‘Yes.’
‘You’ll be the fucking death of me. Okay, end of the day and that’s it. Understand?’
‘Got it.’ All she had done was buy herself some time but it was something.
‘Okay, now tell me about the case you will be working. Tell me where we are with the Molendinar guy.’
She breathed for what seemed like the first time in five minutes. ‘Well it turns out that although he’d been staying at the Rosewood when he was killed, he wasn’t homeless.’
‘So what the hell was he doing there?’
‘I spoke to the boss at the City Mission, made a few phone calls and got a facial reconstruction done. This guy had been asking a lot of questions, both at the Rosewood and the Mission. He was a journalist named Euan Hepburn, working undercover. Tony knew him and confirmed the facial ID.’
‘Tony? And when did you two discuss this?’
She ignored the tease in his voice, pretended to herself that he couldn’t be insinuating anything. ‘He was there when the reconstruction came through from Dundee. Anyway, I made a few calls this morning and none of the Scottish news desks claim to have commissioned him to do it. He was a freelance so he might have been getting the story first, then intending to flog it to the highest bidder. A couple of the papers confirmed they’d taken stories from him before and they had an address for him for payment. A flat in Cordiner Street in Mount Florida.’
‘A journalist. Great. Just great. I take it you haven’t released his name to the press.’
‘No. I was planning to hold on to that for a while longer. For one thing, we need to contact his sister, the next of kin. We’ll run a DNA test on her for confirmation. Anyway, it will do us no harm to keep his identity to ourselves for a bit.’
‘Agreed. You checked his flat out?’
‘Not yet. I’ve sent Toshney and a couple of uniforms over. We’ll see what they come back with. But if he was undercover then it gives us a motive to play with.’
‘The owners of the hotel?’
‘Yes. If he was digging the dirt on the place, stands to reason that someone wouldn’t be too happy about that.’
‘Who owns it?’
‘Two businessmen. Thomas Kilgannon and Brian Wells. Neither of them has a record. Although they should have just for running that place. It should have been shut down years ago. If they found out Hepburn was undercover and they had something to hide then they’d need to shut him up.’
Addison levelled her with a stare. ‘Okay. And how exactly does that fit in with your urbexing theory?’
Good point, sir, she thought.
‘I don’t know yet,’ she said.
Addison shook his head. ‘I’m regretting this already. Okay, let’s not get carried away with this pair either. Wanting them to be guilty isn’t enough to bring a case against them.’
She sighed heavily. ‘Look, I’m not wishing them guilty. Okay, maybe I am a bit. Have you been in that place? It is criminal the way those people are living. They are being milked of their housing benefit and left to die slowly from drink and drugs. I’m betting the owners make a small fortune from keeping those poor bastards in that shithole and people will do whatever it takes to keep the money rolling in. One thing we can be sure of, the people who own the Rosewood aren’t big on scruples.’
Addison spread his arms wide in surrender. ‘Okay, okay. Get down from your soapbox and go bring them in.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m free later this afternoon. Haul them in and I’ll sit in with you. Okay?’
She agreed grudgingly. ‘Okay. And it’s not a soapbox.’
‘High horse?’
‘Common decency.’ She was laughing. ‘You should try it sometime.’
‘That would involve principles, Rachel. I’ve got no time for principles. I’m a police officer. And remember, end of the day is all you’ve got for this urbexing thing, then it’s gone.’
Chapter 21
It took seven hours to get Thomas Kilgannon and Brian Wells into an interview room. Narey’s case to drag them into Stewart Street was weak and no one knew that better than their lawyer. Arthur Constance finally relented and said that his clients would agree to visit the officers out of a sense of civic duty and a willingness to help if they could.
Kilgannon and Wells were both tall men, the former broad and bulky and the latter as thin and sturdy as a rake. They were in their late fifties and dressed awkwardly in suits, carrying themselves the way men do when they are used to being in work clothes but pressed into service for a funeral or an appearance in court.
