Текст книги "In Place of Death"

Автор книги: Craig Robertson

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Narey didn’t have the words. Her heart was breaking but she knew the man didn’t want her sympathy and she sure as hell couldn’t tell him anything would be all right. Instead, she nodded with all the understanding she had and repeated the description she’d given to Doig.

Walter thought on it, his right hand massaging at his temples. ‘Wasn’t a drinker or a junkie, you say? Few of those men on the streets and that’s for sure. There was a guy a while back though . . . Aye, it could be him, I suppose.’

Her pulse quickened as she sensed a light in the dark. ‘Who was he, Walter?’

‘A young guy. Young to me anyway. Under forty for sure. He just stayed a few nights. Didn’t seem the type for this place, you know? He maybe took a wee drink but no like the guys in here. No like me. And he wasn’t a junkie. I called him the Saint on account of him being sober. He asked a lot of questions. Wanted to know how the place worked.’

‘And you told him?’

‘Course I did, lass. Like I said, he didn’t seem the type. You need to learn the ropes quick in here or you’ll never survive. Guys think you’re soft they’ll break into your room in the middle of the night and take your smokes or your booze, whatever they can get. I told the Saint to watch himself. You think it’s him? Jesus, I hope I’m wrong.’

Walter leaned in closer before Narey could reply and she managed to bite on her impatience and let him speak.

‘What happened to him? If it wasn’t the sauce or that junk they put into themselves?’

She didn’t want to lie to the old man but she couldn’t tell him the truth either. Not all of it at least. ‘We’re not sure yet, Walter. Looks like he was murdered.’

The man closed his eyes again and he pinched at the top of his nose. It was a small age before he spoke. ‘No wonder I drink, hen. No wonder we all drink or get stoned or whatever. What’s the point in staying sober when that’s all the good it does you. He was a decent laddie, that one, compared to some. What’s the point in being decent if you get yourself killed? And wee Sammy’s McClune’s baby. Never done harm to a soul, never had the chance. See some of them in here? Bad bastards, pardon my language. We all die just the same, good and bad. No wonder I take a drink.’

Narey could see the thirst growing in the man as she looked at him. Walter wasn’t going to finish this day as sober as he was now.

‘What can you tell me about this guy, Walter? When was he last here? Do you know what his name was?’

‘Last here?’ Walter looked surprised at the question. ‘Hen, I’m no very good with dates. Head’s too muddled with the drink if I’m honest. I think his name was . . . hell, let me think. Like I said, I called him . . . Wait. Brian. That’s it, Brian. That’s what he told me anyhow.’

‘I don’t suppose you know his surname?’

Walter laughed. ‘Hen, you’ve had all the memory I’ve got left.’

Narey nodded, her hand resting on the old man’s arm. ‘Thanks, Walter. You’ve been a big help.’

The man’s eyes were moist now. ‘See if you can find out what happened to him, Miss Narey? Will you? If they start killing the saints, what chance have us sinners got?’

‘I’ll do my best, Walter.’

‘And, Miss Narey . . . I wouldn’t normally ask but . . . all this—’

‘Don’t worry about it, Walter. I understand.’ She opened the hand that was resting on his arm just long enough for him to see the two twenty-pound notes that were in it. She then pressed them quietly into the man’s fist.

He looked up gratefully and managed a weak smile. ‘Thanks, lass.’

Narey and Toshney were making their way back down the stairwell, avoiding fresh dumps of vomit, when he spoke.

‘Boss, hope you don’t mind me asking. But you do know he’s just going to spend that money you gave him on getting plastered, right?’

She turned on him and he took half a step back despite himself, shoved there by the anger that was pouring out of her.

‘Of course I do, Fraser. Like he said, it’s no wonder he takes a drink. Living in a place like this, in a world like this. If it was my dad . . . well I’d rather he was sober than drunk but if he was a drunk then I’d rather someone bought him a fucking drink. I just gave Walter another reason to be drunk by telling him about this. Least I can do is pay for it.’

They stopped by the front desk on the way out and Narey wasn’t in the mood to go round the houses this time. She told Cochrane that she wanted to look at their register to see if they had anyone signed in by the name of Brian.

‘I don’t think I can do that.’

She smiled, glad of the challenge. ‘Oh I think you can. Or else you can just give me the excuse to rip your head off and shove it up your arse.’

He stared back at her for a few moments, trying to think of a way to argue. Finally, he gave in. ‘You may as well. It’s all public record anyway. I don’t remember any guy called Brian though.’

‘Do you really care what their names are?’ Her insinuation was paper-thin. Cochrane just glared back and pushed the open register towards her.

She went back four weeks and saw no one named Brian. Five weeks, the same result. Then there it was, one entry six weeks back, a booking that only lasted for four nights. The name beside it was Brian Christie.

