Riven

by A J McCreanor

  Paton shook her head, ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Well, James did mention that he thought some old correspondence might have gone missing from his briefcase, old bills, that sort of thing. Reminder for a bill or something. Nothing important.’

  ‘Did he report it to the police?’

  ‘What do you think? He wasn’t sure, just a couple of old envelopes, a receipt maybe. Not worth the bother. If they were taken at all and he’d not just mislaid them. He wasn’t that sure.’

  Wheeler kept her voice gentle. ‘Thanks anyway. If you remember anything, you know where we are. We’ll go into school tomorrow and have a wee word with George, but it’ll be a quiet word.’

  Paton tapped her arm. ‘You see that it is. I won’t be there, I’ve got to go to a wedding, but I’ll hear about it. George Grey’s a poor wee soul, you see and remember that.’

  They retraced their steps into the lemon-scented hallway.

  Paton leaned in to Wheeler. ‘Even when they were in the first year, so, somewhere between eleven and twelve,’ she explained, as if the police might struggle to work it out, ‘sometimes Alec and Rab struggled to do up their own shoelaces. They are not capable of this,’ she paused, ‘unless someone has set it up to frame them. If they have, you find the evil bastards.’

  Wheeler paused. ‘Did Mr Gilmore work at any other schools?’

  ‘Two others, St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High. He used to do a lot more but he was scaling back and had gone part-time. As far as I know he had worked city-wide nearly his whole career so his CV and all his records will be kept at Glasgow City Council, Education Department. We should have copies in the school office. If we haven’t lost them. Our filing system’s shite at the best of times.’

  ‘Someone from the Education Department is coming out tonight; they’ll send us a printout. Were there any friends or colleagues Mr Gilmore was particularly close to?’

  ‘Not that I know of – he stayed to have a coffee now and again in the staff room, but didn’t say much. I went weeks without meeting him if I was out and about. I’ve no idea about his home life.’

  Wheeler opened the door and turned back, handed the head teacher her card. ‘If you think of anything at all, Ms Paton, will you call it in?’

  Paton took the card, glanced at it before slipping it into the pocket of her cardigan. ‘If I think of anything I’ll call.’

  They said their goodbyes. Wheeler and Ross were almost at the pavement when she called after them, ‘And if you find out who did this, you’ll call me right away, okay?’

  Wheeler turned. ‘Of course.’

  The door closed.

  Outside the rain hurled itself against them; the temperature had gone well below freezing. As they walked to the car, Wheeler turned to Ross. ‘Well you certainly charmed her.’

  ‘Bit touchy.’

  Wheeler walked ahead of him, suddenly exhausted. And hungry.

  He read her mind.

  ‘I’m bloody starving. Chips?’ Ross looked hopeful. ‘My treat?’

  ‘The chippy? Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘God, but you’re hard to please. What do you suggest, taking me home and cooking me dinner?’

  ‘Aye, in your dreams muppet, but since this is reality, you can buy me a bar snack and a glass of something chilled.’

  Chapter 5

  James Weir paused outside the office door and spat into the palms of his hands before smoothing his purple-tipped Mohican into shape and knocking sharply, rap rap rap. He waited. Rotated the metal stud in his tongue, felt the new stud in his nipple sting against the heft of his leather jacket and hoped the piercing wouldn’t bleed again; his last shirt had been ruined.

  He waited some more.

  Finally, ‘Come.’

  He opened the door, walked into the room, his biker boots soundless on thick carpet. The smell of fresh coffee hit him: a top-of-the-range stainless-steel Gaggia gurgled in the corner, hot coffee foaming gently into a single cup. An oak desk the size of a boat took up half the room. He fought the urge to gnaw at his nails. Instead he closed his mouth and let his tongue switch the steel stud against the roof of his mouth. Somehow internal flagellation felt comforting.

  He held out a trembling hand. ‘Mr Doyle.’

  Doyle ignored the hand, let a moment pass before answering, ‘Weirdo, how goes it?’ Watched the six-foot-four man with warrior piercings twitch.

  ‘Fine, Mr Doyle. Aye great.’

  Doyle sighed, ‘Wish I could say the same.’ He crossed to the coffee machine. ‘Need my fix. You’re okay for drinks.’ A statement.

