Chapter 7
Like other sprawling European cities, Glasgow’s ongoing renovation and regeneration had encountered problems. Changes had been enforced in the city and some of the new-world, architecturally envisioned incentives perched nervously beside the resistant old-world buildings. In various parts of Glasgow, shiny new buildings were thrown up in isolation and conflicted with the barren wastelands and derelict tenements that often sat a short stroll away. In the progress-versus-tradition argument, the old pub sat firmly on the traditional, wasted-to-fuck side. Its boarded-up windows were doubly secured with wire mesh and the reinforced door bore the scars of a recent unsuccessful arson attempt. The area was almost desolate; empty premises mourned a displaced or long-dead community and rain battered on corrugated iron nailed across shop fronts. What sign of life there was, came in daylight hours when the bookies and the cut-price booze shop were open and then pale, wasted bodies slipped in and out of each establishment, carefully counting out money to be lost or slugging hard and desperately from bottles encased in brown paper bags.
Maurice Mason stood in the shadows across the road from the pub. He was wearing a second-hand navy-blue imitation-Crombie coat, black chinos, black DM boots and a thick gold bracelet around his wrist. He was bald and drops of rain clung to his skull, like sweat. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his coat. His pallor was grey. He studied the pub entrance. A few of the neon letters over The Smuggler’s Rest had been smashed and the sign now read ‘The muggers Rest’. Crudely stapled to a noticeboard were four A4 photocopied sheets of paper advertising nightly pole-dancing, Girls, Girls, Girls, until three a.m. Mason waited. The pub door opened and a couple staggered down the side alleyway. They were soon followed by a second couple. The women in both couples were identical twins. Heather and Shona Greg had followed their mother into the profession. And their mother had followed her own mother before that. The twins both wore silver platform boots and Shona was already hiking her miniskirt up around her waist as she entered the alley. Two minutes later Shona walked back out, the man walking ahead of her, zipping his fly and turning away from the pub. Shona turned into the doorway, shoved a five-pound note into her plastic handbag and tugged her skirt back into place. A few minutes later Heather emerged behind the second man. As he walked away, she bent over and spat heavily on the road before following her sister back into the pub.
Mason crossed the road and went inside. Behind the bar an obese man, his face smothered by tattoos, looked up. ‘Mason you old bastard, you out already?’
‘Looks like it, Sonny.’ Mason smiled, baring his teeth.
Sonny returned the same smile. ‘Time flies, eh?’
‘Aye, it does.’
‘How goes it?’
Mason tried to keep his voice even. ‘No too bad.’
‘Nah, been in for longer myself. The Bar-L’s no the worst of places.’
‘Not the worst,’ Mason agreed.
‘Cosy wee place.’
‘Aye, sometimes gets a bit crowded though. And I fucking hate that you can’t wear your own gear.’ He patted the lapel of his coat as if stroking a kitten.
In the corner of the bar the sound system cranked into life and a small, skinny woman in her late forties took to the floor, gyrating around a steel pole. After a few seconds she began tugging at the red nylon Santa outfit she was wearing.
The barman shook his head, ‘Fucking mental that Gail. Told her it’s one size fits all but can she stop clawing at herself? Can she fuck. It’s no hygienic and it puts the punters off.’
‘Mibbe she’s got worms?’ sniggered Mason.
‘Naw, it’s worse,’ said Sonny.
Mason watched Gail dance. Recognised the signs: features exhausted by a long and committed diet of alcohol, drugs and violence. A jagged scar ran from thigh to knee. Thin strands of peroxide hair clung limply to her misshapen skull as she gyrated against the pole. Her eyes were already dead.
Mason glanced around the room. ‘That Gail looks knackered.’
‘Well spotted, Mason.’
‘Can you no dae any better than that, Sonny?’
‘Nabody else willing to dae it, wages we pay.’
‘You one of they not-for-profit organisations then?’
‘Aye very funny. I’ve got overheads like every other fucker in this business.’
