Riven

by A J McCreanor

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I mentioned Maurice Mason getting out of the Bar-L. Stewart just about spat when I mentioned his name.’

  ‘How come he’s so pissed about Mason?’ asked Wheeler.

  ‘Mason got off with manslaughter.’

  ‘So? It’s a result. He was put away.’

  ‘Not the one Stewart was looking for – it was his case, remember? You know he has his own moral compass and according to it, Mason should have been done for murder. The boss is going for promotion and the top brass have long memories.’

  Wheeler sat back in her chair, looked around the tired room, the flaking paint and the worn furniture and wondered how it was meant to inspire success. She rubbed her eyes. ‘Anyway, how long’s the interrogation going to be?’

  ‘Not long; it looked like Alec Munroe was just starting to unravel.’

  ‘Wee soul . . . what a nightmare, finding a dead body when all you’re trying to do is lift something to sell.’

  A cough from the doorway cut her off. Stewart squared his shoulders. ‘I think you’ll find some of them are a wee bit more savvy than they appear, DI Wheeler. I think that Alec Munroe could get an Oscar for his performance in there, snivelling and sighing like a professional actor. If you’re right and they are just lost souls, then we should try to help get them back onto the right path. But let’s remember that they were there to thieve; they’re not innocent bystanders. He managed to talk to Robertson at the scene. Why?’ He beckoned to her. ‘A moment?’ He led the way to his office, settled himself behind his desk.

  She stood waiting, glanced at the framed photographs on his desk. Him looking like a film star in every one. And his wife, Adrianne, looking the same.

  Stewart steepled his fingers, pointing his manicured nails at the ceiling. Then he watched her for a second, licked his lips. ‘Wheeler, I think we need to focus on the school. Maybe the two wee muppets back there aren’t involved at all, but,’ he stared hard at her, ‘we still need to keep digging.’

  She waited.

  ‘I think that probably the two boys aren’t involved but in that case we have to eliminate them. Their prints are in the house.’

  ‘But we can explain that.’

  ‘Let’s just hold it for the time being. I want you to go make a home visit.’

  She knew what was coming even before he said it. A woman’s job.

  ‘We’re getting someone from Education Personnel out of their beds to get Gilmore’s records. Meantime the good news is that Watervale’s head teacher, Ms Paton, has been located; the bad news is she’s off to a family wedding in Canada first thing in the morning and so she needs to be interviewed tonight.’ He handed her a scrap of paper with an address scrawled on it. ‘The head teacher’s also supplied us with Gilmore’s next of kin – his mother lives in a care home in Milngavie.’

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘She’s just coming round from an operation and is still groggy. The doctor says to wait until tomorrow when she can understand things a bit more.’

  ‘Surely she should be told first?’

  ‘Not while she can’t take it in. You can take Boyd or Ross with you to interview the head teacher. You know you’re great at getting information.’

  She looked at him. ‘Woman’s intuition?’

  He smiled. ‘What? I know you have your own way of working,’ he paused, ‘but for now though, let’s just agree to go with mine? Give it a go?’ He held eye contact a fraction too long.

  Wheeler tried not to get involved with the smile, stared through the eye contact, telling herself that she was imagining it, that he did trust her to do a good job, that he wasn’t just giving her the soft option. But, a jaunt to the West End to interview the head teacher was taking her out of the loop, so she kept her voice equally smooth. ‘With respect, boss . . . I’d rather stay here and—’

  He didn’t bother trying another smile. ‘I like your enthusiasm, Wheeler, but the team are already on to it. They’re good cops; if there’s anything there, they’ll spot it.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t?’

  ‘Wheeler, we both know you’re headed for the top – maybe give others a wee chance to shine? Anyway, the briefing’s first thing in the morning, seven a.m. sharp. We’ll share all the information we’ve collected then.’ He paused. ‘And Wheeler?’

  She sighed. ‘Boss?’

  ‘The head’s waiting.’

  She gave a terse nod and closed the door quietly behind her.

