by Anne Randall
‘Which is why I’m having to diversify to keep us afloat.’
‘Ewan needs a stroller.’
‘He can’t walk yet but he needs a stroller? I bought you the wrap-round sling you kept banging on about.’
‘He can’t be in the sling all the time, he’s growing so quickly. I’m exhausted carrying him.’
‘Zoe offered you her old stroller.’
‘It’s knackered.’
‘Then ask your mum.’
‘Again? You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘How much are we looking at?’
‘The decent ones are around three hundred.’
‘Christ, how much?’
‘One of your cameras cost way more than that.’
‘They’re for work. Without them you don’t eat.’ He gestured to the child. ‘Or him for that matter.’
‘And your son’s not worth it?’ she asked quietly.
‘I didn’t say that. I’m just saying that we need to be careful with money. Unlike your mother, I don’t have a spare three hundred quid lying around. How much are the others?’
She sighed. ‘They start around sixty pounds but I want one that he can have for just now and then grow into. Otherwise it’s buying twice.’
‘Sixty it is then.’ He peeled three twenty-pound notes from a roll, grabbed his mobile. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Where?’
‘Work.’
‘I thought you said it was slow?’
‘Slow, not dead. I have leads to chase up and I need to get out there and network; making contacts is half the battle.’
She followed him to the door. ‘What about my bath?’
‘Not my problem, Lisa.’ He picked up his helmet. As he walked down the path, he heard her call after him: ‘What about my needs?’
‘Fuck knows about you and your ongoing needs.’ He turned back to her. ‘And don’t wait up tonight. I’ve got a business meeting later on; I won’t be back. I need to make some connections. Network. Hustle. You get the picture?’
He ignored the slam of the door, started the Kawasaki and headed off. Maybe the ride to his office would improve his mood; being with Lisa and a screaming kid sure as hell hadn’t.
Fifteen minutes later, he parked outside his office in Duke Street. More and more it was becoming his refuge. Once inside, he closed the door and slipped the small plastic bag containing the white powder from his bag. Took his time to prepare it, savoured the moment before leaning in and snorting. Allowed the intense high to hit him. For a few brief, tantalising moments he felt the surge run through him, like a light flashing through his system. He was on fire. Suddenly life was all good. He sat back in his chair. Shit, it was incredible. But all too soon it was gone and he experienced the unwanted crash and felt the familiar edginess return. Fuck it. He needed to get more. Lisa’s constant nagging was bringing him down. It was her fault really. The complaints about money and the blah, blah, blah about her needs. What about his fucking needs? It was Lisa who’d given up her job. Self-indulgent cow. He looked at the photographs he’d taken. He’d shot some of the weddings in sepia, others in black and white, but most of the couples had wanted colour. Brides in draped silk smiled as bouquets were thrown into the crowd. Couples posed hand in hand in front of families. Children grinned into the camera and, on one occasion, a large tri-coloured collie made an appearance with a velvet bow attached to its collar. Pictures of tiered cakes, modern and ancient churches, flowers and registry offices. All expressions of love they’d said. A load of shit is what he’d said when Lisa had suggested they get married. It was all a money-making sham just like Valentine’s Day, wedding anniversaries and the rest of it. OK, he was part of it, but he wasn’t kidding himself that he’d fallen for it. In his experience, men wanted sex, women wanted kids. He ran through his options. There was no money in the house if they sold. By the time the old witch clawed back her deposit, he’d end up in a grotty bedsit. And there was no way he was going back to teaching. Not that he could. He’d not mentioned to Lisa, or to anyone, the real reason that he’d had to leave the profession. He licked his index finger, traced along the residual powder, put it to his mouth. Reminded himself that the sham was paying his mortgage but the porn supported his habit. Or at least it had until recently. He was now in debt to his supplier, Ian Bunyan. Unbidden, an image of Bunyan flashed into his mind, like the devil being invoked. Bunyan with his clown smile and his deformed hand. He’d heard that he’d lost two fingers, the index and the fourth, in a poker match. When Bunyan laughed he had a habit of covering his mouth with his hand, the splayed fingers, the botched job when they had been severed. Bunyan had finally arranged a rematch and had won, so had taken a pair of pliers and set about his opponent. Christ Almighty, Ashton shuddered, what kind of a man was he? He’d ignored the phone message Bunyan had left the previous day. Bunyan had spoken quietly, had even sounded friendly, but Ashton knew what was coming. He’d heard how, after some punter didn’t pay up, he’d smashed her face so badly that she’d needed reconstructive surgery. Another time, he’d stabbed a guy name of Jimmy Shotts at the Cockroach pub. The manager at the time, big Ronnie Crawford, who was a nightmare himself, was too scared of Bunyan to intervene. Fuck, there was no way he was going near the pub until he had cash. The new manager, Andy Carmichael, was a scary fucker too. Maybe he should just keep away from them all? The landline rang and Ashton’s heartbeat paused. He stared at the number. A mobile. It wasn’t Bunyan’s but then the bastard changed mobile phones on a regular basis. Ashton hesitated for a moment before answering, ‘Capture the Dream Wedding Photography. How may I help?’
