Cold Grave

by Craig Robertson

  ‘You aren’t cheering me up here, Julia.’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

  ‘Don’t be. You’ve done well and I’m grateful for the help. Keep at it. But don’t let on to the sweetie wifies in the canteen you’re doing so. They’re right – I am out on a limb and I don’t want you falling off the branch with me.’

  CHAPTER 36

  Wednesday 19 December

  The morning drive into Stewart Street station from Highburgh Road was even more of a nightmare than usual because of the weather and Narey was already fed up with the day. She inched along Byres Road, then did the same on Great Western Road, cursing the snow, the ice, the lack of gritters and the twat in the silver Ford Fiesta who insisted on being inches from her rear bumper. All that stopped her from getting out of the car and telling the driver to back off was that she couldn’t trust herself to keep her temper if the eejit argued back.

  To make matters worse, some other clown sitting at the front of the traffic lights at Park Road decided to treat other road users to his right-turn indicator only after the lights went to green. Narey was stuck behind him, knowing full well he wouldn’t be able to turn until the filter and she wouldn’t get through the lights at all. She thumped her horn and the car behind her did the same, as if it were her fault rather than the twonk in front.

  Eventually, her temper fraying further by the minute, she was able to get off Great Western Road and the rest of the journey only took another few minutes. As she turned onto Maitland Street and slowed on the approach to the station, a silver Fiesta loomed in her rear view and passed her. Narey was about to turn into the station car park when she saw the Fiesta pause further along Maitland Street and, on instinct, she drove a couple of hundred yards past the entrance, parked and began to walk back.

  She heard a car park not far behind her but she didn’t turn round, not even when the footsteps began to close on her. She heard the click-clack of quick steps, realising the person was now only just a few feet behind. Suddenly, she stopped completely and whirled, forcing her pursuer on her sooner than expected and unsettling whomever it was. With the navy blue of the station wall on her right, she spun on her left foot and caught the would-be attacker’s collar with her left hand, shoving the person into the wall with her right.

  The sound of heels had registered but the fact that her hunter was a woman didn’t stop Narey from disabling her. She twisted the woman’s left arm tightly behind her back and grabbed her hair, using the leverage to force her face hard against the wall. As the woman squealed in pain, Narey was amused to see a face peek through the window above her head – the duty sergeant, obviously wondering what the hell was going on.

  ‘You all right there, Sergeant Narey?’ he enquired in bemusement.

  ‘I’m just fine, Bill,’ she told him. ‘Just fine. Can’t say the same for this one though. Who are you?’

  The woman only just managed to squeeze the words out of the corner of her mouth as it was wedged against the wall.

  ‘My name is Irene Paton.’

  They sat opposite each other in Café Hula at the top of Hope Street, just a few minutes’ walk from the station. A black coffee sat undisturbed in front of Irene Paton while Narey sipped slowly on a latte, simmering under Paton’s angry glare. The woman seemed content to smoulder rather than speak and that suited Narey fine, as it gave her time to wonder what the hell Laurence Paton’s wife wanted with her. For all that, though, she was also impatient to find out what the new widow had to say for herself.

  The café bustled around them but neither woman had eyes nor ears for the chatter or the clink of cups. They were both far too engrossed in their own play to be aware of anyone else’s. Paton was nervous, that much was obvious, but she also seethed with a resentment that overrode her anxiety. Narey was unusually edgy too; she didn’t like being ambushed, particularly on her own doorstep, and she didn’t have a handle on the older woman’s motives.

  Paton’s eyes were puffy and reddened. Hardly surprising, Narey supposed, for someone whose husband had died so recently but it had clearly taken its toll on her. Her dark shoulder-length hair had barely had a brush pulled through it and her face, although made-up, was lined and tired. Irene Paton had been through the mill.

  ‘Why were you outside my house?’

  The question came abruptly out of the tense silence and caught Narey off guard even though she knew it had to be coming.

