Riven

by A J McCreanor

  ‘Don’t be so bloody sensitive Ross, Pete Newton’s not just anyone. I mean he’s a bloody good professional and by Christ, we need professionals around here.’

  Ross huffed and said nothing.

  Wheeler thought for a moment, before the penny dropped. ‘He’s a psychologist, a criminal profiler, isn’t he?’

  ‘Aren’t they called BIAs now?’ said Ross.

  ‘Right,’ she waited.

  ‘Behavioural Investigative Advisers.’

  ‘I’m glad we’ve got that settled.’ Wheeler looked at Stewart. ‘Whatever they’re called, I’m right, am I not?’

  Stewart snorted, ‘We need to use every resource we have. Do you understand what I’ve been saying to you both?’

  She nodded.

  Stewart had Grim’s article spread out before him and he jabbed his finger at the paper. ‘“Despite the horrific murder, Police have no new leads . . .”’

  ‘With respect, I don’t think the team want a BIA from outside to tell them how to do their job.’

  ‘With all due respect, Wheeler, have you anything new on Gilmore’s murder?’

  She studied the floor.

  ‘Are there any more suspects you’ve still to interview?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And other than a partial fingerprint which doesn’t seem to match anything on our database, and two anonymous callers, what do we have?’

  Wheeler and Ross were both silent.

  ‘Well then, we’ve nothing to lose by giving Pete a try,’ Stewart looked at her, held eye contact, smiled, ‘have we?’

  She walked to the door, pushing past Ross.

  ‘Give him a chance, he’s a good guy,’ Stewart called, reaching for the phone. A minute later he spoke into the receiver, ‘Hi Pete. Yeah, I’ve spoken with the team and they’re all very enthusiastic about a meet-up – they jumped at the chance of liaising with a psychologist.’ Stewart waited until the laughter at the other end of the line subsided before continuing, ‘Seriously Pete, we could do with the input; how quickly can you get here?’ He paused, listened to his friend reply and then nodded, ‘Great, looking forward to it. See you tomorrow.’

  Stewart stood and crossed to the window. Outside it was dark; the lights of the houses shone in the distance and he could see the twinkle of Christmas lights. The orange street lights threaded their way down the London Road, casting a weak light into the darkness. Stewart crossed to his chair and pulled on his jacket. On the way out he hit the light switch before closing the door.

  Chapter 35

  Lizzie Coughlin opened the door, and a blast of freezing air hit her. ‘Shit but it’s cold,’ she complained, ushering her friend Steffy inside before double-locking the door and putting the snib on. ‘That bastard’s not getting back here. Fucker tried to kill me.’ Her voice rasped. She fingered the scarf that she’d tied around her swollen neck.

  Steffy held up a bottle. ‘I got us a wee vodka, hen. Thought you might need cheering up. He’s a fucking waste of space that Mason.’

  Lizzie eyed the bottle of vodka. ‘Whit’s this? Thought you’d nothing till next Wednesday? Did Kenny gie you child support at last?’

  Lizzie snorted.

  ‘Or wee Sammy or Vinnie?’

  Steffy snorted, ‘You’re joking, right? Hell’ll freeze over before I see a penny from them fuckers. Naw,’ she patted the bottle, ‘I got this wee baby from the Co-op. Some poor wee auld soul fainted and they had to call an ambulance. So I just nipped in and helped myself. Wee drink to toast you being a single wummin again. We can go out on the razzle together next week when your neck’s better. Be like old times.’

  Lizzie was confused. ‘Dae they no have CCTV in the Co-op but?’

  ‘Smashed – that wee sod that tried tae ram-raid the place last week, he smashed it. Wee nutter, did us all a favour.’

  Lizzie got two glasses and watched her friend pour vodka to the top of both. ‘Cheers hen, but who’s watching the weans?’

  ‘Angelica’s at my da’s and Tamzyn and Nathaniel are at my ma’s.’

  ‘Where’s the baby?’

  ‘She’s with wee Sharlene next door. That lassie’s a wee pet. An’ she’s great with the kids.’

  ‘Should mibbe have her own then.’

  ‘Nae chance. I hope she’s always there tae help wi mine. It’s no likely though is it, Lizzie, that she’ll have her own. You’ve seen her, right?’

  ‘Aye well, she could dae more with herself, I suppose,’ Lizzie suggested tactfully.

