In Place of Death

by Craig Robertson

  Winter hadn’t been happy, far from it, but he’d finally given in.

  As they stood at the foot of the tower looking up into the night sky, they stared into rain swirling in the black and the neon. The tower itself was a ghostly white, rising ominously for as far as they could see.

  ‘You know this is stupid, right?’

  ‘It’s going to make us legends, mate. Anyone can do it when it’s dry. Come on, let’s climb this bad boy. You know you want to.’

  Did he want to? He really wasn’t sure. Part of him did. The part that got him into this in the first place was desperate to do it, rain or not. On the other hand, he was pretty sure if Euan wasn’t standing there goading him on then he’d have turned round and gone home, waiting for another day. But he was, so they climbed.

  The tower was one of those typically Scottish things that people could be proud of yet took the piss out of at the same time. It was a hundred and twenty-seven metres high and the tallest tower in Scotland. It was actually the tallest tower in the world capable of turning through three hundred and sixty degrees. Capable was the key word as it hadn’t worked for more than 80 per cent of its life. Instead it just stood there, crying out for a pair of idiots like them to climb it in the rain in the middle of the night.

  They had to scale the outside of the tower, within the wide cage of curved white metal beams that was attached to the main structure and rose with it into the night. The loops that he and Hepburn passed through flamed almost orange in the artificial light and they at least gave Winter a grudging sense of security. They weren’t climbing the loops though but the frame that fastened them to the tower and provided a ready-made ladder all the way to the sky. It was the scenic route.

  Euan went first, climbing arm over arm, occasionally glancing down to grin infuriatingly at Winter. See, he was saying, told you we should have done it. You can’t tell me it doesn’t feel good. And it did.

  The handholds were wet but manageable under gloved hands. They called for care and attention to be paid but maybe that was a good thing, concentrating the mind as it did. It was a long way straight back down. Euan, being Euan, said it was fine because if he fell then he’d land on Winter.

  He had to admit it felt great. Clambering higher and higher, the city spreading out before them like food on a plate, there to be devoured by his eyes and his camera. The adrenalin rush grew with every rung that he scaled, surging through him, empowering him. Higher and higher, bolder, stronger. The rain continued to fall but Euan was right, it was only rain. The risk was why they went urbexing at all, a huge part of the thrill of it.

  They were almost at their target, the maintenance platform just a few metres below the observation deck, so maybe a hundred metres from the ground, and Winter felt like Glasgow was his.

  The Squinty Bridge was winking at him, its purple arc reflected in the midnight black of the Clyde. The Science Centre and the BBC headquarters blazed in blue while the Finnieston Crane glowered disapprovingly grey from the opposite bank. Beyond all that, the city celebrated his ascent in a glow of twinkling gold. What a picture.

  That’s when his foot slipped.

  In an instant, the skyline swept past in a blur of neon and a rush of blood, metal handhold after handhold racing past the desperate grab of his hands. His right wrist smashed against a beam, his left knee did the same, his face clattered into something hard and his heart and stomach lodged somewhere tight beneath his throat. He plummeted, hurtling through the metal frame towards the ground, his hands flailing at the crossbars, his camera swinging wildly but strung to his shoulder.

  There was no doubt in his mind that he was going to die. He fell. Maybe it was no more than thirty feet but it felt like a hundred and more to come. The world and his life flashing before his eyes. He saw Hepburn staring down, eyes wide and mouth open.

  Then he hit another of the loops: hard. He heard and felt a loud crack in his leg, pain exploding through him, and something in his chest or ribs went too. He grasped desperately with his right hand and somehow it stuck. Pain surged through his shoulder and he felt something wrench where it shouldn’t as the entire weight of his body was thrown onto a couple of muscles.

  Weirdly, it was only then that he was actually frightened, scared that his grip would loosen. The force of the sudden halt caused his body to shudder and swing, nearly wrenching the hand away. He threw up his other arm and held on for his life.