‘What about this guy?’ She pointed at the name. ‘Remember him?’

Cochrane shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘So tell us!’

‘If it’s the guy I’m thinking of, he told us he’d lost his job and been thrown out by his wife. He said he’d be signed up for housing benefit by the end of the week. It never came through and he didn’t stay long.’

‘Five eleven with reddish hair?’

‘Could be.

‘Is it?’

‘I think so. Aye.’

‘Did you check for a previous address? See any ID?’

Cochrane laughed sourly. ‘Why would anyone? Who would anyone want to stay in here if they didn’t have to?’

Chapter 10

It wasn’t unusual for Narey to want to wash off the dirt of a day on the streets but this one demanded it more than most. She stood in the shower for fully fifteen minutes letting it soak her, lathering herself so much that her feet stood in a pool of bubbles. Staring up into the needles of the shower, she took the hit on her face and let the water run down into her open mouth.

She could feel her fists clenching and forced herself to open her hands wide. She placed them palm first against the tiled shower wall. Being angry wasn’t helping but she couldn’t shake it off. She slapped her hands against the tiles and liked the sound of it, so did it again.

She stood long enough to calm down. The anger was all still there, curled up and smouldering inside her like a sleeping dragon, but she was fairly sure that she was in control of it. For now at least.

Wrapped up in a towelling robe, she marched into the front room and dropped heavily onto the sofa. Air rushed from her and her eyes closed over. She wanted wine. It wasn’t a good idea though, given that her head was as muddled as it already was.

‘Glass of wine?’ Tony, mind-reader and bad influence, was sitting in the chair opposite.

‘Yes. I mean no. No.’ She didn’t open her eyes. ‘And I really mean no. But thanks.’

‘You sure?’

‘No.’

‘Okay. Want to talk about it instead? I’m guessing it was a bad one.’

Her eyes flicked open but her hesitancy was obvious. There was a line. One or other of them had first joked that it was police crime scene tape and it was there to keep him out. The line had been set a long time ago but they both knew it had become blurred since then. The choice of ditching it altogether was hers though.

‘Up to you? Tell me as much or as little as you want.’

She sighed heavily and rubbed at her eyes. ‘Okay. But only because this is therapy and an alternative to wine.’

‘Okay.’

‘You know the Rosewood Hotel?’

‘The dosshouse? I’ve never been in it but yes. I know of it.’

‘Of course you’ve never been in it, why would you? And you don’t want to, believe me. It’s a hellhole. And it’s not a dosshouse, it’s a bloody waiting room. Just full of people waiting to die.’

He couldn’t miss the emotion in her voice. She was in a bad way and he needed to tread carefully, for her sake, not his.

‘Can the owners not be done for something if it’s as bad as that?’

‘Let’s hope so. They will be if I can find something to stick on them.’

‘Want to tell me why you were there?’

Another big sigh. ‘Oh why not? It’s the Molendinar case. We think our man had been living in there for a while. Poor bastard is almost better off dead than being in there. Shit, I don’t mean that. Long, long day.’

Winter’s itch pulsed. The guy in the burn. The guy lying under the streets. The voice that he couldn’t quite hear.

‘So you think the guy in the tunnel had been homeless?’

‘Looks that way. We think he’d only been in there for four nights though. God knows where he’d been staying the rest of the time. But that place . . . Everyone in this city should be ashamed that it’s there. We all just shut our eyes and pretend that places like that – people like that – don’t exist. Well they do. It made my skin crawl. It made me . . . so fucking angry.’

He wanted to ask a hundred questions. He wanted to know everything but he was also wary of her shutting down, pointing at the police tape and telling him not to cross. The voice in his head had become quieter. He didn’t know anyone who was homeless. At least he didn’t think he did.

But he heard something else too in what she was saying. Her anger wasn’t just at the Rosewood. He knew it was also at places like it, places where people were left to be forgotten, left to die. He crossed to the sofa and sat with his arm round her.

She made a half-hearted effort to push him away but quickly gave in, her head slumping onto his shoulder. ‘I’m supposed to be professional,’ she protested. ‘Supposed to be detached. Can you just imagine all those sods in the station if they knew how this got to me?’

‘I’m not sure you are supposed to be detached. How can you do your job if you don’t care? You’re supposed to be human, not a robot. And you’re taking on a lot. You can’t save the whole world, Rach. You can just do your best for those who matter most and you’re doing that.’

She raised her head so she could look at him. ‘I’ve never thought this before but you might actually be smarter than you look.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it.

‘So what happens next with the tunnel guy? Have you got a name for him?’

