Riven

by A J McCreanor

  ‘. . . A fight in a south-side pub between rival football fans has resulted in one man being taken to hospital, where his condition was said to be stable. A twenty-year-old man has been arrested in connection with this incident and is due to appear in court . . .

  ‘. . . A woman has been charged with child neglect after leaving her three-year-old daughter alone in a house in the Springburn area of the city for three days. The thirty-three-year-old woman, Bernadette Malcolm, stated that she had been to a series of parties held over one weekend and had “forgotten to go home” . . .’

  Wheeler let the news wash over her and thought of the murder scene they were about to visit. She watched the Christmas trees in the windows of houses and hoped that, despite the gloomy news, most residents of the city would have a happy Christmas.

  The radio continued its report.

  ‘. . . The release of notorious Glasgow criminal Maurice Mason from Barlinnie prison on Friday, after serving only half of his seven-year sentence for manslaughter, has sparked an outcry from the family of the victim. Scott Henderson, thirty-nine, died shortly after a frenzied attack by Mason. The controversial decision to release Mason came at a time when pressure to—’

  ‘All good news,’ she sighed, reaching forward and switching the radio off. ‘And Maurice Mason’s out in time for Christmas.’

  ‘Cheer up, it’ll soon be the holidays and let’s positively reframe it, think of Maurice Mason being let out as a wee early Christmas present for us. What could be cosier?’ Ross grinned. ‘And talking of Christmas pressies, you got mine yet?’

  Wheeler stared ahead. ‘Thought we’d agreed that we wouldn’t bother with presents? Just do the Secret Santa thing with the rest of the station?’

  Everyone at the station did a ‘Secret Santa’ dip for anything around ten pounds and the usual rubbish turned up – joke aprons, flavoured condoms, plastic nonsense that would end up in the bin by January – but it was about as familiar as Wheeler wanted to get with most of her colleagues.

  ‘But aren’t we more than that?’ asked Ross.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘We’re partners.’

  ‘We’re not in an American cop show, we’re part of the team.’ But she knew what he meant; they were closer and they did work better together than with the others.

  ‘Suppose.’ Ross indicated and switched lane. Ahead of them, the security lights from the whisky distillery glowed in the darkness. Ross turned off the road and bumped the car down a single-track lane which was so rutted Wheeler felt the car lurch to the side. Ross drove on, past the walls encircling the old cemetery, the mossy gravestones slick with rain. Wheeler opened the window and a rush of cold air filled the car, bringing with it the smell of damp vegetation. The cemetery had been closed for years and languished, neglected. Finally, at the end of the lane they stopped beside a shiny new BMW, the colour of congealed blood. Personalised plates told her that CA11UM was on duty.

  Ross turned to her. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be okay?’

  ‘You know, dead bodies, that kind of . . . stuff.’

  ‘You worried you’ll faint?’

  He smiled. ‘Might do. Will you pick me up?’

  ‘No chance,’ she muttered, getting out of the car, ‘but I’d stomp over you to get to the case, would that suit?’

  She watched him grimace before striding through the rain. She ignored the downpour, knowing that her hair was already flattened, that her skin would be pale with the cold.

  Across the drive, a scene-of-crime officer was examining a Ford Focus. She shouted to him, ‘That his car then?’

  The man nodded, water dripping from his nose.

  ‘Get anything useful?’ she asked but she already knew the answer.

  ‘Too early to say.’ The man turned away and concentrated on the car.

  She looked at the house. Once it would have been a solid building, but the old stones had suffered decades of neglect; stained-glass windows rattled in rotted frames, slate tiles gaped obscure patterns across the roof. The door was too wide for the house, and the garden, an anarchic knot of weeds, had long since gone wild. ‘Would’ve been lovely once.’

  ‘Aye.’ Ross shifted from one foot to the other, distracted. ‘Shit.’

  ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘Cramp.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake.’

  ‘Still, but it’s sore.’

  She stared at the house. ‘It looks close to derelict now.’

  He shook his left leg vigorously. ‘Seen worse.’

