by Anne Randall
Wheeler watched as the corpse was placed in the bag and then loaded into the van. She looked around the area. ‘What do we have, Ross?’
‘A pub, a golf club, houses and lots of wide open spaces.’
‘And no identification on her. No clues.’
‘Or witnesses,’ Ross added. ‘Looks like it’s business as usual for us then. Just as well I hadn’t made any plans for my time off.’
‘We had plans for this evening,’ said Fraser. ‘My new husband and I had booked a table at Rogano’s for dinner, thought we would treat ourselves to lobster. We’ve had to cancel. I’ve had a bit of a day. There’s our girl here and there was bit of a mash-up by rival gangs over in the Southside last night.’
‘I heard about it,’ said Wheeler.
‘A tragic waste of young lives. Four of the luckier ones are in intensive care in the Royal Infirmary. It means that I’ll get to our girl here as soon as I can.’
‘Later today?’ prompted Wheeler.
‘I think that might be too tight. I’ll let you know for sure, but it’s looking more likely that it’ll be first thing tomorrow.’
Wheeler watched him leave. There wasn’t anything else to be seen. ‘Let’s get back to the station, Ross.’ She headed for the car. ‘Uniform are doing house-to-house and the SOCOs are doing their job.’
‘So, all we have to do is catch the killer,’ said Ross.
‘Exactly.’
The man was part of a small crowd of rubberneckers who had congregated beyond the police cordon, all straining to see something of macabre interest. He wondered what they’d like to catch a glimpse of – Karlie Merrick’s corpse? Did they want to see the bruises around her throat? He felt his hands tingle at the memory. The belt he used was floating in the River Clyde; it may wash up somewhere, part of the flotsam and jetsam. But this did not trouble him. He watched the two detectives leave. The tall blonde spoke briefly to her dark-haired partner. She walked on quickly, he struggled to keep up. The man wondered if she was any good, if she would track him down? He doubted it. He adjusted his sunglasses, decided he would head into the city centre. Glasgow was full of tourists, eager to see the sights. There, he would join the throng of shoppers, visitors, buskers and street performers who milled around the mall and the cafés, bars and restaurants of Buchanan Street. There he would be invisible. And safe.
Chapter Nine
The Life Coach
Safe was never how he’d played it.
The hotel was in the centre of London’s Covent Garden and a myriad of attractions were on his doorstep. George Bellerose could have gone to the Courtauld Institute of Art, viewed the paintings of Renoir, Cézanne, Degas, Monet and Manet. He could have dropped by the London Film Museum. Or he could have hung out in one of the trendy cafés in the area while watching street theatre. He could have spent the time before the conference on Carl Jung’s archetypes being a tourist. But these attractions held no interest for him. Instead, George spent his free time in hotels in much the same way as he spent his time at home – fantasising about, watching or actually having sex.
In his room, he watched the Skype symbol disappear before he closed his laptop. His relationship with Angie Burns was slow. OK, he conceded that it was moving in the right direction and she’d kept the nipple clamps on overnight, but, Christ, she was dragging her feet. He constantly had to dangle the wedding carrot in front of the daft cow. Surely she knew deep down there was not a chance in hell that he’d settle down? It was all part of the script. He’d used it before on various women. Maxine had lasted two years before the penny had dropped that there would be no happy ending. He had been progressively grooming her, had made some inroads. Then one night he’d pushed it too far and one of his trusty props had let him down. The smooth, slender neck of the beer bottle had long been a favourite; there was something enticing about using it. Finishing his beer and knowing what was coming next. That night he’d found the downside; she’d ended up in Accident and Emergency at two in the morning. Good luck that she’d told them she’d done it herself. After her, Marta had been a beauty but had ditched him after two weeks, leaving him in the lurch and so desperate for sex that he’d played nail the whale and had targeted Jojo, the fat waitress who’d served him in a downmarket city-centre pub. He was way out of her class. They both knew it. She had an arse the size of a bus and a filthy mouth on her, but she was flattered by his script. She took him back to her flat that first night and let him hurt her. He’d dumped her a week later. Better like that. He couldn’t be seen out in public with a porker. ‘Always fish at the bottom of the pool,’ his dad had told him, and he’d been right. A lot of women over the years had given him the brush-off. Thought that they were out of his league. Feminist cunts. George ignored that level of woman, stuck to what he knew. With his girlfriends, he’d let them know subtly and gently that they were too ugly, too fat, too stupid, too wrinkly or just too much of a loser to be attractive. He’d gradually worn them down until they hadn’t known their own mind and they’d had to lean on him, had to depend on him to tell them what to do.