‘I need a wedding photographer for Saturday . . .’
He felt his heart settled into its regular beat.
‘. . . Our photographer’s let us down at the last minute. He’s gone. Done a runner. His office had been stripped and everything.’
Ashton heard the desperation in her voice; he’d add a couple of hundred quid to his price. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. And you say your big day’s this coming Saturday?’
‘Yes.’
Maybe he’d make it three hundred.
‘I saw your photographs on your website. I know it’s a long shot . . .’ The young woman began to cry.
He waited, listened while she talked.
‘I am so disappointed; I feel so let down. I mean I booked him over a year ago.’
So what? How the fuck did that guarantee anything? Ashton said nothing.
‘How could this even happen?’
Shit happens all the time.
Finally, she sniffed loudly and finished with a tearful, ‘I was wondering if you were even available?’
He’d nothing on at all that day. ‘Let me double-check.’ He kept her waiting for a long moment before sighing. ‘It’s going to be extremely tight, but I think I might be able to squeeze you in between appointments. It would be very rushed for us and we’d have to charge a premium rate. But we would, of course, include a video.’
‘How much will it be?’
He grabbed a pen and notepad. ‘Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself and what you envisage for your wedding including your estimated budget and I’ll put a package together for you?’
Twenty minutes later, he killed the call. He’d managed to add over four hundred and fifty quid to the bill for the short notice and had also taken a hefty deposit. He rolled his shoulders. He felt less tense about bumping into Bunyan now; things were starting to come together, although he’d still stay away from the Cockroach. There was something about the place, like a death was waiting to happen. He switched on the radio, heard the Kill Kestrels’ ‘Death of an Angel’. ‘Shite,’ he muttered and turned it down low. Heard the buzzer.
‘It’s me, Terry.’
A few seconds later, Terry McAvoy bounced into the room. ‘How did it go last night at the Olde Pilgrim Hotel?’
‘Good, except Laura was still feeling a bit shit. She threw up again.’
‘She u
p the duff?’
‘Nah, I think the greedy cow just ate too much. Tonight’s shoot is where exactly?’
‘Old hotel in Auchterarder, called the Albion. It’s on the market for over two hundred grand. Here’s what I put together for the owners.’
Ashton took the glossy estate agent’s schedule. From first impressions, it was one of those old tired hotels which, with the advent of travel lodges and budget hotels, had gone out of fashion. He saw the vividly patterned carpets, the tables set with paper tablecloths. No one wanted to get married in those places anymore and they were being sold off cheap. ‘Eight bedrooms. Any of them any good? I’m not driving all that way if they’re shit.’
‘The honeymoon suite’s the one you’ll be using. Four-poster bed. Part of the original village inn. Stone floor. Very atmospheric.’
‘And it’s definitely empty?’
