by Anne Randall
‘A few weeks later, Karlie and I were watching television and she calmly told me that she’d made it all up, said that she’d wanted to be the centre of attention, that creating that situation had made her feel special. Told me that she’d felt like a star and had created an audience. Well, of course, I had to go back to the head teacher and explain everything and Karlie was asked to go in and give her version of events. But she didn’t go back, she dropped out of school. The head teacher was devastated about the girl who overdosed. The whole situation was an absolute mess.’ Beth wound the corner of the tea towel around her forefinger. ‘This is a horrible thing to say, but around that time I had a big exhibition and I was very busy, there were interviews to be done and the Chronicle had devoted two pages to my work. Just when I was getting some serious attention, Karlie kicked off.’ Beth sighed. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. There are monsters out there. All Karlie wanted was to be famous, for people to know who she was, and now this.’
She’s got her wish, thought Wheeler.
Beth looked at Wheeler, blinked hard before asking, ‘Will you need the body identified?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s the least I can do for her.’ Beth wiped tears from her cheeks before repeating, ‘The least I can do.’
‘Is there anyone you’d like me to call?’ the FLO offered.
‘No, no one.’
‘Anything I can get you?’
‘A glass of water would be helpful, thank you.’
When the FLO had left the room, Beth turned to Wheeler. ‘I don’t know how you can do this work. How can you face it every day?’
‘It’s my job,’ said Wheeler quietly.
‘I suppose I need to start thinking about the funeral.’
‘Because of the nature of Karlie’s death,’ said the FLO, returning with the water, ‘I’m afraid there will have to be a post-mortem.’
‘Then I’ll arrange it for afterwards.’
‘That might not be possible, just yet. There might be a second PM at some point in the future. If the case goes to trial, the defence have the right to their own PM.’
‘Let me get this straight. Karlie was murdered and her body won’t be released for burial until you find whoever did it, make a case against them and charge them?’
Wheeler heard the anger in Beth’s voice.
‘This is some kind of nonsense, surely? And all this delay to accommodate the person who murdered her? I take it there will be no need for another one if whoever you charge admits to the murder? I mean sometimes they do confess, don’t they?’
‘Yes,’ said the FLO, ‘sometimes they do confess.’
‘I don’t remember this happening when John died. I could be wrong, but I don’t remember any delay at all. Maybe I’m confused, maybe my memory isn’t right?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with your memory. Defence post-mortems came in recently,’ said the FLO. ‘They’re a comparatively new consideration, so it’s something we’re all getting used to, including the police.’
‘I don’t think they sound like a good thing.’ Beth picked savagely at the threads in the tea towel. ‘How can carving her body up for a second time be anything other than disrespectful? Karlie’s been murdered and then a post-mortem violates her again. And then later, another one? I mean, I watch crime movies on the television and the post-mortems look very invasive. Parts have to be removed and then, oh my goodness, it seems so gruesome. Just the idea of it makes me feel sick.’
Wheeler stood. ‘We need to be getting back to the station. If you can think of anything else that might be helpful, please get in touch.’ She offered Beth her card, watched her accept it with a trembling hand.
Outside, Ross breathed deeply. ‘God, but that was claustrophobic, wasn’t it? She was really going into tunnel vision about the PMs, I felt queasy just listening to her.’
‘The mum dies, the dad’s murdered, then underage porn is found. Later, his daughter goes into the same profession. What the hell was going on in that family?’ Wheeler headed for the car.
‘Abuse? But Karlie was seen by a psychiatrist and psychologists. And was examined physically. Beth seemed to rule it out.’
‘Families are often in denial. Your take on Beth Swinton?’
‘They obviously didn’t get on and I think she regrets it now, but—’
‘But?’
‘Karlie sounds as if she was hard work.’
‘Both parents dead,’ said Wheeler. ‘How do you even begin to process that at such a young age?’
They reached the car.
‘You and Helen Downie not talking?’ said Ross.