She banged a small fist lightly against his chest. ‘You’re pushing your luck. Yes, we have a name. He signed himself into the Rosewood as Brian Christie. It doesn’t match anyone on Missing Persons but we’re looking.’

Suddenly, the voice that Winter couldn’t quite hear faded away. He felt the whisper of it go from the room and out the window into the night sky. He’d never heard of a Brian Christie. It was a relief and at the same time an odd disappointment. That wasn’t something he’d even begin to think of trying to explain to Rachel though. She had enough to worry about.

Chapter 11

Monday morning

It took Narey a moment to realize what the sound on the other end of the line was when she answered the phone. The beeps were from another century and she couldn’t remember when she’d last heard them. It was someone calling from a phone box. Finally, a coin dropped and the line cleared.

‘Hello? Detective Narey? Inspector Narey?’

The man’s voice was old and rather weak. She had just about placed it when he confirmed it for her.

‘It’s Walter McMeekin. From the Rosewood Hotel. You said to call if I remembered anything else. Well I have, sort of. It’s no much, mind.’

She reached for a pen and pulled a notepad towards her. ‘Hi, Walter. Thanks for calling. Listen, anything at all could help us. What did you remember?’

‘Well, like I said, it’s no much. But if you’re still trying to find out about that laddie Brian then you maybe want to try down at the City Mission. The boy told me he’d been down there. I remember him telling me that. Before he came to the Rosewood, he’d been down at Crimea Street.’

‘Walter, that’s great. Did he say why he he’d been to the Mission?’

A pause. ‘No really. He said he’d been speaking to the boss man over there. I remember because I know him as well. Malcolm Colvin. Malky is what they call him. The project manager. One of the good guys.’

‘Okay, Walter. I’ll go down there today and check it out. You’ve been a big help.’

‘Och, no. It’s nothing. That poor laddie. Best you find out what happened to him.’

‘We will. Are you doing okay, Walter?’

He laughed. ‘Ah’m doing how ah’m doing, hen. Better than I will be tonight no doubt and better than I will be tomorrow morning. I could say different but I’ve known maself for too long.’

‘Take care of yourself.’

‘Too late for that, hen. Too late.’

The City Mission was nearly two hundred years old, the first of its kind in the world. They were a Christian organization, offering practical care like food and a roof over people’s heads when they needed it most. The current offices were on Crimea Street, a narrow warren halfway between Argyle Street and the Broomielaw. It was a new build that resembled a New York loft conversion, all brick and floor-to-ceiling windows over five floors. The sign, GLASGOW CITY MISSION, ran from top to bottom, extended beyond the building’s side.

Just a few yards away across the road, at the T-junction with Brown Street, an abandoned building sat in stark contrast, its tall arched windows covered in protective grilles, its ornate doorway bricked up. Narey had paused as she got out of the car, fascinated by it being there in splendid isolation. She couldn’t help but wonder what it had been, a tobacco baron’s warehouse or maybe his offices. A bit grand for one and maybe too plain for the other.

Toshney caught her looking at it. ‘Everything okay, Boss?’

‘Hmm? Yes. You never wondered what a building like that used to be in a former life?’

The DC looked bemused. ‘No.’

She sighed. ‘No, I don’t suppose you have. Come on. He’s waiting for us.’

Inside the front door, a middle-aged woman introduced herself as Maureen and told them she was the project manager’s assistant. A quick call ahead had already let them know her boss was in and would hang around until they turned up. Maureen led them up to the first floor where he sat waiting behind a desk.

Malcolm Colvin was only in his early thirties, a tousled mop of hair and stubble making him look more like he’d walked off a beach with a surfboard under his arm than managed a homeless project.

His casual look was topped off with blue jeans and an open-necked white shirt. Narey noted that he was good-looking in that superficial blue-eyed Greek god kind of way that more shallow women might find attractive. He greeted her with a broad smile and she suppressed the temptation to bite him.

‘Mr Colvin, thanks for taking the time to see us.’

‘Not at all. And it’s Malcolm. Glad if I can help in any way. Please, both of you, take a seat. Can I get you a coffee? Tea?’

Narey and Toshney sat but politely refused the offer of a drink. ‘How can I help you, Detective Inspector? You said on the phone it concerned someone I might know who had lived in the Rosewood. I hope he’s okay whoever it is and not in some kind of trouble.’

‘You assume it’s a man.’

‘Well . . . you’re right, I’m making an assumption. But it’s a fair guess. As far as the homeless are concerned, men make up 93.3 per cent of our service users.’ He shrugged. ‘We keep records. And we see the proof with our own eyes. They are almost always men.’

‘Fair enough. And yes, it is a man. We’re hoping you can help us identify him.’