  ‘Oh aye. Sorted.’

  ‘I’ve a wee problem; it’s no much but it’s irritating.’

  Weirdo waited, his left leg jerking involuntarily.

  ‘See, Weirdo, I’ve been watching you and you’re making progress. But selling dope to wee university students is child’s play and I thought, mibbe you’re more ambitious, keen to get on in the organisation?’

  ‘Aye, definitely.’ Sweat formed in his armpits; he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Anything you want, Mr Doyle. Consider it done.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Opening a drawer, Doyle took out a photograph of the house. The address was scrawled at the bottom of the page. ‘How’s your memory?’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Remember this then.’

  Weirdo stared at the address, blinked hard, swallowed.

  Doyle gave him a second. ‘Nothing much to it. It just needs to be . . .’ he put his hands together and made the sound of an explosion, ‘. . . gone.’

  Weirdo nodded.

  ‘Here,’ Doyle chucked a brass Yale key at him, ‘catch.’

  Weirdo grabbed it, ran his finger over the rough of the edge. ‘Consider it done.’

  Doyle flicked open a lighter and held it under the photograph, watching it burn before tossing it into a metal wastepaper bin. He turned back to Weirdo, stared hard for a second. ‘You still here?’

  Biker boots stumbling silently across thick carpet.

  Chapter 6

  The Kelvin wine bar was busy, the music just loud enough to complement but not drown out the chat from the mixed clientele. Wheeler was squashed into a booth in the back room, trying to ignore the braying noises from a group of pinstriped London businessmen who’d escaped from their hotel rooms for a night out in the city. Ross brought back the drinks. ‘Overheard one of them ask the barman “Where’s the best place to go flirt with the local fillies?”’

  She nearly choked on her drink. ‘Christ, they’d better watch where they go, they’ll be eaten alive. What’d he tell them?’

  ‘Told them to go visit The Sandy Shack Nite Club.’

  ‘The shit-shack? Oh God, they’ve got no chance of coming out alive. He’s an evil git, telling them that.’

  ‘I know, we’ll find their bones picked bare in the morning.’

  The food arrived and they settled into munching on olives, patatas bravas, hummus, tortilla and the varied contents of the huge bread basket.

  ‘Best pub food in the West End,’ said Ross, munching happily.

  ‘You ever put on weight?’

  He shook his head. ‘Never. Metabolism’s too fast.’

  ‘Freak’. She sipped her wine, sat back in her seat and felt the tension slip from her knotted shoulders. ‘So, what’s your take on the head teacher?’

  Ross scooped up an olive. ‘I think she knows her kids pretty well.’

  ‘And maybe she sees them through rose-coloured specs?’

  ‘She’s a tough old bird; I don’t have her down for the sentimental kind but she’s convinced none of them are involved in the murder.’

  ‘So, if we take her word for it then James Gilmore’s death isn’t linked to the school or either Alec Munroe or Rab Wilson.’ Wheeler speared a potato.

  ‘Yep. Totally coincidental.’

  ‘Or George Grey for that matter,’ Wheeler said.

  ‘Or George Grey.’

  ‘But only a
s far as she’s concerned and she must have a bias towards the kids – you saw how defensive she was.’

  ‘Okay then, let’s assume she’s wrong.’ Ross sipped his Coke.

  ‘You think he was abusing the kids?’

  ‘Could be – there’s a hell of a precedent in place, a loner guy who works alone with vulnerable kids. What do you think?’

  ‘I’ll keep an open mind but Nancy Paton seemed pretty sure of him and I don’t take her for someone who wouldn’t be on the lookout for suspicious behaviour. And there are a lot of quiet guys working with kids who are completely trustworthy.’

  ‘Okay, point taken. So what or who are we looking for?’

  Wheeler sipped her wine. ‘Who else could be in the frame for something this sustained and brutal? It wasn’t just a quick attack – he wasn’t stabbed in the heat of the moment.’

  ‘Okay. If we look at some of the big players – Tenant, McGregor, Jamieson and Doyle – then I can’t honestly see how he’d even know them. But traditionally, a beating like this would be a gangland signal giving out some kind of a warning. It would fit their MO.’