  Fluorescent police tape twisted and snapped in the wind, catching the light from the open door. She ducked under. ‘Come on smiler, let’s go join the party.’ Ross followed, his limp pronounced. Up ahead the familiar scene was being re-enacted. Assorted SOCOs, each contained in their own world, were moving silently like spectres, searching the ground, gathering information, bagging evidence.

  A young detective sergeant walked briskly towards them, his thin lips stretched into a tight smile. His navy-blue suit was pristine, his dark hair smoothed into a side parting and his brogues held a dull sheen. A hit of lemon aftershave arrived ahead of him.

  ‘How does he even do that?’ She tried not to sound impressed. ‘I look and smell like wet dog.’

  ‘Freak,’ coughed Ross.

  Detective Sergeant Ian Robertson greeted her with a polite nod, while ignoring Ross.

  ‘What’ve you got?’ Wheeler asked.

  ‘Male, deceased, fifty-four years old. Looks like he lived alone. One toothbrush, only male clothes in the wardrobe, nothing to suggest anyone else lived there.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was an educational psychologist. He was peripatetic, travelled around different schools across the city.’

  ‘And?’ Wheeler sighed; it was like drawing teeth. ‘Got a name?’

  ‘James Gilmore.’

  She held out her hand. ‘Gimme those, Robertson, it’ll be bloody quicker for me to read them.’ She scanned the neatly written notes. Two boys had found the body. It was a far from pleasant sight as it had ‘shown considerable signs of beating’. The boys were in shock and the body was waiting for her inside. She thrust the notes back at the sergeant – ‘Fine,’ – turned, ‘Well, Ross, if you’re ready?’

  Robertson held up his hand, neat, manicured nails, broad gold wedding band gleaming. ‘There’s something else.’

  She paused. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I knew him.’

  Wheeler whistled. ‘Geez, was he a friend?’

  Robertson flinched. ‘No, nothing like that. We weren’t close. I didn’t know him well at all; I only met him once, twice maybe, that’s all.’

  She waited.

  He studied his shoes. ‘We met at one of the schools he visited.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Watervale Academy.’

  Wheeler recognised the name. The school was in the north of the city, slap-bang in the middle of a run-down shambles of a scheme. She knew that the school’s nickname was Waterfuck and having Academy tagged on was seen by some as a cruel joke thought up by the heid high yins in Glasgow City Council. Watervale catered for some of Glasgow’s most challenging kids.

  ‘The school for kids with behavioural problems?’ She looked at Robertson.

  Robertson nodded. ‘Some have special needs too.’

  ‘Aye a special need to kick the shit out of anyone who gets in their way,’ muttered Ross.

  Wheeler ignored him and addressed Robertson. ‘You there on police business?’ Like a lot of schools in the city, uniformed police sometimes had to visit. But CID was another thing. And it wasn’t even their area. She was curious why Robertson had visited the school. She waited. He hadn’t answered her question. ‘So why were you there?’

  Robertson looked at the ground, the rain damping his hair. Still it remained in place. He glanced at Ross, winced, ‘Personal business.’

  She saw his discomfort. Felt the tension between the two men
deepen. Decided to ignore it – they were meant to be grown-ups and she wasn’t their mammy. Heard her mobile ring. Checked the number. Her sister. Ignored her too.

  Wheeler watched as a SOCO passed, his suit rustling as he walked, before turning back to Robertson. ‘And the two boys who found him, how’re they doing?’

  ‘They’re both very upset, as you can imagine.’

  ‘I’ll bet. I hope they’re not still here?’

  ‘Course not. I had them taken to the station.’

  ‘Good. So, what do we know about them?’

  Robertson checked his notes. ‘Alec Munroe and Rab Wilson, both nineteen and both ex-Watervale Academy.’

  ‘So they knew the victim?’

  ‘Only that he visited the school. They’d left before he started there. But they knew his name – they still hang out with kids from the school.’

  ‘At their age?’

  He nodded. ‘Said all their pals still went there. They came to the house on the off chance it was empty.’

  ‘All the way across the city? That doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘On the bus.’

  ‘On the bus,’ she repeated, ‘because?’

  He glanced at his notes. ‘Parents’ night at school – they thought all the staff would be there. They were going to rob the place.’