He flipped open his laptop again and began streaming. Settled himself comfortably on the bed. Watched a naked woman on her knees being dragged around a room on a lead. A thick leather collar sat tight around her neck. A group of men were watching her, one left the group and bent over her, extinguished his cigar on her thigh. The other men laughed. The woman kept moving. George wondered about Angie, how far he could take it? Right now, the pain was only psychological, but if he broke her in slowly, broke her spirit completely, how far could he take it physically? He’d need to take it gently, though, no point in moving too fast. He watched while the woman on screen was humiliated again. He wondered about the McIver Club, he’d heard rumours about how good it was, but it was far too expensive for him. The joining fees were astronomical but the place must be heaving with guys at the top of their game. What a turn-on it must be to have money and power and to know that you were untouchable. That in itself would make him hard. The idea of not being accountable, of being able to do whatever he wanted, to be flying high above the law. Throw money and clout at any problem and it would disappear. No matter, George consoled himself, those guys at the McIver were exactly like him. They all needed the same thing. Sure, they did it in luxury, but their endgame was the same. ‘There would be no bad men if it wasn’t for bad women,’ his dad used to tell him. George lay back on his bed, watched the screen. Saw the woman being abused by two of the men, saw the degradation she suffered. Licked his lips. Wondered if he could do that to Angie.
Outside, in the city, preparations were under way for Neil Young and Crazy Horse to play Hyde Park. The same week the city would host the British 10K London run, but the vibrancy of London was lost on George. He had only one dark focus.
Chapter Ten
The Station
‘Super-fucking-efficient,’ said Wheeler, pulling into the station car park. ‘I’ve shaved ten minutes off my personal best and eighteen off yours. I have brilliant driving skills.’
‘It was bordering on careless.’ Ross closed the passenger door.
As usual Wheeler took the stairs to the CID suite two at a time. She turned into the corridor and nearly collided with Detective Chief Inspector Craig Stewart. His grey hair was shorn to a peak, his pink-gold Rolex was just visible under his cuff and his lightweight summer suit was pristine. ‘Boss,’ said Wheeler, suddenly acutely aware of her jeans and T-shirt. Instinctively, she reached up and took the scarf from her hair and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans.
‘Bit casual for the station, Wheeler.’
‘I was supposed to be off for a few days, boss. I haven’t had a chance to change yet.’
‘I’ve just finished interviewing the fourth runner, Jeb Milligan,’ said Stewart. ‘Go through to the Incident Room.’
The rest of the team were arriving.
Although large, the room was badly insulated. In winter, it was cold; in summer, it was airless and stuffy. At the front of the room
a noticeboard had been set up. As the investigation progressed, all relevant information would be placed on it. At the moment it was sparse, holding only the barest detail: the day, date and time the body had been discovered, and the location – a photocopied map of the Sandyhills area, the green swathes of the golf course, park, playing field, recreation ground and running track clearly visible. A photograph of the victim had been placed centrally, the ligature marks around her neck clearly visible. Another picture of the rose tattoo on her ankle. Photographs of the crime scene. What was missing, thought Wheeler, was a name, address or any personal information about the victim. The only names were those of the runners who found her.
When they had all assembled, Stewart cleared his throat and began. ‘We’ve now spoken to all four runners.’ He glanced at his notes. ‘Ray Aitkin was out front and noticed the pale blue of the victim’s clothing amid the greenery. He ran over to the opening and discovered the body. The other three, Mike Logan, Rob McKenna and Jeb Milligan, then caught up and unfortunately followed him into the scene. Eventually, the reality of what they were doing dawned on Logan and he herded them off to the side while they waited for the emergency services to arrive. Obviously, their footprints and DNA samples were taken by forensics on site.’
