by Anne Randall
Ross listened to the platitudes, knew how these conversations usually ended. Heard the usual refrain: ‘You’re welcome here, anytime. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘We’re all busy, but you’re missing out. We have the Galway Races coming up. Are you a betting man?’
Ross thought of the bet he’d lost to Wheeler, which had cost him breakfast – that was the extent of his gambling habit. It seemed a lifetime away.
‘And the fishing season’s going great guns. Why don’t you come over for it?’
Ross knew that Frank Brogan was, yet again, attempting to forge some kind of a bond between them. He wondered what it was his mother had fallen for; what was it that Frank Brogan possessed that his father hadn’t?
Then she was back on the line. ‘Steven, dear.’
She had never called him ‘dear’ and now it felt manipulative, as if they were playing happy families. ‘If you let me know the date of the funeral, we’ll send flowers.’
Did she even know the man? ‘Dad wouldn’t want flowers.’
‘Then a donation to his favourite charity or whatever it is he wanted. Is it to be a burial or cremation?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, kept on talking. ‘I heard Frank inviting you over. Now I really think that you should come; we are family and this is a time for us all to be together.’
‘Together,’ agreed Ross. ‘Just not at the funeral?’
Silence.
‘I wouldn’t want to distract you from business. I’ll let you know when I’ve got a date.’ He ended the call. He would have to start making arrangements but he’d never had that conversation with his dad. When would have been a good time to ask, ‘So, Dad, about your funeral? What would you like? To be buried or cremated? What do you fancy? What feels best?’ The dog rubbed her nose against his leg and he leaned down and stroked her. He would deal with the practical issues, but not just yet. He saw a text come through. His mother. He ignored it. Went to a drawer and pulled out a roll of plastic bin bags. He would make a start with the clothes. Knew that something had ended without a goodbye. Without a fucking goodbye.
His father had kept one of the bedrooms for him. On a shelf, a photograph of Ross as a child, kitted out in his Raith Rovers strip. He was holding his father’s hand and smiling into the camera. The other shelves held his old vinyl and CD collections. Most of the albums he’d converted to MP3s, but he had recently started buying vinyl again. He flicked through them. Belle and Sebastian. Teenage Fanclub. The Bathers. He selected Kelvingrove Baby. Heard the opening bars of ‘Thrive’. He wandered over to the bookcase. His collection of books. Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse 5, Cat’s Cradle. Alasdair Gray’s Lanark. Iain Banks’ The Wasp Factory. On the top shelf a catalogue for the Steven Campbell exhibition he and his father had attended. Ross flicked through it. When he’d been a teenager, his father had a habit of taking him into Glasgow’s city centre for the day. One time, they’d had lunch at the Third Eye Centre and later had wandered in to see the Campbell exhibition. His father had been a huge fan. His mother was supposed to have been with them but after yet another explosive argument had decided to stay home. Ross wondered if Frank Brogan had already been on the scene. In the gallery, Ross had been transported to a surreal world of ink drawings and massive paintings. He remembered his father and himself sitting on the hard wooden benches borrowed from the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum.
The sound of his mobile cut through the memories. Wheeler.
‘Just wanted to check that you’re OK?’
‘I’m going through his stuff. There’s probably going to be a post-mortem, even though they’re sure it was a heart attack. The weird thing is, when it’s . . .’ He drifted.
‘Personal?’ she prompted.
‘Yeah, it’s different. I hate to think of Dad going under the saw. I know it sounds like I’m complaining.’
‘But since that’s unknown . . .’
‘I’ve told Mum and made a start on the house.’
‘Anything I can do?’
‘Update me. How’s the case going?’
‘Obviously very slowly without your genius.’
‘Boyd, Robertson and the team bumbling along?’
‘They do their best. Karlie was seeing a life coach, George Bellerose. He came into the station today. I’m not sure about him, Ross. I don’t like him.’
‘How did he present?’