  ‘It was part of an ongoing investigation’ was the best that she could come up with.

  ‘Not according to Central Scotland Police, it wasn’t. And according to my neighbour, you were rude and aggressive.’

  Narey said nothing and Irene contemplated her coffee again.

  ‘Were you having an affair with my husband?’

  Whatever it was Narey had been expecting, this wasn’t it. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed so she settled for surprised. Was this ridiculous assertion really what had driven the grieving widow to stalk a police officer? The weary fire that blazed in Irene’s eyes suggested she wasn’t joking.

  ‘No, Mrs Paton. I wasn’t.’

  The widow held Narey’s gaze, seemingly desperate to find something behind the bold denial. Narey let her stare, all the time wondering what might have made the woman think such a thing.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Paton continued, although her voice had already lost the little confidence it had previously held.

  ‘I can assure you, I wasn’t. What makes you think he was having an affair?’

  ‘Laurence had been hiding something from me for years.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  Mrs Paton glared at her. ‘A wife just knows these things. Are you married?’

  Narey shook her head.

  ‘Then you wouldn’t understand. You live with someone as long as I did with Laurence, then you know things they barely know about themselves. You know when they’re up and when they’re down. You know when they’re lying to you even when you don’t know what about. You know when they’re giving you everything and when they’re not. There was something Laurence wasn’t telling me and he hadn’t been telling me for a very long time. I’ll ask you again: was it you he wasn’t telling me about?’

  Tears welled up behind Irene Paton’s dark-rimmed spectacles as Narey slowly shook her head.

  ‘Are you sure it was another woman?’ she asked gently.

  Paton began to speak but bit her lip. She looked utterly lost. Narey’s heart went out to her, recognising something in her she’d been feeling herself of late.

  ‘Another woman; another man. I don’t know. I know he was keeping something from me. And I want to know what you had to do with it.’

  ‘Nothing. I never even met your husband, Mrs Paton.’

  Confusion and doubt were painted all over her face. She clearly had no idea whether to believe Narey or not.

  ‘But why . . .’ her voice cracked. ‘Why were you outside our house? Laurence was upset after you were there. He wouldn’t speak to me, or tell me who you were. Nothing. He was on the phone upstairs and on the computer afterwards for ages but wouldn’t tell me what it was all about.’

  ‘Who do you think he was on the phone to?’

  ‘I don’t know. If it wasn’t you . . .’

  ‘It wasn’t.’

  ‘Then I don’t know. He’d been on the phone with the door closed quite often recently. My husband had a secret.’

  Narey hesitated, unsure how far to push it.

  ‘I think you’re right, Mrs Paton. Laurence did have a secret.’

  The woman’s eyes widened.

  ‘And that’s why you were at our house?’

  ‘Yes. But I didn’t get the chance to talk to your husband so I’m not certain what the circumstances were. Perhaps you could help me.’

  Mrs Paton’s eyebrows knotted as she sank deeper into a pit of uncertainty.

  ‘I don’t see how I can. I’m . . . Well, yes. If I can.’

  Something niggl
ed inside Narey and she wondered if Irene Paton really did know things about her husband he didn’t know himself, did he have giveaway ‘tells’ that only a top poker player or a wife would recognise?

  ‘How long have you thought there was something he wasn’t telling you?’

  More tears. This time they escaped and ran in thick streams down the woman’s face.

  ‘Since I met him. I didn’t know it at the time, maybe I convinced myself it wasn’t true, but it was always there. I loved Laurence so I looked beyond it. But “it”, whatever it was, was always there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Narey coaxed.

  ‘He’d go quiet, disappear off into himself for no apparent reason and then just as suddenly come out of it. He didn’t sleep well either. He was always having these terrible dreams. Nightmares, I suppose.’

  Narey tensed. ‘Did he tell you what the nightmares were about?’

  Irene shook her head.