  They drove west on London Road, past the dirt track leading to Gilmore’s house, out past the new housing development, Belvedere Village, houses that replaced the old Belvedere Hospital, past the huge, looming structure that was the Sir Chris Hoy Velodrome, built for the Commonwealth Games. Out through Bridgton Cross and rows of tenement buildings, past the deserted Barras market, a ghost of itself when closed. They drove along the Gallowgate and the Trongate with its steeple inscribed Nemo me impune lacessit (no one provokes me with impunity) and on through the city centre, until they saw the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and the bohemian West End.

  A few minutes later they stood in the rain outside Nancy Paton’s home. The wind was up and Wheeler shivered inside her coat. Her knock was loud.

  Ross whistled. ‘Big difference between this and Gilmore’s place.’

  ‘Big difference.’

  The red sandstone townhouse stood back from the road in its own neat, ornamental garden. Like Gilmore’s house it had stained-glass windows, but this time they were all intact, an orderly repetition of Mackintosh-type roses arching across each pane. The frames were painted green to match the door, which had a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. A light went on in an upstairs room. They waited.

  ‘Classical architecture this, not like the station,’ Wheeler muttered, teeth chattering.

  ‘Aye, the station’s brutal. Bit like this weather.’

  ‘Dead on, Ross; I’m impressed.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Know how the station’s all concrete?’

  ‘Aye, so?’

  ‘When it’s built with poured concrete like that it’s called Brutalist architecture.’ Wheeler hugged her coat to her. ‘Thought you’d like to discuss some culture, seeing as we’re just standing out here freezing our arses off.’

  ‘Aye, it’s a comfort right enough, but I’d rather be inside getting a cup of tea and a heat.’

  They saw a light go on in the top-floor landing and a few seconds later the hall light was switched on. The door was finally opened by a brittle-looking woman in her late fifties. She was small and scrawny and her cashmere cardigan hung around her thin frame. Her dark eyes were pitted in a face criss-crossed with lines. On both hands blue veins snaked towards her cuffs and ten curved talons were painted the same red as the slash of colour across her mouth. Her voice was the voice of someone with a lifelong love affair with nicotine. ‘Police? A Detective Chief Inspector Stewart called earlier and explained what has happened,’ she rasped. Paton studied their ID cards for a few seconds before finally, reluctantly, standing back. ‘Dreadful business all this. I suppose you’d better come in.’

  ‘Thanks.’ They followed her into a large reception hall.

  ‘This news about James, I can hardly believe it. Just awful, but as I explained to your colleague, I don’t really see how I can help.’

  She crossed the hall, heels clicking on polished wood; the air was lemon-scented. A huge vase of silk roses dominated a slim glass-and-steel console table. She led them into a sitting room with bow windows offering a view across to the houses opposite. Paton fixed her bony spine on one sofa and beckoned for them to sit on the one opposite. No tea was offered. Wheeler sensed Ross’s disappointment.

  ‘So, the CID are visiting me at home about one of my staff.’

  ‘A dead member of staff,’ said Ross.

  ‘Suppose you tell me what it is you need to know.’

  Wheeler edged forward on her seat. ‘We just need some background on Mr Gilmore, a bit o
f an insight into what he was like.’

  ‘Well, he usually came in on a Tuesday or a Friday – it depended on his timetable. He stayed an hour or so; I often didn’t see him at all. He typed up his reports on the children he was working with, left them in my tray for me. Usually the reports were fairly accurate.’

  ‘Was he married?’

  Paton paused. ‘Never mentioned it. Only mentioned his mother once.’

  ‘In a home in Milngavie,’ said Wheeler.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be out there now?’

  ‘She’s just coming round from an op. We’ll speak to her first thing in the morning.’ Wheeler paused. ‘What about the children Mr Gilmore was working with; what were they like?’

  ‘He came in to see George Grey,’ she paused. ‘He’d seen a few of the others in the past, but he’s only working with George now.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Only working with George because . . .?’

  Paton lit up a cigarette and sucked angrily on it, the ridges around her mouth gathering together like a concertina. ‘We wanted James to work longer sessions with George, to look at building up his self-esteem, to try to get his confidence up to a reasonable level.’ She gnawed at the cigarette. ‘There are some concerns about George; he’s become very withdrawn and uncommunicative recently. Become a bit of a shell. Difficult area, as you can appreciate, getting weans to talk.’

