by Anne Randall
‘But he loves it and I want him to be happy with the sex side of things. I know that anything he says, anything at all, is just to help me be a better person. It’s what he does, he’s a life coach.’
Jenny eyed her. ‘What else does this nut tell you?’
‘Forget it.’
‘He’s a nice-looking guy all right, Angie, but is he a nice guy? They’re not the same thing.’
‘He’s lovely.’
‘Give me an example.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Tell me what he does that’s so lovely.’
Angie glanced around the café, found what she was looking for. ‘Table five needs clearing. I’ll get it.’
At the next table, Maureen Anderson sipped her coffee. Open in front of her was the Chronicle and the appeal for information. Maureen ran through what she had. Was it worth sharing with the police? She sighed. Took out a card. She’d call that DI Wheeler, who’d told her to call with anything, no matter how small or insignificant it seemed. Well, thought Maureen, this piece of information was tiny. But was it important or useless? Either way, it was all she had. She punched the numbers into her phone, heard it ring. Heard the automated voice tell her to leave a message.
Chapter Fifty-One
Peace Offering
Wheeler let herself into her flat, fished her mobile out of her pocket, saw that it was out of charge. Shit. She plugged it in, waited. A few seconds later it spluttered into life. Three missed calls. Two from Ross and one from an unknown who’d left a message. Wheeler left the phone charging while she listened to Maureen Anderson hesitantly describe her visit to Fullarton Care Home where she’d spoken to someone named Steve Penwell.
Wheeler hit call-back and it was answered immediately. She took notes. Thanked Maureen for the information, agreed that it may be nothing. Certainly the fact that Steve Penwell was suffering from schizophrenia meant that what he told them might be compromised. She ended the call, rang the care home.
‘I’m afraid Mr Penwell has deteriorated, he’s in no fit state to communicate with anyone at present, he’s hallucinating badly.’
‘When will he be well enough for a visit?’
‘I’m not sure, these things take their own time. Perhaps I could call you if he improves later tonight? Or in the morning, after he’s had a good rest?’
Wheeler left her number. In the living room she put Coltrane’s Blue Train on low, pulled the pile of notes on Karlie Merrick’s case into the middle of the table.
The intercom sounded. ‘I was just passing,’ said Ross. ‘You fancy company?’
She buzzed him in. ‘Coffee?’
‘If that’s all that’s on offer.’
‘Red or white?’
‘White; need to keep a clear head.’
‘Chardonnay OK?’
‘Yep. Need to focus.’
‘Then don’t drink it like it’s water.’ She poured two glasses. Realised she hadn’t eaten for hours.
‘Brought this,’ he said. ‘Korma.’
She took the bag, peered inside. Indian food. Samosa, two curries, nan bread.
‘I’m sorry that I even mentioned the headaches to Stewart – it was just that we were chatting and you know the way he can casually elicit information and then use it against you? It’s a fucking nightmare.’
‘Forget it.’ Wheeler spooned the food into bowls. Just the smell made her salivate. ‘I’ve just spoken with Karlie’s friend, Maureen. A guy name of Steve Penwell contacted Karlie a few days before she was killed, told her about a man he’d seen running past the window on the night her father was murdered.’
‘And he didn’t come forward?’
‘He was having an affair – he was with his girlfriend and shouldn’t have been in the area at the time. Also, he wasn’t sure the guy wasn’t just running for a bus. Penwell didn’t want to risk his marriage and then find out it was nothing sinister.’
‘No name?’
‘Just a description. He was wearing an eye patch and that’s the problem.’
‘Because?’
‘Steve Penwell’s schizophrenic and fixated on pirates, sees them hiding in the curtains. He can be very confused at times,’ said Wheeler.
‘Is it even worth seeing him?’
‘It’s always worth following up a lead, Ross. But he’s not well – the nurse says tomorrow might be a better bet.’
‘Stewart thinks you went in a bit too heavy at the McIver Club.’
