In Place of Death

by Craig Robertson

  Winter enlarged the reflected areas of the image as best he could but there was nothing more to be gained. The other person, surely a man from what he could see, wore a dark hooded sweatshirt and jeans but even a guess at build or height was distorted by the glass and the glare.

  He scrolled quickly back through the images, over weeks, desperate to see what Euan had been working on and where he had been in the time leading up to his murder. He saw no other shadows, no other strangers. In a few seconds, he was back seven weeks to a series of dark and stark images. The Rosewood Hotel. He’d never doubted Rachel had been right about that but there was all the proof that was needed. Depressing, disturbing proof.

  Men barely awake, barely alive, with sunken eyes, sharp cheekbones and discoloured skin. Rooms littered with bottles drained of booze. Close-ups of vomit and discarded needles. Bedsheets stained with God knows what. Men curled sleeping in corridors and on stairs. Men fighting each other. Feral faces that could have come from a Dickens novel or the siege of Paris.

  The photographs were irresistible. Like a car crash or a public execution. Ghastly images of a descent into a hellish existence, men beyond care and way beyond caring for themselves. He and Euan had spent countless hours together in abandoned buildings but these were abandoned people, out of sight and out of mind just like the decaying places they’d taken such an interest in. No one gave a damn.

  Except maybe Euan. He’d had put himself on the line to take these.

  Winter forced himself to move on, flipping through the camera’s images, on past the shame of the Rosewood and back towards Gartnavel and the most recent pictures. There were a couple of external photographs of the City Mission and some pretty uninteresting shots of what looked like the inside of a Victorian primary school ready for demolition. Nothing that grabbed his attention.

  Then, with the date showing just a week before the Gartnavel photos, came a series that stopped him like a brick wall. They were internal shots of a building that was all but empty. A series of steeply banked rooms and a warren of corridors. The flash showed walls that were blue and flaking, a sweeping arc of stairs, a labyrinth of little box rooms and the remains of a section of ornate decoration.

  It was the Odeon. Winter’s heart jumped. It was the fucking Odeon.

  ‘Jesus, Euan. What the hell have you done?’

  Chapter 30

  A return to the Rosewood wouldn’t have been Narey’s first choice given the couple of days she’d had but choice wasn’t something that was in plentiful supply. Neither Doig nor Cochrane were working the front desk and the tall, skinny guy who was there didn’t put up much of a fight when she showed him her warrant card and said she was going upstairs. She was sure that he got on the phone to the owners as soon as her back was turned but she couldn’t care less about that.

  She made her way up the stairs, dodging drunks and discarded bottles, stepping over vomit and doing her best not to breathe. A couple of residents took an interest but she pushed past them with a stare that made them think twice.

  The TV room was in enough darkness for you not to be able to tell if it was noon or Norway but the set was glowing in the corner, showing just the sort of mindless daytime crap that these men didn’t need. In its reflection, she saw him sitting in a chair, his head slumped to one side and propped up on one arm.

  The man looked a year older than he had the last time she’d seen him. He was emerging from the wrong side of a massive hangover and he wore the pain of it all over his face. His eyes were red and his skin blotchy and puffy. Drink had been taken and plenty of it.

  He didn’t notice her until she was standing right over him. He raised his head sluggishly and took a moment to remember who she was. When he did, he also remembered his manners and tried to get out of his chair. She gently pressed him back into place with a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘How are you, Walter?’

  He managed a feeble smile. ‘Not so great, to be honest with you, hen. All my ain fault but I’ve definitely felt better. My head’s in more bits than a Lego set. How’s yourself?’

  ‘I’m fine. Do you maybe fancy some fresh air?’

  He looked around the room and took her meaning. Some things were better not overheard.

  ‘Fresh air might kill me or cure me but it’s a risk I take every day. Help an old man up, will you?’

  She got him to his feet and together they shuffled out of the day room and slowly downstairs until they shrugged off the stink of the Rosewood and found themselves in the overcast gloom of a Glasgow afternoon. They walked and talked, his arm in hers, in the mutual pretence of him giving her support. It was the same unspoken deal she had with her dad.

