Written To Death (Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Book 3)

by Zach Abrams

  Chapter 13

  Alex slept restlessly, tossing, turning and waking frequently. Helen's reaction and bitter words left him feeling uneasy. Although their years of marriage had left him well acquainted with her tantrums, he was not immune. Although he felt no concerns for himself, he feared any potential repercussions from her behaviour. He was aware of Sandra lying beside him and he wanted to avoid his restlessness disturbing her. At 5.00 am he rose, lifted a blanket from the hall cupboard and lay down on the lounge sofa.

  It took some time for him to doze, and no sooner had he drifted into his first sound sleep of the night than he was awoken by Sandra enquiring what was wrong.

  “What's the time?” he asked.

  Sandra yawned, pulled up the sleeve of her dressing gown and mumbled, “Ten past six. What are you doing here?”

  “I couldn't sleep and didn't want to wake you too,” he replied.

  “Come back to bed, we can manage another hour's shut-eye before we need to get up. I'm cold and need a hug.”

  Alex followed her back to the bedroom; however, before they'd properly settled, Sandra's mobile rang.

  “What now?” she reached for the handset.

  “Yes… Say that again.… Where? …. Who? …. Any signs of foul play? …. How long? …. Who reported it?” Alex was now wide awake hearing the staccato questions and he patiently waited to find out what was going on.

  “A body was found in the Clyde. It was washed ashore a little bit north of Erskine to be more precise,” Sandra informed him as soon as she hung up.

  “Why you?” he asked.

  “Identification hasn't been confirmed yet, but he was carrying a travel pass with the name Patrick Carson.”

  “What, the one who set up Fergus Hardy?”

  “So it would seem. They don't know yet how he got there, but the body's been in the water for some time. I'm no gambler, but after the Hardy incident, putting two and two together, it looks odds on we're now dealing with a murder.”

  “Early days but have you suspicions as to who or why?” Alex asked.

  “Well, if it is Carson and if he did set up Hardy, then we have two possibilities. One is that Zennick, or whoever arranged for Hardy to be attacked, saw Carson as a weak link and silenced him. The second is that one of Hardy's allies found out about Carson's involvement and did it out of revenge.”

  “Either way, you may find the organised crime specialists might want to muscle in.”

  “Yeah, that could be a problem. This is my first big case – the first I've been in charge of. I don't want anyone taking it from me, not now, especially not the Gartcosh boys. I won't let them have it without a fight. If I can make as much progress as I can before they catch on, then I might manage to keep control.”

  “What's your next step?”

  “If I leave right away, I'll be able to get to the scene before the body gets moved. I'd like to see the M.E. while he's on-site and find out what he can tell me.”

  “He may be able to give you an idea of how long Carson's been in the water. Then if you can get someone to study the tides and the current, you ought to be able to calculate approximately where he went in and when.”

  “Yeah, I'll need to take expert advice.”

  “Some tea and toast before you go?”

  “I'd love to, but I don't have time.”

  “Make time,” Alex answered. “You need something in your stomach, even more so because of your condition. You don't want to have to live down retching at a crime scene and damaging the evidence. You go and get ready. I'll make you some breakfast.”

  * * *

  Sandra donned her wellington boots while sitting in her car before wading across the muddy sands to join the team already surrounding the body.

  Although not unfamiliar with death and crime scenes, she hadn't previously had to deal with a body newly recovered from the river. Sandra had to breathe deeply and swallow to stop the bile from rising after catching the smell and sight of the hideous, bloated corpse. She silently mouthed a thank you to Alex for making her eat something before leaving.

  “Judging from the state of the body, he's been in the water at least twenty-four hours,” the doctor advised. “I'll be able to tell you more after I open him up.”

  The mental image of a postmortem made Sandra feel even worse and she picked up her phone, turned away, and bluffed an imaginary call, hoping to avoid her discomfort being too obvious.

  Peter left the others to join her and waited for her to replace her mobile. “Are you okay, Ma'am? You're looking a little green around the gills if you don't mind me saying. There's nothing more we can do here. Can I suggest a cup of tea to revive us? There's a place I know a couple of miles along the road.”

  “Good idea,” she replied.

  A few minutes later they were sitting facing each other across a table in a traditional transport café, complete with plastic chintz table cover, drinking tea from builders' mugs. Sandra was feeling much better.

  “Can we be certain it's Carson?” Peter asked.

  “It's yet to be confirmed, but he was carrying his ID, he's the same size and shape and the naked lady tattoo on his arm is enough to eliminate any doubt I might have had.”

  “I guess. Well, without him to point the way, how can we link Zennick to the Hardy assault?”

  “There's more than one way to skin a cat,” Sandra replied. “Besides, Carson's murder, assuming we can prove it was, takes priority. Who knows, we might be able to roll it all up in one case.”

  “Positive thinking, I like that. Where do we go next?” Peter asked.

  “I'd like to start with Carson's brother. According to reports, he's been completely unhelpful in recent days since we've been trying to find Carson. Maybe when he hears what's happened, he might feel guilty. Who knows, he may even be cooperative.”