  ‘And I repeat, Lizzie, you’ve seen her, right?’

  Lizzie relented. ‘Right enough, she’s a pot-ugly wee cow. Anyhow, she’s better off without men. I should know.’

  ‘Is it no awfully quiet in here?’ Steffy looked around. ‘Where’s the wee bird? Did you not have its cage in here?’

  ‘The cage is in the shed in the garden.’ Lizzie’s eyes filled up.

  ‘How’s that then, hen?’

  ‘That bastardin’ shite killed her.’

  ‘Mason killed wee Duchess?’

  Lizzie nodded.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘’Cause he’s an evil bastard.’

  ‘That much you knew already, but why did he kill the wee yellow thing?’

  ‘Harmless wee pet, he just opened the door and grabbed her. Broke her neck.’

  Steffy shuddered.

  Lizzie sniffed, ‘She never stood a chance against the fucker.’

  ‘Naw, she’d have nae chance,’ Steffy repeated.

  Warmed by the vodka, Lizzie took off her scarf. Her neck was swollen and the purple bruises had begun to ripen. ‘He threatened tae kill me.’

  ‘And after you waiting for him to get out of the jail?’ Steffy tut-tutted. ‘That cunt’s nae manners.’

  ‘And, I spoke wi Sonny down at the Smuggler’s. Mason’s been in there flashing the cash and chatting up the twins.’

  Steffy shuddered. ‘Filthy, manky bitches – hope he catches something painful.’ She took a long draw from her glass. ‘Got any fags?’

  Lizzie threw her the pack. ‘Two-timing me with them slags.’

  ‘But the cash, though, where’d he get it?’

  Lizzie took a cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply, ‘Fuck knows, it’s no like they hand them a load of cash when they get out of the Bar-L. He’s got a plan. Thinks he’s coming intae big money.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘No chance he’d tell me. Said I wis history. Something happened inside the Bar-L. He’s got together with somebody. Now he thinks he’s going intae business with Stevie Tenant and he’s come over all Mr young, free and fucking single.’

  ‘He’s a shite.’ Steffy puffed furiously on her cigarette. ‘You’re better off without him.’

  ‘I want to get him done, Steffy. It’s him or me. I don’t feel safe with him having it in for me. Wee Duchess was a warning. Next time he’ll come after me.’

  ‘But how? And mind you remember what he was in the jail for – you need tae be careful, hen.’

  ‘Aye, I know what he did, but he’s got this coming.’

  ‘Right enough, but how?’ Steffy repeated as she scratched thoughtfully at a scab on her arm, watched the blood pool, spat on her fingers and wiped it. ‘You should go down tae the Royal, go intae Accident and Emergency. Go now, show them the bruises. Then call the polis. Get him done for assault and battery.’

  ‘You mad, Steffy? That the vodka talking? Whit can they dae? It’s a domestic – they’d no get involved. Gie him a warning, mibbe.’ The vodka had hit home and Lizzie started to cry, ‘I miss my wee Duchess.’

  Steffy reached across and patted her friend’s arm. ‘Aye hen, I know but there’s nae point in going to the polis about Duchess, it’s only a wee bird. They’d piss themselves laughing. And even though they hate his guts, they can’t really arrest him for killing it.’

  Lizzie pointed to her friend’s arm. ‘Gonnae no get blood on my settee, Steffy, it’s no even paid for yet.’

 
‘Sorry hen.’ Steffy licked the blood from her fingers and then sucked at the scab.

  Lizzie sipped her drink.

  Steffy studied the scab. ‘Clean enough now?’

  ‘Aye, fine hen, but I want revenge for him doing this tae me and for killing ma wee bird.’

  ‘You’re your father’s daughter, right enough Lizzie.’

  ‘Mason forgets I know where the bodies are buried.’

  ‘Whit bodies?’ Steffy’s voice was too high.

  ‘No literally, ya numpty. It’s when you know a lot about somebody. Stuff that can get them into trouble.’

  ‘So, how’s that work then?’

  ‘Speak to somebody.’

  ‘Who?’

  Lizzie blew a whorl of smoke into the air and watched it float. ‘Andy Doyle. If Mason’s going into business with wee Stevie Tenant, then it’s got tae be drugs.’

  ‘Thought you had tae marry intae the Tenant clan?’

  ‘Stevie must be expanding, going out on his own. My guess is the two of them are going up against Andy Doyle.’

