by Anne Randall
‘Boyd and Williams are there now.’
Her mobile rang. The station. Robertson. ‘I’m listening.’
‘We’ve had a breakthrough.’
She listened while he talked her through it. ‘That’s got to be our victim. Send uniform to pick her up.’ She ended the call.
‘Update?’ said Ross, as he edged the car out into the traffic.
‘A woman named Maureen Anderson just called the station. She’d been due to meet a friend for coffee. The friend didn’t show and isn’t answering her phone. Maureen saw the television report about a body being found. Robertson got a detailed description.’
‘Tell me it’s good news.’
‘Sounds like our girl.’
The man was seated in the John Lewis café at the Buchanan Galleries. The coffee was delicious, as was the pastry. Casually, he scrolled down the newsfeed on his phone.
DCI Stewart from Carmyle Police Station has just issued the following statement:
Police were called just after eight o’clock this morning to the East End of the city after members of the public discovered a woman’s body concealed in undergrowth on Sandyhills Road. The identity of the deceased is not yet known and we would ask anyone who was in the vicinity of Sandyhills and who saw or heard anything suspicious to get in touch with us at Carmyle Station directly or at one of the numbers listed below. The woman is described as being in her mid to late twenties, approximately five foot four, of slim build and wearing a pale blue T-shirt, dark blue jeans and gold-coloured, open-toed leather sandals. We would ask anyone with information to contact Police Scotland on 101 or Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111 if you wish to remain anonymous.
The police at Carmyle had a dead body to play with but they had no name. They were slow. Pathetic.
The man flicked off his phone, sipped his coffee. Here he was invisible. He was safe. He was free.
Chapter Thirteen
The Friend
Wheeler heard the door slam behind her as she approached the desk sergeant. ‘Has Maureen Anderson arrived?’
‘A few minutes ago. I put her in Room Two, and I’ve arranged for tea to be brought through.’
‘A couple of biscuits might be an idea,’ said Ross.
‘Last time I looked you weren’t bereaved,’ muttered the sergeant.
Ross followed Wheeler into the interview room.
Maureen Anderson was sitting at the table. She looked up, gave them a weak smile.
Social niceties and politeness in the face of darkness, thought Wheeler. She kept her voice soft. ‘I’m DI Wheeler and this is DI Ross. I want to thank you for coming in, Ms Anderson.’
‘Maureen.’
‘Maureen. We’d like you to tell us a little bit about your friend and why you’re concerned about her. Starting with her name.’
‘Karlie Merrick.’
Ross quietly took out his notebook. Began writing.
Wheeler already had a rough description from Robertson, but she needed the crucial information that would confirm if Karlie was their victim. ‘Can you describe her in as much detail as you can?’
‘My height, five four, shoulder-length dark hair and brown eyes.’
So far so accurate.
‘And she has a tattoo.’
It was her. Had to be. Wheeler waited.
‘She has a rose tattoo on her ankle.’
‘Do you have a picture of Karlie?’
‘Not with me. I’ve got some at home.’
It was important to get the information while Maureen could concentrate. Once she knew her friend was dead, she would go to pieces, which would be a whole lot less useful. ‘What age is Karlie?’ Wheeler, careful to use the present and not the past tense.
‘She’s twenty-eight.’
‘And when was the last time you saw her?’
‘Last Thursday. We went for a drink at Jinty McGuinty’s, over in the West End.’
Wheeler knew the bar. It was located in Ashton Lane, one of the cobbled lanes in a trendy area of the city. ‘Is Jinty’s a favourite hangout of Karlie’s?’
‘No, she thought that she might meet some people who’d be involved in films. You know, with it being the West End and everything? She thought maybe she’d be spotted, like the way girls are sometimes spotted when they’re out shopping and then they become models?’
Not at twenty-eight, thought Wheeler. ‘And did she meet anyone at the pub, was she ever spotted?’
‘No.’
‘Does Karlie want to be a model?’
‘An actress. She wrote to loads of folk asking for introductions, she sent an email to that group, the Kill Kestrels? She reckoned she’d been at school with one of them. Thought maybe he could help get her some exposure, seeing as how they’re famous now.’