Constance glided quietly into the station in their wake, a small, bird-like man with the bite of a velociraptor. He had been taking chunks out of cops and police lawyers for years and was feared just as much as the powerful men he frequently represented. Connie was a little man who had grown very wealthy on the fat of others’ transgressions.
He and his clients sat on one side of the table while Addison and Narey sat on the other. It was an informal interview, nothing under caution or recorded, an act of assistance on the part of Mr Kilgannon and Mr Wells, as Constance informed them. It was clear who would be doing most of the talking.
‘My clients are here to assist in any way they can but I have let it be known that they are as mystified as I am as to how you think they might be able to help you. You say that a deceased person once took lodging at a property owned by my clients and, even if that is indeed the case, their connection to your investigation is tenuous at best, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
‘If that is indeed the case then your clients have nothing to worry about, Mr Constance,’ Addison replied. ‘However it would be very helpful if they could outline for us the working practices at the Rosewood Hotel, the number of employees positioned there and their identities. I would also like to ask them for a detailed list of people staying there in the past six months.’
Kilgannon and Wells looked back across the table, their expressions unchanged and their mouths firmly shut. There was a coldness about both of them that would have kept fish fingers frozen for a month.
Constance spread his arms wide, his face a picture of innocent confusion. ‘Working practices at the hotel? As at any other hotel, DCI Addison. Guests are registered, accommodation is provided and payment received. What other practices could you possibly mean?’
Addison was about to tell him just what he meant when the lawyer cut him off by opening a folder in front of him and picking up a number of sheets of A4 paper in a clear plastic pocket. He placed them on the desk in front of the two officers.
‘Everything you require is in there, Detective Chief Inspector. It lists five employees. Their names, addresses, National Insurance numbers, employment history and contact details are enclosed within. We would insist that you inform us of any plans to interview any of them as I am their legal counsel and would be present at any such meeting.’
‘Only five? For a building that size?’
‘It is a well-run, well-organized company run by two outstanding businessmen. Five employees are sufficient.’
Narey’s temperature rose a couple of degrees. ‘Well run? You are telling us that place is well run?’
Neither Kilgannon nor Wells blinked but Constance looked at her over the top of his small round glasses. ‘Yes, Detective Inspector, I believe that is what I just said. Do you have any reason to cast aspersions on the running of my clients’ business and do any such aspersions have any basis in the law or any relevance to the case you are pursuing? Indeed do they have any relevance whatsoever to the basis on which Mr Kilgannon and Mr Wells graciously agreed to be here today?’
‘Let’s move on.’ Addison knew he had to be quick before Narey bit back and he just managed it. ‘But you should maybe get off your high horse, Mr Constance, and remember you’re not playing to a jury. You’re clients’ business isn’t on trial here. Not yet. But we do want to know if they can help us with why Euan Hepburn was staying in the Rosewood Hotel.’
Kilgannon and Wells, sitting like two fish
stuck into suits and overcoats, narrowed their eyes slightly at that and there was a hint of a bored glare towards Addison. Still they didn’t speak.
‘Detective Chief Inspector . . .’ Constance laboured the title as if he were talking to a child. ‘My clients cannot possibly be expected to guess why one person chose to stay in their hotel. Presumably, and this is my supposition rather than theirs, he wished for a roof over his head. My clients provide a place of warmth and safety for individuals who do not have the luxury of booking themselves into the Ritz-Carlton. They provide a service.’
Narey’s kettle began to boil over. ‘Bollocks.’
‘DI Narey . . .’ Addison and Constance chimed warnings in different tones. She ignored both.
She lost it. ‘The Rosewood Hotel is a shithole and we all know it. Your clients are raking in money at the expense of the health and mental well-being of people who are out of their faces on drink and drugs. They don’t give a monkey’s about the people who stay there as long as they continue to screw them and the taxpayer out of housing benefit. Your clients are morally bankrupt and I’m not sure you’re much better for representing them.’