  ‘He never said. He told me he never remembered them.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘No. He’d wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Anyway, he would speak while he was sleeping, while he was dreaming. So I knew what he was dreaming about even if he didn’t.’

  ‘Will you tell me what it was?’ Narey asked her, desperately trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.

  Paton nodded sombrely, gathering herself together before answering.

  ‘It was always the same dream. He would shiver in his sleep as if he were cold, rubbing his hands over his arms to warm them. Sometimes he would say how cold he was, or how he was worried about the ice. It was always about ice. Except . . .’

  The woman’s voice faltered.

  ‘What else did he say?’ Narey prompted her.

  ‘Sometimes he’d say, “I can’t leave her.” I assumed he meant me. That he couldn’t leave me for this other person.’

  Narey hesitated, reluctant to ask the question she most wanted an answer to in case the answer was no. She took a deep breath and asked it anyway.

  ‘Did your husband ever mention a name when he talked in his sleep?’

  Irene’s gaze fell to the table.

  ‘Yes.’

  Narey’s heart thundered against her chest.

  ‘Barbie – like the doll. He would sometimes, no . . . lots of times, he’d mention someone called Barbie.’

  ‘Did he ever use Barbie’s surname?’

  ‘No, never. He would say Barbie and then say, “No, no, no.” Sometimes he’d say, “I mustn’t. I mustn’t.” I’d lie there and watch him, wondering what it was all about. Wondering who Barbie was and if he’d ever tell me.’

  ‘And you never confronted him about it? Asked him who she was?’

  Her eyes closed and she swayed slightly from side to side.

  ‘No. Never. I suppose I was afraid to hear the answer. Do you know? Do you know who Barbie was?’

  ‘Perhaps. I think she was someone from your husband’s past – from before he met you,’ Narey told her, not quite lying but not quite telling the truth.

  ‘Only from his past? Not from his present?’ Irene asked her doubtfully but with a glimmer of hope.

  ‘No, very much from his past,’ Narey replied. ‘I really don’t think he was having an affair.’

  The woman sat back in her chair and breathed out hard, looking almost set to collapse with relief.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. And I’m sorry I thought . . . well, you know. I hope I’m not in trouble for following you.’

  ‘That’s okay, Mrs Paton. You’ve been through a lot. And no, you’re not in trouble. Tell me, though, your neighbour, Mrs Haskell, did she actually see your husband fall from the ladder?’

  ‘Well, yes, she told the police she saw him fall.’

  ‘And she was there quickly after he fell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mrs Haskell is the kind who likes to know everyone’s business, I’m guessing. The first with the gossip, maybe keen to be the centre of attention?’

  Irene Paton smiled for the first time and made to get up from the table. ‘I think you just described her to a tee, Sergeant.’

  As she stood, a thought occurred to her and she suddenly stopped.

  ‘Sergeant, there was something else. I heard Laurence on the phone, not long before he died. I think he thought I was in the garden and couldn’t hear him but I did. I don’t know who he was speaking to but he was saying it was all his fault. It confused me because he said it was his fault but it wasn’t him who’d done it. Does that make any sense?’

  CHAPTER 37

  Wednesday 19 December. 5.37 p.m.

  The heating in the SPSA office in Pitt Street wasn’t up to the job of keeping the cold at bay and Winter had decamped to the canteen for some heat and crap coffee served in a plastic cup. He’d been cornered at the drinks machine by a couple of uniforms, Jim Boyle and Sandy Murray, and the three of them had inevitably got into an argument about football.

  Boyle was a Celtic supporter like Winter but Murray was a Rangers fan and took delight in winding the other two up at any opportunity. Sometimes the arguments came dangerously close to getting out of hand and they’d make a point of avoiding each other immediately before or after a derby match, all knowing there might be no going back if something was said that crossed the line.

  ‘What a surprise for you lot to get a penalty,’ Murray was saying now. ‘It’s in the rules that you get one at least every second game, isn’t it?’

