by Lin Anderson
‘I used to go to The Seamore.’
‘A Maryhill boy, eh? Not any more, I’ll bet?’
The chair arrived then, so Bill didn’t have to answer the barbed question.
‘Who’s got a key for this place?’ Bill asked as soon as Angus was settled.
‘Carol and me.’
‘That’s it?’
Angus nodded.
‘How long have you worked here?’
‘Since I was made redundant from the yard. Nine years this Christmas.’
‘You knew the previous manager?’
Angus snorted. ‘Admiral Nelson? I knew him all right. Used to filch the best stuff for himself.’
‘I take it he had a key?’
‘And used it when no one was around. We had this painting handed in, from some old dead wifie up Crow Road. I collected it. Sailing ships. Very nice. Even I could see that. The Admiral spotted it. Next day it was gone. When I asked he said the canvas got torn and he’d had to dump it. Like hell he had. My bet is he sold it on, or it’s hanging on his wall.’
‘You know where he lives?’
‘Sure I do, if he’s still there. Unless he’s away on his yacht.’
‘He has a yacht?’
‘So he said. Used to go off weekends up the west coast.’
‘What’s his address?’
‘Observatory Road.’
‘Number?’
Angus shook his head. ‘No idea.’
‘Is Nelson his real name?’
‘It’s what he called himself. How long’s the body been in there, then?’ Angus asked.
‘We don’t know, yet.’
‘Ten years?’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘I’ve been here nine.’
‘And you think you would have known if there was anything going on in the old cinema?’
‘Not much gets past me.’
Bill had a feeling that was true. ‘What about the girl who visited? Did you see her?’
‘I saw her go in with Carol. I didn’t see her come out.’
‘You’d left by then?’
‘I leave five on the dot.’ He sat back in the chair and folded his arms. ‘But I did see her later that night.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything before?’
Angus shrugged, seemingly unconcerned by Bill’s reaction. ‘I never saw the lassie’s face when she went in with Carol. Just the big backpack she was wearing. Then her picture was on the telly last night and I realised who it was. Carol said you were coming down today, so I waited and told you.’
It was a reasonable enough explanation.
‘Where and when did you see her?’
‘Like I said. The same night. About seven. I was having a pint on the corner. I went outside for a fag and I saw them. She was with a young guy. Tall with fair hair. They were arguing. I don’t know what about.’
‘What happened?’
‘I went back inside.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Aye. That’s it.’
‘Would you recognise the man again?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What was he wearing?’
Angus thought for a minute. ‘Jeans, a green jacket. With a hood, but he didn’t have it up even though it was raining. It’s a bugger having to stand in the rain to have a smoke. I made it quick.’
It was a minimal description, but Bill couldn’t dismiss the fact that it could match Liam. Maybe he had seen Jude that night. Maybe they’d had a fight and she’d stormed off. Maybe he was scared to tell Bill that. A lot of maybes.
‘OK, Angus. Thanks for that.’
Angus rose to his feet. ‘Happy to help. If you need me to look at photos?’
Bill nodded. ‘I’ll be in touch. Could you send in the lad?’
Angus hesitated. ‘Go easy on Jason. He’s been in trouble in the past, but he’s clean now and works hard.’
Jason appeared moments later, still clasping the can of Irn Bru. He stood, avoiding Bill’s eye and awaiting instructions. Bill motioned him to sit down. For a moment he looked as though he would bolt, then he perched himself on the edge of the seat.
‘How long have you been working here, Jason?’
‘Six months.’
‘Angus says you’re a grafter.’
His head rose a little. ‘I like it here.’
Bill saw the boy’s face clearly for the first time. One of his eyes was bruised. Fairly recent, judging by the colour.
‘What happened to your face?’
Jason’s hand lifted, then dropped back to finger the can.
‘I was shifting a wardrobe and ma hand slipped.’
‘I bet working here keeps you fit.’