‘It’s bloody sinister they didn’t call it in that she worked there. And that the DCC contacted Stewart.’
‘Stewart thinks you have issues around the club being an all-male preserve.’
‘Not enough to interfere with this investigation. She worked there,’ Wheeler repeated.
‘She worked with Ashton too and he threatened her. Pierce and Bellerose both had a thing for her. Plus, she tried to contact Josh Alden. Besides, we don’t know if her death is linked to any of the places she worked or her colleagues. It could be a neighbour, a stranger, anyone. I warned you that it might look skewed, like you’re harassing the Furlans just to settle an old feud.’
‘I think the Furlans are involved in some way.’
‘Eddie’s just lost his wife and Paul his mum. They’re grieving, Wheeler.’
She heard the sadness in his voice. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to argue with him about grieving for dead parents. ‘Anyway, let’s look at these again.’ She spread the photocopied pages out over the table. ‘Notes from John Merrick’s appointments diary. His desk diary. Eddie Furlan spoke to every client; they all checked out, but in his mind he had Cal Moody and Keith Sullivan down for the murder, not a client.’
‘You think he didn’t look at the client list closely enough?’
‘Look at these lines. Names have obviously been crossed out. That was the system Merrick used when a client cancelled. A line was put through the name and the time of the appointment and a small “c” in brackets for “cancellation”.’
‘So?’
‘Look at the thickness of the lines. They’re identical. You can just about make out the initials of the clients. And they have a “c” beside each. And they tally with the client list. But look at these.’ She pointed to others. ‘These are far darker and the lines are much thicker.’
‘He used a different pen some days, a biro versus a felt tip? Relevance?’
‘The initials have been completely obliterated, plus, there’s no “c” for “cancellation” beside them. What if the diary was falsified later? There are two appointments per week for ten weeks, twenty appointments in all. What if they weren’t cancellations but appointments that were obliterated?’
‘Did you ask Eddie about this?’
‘He said he’d provided a complete list of clients, that these were only cancellations. But what if they weren’t? What if the appointments were deleted after the murder? Merrick used one way of recording a cancellation, then a completely different system altogether. Why would he do that? Why have two ways of recording cancellations? Everyone has their own particular system. Think of the way you do your paperwork. It’s always the same. Always.’
‘Tenuous, Wheeler.’
‘But possible that someone else deleted these appointments?’
‘Meaning there are other clients unaccounted for?’
‘Who haven’t come forward,’ said Wheeler.
‘But if the killer was a client, why not just take the diary?’
‘Because then it would point directly to the client list.’ Wheeler took a sip of wine, reached for some curry.
‘You’re questioning the thoroughness of Eddie Furlan’s investigation?’
‘I’m saying he bloody missed something. If he hadn’t, John Merrick’s killer would be in jail.’
‘You’d need to be very sure of yourself and of the evidence. You don’t have much to go on.’
She couldn’t contradict him.
After Ross had gone, she sat at the table and
reread the notes again. She was positive that the Furlans were somehow involved in the case. All she had to do was prove it. She knew that the tension in the room at the McIver hadn’t all been about her. She sifted through the photographs from Karlie’s flat, returned to the desk diary. John Merrick couldn’t have a large diary with him all the time. What if there was another diary, a smaller daily diary he carried with him? Would he have used a smaller one for making initial appointments, perhaps when he was on the phone or away from the office? Did he keep the space when offering clients the choice of potential appointments and only transfer them to the office diary when they had been confirmed? She would contact Karlie Merrick’s cousin Beth and ask her if there was anything at all she still had, relating to John Merrick’s hypnotherapy practice. There had to be something else, some missing part of the picture. All she had to do was find it.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The Reunion
George Bellerose was biding his time before his meet-up with Bunyan. He made for the bar. He’d recovered from the fucking police ordeal with Wheeler. With Karlie Merrick dead, he needed to move on, find another one, someone he felt the same way about. One who’d occupy his thoughts. He ordered another drink, one for the road before heading to Angie’s. After that, a meet-up with Bunyan at the Kibble Palace in the West End. Right now, he’d have a whisky, just the one. He watched the bartender serve it. Christ, the amount that trickled through from the optics in these places, it was hardly worth counting as a drink. Still, he was beginning to come down. He needed to leave work and the visit to the police station and all that shit behind him. He sipped his drink, felt the smoothness of the liquid calm him. A brunette approached the bar, ordered and waited. He tried for eye contact, no point in missing an opportunity. The brunette ignored him.