Constance seemed to relish the outburst. ‘DCI Addison, are you going to allow the newly promoted DI to continue to speak in such intemperate and undoubtedly slanderous terms? I suggest you might do well to protect her from herself by disabusing her of the notion that she can throw about such remarks without consequence.’
Addison barely concealed a smirk. ‘I’d say that DI Narey is perfectly capable of looking after herself without any protection from me. And I’ve not heard her yet say anything that isn’t true. If this was a court of law, which it isn’t, I think our lawyers would be calling Veritas.’
Connie smiled sweetly. ‘I do love it when a policeman starts quoting law at me. It invariably means they don’t know what they are talking about. Now, shall we proceed with some civility or should we call this conversation to a close? Your choice, officers.’
Narey could see the amusement in Addison’s eyes as he turned to her. He loved a fight and it was tickling him that he was the one having to rein her in. ‘What do you think, DI Narey?’
‘I am all in favour of civility. Let’s go with that. Euan Hepburn was a freelance journalist. We believe he was in the Rosewood Hotel to expose the practices that take place there and the callous treatment of the poor bastards - my apologies, residents - who have to stay there. Are your clients aware of any particular failings within the Rosewood that Mr Hepburn may have been interested in?’
Kilgannon and Wells bristled and Constance feigned being indignant.
‘Yet more intemperate language, DI Narey? At least you had the good grace to apologize for it on this occasion. I do not believe my clients are aware of any such failings. Nor were they previously aware of Mr Hepburn’s rather dubious behaviour, if indeed it was as you describe it.’
‘Why don’t we let them tell us? After all, they must be better placed than you to say what they were and weren’t aware of.’
‘Well that is a very helpful suggestion, DCI Addison, and I thank you for making it, but I am here to represent my clients. They are both wary of being tricked into saying something they don’t mean. No offence whatsoever is intended when I say that they are aware of police officers employing underhand methods to extract unwitting statements and they do not wish to be duped in such a way.’
Addison sighed heavily and shifted slightly to face away from the lawyer. ‘Mr Kilgannon, Mr Wells, do you know of anything in your hotel that may have aroused the interest of a journalist?’
Neither man twitched. They stared at Addison as if he were something stuck to their shoe.
‘Anything at all, gentlemen?’ Narey had had enough. ‘Drug taking on the premises, perhaps? Hygiene breaches?’
Brian Wells was beginning to look uncomfortable but Kilgannon wasn’t fazed in the slightest. Annoyed maybe but not remotely bothered. She charged on.
‘Maybe your employees supplying Class A drugs? Disregard for human life? A blatant disregard for any form of human rights? A regime that encourages residents to be doped to the eyeballs to keep them quiet? Residents being physically attacked and threatened?’
‘Rachel . . .’ Addison’s tone held a half-hearted warning.
She ignored him. ‘I sat and spoke with a nice old man in your hotel who told me that people were just in there killing time before they died. They only leave there in a wooden box. You let them have a shitty little existence in place of death and then they get the real thing. That nice old man deserves better than to be in your dump with people dying around him. Would it never occur to you to let them have a bit of fucking dignity before you order the next coffin?’
Nobody spoke or seemingly even breathed for an age until Thomas Kilgannon offered a loud and obviously fake cough. Constance slowly turned to look at his client who merely nodded his head. The lawyer’s eyes snapped to Narey. ‘My clients are busy men, Detective Inspector, and I feel they have been more than generous with their time. It’s time for us to leave.’
The two men rose lazily from their chairs. Kilgannon’s mouth twisted into a sneer as he looked at Narey. They held each other’s gaze just long enough to make Addison both hopeful and worried that she would smack him. He stepped across their paths and waved an arm towards the door.
‘Mr Constance, it was a pleasure and an education as always. Mr Kilgannon and Mr Wells, thank you for dropping by and rest assured we will speak again.’
The door had closed on the interview room for a full half-minute before Addison turned to her to break the silence.