He nodded. ‘I like it. It’s a laugh wi the lads.’
‘They’re good to you?’
‘They joke about, but aye they are.’ Jason eased himself into the seat, relaxing a little.
‘You’re full time?’
‘Nine to five, five days a week,’ he said proudly.
‘So you were here when Jude came to photograph the old cinema?’
‘I never seen her,’ he said, quickly. ‘I was in the back.’
‘But she went through there to get to the door.’
‘I never seen her.’
‘When you left work that night, did you go straight home?’
‘I went for a drink.’
‘Where?’
‘I’m eighteen,’ he said defiantly.
‘Where?’
‘The pub on the corner.’
‘With Angus?’
Jason nodded.
‘You a smoker?’
‘Naw.’
‘So you didn’t go outside for a smoke with Angus?’
‘Naw.’
The fingers that clasped the can of Irn Bru didn’t look nicotine stained, but it would be easy enough to find out if Jason was a smoker.
‘So, you didn’t see Jude in or outside the building that night?’
‘That’s right.’
Lies weren’t as easy to pull off as most folk believed. The real liars tended to give you more than you needed, tell you details, thinking that made their story more plausible. In fact most people didn’t register a high level of detail when asked to recall an incident they’d witnessed. That was the problem.
Jason’s head was back down, his fingers worrying at the can. His left hand jerked and a spray of orange liquid marked his jeans. He swore under his breath and drank what was left.
There was nothing more to ask, but Jason didn’t stand up or make any sign that he was anxious to be off. The lad had something else to say. Maybe nothing important, but something all the same. Eventually it came out.
‘I seen the lassie’s photo on Facebook. Somebody’s running a page trying to find her.’
This was news to Bill.
‘Who?’
‘They call themselves Sherlock and Watson. They’re getting replies. Someone said he seen her with a guy outside the Govanhill Picture House.’
‘Did they say when?’
‘Naw.’
‘And the other replies?’
‘Newcastle and London.’
The incident room had received news of sightings after the media announcement. Newcastle and London had both figured in them.
‘Thanks, Jason. I appreciate you telling me about the Facebook campaign.’
Bill let him go then and took in the other men one at a time. Jimmy Dixon, Robert Hennessey and Graeme MacLaren all told the same story. They’d been out together on a pick-up when Jude arrived. They’d collected the furniture, parked the van in the side street overnight, went home and unloaded it the next morning. Carol confirmed their story. She also confirmed that the former manager’s name was Albert Nelson and that she had no idea if he’d handed in his key when he’d left.
So Bill now had two possible leads. One placing Jude alive outside the cinema on the night she’d disappeared. Another involving Facebook. Bill wondered, as he he
aded for Mr Nelson’s flat, if the Tech guys had come across this Facebook page. And if so, why the hell he hadn’t been told about it.
Before he’d driven off he’d contacted Janice and got her to look for an Albert Nelson in Observatory Road. His luck was in. The Admiral was still registered as living in the street. Bill scribbled down the address, thanked her and rang off.
Observatory Road was dominated by a magnificent church at its eastern end, and consisted of a row of handsome blond two-storey terraced houses overlooking a well-kept central garden.
Bill found the right house and gave the buzzer a try. When there was no answer, he waited a bit then tried again. These were big flats. It could take a while to get to the intercom, he reasoned. He was eventually rewarded by the sound of a gruff but modulated voice. ‘Who is it?’
Bill explained who he was and that he’d like to come up. There was a moment of silence before the voice said, ‘You have ID?’
He confirmed that he had and the front door sprung its lock. On reaching the first level he stood outside the door, took out his warrant card and held it up to the spy-hole. A few moments later the door was opened, but only as far as the thick door chain would allow. Bill held the card in full view of the elderly face peeking round the door. At last Mr Nelson seemed satisfied. ‘Can’t be too careful,’ he said as he unfastened the chain.
‘I agree,’ Bill said.
