Текст книги "Riven"

Автор книги: A. J. McCreanor

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter 19

The lecture theatre was filling up. Wheeler sat in the front row, looked across the room, saw Imogen, waved to her and waited while her friend made her way towards her. Imogen squeezed into the seat beside her.

‘Is your new date not coming?’ Imogen scanned the crowd. ‘I thought Carol said you were meeting him for a drink earlier on this evening?’

‘God, do you two tell each other everything?’

‘Pretty much – we’re colleagues, remember. Unlike you and your chums at the station, we’ve loads of time to gossip instead of working. So, did you meet him?’

‘I did meet him for a quick drink.’

‘And?’

‘And it’s a friend of his who’s giving the talk, so he’s gone off to have a quick good-luck chat beforehand.’

‘Lecture.’

‘Aye, well, whatever.’

‘It going okay then? He’s not a nutter, a psycho or a miso?’

‘A what?’

‘Misogynist.’

‘It’s early days yet. I only met him an hour ago. His name’s Paul and he’s a psychologist.’ Wheeler was aware of the seats filling up; the theatre was busy. ‘He seemed okay.’

‘Just okay?’

‘Well, not an obvious nutter but as I said, it’s early days.’

‘Damned by faint praise.’ Imogen sounded disappointed.

‘Okay, you old romantic, it was like he was on his best behaviour. He seemed a bit reserved.’

‘You want to see him on his worst behaviour on a first date?’

‘Uh huh, if it’s him being congruent,’ Wheeler nodded, ‘otherwise it’s just an act put on to impress me.’

‘Fair enough, although some folk would be happy if a guy was out to impress them,’ she paused. ‘There’s someone standing in the doorway staring at you. That him?’

Wheeler looked up, smiled and waited as Paul Buchan made his way towards them.

‘Good body,’ muttered Imogen, ‘nice shoulders, long legs.’

‘You’re gay, remember?’

Imogen smiled. ‘But not blind, so what’s your point caller?’

Buchan reached them as the lights dimmed. ‘Took a minute to order us a bottle of Pinot Grigio for the end of the lecture. It’ll be hellish to get served when everyone’s streaming out at the same time.’

‘Nice one.’ Imogen sat back in her seat.

Wheeler smiled and hastily introduced them before the lights flickered, telling them that the lecture was about to begin.

A few seconds later a man walked to the front of the theatre. He was small and wiry, his dark hair swept back from a tanned face and brown eyes glittered with intensity. He cleared his throat before beginning. ‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you all for coming out on such a cold and miserable night. My name is Dr Matthew Barnes and I’m from the Keenan Institute.’ He glanced around the audience as if hoping someone would recognise the name. No one stirred, so he continued, ‘The Institute came into being last year and it will be, I hope, a place of sanctuary for troubled young people who have suffered neglect or abuse in some form in their young lives. At present we only have one facility, based in London, but given time, we hope to expand and have centres across the UK. As you may know, the local prison, Barlinnie, is overcrowded. This is a situation that is echoed across the UK and Europe. But I don’t believe it has to be this way. I believe that many of the inmates have had a poor start to life; they were born at a distinct disadvantage. I am talking about severe neglect. I believe that we, as a nation, have created a society that is exclusive, in that we systematically exclude those who are the most vulnerable and most in need of our help. Children and young people are often left to cope alone – they are not parented properly nor are they supported. Often they grow up feral, having to fend for themselves. This in turn makes it difficult for them to find a place for themselves in society. They have no choice but to move outside of its perimeters, often turning to drugs, prostitution and crime. In time these children become homeless, or are incarcerated and then the spiral of crime continues.’

Wheeler was aware of the silence in the room. Matthew Barnes held the audience’s attention by force of will, his passion evident.

Barnes continued, ‘I’d like to present a few thoughts about the issues and dangers of neglecting children in our society. Or if you like, more of the same-old-same-old, the nature versus nurture argument. I believe this is a crucial area and one which is woefully underfunded, so then afterwards,’ he paused, smiling, ‘I ask you for your money.’ A ripple of laughter spread around the room. Then the lights went out.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, let’s begin right at the beginning.’ He pressed a switch and the screen beside him flickered into life. An image of two brain scans flashed onto the screen, one brain noticeably larger than the other. Barnes crossed to the screen and pointed to the smaller of the two. ‘This brain belongs to a child who was severely neglected from birth. The child’s brain has much less tissue.’ He pointed to the other scan. ‘In this image, the larger brain belongs to a child with a normal upbringing – that’s to say a child who wasn’t neglected, a child who had their needs met. Notice the increase in both the size of the brain and the amount of brain tissue.’