Mason risked another furtive glance. ‘Anybody still knocking about these parts or have things moved on since I was inside?’
‘Jamieson or McGregor or what? Who are you looking for?’
Mason’s voice was low. ‘Either or. Mibbe no one. Just trying to get the lie of the land, that’s all.’
‘Okay, well Weirdo took a look in earlier. On the hunt for somebody. Didnae say who. Doyle I haven’t seen for donkey’s and the rest don’t bother – they like tae be seen in classy wine bars. A bit more upmarket, where the money is.’
Mason licked his lips.
‘But there’s been a wee upset lately.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Course you’ve probably heard.’
‘Go on.’
‘Guy name of Gilmore got mashed.’ He studied Mason’s face, waited for a response, maybe recognition. Got nothing. Gave up. ‘You been hame yet tae see Lizzie?’
Mason shook his head. ‘Cannae be arsed. I fancy becoming a freelancer, flying solo.’
‘That right?’
‘Aye, commitments just drag ye down.’
‘Totally agree, Mason. Family and commitments, can’t see the point of either myself. I had tae clear my old man’s house last year after he died. House was full of shite. Should’ve just put a match tae it and watched it burn.’
‘Aye, you should’ve just torched it,’ Mason agreed, watching Gail claw at her crotch.
‘Took most of it to the skip. A few bits and pieces I sold. Hardly worth the bother.’
‘Nae inheritance tax tae keep ye up all night worrying then, Sonny?’
‘Nuthing keeps me up at night, Mason, it’s called a clear conscience. Whit about you? You got big plans with all this talk of freelancing?’
Mason felt the package in his pocket. ‘I’ve got a wee plan. A friend of mine in the jail’s got me ontae something.’
‘Oh aye, whit’s that then?’
‘Let’s just say that I’ve come intae a bit of merchandise; it’ll give me a wee income.’
‘Merchandise?’
‘Aye, I think it might roll and roll.’
‘And I suppose it’s top secret?’
‘Correct.’
‘You staying for a pint or are ye just farting in the wind?’
‘Might as well have a pint, if the coast’s clear. Pint of heavy.’
He paid and took his drink to a table at the back of the room. Mason made a point of sitting with his back to the wall, giving him a clear view of the door. He took out the package and looked inside. Saw the home-made video his cellmate Davey Tenant had made all those years ago. Smiled. Piece of luck Davey and him sharing a cell and Davey telling him where to find the video when he got out. They were splitting the money 50/50. Mason paused, thought about the money, what he could do with it, then he put the package back in his pocket.
‘All in good time,’ he muttered to himself. He sat back, ignored the come-on from the twins and watched the scarred Gail gyrate and twirl, lost in a world of her own.
Outside the rain fell in sheets against the building, hammering on the roof and pouring from the gutters as if the water were trying to sluice the old pub from the city and make room for something cleaner and less contaminated.
Chapter 8
By four a.m. the rainfall, which had waned temporarily, began increasing again and with it the wind. Rows of streetlights struggled to emit their glow as the weather settled in over them and to walk any distance from their dim light meant that visibility was poor. No matter, Weirdo knew what he was doing. He parked the car in a residential street a quarter of a mile away and walked back to London Road in the downpour, his b
iker boots squelching over concrete pavement. Eventually he stopped at the edge of the graveyard wall and breathed in. The night air was heavy with earth and wet and decay. The wind shrieked and howled past his ears and pawed at his coat; his Mohican lay crushed and flat under his black beanie hat. Raindrops fell on his skin and rolled down his face. He took a few steps back and then half jogged, half ran towards the lowest part of the wall and began clambering over. Lichen had woven itself through the stones, making it difficult to climb, and he slipped and slithered over the wall.
On the other side he landed heavily, rasped a cough and doubled over trying to get his breath. The bottle rattled against the lighter in his pocket and the smell of petrol cut through the sodden air.
