Torn

by Anne Randall

  ‘You around? Jamie xx’

  Jamie Downie, Helen’s ex or present, depending on your point of view. She texted him.

  Helen thinks you’re still together.

  She’s living in fantasy land. You up for a nightcap?

  Wheeler wasn’t looking for a relationship, but maybe she should let him come up? Decided against it.

  It’s a school night. In the middle of a case.

  Maybe after it’s over?

  No reply.

  Then fuck you, Jamie, thought Wheeler as she went to bed.

  * * *

  The man approached the deserted Italian restaurant, stood outside and enjoyed the scent from the flowering jasmine. He was doing nothing more than taking a late-night stroll through the Merchant City. He glanced up, saw the light in Wheeler’s flat extinguished. He would take his time; it was a beautiful night and there was no rush. He wondered if the inspector was thinking about the case. Would it haunt her nightmares? His work, was she in awe of it? Intimidated? They would see. In time he would know if she was a capable adversary.

  The Campsie Fells, volcanic hills located to the north of the city. Owen parked up. Glasgow was spread out beneath him, the lights from the city glittered in the darkness. He looked up at the sky and saw a pale, cold moon shine over the city and it seemed that the darkness clawed at his heart. A galaxy of a billion stars glittered their farewell. Mason had called, told him that the hit was scheduled for Friday evening. Bunyan had a regular delivery in the West End. Owen sipped tepid water from the bottle, stared at the birthday card, wondered if there was a galaxy of stars in the forest, just out of sight of the horses. Stars that might light his way through eternity? He hoped so. If the forest was to be his final home and he knew that it was, then a galaxy above him would be a comfort. He nestled into the seat, closed his eyes. Felt the familiar pain in his hand begin again, yet somehow it was a comfort too. Owen fell into a deep sleep. In his dream, the carousel of horses began to move, the music played and he was seven years old again. The horses surrounded him and he knew that he was loved and that he would be protected. He smiled in his sleep. For the first time in his life, he was content.

  Chapter Thirty

  Thursday 10 July

  The Post-mortem

  The sun was bright and the drive across the city had been smooth. Despite this, Wheeler felt ill. Her headache from the previous night had, if anything, got worse. Again, she’d started the day with coffee and painkillers. They still hadn’t kicked in.

  Ross pulled into the car park, killed the engine. ‘I told you we’d be too early.’

  ‘Stop whining.’

  ‘Do we know who’s doing the Double D?’

  A double doctor post-mortem was one of a number of post-mortems which could be ordered by the procurator fiscal, so-called as it enabled two pathologists to corroborate evidence.

  ‘Callum Fraser, and I think the second will be Karen Simmons.’ Wheeler stepped out of the car, flipped on her sunglasses, began walking towards the mortuary.

  Ross caught up with her. ‘Karen’s a bit much with the saw, isn’t she? Talk about going at it with gusto.’

  ‘She’s certainly very thorough.’

  ‘I can’t imagine doing that every day for a living.’

  ‘Since it takes stamina, perseverance and a brilliant scientific mind, I can’t imagine you doing it either.’

  ‘Any idea who’s coming from the procurator fiscal’s office?

  Wheeler knew that in addition to the two pathologists, there would be various other personnel in attendance. ‘No idea. Why all the interest in who’s going to be inside?’

  ‘I just hope it’s not Sharon Begg.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Oh, but I do.’

  ‘She private messaged me on Facebook last Friday night. Late on.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She sounded upbeat, she was really flirtatious.’

  ‘Drinking?’

  ‘I mean, she was really chatty. The gist of it is that she reckons I’m quite good-looking.’

  Wheeler looked at him, took in the dark hair, the pale blue eyes, long lashes. He was six foot three of gym-honed muscle. ‘Poor woman, she must have been drunk? Surely? Severely impaired thought process. Delusional, by the sound of it.’ She tutted sadly. ‘She’s more to be pitied than mocked.’

  ‘She asked me out on a date.’