Wheeler sat in the dark, listening to Barnes speak. She listened to the statistics and the theories about neglect and the proven link to delinquency. She thought about her own upbringing, a mother who had loved both her and her sister. Her father had died too early in her life for her to have any memory of him, but their mother had made sure they had everything she could manage to give them. The old adage had applied: they’d everything they’d needed but maybe not everything they’d wanted.

‘And then there are these . . .’ Barnes continued his lecture. Wheeler watched another set of brain scans, thought of Alec Munroe and Rab Wilson and the other kids from Watervale Academy and wondered how a scan of their brains would match up against her nephew’s. She wondered if the Watervale kids even had enough resources to cope with the world. Her nephew had been feted all his life. And from what Wheeler had seen, instead of this making him stronger, he had become an indulged brat.

‘So, you see,’ Barnes continued, ‘children tell us from a very young age how much they are struggling to make sense of the world that we have created for them. And if they, literally, don’t have the brain power,’ the two disparate brain scans flashed again on the screen, ‘if they don’t have the brain power,’ he repeated, ‘due to neglect or abuse, to process the world they live in, then what chance do they have?’

Silence.

‘University? Unlikely. A meteoric career? Doubtful. Successful relationships?’ He peered at the audience. ‘What do you think their chances would be?’ He looked around the room, waited. No one offered an opinion. ‘So, they learn to create their own smaller worlds, often outside of society. They become outsiders. We have created a sub-society of outsiders because from birth these children are massively disadvantaged. The question is, now that we are aware of this,’ he slammed his fist on the desk, his voice rising, ‘what the hell are we going to do about it?’

Silence.

Finally the lights went up.

Applause.

Wheeler sat, like most of the audience, wondering the same thing. What was to be done to help children who were so ill-equipped to deal with their surroundings?

Buchan turned to her. ‘Maybe we need to distil the lecture, let it settle for a while. Matt gets very passionate about the neglected weans and their needs.’ He glanced at the doorway; people were filing out and making their way to the bar. ‘Glass of wine?’

They followed him into the bar in silence, pausing only to write their cheques and leave them in the huge bowl with the rest of the donations. A pile of leaflets outlining the work of the Keenan Institute were stacked next to the bowl. Imogen took two and passed one to Wheeler.

‘Pretty heavy stuff in there.’ Buchan led them to a table with a cardboard place setting which had Paul Buchan scrawled on it. Beside it a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio. He poured three glasses.

Imogen took hers. ‘Heavy but interesting. I honestly didn’t realise that the scans would look so different. I’m shocked at the difference in brain sizes. How can those kids cope?’

‘Many don’t – those are the ones Matt wants to help, before they move outside of society.’

‘And into crime,’ said Wheeler.

‘And maybe onto the Bar-L?’ Buchan leaned against the bar.

Wheeler sipped her wine, aware that Imogen sounded upset. She wondered if it was because Imogen’s partner Alison was pregnant and the responsibility of giving a child a good start was playing on her mind.

Buchan touched her elbow. ‘You look miles away. Glad you came?’

‘Of course, yeah,’ Wheeler nodded. ‘Bit of a wake-up call, that’s all. Not that I hadn’t read up about stuff like that before.’

‘But Matt’s passion really sells it, doesn’t it?’

‘It made me think about my own childhood, how we were brought up, fed, clothed and looked after pretty well. Then there are these kids who are trying twice as hard with half the resources. It just seems so unfair.’

‘Excuse me, need a loo break,’ announced Imogen, draining her glass.

‘I hope it hasn’t put a damper on our evening,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘You said you were in the middle of a big case at the moment.’ Buchan topped up all three glasses, emptying the bottle.

‘Not a damper. I think it’s just reminded me of the reality some of the kids in our city are facing – not that there aren’t some little shites out there, but, those images,’ she gestured to the lecture hall, ‘they make me uneasy.’

‘But you help those kind of kids, don’t you?’

Wheeler stared into her glass. ‘I’m not sure. At least we don’t always help them, not all the time. Sometimes there’s no time to find out much about their background. It’s just process them, place them in the system somewhere and then it’s onto the next case.’

‘You’re being too hard on yourself,’ he touched her arm, ‘really. I think you probably do a lot of good for the kids you come into contact with.’ He smiled at her, tried to lighten the mood.

‘Is that right?’

‘Uh huh, you do a great job. Changing the subject, do you want to go on somewhere for dinner?’ He was definitely flirting.

‘Might do.’

‘Italian, Indian, Greek . . .?’

Imogen came back. ‘I’m heading off home now – I’ve got a pregnant girlfriend who will be feeling neglected herself if I don’t make a show.’

Buchan smiled. ‘Just need to say a quick goodbye to Matt. Won’t be a sec.’ He paused. ‘Good to meet you Imogen, and safe journey home.’

They watched him disappear into the crowd.