  Steffy coughed up some of her vodka, ‘Christ, Lizzie. Andy Doyle.’

  ‘Aye, I know,’ Lizzie agreed.

  Steffy stubbed out her cigarette and reached for the bottle. ‘Let me just fill us up again hen – if you’re getting involved with Doyle, I think you’re going to need it.’

  Outside the storm had returned and a thick curtain of rain fell from the dark sky. A flash of light accompanied a siren as an ambulance sped into the night, illuminating the road for an instant before plunging it back into semi-darkness.

  Chapter 36

  Mason stood in the shadows behind The Fern Hotel. There was a smoking shelter and a bin for butts but most of the smokers had tossed them onto the concrete. Stella had driven around the back of the hotel and parked the four-by-four. In the distance, the sound of a police siren faded into the night. Stella approached him. He bared his teeth in a smile. ‘Stella doll, good of you to come. Sorry we cannae meet in public.’

  She waited.

  He tried to make conversation, his voice friendly. ‘Did you not used to be called Maggie?’

  Stella’s voice was sour. ‘What’s it to you?’

  His tone changed as he tapped the video. ‘Stella, Stella, star. That why you changed it, you wanted tae be a star?’

  Stella chewed gum, stared at Mason through narrowed eyes, waited.

  ‘Well, I suppose you have become a kind of a star, Stella,’ he paused. ‘You mind of Davey Tenant? Good-looking boy. Ended up doing time in the Bar-L?’

  Stella waited.

  ‘That’s where we met,’ Mason continued. ‘He’s got a nickname in the jail – they call him Pretty-Boy. It wisnae very pleasant, if you get my drift, so Pretty-Boy needed a bit of protection. See, he needed to pay me to keep the worst of the vultures away from him. A boy that good-looking gets passed around. My protection cost, though. And Pretty-Boy didnae have much. Only one thing that he thought might be worth something. And it was on the outside. Any ideas what your ex-boyfriend had, Stella?’

  Silence.

  ‘A wee home-made video. But I can get it copied onto a DVD. Anyway, I think the correct term for it is sex tape. You and him had a wee fling. Pretty-Boy Davey was specific about the dates.’

  She waited.

  ‘See and the dates mean that you were two-timing Andy Doyle. Can’t think of him being pleased about that.’ Mason’s eyes shone. ‘What do you think, Stella-star?’

  Her jaw moved rhythmically, gum being pushed around her mouth. ‘It was a long while ago. I was a different person then.’

  Mason held out his hands palms up. ‘Fair enough, then Doyle won’t be too bothered that the lassie he’s shacked up with has the starring role in a wee home-made porn movie. See if this gets out, every gangster in Glasgow will be laughing at Doyle. How do you think he’ll take to that? Don’t know about you, Stella hen, but I’m guessing, not very well.’

  Silence. Stella chewed, stared at Mason unblinking. Ground the heel of her shoe into the ground.

  Mason continued. ‘The stuff ye get up to in that wee film, I wis dead impressed.’

  ‘Davey’s a bastard for recording us.’

  Mason shrugged.

  Stella chewed.

  Mason kept his voice pleasant. ‘You on the stage now an all?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Mibbe it’ll help them see you in a new way. For different roles, I mean. More exotic.’ He cast a sly glance at her breasts, then held her gaze. ‘Ye understand whit I’m getting at?’

  ‘I’m already an actress, Mason.’ The rhythmic chewing, the steel in her voice, the hate in her eyes.

  ‘You did a good job of looking like you were enjoying it.’

  ‘Everyone’s had sex. It’s not a big shock.’ Stella’s voice held. Almost.

  ‘Aye, mibbe not, but you’re Doyle’s property now. And Davey Tenant’s wee brother Stevie is up against Doyle for territory. Think it’s getting a bit complicated? You having sex with the enemy?’

  ‘It’s not like Andy thought he was getting a virgin.’

  ‘Aye but what happens in private is one thing – see, this wee video nasty makes it public. See, it’ll look like you’re soiled goods. Kind of second-hand.’

  Stella looked hard at Mason. ‘So, big shot, what is it you want?’

  He reached across and stroked her arm. She flinched. ‘Don’t be like that, Stella doll, let’s keep this friendly.’

  Stella grabbed his hand, dug her nails in. ‘Fuck off.’