‘Do you know which member of the group?’
‘No, I’m not really that into their music. Karlie neither, it’s just that she wants to be famous and she thinks that maybe he might . . .’ Maureen pulled out a tissue and wiped her eyes.
‘Does Karlie ever mention the Coach House bar?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘And you were meant to meet this morning for coffee, where?’
‘The Murder of Crows café, but she didn’t show and she never called to cancel. She’s not answering her mobile.’ Maureen’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘Karlie always answers her mobile.’
‘Do you know where Karlie went last night? Did she mention meeting anyone?’
‘We don’t speak every day. I waited ages in the café for her, and then, when I saw on the telly that a body had been found up by Sandyhills . . .’ Maureen appealed to Wheeler, ‘I don’t want it to be Karlie.’
‘Does Karlie visit that area?’
‘She never mentioned it. She sometimes goes into town and hangs about Princes Square. Maybe if she’s feeling flush, she’d go for a drink – only a soft one, she doesn’t touch alcohol – to that big place on Ingram Street. I forget the name of it, it’s got statues and pillars outside.’
‘The Corinthian?’ said Wheeler.
Maureen nodded. ‘Big posh place.’
The Corinthian was close to Wheeler’s flat in the Merchant City and was one of the city’s many stylish hangouts. ‘Is Karlie seeing anyone?’
‘No. She just isn’t interested in men or in dating. Says it’s a waste of time. She’s ambitious.’
Wheeler heard the change in tone, the impatience. They should be out there looking for her friend, not sitting in the station, chatting. ‘Does she live alone?’
‘Yeah, she’s got a flat in Glasgow Harbour Development. I’ve got her spare key.’ Maureen rummaged in her bag. ‘It’s in here somewhere.’
Great, thought Wheeler. Had Maureen trampled over a potential crime scene? She thought of the SOCO Jim Watson and his complaint about the runner who threw up. So a load of different footprints all contaminating the place. Have they never even seen an episode of CSI? You’d think they would have had more bloody sense. Did that apply to Maureen too? Had she walked over a potential crime scene without thinking? What Maureen said next confirmed it.
‘Karlie’s not there. I went through the whole flat. Her bed hasn’t been slept in – it looks like she wasn’t home last night.’ Maureen offered the key.
Wheeler took it. She would arrange for a thorough search to be done by SOCOs. She would also arrange to get CCTV from the area around Glasgow Harbour Development. ‘Is she working?’
‘Karlie does agency work for a photographer. His name’s Gary, he’s a wedding photographer—’ Maureen faltered for a heartbeat ‘—but he’s got a sideline in porn.’
‘Go on,’ said Wheeler.
‘Karlie did a couple of porn movies for him. Small stuff. Nothing big that needs major distribution.’
‘Does this Gary have a surname?’ asked Wheeler.
‘She never mentioned it. He has an office someplace in the East End, but I think the studio is out of town, out past Strathaven. Karlie sometimes goes
into Strathaven for coffee, some really old-world coffee shop. She said it’s a lovely place. She likes going to different places for coffee. It’s her thing. We’re going there for coffee next week.’
Ross continued taking notes.
‘What about family?’ asked Wheeler.
‘Her parents are dead, but she has a cousin, Beth, I think that’s her name.’ Maureen took out her phone and scrolled through her messages. ‘Wait. Hold on. I do have a photo of Karlie. She sent me this a few months ago. Beth had contacted her, out of the blue, to tell her about her new exhibition in some trendy gallery in town. Later, she sent on a box of old papers and photographs belonging to Karlie’s father. Anyway, Karlie went into the gallery and started messing around taking selfies and an old guy told her to stop, said it was interfering with him enjoying the exhibition. They had a bit of a slanging match. She told him to fuck off, it was her cousin’s work. She said it was a right laugh.’
Wheeler waited while Maureen went into folders, swiped through two months of information, until eventually she found it. ‘Here it is. I knew I had it somewhere.’
