‘No comment.’
‘Something to hide?’ Narey was doing the questioning. Addison had joined her but taken up a watching brief, standing against the far wall alongside Constable Sandy Murray. The duty solicitor, Mr Malcolmson, a grumpy middle-aged man with bad breath, was riding shotgun.
‘No comment.’
‘Innocent people don’t do a runner when the polis knock on their door, Mr Wylde. Why did you run?’
‘No comment.’
‘Change the record, Robert. You’re not a celebrity being interviewed by the papers. You know why we’re here and you know you’re going to tell us all about it, so why not save everyone’s time by talking now?’
‘No comment.’
‘Where were you last night, Robert? Or should I say, Razor? Where were you in the early hours of this morning?’
For the first time, Wylde’s eyes flashed towards Narey, hints of confusion and worry evident. He pulled his stare back to the wall but she had his attention now.
‘Were you near Glasgow Cathedral this morning, Robert? Near the Necropolis?’
‘No. No comment.’
‘Which is it? No or no comment?’
‘Please, don’t badger my client, Detective Sergeant Narey.’ Malcolmson’s interruption was no more than for show.
‘Which is it, Robert, no or no comment? Were you near the Necropolis?’
Everyone in the room could see Wylde doing mental calculations, desperately trying to work out what answer would work better for him, the truth or a lie.
‘No.’
‘I see. Okay, at least we’re getting somewhere. So you weren’t near the Necropolis but you decided you had to run. Something you didn’t want us to know. Or to find. You got a girlfriend, Robert?’
Wylde lost his spot on the wall again, his eyes betraying him as he looked at Narey properly for the first time. He looked away again quickly but she’d seen his fear.
‘I asked if you had a girlfriend.’
‘No comment.’
‘Right. Can’t really see there being a queue of girls daft enough. You’re hardly God’s gift, Robert. What do you think, DC Toshney? Hard to believe there’s some girl out there with this eejit’s name tattooed on her back.’
Wylde’s head flew round, his eyebrows knotted and mouth open, fighting the urge to ask or answer but with a fever clearly building inside. His solicitor saw the look and was uncomfortably aware that there was something he knew nothing about.
‘What information is it that you seek, DS Narey? I may need time to speak to my client alone.’
Narey bent down so that her face was just an inch from Wylde’s. ‘What’s her name?’
‘No comm—’
‘I said what’s her name?’
Wylde screwed his eyes up as if to shut Narey out. ‘What’s this about?’
‘What’s her name?’
‘DS Narey. I insist you do not continue to repeat questions in my client’s face.’
Wylde exhaled heavily. ‘You probably mean Kirsty.’
‘Probably? How many girls have got your name tattooed on their backs?’
‘Just the one that I know of. Kirsty McAndrew.’
Narey stood up and backed away from Wylde, giving him a moment of breathing space. She swapped glances with Addison, who continued to stand there silently.
‘Would you describe Kirsty for me, please, Robert.’
Wylde looked at the duty solicitor, who in turn stared at Narey, doubtless trying to second-guess her motives. He nodded at Wylde. Answer.
‘She’s twenty-two. Blonde hair. Um, blue eyes. Pretty. About five feet four.’
Both Narey and Addison felt the need to turn towards each other and share something, but resisted. It wasn’t yet time.
‘Okay, Robert. Good. When did you last see her?’
‘Two weeks ago. We split up. What’s this about?’
Wylde turned to his lawyer but Malcolmson was way ahead of him and was probably already counting future earnings. He gave Wylde the briefest of nods and said nothing. Narey continued.
‘Who dumped who?’
‘She… We… Well, it was just time to call it a day.’
‘So she dumped you, Robert. Couldn’t have been nice. Mad at her, were you?’
Wylde was still trying to do his best to keep his face impassive but Narey could see the uncertainty and alarm that was eating away at him from behind the mask. She just needed to give him a final kick over the edge.
‘How angry were you at her, Robert? Angry enough to have killed her?’