Colvin looked slightly pained, his pin-up features crumpling apologetically. ‘I’ll do what I can, Inspector Narey, but this job is all about trust. Both ways. I’m not going to be earning the trust of the guys who come here if I turn them in to the police. I guess it depends what he’s done.’

‘Malcolm, you don’t need to worry about losing his trust. Unfortunately. What’s he’s done is died. We’re trying to identify a murder victim.’

Colvin’s mouth fell open for a moment before he steadied himself, dragging a hand through his hair. He breathed out hard. ‘Who was it? Sorry, that’s what you want me to tell you. Of course. Anything I can do. Murder?’

‘I’m afraid so, yes. We have a description of the man plus a possible name for him. As I said on the phone, we think he came down here to talk to you. Do you want a moment, Malcolm?’

Colvin’s hand was absently covering his mouth. ‘No, I . . . please ask me what you need to. Sorry, I shouldn’t still be surprised when things happen to the guys out there. One of our regulars hasn’t been seen in a couple of months and he’d stayed at the Rosewood. I’ve been worried about him. What’s the name you’ve been given of the man from the Rosewood?’

‘We think he’s called Brian Christie.’

‘No, that’s not my guy and it doesn’t ring any bells. I’m sure I don’t know that name. What’s the man’s description?’

Narey told him. Colvin processed it slowly, clearly taking his time. Finally he shrugged. ‘Well . . . no. It could be so many of them.’

‘Walter also said this man asked a lot of questions.’

Colvin still looked blank but the assistant’s voice came from the corner of the room. ‘I don’t know the name Christie but the description does sound like someone who came in a couple of times asking questions. His name was Euan though. Not Brian.’

Colvin’s eyebrows rose as a penny dropped. ‘Yes, you’re right, Maureen. Euan. Euan . . . Hepburn. It was maybe the name that threw me because I should have remembered him straight away. He was a bit different.’

‘In what way?’ Narey asked the question but thought she already knew the answer.

‘Well . . .’ Colvin hesitated. ‘Don’t quote me on this but he was different from most of the men that might have come from the Rosewood and most of those who use our service. Most of them have suffered through personal problems and circumstances outwith their control. A lot of them are quite vulnerable.’

She didn’t have the time to let him feel guilty about making generalizations about the mission’s clients. She’d do that for him.

‘Malcolm, are you saying that he was sober?’

Colvin looked uncomfortable but nodded. ‘Yes. Made him stick out a bit. He wasn’t the only one but it’s unusual. He wasn’t just sober, he’d been sober. And I’m sure he didn’t use drugs.’

‘And he asked questions?’

‘He wanted to know about the Rosewood Hotel. If that was somewhere I’d recommend for him to go. I told him I couldn’t do that. There are a lot of places in the city better for those in need than that place. In fact, and again don’t quote me, I can’t think of anywhere worse. The street would be a better option, honestly.’

‘What else did he want to know?’

‘Well he wanted to know why I thought it was so bad. Wanted to know about other places in the city for the homeless, good and bad. He asked if people ever got out of the Rosewood in one piece. We chatted for quite a while.’

Narey nodded absently, her lips pursed in thought. ‘Malcolm, you said you kept records. Would Euan Hepburn feature in them?’

‘He should. After we spoke, I passed him on down the line to get him what help we could. Keeping him out of the Rosewood was the one thing I wanted to do. He didn’t strike me as lasting long in there. He didn’t belong. I’ll get what we have on him.’

When Colvin returned five minutes later, he found Narey staring idly out the window at the old building opposite. They were level with the top of the arched windows and she could now see that the upper floors in red brick were newer than the pale stone of the ground level.

‘It’s a great building, isn’t it?’ Malcolm Colvin sensed her admiration . ‘I could look at it all day. I love old places like that. Can’t get enough of them.’

The man’s expression changed when he remembered the single piece of paper he’d come back with. His apologetic look didn’t fill Narey with much hope.

‘Inspector Narey, I’m sorry but we’ve no record of him. I spoke to the staff but the only one that remembers him thinks that he just left after speaking to me. We’d asked him to wait so we could help him out but it seems he just slipped away. He must have left us and gone to the Rosewood despite what I said.’

‘Shit. So what’s this?’ She nodded at the piece of paper Colvin held.

The man gave a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘My mobile number. In case I can help with anything else.’

Narey caught the birth of a smirk on Toshney’s face. It died a sudden death as soon as he saw her looking. She thanked Colvin, said she’d be in touch if they needed anything more and began to direct the DC out the door with a glare.

Colvin called after them, ‘Inspector Narey. I might be completely wrong here but Euan . . . well like I said, he was different from most men that come here. I’m not even sure he was homeless at all.’

‘Nor me, Malcolm. Nor me.’