Torn

by Anne Randall

  ‘Wheeler reckoned I was hassling the wee scrote. She got into the whole “this is bullying” shit.’

  ‘Watch your language.’

  ‘She was never off my back about it. Felt that I couldn’t open my mouth if Wheeler was in the vicinity. She tried to poison a few of the lads against me, but they weren’t having it, told her where to go.’

  ‘Sounds like it was personal.’

  ‘That’s what Wheeler does; she makes it about the person, not the situation. If the bitch takes a dislike to you, it colours her judgement completely. I mean, we were part of the same squad and she turned on me.’

  ‘And this Jenkins lad?’

  ‘He got killed.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘And rather than be relieved the rest of us got out alive, Wheeler started muttering that Jenkins had been depressed because I was bullying him, that he wasn’t on the ball because of me. That, basically, my relationship with him had made him so unnerved that he couldn’t function properly. She accused me of tormenting Jenkins to the point that he didn’t know what he was doing – “psychological turmoil” was the phrase she used. In her crazy mind, I’d bullied the guy into a nervous breakdown and he couldn’t do his job. He made a mistake and got himself killed; it was nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Did Wheeler take it further?’

  ‘She definitely wanted to but she couldn’t prove it. Where was the evidence? She had no one to back her up. But you know what divisive tactics can do to a team, and Wheeler was a fucking stirrer. She made it really tough for me and things were tough enough in the army.’

  Eddie put down his knife and fork. ‘Christ, it was your bloody job! What in hell is wrong with you? You were always one for complaining, right from when you were a kid. Your brother just got on with things but you were always the oddity. And your language, even in front of your mother. You mind the times I had to wash your mouth out with soap?’

  ‘I’m just saying, Dad, I didn’t need an enemy from within.’ Paul’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘It’s like she was always sniping at me. But, listen, I don’t want to put you in the middle of this, I know she’s a cop and you’re loyal to your own.’

  ‘I’m a professional, but maybe you need to try, just for once in your life, to man up?’ Eddie Furlan chewed thoughtfully. ‘And perhaps DI Wheeler still has issues with you?’

  ‘Apart from Colin Jenkins, everyone else got back alive. Wheeler probably still blames me for his death.’

  ‘You’re paranoid. Always were. Your mother was right about you. Not right in the head was what she said, although she meant it in a good way. She was concerned about you, how you’d cope with life. She understood that you weren’t wired properly.’

  ‘Wheeler’s a loose cannon. It wasn’t my fault.’

  Eddie took a long drink of his wine. ‘Christ, I just told you, man up and deal with it.’

  Paul spoke quietly. ‘Yes, Dad.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The Golden Unicorn

  Wheeler strode down the corridor, past the row of black and white photographs of the Kill Kestrels. Wondered again if Josh Alden had known that Karlie Merrick had been trying to contact him. Did he know more than he was letting on?

  ‘Mr Franklin,’ she said, as the manager of the hotel approached them.

  ‘Back again, DI Wheeler? Should I be getting worried? Perhaps you now suspect a member of staff or myself? Or perhaps a member of the band?’

  She heard the defensive tone. Obviously a second visit from the police wasn’t what he wanted his hotel guests to see. ‘We know that Karlie Merrick frequented a place that had a unicorn and a monument, and we wondered if you could shed any light.’

  ‘Other than the name, obviously, we don’t have any monuments here.’

  ‘Have any of your staff mentioned that she’d been in?’

  ‘None. I double-checked after your last visit as I promised I would. Of course my staff were fully aware of the woman’s death. They’d heard the television and radio appeals, but no one recognised her. As I’ve already assured you, they’d have come forward if they could help in any way. I spoke again with Dougie – he’s apologetic but there’s nothing the band can offer by way of help. I’m so sorry, it looks like your visit has been a waste of time.’ He glanced at Ross. ‘Perhaps I can offer you a tea or coffee? On the house, of course.’

  She declined for both of them.

  ‘Then I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Bloody waste of time,’ muttered Ross when the manager had gone.