Wheeler shrugged. ‘Breakdown in communication.’ No point in going into detail. She’d had a one-night stand with Helen’s ex-husband Jamie. At least Jamie had told her they’d separated. Turned out Helen thought they’d been on a trial separation to work through their issues. As far as she was concerned, they were still very much married. The one and only text Helen sent her was three words.
WHORE. BITCH. SLUT.
‘Fancy coffee and a sandwich?’ said Ross.
‘You’re hungry after hearing all that? Have you got worms?’
Five minutes later, they settled at a table in a café, ordered and continued their discussion.
‘I’m positive the two deaths are related,’ said Wheeler.
‘It’s a hell of a coincidence that two members of the same family were murdered, outside of a crime clan.’
The waitress brought their order, and they waited until she had gone before continuing.
‘Why was Karlie Merrick dumped in the Sandyhills area? A meaningful place for her?’ asked Wheeler.
‘Or a meaningful place for her killer?’ said Ross. ‘Or just a fucking quiet, convenient spot to dump a body?’ He sipped his coffee. ‘Do you remember John Merrick’s murder? It must have been in the papers.’
‘Not offhand. Twenty years ago, I had no idea I’d even be in the police force. I was thinking of the army. What about you?’
‘My parents’ relationship was beginning to implode. I was considering the police force, but primarily I just wanted to get away from their constant arguments, home had become a battleground. It wasn’t a great time.’
Wheeler thought of the tensions in her own family. She heard the bitterness in Ross’s tone when he mentioned his parents, and thought about the animosity that had existed between Beth Swinton and Karlie Merrick, of John Merrick who’d collected underage porn when he had an eight-year-old in the house. ‘Fucking families,’ she muttered before starting on her sandwich.
Chapter Twenty
The Photo Shoot
The Kill Kestrels, Dougie thought to himself as he entered the hotel, were just like a family, albeit a dysfunctional one.
The Golden Unicorn was a small, luxury boutique hotel located at the corner of Byres Road and Great Western Road. Stationed at the entrance were two liveried doormen waiting to assist guests with the opening of doors, parking, directions and anything else with which they might struggle. Inside the foyer, four crystal chandeliers glittered and the reflected light from them danced across the polished wooden floor.
Dougie approached reception and waited in line, glanced at the etching that hung behind the desk. Steven Campbell’s, ‘Natural Follies at Bee Junction’. In it, a bearded figure stood in front of a tent, another lay on the ground, close by a beehive and a swarm of bees. The image of the insects made Dougie itchy, and he scratched absent-mindedly at his cheek. He thought of the meaning of the word ‘folly’, a stupid act, an act which would have a costly outcome. Christ, he hoped it wasn’t a portent of what was to come with the Kill Kestrels. He waited behind a guest who was checking in, heard the accent, the tone of entitlement. Dougie would have booked the Unicorn for the band but for a few reasons. One, they couldn’t afford the whole place. Two, he couldn’t guarantee the absolute discretion of the staff in the way he could at the Braque. Although he knew the manager, Harry Franklin, from way back in t
he day, the hotel had only been open a year and had yet to prove its worth regarding the privacy of its guests. But for a photo shoot, it was perfect. Even the press boys couldn’t complain about the location or the bar – the hotel had a designated cocktail lounge filled with drinks named after the musical heroes of the resident mixologist.
Finally, it was his turn.
The receptionist’s smile was purely professional. ‘How may I help?’
‘Dougie Scott.’
‘Yes, sir, your party is in the Long Hall.’
‘Cheers.’ He listened to directions, made his way towards the Hall and was immediately put at ease. The walls of the corridor were filled with framed black and white photographs of the band. He reached the Hall and was similarly impressed – whoever had staged the room clearly really got the Kill Kestrels and what they were about. Their latest album was playing and Skye’s voice soared around the room. Dougie heard Josh on bass, Joe on keyboard and then finally Lexi’s drum kick in. It was just loud enough to have the rock and roll vibe without causing his ears to bleed.