  ‘It was a stonewaller,’ Boyle countered. ‘But given that the ref was, by definition, a Mason, then I suppose we were still lucky to get it. And you’ve got a cheek talking about us getting penalties. Your manky mob does more diving than a fleet of submarines.’

  ‘Ah, here we go. The old paranoia again. It’s all the Masons’ fault, eh?’

  ‘You’ve been cheating us for a hundred years,’ Boyle bit back. ‘Sitting around in the Lodge with your goats and your trouser legs rolled up, finding ways to keep the uppity Fenians down. Just because we’re better looking than your lot. It’s just jealousy.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right. We’re all out to get you. We arra people.’

  ‘What does that actually mean, anyway?’

  Murray’s answer was cut off by the Airwave on his lapel rumbling into life. The constable pressed the response button and a voice from the control room boomed into the canteen.

  ‘Murray?

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘Get yourself and Boyle over to The Rock on Hyndland Road. And no, before you ask, it’s not an invite for a pint. Some halfwit’s taken a tumble down the stairs by the side of the pub and you need to get over there before some other eejit does the same. The guy that fell is in intensive care so see if the local punters know him. His name is Deans. Gregory Deans.’

  As soon as he heard the name, Winter was halfway out of his chair. Danny had been right as usual: never trust anything that looks like a coincidence.

  Greg Deans. There was no way this wasn’t to do with the Lake killing. He texted Rachel so that she had the chance to elbow her way onto the case too. Now he was ready to jump over anyone in the SPSA to make sure he got to take the photographs.

  Deans had been carted off to hospital immediately. His injuries were life-threatening so there was no question of him being photographed at the scene. The area had been cordoned off, as much to prevent anyone else from falling down the stairs as to protect the scene. As far as the police were concerned, the blame lay with the snow and ice rather than anything untoward. Winter had already made it clear that he would go to The Rock after the Western although he wasn’t particularly bothered if anyone else took photographs at the pub – as long as he got to take them as well.

  Winter knew The Rock reasonably well; it was just six hundred yards or so up the hill from Rachel’s flat at the foot of Highburgh Road. The steps Deans had fallen down led from the car park to the pub. The car park was on the street behind and sat easily higher than the pub’s ro
of, meaning there was a steep, narrow fifty yards of stone steps down to the side entrance into the pub. The steps were badly lit and it had always occurred to Winter that they would be a prime spot either for a mugging or for an unwary drunk to take a tumble. Deans most likely hadn’t been drunk though; he’d been on his way into the pub.

  From memory, Winter knew there was a flight of steps, then a level area before another flight landed at the side door. This was where Deans had been found unconscious, blood leaking from his head and cuts and grazes to his hands. He’d have to have been falling at some rate to have bounced across the level area but, given the amount of snow and ice on the steps, it was possible – especially if he’d been given a helping hand to get on his way. The man was lucky he was going to hospital rather than the morgue.

  The Western Infirmary was very much on its last legs; awaiting closure and demolition, it had been allowed to fall even further into scruffy disrepair. It was an ugly building, grown old and tired through overuse, like a wizened grandmother who had used all her energy and vitality in caring for ungrateful children. It was to be flattened and all the facilities transferred from its site on Dumbarton Road to the extended Gartnavel two miles away on Great Western Road. The death throes had been long and painful, seeing it had been thirteen years since the closure was announced and yet last rites had still not been called.

  Winter managed to find a parking space on his second circuit of the hospital car park, currently doubling as an ice rink, and snatched his gear from the boot. He skated across to the entrance and took the well-trodden path to A&E. He’d spent too many Friday and Saturday nights in there for his liking, photographing the monotonously predictable aftermath of countless Glasgow nights out. Casualty carnage was par for the course at weekends and he didn’t know how the staff had the patience for it, particularly as they were likely to get a mouthful of abuse or worse for their trouble. There was a police room specially built into the corner of the waiting area, the reception staff tucked away behind perspex for their own safety.