  ‘What about this area, Ross? The Kill Kestrels were here.’ She stared out of the window, across to the Botanic Gardens. ‘The Kibble Palace isn’t a monument, but there’s the marble statue of Eve; it was in some of the photographs Gary Ashton took. Let’s go.’ Wheeler made her way to the car park. She felt energised. Maybe this was the breakthrough they’d been waiting for? Maybe the net was now closing in on the killer?

  Five minutes later, she stood in front of the manager of the café in the Botanic Gardens and felt her energy dissipate and the net evaporate. ‘No, as I mentioned on the phone, I’ve never seen her. At least I don’t think so; she could have been here but we get so many people coming in for coffee over the summer months, it’s impossible to remember all of them.’

  ‘CCTV?’

  ‘It’s broken, I’m afraid. It’s due to be repaired soon.’

  After a few more questions, Wheeler thanked her, and made her way to the marble statue of Eve.

  ‘I’ve never really noticed it,’ said Ross.

  ‘It’s by the Italian sculpture Scipione Tadolini. It was in lots of Gary Ashton’s photographs.’

  ‘And you know the statue because of your art teacher at school, the one who took you to the Campbell exhibition?’

  ‘Mrs Dowling. Yes, she told us about this.’ Wheeler pointed to the relief on the pedestal. ‘“The first family” and “The expulsion from the Garden of Eden”.’

  ‘Karlie Merrick’s first family would have been John Merrick and his wife. But the expulsion from the Garden of Eden? Family life destroyed?’ said Ross.

  ‘It was for her.’

  ‘What was Eden? A time before sin? A time of innocence? Bellerose said Karlie didn’t have sex other than for work.’

  ‘Eve ate the apple and they had sex? Eve – responsible for the fall of Adam and their expulsion from paradise?’ said Ross. ‘Was Eve seen as a sinner or a seductress?’

  ‘Depends on your perspective,’ said Wheeler.

  ‘So, was Karlie a sinner or a seductress to her killer?’ said Ross.

  ‘The cousin said she was asexual and Bellerose confirmed it.’

  ‘You reckon she was here?’

  Wheeler sighed. ‘I don’t know. I feel like we’re just clutching at straws.’

  ‘Then let’s take some time out, grab a coffee and rethink?’

  A few minutes later, Wheeler settled herself at the table and sipped her latte. ‘Was this a meaningful place to her?’

  ‘But the club,’ said Ross, ‘where is it? We’ve contacted every private members’ club in Glasgow. No one recognised the name, but all have a policy of casual contracts, cash in hand and zero hours’ contracts and employ a number of people depending on fluctuating business needs.’

  ‘Fucking zero contract hours,’ said Wheeler. ‘And lots of cash in hand, so very hard to trace.’

  ‘No one at the Golden Unicorn or here at the Botanics has recognised her. No one has come forward. It might just mean that she wasn’t here,’ said Ross.

  ‘So we start over.’ Wheeler grabbed her phone, opened the search engine, punched in ‘unicorn’, found 98 million references in 0.51 of a second. ‘Great. Just great,’ she muttered. She refined the search. ‘Scottish unicorn’ – 408,000 references in 0.45 of a second. ‘Christ Almighty.’ She tried ‘Unicorns Glasgow’– 411,000 references in 0.43. References to the staircase at Glasgow University, historical Glasgow Cross. She typed in different permuta
tions, scoured the results, which included a history of the unicorn. Tried ‘Monument unicorn’. Scrolled through more pictures of the Lion and Unicorn staircase at Glasgow University and the Mercat Cross in Edinburgh. She took a gulp of coffee. ‘What about the unicorn at the Mercat Cross, in Edinburgh?’

  ‘It’s in Parliament Square and close to St Giles’ Cathedral. It’s in the Old Town,’ said Ross. ‘You think Karlie went through to Edinburgh? Are we looking in the wrong bloody city?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Wheeler refined the search, tried ‘Unicorn Monument’ . . . information told her that Stirling Castle had a fourteen-year tapestry project, the biggest in a hundred years . . . it would be finished next year . . . Stirling Castle had a café called The Unicorn . . . and close by was the towering Wallace Monument.

  Stirling. Unicorn. Café. Wallace. Monument. She stared at the screen. Maureen was sure that Karlie had said the view from the unicorn not of the unicorn. And the monument was historical. This had to be it.