‘Are they eliminated from the investigation, boss?’ asked Wheeler.
‘For the time being. I doubt that they were involved. All four were in considerable shock and looked visibly distressed. Logan in particular was shaking uncontrollably; poor guy could hardly speak.’
‘Was he the one who threw up?’ asked a uniformed officer.
‘Unfortunately, yes, Mr Logan was sick at the scene.’
‘Did they disturb anything else?’
‘Aside from leaving their footprints and DNA, nothing stupid like touching the body if that’s what you mean. They came to their senses fairly quickly. They all have the same alibi; they were at a friend’s house last night gaming until 3 a.m. We’ve checked with the friend and it pans out. They got up early and were running their usual route along Sandyhills Road, skirting the golf club. Other than a man walking his dog, they didn’t meet anyone. The dog walker’s already been spoken to – he saw nothing and has also been eliminated from the investigation. I’ve arranged for the runners to be driven back to their flats in Mount Vernon. They’re still very shaken. They were offered psychological support but declined.’ Stewart paused. ‘Wheeler, what did you get from the pathologist?’
‘Callum Fraser suggested the victim was killed somewhere between midnight and two o’clock in the morning. Most likely cause of death was strangulation.’
‘Was she killed on site?’
‘It looks like she was dumped. There was no sign of a struggle and no car or bike found nearby.’
‘Driven there and dumped.’ Detective Constable Alexander Boyd drank noisily from a bottle of water. ‘Defence wounds?’
‘None.’
‘The killer surprised her?’ asked a young female officer.
‘Or she knew her attacker,’ said Wheeler. ‘Ross and I will get over to the Coach House.’
‘I contacted the pub already,’ said Boyd. ‘The new manager’s a guy name of Andy Carmichael. He was at pains to distance himself and his punters from it, said they were a good bunch but noisy. “Rowdy” is how he phrased it. Claims he was at his girlfriend’s all last night and she’ll back him. He’s on his way to the pub now.’
‘The Coach House has been recently taken over,’ said Stewart, ‘but, for those new to the team, it was a notorious place up until fairly recently. Back in the day, big Ronnie Crawford ran it like it was the back room of his house. I hope this new manager’s better than him.’
‘Big Ronnie still inside?’
‘Two years of his sentence still to serve.’
‘Didn’t someone get knifed on his watch?’ asked Boyd.
‘Jimmy Shotts was stabbed four years back,’ said Stewart. ‘It was chucking-out time and the place was crowded but no one could help us with our inquiries, nobody saw a thing.’
‘Including Jimmy, if I remember?’ said Boyd.
‘Difficult to miss someone coming at you with a six-inch blade but apparently he didn’t see a thing.’ Detective Sergeant Robertson picked an imaginary speck of fluff from his carefully ironed trousers. ‘And even when we recovered the weapon, wiped of prints obviously, it still didn’t jog his memory.’
‘There’s no way it wasn’t Ian Bunyan,’ said Stewart.
‘So rumour has it, boss.’
‘Ian Bunyan’s a grotesque figure,’ said Stewart. ‘We know he has what’s left of his fingers in many pies, including extortion and drugs, but so far he’s managed to evade every bloody inquiry.’
‘But now a body’s been found close to the pub? You think it’s him?’
‘Bunyan’s an evil bastard who loves to inflict pain,’ said Stewart. ‘Find out where he was at the time she was killed.’
At the end of the briefing, Wheeler issued orders to individuals. ‘Uniform are conducting house-to-house in the area. Boyd, you and Robertson get out to the golf club. The rest of you, liaise with uniform, get on to the pitches, the golf club CCTV, everything that was recorded in the area prior to this woman being murdered and immediately afterwards. Establish a 24-hour window. Find out who was in the area last night, which vehicles were driven through Sandyhills. Contact the council for their CCTV of Sandyhills Road and the surrounding area. I know it’s shit trawling through CCTV but we need to get on it. Also, check the system and find out if anyone has reported her missing. You have a photograph of her; sift through social media, get me a bloody name.’