‘Rachel, don’t bite my head off as well but that was about your dad, right?’
‘Right.’
Half an hour later, she was sitting at her own desk when she looked up to see DC Becca Maxwell approaching from the other direction, carrying a sheaf of papers and looking concerned.
‘Everything okay, Becca?’
‘Ma’am, you asked me to look into suspicious deaths related to urban exploring.’
It had been nothing more than checking all possibilities rather than a real feeling that there was a connection. The Odeon had brought Danny’s mention of urbexing to mind and then she’d thrown it at Addison in a desperate attempt to cling on to the case. And now?
‘Yes. Have you found something?’
Maxwell hesitated. ‘I think I’ve found another two.’
Chapter 22
Sometimes you have to be careful what you wish for. Narey held her breath as Maxwell read from the sheet in front of her.
‘Derek Wharton. Aged thirty-one. He was found by Constables McColm and Elliot on the morning of 10 September 2014 in the remains of St Peter’s Seminary at Cardross. It was called in by a Daniel Gallagher who had gone there to photograph the building. Mr Wharton had a broken neck and head injuries. It had been raining heavily and the thinking was that he fell from one of the upper levels onto the bottom floor. He might not have died immediately but there was presumably no one to call for help.’
Maxwell laid four A4-sized photographs out on the table. The first was of the seminary’s wide, concrete façade in three tiers, looking like the world’s least fancy wedding cake. It was modernist, brutalist and Category A-listed. It wasn’t exactly her cup of architectural tea but she knew it was rated as a world-leader when it was built. Surrounded by trees, it had been a priest’s training college near the village of Cardross between Dumbarton and Helensburgh, about twenty miles from Glasgow. Now it lay in near ruins, overgrown and covered in graffiti.
The second and third photographs showed internal shots with the body in position on the solid grey floor. Way above, the ceiling rolled in concrete waves like a sea parted only to let in light from the heavens. Her sense of thrill was still there but it was now accompanied by a definite sinking feeling. The final shot was of the young man’s head, cruelly and unnaturally twisted at an impossible angle from his body.
‘And there were suspicious circu
mstances?’ Narey asked.
‘That’s where it gets tricky. The FAI ruled it an accident but the file is flagged up because Wharton had gambling debts and there’s still a suspicion this might have been payback. I can put in a call to the attending constables and the detective in charge if you want.’
‘It’s okay, I’ll do it. Leave me a note of the names and numbers. What’s the second one, Becca?’
Maxwell turned to the next sheet. ‘Christopher Hart. Aged twenty-nine. His body was found at the foot of the Finnieston Crane on the night of 7 August 2013. There was a broken bottle of Buckfast nearby and alcohol in his system. However there were also what were thought to have been ligature marks on his wrists, suggesting they might have been tied prior to his death. He suffered multiple injuries, broken arms and legs, fractured spine and severe cranial damage.’
‘Yes, I remember that one. The suspicion was that it was organized crime. Some kind of punishment killing.’
‘Yes. No one was ever prosecuted for it though. The case is still open. Do you want to see the photographs?’
Narey grimaced. ‘Not particularly but let’s have them.’
Maxwell placed five photographs down and Narey immediately knew that Winter had taken them. They were stark but scenic, an almost filmic quality to them. The first was a typical scene-setting shot, the giant of the Clyde a silhouette against the dark blue summer sky. A neon rainbow of city lights shone through the lower part of the crane’s lattice structure while a blue hue to the right-hand side signalled the attending cop cars.
The body was as much a ruin as the seminary had been. For a moment, she forgot just why she was interested in these deaths and wondered how her partner could do what he did. She saw plenty of bodies in her job but to see this every day . . . Shattered bones, shredded skin, a collapsed skull and shapeless face. Few people would have the stomach for it. What did this do to him? Whatever it was, it didn’t stop him doing his job well. True to form, Winter hadn’t missed the abrasions to the wrists and, from his sharp close-up, they did indeed look like rope marks.
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