He crept on through the graveyard, stumbling over toppled headstones and discarded debris, empty bottles and syringes nestled beside tinfoil and used needles. His biker boots crunched on broken glass and the sound reverberated around the abandoned graveyard.
He paused.
Waited.
Listened.
Nothing.
Weirdo started on again. Felt the rain smear his face. Heard the wind wail through naked trees and wind its way around ancient headstones, loud enough to summon the dead.
Finally he reached the far wall and scrambled over. He fell hard on the frozen ground and heard the crack of his knee against stone. ‘Fuck Fuck Fuck.’ He felt for the pain, blood on his leg, designer jeans ripped at the knee and then he whispered a curse to a man already dead, ‘You cunt, Gilmore. Fuck you to hell and back.’
Weirdo limped on, taking a wide skirt around the dirt track where the police car was parked. He kept under the cover of shadows until he was at the back door of the house. Christ, his knee hurt. He felt for the knife in his pocket, slashed the air silently. The police tape offered no resistance to his blade. He slid the Yale key into the lock. Once inside, he stood in the darkness, listened to the silence, waited for his heartbeat to slow, then he quickly stuffed the rag into the bottleneck, flicked his thumb on the lighter and when the flame caught, hurled the bottle against the wall and heard it shatter. The flames rose, catching the hem of the filthy curtains and devouring them in seconds, then searched greedily for more to consume.
Weirdo bolted, running and gasping through the freezing night air, the metal stud raw against the tender flesh of his nipple. Bleeding hard. Like his knee. Pain, adrenaline, the fire already blazing behind him. On he went, cursing and running. Not looking back. Trusting himself and the job he had done.
But there was no need to look back.
Out front, the light flicked for a moment before beginning to spread. First the hall erupted into a fireball and then the rest followed. Weirdo was halfway across the graveyard when he heard the sound of shattered glass as the windows blew, belching black smoke into the wet night.
He stood for a second watching the scene, before running through the graveyard, over the wall, limping to his car and climbing inside. He headed home the long way, ignoring the distant wail of a fire engine. Felt a rush of pleasure. Andy Doyle would be pleased.
Job done.
DREAMER
The Dreamer turns in his sleep, eyelids flickering, unaware of the rain falling outside the window. Instead he is reliving another night, hearing the rain on another roof, the sound of breath leaving another man’s body. The groan of the wind outside. The night he had killed Gilmore had been the stormiest night since records began. He had watched the water course from the roof tiles as if the weather itself were trying to wash the house free from blood. The Dreamer moves in his sleep as images flash across his mind, blood mixed with matter. Blood and water. The blood of sinners mixing in some unholy communion.
Chapter 9
Tuesday, 10 December
It was six a.m. when Wheeler returned from her morning run. She showered, dressed and was out of the door twenty minutes later. On the way to the station she listened to a CD, humming along to Sonny Rollins while she systematically revised all the evidence they had gathered so far in the case. By the time she drove into the station car park, she had come to no new conclusions as to why James Gilmore had met with such a brutal death but she knew that the team would uncover more and more pieces of the jigsaw, until they had the complete picture. She opened the door to the station and felt the familiar sense of anticipation that descended on her at the beginning of each case.
She was early for the briefing and sat nursing a black coffee, waiting for the others to arrive. The room was chilly; a forlorn halogen heater rotated mutely at the front of the room, giving off a bright light but precious little heat. The station would heat up as the day progressed and be sweltering before midday. Wheeler looked out of the window: it was still dark outside. Inside, the room was in a seventies time warp. It was a large room, walls the colour of vomit, the skirting a peculiar sludge shade. The parquet flooring had suffered over the years and was now chipped and pieces that were missing had been ignored, leaving the floor uneven. The obligatory fluorescent light flickered lazily overhead. By seven a.m. the room was full and the whole team was assembled; those on night shift were bleary-eyed, needing their beds, while the day shift were yawning, not long out of theirs, but Stewart had requested that everyone attend.