A waiter appeared carrying a tray. Buck’s Fizz. Dougie took one. He hated the tiny glasses. Granted, he knew the shape was something to do with preserving the bubbles, but he found they held such a small amount of alcohol that by the time he was halfway around the photography display, he was on his second glass. Without having eaten anything, the alcohol went straight into his system. Not necessarily a bad thing. He felt the tension leave him, but reminded himself to slow down. He walked around the room, admiring the photographs, pleased they had used the ones he’d sent over. Paulo Di Stefano’s shots were the best he’d ever seen of the band. Di Stefano was obviously heavily influenced by Anton Corbijn’s black and white photographs of the Stones, Springsteen and Morrissey amongst others. Dougie studied the images – Skye looked moody and sensitive, Josh earnest and engrossed. Dougie wondered about the guy who’d appeared at the hotel the previous evening, Cutter Wysor. He didn’t like the man’s vibe at all, but whatever shit Josh was up to, he wasn’t sharing it with his manager. He glanced at photographs of Lexi and Joe. Di Stefano had added a hard edge to their portraits. No need to add hardness to either Josh or Skye’s portraits – they already had it. All to the good, thought Dougie, as he felt the reverberation from Josh’s bass thunder around the room. He passed a console table with newspapers and glossy magazines, glanced at the headlines – a gang fight had left two dead. There were pictures of the two boys, Davie Ward and Chris Wood. They looked like wasters, their gaunt faces and haunted expressions screamed drugs to him. Dougie kept moving, and his thoughts returned once again to the longevity of the band. Last night’s scrap was nothing compared to some of their full-blown arguments, but he could see a pattern emerging that he had to squash; the soul of the band was decaying and he couldn’t let that happen. He thought of recent break-ups by mega-stars in the US. There seemed to be a reluctance to admit the truth and instead to dress it up in some kind of denial, calling it extended sabbaticals, instead of what they were, fucking split-ups.
A man in his thirties with dark curly hair and a tailored grey suit came into the room and made towards him. Harry Franklin. Dougie offered his hand. ‘How goes it, my friend?’
‘It’s all good, Dougie, the press guys are upstairs in the bar having drinks. Are we just doing the photo shoot and a quick meet and greet with the two girls?’
‘Yep, Ellie something and her pal Isla. And Paulo Di Stefano, the guy who did these photographs, is coming to take some shots for the next album cover.’
‘What’s next?’
‘The O2 Academy on Saturday night.’
‘How many does a place like that hold?’
‘Give or take, two and a half thousand. The next step up is the SSE Hydro. This time next year, I want the Kill Kestrels to be there. Holds a smidge over the ten thousand mark. I think the boys can do it.’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘It is actually achievable, Harry, if they manage not to fall out big time. The band could conceivably hit this trajectory and then, after it, well, maybe we could crack America? Every other successful band in the world knows the score, knows that it’s a business. But me? I’m fighting against the rhetoric of “you don’t treat my family of fans like you’re trying to make a profit out of them”. I think one of them has had too much fucking liberal socialism in their childhood and not enough reality.’
‘You didn’t manage to talk them all round to the VIP arrangement then?’
‘I told Lexi it would create a very memorable day for the fans. Not just these two lassies who won the tickets. I really tried to sell it, but would he have it? Would he shite.’
‘But everyone has a VIP package for their shows, from early entrance, to signed merchandise, to meeting the band, a complete smorgasbord of the stuff.’
‘It’s normal currency. What Lexi forgets is that the Kill Kestrels are a product, that the band is together purely to make money, and if they want to go global and reach out to an international fan base, then he’s got to at least start playing the game.’ Dougie finished his drink, reached for another.
‘Rant over?’ asked Harry.