‘He wanted to appear as the caring professional, but he fell for her, and later, when he was talking, the façade slipped. He did mention that she’d worked in a club where she had to sign a confidentiality contract, meaning they are gagging people who work for them. That in itself is suspicious.’
‘A lot of clubs and even local councils have contracts, Wheeler. It’s standard. You reckon it’s an S&M club?’
‘Could be. He also mentioned soap.’
‘Soap?’
‘Think it might be some kind of fetish. For now, we’re concentrating on clubs in and around the Glasgow area. So far, no one is admitting to having known her.’
‘Next step?’
‘I’m on my way over to see Eddie Furlan, the SIO in the John Merrick murder, to try to get a bit of background from a cop’s point of view.’
‘I wish I was back there.’
‘You need to be getting on.’
‘I’m sitting here listening to my old albums and looking through an old exhibition catalogue. Steven Campbell at the Third Eye.’
‘“On Form and Fiction”.’ More of a statement.
‘You saw it?’
‘Our Art teacher, Mrs Dowling, was very into Campbell, Howson, Currie and Wisniewski. The whole New Glasgow Boys thing. She took us to exhibitions once a month. She bloody insisted that we needed to get out of the classroom and see art in a gallery setting. I think she was stir-crazy at school. We spent hours at the Kelvingrove too.’
‘I’ll wrap things up here ASAP.’
‘There’s really no need.’
‘I need to, for my own sanity.’ He ended the call. Walked through to the kitchen. He’d have another coffee and then head back to Glasgow. Staying in this house felt like sitting with his ghost. His dad was gone. Ross thought of Karlie Merrick, decided that the dead in Glasgow needed him more.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Bulldog
Wheeler drove, listened to the radio. Hugo Ponsensby-Edward was still banging on about his moral victory.
‘. . . and what I’m saying is this, that firm family values are the bedrock of our society and I firmly believe that I have the strict moral code with which to serve . . . I called on the disgraced Nathan Whatley to resign and, finally, reluctantly, he did . . . It was the only moral thing to do in the circumstances . . . We all have to make difficult choices and decisions. I know this myself from experience . . . but I have the moral backbone necessary to . . .’
She knew that there had been a scandal. Nathan Whatley MP had been found with a rent boy. He had now resigned as an MP and also as consultant to two large companies. And the icing on the cake was that he was now bankrupt. Wheeler thought of the politicians she’d heard on the BBC and at Westminster – Hugo Ponsensby-Edward sounded just like all the rest of them. She switched it off.
Eddie Furlan lived in a detached house in Fernleigh Road in Newlands. She knew the houses went for close to four hundred thousand pounds, wondered briefly how he could afford to live there. She rang the bell. Waited. The man who opened the door looked a good decade younger than his years. He was tall and broad with a bushy moustache and a distinctive boxer’s nose. But it was his eyes that held her attention. They were the colour of jade. The Paul Furlan she’d known in the army had the same nose and the same unusual eye colour; he was the absolute spit of the man in front of her. She hoped to God Paul wasn’t waiting inside, as she fixed a smile on her face and extended her hand. ‘Mr Furlan?’
He shook her hand. ‘It’s Eddie, come in.’
She followed him throug
h the hallway and into a large sitting room. Everything was neat, ordered. ‘Tea or coffee, DI Wheeler?’ He was halfway to the kitchen. ‘I’ve boiled the kettle.’
‘Kat. And a coffee would be great, thanks.’ Wheeler perched on the sofa. The room was immaculate to the point of obsession. Two side tables were aligned exactly. On one, the remotes for the television were at perfect angles. On the other, two glass ashtrays. In the bookcase, the books had been arranged by size, except for the bottom shelf where they’d been arranged by colour. Wheeler liked order, but there was something obsessive about Eddie Furlan’s place.
He returned carrying a tray, gestured to the ashtrays. ‘Would you mind clearing a space?’
Wheeler moved them.
He put a plate of biscuits before her. ‘Dreadful news about young Karlie Merrick. Do you have any leads?’
‘Nothing yet.’
‘And her body was found up by that pub, what’s it called?’