  ‘Thanks for phoning me, Walter. It helped a lot.’ ‘Nae bother, hen. Had he been at the Mission right enough?’

  ‘He had, yes. They told him not to go anywhere near the Rosewood but he went anyway. And it turns out his name wasn’t Brian. It was Euan.’

  ‘Euan? I don’t understand. Why would he lie to me?’ ‘He wasn’t lying to you, Walter. He had his reasons, good reasons. But it wasn’t about lying to you.’ ‘Do you know what happened to the laddie?’ ‘Not yet. But I’ve got some other things I want to ask you that might help. I don’t want you to grass on anyone and I don’t want you to get into any bother with the others in the Rosewood. If you don’t want to then it’s fine.’

  He considered it for a moment then breathed hard. ‘If it’s not grassing, we’ll call it helping and I’m fine with that. What’s the worst that can happen to me anyway? I’m well past halfway to dying, so they can bugger off. Pardon my French, lass. What do you need to know?’

  ‘Do you know a man called David McGlashan?’ ‘Davie McGlashan? Aye, I know him. Used to stay in the Rosewood till some bam beat him up for the sake of a packet of fags. He left the next morning and never came back. That’d be about . . . hell, I don’t know, all the days run into one after a while.’ ‘It would be about two months ago.’ Walter scratched at his head. ‘Aye, I reckon that would be about right. What about him?’

  ‘He died, Walter. Was he a friend of yours?’

  Tears came to the old man’s eyes. ‘Jeez, hen. You’re kidding. Him as well? Me and big Davie got on just fine. I liked the guy. What the hell happened to him?’

  ‘We’re not certain yet. It looks like it might have been a heart attack. I’m sorry, Walter.’

  The man aged in front of her eyes. Another friend lost and not many left. His pain hurt her too and she couldn’t help but think of her dad.

  ‘What can you tell me about Davie? Anything might help.’

  He looked confused. ‘You said it was a heart attack. So what do you need to know?’

  ‘It’s probably nothing but I’m just checking everything out. It might help me find out what happened to Euan. To Brian.’

  Walter shrugged and looked lost. ‘Davie was all right. A daft boy with a drink in him but they’re all the same. He wasn’t a fighter or a thief. Just a poor soul. Never much to bother anybody.’

  ‘So no one would have had reason to do him any harm?’

  ‘You think somebody did?’

  ‘I’m just making sure, Walter.’

  ‘Nobody that I know of, hen.’

  ‘Davie had been sleeping in an abandoned building, an old saw works in Anderston. Why’d you think he’d be in there?’

  ‘Was it warm and watertight? Nobody to bother him? As good a place as any then and better than most. Better than the one he left, that’s for sure. It’s no rocket science, Miss Narey. If Davie had found somewhere free, safe and dry then he’d be as happy as a pig in shit. Pardon my French.’

  She took it in and nodded. It did make sense.

  ‘There was something else I wanted to talk to you about, Walter. I hope you don’t mind but I did some digging after I spoke to you last time.’

  ‘Oh?’ He didn’t look best pleased.

  ‘You said you’d had to leave the place you lived in. I got the impression you were forced to l
eave. Is that right?’

  All she got was a non-committal shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘Well I made a call to social security and your last address was in Charleston Street in the East End. Except it isn’t there any more. There’s new housing in its place, mostly rentals. Rent probably about four times what you were paying.’

  ‘And the rest. Why are you interested though? It’s nothing to do with the laddie dying and what’s done is done. I’m in the Rosewood now and I’m no blaming anybody but maself.’

  ‘No, it’s nothing to do with the case I’m working but I get angry when people are treated badly. What happened? Did they make you move out?’

  Walter squirmed uncomfortably and lifted his shoulders. ‘What could I have done, hen? No one was going to listen to me. I took some money to give up my lease and I left the place.’

  ‘Were you threatened, Walter?’

  He looked away, not keen on letting her catch his eye.