Wheeler took the phone, studied the picture. It was definitely their victim. Karlie Merrick was grinning and making a daft face. In the background was a painting, an image of a woman with large, haunted eyes. Wheeler took in the details of the gallery. The space was familiar; she’d been there many times over the years. The CCA. The Centre for Contemporary Arts was located on Sauchiehall Street and was one of Glasgow’s best-known institutions. Wheeler checked the date – the photograph had been sent at 11 a.m. on Saturday 10 May. The atmosphere in the room had changed; she guessed Maureen felt it too. This was now a murder inquiry with Karlie Merrick at the centre. Wheeler handed the phone back to Maureen.
‘It’s her, isn’t it? It’s Karlie? I saw your expression. You recognised her.’
Wheeler gave the tiniest nod and watched Maureen’s face dissolve. The tea had finally arrived and a uniformed officer placed the tray down and quietly exited the room. Wheeler put a mug of tea in front of Maureen, watched while she tried to compose herself. Waited a moment before asking, ‘Do you know of anyone who wanted to harm her?’
‘No.’
‘We need a list of Karlie’s friends, her Facebook account, Twitter, Pinterest and any other social media. Anything and everything you can give us would be of help.’
Ross slid a piece of paper and pen across the table to Maureen. ‘And also if you could jot down any passwords you know. Anything you can remember.’
‘And I’m going to need to take her laptop,’ Wheeler said gently.
Maureen began to cry again. ‘Can I use the loo?’
‘Of course.’ Wheeler grabbed her notebook, escorted Maureen to the toilet. Waited outside in the corridor. Called the CCA, identified herself and asked to speak to the manager. Quickly explained why she was calling and what she needed. ‘I don’t know if the artist was part of a bigger exhibition or if she had a solo exhibition. Her name’s Beth and the exhibition ran on Saturday tenth of May.’
She heard the woman tap the information into a computer. ‘OK, here it is. Yes, I thought it would probably be Beth Swinton. She had a solo exhibition, “Eyes Wide to the World”. It ran from third to the twenty-fourth of May.’
‘Do you have contact details for her?’
More typing. A pause, then, ‘Right, here they are, she’s over in the Southside.’ Wheeler flipped open her notebook, scribbled down an address in Queen’s Park and a phone number. She thanked the manager and killed the call.
A few seconds later, Maureen reappeared, looking washed out and exhausted. Grief and shock had hit her. Wheeler led her back to the room. Scottish law stipulated that a formal identification of the body needed to be done by two people, and Wheeler wondered if Maureen would be one of them. But that was for later. A family liaison officer would be sent to her home and the FLO would talk Maureen through the process. ‘I’ll arrange for you to be driven home and also for someone to come and visit you.’
‘And you’re positive it’s her?’
Wheeler heard the desperation.
‘You might have made a mistake?’
Denial. Part of the bereavement process.
Maureen appealed to Ross. ‘Can you just double-check the information you have? I mean it would be helpful to get a second opinion?’
Bargaining.
Wheeler kept her tone gentle. ‘I’m sorry, Maureen.’
Later, in the Incident Room, Wheeler crossed to the board, noted down the information as she spoke. ‘Our girl is Karlie Merrick. She was twenty-eight and lived in a flat in Glasgow Harbour Development. The SOCOs are on their way there now. Karlie’s next of kin is Beth Swinton. Ross and I are going to visit her over in the Southside. We’ll get to the flat and also check in with the band, the Kill Kestrels. It’s a long shot but she tried to contact one of them.’
‘Her and every other fan in the country,’ muttered a uniformed officer.
‘Karlie worked for a wedding photographer,’ Wheeler continued. ‘Boyd, I want you to find out which one, goes by the name of Gary. His office is in the East End but he has a place either near Strathaven or in the town itself. Also runs a porn business on the side. Get on to it. Can’t be too difficult to find him.’
‘Not for a genius like me.’ Boyd fired up his computer.
‘And there’s some old-world café in Strathaven. Our victim went there, so get on to them too.’
‘Got it.’