He knew Angie would be wearing the fetish gear and would be excited about their reunion. Let her fucking wait.
* * *
Later, when he parked his pale blue Suzuki motorbike outside her flat, he had the overwhelming urge to turn around and go home. Knew somehow that he wouldn’t see her again after tonight, that this was the end. It was over. He wasn’t one for premonitions but there was something dark about his mood, something unforeseen. He was about to turn back when Angie opened the door and smiled. ‘Welcome back.’ She kissed him, walked into the living room.
He made his way to the bedroom. ‘In here, Angie. Now. Move it.’
‘I thought we could just have a chat. I’m worried. That poor woman who was killed out in Sandyhills, she was called Karlie Merrick and—’
‘In here, Angie.’
‘George, I want—’
‘Kneel.’ He unbuckled his belt.
Ten minutes later, he was still trying to get started. He heard himself grunt, a low guttural sound, as he rutted her like an animal. Couldn’t get hard. Couldn’t do it. It was her fault. She wasn’t Karlie. He pulled away. ‘I’m out of here.’
Angie turned. ‘You don’t need to go, we can have dinner. I bought—’
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’m sorry, George, I thought maybe we could—’
‘Master.’
‘Sorry, Master.’
‘You’re not fucking sorry.’ He spreadeagled her, pinned her to the bed, brought his face close to hers. ‘Karlie is dead and you know what? She was a fucking million times better than you.’ He released her.
‘George.’ She reached for him.
He pushed her away. ‘You want it rough? You’ll get it rough but not from me.’ He peered down at her. ‘You little bitch, you’ve been stuffing your face, haven’t you?’
‘No, George, honestly.’
‘Greedy little sow.’ The slap left a reassuring palm-sized print on her cheek. He got himself together. Left.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The Meet-Up
George Bellerose let all thoughts of Angie go as he turned his Suzuki motorbike in the direction of the Botanic Gardens. He was meeting Bunyan behind the Kibble Palace. At the thought of the white powder, his stomach clenched and he began to salivate. He gripped the handles of the Suzuki. Christ, hold it together. He’d meet with Bunyan, ignore the clown-like grin, the disfigured hand clawing at his face. Ignore all that. Get the bags. Take them back to the privacy of his bedroom and put on Karlie’s videos. He felt his phone vibrate. Probably fucking Angie. He couldn’t be arsed. He needed to cut her loose. Get someone who was really into pain. He waited at a red light, checked his mirror. Fuck, that shitty white van was all over the place. Watched it pull in behind him. Glanced at the driver, young guy, sunken cheeks, looked wasted. Hand on the wheel bandaged with something filthy, ripped T-shirt. Christ, was the loser actually crying?
* * *
Behind Bellerose, in his van, Owen scanned the area for Bunyan’s black Honda. Nothing yet. Took a minute to register that the noise was his mobile. ‘Yeah?’
Mason’s voice. ‘You in place?’
Owen felt himself calm and emboldened at the same time. He wiped away the tears. ‘’Course I am. Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?’
‘I need you, Owen. I’m depending on you.’
‘I know.’ He was back with the family. He felt the pain in his hand spread. It was as if his whole being was throbbing, pulsating. His mouth was dry. He glanced at the plastic water bottle. Empty.
‘Only, I don’t want you to fuck this up.’
‘I told you, I’m on it.’