  “Sounds rather optimistic given the short shrift he gave our boys last time. I guess you have to hope and we don't have anything better to start with.”

  They detoured past Helen Street police station without going in, but deposited Peter's vehicle to enable them to travel together. A short while later Sandra pulled her car to a halt in South Street a short distance away from the First Bus, Scotstoun depot.

  “I do a double take every time I come here,” Peter said. “It's strange to see two rows of mock Tudor terraces surrounding what can only be described as a village green and set right in the heart of what was one of Glasgow's most industrial areas.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. Are you aware of the history? It dates back well over a hundred years. When Harland and Wolff set up their shipyard and brought workers up from down south, they couldn't get used to the traditional Glasgow tenements and didn't want to move. To get round the problem, the shipbuilders built these houses for their managers and artisans to make them feel more at home. The company only built the structure and let the employees design the internal layout themselves. There's no two the same,” Sandra advised.

  “How do you know all this?” Peter asked.

  “I only came across it by accident, a short while back. I was looking for a flat to rent and saw one there. I fell in love with it but I was too slow and someone else got in first. But not before I learned about the history; my father told me. He knows about these things because he was a surveyor before he retired.”

  Arriving at the main door flat, Peter rapped heavily. He waited several seconds then repeated the action.

  “What are you wantin?” A sleepy voice replied.

  “Police. We need to talk to you,” Peter stated.

  “I've already telt you, I know nuthin'.”

  “Please open the door, Mr Carson. It's very important that we speak to you and it would be better done in private,” Peter said.

  The sigh was audible through the thickness of the heavy wooden door. This was followed by clanking metallic noises as two bolts were pulled back and then the click of a key turning. The door opened a few inches, revealing a barefoot Joseph Carson dressed in
pyjama bottoms and a string vest. The attire reminded Sandra of the actor Gregor Fisher in the guise of his TV character Rab C Nesbitt. Joseph's overall appearance wasn't too dissimilar either. He was heavy set with a large beer belly. A round, pudgy face was shadowed by two days' growth and his head was intermittently thatched by long, greasy curls. Sandra found it difficult to believe Joseph was Patrick's brother, as Patrick was small, slim, dapper and always without a whisker of hair on either face or head.

  From earlier research, Sandra was aware Joseph Carson was aged mid-forties and had never done an honest day's work in his life. He rented this flat, his rent paid directly out of the benefit system. Alike many of nature's parasites, Carson had an inbuilt defence structure. The stench from his body odour was overpowering and only superseded by the noxious odour of his halitosis when he opened his mouth to speak.

  “What are you doin' gettin' me out o' bed in the middle o' the night?” His words were belied by the cigarette which dangled from the edge of his lip, seemingly a permanent fixture, and it flared with each breath.

  “It's hardly the middle of the night; near enough nine o'clock already. We've come about Patrick,” Peter replied. “Can we come in and talk to you?” Without awaiting a reply, they both squeezed past, breathing in before they passed him to avoid any physical contact, and walked through to the lounge. They remained standing, finding a space as far away from him and any of his furniture as they could.

  Although not small, the room was cluttered, every surface covered in an assortment of debris: jars, bottles, cans, old newspapers, fast-food carry out containers and overfilled ash trays.

  “I'd worked that out mysel'. You're wastin' your time though. I've telt you already, I've no' seen or heard from him in days.”

  “The reason we've come is we believe we've found him,” Peter said.

  “How come you're here then?”

  “Please take a seat, Mr Carson,” Sandra suggested

  Carson perched on the arm of a settee. “What are you after?”

  “I'm sorry to tell you, Mr Carson, but a body washed ashore in the Clyde, near Erskine. We understand it to be your brother,” Sandra advised.

  “Oh, no you don't. You're no' catchin' me out like that. This is a trick to get me to talk.”

  “I'm afraid not,” Sandra replied. “Our code of practice wouldn't permit us to do that. This is for real. The body we have fits your brother's description and was carrying his ID. You're his next of kin. We have to ask you to confirm the identification.”

  “You're no' jokin' here, are you?” Carson's tone turned serious and his face looked grim. He slid back into the chair, squashing some of the debris as he went.

  “When did you last see your brother?” Sandra asked.

  “No' since last week, but I spoke to him on Monday mornin'. He telt me he had a job comin' up an' he was goin' to be quids in.”

  “Can you tell me who he was going to be working for?” Sandra pursued, hoping to find out everything she could while Carson was being cooperative.

  “I dinnae know for sure. He didnae say at the time, but over the last few months, he'd been talkin' about doin' work for some big Russian guy. I'd tried to tell him he should stay clear, it was too dangerous, but there was no tellin' him.”

  “Can you tell me his name?” Sandra asked.

  “I'm no' sure. I think he mentioned somethin' but I cannae remember.”

  “Please try,” Sandra pushed.”

  “I'm no' sure. It was foreign soundin'. Sandor or Sendy or somethin' like that.”

  “Could it have been Zennick?” Sandra prompted.

  “Zennick, Zennick, sounds familiar, yeah, that might be it.”

  Sandra turned to Peter and they exchanged wry smiles. “Did he mention any other names?”