  ‘You’re kidding! Is she not out of your league?’

  ‘Suggested we meet up for a drink.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I dodged it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It would’ve been embarrassing since we work together but now it’s been left hanging, so I think it’s better if I don’t bump into her. Let it quietly die off.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry. Even with you being so irresistible, there’s not much opportunity to get romantic at a PM.’

  ‘But she might hang around afterwards and suggest a time and place.’

  ‘Are you that worried?’ said Wheeler. ‘Just go for a quick drink with her.’

  ‘And then try to extract myself from an awkward situation?’

  ‘You’re overthinking this.’ But Wheeler knew what he meant; she’d worked with Sharon and knew her to be both tenacious and dogged, which were admiral qualities for her work in the procurator fiscal’s office, but maybe not so much in the romance department. ‘By way of reassurance, you know she has a black belt in karate?’

  ‘Lucky me.’

  ‘Sharon’s a strong, disciplined and determined woman. Once she’s decided on something, it’s only a matter of time, like a hunter with its prey, and, right now, Ross, it looks like you’re the prey.’ Wheeler patted his arm. ‘I’m sure if it comes to it, she’ll be gentle with you.’ She strode on in the sunshine, sunglasses reflecting the strong rays.

  Five minutes later, they were in the welcome cool of the mortuary. As usual, Wheeler was impressed with the quiet efficiency of the place. All staff observed a strict protocol, dealt with the bodies in a scientific manner, yet never lost sight of the fact that they were dealing with human remains. Each corpse, whether killer or victim, was shown the respect it deserved. She saw that the attendee from the procurator fiscal’s office was Michelle Barratt, Helen Downie’s sister, so no Sharon to complicate things for Ross. She glanced at Ross, met his gaze, saw the smirk. She gave a small shake of her head, mouthed Pathetic. Ignored the filthy look Michelle gave her. No doubt her sister Helen had given her side of the story. Just as long as she didn’t start with the whore, bitch, slut, slur.

  They waited as Callum Fraser busied himself with the final preparations. From experience, Wheeler knew that the pathologist would begin with an external examination of Karlie Merrick’s body and later an internal one. Wheeler thought of Beth Swinton and how she had railed against the notion of a second PM being performed on her cousin’s body.

  Callum switched on the recorder and began. He gave the date, time and a full list of those present in the room. He named the victim and gave a detailed description of the clothes Karlie was wearing.

  Wheeler stared at the corpse. Karlie looked very much younger than her years, her dark hair shone and her skin was blemish free. But it was the rich red of the varnish on her finger and toe nails which appeared to be most incongruous in the sterile setting. She looked small and delicate, the dark bruises around her throat in sharp contrast to her pale skin. The other attendees were silent as Callum and his team worked around the body, accurately measuring and recording every detail.

  When the photographer stepped forward and took shots, Wheeler once again thought of the waste of life and wondered about the link between Karlie’s murder and her father’s. Wondered about Josh Alden. She’d found out that he had been brought up in care. He had a sister, Amber, who’d been killed in a house fire. He’d had a bit of trouble as a kid, fighting mostly. Nothing much. Then he’d formed the band.

  As the PM progr
essed, Callum provided more details. ‘And there is extensive bruising around the throat. Strangulation had occurred . . .’

  Wheeler saw Ross avert his gaze, saw him study the tiled floor, heard him quietly clear his throat. She whispered across to him, ‘You need to back off for a sec?’

  He responded likewise. ‘It’s just a bit warm in here.’

  ‘It is a very warm day, Inspector Ross,’ said Callum. ‘Why don’t you step to the side for a few minutes and join us later when you’ve taken some air?’