‘Sorry, but I know that riding high doesn’t always last. The screaming girls who love you today have moved on by tomorrow. When groups are on the up, they mistakenly think that it’s a one-way street. It’s not. I’ve been at this gig long enough to recognise the key points, when to cash in and take the money and when to soldier on. I’ve had other groups with this same attitude as the Kill Kestrels and they’ve lived to regret it, namely the Grimsdales and Stations of the Cross. They valued their integrity over making a buck.’
‘How’d that go for them?’
‘They got new management then parted company with their labels. Fast-forward a year and they’re still not signed, so they sacked the new guys. The last I heard, they were playing pubs for beer money.’ Dougie let out a shrill bark of a laugh. ‘But at least they still have their fucking integrity.’
Harry steered the conversation back to business. ‘Is the room OK?’
‘The room looks great. Cheers for doing it. I love the photographs and the soundtrack is perfect.’
‘I got my girlfriend, Adrianna, to do it. She’s a big Kill Kestrels fan.’
‘You got the complimentary tickets for the gig?’
‘Yes.’ He made for the door.
‘One last thing, mate,’ said Dougie, ‘I thought we’d ordered food?’
‘You did, a buffet to be served when your guests arrive.’ Harry checked his watch. ‘But they’re not due for another half-hour.’
‘I thought that there might be a sandwich or something laid out a bit earlier?’ said Dougie. ‘Only I’m peckish, haven’t eaten yet. And this—’ he raised his glass ‘—is going straight to an empty stomach.’
‘You want the usual?’
‘I’d appreciate anything.’ Dougie sipped his Buck’s Fizz.
Harry returned a few minutes later carrying a platter with a selection of mini pies – macaroni, cheese and onion and traditional mince. ‘I’ve included a bowl of complimentary fries. You think this will see you through until your guests arrive?’
Dougie reached for a mince pie. ‘Breakfast’s the most important meal of the day. Cheers, Harry.’
He’d just finished the last pie when his mobile rang – the girls were waiting at reception.
He met them in the foyer. ‘I’m Dougie Scott, the Kill Kestrels’ manager.’
‘I’m just dropping these two off, I’m Ellie’s mum. This is Ellie and her friend, Isla. They’ve suddenly come over all shy.’
Dougie waved her away. ‘Come away in, girls. No need to be shy. Skye and the rest of the boys are upstairs.’
For the next half an hour he made sure the band made a fuss of the two girls and that the drinks kept coming. The band dutifully posed for pictures and answered questions. When asked about their lyrics, both Skye and Josh had been creative with the truth. Dougie had alrea
dy warned them, ‘Wee lassies need to think it’s all about love and heartbreak.’
Dougie watched the girls blush, saw Skye drape a casual arm around Ellie. Saw her blush deepen. Saw Isla capture it all on her mobile. Then they swapped places.
Then it was Skye taking Ellie off to the side while Isla was busy chatting to Josh. Dougie watched Skye expertly manoeuvre the tipsy girl through the door and into the corridor. Heard a text come through – Di Stefano was at reception.
Dougie went into the corridor. Empty. Two signs: turn right for the conference room, left for private dining. Dougie took a sharp left, shoved open the door. The noise stopped Skye from going any further. Again, thought Dougie. Fucking again. Keep it in your fucking pants. ‘Time out, you guys. Skye, the photographer’s here.’
Ten minutes later, the girls had been dispatched home in a taxi and Di Stefano had suggested an outdoor shot.
‘The roof garden?’ Skye’s words were beginning to slur.
Dougie led the way. ‘Maybe some fresh air will do us all good.’ He knew that through Di Stefano’s filter the sunny day would be transformed into a series of shadows and the creases on the faces of the four band members would be emphasised. He heard Skye talking to the photographer.
‘Why portraits?’ Skye asked, as they made their way up the stairs.
‘I started out doing landscapes as a hobby, then I did a degree in psychology and got into portrait photography. A photograph of a landscape represents the real world, but for me portraiture is more complex. Sure, a good representation of a landscape is interesting and I knew how to grab the viewer’s attention, but to be really successful, I want to shoot people, to be able to show something of the true identity of the soul of the person.’