. Now.’ She watched him go into action, put on the sheepish grin, duck his head down towards her face and peer out from underneath his hair, all moves that told her that her nephew had changed, had morphed from an innocent wee boy into a handsome big shite who thought a smile would let him get away with murder. It probably did with his mother. Wheeler leaned towards him. ‘You’re a lying scumbag, you know that don’t you? And to me of all people. I thought you’d know better.’
His friends parted to let them leave.
They stood on the wet cobbles in the back lane.
‘I’m nearly twenty for God’s sake,’ his voice a tinny whine. ‘I’m not having Mum get you to stalk me and report back to her. It’s not fair.’
Christ, thought Wheeler, life wasn’t fair. ‘I’m not stalking you, I’m observing you. And I’m fed up with your mother hassling me ’cause you can’t be bothered letting her know you’re still alive.’
Huff. He stared into the middle distance. Handsome. Moody.
Well, maybe it worked on the goth girl. It was lost on Wheeler. ‘Look Jason, I can’t be arsed with this crap.’
Pursed lips, roll of the eyes, sourness in his voice: ‘That makes two of us then.’
‘I saw you with Weirdo.’
His hand went instinctively to his pocket. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Look, I don’t give a shit if you smoke the odd joint but Weirdo is involved with people who’d eat you up and spit you out all over Byres Road.’
Jason dropped the sour look and tried again for the cutesy smile, head down, floppy hair, big eyes. ‘Look, Auntie Kat.’
Suddenly she felt a million years old. Auntie Kat sounded like she should be baking him cakes; instead she wanted to slap the stupid grin off his face.
‘I hear what you’re saying, honestly I do.’
‘Really?’ Could he be more patronising?
‘But it’s just a bit of dope, weed, or whatever you want to call it. Nothing stronger. I promise. Listen, scouts honour.’
She looked at him. Liar. It may be dope just now but she would bet money he’d go further. She was tempted to force him to turn out his pockets but stopped herself. He was old enough to take responsibility for himself, plus he was a law student and should know more than enough about the legality of drugs. Plus, she wasn’t his fucking mother. She made to leave. ‘At least text your mum now and again.’
‘Yeah, yeah, no worries. It’s all cool.’
She looked at him, took in the relaxed stance, the handsome face with its ready smirk, and she realised that for now he hadn’t a care in the world.
Experience told her that would change.
‘Anyway, I’m off – mind you call your mammy. It’ll save me coming looking for you.’
‘Cool. You going out yourself?’
She said nothing. There wasn’t a hope in hell she would tell him she’d been set up by her friend Carol. A friend of Carol’s was helping to organise a charity fundraiser later that night and Carol had suggested Wheeler hook up with him. An intellectual blind date – they were going to the fundraising lecture. Christ, what was she thinking? Still, she was near enough the venue. Half of Glasgow would be there, including her friend Imogen. It was hardly going to be intimate. She was meeting him at the Garden Bar for a quick drink first and if they didn’t loathe each other on sight, they might make a late dinner after the lecture. At least there would be wine. She left Jason to go back to his pals and wandered out of the lane and along Byres Road. The bohemian feel to the West End, the constant thrum of rain and the buzz from the traffic gave the place an upbeat energy. The students walked alone, in pairs or in groups, all working their own look. Either casual in jeans, all-black ensembles or tweed jackets and Mumford and Sons hair. There were even a few punks. Chatter and laughter escaped from the pubs and cafés. There was a festive feel to the area, good times and nothing much to worry about. Jason and his pals had it easy, she thought – it was a different story for the kids at Watervale.
She crossed at the lights and headed up towards Ashton Lane. The rain had turned to sleet. There were three men waiting outside the Garden Bar. She glanced at them – one looked to be in his early twenties, another was closer to sixty. The third man was in his late thirties; she assumed it was him. Taller than her, broad shoulders, jeans, leather jacket. Strong features. Good-looking in an understated way, not pretty-boy. From a distance at least. She approached him, he smiled, held out his hand. ‘Kat Wheeler? You’re just as Carol described you. Paul Buchan, pleased to meet you. Shall we go inside for a drink?’
So far so good.
Chapter 18
The heavy sleet meant that Robertson needed to reach forward and switch on the windscreen wipers. He had parked in the shadows across from the car park and sat in his car watching the road. He began rotating his wedding ring, first one way then back, as if the metal were somehow burning his skin. He pulled it off and dropped it into the glove compartment. He waited until he saw his wife Margaret’s old Volvo approach and turn into the car park. He saw her get out of the car, lock it and walk, head down against the sleet, towards the building. She paused to pull down the brim of her hat and pull the belt of her raincoat tight before disappearing into the building. When he was sure that she was safely inside, Robertson put the car into gear, edged it out of the layby and drove off in the opposite direction.
*
Inside the hall, Margaret Robertson chose one of the wooden seats in the second-to-last row. Heard the scrape of the legs against the rough of the wooden floor. It was a cold night out and just as bitter in the empty hall, so cold that she could see her breath mist in front of her. She pulled her coat around her and settled herself. On the wall to her right a framed Bible verse reminded her of what she already knew, that women were not permitted to speak during meetings; instead they had to have their own meetings, where they could speak freely to one another. 1 Corinthians 14:34–5: Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak.