Stewart strode to the front of the room and placed his notes on a desk, patting them firmly into place as if that would create some kind of order from the chaos of their predicament. He cleared his throat and looked at the team, keeping both his voice and his gaze controlled.
‘Can anyone tell me how in God’s name James Gilmore’s house got torched last night?’
Some of the team looked at him, some looked at the floor, others studied the wall. All of them said nothing. Wheeler waited. She knew that the two uniformed cops who’d been in the patrol car were going to be severely reprimanded and that Stewart was going to personally investigate. And after that the two officers would still face disciplinary action. Wheeler, like the rest of the team, knew that the shit had hit the fan and was about to drip all over them.
Then Stewart let himself go. ‘Did you hear what I said?’ he bellowed, banging his fist on the desk. In front of him, officers shifted uncomfortably on their seats but didn’t voice what they were thinking, that last night’s debacle had nothing to do with them. They were part of a team, and somewhere down the line of command someone had messed up and now they were all complicit.
‘But surely the evidence had already been removed.’ Ross spoke clearly, attempting to move the briefing on. ‘So, nothing of any note could have been lost in the fire.’
Stewart turned on him. ‘Nothing of any note was lost? Forgive me, Ross, I didn’t know that you were psychic. A wee talent you’ve kept hidden?’
Ross’s blush moved from his neck to his cheeks. ‘What I mean, boss, is that—’
But Stewart cut him off. ‘Is that meant to make me feel better? That at least we managed to collect some evidence before the place was torched? And since you’re psychic, perhaps you’d like to tell us who managed to get by two of Strathclyde’s finest and burn the bloody house down?’ Speckles of spit escaped from Stewart’s mouth and landed on his notes.
Ross kept his eyes on the floor. Said nothing.
Stewart turned from him and addressed the team. ‘So, despite our best efforts and you will admit they haven’t been sterling so far, the killer or killers managed to murder James Gilmore, then sneak back into the house under our noses and destroy whatever else it was they didn’t want us to find. But thank you, acting DI Ross, I’m gratified that in your opinion we’ve no cause to worry.’
Nervous sniggers spread around the room. Stewart ignored them. ‘So, let’s move on. Who was James Gilmore?’
Wheeler spoke. ‘James Gilmore, age fifty-four, lived alone. Unmarried. Worked as an educational psychologist peripatetically in Glasgow schools.’
Stewart continued, ‘A victim who was found by two former pupils of Watervale Academy beaten to death in his own home.’ Stewart glanced behind h
im; photographs of the body had been pinned onto the board. He waited for a few seconds, letting the team take in the horrendous images. Watched the faces scowl in concentration as they registered the bloody purple of Gilmore’s battered flesh and the hook on which the body had been hung.
‘Okay. Now we know what we’re dealing with, I want you to think about who would do something like this.’ He looked around the room then continued, ‘What do we have?’
Silence.
‘Well, let’s get updated. Someone must have seen something. Let’s start with door-to-door enquiries.’ He pointed to a uniformed officer in the second row. ‘Well?’
‘Door-to-door gave up nothing helpful, boss. It seems that Gilmore’s house is too remote for him to have anyone just passing by. A few neighbours knew him by sight and said that they were on nodding terms with him but nothing more. There were never any invites round for drinks or dinner; apparently he never socialised with any of his neighbours. Not even a card at Christmas, nothing. He kept himself very much to himself.’
‘A ghost,’ muttered Ross.
‘What was that?’ Stewart turned towards him.
‘Nancy Paton, the head teacher at Watervale, made it sound like Gilmore came and went so quietly it was like he was a ghost,’ he paused, ‘albeit, according to her, a benign one.’
Stewart pursed his lips. ‘So, he came and went without any real presence? Your take on him, Ross?’
‘The guy was a bit of a loner – he’d no wife or girlfriend and he worked with kids on a one-to-one.’ He paused, letting the possibility hang in the air.
‘Any evidence?’
Ross shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
Stewart looked at Wheeler. ‘What’s your gut instinct about the head teacher? Do you think she trusted him?’
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