  ‘Were you?’ she repeated.

  ‘Ach, listen, it’s not as simple as that. It’s not like I could prove anything. Not like they came straight out and said it. It was more how they said it.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Without putting it in so many words, if I stayed I might have found myself pretty unlucky. Like having my house burn down while I was still inside it. I didn’t fancy that much. Get paid off or get burned alive? It was a no-brainer.’

  She could feel the anger rising in her.

  ‘Did you report it to the police?’ She knew it was stupid even as she said it.

  He laughed. ‘Aye, right. No offence, hen, but just how was that going to work? Do you think your lot were going to listen to me? Even before I got put out on the street, I was a drinker. That housing mob just put enough money in my pocket to make me float in it. No, that’s no right, it was enough for me to drown in.’

  ‘Who were they, Walter? The ones that talked to you?’

  ‘No, lass. Forget it. Even if I remembered names, I wouldn’t want to tell you them. The ones that talked to me weren’t the ones that ran the show. They were just the thugs that did the dirty work. The kind that make the real money, they keep their hands clean.’

  ‘Okay, Walter. I understand. But I’m looking into this company anyway. I’ve got a friend in the insurance game. He’ll want to know what they’re up to. I’ll not drag you in though.’

  He shrugged. ‘Up to you, hen. I can’t stop you. And if you can pin something on them then good luck to you. Why are you trying to help an old soak like me, anyway?’

  She smiled and, as she did so, she knew how sad it looked. ‘Let’s just say you remind me of someone.’

  They’d walked round in a circle and were back almost at the Rosewood. She tried to palm another twenty-pound note into the old man’s hand but he wasn’t having it.

  ‘No thanks, love. I’ll feel a lot less like a grass if I don’t take your money. Anyway, the way my head’s feeling you wouldn’t be doing me any favours.’

  ‘You could buy aspirin.’

  He laughed loudly. ‘Aye, I could, hen. And I could be the next winner of The X Factor. It’s just as likely.’

  As they approached the steps of the Rosewood, Narey saw a tall, broad man standing at the entrance. It was one of the dosshouse’s two owners, Thomas Kilgannon.

  ‘This is harassment. My lawyer will be making a complaint to your superiors.’

  ‘Be my guest, Mr Kilgannon. There’s plenty of them to choose from but I doubt you’ll find one that will agree with you.’

  The man glared at her and did the same to Walter. The old man tipped his head towards Narey then slipped past Kilgannon and into the building. The owner watched him every step of the way.

  ‘A friend of yours, is he? He’d do well to remember who owns this place and puts a roof over his head.’

  Narey walked right up to him and put her head close enough to his to smell the cheap aftershave that clung to his pores.

  ‘Listen carefully to me, Mr Kilgannon. You’d better take special care of that man. Because if he so much as cuts himself shaving then I’ll be coming after you. Do you understand? And I’ll be coming with everything I’ve got.’

  Chapter 31

  Thursday evening

  Remy was nervous. Seven of them, assuming everyone turned up, were going to walk the length of the old line to the abandoned railway station at the Botanic Gardens in the West End. The afternoon had been dry but a wind had picked up now and there were brooding dark clouds threatening overhead. It suddenly didn’t seem a very good idea. Maybe it never had.

  He couldn’t even swear that he knew what his idea was. He needed to know what had happened in the Molendinar and the Odeon. He needed some way of ridding himself of the sights and smells and fears that were constantly replaying in his head. And maybe in some deluded moments, he thought he might just be able to uncover a killer.

  His message to them had been clear enough but there was a message to one of them in particular. Nothing too difficult, not the Molendinar or anything stellar like that, he’d written. It was bait and Remy’s biggest hope and fear was that someone would take it.

  The plan was to meet at the site of the former Kirklee station which was the next stop on the line to the Botanics before both were closed just before the start of the Second World War. There were blocks of apartments over the site now but the platforms were still there, even though they were completely overgrown. If you didn’t know any better, you’d miss them but anyone who’d done any exploring in Glasgow could tell you where they were. If marijuana was a gateway drug then so was the Kirklee to Botanics line.