  ‘Ross, I think I’ve got it. The club Karlie worked in isn’t in Glasgow. It’s in Stirling. You’re right, we’ve been looking in the wrong place. Stirling Castle has a café called The Unicorn. Guess what’s nearby?’

  ‘The Wallace Monument.’

  She rang the station, spoke to Boyd. ‘Get me a list of clubs in and around Stirling: bigger clubs, where there’s a shitload of money. Get as much as you can on them. Anything interesting, get back to me ASAP.’

  ‘Stewart’s looking for you. He wants you to put out an updated appeal. The press is having a field day, what with Karlie Merrick being a porn actress. He wants you to refocus public perception.’

  ‘You do it.’

  ‘The boss wants you.’

  ‘I won’t be back in time.’ She rang off, drained her coffee cup and made for the door.

  She had just fastened her seat belt when Stewart called. ‘Why aren’t you back at the station?’

  ‘We have a strong lead, boss. Karlie’s colleague, Laura McCormack, mentioned that Karlie’s drink was spiked one night, and while she was drunk she let slip about a club. Also, she mentioned something about a unicorn and a monument.’

  ‘Narrow it down for me.’

  ‘Stirling Castle has a café called The Unicorn and the Wallace Monument is close by.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘It’s all I have.’

  ‘There are dozens of cafés, unicorns and monuments, Wheeler. This is historic Scotland, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Her drink had been spiked, boss. She’d no control over what she was saying. And our victim liked cafés, it was her thing to go out to nice coffee shops. She only went to the bigger pubs on the off chance of being discovered by a scout, but coffee shops were her thing. They were what she loved.’

  ‘It’s not much, Wheeler. Tentative at best.’

  ‘We’ve been looking in the wrong city, boss. It wasn’t Glasgow, it was Stirling, and we’re almost halfway there, no point in turning back now.’

  ‘You should have headed back to the station, Wheeler.’

  ‘You’re cracking up, boss, I can’t hear you.’

  ‘I said, you should have—’

  ‘You still there, boss? Only the reception’s not that great out here in the country.’ She killed the call.

  ‘Halfway there?’ said Ross.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  They pulled out of the car park.

  Forty-five minutes later, Stirling Castle came into view. The castle sat on top of Castle Hill, had steep cliffs on three sides and had a reputation for being haunted. They went straight to the Unicorn café, stood on the rooftop patio, looked across to the Wallace Monument.

  ‘Bloody lovely,’ she said. The tower, built to commemorate William Wallace, stood over seven hundred feet high. ‘This is it, Ross. It’s a perfect fit.’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  She raced into the cool of the café and spoke to the manager, explained why they were there, heard the familiar refrain.

  ‘Oh absolutely, the poor girl could’ve been here, but we have a lot of people coming through our doors. The castle has close to a half-million visitors a year; it’s impossible to say for sure if she was one of them. I don’t recognise her from your photograph but that doesn’t go for much. I saw the appeal on telly and I’m sorry, I’ve wracked my brains but it just doesn’t ring any bells.’

  ‘What about clubs in the area? Businesses which use casual staff?’

  ‘There’s Stirling University, they have clubs. Gleneagles take on staff for catering, waitressing and suchlike. Other than that I can’t really help you. I only work here; I live in Glasgow.’

  Wheeler thanked her, called Boyd quickly with the update. ‘See what you can find out about these places.’ She hurried into the shop. Stopped.

  ‘Ross, look at these.’ The little bears were dressed as pipers. They wore tartan and were holding a set of bagpipes, a blue and white Saltire on one foot. ‘The same bears that Karlie Merrick had in her flat in Glasgow. And over here.’ She pointed to a row of plastic ducks, decked out in tartan.

  ‘The Braveheart ducks,’ said Ross. ‘This was the place she came to for coffee, saw the monument and bought the merchandise.’

  Wheeler heard the ring tone. Boyd.

  ‘Apart from the golf club at Gleneagles, there’s a place called the Ford Club, another called the McIver and one called Wright’s.’

  She heard him type.

  ‘The Ford Club has just recently reopened after refurbishment. By the looks of their website, pole dancing and burlesque nights – stag dos, I reckon. The McIver is a private gentlemen’s club. Wright’s, in Bridge of Allan, also do mainly stag and hen dos. There are a few clubs at the university.’