  His left leg was broken, he was sure of that. Probably broken ribs too, judging by the fire that was erupting there. He hung on, suspended by a thread of sinew and tissue, and stared wildly at the neon city from the spindly tower that held him up. It was out of focus, just a riot of colours and lights. As he tried to take it all in, he was aware of his breathing - a heavy staccato, coming in reluctant bursts. In his shock and pain all he could do was stare.

  From somewhere above him, Euan’s voice broke into his consciousness although he had no idea what he was shouting down. All Winter could concentrate on was not letting go. On not dying. Glasgow swayed before him like a Saturday night drunk and he could feel his consciousness slipping like his foot had done.

  He wrapped himself round the beam as best he could and shook his head to keep himself awake. He could not, could not, let go in any sense.

  After what might have been one minute or thirty, he heard the nearby metallic clatter of Euan’s feet on the frame. His words filtered through for the first time. ‘Jesus Christ. Hold on, Tony. Are you okay? Fucking hell. Are you okay?’

  In seconds, he felt arms on his. They were at once holding him on and pulling him in. Pain surged through his ribs as they were dragged along towards safety. A loud groan burst out of him, the effort of the cry painful in itself. Euan hauled him, reeling him in inch by inch until Winter was able to get one hand then the other onto the makeshift ladder. He clung to it, doing his best to shut out Euan’s questions and apologies. He just wanted to get as much breath back as he could then get off that bloody tower.

  ‘Take your time, mate. I’ll get you down. Don’t worry. I’ll get you down. Christ, I’m sorry, Tony.’

  ‘I’ll get myself back down. Don’t you worry. Just stay out my way.’

  The climb back down was slow and agonizing. All his weight had to be taken on his arms and one leg, hopping and dropping from one hold to the next, pain ripping through him at every movement. At the foot of the tower he slid onto his haunches, the ground soaking wet beneath him, trying to let his breathing settle and his anger subside. He was soaked in sweat and rain. And he was shaking like a leaf.

  Euan stood over him, his face crumpled. ‘I thought . . . Jesus, I thought . . .Thank God you’re—’

  ‘Euan?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Get me to a hospital then fuck off and leave me alone.’

  Chapter 27

  The image on Winter’s laptop was of the Glasgow Tower. An OtherWorld poster had climbed it a few months earlier and his photographs were there for all to see. It brought everything flooding back. The fall, the pain, the guilt, the blame.

  His leg had indeed been broken and so had three ribs. They healed in time but his friendship with Euan Hepburn never did.

  Blaming Euan for the fall was easier than taking responsibility for his own recklessness in climbing the tower that night. No one had actually made him do it, that was the truth, but it wasn’t the truth as he saw it at the time.

  He’d been mad at him. Furious. Winter had been in no doubt that he was going to die and the fall had scared the shit out of him. No way he’d have gone up there but for the goading. No way he’d have climbed in the pouring rain but for Euan. He’d convinced himself it was all his fault. Every bit of pain when he eventually tried to walk, every bit of discomfort when he breathed, that was all because of Euan.

  What really got him though was the realization of what almost happened. He could live with the broken leg and the ribs, the severe bruising to his wrist and face, the bang to his knee. But when it was quiet and no one
was around, the thought of how close he’d been to dying sneaked into his head and scared him again.

  Euan had been distraught but that had just made Winter angrier. He shut him out, refusing to see him in hospital, not taking his calls. He sent one text to say that he wouldn’t be urbexing again because he, Euan, had killed his interest. Euan had been eaten up with guilt and wanted Winter to take that away from him but he wouldn’t let him off lightly. In fact, he didn’t let him off at all.

  Maybe he would have done eventually and maybe he wouldn’t but he never got the chance. Euan moved to London to get away from it all. It just made Winter angrier at him, feeling Euan had taken away his right to forgive him or be mad at him. He made up his mind not to get in touch and the pair never spoke again.