Imogen pulled on her jacket. ‘You going home with him?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’

‘Well either way, try to enjoy yourself. You need some down time with your job. And the lecture was great but pretty heavy. You need some fun.’

‘Yep, I agree.’ Wheeler sipped her wine, watched Buchan speak to Matt Barnes.

‘Cute.’ Imogen nodded towards Buchan.

Wheeler raised her glass. ‘Abso-fucking-lutely he’s cute,’ but she heard the tension in her voice.

‘Think you’ll ever settle down?’

‘Like you and Alison, do you mean?’

‘Well, obviously not as perfect and loved up as we are, but you know, a committed relationship and emotional intimacy, that kind of thing?’

‘Who knows? Maybe,’ Wheeler lied.

‘I hope he’s not going to be just another one of your brief liaisons.’

‘I’ll try not to hurt his feelings.’

‘What about you and Ross?’

‘Ross?’

‘You heard.’

‘I hope you don’t mean what I think you mean.’

‘You fancy him.’

‘What kind of a word is that,’ Wheeler laughed. ‘Are you still in primary school?’

‘Cut the crap, Wheeler, just answer the question. You want to jump Ross, don’t you?’

‘Christ,’ Wheeler spluttered, ‘now you’ve graduated from primary to delinquent teenager. Jump him?’

‘Just answer the question.’

‘There is no question.’ Wheeler held out her hand, counting off the fingers, ‘one, we’re colleagues, two, I’m a detective, three . . .’

‘Ha, you do want to jump him.’

‘Christ, any more of this and I’m telling Alison what a nutter she’s with.’

‘Mobile.’

Wheeler watched her friend answer the call, saw from her reaction it was her girlfriend.

Imogen finished the call. ‘Need to go. You okay if I just push off now?’

‘You’re okay.’

‘See you soon?’

‘Definitely. Give Alison my love.’

‘Will do.’

Wheeler sat, people-watching, until she saw Buchan cross the room towards her. Saw him smile. Saw that he was attracting glances from some of the other women. She knew if she went home with him and they had sex, that would be it, maybe one more date but then she’d move on. That was her pattern. Maybe Imogen was right; maybe she should give him a chance and at least try to get to know him. Wheeler drained her wine glass and walked towards him. ‘Let’s go for Italian. It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other.’ Even to her it sounded false.

Chapter 20

Ross closed the door behind him, threw the football scarf on the hall table and kicked off his boots. He padded towards the kitchen and almost skidded on the wet.

‘Fuckssake.’ He righted himself. Then he smelled it: sour urine. Dog piss. He switched on the light and saw that the puddle he had walked into had spread across his expensive parquet flooring. He squelched towards the sitting room just as the square-headed dog made a bid for freedom, charging past him, head down, on its way towards the door. Like a miniature bull. If the bull had three legs and wore a plastic cone around its neck.

‘Christ, what a nightmare.’ The dog turned and looked at him. Glanced at the door. Waited.

‘Aye, you want out now, now that you’ve pissed all over the floor.’

The dog wagged her tail, tried to itch the gash on the side of her head but the plastic cone prevented her from reaching it. She whined quietly.

Ross pulled off his socks and walked into the kitchen, shoved them into the washing machine and slammed the door shut on the smell. The dog had followed him and stood watching from the doorway. He stared at her. ‘You, in future, you keep it in until I get back. Cross your fucking legs if you have to.’ He collected the bucket and mop and started the clean-up.

The dog stared. Wagged her tail some more, looked at the door. Whined.

‘Oh for God’s sake, I’m just in out the rain.’

The mutt waited patiently. Then whined again. Paused. Began again.

Ross dumped the mop. ‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’

More whining, this time softer but still insistent.

Ross decided that he couldn’t be arsed going in search of socks, so he just pulled on his boots, feeling the leather harsh against his bare skin. He grabbed the lead. ‘Well, pee-the-bed, let’s go.’

Once outside the flat, he turned left and carried on down Argyle Street, towards the Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery. The huge baroque building was floodlit and impressive even in the rain. Ross had been inside often enough to see different exhibitions, though he tended to avoid it when the massive pipe organ was being played. He liked it best when it was quiet and he could be alone with his thoughts and whatever exhibition he’d gone to see. He walked across the grass, the mutt trotting happily beside him. He patted his pocket, checking for poo bags, and walked around the perimeter of the building. They passed the bronze sculpture of St Mungo, the patron saint of Glasgow, fashioned as patron of art and music, and continued over the bridge that crossed the River Kelvin.

