He was sweating hard, his back soaking, as he clambered over a wire-mesh fence to the other side. From there it was easy, down an embankment and onto a quiet tree-lined street on the farside of the industrial estate. He knew Shields Road subway was on that side, somewhere to his left, and he headed for it as quickly as his injuries would let him.
Chapter 47
The fleece was ditched in a bush just before the subway station and he managed to walk in as straight and unflustered as he could. On the outside at least. Inside, his guts were churning.
On the platform it was all he could do not to look at the cameras. He knew they were up there, following his every move. Instead, he stared at his feet or at the far wall, urging the train to arrive and get him out of there. When it did he got inside, found a corner seat and studied an advert above the window, avoiding all eye contact and trying not to picture Remy Feeks’ broken body.
The kid had been caught in the middle of something he couldn’t survive. Winter was sure that Remy had done nothing more than explore the Molendinar and find Euan Hepburn’s body. He was the witness who became the victim.
Now Remy Feeks was lying in the rubble of the factory with a railing stuck through his chest. His skinny frame was punctured and his freckled face was as grey as a gravestone. Winter was shaking with guilt and anger and fear, wanting to shout and punch and run.
He had to hide his hands so that people couldn’t see them trembling. He wedged them under himself, trapping them there so they couldn’t give him away. It must have been all over his face though. And if anyone could see the other side of his eyes then they’d see the face of the boy who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Winter was on the inner circle, going anti-clockwise on the Clockwork Orange and turning back on himself to where he’d come from. If he could have turned back time as easily then he would have. He had five stops till Cowcaddens, five stops to pull himself together and make a plan. When he got out and within range of a phone signal then he was sure there would be a missed call waiting for him. Telling him what he already knew. Dead body at the old biscuit factory. Get there now.
Except he couldn’t go like this. He had to sort himself. Get a change of clothes and a new head. He had to be able to go in there and do a professional job without stinking of sweat and fear. Without giving himself away in two minutes flat.
Of course, it might not even be as simple as that. He had no idea what they’d seen or what they knew. Someone had obviously called them, most probably the someone who had killed Remy and had tried to do the same to him. Had the bastard passed his name on to the cops? Had the cameras seen him arrive or leave? He knew nothing and didn’t like it being that way.
Shit, where was the subway train now? Stops had passed and he hadn’t noticed. He looked up and saw the carriage was pretty busy, late-evening shoppers or people heading home. Maybe the police were already checking the stations, looking for a man in a hooded fleece. He caught his reflection in the window opposite and saw himself staring back, wide-eyed and dishevelled.
Someone had killed Remy Feeks and tried to frame him for it. Kill him or frame him.
This was crazy. He couldn’t get his head round it and was sick to his stomach. He felt hot and cold at the same time and was sure his breathing was in overdrive. He needed to slow down his thoughts, get them into some sort of order.
Then the train lurched to a stop, catching him by surprise and causing him to topple forward. His nerves were shot. The sign on the wall outside the carriage read St Enoch’s. They were in the city centre, just two stops from Cowcaddens where he’d get off for Stewart Street cop shop and his car.
A woman got on and sat down directly opposite and he knew she was looking at him. He glanced up despite himself and saw a large, older lady wrapped up in a warm coat with a scarf round her neck. He was in just a T-shirt and in a state. No wonder she was staring.
He studied the floor and decided that, whatever else, he wasn’t going to look up to see if she was still watching. Then he felt someone sit down beside him, the cushioned seat sinking.
‘Are you okay, son?’
He didn’t look up. Pretended he thought she was talking to someone else. Maybe she would go away. Please, go away. Give me peace and go away.
A hand rested on his arm and squeezed it gently. ‘I hope you don’t mind me sitting here, son. I’m not being nosy but you look like you need help. Are you okay?’
No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t okay at all. Despite himself, he looked up and saw that the woman’s face was a picture of maternal concern. He must have seemed even worse than he thought. He had to pull himself together quickly.
He wondered how old she was. Early sixties maybe. Hair greying at the fringes and probably dyed elsewhere. Lines around her eyes and her mouth. His mother would be about the same age if she’d lived. His mother. He realized how long it had been since he’d thought about her. Probably three months, that long since her birthday.
‘Have you got somewhere to go?’
Shit, did she think he was homeless?
‘Yes. Look, thanks but I’m fine. Just been a long day.’
She nodded but didn’t believe a word. The train lumbered into Buchanan Street station but she didn’t budge. She sat there with her warm hand on his arm. It felt good. Wrong and utterly fucked up but good.
The train moved off again and he edged more upright in his seat. ‘My stop next. I’m fine, honestly.’
‘You take care of yourself. Do you need anything? Money?’
‘What? No. I mean . . . no thanks. I don’t. Look, I need to . . .’
He got to his feet, the movement making her hand slide off his arm. Looking down at her, he felt the need to say something but words didn’t come out. His mouth started a conversation that his brain couldn’t finish. The poor woman looked so worried for him. And maybe she was right.
He went to the doors and stared through the glass at the walls flashing by until they changed into the platform at Cowcaddens. He got off without looking back.