Wylde’s jaw dropped open and he made useless attempts to form words, his lips closing and retracting but never meeting. He finally managed one word. ‘What?’
‘Kirsty McAndrew was found murdered this morning.’
‘No. No. That can’t be… No. And you think that I…? No. No way!’
Wylde stood, kicking his chair back and swinging his handcuffed wrists in front of him. Addison and Murray calmly walked round the desk, one fronting him up while the other grabbed him by the collar and forced him down into the chair, which was positioned underneath him again. Wylde slumped back down, his mouth again jabbering the same silent song as before.
His eyes were on the floor now. Narey let him be for a moment, then, taking advantage of Wylde’s preoccupation with the floor, looked to Addison for an opinion. She got a shrug and a frown that said maybe. And maybe not. She continued.
‘Mr Wylde, when did you last see Kirsty McAndrew?’
‘Two… two weeks ago. I told you. Two weeks ago.’
‘Where were you last night?’
‘At my flat. And out for a bit. Had things to do. I didn’t… I didn’t do that to her. No way did I do that.’ He paused, brain whirring. ‘Is she really dead?’
‘Yes, Mr Wylde. She is.’
‘Wisnae me.’
‘Can you prove that, Robert? Who can vouch for where you were?’
Wylde’s face crumpled. ‘No one. I can’t give you a name. No one.’
‘Okay. Where does Kirsty McAndrew live?’
‘With her mum and dad. In Elcho Street, no’ far off the Gallowgate.’
‘What’s her mum and dad’s name?’
‘Um. Donald and, er, Geraldine. Donny and Geraldine. Oh, fuck, they’ll be… It wisnae me. Honestly. It wisnae.’
‘Hmm. Mr Wylde, you assaulted two police officers today. Will you confirm that for the tape?’
The duty solicitor coughed and tried to interrupt, but Wylde spoke over him.
‘Yes. I cut them. I’m sorry. I thought… I… I cut them with razor blades. But I didn’t touch Kirsty. I swear it.’
Chapter 6
Saturday night
Her back was pressed against the cold, grey granite of the Victoria Bridge, at the beginning of Gorbals Street. Her front was pressed against his chest, his mouth seeking hers. Somewhere on the fringes of the kiss, she heard a car horn blare and the hiss of air brakes as a bus slowed on the vast junction with Clyde Street on the southern fringes of the city centre. It was way after midnight but the crossing was still busy with traffic.
‘Come on, I’ll walk you home.’
‘No, you won’t. There’s no need. You know it’s only going to take me twenty minutes to walk it. Look, I can see my flat from here.’
He followed her gaze to where the twin towers of Caledonia Road were in sight, albeit nearly a mile away. Giant twinkling shadows on the other side of the river.
‘Aye, Hannah, twenty minutes at this time of night.’
‘You wouldn’t be coming in, anyway. I’m working in the morning and my mother wouldn’t like it.’
He looked away but couldn’t hide a smile. ‘That’s not why I’m offering.’
‘Course it isn’t.’
‘I’m just not happy about you walking home on your own. You know that.’
‘Gary, I’ll be fine. Anyway, how am I going to manage that half-marathon next week if I can’t walk home? It’s only a mile.�
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‘Yeah but—’
‘But nothing.’ She leaned in and kissed him again, knowing he would give in, just as he usually did.
Moments later she pulled herself away, her hands flat against his ribcage, teasingly holding him off. ‘See you tomorrow night?’
‘Yeah. Pick you up?’
‘No, I’ll get you in town. I’m going to meet Emma first for a couple of drinks. I’ll text you.’
‘A couple of drinks? I know what you and your sister are like when you get started. Try and be sober when I get there, eh?’
At that, she slipped away from him and backed off, grinning at him as she reversed. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see. Can’t promise anything. Like you said, you know what I’m like when I get started.’
‘Tease.’
‘You love it. Byeeee.’
