Riven

by A J McCreanor

  He ignored her, drove quickly but made sure he kept inside the speed limit. Listened to Wheeler speak with Boyd.

  Twenty minutes later Wheeler and Ross sat in the back of the café. They ordered two coffees and two Danish pastries.

  ‘I’ll be back in a jiff.’ Ross raced out.

  He was back before the coffee arrived.

  ‘What’s wrong? Scared I’d ask you to pay?’

  ‘Nope, just needed to get some of this.’ He held up a small spray-bottle of hand sanitiser. ‘Want some?’

  She shook her head. ‘Once again. You’re a wimp.’

  He squirted gel onto both palms and rubbed them together vigorously. ‘No, but MacIntyre’s house, bloody hell. I felt itchy just sitting there. Lice, nits and fleas, take your pick.’

  ‘I know, but what the head teacher said was right – George Grey is a poor wee soul. Do you think he could have had anything to do with Gilmore’s death?’

  ‘Stranger things,’ Ross said as the coffee and buns arrived, ‘stranger things.’

  Chapter 26

  Doyle sipped scalding black coffee and then spoke. ‘Yeah, Weirdo, he’s on his way in to see me. Tell Manky good work.’ He switched off the phone and waited. A few minutes later, he heard a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Smithy waddled across the carpet, hands stuffed into the pockets of his tracksuit top, voice chirpy. ‘Mr D, you needed to see me?’

  Doyle studied the walk, thought he detected a hint of swagger. Kept his voice reasonable. ‘Tell me Smithy, have you got a death wish?’

  The hint of a swagger disappeared. ‘I’m not with you?’

  ‘Easy enough question, Smithy.’

  Silence.

  ‘HAVE YOU GOT A FUCKING DEATH WISH?’

  Smithy looked at the carpet, then at the Gaggia, looking for an answer, any answer. Came up with none. Decided on the direct approach. ‘No?’

  Doyle stared at him. ‘See, that’s not how it appears. Unless I’ve got it wrong, I run this outfit. Right?’

  ‘Right, Mr Doyle.’

  ‘And so when I hear about a shitty fat toerag like you going it alone, ACTING SOLO, then I get concerned.’

  Confusion. Panic. A flash of guilt. Tried to hide it. Failed. ‘I never, I never sold anything on, honest.’ He moved from foot to foot. Scratched his neck. Coughed.

  ‘I’m not talking about the merchandise, Smithy.’ Doyle waited.

  Eventually, ‘I never said nothing to Stella, Mr Doyle, honest. I mean she’s a lovely lassie and all that but I never . . . honest . . . no’ for a minute . . .’

  ‘I’m no’ talking about Stella. Take a minute, Smithy, have a think. When were you last a right arse? Care to hazard a guess?’

  Doyle watched Smithy’s face contort. Heard his breathing quicken. Could almost smell the sweat. Waited. Then waited some more. Eventually he put him out of his misery. ‘See that’s a worry, that you can’t remember being an arse.’

  Smithy rubbed a hand across the fold of fat that was his neck. His fingers glistened with sweat.

  ‘I’m talking about scaring two wee boys half to death last night. Or can you not remember driving my four-by-four across waste ground? Does it not ring any bells?’ Doyle watched the colour spread up Smithy’s neck, waited until his face and neck were inflamed before adding, ‘See, that makes me angry.’

  ‘I was just showing some initiative.’ His voice a squeak.

  ‘You, Smithy, aren’t paid to think. You’re certainly not paid to act out your own wee gangster fantasies. You’re paid to do what I tell you. That’s all.’

  Smithy sighed, relieved. ‘Aye, right ye are, Mr Doyle. Just thought the wee shits needed a scare.’ Rubbed some more sweat from his neck. Wiped his damp fingers on the sleeve of his fleece.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I asked them if they’d taken anything from Gilmore’s. Said no.’

  ‘You believe them?’

  Relaxed smirk. ‘Hard to tell with them wee pricks.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  Smithy heard the tone. Stopped talking. Stopped smirking. Almost stopped breathing.

  ‘So you warned them off?’

  Smithy nodded.

  ‘So, what next? They’ll go home and tell their wee pals, what exactly?’

  ‘Not to squeal.’