He had gone no more than a couple of paces from the subway entrance when his phone flashed at him. Two missed calls. He stood still for a few moments, gathering himself together then called one of them back, desperately keeping his voice as steady as he could.
‘Hi. It’s Tony Winter. Is that Siobhan? I missed a call.’
‘Hi, Tony. Yes, I was trying to get hold of you. You’ve got a job in Kinning Park. A murder. They’ll be waiting for you. Can you get there sharpish or should I tell the SOCOs to handle it?’
Maybe that would be the easiest thing. Leave it to them. But it would look odd. He’d never turn down a job like that. Never. He had to go.
‘Siobhan, I’m only two minutes from my car. Tell them I’ll be there in under ten minutes. And don’t let them start without me.’
‘Okay, Tony. Will do.’
‘Thanks, Siobhan.’
‘Um, Tony? Don’t you want to know where in Kinning Park?’
Shit.
The good news was that there wasn’t much traffic on the Kingston Bridge and he was able to hammer it from the station car park to the factory in just seven minutes. His camera gear was in the boot and so was a jacket that would cover his sweaty, dirt-streaked T-shirt.
He was no more than halfway along the adjoining street when he could see that the place wasn’t as it had been on his first visit. The low whitewashed walls of the building on the corner were flashing blue. When he turned into the street itself, he was greeted by a small army of emergency vehicles and the hurried to and fro of organized chaos.
The car sealed off most of the noise and it was like gliding into a silent movie that was just waiting for him to star in it. He pulled up and parked, breathed deeply and opened the door to let the sound of the scene burst in. No going back now.
He hustled to the boot quickly, pulled the dark green waterproof over his T-shirt and grabbed his gear. The cop at the tape gave his ID the once-over and nodded him insi
de. There were footsteps clattering everywhere and urgent voices calling through the darkness. Beyond those were the edges of lights that would have led him to the actual scene if he hadn’t already known just where to go.
The inner courtyard was less than a minute away. He had no idea who’d taken the call but hoped to hell it wasn’t Rachel. That would mean more questions than he had answers to. Anyone, anyone but her.
He pushed his way into the light, dazzled by it and having to shield his eyes until they adjusted. At first all he could see were the lights themselves and the white suits that flitted through the glare. Shapes began to form but not before a voice called to him through the shimmer.
‘Winter. Get your arse over here pronto. Come on, we’ve waited long enough.’
It was almost as bad as it being Rachel. It was DCI Denny Kelbie, one of the most carnaptious little shits ever to join the police force. Five foot five inches of perpetual malice and grudge. At his side was his regular DS, Jim Ferry, a lazy sod who had adopted his boss’s antipathy to the world.
One thing though. Kelbie had called him by name and acted just the arsey way he normally would. If the call to the cops had mentioned Winter then Kelbie would have had him by the throat.
‘Hurry up. Get this done and get out of my way.’ Kelbie was always itching for a fight but this night, more than any other, Winter couldn’t give him the satisfaction of one. He needed to protect himself.
‘Yes, sir. Just let the dog see the rabbit.’ He had to control himself, not let any of it show. Kelbie would be all over it if he even suspected Winter had something to hide. He didn’t look the DCI in the eye, didn’t dare, just brushed past him and took up position over the body. Kelbie was snapping away at him like a Jack Russell but Winter shut the words out, tried his best to shut everything out, and do what he always did.
Remy Feeks was colder now, paler too. The last traces of life had drained away in the time it had taken Winter to flee and return. He was more dead. The kid hadn’t stood a chance. He’d been caught up in something that he wasn’t equipped to deal with and it had killed him.
Winter managed to get his camera to his eye and forced his finger through the shutter release. He photographed Remy laid out in full, the iron railing through his chest, his head resting on a broken brick in an ugly concrete graveyard. The building had died years ago and now it had another ghost to walk with its own.
He looked so young, even younger than he had done in the Botanics or Oran Mor. His freckles stood out against the alabaster of his bloodless skin, making him look like a teenager. He had no right to be lying there dead. None whatsoever.
Winter focused on the cold edge of the railing where it entered the kid, seeing it pierce his shirt and rip his skin. Remy had been dead before the spike was hammered into him: that much was obvious from the lack of blood on his chest. The railing had been an afterthought, a statement.
The death blow had been to the head: a fierce wound on the right temple was testament to that. It had rattled his brains, a fatal blunt-force trauma. Most probably using the same railing that was stuck through him. There was another wound that had smashed his left cheek, leaving the bone shattered like eggshell. A swing to the killer’s right then the same to the left. One stunning, one killing.
The boy’s mouth hung open, mid-shout, mid-scream, mid-plea. Maybe he was just asking why. Why him. Why this. He was so skinny, all angles and ridges. It couldn’t have been any sort of fair fight. Someone bigger and stronger, armed with the iron railing and a hunger to kill. Winter knew he should have done something to stop it before it got to this.