‘The Coach House.’
‘That’s the one; it has a bit of a reputation. You think someone from the pub was involved?’
‘Too early to say.’ Wheeler sipped her coffee.
He reached for a biscuit. ‘So you want a bit of background about the John Merrick case?’
‘Yes, anything you can recall may be of help.’
‘Karlie Merrick must have only been about eight or nine when her father was killed. I remember thinking what terrible bad luck the wee girl had. First the mother passed away – some type of superbug, I think?’
‘MRSA. We spoke with Beth Swinton, Karlie’s cousin, yesterday. She filled us in about the Merrick family.’
‘John Merrick was murdered in his own home. Karlie wasn’t there at the time, thank goodness, or God knows what might have happened. And, of course, it wasn’t good what we found at the crime scene.’
Wheeler waited.
‘Very explicit porn. Violent images of underage girls. Shocking stuff.’
‘Did you trace the source?’
‘No, we never found out where they came from. Revolting images, given that his eight-year-old daughter was in the house and could have discovered them.’ He paused. ‘And maybe did. She was interviewed by a psychologist and a whole team of folk, but she gave nothing away. Her father wasn’t a good man but she was loyal to him.’
‘Abuse?’
‘Not that we could prove. The family lived in the Temple area and we did a massive amount of house-to-house, spoke to everyone in the community. No one had any suspicions but then that’s often the case. Me and a couple of the boys really dug in hard, but nothing came of it.’
‘You and the boys?’
‘The whole team was involved but I’d say it was myself, Gerry Dolin and Willie Lester who did the majority of it. Gerry died a year later. Tragic. But Lester, the Old Coyote, kept at it. We were thorough.’
The Old Coyote and the Bulldog, thought Wheeler; they certainly liked their nicknames. She wondered if there was too much reassurance from Eddie. What if Beth Swinton was right, that enthusiasm for the case had cooled? ‘Where’s Willie Lester now?’
‘We lost contact. I think he went off to the country someplace, probably to fish, knowing him.’
‘And when you were doing house-to-house, what did you find out about the family?’
‘That John Merrick had been a very secretive man who didn’t socialise much. Outside of the family a bit of a loner. After the death of John’s wife, from what some of the neighbours told me, Karlie became a bit of a handful. But then, after what we found, who knows what was going on in that family.’ He reached for another biscuit. ‘You got kids?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve two sons. The eldest is abroad. He’s doing great, he’s a credit to me. My late wife adored him too. But kids can be bloody difficult. The youngest, Paul, was a bit of a nightmare, used to swear at his mother. Jean as good as washed her hands of him and let me tell you she was a damn patient woman. He’d real anger management issues, that one, till the military sorted him out. Still, he never made as much of himself as he could’ve. Certainly he’s not done as well as his brother, James.’
She wasn’t going to go there. ‘Did you have any suspects in the case?’
‘It was gang related, I’m sure of it. There were a lot of drugs doing the rounds in those days. A load of heroin arrived and flooded the city. There were a couple of young guys who ran in the local gangs. Nothing changes. I see gangs are still killing. Anyway these two, they thought they were right hard men.’ He paused. ‘I can’t remember their names now. Wait. Give me a sec. One of them was Keith Sullivan, can’t recall the other one. I was sure it was one of them or both but there was no evidence to link them to it. My gut instinct said they were the culprits and I know as a cop how accurate gut can be. About a week before the murder, John Merrick’s house and a couple of others had graffiti sprayed on the side. It was a gang logo. It was like they were identifying specific targets. A week later, Merrick was dead. Of course we hauled both boys in for questioning. Keith Sullivan was off his face and the other one was a gobby git as usual, giving it the old verbals.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Eventually, we had to let them go, we’d nothing on them. Nothing at all.’ Eddie sat back and sipped his coffee. After a while, he continued. ‘They were both around sixteen at the time and I was of the opinion that it was only a matter of time before the good folk at Barlinnie Prison made their personal acquaintance. They were horrible boys, sleekit, feral gang members. Nasty, nasty stuff. No idea if they’re still around.’ He put his empty cup on the table. ‘Wait, I’ve got it. I remember the gobby one’s name, it was Cal Moody.’