She waved and turned with only the slightest hint of unsteadiness, caused as much by her heels as the unknown number of vodka-and-cranberries. She was still waving as she began the march across the bridge, the Clyde inky black below its five broad stone arches. She didn’t look but she knew he would be running across the junction in search of his bus or possibly a last drink.
How many times had she walked across this bridge? Thousands, probably. Sometimes she’d take the Albert Bridge from the Saltmarket and get onto Laurieston Road that way. It was six and half a dozen in terms of distance. She liked the walk, even if Gary wasn’t keen on her taking it. She’d done it thousands of times before she’d met him and with probably a couple of thousand more to come.
There was a point, midway across just as she reached the central arch, where she always made a little hop. She’d done it since she was a kid, walking either to or from town with her mum and dad. It marked, in her head at least, the halfway point in the river, the moment she crossed south of the Clyde, as she was doing now, or north, as she’d done earlier. As she got older, the hop got a little smaller. At least it did if other people were around. Now it was heading for one in the morning and she was half cut. She gave a proper, six-year-old’s hop.
As the bridge turned into road, she gave another hop as she landed on dry land, accompanying it with a stifled giggle. On the other side of the road were the gardens belonging to the Central Mosque, its red-brick wall and railings soon giving way to the mosque itself with its glass-domed roof and minaret. It was one of her favourite landmarks on the walk home. On she walked, singing quietly to herself and happy in her place in things. On past the multis on one side of the road and the Citizens Theatre on the other.
When she got to the junction where Gorbals Street forced Cleland Street to become Bedford Lane, she made a point of crossing to the other side of the road. The building on the side of the street that she’d been walking on had always freaked her out. People called it the old Linen Bank building and said it was the last of the old Gorbals tenements. She’d never known it anything other than disused, standing lost and alone like a survivor of a nuclear holocaust. The bricked-up door and boarded windows, the red ashlar walls, gothic scrolls and weird head carvings all gave her the heebie-jeebies. She hurried past it and tried not to look.
Her next landmark was the Brazen Head, another few hundred yards up the street and more than halfway home. Its famous — or infamous — green and white walls marked where Gorbals Street became Cathcart Road, not long before she’d take a left onto Caledonia Road. It was a route she knew like the back of her hand. She could see the pub up ahead, peeping at her under the railway bridge, its lights still blazing. As she passed, she heard raised voices and the threateningly cheery chink of glasses.
Immediately after the pub there was the strange, low, bricked archway to her left that led onto Laurieston Road. She always found herself taking a few steps to her right, away from its dark recess, an instinctive reaction to the possibility of someone stepping out from the gloom. A few strides more and she was under the next railway bridge, its rusting blue hulk throwing the pavement into near darkness. On cue, a train rattled overhead, deafening her with its roar through the bridge supports.
As the train faded, she wouldn’t have been able to say when she heard the footsteps behind her, or when she realised that they had been in time with her own but now were gaining. All she knew was that it dawned on her with a cold, creeping certainty.
The Brazen Head shrank into the distance and the giant twin multis on Caledonia Road seemed much further away than they had a few moments before. Her pulse was racing and something that must have been her heart was crashing into her ribcage.
Up ahead on the left, a hundred yards or so away, were the remains of the old Caledonia Road church, sitting marooned in the triangle created as Cathcart and Laurieston Roads came together. She couldn’t see its tall, obelisk tower for the eaves of the railway bridge but knew it was there all the same.
She looked over her shoulder and saw the shape, dark and hunched, gaining on her with every step. If she walked, he would probably catch her. If she ran, he would run after her. She ran.
Shit. Running was harder when you were a bit pished. And much harder when you were wearing heels. Run. Her thoughts were tangled, tripping over each other. Scared. Very scared.
She needed somewhere to go into that would be safe, but the church had lain empty for nearly fifty years, since local neds burned the insides out. All that was left to offer her any kind of sanctuary was the gaunt, foreboding shell. And yet, maybe if she could get to the far end where the acropolis pillars stood high on the wall, she’d be in the open and someone would see her. And see him.