Wheeler addressed two female officers in uniform. ‘I want you two to hit the social media sites used by our victim, see what she put on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, find out who she was friends with, who liked her posts and anyone who either trolled her or posted negative comments. The lot. Here are the details Maureen gave us and the passwords Karlie used. Our victim liked coffee bars. Get in touch with as many as you can in the city, find out if she was a regular. Maureen said Karlie went to the Corinthian and Jinty’s, so get on to them.’ She continued updating the team and issuing orders for a few minutes, until everyone knew what their particular task was. She was halfway across the room when she spoke to Ross. ‘Let’s go see the cousin. I’ll arrange for an FLO to meet us there.’
Chapter Fourteen
The Gang
Mason
Mason Stitt fumed at a corner table in the Cockroach. His dark hair was cropped close to his skull, his T-shirt tight over muscled biceps. His eyes were dark and heavy with revenge as he stared at the picture of Brando. What would he do at a time like this? Mason gulped his beer. The deaths of Davie and that runt Chris Wood should’ve been avoidable; it should never have happened. And now the Southside police had arrested the two boys who did it and were sniffing around looking for more information. It was all Owen fucking McCrudden’s fault. Strategic planning was supposed to have been in place. They were supposed to have had the edge. Instead, they’d been ambushed, the other gang had half a dozen more members, drafted in at the last minute. Owen had fucked up again, there was no place for him in the organisation. But Mason knew that it was he who had committed the first cardinal sin as a leader. He’d shown sympathy, he’d felt sorry for the homeless fucker living in his shit van. Knew that Owen had been flattered when they’d sworn allegiance. ‘I’ll do anything. Steal anything, fight anyone.’ He’d seen the desperation in Owen’s freaky husky eyes. Knew the gang was all Owen had. The weakest link in the chain. Mason forced himself to slow down and sip his pint. Think this through. What if there was one more thing Owen could do for him, one more piece of action that would allow Mason to move up in the world? Mason knew that he would need to leave the gang behind, even after things died down with the police. His reputation as a street fighter was good, but this was boys’ stuff and he was ambitious. He wanted to join the grown-ups, the drug men. Except that there wasn’t an opening. Unless he made one. Ian Bunyan. Mason thought of Bunyan’s stupid clown grin, how his face contorted when he smiled. The ridiculous affectation of covering his mouth
with a savaged hand which looked like a devil’s hoof. Mason knew that he had no chance going up against the cunt, but a germ of a plan began to form, a whorl of an image snuck its way into his mind. He waited, watched it grow, saw it form. Fact – Owen McCrudden was no match for Ian Bunyan. If they went head to head. But Owen was always boasting about his shitty van – ‘This here weapon weighs three tons of metal.’ Fact – Bunyan was only five seven and slight, maybe 135 pounds. Went everywhere on his motorbike. What if they did go head to head but on the road? Mason sat back, took a long slow drink of the cool liquid. Owen was desperate, would do anything to re-ingratiate himself with Mason and the gang and, given Owen’s crap life, what did he have to lose? Mason smiled, watched his cousin, Andy Carmichael, cross the room.
‘Mason.’
‘Andy.’
‘How’re things?’
‘They were shite, but I think they’re improving.’
‘I heard about the two boys who got killed, how’d that even happen?’ said Carmichael.
Mason wasn’t in the mood to discuss failure. ‘It happens. I heard the filth have been sniffing around?’
‘Two cops, Wheeler and Ross. But they’re gone. They never mentioned the gang fight, they were looking into the murder of some lassie who got killed.’
‘Right.’
‘You know anything about her murder?’
‘No.’
‘You sure?’
‘Fuck’s sake.’
‘OK, all right. What are you going to do about the gang?’
Mason sipped the dregs of his pint. ‘That, Andy, I need to decide. Revenge, obviously, but I need to look at the crew, who needs promoted and who needs to be let go. But mainly I need to consider my future. It’s not with the gang, long term.’
‘You’re not getting any younger, gang fights are a boy’s game.’
‘Agreed, so I need to think of my career.’
‘Which direction?’
‘Drug supply.’
‘Not in this area, Ian Bunyan has it covered.’