‘Of course it’s empty. Why are you so jumpy? The owners flew out to Rimini yesterday for a month in the sun. I’ve to show prospective buyers around. Not that there are any yet. And I reassured them that I’d keep a close eye on the place, maybe pop in now and again, switch on the lights. No point in folk thinking there’s no one looking after the place, so we’re covered if anyone sees the van outside. You need to remember the throws and other stuff though.’
‘I’ve got a container full of props.’
‘I don’t want the owners ever catching sight of their hotel in a porn movie. And I don’t want any telltale jizz stains on the furniture.’
‘There won’t be, and I’ll shoot the background in soft focus.’ Ashton tapped the brochure. ‘Looks jaded.’
‘Granted, it’s traditional,’ said Terry. ‘But great for one of your period drama pieces, the whole sexy wench stuff. Who’s coming? The dark-haired girl?’
‘Karlie? No, she was out at the Studio yesterday. Laura’s back in tonight.’
‘I’ll meet you in the car park. Usual time.’
‘You’re a pal, Terry.’
In the background, the music cut to the news.
‘A body was discovered in the East End of Glasgow this morning . . . a police spokesperson . . .
‘Police are still investigating the deaths of two men after an alleged gang attack in the Southside of the city . . .’
Terry reached over and switched the radio off. ‘You want me to do the last edit of yesterday’s cut?’
‘Yeah, let’s get it finished and shipped.’
Ten minutes later they had the final cut. On the screen, Karlie writhed in pain. ‘She can do fear and pain, that one,’ muttered Terry. ‘No way this is art but it’s good enough for me.’
‘It sells,’ said Ashton.
‘There’s a lot of competition out there, companies who are making more sophisticated material.’
‘They’re aiming at a different audience. The folk I sell to are hardly that discerning. Let’s just give the punters what they want.’
‘Which is?’
‘Pain,’ said Ashton. ‘Plain and simple, they’re turned on by pain and suffering. Then again—’ he grinned ‘—aren’t we all?’
Chapter Twelve
The Cockroach
‘Talk of the devil,’ muttered Wheeler. She watched Ian Bunyan pull on a motorcycle helmet before starting up his black Honda. He pulled away from the kerb as they approached the pub. ‘I see his usual demonic grin was pasted on for our benefit.’
‘Lucky us.’
Ross turned into the car park of the Cockroach. It was deserted save for a gleaming chrome, maroon and black Harley-Davidson. ‘Place must be doing well for Carmichael to afford something like that, seeing as he’s only the manager of a pub.’
‘I can’t imagine the Cockroach paid for that machine, at least not through the books.’
‘How much do you reckon it would cost? Ten, twelve grand?’
‘No idea,’ said Wheeler.
‘It’s bloody gorgeous though, isn’t it?’
Wheeler had to agree that the motorbike was a thing of beauty.
Inside, the bar was empty and, from a quick glance, it didn’t look like Andy Carmichael had improved much in the way of interior design. Motorbike memorabilia was all around the place, framed stills of actors from the Mad Max movie, the iconic shot of Brando on a motorbike in The Wild One, Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider.
‘Christ, they all want to be outlaws, don’t they?’ muttered Wheeler.
‘I could just see myself on a hog,’ said Ross.
‘In full leathers?’
‘Would you like that?’
‘In your dreams, muppet.’
‘I take comfort in my fantasy world.’ Ross feigned hurt.
‘It feels like a bit of a theme park, though, doesn’t it?’ Wheeler turned as the kitchen door swung open. The man was in his late forties, his beard was grey and his hair lay in greasy strands to his shoulders. He wore denims, a black T-shirt and a black leather waistcoat. Black and silver biker boots. Despite the dim of the bar, he was wearing sunglasses.
‘Fucking cliché,’ muttered Ross.
‘Andy Carmichael?’ asked Wheeler, as the man approached.
‘Who wants to know?’ His voice low, unfriendly.
‘I’m DI Wheeler and this is DI Ross.’ They flashed their IDs.
He ignored them, removed the sunglasses. ‘Oh aye, one of your lot called me earlier.’
‘We’re investigating a murder, Mr Carmichael.’
‘So your guy said on the phone. What was his name, Boyd?’