A pair of black shoes with thick heels stepped into the shot beside Remy’s head. They tapped impatiently and there was no doubt who they belonged to. Winter let the camera drift up with his eyes, the shutter hammering as he went, photographing Kelbie until he caught the twisted impatience on the DCI’s face. When he’d done so, he switched his gaze and his lens back to Remy, saying nothing. He knew Kelbie was mouthing off at him, spitting out words furiously, but he didn’t hear and didn’t care. He was doing his job the best he could. He owed that to Remy Feeks.
When he was done, he backed away from the body and stood to take the inevitable onslaught of bitterness from Kelbie. The little man was so angry with the world that it was probably a long time since he’d stopped to wonder why. For that minute it was Winter, for the next it would be the rain or the lack of it. It would always be something.
‘You can’t get to the job on time and then you arse around taking unnecessary photographs. Inappropriate photographs. Campbell Baxter is right about you. The sooner you get shifted out of here the better. You’re a waste of fucking space.’
‘Is that right?’
Kelbie bristled, his lips curling back into a snarl. ‘Aye it is right, you cheeky shite. I’m going to see to it that your arse doesn’t hit the door on the way out of Forensic Services.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Winter, you are asking to have your head kicked as well as your arse. Watch your step.’
‘Is that right?’
He knew it wasn’t wise but he could feel the anger rising in him and wasn’t sure he could stop it. Euan Hepburn, Remy Feeks, it was all falling on top of him at once. And now this. Maybe he should just headbutt Kelbie and be done with all of it. He pulled his head back and waited for the DCI to say one more word.
Instead Kelbie beat him to the punch, stepping forward so close that Winter could feel Kelbie’s breath on his face and he couldn’t throw his head forward at him. The man’s eyes were wild and Winter knew all he had to do was lean back and one of them would stick the nut on the other.
‘Boss!’ Jim Ferry’s arm came between them and for a second Winter thought that Kelbie was going to take a bite at it. ‘Back off, boss. There’s a crime scene full of witnesses here. Think about it.’
Winter just stared at the DCI, daring him to make a decision. Kelbie snarled wide-eyed but didn’t push forward, his DS’s words percolating slowly through his fury. He raised a hand and pushed it flat against Winter’s chest, shoving space between them and turning away with a final glare.
‘This isn’t finished,’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Is that right?’ Winter knew it wasn’t the time or place to be pushing his luck but he was beyond that. Reason had opened the window, jumped out and run for its life.
Kelbie paused but set off again just as quickly, Ferry’s encouraging arm keeping him moving. Winter breathed hard and fast.
‘What is it with you, Tony? You got a death wish? You know what a turd Kelbie is.’
Winter turned his head to see one of the scene examiners, Paul Burke, standing beside him. ‘No death wish. There’s enough of that without me wanting more. I just couldn’t take any more of his crap.’
‘Right. Well maybe you should remember that he’s a DCI. And, if what I’m hearing is right, then your jacket is on a shoogly peg as it is.’
‘What are you hearing?’ As if he didn’t know.
‘That Baxter is gunning to get you made redundant and using the review to do it. Don’t give him any more ammunition, mate.’
If only you knew, Winter thought. If only you knew. ‘Yeah. I’ll try not to. Have you guys got anything else inside this place that needs photographed?’
Burke lifted his shoulders. ‘We’re running the rule over the whole building but it’s massive. They might have something on the upper levels but they’ll likely have photographed it themselves. We can point the camera in the right direction, you know.’
‘I know. I’ll go check it out anyway though. See if I can lend a hand.’
The truth was he couldn’t care less about helping out. The only job he cared about was lying amid the rubble. He had to get upstairs though and retrace his steps as best he could, at least enough to be able to say he’d been there if he was ever asked. If his DNA ever turned up somewhere it shouldn’t.
He made his way back up the concrete spiral and over the sa
me floors as he had before, working his way between the white suits that were doing fine thanks without any help from him. This was a mess and he was in it right up to his neck and getting in even deeper.
Chapter 48
Narey didn’t need to be told that Gray Dunn was an urbexing site. Of course it would be. From the moment the name of the place was put to her, she knew. It was Rico Giannandrea who had picked up on the possibility of the connection and called her to flag it up.
‘. . . body found at Gray Dunn in Kinning Park. The old biscuit factory. It’s been abandoned for . . .’
It was all she heard and all she needed to know. Her mind was lost in a turmoil of possibilities, Rico’s words going unheard until a name jumped out from the shadows.
‘Remy Feeks.’
‘What? What did you say, Rico?’
‘There was ID on the body. A photo driver’s licence. The victim’s name is Remy Feeks.’
‘Shit.’
‘You know him?’
She slammed her hand against the desk and Rico must have heard it on the other side of the line.
‘Rachel? Ma’am?’
‘I don’t know him as such. I think he was the person who found Hepburn’s body in the Molendinar and phoned it in.’
‘Christ . . .’
‘I’m going to the factory. Phone them and let them know I’m on my way and I’m taking over. Phone DCI Addison for me as well, Rico. Thanks.’
She saw the cars and ambulances massed outside the building as soon as she turned into Stanley Street. The sight of the lights made her stomach turn over and the reality of it kicked in.
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