by Anne Randall
She felt her hand tight on the iron.
Her son Lachlan, six foot two. Hugo, six one. Same hair, same eyes. Same mannerisms. Identical, some might say, had they been looking, had they known where to look. A young student in Edinburgh, a married politician in London. Too disparate. She turned the sheet, folded it, pressed hard on the iron. Separate was how she was going to keep them. Hugo smiled into the camera. ‘I am here to give you my word that—’
She flicked to another channel.
‘And the two gang members who died, Davie Ward and Chris Wood . . .’
The newsreader had used an abbreviated form of their names. Touching intimacy, how they would have been known to their family and friends. Not David and Christopher, but Davie and Chris. She ironed a pillowcase, a small domestic warmth, a triumph over the chaos out there in the world. Davie and Chris, two boys who’d taken a wrong turning somewhere in their lives. It could have been Lachlan. It couldn’t have been Lachlan. She would have done anything for it not be Lachlan. Sold the house. Moved countries. Whatever it took. She would have done it. The mother of Davie was crying, her eyes had the lost look, as if they couldn’t find a focus; grief had blindsided her and she was quietly imploding. She pleaded for an end to the violence. ‘Two boys dead,’ she repeated, ‘two dead and for what?’
Maggie reminded herself that her world hadn’t been torn apart by violence. Lachlan was at university, right now he was on holiday, travelling with a group of friends through Italy. Facebook pictures of Milan, Lake Como and Venice had made her want to visit the country again. She had loved backpacking when she was a student, had loved Rome, Florence and Venice. Knew Lachlan would also be going to Sicily. She’d never made it there. It would be fantastic for him, and she wished him nothing but love and happiness. She pictured the way he pushed his hair back with his hand. The boyish glance. She thought of the man she never wanted him to meet.
Chapter Eighteen
The Graveyard
‘Christ, we’re running out of time, can’t you just fucking floor it?’
‘I’m doing my best, sir. I can’t speed in a built-up area. I’m sure you realise that.’
They were stuck at another red light. Josh glanced at his watch – if they didn’t move it, he’d be late for the photo op. ‘Fucking useless.’
Eventually, they pulled up outside the shop and he bolted inside. Thankfully, the place was empty and there was no flicker of recognition from the middle-aged assistant. ‘I need some flowers. Fast.’
‘I have some already made, or I could make up a bunch for you?’
‘Fast.’
She led him to a shelf of bouquets. ‘These are in cellophane and water and are in gift bags already, so the recipient doesn’t need to bother with vases or food.’ She turned to him. ‘Did you have any particular blooms in mind?’
‘No.’
‘Are they a gift?’
Josh ignored her, looked at the display, recognised roses, of course, and chrysanthemums, but fuck all else. He grabbed the largest bunch. The flowers were predominantly pink, Amber’s favourite colour. ‘These are fine.’
The woman took him to the counter, rang up the sale. ‘Oh these are lovely, aren’t they? You’ve got roses, the double flowering lisianthus, stocks, statice, alstroemeria and freesia. It’s a beautiful bouquet, don’t you think?’
‘How much?’
‘Forty-eight pounds, sixty-five.’
He paid in cash. The flowers gave off a heady perfume and, outside, he dropped them into the boot of the car.
‘Where to now?’ The driver’s usually friendly tone had moved down a notch.
‘Mosspark Boulevard.’ Josh settled into the back seat. From behind the darkened windows, he watched two young women wearing Kill Kestrels T-shirts walk past. He smiled, money in the bank. Twenty minutes later, the car turned on to Paisley Road West and then into Mosspark Boulevard. They carried on through the wrought-iron gates and on to the back of the cemetery. ‘Just here’s fine.’ Josh grabbed the bouquet from the boot of the car.
The place was deserted, the graves he passed were well tended; there were plots with fresh flowers, others with small teddy bears resting on the headstone and some festooned with balloons. As if death was a celebration. On another, a heart-shaped wreath rested on the soil. Reminders to the living maybe because the dead were already too long gone. He knew it was stupid but he’d done the same when buying the flowers. Finally, he reached the plot. The gravestone was a sleeping cherub carved into marble, its face resting on the stone.