  She whistled. ‘Geez, they broke in and found a body – bad luck there boys.’

  ‘Technically they didn’t break in,’ he corrected her, ‘the door was already open.’

  She looked at Robertson, then at the house, trying to imagine the scene. ‘Uh huh. And how’d you find out about the intended robbery?’

  Robertson beamed. ‘They told me.’

  ‘Christ,’ Ross spluttered, ‘they’re no Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, are they?’

  Robertson kept his voice low. ‘Humour’s hardly appropriate, given the grave circumstances.’ He busied himself rereading his notes.

  ‘Fuckin’ amateurs! On the bus!’ Ross was still sniggering.

  She glanced at Ross, took in the fitted jacket, purposely tight over a taught six-pack. His body was gym-toned, hers ex-army-honed. He had long legs, broad shoulders. Dark hair, pale blue eyes, long lashes. She knew that if he was chocolate he’d eat himself. He was also loud and routinely inappropriate. That said, she still liked him. She looked at Robertson, noting how a faint smir of rain seemed to hover over his suit, while her trousers were already soaked.

  ‘So our boys aren’t the brightest . . . anything else I should know?’

  He returned her smile, patted his notes, his ring catching the light from the police vehicles and reflecting it. ‘I think that’s a pretty accurate assessment of the situation.’ His mobile rang. ‘Excuse me.’ He passed his notes to Wheeler before he moved off, but they could hear him hissing into the phone, ‘Yes, I’m still on the job; I’ll probably be here all night . . . because it’s important work.’ A pause while he listened. ‘Oh for pity’s sake Margaret, I’ll be home whenever I can; go on up to bed and for goodness’ sake stop fretting.’ He clicked off the phone and turned back to them.

  Wheeler and Ross studied the notes intently, Ross smirking.

  Robertson blushed, aware that they had overheard him. ‘I’ll be out here if you need me.’

  Wheeler stepped forward. ‘If you need to get home, go now. There are enough of us on duty.’

  ‘But DCI Stewart said that—’

  Ross cut him off. ‘Stewart’s got two days off. I think between us, we can manage till he gets back. Even without you being here.’

  Robertson shook his head and walked back towards his car.

  She watched him leave then turned to Ross. ‘Is there a wee problem between you two lovebirds?’

  He shrugged. ‘Problem’s with him.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘PB.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘He’s Plymouth Brethren. No drinking, whoring or swearing.’

  ‘Christ, really? No swearing?’

  ‘’Fraid so. Fuckin nightmare.’

  She could imagine Robertson’s welcome at the station. ‘Just another bloody division in the team,’ she muttered.

  He straightened to his full six foot three, looked hurt. ‘The rest of us are okay.’

  ‘You think?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Well then, let’s refocus: the two boys walked in through the back door intent on robbing the place, instead they found the body and, rather than scarper, they did the concerned citizen bit and called it in?’

  ‘Sounds about right,’ said Ross.

  ‘Let’s go see it then.’ She walked ahead of him, careful of her steps, keeping to the tread plates, conscious that there may be evidence still to be collected, some tiny piece that may help them find the killer.

  She was first through the door. Boots and muddy wellingtons were piled inside and an old wooden coat stand held a good-quality Berghaus outdoor jacket. A camera tripod was propped against the wall. Four oak doors led off from the hall, all open. Through the nearest she could see the body laid out on a tarpaulin and kneeling beside it a stout man with a goatee beard. Professor Callum Fraser.

  She stood in the doorway. ‘Smells like rancid meat in here.’

  Fraser turned from the body, looked her up and down and grinned, ‘DI Wheeler, how very lovely to see you but I thought DCI Stewart might have shown a face.’

  ‘Stewart’s on leave.’ Ross tried not to look at the corpse. Held his breath, turned red in the face.

  ‘Ah. Lucky man being on leave; wish I were off doing something nice.’

  Her mobile rang; she checked the number before answering and instinctively turned away from the body as she spoke briefly to the caller.

  ‘Stewart was on two days’ leave,’ Wheeler corrected Ross as she clicked off the phone. ‘He’s on his way into the station. Says he’ll meet us there.’ She turned to face the body.