  Mason pulled back, saw that she’d drawn blood. ‘Okay, you want to keep it purely professional? Fine. I want six grand for this tape. Or,’ he held it up, ‘Doyle gets a private screening and gets to know the dates.’

  ‘So, what’s the payback time, a few months? Six?’

  ‘Oh no, Stella,’ Mason winked, ‘two days max. Forty-eight hours. It’s not that I don’t trust you but there’s no point in giving you time to make up some dross for Doyle. This needs to be kept fresh. Forty-eight hours, hen.’

  Stella turned, crossed the dark car park and climbed into her four-by-four, the red sole of her shoe flashing. When she put the key into the ignition, her hand shook. She glanced at the CCTV camera above the exit, put her foot down on the accelerator and drove, missing Mason by inches.

  Twenty minutes later Stella parked the car in the darkest spot behind the Smuggler’s Rest. She opened her mobile, punched in the number and waited for it to be answered. ‘Sonny, it’s Stella. I’m round the back. I need to ask a favour.’

  A few minutes later, Sonny climbed into the four-by-four.

  Ten minutes later he stepped out again and Stella drove off, alone.

  Chapter 37

  Wheeler sat on the sofa, a glass of wine in her hand, Sonny Rollins on the CD, the track ‘St Thomas’ playing. She had left the blinds open and a crescent moon sat in the dark sky. The storm had passed and she watched the raindrops fall gently against the window panes. She had been thinking about James Gilmore and how, other than his mother, no one seemed to care very much that he was dead. Where were the friends and lovers who make up the substance and fabric of one’s life? She wondered who would be at his funeral. She had attended funerals where there had been standing room only and others where she had been one of two attendees. The other being the minister. She guessed Gilmore’s would be more like the latter, although his colleagues at Watervale Academy, St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High might get together to make a bit of a show. Maybe, but she hadn’t sensed any real friendship or warmth towards him from any of the other staff, not even from Nancy Paton.

  Wheeler shook herself; she was getting maudlin. She crossed to the wall where she had leaned a cork noticeboard. She did this with every case she worked on – it gave her both the space and the opportunity to think away from the station. She closed her eyes, remembering the scene at James Gilmore’s house, remembering exactly where his body had hung, the distance betwee
n the body and the doorway, the distance to the window, and also the shape his outline had taken and its relationship with the other objects in the room. She had carefully stored all the images and the facts in her memory and would hold them there until the case was solved and her part in the process finished. Then it would be over to the authorities and the courts. The prosecution and defence lawyers would argue their points and the judge and jury would reach a conclusion on whoever had been charged. Then the bloody images stored in her memory would fade and finally disappear and she would be fresh for the next case.

  ‘But not yet,’ she reminded herself, speaking aloud in the empty room. ‘Not just yet.’ Covering a large section of the board were her scribbled notes on the case, a map of Glasgow with pins showing the locations they had so far. Gilmore’s house, his mother’s apartment at the Courtyard Retirement Home in Milngavie, Watervale Academy, St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High. Watervale was obviously in the roughest area; the two other schools were both in the Southside and had a reputation of being ‘good’ schools.

  Next, Wheeler looked at Gilmore’s personal details; she’d placed a question mark against his sexuality. If he had been gay, he had decided to keep it quiet. Another question mark was next to the word ‘partner’. There was no indication he’d had either a recent girlfriend or a boyfriend. Or was Ross right and Gilmore was an abuser? A number of children from all three schools had been spoken to, but nothing had ever been reported. Or even hinted at.

  Wheeler sipped her wine, looked at her notes, followed the arrows from Doyle to Weirdo, from William MacIntyre to George Grey, who was in contact with Gilmore through Watervale Academy. Wheeler stared at the notes but nothing came from them. Nothing. This was unusual – she usually got some kind of a spark – something triggered her imagination. There was something about this case that was wrong.

  ‘Right,’ she said out loud, ‘go right back to the beginning.’ Top left in the diagram were Alec and Rab. Two boys, no convictions, would-be petty thieves perhaps, anything more? She studied the line diagrams, the links: they were both at Watervale but there was nothing linking Gilmore’s death and the two boys, other than the school itself. And that would link him to all of the other members of staff, including the head teacher Nancy Paton. Wheeler discounted the staff. They had looked into the list of names. The most they had come up with regarding criminal activity had been a few speeding fines and parking tickets.