  ‘Or else, what?’

  Chest out, flabby thumb prodding his chest. ‘They’ll get it from me.’

  ‘And then the polis will come after you?’

  ‘Mibbe.’ The smirk was back in place. ‘But I’ll no say anything. I’ll stay schtum.’ Smithy made a zipping gesture across his mouth.

  ‘Is that right?’

  Again the tone.

  Smithy swallowed.

  ‘And when the polis can’t be arsed wasting their time going after a fuck-up like you, they’ll aim a bit higher. Mibbe they’ll ask around, see who you work for and then mibbe they’ll come and pay me a wee visit? Seeing as now they have a convenient link from me to James Gilmore via the two wee boys, thanks to you.’

  Smithy tried to steady himself but the sway was way too obvious.

  Chapter 27

  The smell in the CID suite was of dust, dampness and old ghosts. Two uniformed officers had joined Boyd and Robertson, who were working slowly and methodically through James Gilmore’s possessions. The seals on the cardboard boxes had been broken and the contents grouped into piles. Robertson sat at his desk in a fog of aftershave and began sifting through more papers. Old bank statements had been paperclipped together. ‘Nothing much out of the ordinary – mortgage, electricity and gas all paid by direct debit. A few cash withdrawals, usually fifty or sixty pounds at a time. If anything was stolen, it doesn’t look like they managed to get very far. Certainly, no one’s hacked into Gilmore’s account.’ Robertson continued muttering to himself.

  Boyd stood up, stretched and headed towards the kettle; the uniforms had made their own coffee earlier so he turned to Robertson: ‘You want a coffee?’

  Silence. Robertson kept on reading.

  ‘Hey, Robertson, you’re miles away.’

  Robertson glanced up. ‘What?’

  ‘You want a coffee?’

  ‘No, I’m good, thanks.’ He turned back to his box. ‘You seen the secondment that’s up for grabs?’

  Boyd scooped two heaped spoonfuls of coffee into a greasy mug. ‘Nope, but you have – can’t wait for promotion to come around?’

  Robertson shrugged. ‘What can I say, I’m ambitious. Need to get on.’

  ‘I’m too knackered to even think of it.’

  ‘You look shattered.’

  ‘Cheers for that. It’s the new girlfriend – she’s keeping me up all night.’

  Robertson pursed his lips, turned away, busied himself. ‘What about your wife?’

  ‘I never mention the new girlfriend; it’d only upset her.’

  Stewart strode into the room. ‘Remember, you two, press conference in an hour. Mind and scrub up. Boyd, try to look less like a criminal waster and more like a police officer.’

  Boyd smiled. ‘Will do.’ He nodded to a female officer in uniform who’d come into the room. ‘You want to give me a hand going through this stuff?’ He handed her a pile of papers, receipts, bills and envelopes. There was a stack of parking tickets on top. ‘Sorry it smells a bit. His house was damp.’

  She took the pile and sat at a desk, began sorting.

  Boyd took his coffee and began flicking through the photographs in another box. There were old cards, scraps of notepaper that Gilmore had scribbled on. Boyd held up an old birthday card – the writing inside was thick, etched into the paper. It was signed, ‘Moira and Murdo Gilmore. Your parents.’

  ‘Who signs birthday cards “your parents”?’ He showed it to the female officer.

  ‘This it then?’ A young constable had entered the room and stood amidst the boxes.

  ‘’Fraid so.’ Boyd nodded to a box. ‘Everything that was found has been recor
ded and now we get to have a nosy through.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Musty. Damp.’

  ‘Depressing,’ muttered the constable, looking through the contents of the box. ‘It’s not much to show for a life, is it?’ He scanned the pile. ‘Old bits of paper, parking tickets, stuff cut out of magazines. A pile of old photography magazines. Why bother? It’s the digital age.’

  ‘He seemed to be stuck in a different era,’ Boyd agreed, dredging through more paperwork.

  ‘Even my wee granny has a camera on her phone and she’s ancient.’ The constable kept searching.

  ‘Maybe he liked the romance of developing his own photographs? Ever heard of Avedon, Arnold, Doisneau?’

  ‘No,’ replied the constable.

  ‘Christ, that makes me feel old.’ Boyd had stopped sifting and had begun searching through his desk for biscuits. Found some.