  ‘So, which one of the rogues’ gallery uses this way of communicating? What’s your gut instinct?’ Wheeler attacked the olives. ‘McGregor or Tenant? Mason?’

  Ross thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know. They’re all definitely capable of it but also they’re all complete professionals; they’re career criminals. I think if it was McGregor or Tenant, Gilmore might just quietly have disappeared. They’d get rid of the body and move on. They’re very subtle about their methods. Remember the two nutters who tried to gatecrash the party and muscle in on the local drug scene a few years back?’

  ‘The newbies? The charming young men from just south of the border who were somewhat overly ambitious and decidedly naive?’

  ‘Those two, exactly. Pete Thorton and what was the other one called, the one with only half a nose left?’

  ‘Osborne, Douggie Osborne. Wee fat thing, looked like a slug.’

  ‘That’s them. Well, they disappeared PDQ didn’t they?’

  ‘Yep. But they could have just been given a friendly warning and trotted back down south, couldn’t they?’

  ‘Or they could be part of the hard core underneath some of our newer roads. What do you think’s most probable?’

  Wheeler sighed. ‘The city’s full of gangsters or wannabes.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ he prompted. ‘Where do you think Thorton and Osborne are now?’

  ‘Gone to sleep somewhere quiet. Subtly spirited away to their resting place by a concerned Glasgow thug playing God.’

  ‘Dead then?’

  ‘Dead,’ she repeated, ‘dead and buried under a pile of rubble and concrete.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Ross clinked his glass to hers. ‘So leaving Gilmore’s battered body behind has nothing to do with subtlety and everything to do with a warning.’

  ‘Uh huh, I’d say that it was very personal. So, if it was Doyle or Jamieson? Gilmore would have to have known one of them, but how would he? Where would you meet someone like Andy Doyle or Roddy Jamieson? Or Maurice Mason for that matter, and he’s only just been released.’

  Ross shrugged and scooped up another olive, ate it and then took a slice of bruschetta and dipped it into the oil. ‘Maybe happy-clappy Robertson or lovesick Boyd will get lucky with their part in the investigation. Or there might be something interesting in Gilmore’s diary. Some event that would link him with one of the big guns. Glasgow’s a small city sometimes.’

  ‘Or one of Gilmore’s keys might open a Pandora’s box of secrets.’

  ‘Aye, and if we’re fantasising, there will also be a big long letter written in blood and telling us who did it.’

  ‘So, let’s back up here – what was that comment . . . the lovesick Boyd?’

  ‘What?’

  She dipped the bread into the last of the hummus and took a large bite before answering, ‘Lovesick. You tell me.’

  ‘Boyd’s not quite on the ball at the minute.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He’s in luurve.’

  ‘And that’s a problem because . . .?’

  ‘He’s in love but it’s not with his wife. His eight-months-pregnant wife.’

  ‘Shite.’

  ‘Aye, exactly. It’s getting complicated. The poor boy got distracted by a big burlesque dancer he met on his mate’s stag do.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘She’s a burlesque dancer at Foaming Frothies.’

  Wheeler tried to stop the laugh, but too late it was out. ‘Frothies? Fuck.’

  Ross wagged his finger at her. ‘Not the most upmarket place, I grant you, but the boy’s got a wee secret life going on at the minute. In fact . . .’

  She held up her hand. ‘I don’t need to know any more, thanks. As long as he concentrates on the job in hand. But I hope he sorts it out with his wife. I met her once; she seemed . . .’

  ‘Butch?’ suggested Ross. ‘I met her too; she’s ex-navy. He’s a brave man two-timing her.’

  ‘Focused,’ she corrected him, ‘she seemed a very focused woman, given Boyd’s so shambolic. Let’s hope they work it out, at least for the sake of the child. And anyway,’ she smiled at Ross, ‘you’re not bothered about Boyd being in love because you love Robertson.’

  He munched on the last olive. ‘Aye, but that’s unrequited.’

  Wheeler drained her glass. ‘Think James Gilmore had a secret life?’

  Ross smiled. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ He held her gaze. ‘Even you?’

  Wheeler looked away, ‘What about the letters, if they were even stolen and not just mislaid? You think there was something incriminating in them?’