The line went dead. Owen waited at the red light. A pale blue Suzuki motorbike was in front; the driver was staring in his mirror at him. What the fuck was he looking at? Owen gave him the finger. Tosser. Fucking Bunyan had to be arriving soon, he needed to be alert. But the windscreen swam in front of him. He opened the glove compartment, grabbed the painkillers, popped the tinfoil, swallowed two, took the other four for the hit. Tossed the empty packet into the back of the van. Glanced at the picture, willed the scene to become animated again, for him to hear the music. Then it began, just as he wished. The horses and the unicorn began to move and he could hear music. Party music. They were holding a birthday party for him. The lights changed and the cunt in front turned left. Owen followed. Bunyan would be coming down the road soon. It would be easy, a simple feat. It had been difficult to drive with his hand bandaged but he’d managed it. He heard the engine purr in agreement; this wasn’t the dummy run. He would make it look like an accident. ‘Random,’ Mason had said, ‘So there’s no fallout on me.’
Owen drove on, listened to the sound of the carousel in the brightly lit forest, glanced again at the horses – they were all moving in unison, as if by magic. He smiled, it was all coming together. He would kill Bunyan and be reunited with Mason and the gang. In death, he would belong again. Bunyan would be dead and Mason would be proud of him. He’d be a hero. Owen closed his eyes for a second, listened to the music. It was beautiful. Haunting and sad. He let it wash over him. Then he snapped his eyes open. Ahead, a black Honda motorbike turned into the road.
It had to be that bastard Bunyan, it had to be his bike. Owen heard the music get louder, saw Mason smile at him; he’d be made an honorary lieutenant in the organisation. Him a lieutenant, that would show his fucking mother that he’d made something of his life. He watched the black Honda move into the road, overtake the pale blue Suzuki. Now was his time. He smiled at the horses. Soon he would be in the forest with them, the lights, the music. He would be home. Home. He stared at the Honda, closed his eyes. Hit the accelerator. Floored it. ‘FUCK FUCK FUCK!’ Heard the squeal of shattered steel.
Chapter Fifty-Four
A Trio of Endings
One
It was 1.30 a.m. and Fullarton Care Home was in darkness. Wide awake in his bed, Steve Penwell watched the pirate hide in the folds of the curtains and felt the numbness begin in his left arm, before it spread to his left leg. He kept himself still. Quiet. He knew what was happening. The headache had woken him an hour earlier and now it was intense. Beside him, the bell. He ig
nored it, refused to summon help. He wondered fleetingly about Maureen, wondered if she would go to the police. Knew that he would never know the outcome of his action. What if the man with the patch had only been running because he was late for work or needed to catch a bus? Too many ‘what ifs’. He would never know. Maybe he should have come forward all those years ago. But he would have lost his family. He thought of his two grown-up children on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, who never visited him. It was too late now, too late for any of it. He felt the numbness spread across his body, the pain from the blistering headache increase until, finally, a door closed, first on his vision, then on his life.
Two
The excited voice of the reporter as he stared into the camera. ‘In the West End of Glasgow police and ambulance have attended the scene of a road traffic accident.’ Behind him, lights flashed around a police cordon. The reporter continued. ‘The accident has left one man dead and another fighting for his life when a white Transit van collided with a motorbike. Witnesses at the scene said the van drove straight through a red light and into the motorbike. The driver of the van has been taken to the Royal Infirmary with injuries that are said to be life-threatening and remains in intensive care. The driver of the motorcycle, who has not yet been identified, was pronounced dead at the scene. His decapitated body was found in the road by horrified resident Mr Michael Campbell.’
‘I rushed out to see what had happened and it was so terrible. It was like in the movies, when I picked up the helmet, I didn’t know the head was still inside . . .’
‘Meanwhile, neighbour Anna Westborne had this to say . . .’
‘I was driving home and I had right of way and then this white van shot out and straight into the motorcyclist, it was as if he didn’t see him. It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. The poor motorcyclist. I feel traumatised even to have witnessed it.’