  ‘I’m looking for serious money. Get details of who runs the clubs.’

  ‘Give me a sec.’

  She waited.

  ‘The Ford and Wright’s both have a general enquiry number to call. The McIver’s a bit harder to find anything on. A few names on their website – Alastair Brodie, Anton Melville, Jeffrey King. But nothing much about what they offer. Looks very exclusive.’

  ‘So big money?’

  ‘Yeah, their fees aren’t advertised on the site, so I’d imagine it must be big bucks; the others have a list of their joining fees. Any of this any good? You want me to keep looking?’

  Wheeler grabbed her notebook. ‘Yep, give me all the details, but start with the McIver.’

  ‘Oh, and it’s an all-male preserve.’

  ‘Right.’ She started to jot down the details. ‘For that reason alone, they don’t get my vote.’

  A few minutes later, they were back on the road. ‘Ross, call the Ford Club and Wright’s, see if they knew our victim.’

  Ten minutes later, he updated her. ‘If they did know her, they’re not admitting it.’

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The McIver

  The beauty of the landscape was lost on her as she raced through the countryside. She ignored the fields, hedgerows and the ancient gnarled trees, until a fox shot out in front of her and she slammed on the brakes.

  ‘Christ, Wheeler, take it easy.’

  ‘It’s got to be the McIver, Ross.’

  ‘Because it’s not the other two? We haven’t explored everything yet.’

  ‘The McIver reeks of money, the way they don’t even need to advertise their fees, the complete lack of detail on their website, the close proximity to the Unicorn Café and the Wallace Monument.’

  ‘Open mind and all that, Wheeler.’

  She drove to the perimeter wall, stared at it. ‘Looks more like a fortress.’ They followed the high stone wall that surrounded the grounds.

  ‘A big old estate,’ said Ross. ‘Certainly wealthy.’

  The intricate wrought-iron gates stood over seven foot, and beyond there was a stone gatehouse. An intercom system meant that they were forced to announce their arrival. Wheeler pres
sed the button, kept her finger on it. Noticed a small glass eye, a camera – they were being filmed.

  A voice answered. ‘Yes?’

  ‘DIs Wheeler and Ross.’

  ‘I’ll need to see identification.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘I did. Now open the gates.’

  ‘I need to see your ID. There’s a camera above the intercom.’ They held their IDs in front of it. The gates opened and they drove through. A uniformed security guard met them at the gatehouse. ‘I’ve called ahead to the Club House. Drive to reception, someone will meet you there.’

  ‘This place is more secure than Barlinnie,’ said Ross. ‘And this driveway – how bloody long is it?’

  ‘It reeks of money,’ said Wheeler, ‘and power.’ She took in the beautifully manicured lawns, the peacocks which were grouped around a lily pond.

  ‘A flock of peacocks,’ said Ross.

  ‘Not a flock, a muster or an ostentation,’ said Wheeler. The noise from the engine hadn’t made them fly off; their wings had been clipped. She saw the walled garden, the wooded area off to the right. Ahead the grand building itself. ’Scottish Baronial architecture,’ she muttered. ‘Impressive building.’

  Inside, the huge reception area was an expanse of oak, brass and glass. The polished marble floor was pristine. The smell of beeswax hung in the air and mingled with the scent from the vases of roses.

  ‘And guess what?’ said Ross.

  She followed his gaze and saw Sir Brian Sutherland, chief executive of the huge Sutherland haulage business, leaving reception. Beside him was Malcolm Ray, who’d just won Entrepreneur of the Year after he’d bought and rebuilt a failing IT company. She’d recently read that he was worth £24 million. She glanced down the corridor. ‘Is that Mark Ponsensby-Edward?’

  ‘Yep. This place certainly attracts money.’

  Wheeler turned away, saw signs for the supper club, the restaurant, the snug and the sauna. Her mobile rang. She glanced at the number. ‘Boss?’

  ‘Boyd’s just updated me, you’re at the McIver Club. It has quite a reputation.’

  ‘Karlie worked here, in some capacity. I’d bet on it.’