  ‘Useless stuff, the head teacher said, old bills or receipts. He could’ve just lost them. If it had been important to him, surely he’d have reported it to us?’

  ‘What’s on a letter, even just an old bill?’ Wheeler asked.

  ‘His address, but the boys knew where he lived, said he mentioned it to others at school.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the two boys. If they’re not in the frame then I’m talking about someone who might have known where Gilmore worked but needed more information. Someone who wanted to find out where he lived. I’m talking about the killer.’

  ‘Why not just follow him home?’

  ‘And get caught on CCTV trailing someone who winds up battered to death? Wouldn’t be clever and whatever else the killer is, he’s been clever enough not to leave footprints or much else behind in the house.’

  Ross pointed to her glass. ‘Same again?’

  She shook her head. ‘We’d better not, Stewart’s scheduled the briefing for seven sharp tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Pity.’ Ross pulled on his jacket.

  ‘Yeah, but we’re professionals, remember?’

  Ross dropped her outside her flat in the Merchant City. She lived halfway down Brunswick Street and Ross slowed before the heavy wrought-iron gates that led to her home. She flicked the remote and the rusty gates rolled back, sighing and creaking to reveal an inner courtyard of old stone, mossy and damp, and worn copper tubs of evergreens and ivy. Her home. In the heart of the arty area of Candleriggs, not quite as trendy as the West End but close. Champagne bars sat alongside the Italian Centre, the Scottish Youth Theatre HQ and a myriad of designer shops. Alongside these were boarded-up shops, half-demolished buildings and enough swaggering hooligans to prevent the area from tipping too far towards gentrification. She turned to him. ‘See you in the morning smiler,’ then closed the car door and waited until he had reversed the car through the gates before clicking the remote and watching the gates lock.

  Inside her flat she kicked off her boots, dumped her coat over the hallstand, the sole piece of furniture in the hallway. She walked through to the lounge: one white sofa, one small glass coffee table, a CD player and a collection of paintings and prints. Her flat had been described as minimalist by one friend, spartan by another, bu
t she liked the austerity of few possessions and felt suffocated by too much furniture or too many belongings. Except art. Wheeler had left the army with everything she owned crammed into one rucksack – that was as much as she needed in her life. She felt the same about relationships: easy, light and temporary suited her best. She crossed to the window and saw below her the streets glistening with rain, darker where it had pooled into shallow puddles. Lights from other windows illuminated the night but the sky seemed to press down on the city. Christmas trees twinkled from numerous windows and reminded her again to buy decorations. She checked her phone. A text from Imogen – apparently the show had been wonderful. Two more texts from her sister, Jo. Jason was still AWOL, could she go and FIND HIM? Wheeler glanced at the clock; it was half past one in the morning. She deleted the texts, went through to the fridge and poured herself a large glass of sparkling water. Flicked through the late-night TV stations. Nothing. Opened the novel she was reading and realised she was too wired to read. Flicked through her collection of Thelonious Monk CDs and chose Monk’s Dream. She sat on the sofa sipping her water. Decided to text Jason, not expecting an answer.

  She was right.

  By two o’clock she was tucked up in bed, snoring gently.

  In the East End of the city, in a ground-floor flat in Haghill, Lizzie Coughlin pressed the stub of her cigarette onto an upturned saucer, taking the time to grind the ash into tiny flecks before reaching for her mobile phone and checking for missed calls. There were none. No texts either. Nothing. She took the phone across to the window and stared out. Haghill was deserted at this time of the night except for a thin dog, its ribs clearly visible through its coat, wandering through the rain and stopping for a moment to sniff the air before deciding which way to continue. Behind her, her canary, Duchess, moved a little on her perch. Coughlin’s voice was scratched with nicotine when she spoke to the bird. ‘It’s okay Duchy hen, you go to sleep, I’ll see you in the morning.’ Coughlin scrolled down the numbers on her phone, stopped at Mason’s. She started texting furiously: M where the fuck r u? Get ur arse back here. Pressed send and heard the chirp of the phone tell her the message had been successfully sent. She waited for a few minutes but heard nothing. She cursed Mason loudly before opening the door to her bedroom and going inside.