  It took him a long time, maybe even years, to realize that he’d been angry at himself rather than Euan. That he’d been the one at fault and he should have been strong enough to just say no, not tonight. He was angry at his own fear and his own failings. By the time he recognized that, it was too late.

  Sitting now at his laptop, the OtherWorld page open in front of him, he knew that the nasty truth wasn’t that he stopped urbexing because he and Euan had fallen out. He fell out with Euan so that he wouldn’t have to urbex again. He’d lost his nerve. Certainly for heights but probably also for any of it. He’d been more scared than he could admit. The thought of being up somewhere like the tower again made his stomach turn. That was natural enough but to bin a friendship because of it and let Euan take the hit was something he’d always be ashamed of.

  He’d thought that falling out with Euan was the price he’d paid for stopping exploring. It wasn’t. The price was his friend’s life. If he’d been with him, the chances were that his death in the Molendinar would never have happened.

  All these years it had been locked away and now he had no choice but to open it. He owed it to Euan Hepburn.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaled hard, looked at the website in front of him and typed.

  Hi PencilPusher. It’s been a long time. I’ve been out of the scene but back and raring to go. Where’s good these days? My name’s Tony, by the way.

  Chapter 28

  Thursday afternoon

  Laidlaw’s was a shabby-fronted pub on a battered side street in the Calton in the city’s East End. Its lack of a makeover or even a fresh lick of paint in the previous twenty years was by choice rather than shortage of funds. The faded blue décor, the rust and the scruffy sign were designed to be as much deterrent to new customers as they were comfort to the existing ones. It didn’t say welcome, it shouted leave us alone.

  It worked.

  When Narey pushed her way through the front door, heads whirled in the way they can only when the entire clientele smells a stranger. It wasn’t just that she was a woman, which would have been different enough, it was that she wasn’t one of them. She wasn’t there to soak the afternoon away and she wasn’t one of Bobby Mullen’s people. She might have passed for a lawyer but big Bobby’s smart-suited team were known faces in Laidlaw’s. No, she was police and everyone knew it with one look. It didn’t bother her in the slightest. It was exactly what she expected and wanted.

  The bar had a smell all of its own. It was sweat and bleach and the ghosts of a million cigarettes, abandoned hope and beer-stained bravado. The stink was ingrained in the wooden floor and the patched seating. It swam in the air like flies over a corpse.

  The faces that turned to her were either gaunt or bloated, patchworks of ash and red, all with eyes narrowed in defiant curiosity. Some looked her up and down, some looked the other way so she couldn’t see their faces. She wasn’t interested in them though, not today. She drifted past them towards the thickset man who was standing, arms folded, behind the bar.

  ‘Help you?’

  The man’s question wasn’t exactly coated in warmth.

  ‘I’m looking for Bobby Mullen.’

  ‘Why? Is he lost?’

  ‘You tell me. Is he in?’

  The man wore a few day’s growth on his face and it rose and fell as he shrugged broad shoulders. ‘Dunno. Who’s asking?’

  She sighed heavily as if there really wasn’t any need for him to make her take her card out. She went through the motions of pulling it from her pocket and holding it up in front of her. ‘Is he in?’

  The man stared back at her to make some point to himself or the crowd before shrugging again. ‘I can go see. What’s it about?’

  ‘Just tell Mr Mullen that I’d like a word with him. Now.’

  The barman made a show of standing obstinately, playing to the audience behind her. She let him have his moment, knowing he’d have to go and talk to his boss. In the end he theatrically shook his head and walked out from behind the bar. A few steps took him to a thickly frosted door leading to a wood-panelled snug in the corner of the pub, the way barred by a shaven-headed hulk in a black-leather jacket. The man stepped aside to let the barman pass and the door quickly closed behind him.

  Narey was left standing alone at the bar and turned her back on it. The natives were silently working away at their beer and whisky, nothing more than mouthed whispers passing between them. One chair scraped and a skinny guy in his thirties pushed himself to his feet and strode towards her.