  Gabby said she’d meet him there and sure enough there she was, standing on the old platform next to a tall, slim, younger guy with shoulder-length dark hair. He was wearing a blue-collared fleece zipped up to his neck and looking down at Gabby with more interest than Remy liked and she seemed to be laughing at his jokes.

  They were on the part of the platform where the old bridge used to be. It was now bricked up and covered in vivid graffiti. Weeds sprouted by their feet and trees grew where the tracks once lay. Nature had reclaimed this for herself.

  Gabby and the guy both looked up at his arrival and their chat stopped. She seemed pleased to see him though. ‘You found the front door then?’

  ‘You guys know each other?’ asked Mr Tall and Athletic before Remy could answer.

  ‘A bit, yeah. This is Remy. He organized this.’

  ‘You’re Magellan? Oh right. I’m Finlay Miller. My forum name’s Astronut. How you doing, man?’ He walked over to offer a handshake that Remy returned.

  ‘Fine. Thanks.’

  ‘Good, good. I was just saying to Gabby that this should be a nice wee stroll. I haven’t done any tourist venues for a while.’

  Tourist venues. Remy disliked the guy already. Gabby saw it – he could tell by the smirk that was spreading across her face as she stood behind Miller. She was teasing him, daring him to respond.

  ‘Finlay works in an art gallery,’ she told him, obviously trying to annoy him more. ‘And he helps support emerging talent through a foundation. Isn’t that great?’

  ‘Really? That’s interesting.’ He’d done his best to make his voice suggest it was anything but interesting.

  They were joined by three more people before anyone could reply. Voices back on the path made them look up to see a stocky, shaven-headed man in his thirties alongside a pencil-slim, younger woman with curly fair hair, both in denims and trainers. They turned out to be Ally Aitchison and Lorna Jessop, a.k.a. PencilPusher and NightLight. A few yards behind them was another man, a six-footer wearing a black beanie hat and crew-neck jumper. He was David Haddow, forum name Spook.

  While they were all still introducing themselves, a young ginger-haired guy came running into the clearing, a checked shirt open over a white T-shirt. The latecomer was Gopher and preferred to be known as that rather than Donald, a name he admitted he wasn’t very fond of.

>   ‘A couple?’ NightLight was laughing. ‘Me and Ally? No. We just met on the walk here and got chatting. Do you guys all know each other?’

  ‘Gabby and Magellan know each other,’ Miller jumped in, smiling at her. ‘They’re not a couple either though. Seems we’re all young, free and single. Right, should we get going?’

  ‘No!’ Remy was louder than he’d meant to be. ‘Not yet. We’re still waiting on a couple of people. I think we should give them a few minutes yet.’

  Miller shrugged amiably. ‘No problem, man. It was just a suggestion. Let’s wait, guys.’

  They stood, mostly in silence, for five long minutes. Miller looked round at the group every now and again, shrugging his shoulders. Remy stared back at the path, willing the others to appear. He’d just about had enough when a guy in his mid-thirties appeared on the path.

  He was about six foot tall with dark brown hair and had a backpack slung over one shoulder. He was looking round the group as he approached, as if he wasn’t sure he’d come to the right place.

  ‘You guys walking the line to the Botanics station? I’m Tony.’

  Ally Aitchison stepped forward, smiling, his hand out. ‘Hey, mate. Metinides, right? Good to finally meet you. I’m Ally. PencilPusher. Glad you could make it.’

  ‘Hey, Ally, how you doing? Hi, everyone. Sorry I’m late. I hope I didn’t hold you up too long.’

  ‘No problem. Tony, this is Remy, he organized it all. Remy, this is the guy I invited along. He’s been off the scene for a while.’

  Remy waved hello.

  ‘Metinides? Where does that come from?’ David Haddow seemed confused.

  ‘He’s a Mexican photographer,’ the newcomer replied, fishing a nice bit of Nikon kit out of his backpack as if to explain. ‘I like his work and it seemed as good a name as any.’