They turned right into Byres Road, which was full of revellers spilling out of the pubs and restaurants. Music was blaring out from The Vineyard and Ross ignored a drunk who pointed to the dog and shouted, ‘You walking that thing for a laugh?’ Followed by, ‘Should it no be in the circus?’ They walked on, crossing Byres Road and stopped outside the chippy. Its windows were steamed up and the smell of frying food hit him; his stomach growled in response. He was on the verge of going in when the dog tugged on the lead, crouched down and deposited a steaming poo. Ross bent down, felt the rain run through his hair, knew his jeans were soaked. Grabbed the soft poo in a plastic bag and tied the tops, trying to ignore the smell. As he turned he saw Kat Wheeler coming out of the Italian restaurant opposite. The tall guy she was with was telling her something funny. She laughed up at him. Ross turned and dragged the dog back the way they’d come, depositing the plastic bag in the first bin he saw.

Once home, the dog shook herself over the hall floor before padding through to the sitting room. She jumped onto the sofa and turned in a circle a few times before settling down. She was asleep in seconds, a gentle wheeze emanating from her snout.

Ross was wide awake.

He stood in the hallway deliberating. Not for long. Ten minutes later he was heading east along Argyle Street, towards the station, windscreen wipers humming a rhythmic chorus. He switched on the radio; the sports discussion was midway through.

‘Raith Rovers,’ the presenter laughed, ‘were they robbed tonight, or were Partick Thistle just too good for them? You decide. Call us with your views on—’

‘Fuck off,’ Ross muttered, switched to a music channel, leaned back in his seat as Fairytale of New York began. ‘Bloody Christmas music,’ he leaned forward, his hand hovering for a second before he rested it back on the steering wheel. A few bars in and he was singing along.

Tommy Cunningham was behind the desk and smirked as Ross passed. Ross ignored him, took the stairs to the CID suite two at a time, pulled open the door and was pleased to find it empty. He grabbed a pile of reports that had been left on his desk and settled himself to read through the list of phone messages that had come through following Stewart’s appeal. After the first few pages he crossed to the kettle and switched it on, scooped coffee into a mug and rooted around the room for biscuits. He found some in Boyd’s desk, took two and settled back at his desk. There had been a number of responses to Gilmore’s death but some would be bogus, some would be mistaken and others, well, Ross hoped that they would be helpful. Whoever killed Gilmore was out there watching, waiting and perhaps planning another attack.

Ross turned the page, read through another list of calls, making notes as he went along.

I did it. It was me. No, I didn’t know him before, it was a random attack but it was me. Definitely. The caller had given his name, number and had cheerfully agreed to come into the station to be interviewed. How helpful. Ross put a question mark next to the name. The police had left out much of the detail surrounding the beating, in particular the fact that the body had been hung on a hook. That information was known only to the police and the killer and would help them sift through the time wasters.

Next message. You need to be looking at James Gilmore and Arthur Wright. London. That’s all I’m saying.

Ross read on; the man had been asked for his name and a contact number. Both had been refused. He’d been calling from a public call box somewhere. Ross jotted down the name Arthur Wright, London. Underlined it. Beside it he wrote trace the call. Then he read on.

I think I might have known a guy called James Gilmore. Going back a while now mind you . . . wee guy, ginger hair? ...

I knew James when he was doing his training. I think it was a James Gilmore, not sure now that I think about it, maybe his name was Jamie, that’d be much the same but . . .

I know something important about James Gilmore. He was one of the bad guys. He wasn’t what he appeared to be; he was a fucking psycho. I don’t want to give my name. I can’t be implicated in this. But he’s not what he seemed. Look at his history. Just look at his history. No name, no number. Public phone box. Again Ross wrote trace call in his notebook and read on. Two callers, both anonymous, had suggested that Gilmore hadn’t been one of the good guys. Either they were muddying the waters for the police or Gilmore had a life that he’d kept hidden from everyone. Ross favoured the last idea. He fired up the computer, opened the police database and typed in ‘Arthur Wright, London’, pressed enter and waited.

A half hour later and he’d found nothing useful. Ross was closing down his computer when his mobile chirruped. A text. He glanced at the sender. Sarah, his ex-girlfriend. The broody one.

I’m lonely. Want to come over?

Ross thought about their last conversation. About her wanting kids, him not ever wanting them. Nothing had changed for him and he couldn’t carry on seeing someone who so clearly wanted a family. Children would never be on his radar. Wife, kids, dog. He didn’t want the package. Ross picked a stray dog hair from his jacket – well he’d been suckered into having one out of three, but that was it. He wondered idly if Sarah had changed her mind but he knew that there was no chance. If he were being honest, she was lonely and probably a bit bored and what she was offering was sex. He paused for a heartbeat before texting, Will bring wine.

A second later she replied, Food?

He sighed. Chinese or Indian?

Indian. Yum.

Ross stuffed the notes into the tray on his desk and switched off the light on his way out of the room. Good food and hopefully great sex; it was a decent end to a hard day. He even nodded to Cunningham on his way out of the station.