  ‘Watch your feet please, detectives, there’s still a lot of evidence to be collected.’

  ‘This much blood, Callum, tell me there’s a decent set of footprints?’ Wheeler sounded hopeful.

  ‘Not your lucky day I’m afraid; there are no crisp outlines. Looks like the killer bound his or her feet with something to distort their prints. Towels maybe? The splatter’s been soaked up in places. The footprints are quite indistinct. Except for those excellent specimens.’ He pointed to two sets of fresh, clear prints a short way from the body. ‘But apparently they belong to the two boys who discovered the body.’

  Wheeler moved carefully towards the corpse. Close up she could see the dead man’s face was a mass of pulp, the skin broken and raw. ‘He certainly annoyed somebody.’

  The pathologist nodded. ‘He did that. He was already dead by the time the killer hung him up. A lot of extra effort – a dead weight like this would take a considerable amount of strength. Either that or the killer was bloody angry; the adrenaline in anger can give us almost inhuman strength.’

  ‘Somebody wanted to make a point.’ Ross glanced at the body and away again. ‘A warning maybe?’

  Callum nodded. ‘Could be.’

  ‘What ETD do you have?’ Wheeler could smell stale blood and cupped her hand around her mouth before coughing discreetly into it.

  ‘Well, decomposition’s beginning and rigor’s advanced, so I’d say we’re talking about some time last night. Can’t be more specific at this time; I’ll know more when I get him back to the mortuary.’

  ‘He hardly looks human,’ she sighed. ‘So we’ve got his name and where he worked. Bit strange though, an educational psychologist ending up like this.’

  ‘Usually more gang-related,’ Ross said, ‘this kind of thing.’

  Wheeler peered at the body. Dark eyes bulged back at her. ‘You think he got on the wrong side of one of the Glasgow families?’

  Ross held out his hand, counting off each finger. ‘If it was drugs, the McGregor crew, or the Tenant clan, both are at loggerheads. Or one of the independe
nts? Doyle or Jamieson? Any one of them could do this in a heartbeat.’

  ‘An educational psychologist though?’ Wheeler pursed her lips. ‘Are that lot not a bit out of his league?’

  ‘You thinking mistaken identity, somebody got the wrong guy?’ asked Ross.

  She pointed to the corpse. ‘I think this was more personal. This amount of blood, they took their time.’ She looked around the room; it had morphed from someone’s home into a crime scene – everything was being photographed, bagged and tagged. She tried to see beyond the gore, tried to get some idea of who James Gilmore was, hoping that his home would give up some of its secrets. But there wasn’t much homeliness to the room; it appeared that, even before Gilmore had been murdered, the place had been slowly dying. The sofa was ancient, torn cushions exposing the inner foam padding. A threadbare carpet, filthy curtains. Everything old and worn and neglected. She turned away. ‘Whatever they’re paying educational psychologists these days clearly isn’t enough.’ She turned to Callum. ‘I don’t suppose they left the weapon behind?’

  ‘Nothing found in here I’m afraid Katherine – maybe they’ll find it out in the garden somewhere.’

  ‘If you had to guess . . .?’

  ‘If I had to guess, and I don’t like guessing, then I’d say the weapon was some sort of a bat, possibly baseball, and most certainly wooden, considering the presence of these splinters.’ He tweezered a tiny shard of wood from a pool of blood and held it up. ‘Could be made from ash, that’s the most usual, or if our killer went upmarket for his bat, it could be made from maple.’

  Wheeler shook her head. ‘With so many baseball bats in circulation in the city, is it not about time we had a few actual teams going?’

  ‘I’m done here.’ Callum stood with a groan. ‘Want a lift back in Jessica? I don’t mind detouring to the station. For you, Katherine, anything.’

  Wheeler tutted. ‘You still naming your cars, Callum? Is that not a wee bit immature?’

  ‘I name all of my vehicles.’

  ‘Thought you’d have grown out of it by now. Thanks, but I’ll go back with Ross.’

  ‘Suit yourself, but I’ll keep her on the road.’