  Wheeler was concerned. She knew that Ross absolutely loathed this part of the job. None of the team actually welcomed it, but it was part of the deal. Wheeler wasn’t immune to the tragedy of death but she was never going to let viewing a corpse interfere with her ability to analyse the case. Dissecting a body provided valuable information, which, in turn, often helped secure a conviction. It was a crucial part of the process. Ross was a good detective, but was he beginning to let his squeamishness interfere with his work? His face was grey and, despite the cool of the mortuary, beads of perspiration had formed across his top lip and his forehead. He had to rein it in, he had to get a grip. She wondered if this was the reason he wasn’t going for promotion. Was he considering leaving the job? And should he be?

  Eventually, when it was over and they were about to leave, Callum smiled at Ross. ‘I’m pleased to see that your colour has returned.’

  The pathologist was being kind – Ross was still grey.

  Outside, Wheeler took the keys. ‘I’ll drive.’ A few minutes later, she pulled out of the car park. ‘Karlie Merrick was strangled but not with the killer’s bare hands. And she’d had anal and vaginal sex. Both consensual.’

  ‘I missed that bit, I kept zoning in and out. I was feeling a bit rough, think I’m coming down with something.’

  ‘There was no internal bruising or damage, which there would have been if she’d resisted.’

  ‘Then the sex ties in with her job?’

  ‘Looks like it.’ She glanced at him. ‘You’re weren’t looking too good back there.’

  ‘Think it might be flu.’

  ‘Seriously, Ross, you need some time out?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  She drove on. Eventually, she said, ‘You need to sort this out.’

  ‘Sort what out?’

  ‘This whole sensitivity shit. Post-mortems are part of our job and if you are struggling . . . ?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You think you’re in the wrong job?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I hope not, because, let’s face it, what the hell else could you do?’

  ‘That my motivational pep talk over?’

  ‘For now.’ Wheeler switched on the radio. The Kill Kestrels’ ‘Death of an Angel’ was just finishing. She heard the DJ enthuse, ‘The group’s return to Glasgow has been triumphant. These four guys are on fire right now. Give us a call here at the station if you’re one of the lucky fans who’ll be going to their sold-out gig at the O2 Academy on Saturday night.’ It cut to the news. ‘Disgraced MP Nathan Whatley, who recently announced his resignation, has been declared bankrupt. Earlier, Hugo Ponsensby-Edward who had led calls for Whatley to step down had this to say . . .’ She switched stations. ‘The mother of one of the murdered gang members has called for an end to the violence and was in tears as she implored other gang members to . . .’

  Wheeler switched off the radio. Glasgow. City of dreams.

  Twenty-five minutes later, she was at her desk struggling to decipher a note that had been left for her. Unfortunately, it was in Boyd’s handwriting. She scrutinised the bizarre hieroglyphics for a few minutes before she gave up and called across the room, ‘Boyd, did you even go to school? I can’t read your scrawl. Just tell me, who rang in?’

  ‘A guy name of George Bellerose, about half an hour ago. He’s been in London. Had no idea Karlie Merrick was dead until he saw one of the appeals.’

  ‘Who’s Bellerose?’ asked Wheeler.

  ‘A therapist. Life coach, I think he said. Either way, Karlie Merrick was seeing him for help with her career. “Goal setting” is the phrase he used.’

  ‘So our victim had a therapist,’ said Ross. ‘Why am I surprised?’

  ‘He offered to come in for a chat,’ Boyd continued. ‘He’s on his way over from Hillhead. I can see him if you like?’

  ‘You’re OK.’ Wheeler turned back to her computer. Another person in Karlie Merrick’s life was coming into the frame. Another little bit of the jigsaw. But before George Bellerose’s arrival, she had a call to make. She dialled the number. It was answered on the second ring.

  ‘Mr Eddie Furlan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘DI Wheeler from Carmyle Police Station. I’m sorry to bother you, but I wondered if you remember Karlie Merrick?’

  ‘Indeed I do. I was horrified to read that her body had been found. Out by Sandyhills, wasn’t it? I worked on her father’s case many years ago.’