Wheeler sat forward. ‘There’s a Cal Moody works at the pub in Sandyhills, the Coach House.’
‘Well, if it’s the same guy, I’d get on to him.’
‘I’ll get to him, Keith Sullivan too. What would’ve been their motive?’
‘Theft, intended burglary. Both Moody and Sullivan were addicts. A lot of teenagers back then were out of their faces on heroin, sedatives, glue. Maybe they thought that, being a therapist, John Merrick would have access to medication. Who knows what went through their drug-addled minds?’
‘And Karlie, did she have any ideas about who killed her father?’
‘No, as I said she was just a kid at the time.’
‘Were any of John Merrick’s clients implicated?’
‘None. All fine. We contacted all of them and there was nothing suspicious. Mostly folk wanting to lose weight or get over their fear of spiders, flying, heights. The usual list of complaints. We waded through all of them. There were quite a few cancelled appointments, quite usual for a therapist. Lines scored through names, but we tracked them all down in the end, everyone was accounted for. There was a list of clients and we worked through them all.’
‘But after all of this, you came up with nothing?’
‘I just said that, didn’t I?’ Furlan sat forward. His tone had changed. ‘We did a thorough investigation, Inspector. Believe you me, we covered everything.’
Wheeler recognised the flash of anger, the narrowing of the jade eyes. She’d seen it before. It looked like Paul Furlan had inherited his anger issues from his father. ‘I’m sure you did, Eddie, I’m not for a minute suggesting that—’
‘I don’t like your tone.’
‘Eddie, honestly, I’m just—’
‘I did everything I could. You saying maybe I missed something?’
‘Absolutely not. All I mean is that it’s frustrating when they get away. I wasn’t implying anything.’
‘Of course you weren’t.’ The bitterness of tone.
‘I’m just saying that—’
‘I’m just bloody frustrated. We all feel like this when we can’t finish the job, when some bastard walks away from a murder scot-free.’
Wheeler changed the subject. ‘The cousin told us that Karlie went to stay with her.’
‘I remember she was taken in by a relative.
She was a singer or an artist or something.’
‘A painter,’ said Wheeler. ‘Did Karlie ever contact you after the investigation?’
‘No, I never saw her again.’
‘Karlie wanted to take part in a re-enactment of the night her dad was murdered, to have it broadcast on the television.’
‘Did she now? I suppose re-enactments can be helpful, but it’s twenty years ago now. If anyone was going to come forward, I reckon they would’ve done so. The case was well documented, it was in all the papers and it got a fair bit of television coverage. We did a massive house-to-house and numerous appeals to the public. But nothing. Lots of folk telling us how much they wanted to help but had nothing concrete to give us. Still, the DNA database is always expanding, so who knows?’
‘Beth told me she had a couple of falling-outs with Karlie over the years.’
‘I’m not surprised; it happens with kids. I’ve had a couple of real kick-offs with my sons when they were teenagers, especially the youngest.’
‘Beth felt that Karlie had become obsessed with her father’s death.’
‘Understandable since she didn’t have any real closure, but sometimes you just have to try to move on. Life goes on. I struggled when my wife died, but you have to find a way to look forward.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s only been a month, it’s still very raw.’
‘Did Karlie ever mention a boy a few years above her at school, Josh Alden?’
‘Not that I remember.’
Wheeler finished her coffee. ‘I should go now, Eddie. Thanks for taking time to see to me.’
‘Believe me, we all wanted to get whoever did John Merrick, but there was just no evidence.’
In the hallway he held the door open for her. ‘Do you think the two murders are linked? Maybe it’s worth you hauling Moody and Sullivan back in?’
‘Certainly it’s worth talking to them.’
‘The cold case guys will have all the original files from the case, including a full client list.’
‘I’ve already requested copies of everything, and they sent them over.’