  ‘But there’s been something wrong just lately. Any ideas what it might be?’

  ‘Could be anything, knowing his background. You know the kind of kids we get at Watervale – their lives are usually very difficult.’

  ‘Neglect?’ asked Wheeler.

  ‘Neglect in one form or another. Sometimes it’s economic, sometimes emotional, sometimes unintentional, but it can be deliberate. On a few occasions it’s been worse than just emotional, it can be physical too. We know our kids and George has been acting out of character, becoming tight-lipped and defensive if we ask him what’s wrong. Not like his usual chatty self.’

  ‘More than just teenage angst?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have asked James to work with him if that’s all it was, would I? But George has a hard enough life at home. I wanted to know what was bothering him. See if we could either support him through it or sort it out.’

  ‘George is sixteen?’

  She nodded. ‘You got kids Mrs . . .?’ Another suck on her cigarette, inhaling smoke and tar with relish. ‘Or is it Miss Wheeler?’

  ‘Detective is fine. Might it be girl trouble with George?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘George isn’t interested in girls.’

  Ross looked up from his note-taking.

  ‘Or boys for that matter.’ Paton sucked harder on her cigarette.

  ‘And you’d know?’

  ‘Three of our girls got pregnant last year. Twelve, thirteen and fourteen. There are worse stats out there, but I’m sure you’re aware of them. George just didn’t show any interest in girls or boys.’ She looked at her cigarette, watched the dying embers fade. ‘James Gilmore was one of the good guys; he tried to help the kids.’

  ‘So did Mr Gilmore get anywhere with George?’ asked Ross.

  Paton shrugged. ‘Nothing specific, nothing we could use. Said he needed more time. He worked slowly, gained their trust, built up the relationship bit by bit. Things like that take time. George Grey has an awful home life – both mum and her partner are heroin users; they’re both off their faces most of the time. It’s a bloody minefield. And if we challenge them about the way they bring up George,’ she snorted, ‘it’s their human rights we are violating.’

  ‘Are social workers involved? Can’t they do anything?’

  ‘Social worker’s been off sick for six months. She’s having a breakdown. Her man left her, then hanged himself. Poor cow doesn’t know what day it is.’

  ‘Is there going to be a replacement sent out for her?’

  ‘Might get one in a month or two. Cutbacks dictate what will happen.’

  ‘I see what you mean about it being a nightmare.’ Ross had got over his need for tea.

  ‘Welcome to my world. End of the academic year and George is out of school and that’s that.’ Paton looked like she was about to cry. ‘And now James has been murdered.’ She ground her cigarette stub into a silver ashtray.

  Wheeler sat back in her seat. James Gilmore had been battered to death and his body left as a warning. A very disturbing warning. Was it something he’d uncovered in connection with George Grey? Paton lit another cigarette, sucked hungrily on it, then exhaled. She flicked ash towards the ashtray – most of it landed there but the rest settled like silver dust on the polished floor. ‘I don’t know what’ll happen to wee George now. I thought he was really beginning to trust James, that they were establishing a bond. I thought we might be getting somewhere.’

  Ross kept his voice neutral. ‘What kind of a boy is George, Ms Paton?’

  ‘Nice, he’s a nice wee boy,’ she squinted through a whorl of smoke at Ross. ‘I hope you’re not thinking he had anything to do with this?’

  Ross pursed his lips. ‘I’m sorry, but we need to consider all angles. And also the two boys who found Mr Gilmore, Alec Munroe and Rab Wilson, we need to ask you about them.’

  Paton glared at him. ‘George Grey has had a shite life. I’m trying to help him and James was trying to help him. Rab and Alec weren’t much better off – have you any idea how difficult their lives are?’

  ‘But they were there to steal from Mr Gilmore,’ Ross reminded her.