Sleep with the Angels
Amber Ellen Ellis
Born 20 March 1986
Died 3 September 1994
Rest in Peace
He hoped his sister was resting in peace, because she hadn’t had any fucking peace when she’d been alive. When Josh was eight and Amber six, their mother’s latest druggie boyfriend Mikey had finally had enough. After he left, their alcoholic mother had decided that booze and drugs were her two best friends and had gone with anyone who might provide them. The night she’d died, hunger had driven him and his sister out of the house. He’d walked on ahead, had seen the orange glow from the street lights above him. It had calmed him and he’d found comfort enough that he’d taken Amber’s hand and told her stories while they walked. A police car had slowed to a stop and they had been picked up and taken back. The policemen had found his mother’s body; they wouldn’t let them go back into the house. They were quickly taken to an emergency foster home. Social services had become involved. The following day, they were told their mother was dead, her vodka had been contaminated with a cleaning chemical. She must have been drunk and disorientated. There was no one else in the house at the time.
Later, a court decided that it was in their best interest to be fostered. And so it had begun, moving from placement to placement, both unable to settle. He had remained quiet, angry and withdrawn, but Amber had suffered from night terrors which left her exhausted. She had tantrums, lashing out and biting and swearing. She developed faecal incontinence and none of the strategies offered by the foster carers could change her behaviour. Then they were placed with Susan Moody.
‘But that didn’t work out for us, did it. Amber?’ He spoke to the gravestone. ‘That was the worst fucking thing that happened.’ He put the flowers on the dirt. ‘The shop assistant told me the name of these but I can’t remember them; you’ve got roses and some other shit. At least they’re your favourite colour.’
Above him, gulls, which had flown in from the River Clyde, cried and shrieked. He closed his eyes and tried to remember being ten years old and living in Susan Moody’s house. He recalled the smell of fried food, the greasy square sausage for Sunday breakfast, the smell of boiled potatoes, cabbage and mince at dinner time. He often tried to remember the night Amber died, but the elusive images were nothing more than a shattered mirror, unreliable shards lacking cohesion.
The night of the fire, he had been sleeping fitfully, dozing on and off, and had woken to hear two unfamiliar voices, a woman and a man, shouting. Had he gone back to sleep? Were the voices part of the dream? Was Susan Moody right? His memory slid, as it always did, away from that night, to take refuge elsewhere. The white cat that belonged to a neighbour, a dog barking in a garden across the road. The fragments returned, splinters that haunted and teased him. Violence. Anger. Threat. The smell of smoke. A scream. Silence. Then nothing. The image he needed refused to reveal itself.
Josh felt the familiar anger rise, and he cursed the sunlight and the gulls which circled above him. Finally, he consoled himself with the fact that he had found a way forward, that progress might be slow, but it was progress. He turned back towards the car, took a minute to compose himself, to distance himself from the angry and troubled Joshua Alden who grew up in care. Took time to re-establish Josh Alden, founding member of the Kill Kestrels, one of Scotland’s most successful indie bands. He took a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses from his pocket and slipped them on. ‘Ready to
go,’ he said to the empty graveyard. A few seconds later, he opened the door of the Range Rover, spoke to the driver – ‘The Golden Unicorn.’ He would work on his memory of that night later on. For now, though, he needed to get his shit together. As the car pulled out of the cemetery and joined the line of traffic, Josh spoke aloud, ‘We’re rolling.’
Chapter Nineteen
The Cousin
Beth Swinton lived in a blond sandstone building in Queen’s Drive, Southside. Wheeler pulled up outside the flat.
The FLO was waiting for them. Wheeler recognised Helen Downie, wondered if she was going to be at least civil. ‘Morning, Helen.’
The FLO ignored her, turned to Ross. ‘Morning, DI Ross. All set?’
‘As always.’
‘Good to see you again, Ross.’ The FLO kept her back to Wheeler.