  He stood within a couple of feet despite having the rest of the bar to choose from, reeking of beer and stupidity. He leered with a lopsided grin and pushed a hand through a mane of slicked-back dark hair as if convinced it made him look good. She wasn’t sure this guy was the full shilling but he was trouble.

  ‘Back off,’ she told him, quietly enough that only he could hear. The guy grinned wider and didn’t budge. If he moved an inch closer, she decided, his arm was going to be twisted behind his back and his face put flat to the top of the bar. How his pals would react would be anyone’s guess.

  He didn’t move closer, not quite. Instead he did a soft-shoe shuffle from foot to foot, his eyes dancing along with his feet. She could almost see the buzz that was going on in his head and knew she’d have to decide whether to fish through his pockets for dope or pills when she had him held down. The whole pub was waiting on her to make a move. It had to be the right one.

  The man continued to shift from side to side, then edged forward and back, then forward again. Right, she was going to have him.

  From the corner of the bar, she heard a door open and close, then a voice called out.

  ‘Elvis. Sit on your arse!’

  The barman was standing outside the snug, his eyes on Narey and the shuffling punter. The man turned his head to see who’d shouted at him and, seeing him, quickly scrambled back towards his seat.

  The barman gestured her forward with a wave of his head. Without a look to the gallery, she walked towards the snug. The barman opened the door as she got there, ushered her in without a word then quietly closed it again behind her.

  Four men were inside, three of them with their backs to her. Holding court at the end of the narrow little room and watching her approach was Bobby Mullen. Even if she hadn’t seen a photograph of him before setting out, she’d have known without any doubt that this was the boss.

  He was a big man, broad and heavy, with a plain face and receding red hair and matching beard. He looked like he was born to chop logs or wrestle cattle. His size wouldn’t have been enough to run the operation, not without the brain for it and the backing of his old man and his brother, but it didn’t hurt either. It gave him presence and brooked no kind of argument.

  He was weighing her up now, not in any kind of sexual or predatory sense, but clearly wondering what it took for her to come into his lair like this by herself. She thought she saw either grudging admiration or an assessment of madness in his eyes. At least one of those things was probably justified.

  ‘Give her a seat. In fact, all three of you move.’

  The men got out of their chairs without hesitation and moved back towards the far end of the snug where they stood, filling
the space in front of the door. They’d given her room to sit and talk with Mullen but they’d also made sure she couldn’t leave.

  She thought one of the three, a short, slight man with quick brown eyes, was probably his accountant and right-hand man, John Syme. Word was he was the brains behind the brains and brawn. The other two weren’t familiar but she doubted they were in the snug to sell Bibles.

  ‘So you’re what? A Detective Inspector? Andy wasn’t sure he’d read your title right.’

  ‘He did. Detective Inspector Rachel Narey. Major Investigation Team.’

  ‘Uh huh. Am I supposed to be impressed by that? Major investigation. Into what? I can’t see how it can be anything to do with me.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s not, Mr Mullen, but I’d like to talk to you to find that out for myself. I’m here about the murder of a woman whose body was found in the city centre two days ago.’

  She saw something shift in his eyes, just a momentary hardening, but it was enough to quicken her pulse. How many people had seen that and then suffered as a result? The look passed though and he lifted his eyes above her head, looking at his men and laughing out loud.

  ‘A murder? Fucksake. Where do they get them these days?’ His eyes switched back to her, cold and hard. ‘Detective Inspector . . .’ He drawled the words out like she was five. ‘Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing coming in here? On your own? Doesn’t strike me as being that much of a good fucking idea in any sense.’

  She had to admit he had a point.

  ‘Mr Mullen, your company provides protection for Saturn Property, is that correct? Specifically, you protect the redevelopment they’re doing on the old Odeon site.’

  His eyes didn’t leave her but he said nothing. The look flitted across his gaze again though, stronger this time. She pushed on.