  ‘This stuff seems to echo the house though,’ said Robertson. ‘Everything’s kind of dying. I mean it’s all so tatty, so tired.’ Robertson sounded depressed. ‘A life not lived to the full.’

  ‘Garbage really,’ the constable offered. ‘Why did he even want to keep all of this?’

  ‘People do though, don’t they, they stuff it all in the attic or the garage. Hoarders. It’s a condition,’ suggested Boyd.

  ‘It’s all rubbish though, isn’t it?’ the constable repeated.

  ‘Garbage,’ agreed Boyd, glancing through a dusty photograph album. ‘Gilmore as a child on a bike . . . at school . . . class photograph . . . university graduation . . . someone’s wedding.’ Gilmore was five foot six, and was thin with wary eyes. In the photographs he wore checked shirts, grey ties, tweed jackets. Nothing bright, nothing stylish. It seemed that James Gilmore had never wanted to stand out. ‘Nondescript.’ Boyd closed the album. ‘Just the same information we heard from the schools.’ He glanced at Robertson. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing that stands out, no big gambling debts, no Sky sports package. Gets through a fair bit of cash though.’ He flicked through the statements. ‘Doesn’t go into overdraft but cuts it fine every month. I didn’t see much in the house to reflect this.’

  ‘Maybe he paid for his mother’s care?’ said Boyd.

  ‘No, she’s a woman with means; seems her husband Murdo was a very successful academic – he’s written quite a few textbooks and left her with more than enough for her care.’

  ‘Bookies?’ suggested Boyd.

  ‘Then he was on a losing streak.’

  ‘In more ways than one.’

  An hour later and they had left the uniforms to continue. Boyd was working at his computer and Robertson was beginning to work on the set of keys.

  Stewart strolled into the room, perched himself on the edge of a desk. ‘I’ve put the press conference back half an hour,’ he tapped one foot impatiently, ‘so what’ve we got?’

  Robertson patted the papers on his desk. ‘Just finished trawling through this lot, boss. Nothing out of the ordinary. Next up I’ll check the keys, see if I can locate where they were used.’ He held up a key with an electronic tag attached. This looks like the most interesting.’

  ‘A lock-up, maybe, or a storage unit?’

  ‘Nothing about the company, no name.’

  ‘Odd.’

  ‘I’ll call round, see if I can find out which companies use this kind of tag.’

  Stewart turned to Boyd. ‘Anything?’

  Boyd put down his second cup of coffee and tapped the computer screen. ‘Still going through Gilmore’s diary. He was at a charity do last month at the River Hotel.’

  ‘Expensive place,’ said Stewart.

  ‘Fundraiser for a kids’ charity,’ Boyd scrolled down the screen, ‘the twenty-second of November.’

  ‘And?’ Stewart asked.

  ‘High-profile dinner, auction and everything. Lord Provost and loads of high heid yins at it. But only a couple of folk we’re interested in.’ He scrolled down the page and clicked on the mouse. A slide show began and he clicked through it until he found what he was looking for. He turned the screen towards Stewart.

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘Overview of the tables, see,’ he pointed, ‘here and here.’

  Stewart looked at the picture while Boyd talked him through his find. ‘Here’s Andy Doyle holding court at one table.’ Stewart stared at the picture; Doyle was chatting, hands mid-air, making a point to a thin man seated next to him. On the other side of Doyle, Stella was wearing an off-the-shoulder silver dress that showed too much cleavage. Her eyes were shining as she smiled at Doyle.

  ‘And look at this,’ Boyd continued. ‘James Gilmore is at a table on the other side of the room.’

  ‘Excellent, Boyd. Now all we need is to ID the guy next to Doyle.’

  Boyd tapped the screen animatedly. ‘I know who he is, boss. The guy Doyle’s talking to is Jay Haddington. He’s some kind of a big-shot producer – I heard he was trying to raise money for his next project.’

  ‘I want to speak to Jay Haddington; get hold of him, Boyd,’ said Stewart.

  ‘Will do, boss.’ Boyd reached for the phone.

  ‘How come you know all this, Boyd? I mean about the producer guy?’ Stewart sounded impressed.

  ‘My girlfriend’s in the business, boss.’