Wheeler rang the bell. Waited. Turned to looked into Queen’s Park. It was busy with families having picnics, people sunbathing, others jogging or walking their dogs. Just like in Kelvingrove Park that morning, Glaswegians out enjoying the sunshine and warmth of the day. She knew the area where the gang fight had taken place was on the other side of the park and was still sealed off. She thought of the two dead gang members and Karlie Merrick, three bodies lying on cool slabs in the dark of the mortuary.
‘The park looks mobbed,’ said Ross.
‘At least it’s getting used in a good way, not with raging gang fights,’ said the FLO. ‘Folk out and about on a lovely sunny day and here’s you and me, Ross, being the harbingers of doom and gloom.’
Wheeler said nothing.
The door was opened by a small woman in her mid-fifties. Her black hair was cut into a severe bob and she wore a blue artist’s smock. In her hands she held a red and white striped tea towel.
‘Beth Swinton?’ asked Wheeler.
‘Yes.’ Caution in her tone.
‘We’re police. I’m DI Wheeler, this is DI Ross.’
The FLO’s voice was soft. ‘I’m Helen Downie, Ms Swinton. We’d like to come in for a word.’
Wheeler saw apprehension slide over Beth Swinton’s face as she stood back. They followed her through a vast hallway and on through to the living room. One wall was covered with paintings similar to the one Wheeler had seen on Maureen Anderson’s phone. The female figures all had large, troubled eyes. None of them was smiling.
Beth stood in the middle of the living room and twisted the tea towel between her fingers.
The FLO moved towards her. ‘Would you like to sit down?’
Beth gave a tiny shake of her head.
‘I understand you’re related to Karlie Merrick?’ asked Wheeler.
‘Karlie? Yes, we’re cousins, well first cousins once removed to be accurate. Karlie’s the daughter of my cousin Mary.’ She paused. ‘There are very few reasons for police to come to my door and ask me to take a seat. Something’s happened to her, hasn’t it?’
‘A woman’s body was found this morning in the East End which matches Karlie’s description,’ said Wheeler. She heard Beth’s sharp intake of breath, saw her pallor fade.
The FLO crossed the room. ‘Have a sit down.’ She led Beth to the sofa.
Wheeler and Ross sat opposite.
‘I saw on the news that a body was found. I can’t believe it’s Karlie.’
‘Do you know why she might have been in the Sandyhills area?’
‘I’ve no idea, but then I haven’t seen Karlie in years. I’m afraid we never got on well.’
‘Then perhaps you could tell me a little about her? Just in general terms, it would really help to build up a picture of who she was,’ said Wheeler.
Beth’s voice was soft. ‘Well, her background was quite distressing. My cousin Mary married John Merrick and they had Karlie. Mary passed away when Karlie was very young. It was an awful shock. Mary had a lot of, well—’ she glanced at Ross ‘—female problems and finally went in for a hysterectomy. After surgery, she contracted MRSA, there was a lot of it about then, she never recovered. Then, a few years later, John was murdered. I mean,’ Beth beseeched Wheeler, ‘how much tragedy can one family take? And now this? The whole family gone.’
Wheeler sat forward. ‘Karlie’s father was murdered?’
Beth continued to wring the tea towel through her fingers. ‘Battered to death in his own home. Karlie was about eight, so twenty years ago. No one was ever charged, but then things changed during the investigation. I’m not sure . . . the will to find the killer was . . . well, the police had other cases, other priorities. They searched John’s house and found . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
Wheeler waited while the woman got lost in her memories.
‘They found a collection of porn, some of it related to teenage girls—’ Beth swallowed ‘—underage girls. It was very distressing. And, of course, there was no one to look after Karlie. She was supposed to go into care and then eventually be fostered. I don’t know if, on reflection, she would have preferred that. It may have worked out better for her. But I offered to take her. I had a job and this flat and I thought we could make a go of it, but I made a bit of a dog’s dinner of it, I’m afraid. I was in shock. John had been murdered, then his cache of filth uncovered, revolting given an eight-year-old was in the house. You can imagine the rumours; people believed he had, well that he had . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
The FLO quietly sat down beside Beth.
‘And were other agencies involved with Karlie?’ asked Wheeler.