Now the door was open, Bill could see the man Angus had so scornfully called The Admiral. He was smartly dressed in a shirt, tie, fine-knit lemon sweater and smart trousers. He was straight backed and balding with glasses and a sour expression. Bill got the impression just from looking at him that Admiral Nelson had a grievance or two and liked voicing them. Bill had a certain sympathy for that.
‘May I come in?’
‘What’s it about?’
‘The British Heart Foundation shop in Dumbarton Road.’
‘I haven’t worked in that shop for nearly seven years.’
‘I know, but I’d still like to talk to you.’
Eventually Mr Nelson opened the door wide and motioned Bill inside to a smell of polish and the distant drone of a Hoover.
‘My cleaning woman is here,’ Mr Nelson said as he led the way into a sitting room where the scent of lavender was overwhelming. ‘She’s a bit heavy on the polish,’ he apologised. ‘I open the window once she’s gone.’ It was a kind remark, swiftly tempered by, ‘Cleaners who don’t steal from you are hard to find.’ He closed the door firmly behind them and urged Bill to a seat before settling himself. ‘Now, what’s this all about?’
Bill spotted the painting as he sat down. Two sailing frigates on a choppy sea, framed in gold. It was very nice, as Angus had said. Probably a collector’s item. Mr Nelson caught his interested gaze.
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it? Found it rummaging one day in a junk shop. A British Frigate and a Spanish frigate in combat, by Thomas Butterworth,’ he added, proudly.
Bill had no idea who Thomas Butterworth was but he guessed he was worth collecting.
‘I expect you discovered the odd treasure among the charity donations to the shop?’ he said.
Nelson gave him a swift, penetrating glance. ‘I don’t steal from charity, Inspector. I bought that painting fair and square.’
‘The seller knew its worth, then?’
‘I paid what they asked.’ Mr Nelson’s mouth set in a thin line. ‘I discovered later that it was a Butterworth.’ He paused. ‘But you’re not here to quiz me on my painting.’
Bill began to wonder if Nelson knew about the grim discovery in his previous place of employment.
‘I assume you’ve heard on the news about the discovery of a body in the old Rosevale cinema?’
‘What? No. I’ve been away on the west coast, sailing. A body in the old cinema? Dear God!’ His distress seemed genuine. ‘Who? A vagrant dossing down there?’
‘We haven’t identified the victim yet, but it was a young man. He had been walled up in the projection room.’
‘Walled up?’ He looked suitably horrified by the revelation. ‘How do you mean?’
‘The body was discovered behind a bricked-in alcove.’
Mr Nelson’s eyes seemed to glaze over as he tried to assimilate this information.
‘Were you ever in the old cinema?’ Bill asked.
‘Only glanced in the door at the Highland Frieze.’
‘So you had a key to the place?’
‘Of course. As manager I had a full set of keys for the building.’
‘Did you hand them back when you left?’
Nelson looked insulted by the question. ‘Naturally.’ His expression moved to suspicion. ‘Who says I didn’t? I bet it was Angus Robertson. That old bugger was a thorn in my flesh. Thought he was the one running the place. Calling me Admiral Nelson behind my back.’
‘You’re certain you gave back the key?’
‘I did, no matter what Robertson said.’ Despite his best efforts, his glance strayed momentarily to the painting. He pulled himself together. ‘How long had the poor chap been there?’
‘We haven’t confirmed the date of death yet.’
‘So it wasn’t recently?’ he said, astutely.
Bill ignored the question and continued. ‘Did anyone ever ask to see the old cinema while you were manager?’
‘Of course. They’re like train spotters, these old cinema buffs. Want to take photos “for posterity”. As if anyone in their right mind wants to view some broken balcony chairs and a disused projection box.’
‘Or a handsome wall frieze?’ Bill had a sudden image of Nelson sizing up the frieze, wondering if there was any way he could remove it and sell it on.