The energy in the room increased as the team became animated. Wheeler could feel it become charged as they began the hunt for the killer. ‘Right, you and me, Ross, let’s go see Andy Carmichael at the Cockroach.’
Chapter Eleven
Family Life
Gary Ashton lived in a Victorian end-of-terrace villa in Tennyson Drive. In the living room the television was on, the sound was turned down. The information scrolled mutely across the bottom of the screen.
‘A woman’s body has been found in the East End of Glasgow . . . Two gang members were fatally stabbed in an altercation in the Southside of the city on Tuesday evening. The two men, named locally as Davie Ward and Chris Wood . . .’
Ashton was having his morning coffee and a smoke. His computer sat on the table in front of him, his Twitter and Facebook accounts were open and he was pasting links to his website, ‘Capture the Dream’. He always asked clients if he could include a photograph from their wedding on his website. It was free publicity for him and most couples were happy enough to agree. He’d only been refused once, there was always one fucking control freak. He selected a photograph from the most recent wedding, Lorna and Robert Maine. She’d worn a full-length silk wedding dress; he’d bought a kilt. ‘Waste of fucking money,’ Ashton muttered at the image. ‘It’s not like you’ll ever wear that dress or the kilt again.’ But he knew the couple, like many others, had convinced themselves that they would. At least the Kibble Palace at Glasgow Botanic Gardens was in the background, which provided the shot with some interest. He’d arranged a few photographs of the couple next to the marble statue of Eve by the Italian sculpture Scipione Tadolini. Lorna had looked awkwardly at the nude, but he’d assured her it was high art. Ashton managed to send a few more tweets and finish his coffee before he heard her getting up. Shit, he should’ve been away by now. He stubbed the last of his cigarette on the saucer as his partner Lisa shuffled into the room and thrust his screaming son, Ewan, towards him.
‘Can you take him? He needs changing.’
‘No can do, I’m off out.’
‘I’m desperate for a bath.’ She sniffed the air. ‘You’re not supposed to be smoking in the house, Mum wouldn’t like it.’
‘She’s not here. And it’s not her house.’
‘It’s as good as, she gave us the deposit. She warned you about smoking with t
he baby here.’
‘It won’t do him any harm. It was just the one, it takes the edge off.’
‘What is the matter with you? Why do you need to take the edge off anything?’
The baby cried louder.
‘What do you think is the matter, Lisa? You gave up your career. Now our combined income is down twenty grand and you’re asking me why the hell I’m edgy?’
Her tone changed to one of resignation. ‘I’ve been up half the night with him. I’m exhausted. I need a bath. Just ten minutes.’
‘No chance, childcare is your department. Get your mum to come round. Or Katie. Or Zoe. Christ, you were there for them when their kids were small.’
‘You don’t even want to change your son.’ A statement.
‘It’s not a case of my not wanting to, it’s your bloody job. I see to him in the evenings when I can.’
‘You’re never here in the evenings.’
‘Don’t start. I work late. Think back before your mind got addled, surely you remember what work is? The bit where you go out every day and earn money to pay bills?’
Her voice a whisper. ‘I thought you wanted to have a baby.’
‘I don’t remember having much of a say in it. You came off the Pill and neglected to mention it, so don’t play the bloody martyr. You got what you wanted and now I have to find the cash for all of us.’
‘You could go back to teaching art. We were doing well.’
‘I fucking hated teaching.’
‘It wouldn’t be for long. I’ll go back to Tesco once Ewan’s a bit older.’ The baby began to cry again. She soothed him. ‘It’s OK, wee man, it’s OK, Mummy’s here.’ She turned back to Ashton. ‘You got any more bookings?’
‘I told you this kind of work is slow, a few small weddings here and there and a bit of freelance work. I’ve got a couple of other bits and pieces going on. Why?’
‘You’re out all the time, I never see you. I wanted us to be a family.’