‘I believe Detective Constable Boyd rang you earlier.’
‘He mentioned that a woman’s body had turned up in Sandyhills, so naturally you thought you’d shoot straight over here for a chat.’
‘We’re trying to piece together the victim’s last known movements,’ said Wheeler.
‘And you’re wondering if she’d been in here last night, because that would figure, wouldn’t it? Someone got killed and your first stop is the Coach House?’
Wheeler ignored the tone. ‘We’re scouring the area; you’re not being singled out, Mr Carmichael.’
‘She got a name?’
‘We don’t know the victim’s name yet,’ said Wheeler. ‘She was mid to late twenties, around five foot four, slim with dark hair.’
‘Was she a biker?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘Then I doubt that she’d have come in here.’
‘Non-bikers aren’t welcome?’
‘It’s not that they’re not welcome.’ Carmichael smiled, revealing a row of steel gum piercings. ‘Let’s just say that they don’t feel too comfortable. They don’t speak the same language, if you get my drift.’
She could imagine. ‘Do you remember seeing a woman fitting that description in the bar?’
‘There were a couple of girls in last night around that age. Both had dark hair, although neither of them was what you’d call slim, so I guess not your victim.’
‘Besides yourself, who else was working last night?’
‘Just me. Cal Moody dipped in for a bit. He helps out, but he’s a clumsy bugger, cut his hand in the kitchen. It was late on, around eleven. Ended up at Accident and Emergency at the Royal Infirmary.’
‘I’d appreciate a contact number.’
Carmichael scribbled it on the back of a beer mat, handed it to Ross.
‘Was it busy last night?
‘Sure was, the place was heaving and a few of the boys got a bit carried away. A wee bit rowdy.’
‘In what way?’
Carmichael shrugged. ‘A couple of them were just having a laugh, nothing dangerous.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual or anyone acting suspiciously?’
‘You suspect one of my regulars?’
‘I just told you,’ said Wheeler, ‘we’re trying to piece together the last moments of our victim. If she was here, we need to find out who she arrived with, who she talked to and if she left with anyone. It’s in everyone’s best interest if we can
eliminate your customers from our investigation. I’m sure you agree?’
‘Fine by me.’
‘It would be helpful if we could find out if they saw anything unusual last night,’ said Ross. ‘Maybe earlier in the evening or when they were leaving at closing time? Perhaps you could speak to your customers, find out if they saw anything?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I saw Ian Bunyan drive off as we arrived,’ said Wheeler.
‘Don’t know the guy, don’t recognise the name. Maybe he was just turning in the car park. Loads of fuckers do that; it drives me nuts.’
‘You sure you don’t know him?’ said Wheeler.
‘Just said so, didn’t I?’
‘I’ll also need to look at your CCTV.’
‘That’s where you’ll have a problem: we don’t have any. It got busted a while back when a few of the lads got carried away. High jinks. But I’m in the process of getting it sorted.’ He grinned at her, revealing the metal gum studs again. ‘Top of my list.’
‘Right,’ muttered Wheeler. She gave him her card. ‘Call me if you hear anything.’
Carmichael let his gaze travel slowly down Wheeler’s body. ‘Any excuse at all, doll, and you’ll hear from me.’
Outside, they made for the car.
‘I think Carmichael likes you,’ said Ross.
‘Lucky me.’
‘Those gum piercings must have hurt.’
‘Guy like that probably loves pain,’ said Wheeler.
‘You think our victim might have been in the pub?’
‘It’s the nearest place to where she was found. It might be relevant that she was dumped there, or maybe it was just random. At this stage it’s worth keeping an open mind. Even if she wasn’t in there, someone might have seen her on their way home. And if Carmichael could speak to his regulars they’ll probably tell him more than they would uniform. If he’s not involved himself.’
‘You think it could’ve been Carmichael?’ asked Ross.
‘Boyd checked out his alibi – girlfriend supports him.’
‘Very convenient him not having CCTV and the girlfriend being his alibi.’
‘What about the golf course?’