Run faster. Reach the church. She’d never make it: the sounds on the pavement behind were getting closer with every breath. As soon as the bridge support vanished on her left, she pushed off into the scrubland where a beaten path ducked in behind the church walls. She told herself it was a shortcut. Her only hope.
Get your heels off, she thought. Can’t run in heels. She slowed just enough so that she could push her right instep down against her left heel. Now the other…
Something hit hard against her back, low on the right side just above her hip. Breath rushed out of her, choking out in a single painful gasp of surprise. Worse, it threw her off her stride, pitching her forward awkwardly. His footsteps were so close and the church walls just a yard away.
Turn. Fight. She could hear Gary saying it. Turn and fight. She spun clumsily on her single shoe, bracing her legs so that she could swing, claw, punch at whoever, whatever, was there. Too late. As she turned, a gloved hand was in her face, blinding her, pushing her back and down, into the shadow of the old church.
She could feel the dampness of the woollen glove, its fibres tickling her skin, scratching it. Her heart screamed and she slowly, quickly began to drown in fear and adrenalin.
Darkness came.
Chapter 7
Early Sunday morning
For the second morning running, Winter had been woken by the sound of the phone ringing. For a few seconds, just long enough to depress him when he realised the reality, he’d thought he was in Rachel’s bed rather than his own.
He fumbled for his mobile, anxiety making his fingers buttery. Early-morning calls were rarely good news.
‘Yeah. Um, yeah. What? Fuck. Yes, got it. Okay. I’m leaving now.’
He pressed the button to end the call and blew a stream of air from his lips before letting the phone tumble onto the bed. It had been Denny Kelbie, a DCI at New Gorbals. The news was the sort of wake-up call that had you doubting you’d ever been asleep in the first place.
A dead girl. Seminaked and found draped round a monument in a cemetery.
The facts assaulted him, stirred him. But for the fact that she’d been found not in the Necropolis but in the Southern Necropolis across the river, Winter might have thought it was some macabre form of déjà vu.
After a quick drive through the ghost of a Sunday-morning city, he parked his Honda Civic on Caledonia Road in the shadows of the tower blocks and directly across from the Gothic gat
ehouse that formed the entrance to the Southern Necropolis. The imposing sandstone edifice, looking for all the world like the gateway to a medieval castle that was no longer there, was guarded by two of Scotland’s finest and a line of police tape.
The gatehouse was dwarfed by its modern neighbours on the other side of the street, yet managed to retain its own sense of size and an odd, almost surreal, grandeur. The twenty-foot-high archway and the avenue of trees beyond it were the entry point to another world, one where the residents, two hundred and fifty thousand of them, were all dead.
After taking his camera bag from the boot of the car, he crossed the road and flashed his ID at the cops. They nodded him on without a word and he crossed through the archway into the city that always sleeps.
The cobbled roadway that ducked under the bowed arches of ancient yew trees was bordered by verdigris headstones, most nearly two hundred years old, each of them winking at Winter as he marched deeper into the bowels of the cemetery in search of the urgent voices he could hear within. It was another damp morning, and a rising mist clung mournfully to the crypts, lending the Southern Necropolis an eerie air that it didn’t need.
The cemetery was huge — space enough to hold an endless array of football pitches, studded with teeth of headstone granite. Pathways were guarded by twisted arboreal sentries, their gnarled arms reaching down to touch gravestones choked with ivy or crumbling under years of neglect. It was death on a grand scale.
Winter followed the distant voices and the scent of death that tickled his nose, winding his way down grey paths amid the green until he came upon a gaggle of crime-scene officers and cops wrapped up in bunny-suit white. They faced him as he advanced down the cobbled track, one or two with hands on hips, including a diminutive figure at their heart who rocked from side to side with impatience.
Denny Kelbie stood little more than five foot five and probably weighed no more than ten stone when soaking wet. Yet he was a carnaptious wee sod who was continually growling at people around him like a Jack Russell with distemper. Sure enough, he barked at Winter as soon he arrived.
Witness the Dead Page 4