  ‘And now I’m working on Karlie’s, it’s painful what happens to some families. I wonder, if it’s not too intrusive and you have a few minutes, if I could have a quick chat with you about the John Merrick case?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not a great time. I lost my wife recently and I’m waiting for a charity to come by and collect her clothes.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Thank you, grief is a very difficult emotion to bear.’

  A pause.

  ‘Is there a more convenient time?’

  She heard the sigh.

  ‘If you insist. Why don’t you come over this evening and I’ll have more time to talk to you? It’ll also give me a chance to try to remember the details. It was a long time ago.’

  Wheeler grabbed a pen, scribbled down an address in the Newlands area of the city.

  ‘Make it around seven-thirty.’ His voice weary.

  ‘I appreciate it,’ said Wheeler. The line went dead.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The Hypnotherapist

  The large wooden sign read ‘Anne Marie Reeves, Registered Clinical Hypnotherapist. MBSCH, DHyp’. Underneath, a mobile phone number. Josh walked around the side of the house and up stone steps, then made his way through neat flower beds and took his place in the waiting room. Another door led directly from the consulting room itself, which meant clients arrived and left without encountering others; the hypnotherapist was big on confidentiality. Josh thought of the foster carer, Susan Moody, and felt the anger rise in him. He picked up a magazine, flicked through it, saw an interview with Skye. As usual, he looked like he was either just recovering from, or on his way to, a party. The dark kohl around his eyes was smudged and the photographer had captured his air of distraction. It was as if Skye was never fully present, there was always part of him somewhere else. Skye was entitled to live his own life, but for a band who travelled and played together, they lived completely separate lives. They were at their best when they were on stage working; left alone for too long and the cracks began to show in their relationships. The other three were not guys Josh would choose to hang out with. They were merely work colleagues, despite what Dougie fed to the press. But colleagues who were losing focus. He knew Dougie was anxious about it, knew that he was worried that, somehow, they’d blow it. Josh closed the magazine, picked up a dog-eared hypnotherapy journal, flicked aimlessly through it. Thought briefly about the visit from the two detectives, Wheeler and Ross, who had asked about Karlie Merrick. Finally, the door opened and he was ushered in.

  The therapy room was cool, the air full with the smell of lavender. Comfortable chairs had plump cushions. Everything in the room had been chosen to create a sense of relaxation. Josh settled himself on one chair, and the therapist sat facing him. Her voice was soft. ‘Take a moment to arrive, to really come into the room and be present . . .’ She paused. ‘Do you want to tell me a little about how you’ve been since your last appointment?’

  ‘I’m making progress. Things hav
e been busy with the band, we’ve got a big gig at the O2 on Saturday night.’

  ‘I read it’s sold out. Congratulations.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said in our last session, about me suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and maybe that being the reason I can’t remember what happened that night. Makes sense. PTSD seems to fit.’

  ‘It’s certainly worth considering. As a rough guide, when we experience a traumatic event—’

  ‘Like Amber’s death in the fire?’

  ‘Yes, the death of a loved one in traumatic or distressing circumstances may trigger a substance called glucocorticoid, which helps our brains to cope with the trauma, while the central part of our memory system, the hippocampus, stores the event in our long-term memory.’

  ‘And this all kicked in the night she died?’

  ‘In short, it’s a coping mechanism. Too much trauma may overwhelm us, so the brain has a way of shutting it out or storing it elsewhere.’

  ‘So, I can’t recall the details of that night because it was too much for me to deal with?’

  ‘Josh, you were ten,’ the therapist said gently. ‘It would have been a terrible shock for you. And you had already experienced the loss of your father when he walked out, then subsequent violent boyfriends of your mother’s and, finally, her horrific death. You suffered a large amount of loss from a very young age. Even before the night of the fire.’

  ‘I can hardly recall anything at all about my childhood, very few details of when we lived with Mum or anything much about our house. No favourite games or anything about what we did as children. At least I couldn’t prior to coming here.’

  ‘It’s safe here, your subconscious knows that you are not alone, that there is someone helping you to remember, so the images and memories become more accessible and available.’