  Stewart stood, brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from his pristine suit. ‘Keep digging. I’ll call Wheeler, update her on the development, get her to go speak to Doyle. And remember the press conference in half an hour – you two will be on show.’ He strode out of the room.

  Wheeler was finishing her coffee when she heard a text go through to her phone. Checked it. Her sister.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ Ross scoffed the last of his pastry.

  ‘My nephew’s gone AWOL again. I met up with him, told him to keep in touch with his mother. Promised he would. Lying wee shite can’t be bothered.’

  ‘Happens at uni all the time – first time away from home, everyone goes a bit mental. It’s kind of compulsory.’

  ‘You talking from experience then?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  ‘I know it’s bloody normal, but try telling that to his muppet of a mother. She’s imagining him lying in the gutter, with his head bashed in.’

  ‘Bit unlikely, given he’s only mixing with other students and probably the most dangerous thing he does is skive off lectures.’

  ‘Well he’s up to a bit more than that.’ She thought of Weirdo. Said nothing. She deleted the text – her sister would just have to grow up. Her mobile rang; she mouthed ‘Stewart’ to Ross and took the call.

  ‘Okay . . . Yeah . . . Will do.’ She finished the call and sat back in her seat. ‘Well. Boyd found something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He found a picture online, some big charity do at the River Hotel that Gilmore attended.’

  ‘So Gilmore had a social life after all. And expensive tastes.’

  ‘He wasn’t the only one at the do.’

  ‘Let me guess – he was there with a girlfriend?’

  ‘No, he went as a representative of the education establishment.’

  ‘And I’m guessing someone interesting was there, so, if not a girlfriend, a boyfriend?’

  ‘You’re rubbish, Ross. I’ll give you a clue: who lives beside a big tip?’

  ‘Andy Doyle was at the do?’

  ‘Indeed he was, our very own community-minded local businessman.’

  ‘We off to see him then?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Glad I’ve had a coffee.’

  She knew what he meant. ‘Me too. Sets you up, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You driving?’

  ‘In this weather, what do you think?’

  Chapter 28

  The press were gathered together in the biggest room at the station. At the front a large, gilt-framed picture of the Queen looked down on the assembled reporters. Stewart, Boyd and Robertson walked into the room. Stewart looked at the reporters, disappointed at the turnou
t. ‘Looks like James Gilmore’s old news,’ he said under his breath. Boyd nodded as the three officers lined up behind the table. He introduced DCI Stewart, who looked straight at his audience and spoke clearly, enunciating each word. ‘We have gathered a considerable amount of information and leads which we are pursuing regarding the death of James Gilmore. We are heartened by the response from the public and are appealing for witnesses to continue to come forward. We are particularly interested in two callers who wouldn’t leave their names or their contact numbers. We are appealing to them to please call back as soon as possible.’

  ‘So, what’s the update, chief inspector?’ a woman called from the back of the room. ‘Surely you have something to give us?’

  ‘At this point we are still gathering leads and once we have solid evidence we will take it forward. For now we are still appealing for information.’

  Grumbles around the room.

  A young photographer stood at the back of the room watching. He stared at Robertson, waited until he knew that the detective had seen him, then he smiled. Robertson scowled, looked away, studied his notes.

  Chapter 29

  ‘Is that his house?’ Ross had turned off the engine and they sat for a moment listening to the rain dance on the roof of the car.

  Andrew Doyle lived in detached splendour in a stone villa in Mount Vernon. The area was close to one of the biggest landfill sites in Europe. Greenoakhill Quarry covered over 200 acres of land and buried half a million tons of waste a year.

  ‘He’s got a big dumping ground,’ said Ross, ‘right on his doorstep.’

  They had parked at the bottom of the drive and looked up at what estate agents would call a substantial detached residence. The garden was big enough to be termed ‘grounds’ and a wide gravel path wound its way to the villa. A blue Mercedes, a black four-by-four and a silver Jaguar were parked outside.

  ‘Well covered for transport,’ said Ross.

  ‘Aye and the M74 and the M8 are just over there,’ Wheeler noted. ‘He could be in and out of the city in a heartbeat.’

  ‘It’s quite nice, though. No quite your Brutalist architecture is it?’