‘Initially, a psychiatrist, then later a couple of child psychologists. Karlie said nothing, refused to even speak to them. They asked me, but I’d barely known the man. She was physically examined by a doctor and she hadn’t been . . . you know.’
‘And the last time you talked to Karlie?’ asked Wheeler.
‘It was over a year ago. We had an argument. I wanted her to stop obsessing about her father’s death. I lost my temper and shouted at her, told her to live in the present. It was awful for her to lose her parents and I knew that her dad’s murder was a nightmare for her, but I wanted her to live her life. To try to be happy. She got annoyed with me and slammed down the phone. We can both sulk for Scotland, I’m afraid.’ Beth blew into the tissue. ‘But then in March, I texted her about the new exhibition at the CCA. I thought we might have a coffee. Maybe build some bridges. She never replied. Later, I sent her a box of her father’s belongings, just old photographs I found at the back of a cupboard. I think I might have more in the attic. But again, no reply.’
‘What was it about her dad’s death that she wanted to explore?’ asked Wheeler.
‘Karlie was very ambitious. Like a lot of young people today, she wanted to be famous. She wanted to star, her word, in a true-life re-enactment of her dad’s murder. She had an idea that it would be her road to fame, that she’d get other acting roles. She told me that she was an actress and I quizzed her, then she mentioned glamour and I knew without her having to tell me directly that she was doing seedy work. Mary would have been horrified. Perhaps it’s better that she died when she did.’ Beth cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, Karlie wanted to walk a film crew through the house where John’s body had been found and then she’d take them outside into the surrounding area. I thought it was macabre; to have lived through it once was traumatic enough but to actually want to take part in a re-enactment was just too grisly for me. I asked her if she intended to include the images the police found? I was very honest with her.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I regret that now. Perhaps I could have been kinder.’
‘I know it was a while ago but when you last spoke, did she ever mention that she was scared or that someone had threatened her?’
‘No. My God, it’s awful.’
‘A friend of Karlie’s told us that she tried to contact a member of a band, the Kill Kestrels?’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘Did she ever mention someone called Gary?’
‘Not that I recall.’
‘He’s a wedding photogra
pher – she did some work for him?’
‘No, she didn’t tell me much at all.’
‘What about boyfriends, did she have a boyfriend or any friends that you could tell us about?’
Beth sighed. ‘She was very attractive physically, she took after Mary in that way, but she never mentioned boys or asked about sex. If I had to name it, I’d say Karlie was asexual, but then she only lived with me until she was sixteen. She found both me and my home stifling and I thought her too demanding. We were both relieved when she moved out. She was very wilful and needed to create chaos, whereas I need calm to function well and for my work.’
‘Chaos?’ asked Wheeler.
‘It’s not that her father hadn’t left her money, it’s just that there was a grasping quality to her.’ The shock hit Beth and she began to tremble.
The FLO quickly went through into the bedroom and brought back a blanket. ‘Put this around you.’
Beth breathed deeply before she continued. ‘Karlie loved attention. It started when she was still quite young. She went through phases of lying, and would lie to me about the tiniest little thing, even when it was obvious. For example, she’d finish the last biscuit from the tin and then say she hadn’t. It didn’t make sense. I mean she wouldn’t have got into trouble, she just needed to tell me so that I could buy more biscuits. But she would always lie. Even at school. At the time, I put it down to the trauma. Her father’s case had been tainted because of those images the police found and every now and again we’d get nasty calls from perverts. But for Karlie, it was like a circus, it was as if fantasy was more exciting than everyday life. In the fourth year at school, she concocted this whole story that she was being bullied and taunted about her father’s death. She accused a group of girls from her class. There was a huge investigation by the head teacher and the girls were interviewed and eventually it escalated and their parents were summoned to the school. Karlie was in pieces and went to the doctor, who suggested anti-anxiety pills, but she told him she wanted to “tough it out”. She went back into school and was allowed to change class and the girls were all made to apologise to her. One girl refused; she stuck to her guns, said it didn’t happen. She was suspended for a bit and then she transferred to another school. I heard later that she’d taken an overdose. The poor girl died.