  Carson shook his head in response. “What do I do now?” he asked.

  “We can arrange for you to view the body, but I'll need to check first with the Medical Examiner when he can arrange for you to view the body. In the meantime, is there someone you want to be with you? A friend or family member or we can arrange for a social worker.”

  “No, I'm fine. My son's meant to be comin' over this mornin'. I can give him a call mysel'.”

  Sandra called the M.E. and provided him with Carson's number to call when he was ready.

  They then reluctantly waited while Carson called his son who, fortunately, arrived within a few minutes.

  * * *

  A short while later, having recently arrived back at her office, Sandra squealed, “Yes!” after perusing a report which analysed communications Zennick had made or received while in prison.

  Peter called over, “What is it?”

  “We've a positive ID on Zennick's contact. He's been recognised from the CCTV at the prison. His name's Andrei Devosky. He's the one who visited him in the clink, claiming to be his brother. There're also phone records showing communication from Devosky's mobile to the Bar-L.”

  “A damn good start, but we've no proof yet; nothing the fiscal can use,” Peter replied.

  “Maybe not, but we're building up the picture and we've enough to bring in Devosky and lean on him pretty hard. That's if we can find him. From what I can gather, he's been in the country for three years and he's been fighting deportation for the last two. He's lost every hearing and now he's gone underground, making himself invisible. There's no current address on record for him.”

  “Shit! It couldn't have been easy, could it?” Peter uttered.

  “Let's try another angle,” Sandra suggested. “Devosky only managed to get in to see Zennick in prison by using a false ID. It must have been approved by someone to let him in. I have the name of the screw who allowed him entry, one Norman Gilchrist – his friends call him Norrie. I think Mr Gilchrist has earned himself a visit.”

  Peter was quickly able to establish that Norrie Gilchrist would be working backshift and was currently at home, a semi-villa in Cumbernauld. He phoned ahead and arranged to see him.

  Sandra parked at the kerb. The house looked relatively new and appeared substantial, with a large, well-stocked garden. A new Audi Four series sat in the driveway.

  “Not short of a bob or two,” Peter whispered. “I didn't know prison officers were paid so much.”

  Sandra responded with a raised eyebrow and a terse nod.

  The door was opened to welcome them when they were only halfway along the path. Gilchrist stepped forward in greeting. He was well-tanned, tall and muscular, with the physique of a body builder. His handshake was firm and confident.

  “Hi. You said on the phone you wanted a word. You thought I might be able to help you out with some information. Come on through to the kitchen, I've just made a fresh pot of tea.”

  Sandra and Peter followed him along a hallway and through to a large dining kitchen with views over a tidily landscaped garden. Sandra couldn't help herself comparing the fresh, clean, open spaciousness to the smelly, oppressive, claustrophobic atmosphere of Carson's flat. It seemed several light years away, but in fact was less than twenty miles and a couple of hours earlier.

  “Tea?” Gilchrist asked, then without waiting for a reply, he poured what looked to be a strong brew into three chunky, Denby mugs. “Help yourself to sugar and milk,” he added pushing forward matching containers.

  “A nice place you have here,” Sandra noted.

  Gilchrist looked around him and smiled, “Thanks, and before you ask, I could never afford this on my salary. My wife's an accountant, a manager with one of the big four. She earns twice as much as I do. What's this all about?”

  Sandra nodded. “We want to talk to you about one of your charges, a Mr Zennick.”

  “Oh yes, he's only been with us for a few days. What do you want to know?”

  “We understand that you were the one who approved him being visited by his brother.”

  “So?”

  “Mr Zennick doesn't have a brother in this country. The person who actually visited him was an Andrei Devosky
.”

  Gilchrist paled slightly. “Oh really, I can't understand that, I must have made a mistake.”

  “Come now, Mr Gilchrist. There are strict procedures for approving visitors and checking identification. This must have been more than an ordinary mistake,” Peter said.

  Gilchrist stepped back a pace and held on to a worktop for support. He paused then inhaled a deep breath. “I don't want to say any more. I'm entitled to have a solicitor present if you want to talk to me.”

  “Why have you gone defensive?” Sandra asked. “We're trying to get some information for our investigation and we hoped you'd want to help. We can, of course, go down the formal channels, but that will take a lot longer and might give you some problems at work.”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” Gilchrist asserted.

  “If that's how you want to play it, we can take you into custody now and wait until we get the answers we're looking for, with or without your solicitor,” Sandra replied.

  “You can't do that. This is a prison matter. You have no jurisdiction,” although speaking forcefully, Gilchrist had lost a lot of his confidence.

  “That's where you're wrong. Crimes have been committed, crimes we understand have been set up by Mr Zennick and organised through Mr Devosky. We have clear evidence to show that you facilitated the communication between these gentlemen. One of the crimes was the serious assault on the lawyer Fergus Hardy. We don't yet know how the fiscal will pursue his prosecution. He might go for attempted murder or he may settle for GBH, that's his business. But irrespective, we now have a body from what we've ascertained is a related crime. We're now looking at premeditated murder and you're involved.”