  Paton looked to the floor. ‘These weans think stealing is nothing; you’ve no idea what their lives are like. Lifting a few odds and ends from someone’s house, even a member of staff, well, we all know better than to take it personally.’ She paused. ‘You’ve seen the places they live in? The families they come from? Getting caught stealing’s the least of their worries. Besides, Detective Stewart says they called the police when they found the body. Why would they do that if they were involved in James’s death?’

  Ross and Wheeler let the question hang.

  The head teacher got it, her eyes widening. ‘You’ve got to be kidding, a double bluff? They’re toying with the police? Good God, Alec can hardly read or write. The only thing he was good at was painting – he helped to paint the backdrop to the Christmas play. I thought he might get taken on with a painter and decorator in the area but nothing as yet. That’s where his strength lies. Academically he was very poor, though. As for Rab, he was good at PE, got some awards for boxing – you can tell by his build he’d be a good fighter. I think he took it up for a while, fought a few local fights. Again, not that academic but better than Alec. Rab was also pretty good at drama; he was in the school Christmas play two years hard running. Like us all they had their strengths and weaknesses, but to do this kind of thing? Never.’ She sucked on her cigarette and exhaled the smoke through her nostrils, glaring at them like a tiny, angry dragon.

  Wheeler watched as the woman seethed then smoked some more, finally calming herself. ‘But it was George that Mr Gilmore saw most recently?’

  Paton shifted on her seat, crossed then uncrossed her legs, trying and failing to get comfortable. ‘George is a lovely boy but he’s too distracted to do well. James tried hard with him and, given time, I’m sure he would have found out what was troubling him.’

  Ross kept his voice gentle. ‘And now James is dead.’

  Paton didn’t bother to hide her anger. ‘You’re wasting your time if you think George could do anything like that.’

  ‘Who does George hang out with – is he in with a bad crowd?’

  ‘No, some of the kids at our school are violent, he’s not.’ She stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. ‘If anyone wanted to kill poor James, I’d be looking at some of the thugs running about Glasgow.’

  ‘We’re looking at everyone.’

  ‘Why would Mr Gilmore b
e involved with thugs?’ Wheeler asked.

  ‘He wouldn’t; he was trying to do good but sometimes these things are just random,’ Paton looked at Wheeler, ‘aren’t they?’

  Wheeler studied the floor for a second, thinking of the time and energy someone invested in beating Gilmore to death. ‘Maybe he got to know something he shouldn’t have?’

  ‘Like what? If he knew anything important, why wouldn’t he come to you? No, I can assure you, this tragedy has nothing to do with either my school or any of the pupils.’

  Ross kept his voice level. ‘James Gilmore’s death was savage.’

  Paton shuddered. ‘Yes, your DCI Stewart outlined the circumstances.’ She moved to the edge of the sofa. ‘It has to be a mistake. It’s just awful but I’m sorry, there’s not much I can tell you. I already told your DCI, there’s no way either boy is connected in any way at all. I’d bet my whole career on it. Have either of you two met them?’

  Wheeler shook her head.

  Ross answered, ‘No, not yet and I know you’re fond of the pupils but to be fair Ms Paton—’

  That was it – the head teacher lost her patience. ‘FAIR, SON? What age are you?’

  Ross stared at her then looked to Wheeler.

  Paton continued, ‘I’ll bet you that I’ve been a teacher since you were in nappies. I was born and grew up in Glasgow, taught in schools that practically streamed some of the weans towards Barlinnie and you think I’ve never come across a murder before? Are you serious?’

  Ross looked at Paton, swallowed and glanced across at Wheeler.

  Wheeler ignored him, recognised the strategy, thought he was pushing his luck.

  ‘Thirty-odd years teaching in Glasgow and you think this is a one-off?’ Paton was still angry; her vowels had changed from clipped head-teacher-speak to working-class Glasgow. ‘Do me a favour.’ She stood. Conversation over. She turned to Wheeler. ‘It’s not like I’m an unfeeling old bitch but there really isn’t anything else I can add. Alec and Rab had nothing to do with it. Neither did George Grey. It’s terrible that poor James is dead but you should be out there finding his killer, not going after some poor weans.’

  ‘Was there anything unusual in the days or weeks leading up to this?’ Wheeler spoke quickly, aware that Paton had finished with them.