Nelson gave him a dirty look.
Bill ignored it and continued. ‘So you let them in?’
‘I did, although I warned them it was at their own risk.’
‘And you didn’t go with them?’
‘Of course not. I had to supervise the shop floor and the back room.’
To watch out for bargains, no doubt.
‘Can you recall any of the people who visited?’
‘I left seven years ago, for goodness sake. And they all look the same. Anoraks and cameras.’ He paused. ‘I do remember the twins, however. Who wouldn’t?’
‘The twins?’
‘Former projectionists at the Rosevale. Like two peas in a pod. Even spoke the same way. They didn’t wear anoraks. They wore proper overcoats, old-fashioned but smart. I remember they reminded me of a second world war movie.’
‘Their name?’
‘Mulligan. Jim and John, I think.’
‘When did they visit?’
‘Shortly before I left.’
‘The body was bricked up. Have you any idea how the bricks got in there?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Maybe when they put the new central heating in the shop?’
‘And when was that?’
‘The first year I was there. What a mess. Dust everywhere.’
Bill hesitated before posing the next question. The state of the body was already being hinted at in the press. It wouldn’t be a secret much longer and he was interested to see Mr Nelson’s reaction.
‘The body was naked apart from various bondage gear. It may be the old cinema was being used as a meeting place for S and M enthusiasts.’
‘Good God.’
‘For that to happen, those involved must have had access to a key.’
‘As I have said already, I do not have one.’ Mr Nelson checked his watch, then rose. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, Detective Inspector, I did promise a friend a round of golf.’
Bill handed him his card. ‘Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Nelson. If you think of anything, please get in touch.’
‘Naturally, although I believe I’ve told you everything I know.’
As Bill headed downstairs, he heard the door open again and Mr Nelson and a woman exchange goodbyes. The honest but over-zealous cleaner was muttering under
her breath as the door was firmly shut behind her, and Bill thought he detected a curse in there somewhere.
Mrs MacDougall, he discovered after introducing himself at the foot of the stairs, didn’t like her employer much. She examined the warrant card and observed Bill with interest.
‘What’s his nibs been up to then?’ she said.
‘Nothing that I know of.’
She looked disappointed. ‘I had to leave because he’s off to play golf,’ she snorted. ‘Football, golf. What is it about men and balls?’
Bill tried to look sympathetic. ‘You don’t have a key to his flat?’
‘Not likely. He doesn’t allow me in unless he’s there. He thinks I’m out to steal his priceless antiques.’
‘They’re priceless?’
‘The way he goes on about those paintings and bits of old furniture and crockery, you’d think so. Personally I wouldn’t give them house room. So why did you want to see him?’
‘He used to work at the British Heart Foundation Shop in Dumbarton Road.’
‘Where they found the body?’ She shook her head. ‘I live near there. Been watching the comings and goings.’ She eyed Bill. ‘You don’t think he’s got anything to do with it?’
‘We’ve no reason to. I just wanted to ask him if he still had keys for the shop.’
‘He used to take stuff from there, you know, before it went on display. Thinks I don’t know, but I do.’
‘You’ve been with him that long?’
‘Three years, but my sister Moira cleaned for him before me. Couldn’t stand his whining any longer so I took over. He’s mean, but it’s only twice a week.’ She gave Bill a long hard look. ‘You think he still has keys for the place?’
‘Do you?’
‘Did you ask him?’
‘He said no.’
She shrugged. ‘He’s a good liar. Just told me he’s off to play golf with a Lord! Aye, that’ll be right.’
They parted at the car, but not before she gave Bill her sister’s mobile number.
‘I’ll tell Moira you’ll be giving her a ring,’ she said with relish.
He was on his way back to the station when the call came through from Janice. Bill pulled into the side and answered.
‘Sir, someone’s reported what looks like a body in the water near Harbour Place, south of Rosevale Street.’
Bill swore under his breath. ‘Male or female?’