The other men, women and children would arrive soon. She fingered her Bible, kneaded the worn leather cover with her hands. Waited. After a few minutes the others began to arrive. First came Mrs Harris, her red velvet beret damp with rain, her sensible heels clicking on the wooden floor. She was followed by her daughter-in-law Jennifer, her bobbed hair swinging out from under a blue beret, her advanced pregnancy obvious. The others arrived in ones and twos, all nodding hellos and complaints about the cold weather. The actual meeting would not begin for another five minutes.
Mrs Harris sat in the row in front of Margaret, settled herself then waited for Jennifer to do the same. Only then did they turn to Margaret. ‘I read about the latest murder in the Chronicle. Dreadful. The poor man – he worked up at that school, didn’t he? The school for . . .’
Margaret kept her eyes on her Bible. ‘That’s right, Watervale Academy.’
Mrs Harris tutt-tutted loudly. ‘Awful business altogether.’
‘Awful,’ Jennifer echoed, unfastening her coat and patting her bump.
Margaret’s eyes darted to the bump before quickly looking away.
Mrs Harris leaned towards Margaret. ‘Your Ian will be kept busy with the murder. I expect all the police will. Do I remember your Ian doing outreach at that type of school sometime last year or the year before?’
Margaret nodded. ‘He did visit some of the schools, and we had a couple of children who said they’d be interested in coming to a few Bible classes, but most of them weren’t in the least bit interested. Not even in Sunday School.’
‘Still, if he can get even a few along, it would make a big difference to their lives. It’s a godless world and we have to do our best to help them. It’s our duty.’
‘I know.’
‘A few more souls saved and you can’t put a price on that, can you?’
Margaret kneaded her Bible, knuckles white, nails bitten to the quick.
Mrs Harris tutted again. ‘Awful that the poor man died like that after spending a lifetime trying to help those children.’
Margaret looked at the floor, wished the meeting would begin. ‘He wasn’t at the school at the time. He was in his house. It might not be related to the school at all.’
‘But still, those types of children.’ Jennifer adjusted her beret and patted her hair. ‘Scary, I’d call them.’ She screwed up her face. ‘Godless. They are lost souls.’ She patted her bump, cooed, ‘But you’ll be okay.’
Margaret stared ahead. Sat in silence for the remaining minutes.
Then the meeting began.
About halfway through the sharing, Margaret did something that she had never done before. She opened her Bible, cleared her throat and read aloud. ‘Matthew eighteen, verses twenty-one and twenty-two: Then Peter came up and said to him, “Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?” Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy times seven.”’
She closed her eyes, prayed that the Lord would forgive her for doubting her husband. Prayed that He would take the doubt and suspicion that plagued her and return her to His fold. She kept her eyes closed as some of the men shared, nodded in silent agreement with whatever concern was raised. Finally, when it was over, she opened her eyes.
Mrs Harris stood at her elbow, disapproval etched on her face. ‘I wonder why you didn’t wait for the women’s meeting, Margaret, when you could have spoken out?’
Margaret stared at the floor.
‘It would have been more fitting. Sometimes, Margaret, we have to fight our ego, not give in to it.’
Margaret swallowed.
Jennifer kept her voice light. ‘Is Ian picking you up tonight?’
‘No, he’s working.’ Margaret’s fingers worried at the leather again.
Mrs Harris leant in close to Margaret, patted her shoulder stiffly, rested her hand for a minute. ‘A wonderful man you have there, Margaret. See now that you look after him well. You are a very lucky girl. What else would you have done at your age?’
Margaret hadn’t meant to blurt it out, but the words tripped over themselves: ‘I need to speak with an elder.’
Mrs Harris drew her hand back and frowned. ‘I’m not surprised, after your show tonight. I think maybe you should go and speak with someone about your attitude. Maybe one of the women?’
Margaret shook her head.
‘Then you’d better make arrangements to have a meeting with an elder. Perhaps Ian could come with you? That might be more,’ she paused, ‘appropriate.’
‘No, it’s not about what happened tonight . . . I mean Ian won’t be there. I need to speak with someone alone.’
‘You want a meeting with an elder, without your husband being present?’
Margaret nodded and bit her bottom lip. ‘It’s a private matter.’
Mrs Harris and Jennifer stared at her. At last Jennifer spoke. ‘Go see Elder Morrison.’
Outside, Mrs Harris turned to her daughter-in-law. ‘What was all that about?’
‘I’m guessing that there might be problems in their marriage. Five years married and no children. Even at her age, she could have hoped for a couple of kids.’
‘You don’t think . . .?’
‘What?’
‘That she’s thinking about a divorce? I mean, all this secrecy about seeing an elder and it being a private matter. What on earth could she say in private that she couldn’t say in front of Ian? Unless it’s about Ian.’
Jennifer kept her voice low. ‘Margaret always wanted kids, no reason she shouldn’t be able to have them and yet here they are, all this time and nothing.’ She patted her stomach. ‘Doesn’t it seem odd to you?’
Mrs Harris looked back through the open door. Margaret Robertson was sitting with the Bible open on her lap. Her mouth was moving, her eyes closed. ‘That girl’s the odd one – Ian Robertson’s a lovely man.’
Inside, Margaret hunched over the verse, the words already memorised, as if, by saying them, she might make them become concrete in the room. And things would be fine again between her and her husband.
‘Luke six, verses thirty-six and thirty-seven: “Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful. Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven.”’ She breathed deeply and began again, giving special emphasis to the phrase ‘forgive and you will be forgiven’.
Finally, when the caretaker stood in the doorway and flicked the lights on and off, she closed the Bible, stood and made her way out into the freezing cold evening.
