Riven

by A J McCreanor

  They drove in silence to the industrial park. It was deserted and huge metal buildings blanketed the space. Aside from his car, the car park was empty. Robertson did what he always did: he leaned across and began. Gently at first, touching, exploring, pressing. Later he pursued his desire more aggressively and felt adrenaline fly through his body until finally, when he was sated, he stopped and leaned back in his seat, sweat saturating his shirt. He pulled up his trousers, ran a sweaty hand through his hair and sat waiting, until his breathing returned to its regular pace.

  They drove back in silence, the sweat on Robertson cooling to a deep chill. The young man combed his hair, adjusted his clothes and stared out of the window. Robertson’s mouth tasted sour – he swallowed a few times before he finally slowed the car, opened the window and spat into the sleet. When they came to their earlier meeting place Robertson leaned over, pushed open the door and shoved the young man into the freezing cold night, then threw the notes after him. Before driving off, Robertson reached into the glove compartment and retrieved his wedding ring. Then he switched on his phone. Saw another missed called from his wife. Ignored it.

  Chapter 53

  In the East End of the city, in the empty CID suite at Carmyle Police Station, Boyd was answering the phone. ‘Hello, Mrs Robertson . . . no Ian’s not here. As far as I know he left a few hours ago. Of course I’ll tell him to give you a bell if he comes in. Bye.’

  The strip lighting glared across the room, blinking now and again as if trying to induce a headache. He stood, walked to the window and stared out. In the distance he could see the M8. Cars were crawling through a fresh downpour, their tail lights creating a hazy, meandering path into and out of the city. He thought of the landfill site beside Doyle’s house and wondered why Doyle, with his kind of money, had chosen to live so close to it. He crossed to the kettle and switched it on, glanced across at his desk; on top of the pile of paperwork was a list of some of the items retrieved from Gilmore’s house. Everything that had been removed after the discovery of the body had been analysed for fingerprints, stray hairs, small particles of fibres, anything that would help identify the killer. But apart from an unmatched partial fingerprint and two anonymous callers, they had nothing.

  He heard the kettle click, turned from the window and was spooning coffee into a mug when Robertson came through the door, coat damp, hair dishevelled.

  Boyd raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘You’re late back. And by the way, your missus is just off the phone. You need to give her a bell.’

  Robertson ignored him.

  ‘You okay?’ Boyd asked, ‘only you look drookit.’

  Robertson looked at him. ‘I didn’t expect to find anyone here at this time.’

  ‘Doing a bit extra, couldn’t sleep.’ Boyd held up his mug of coffee. ‘You want some? Think I might have a packet of biscuits somewhere if that thieving git Ross hasn’t swiped them.’

  Robertson shivered. ‘No thanks. Just came in to pick up . . .’ he paused, looked around. His desk was, as ever, an altar to neatness. ‘I thought I’d forgotten something.’

  ‘Anything important?’ Boyd looked at his colleague’s desk, at the neat rows of pencils, three pens evenly spaced apart, all paperwork aligned. Anal, Ross had called it. Certainly it was organised.

  Robertson sighed, ran his hand through wet hair.

  Boyd saw that Robertson’s hands were trembling. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Me?’ asked Robertson. ‘Why wouldn’t I be okay?’

  ‘Fuck knows, I’m only asking.’ Boyd paused, stared at him. His tie was off and despite his obvious chill he was sweating. ‘You getting the flu?’

  Robertson said nothing.

  Boyd took his coffee back to his desk and flicked through the paperwork he’d laid out. There was a list of the phone messages that had come in after the police appeal for information had aired. There had been dozens of sightings of ‘suspicious’ people who’d been seen around the area at the time Gilmore had been killed.

  He tried again. ‘You seen the number of dodgy sightings that’ve been called in?’

  Robertson nodded.

  ‘Trouble is, it’s not that unusual to see people acting suspiciously in Glasgow. I guess we’re like most cities – we have our fair share of suspicious characters.’

  ‘We just need the right one,’ Robertson said.

  ‘True,’ agreed Boyd. ‘What we need is a very particular type of character, a murderer and preferably seen on Sunday night carrying a bloody baseball bat dripping with James Gilmore’s DNA.’

  ‘Aye right.’

  Boyd flicked through the updates. ‘Nothing much of interest here.’ He sipped his coffee and once again read the neatly typed notes taken from the staff at St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High. ‘Word for word the notes from the other two schools could have been from Watervale Academy for all the insight they offer into who James Gilmore was.’

  Silence. He looked up at Robertson, saw that he had pulled his shirt collar around his throat, held it there with shaking hands, struggled to keep his voice steady. ‘I’m off then.’

  ‘Did you get what you came in for?’ Boyd nodded to Robertson’s desk.

  Robertson looked blank for a second before muttering, ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Boyd watched him leave. ‘Okay, see you in the morning.’

  But Robertson had gone.

  Boyd settled himself and began scrolling down the new list of messages. He was on the third message when he saw one that might actually be helpful.

  ‘Hello, I saw your appeal about James Gilmore. Me and James . . . we went out for a while. It was years ago though. Not sure it matters much. Haven’t seen him in donkey’s – maybe it’s wasting your time? Anyway, here’s my number. I could tell you a wee bit about him. Not sure it would be anything you didn’t already know. But let me know if you want to talk. Bye-bye.’

  The woman’s name was listed as Ms Debbie Morgan and her home address was in Sighthill. She’d supplied both her home telephone number and her mobile. Boyd jotted them down. They could call her but it was always more helpful to meet with an individual; sometimes it was what they didn’t say that was the most useful. Boyd wondered why Gilmore’s mother hadn’t mentioned the woman. Maybe Gilmore had a secret life after all? He flicked to the next message.

  DREAMER

  The Dreamer sleeps fitfully. He dreams of that night, of the storm. He dreams of leaving the house just as the big man was arriving. Both of them had had the same intention, had wanted the same outcome. Gilmore dead. The Dreamer hadn’t known that; he had felt that he had to do it. The Dreamer’s eyelashes flutter against his face, tears fall and his hand automatically rises to brush them away. He dreams of walking through the graveyard, of the storm soaking the blood from his clothes. Listening to the voice above the storm, being told what to do. Understanding that everything had changed.

  Chapter 54

  Robertson parked his car in the driveway and as the overhead security light came on he saw a fox disappear through the hedge. He walked to the front door and put his key into the lock, turned it, pushed open the door and went inside. Despite the two painkillers he felt the headache spread across his skull.

  He stood in the hall and knew that she was behind him before she spoke.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘I called the station.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You haven’t been at work, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where then?’

  He stared at the carpet. It was over. ‘Out, driving around, thinking.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Us.’

  She waited.

  ‘We’re over. I’m leaving.’

  Saw her look at him; she was hollow-eyed from crying. She started to shake. Robertson left her in the hall and went to the bedroom, took the case out of the cupboard and began packing.

  Heard his wife crying, heard her anger rage into words, then soun
ds. Ignored it; it was white noise in the background of his journey.

  A few minutes later and he was in the car again, driving through the empty streets, finally stopping at a cheap hotel. For the time being, it would do. He heard his mobile shrill, checked the number. It was Margaret. He switched it off.

  Chapter 55

  Friday, 13 December

  Morning

  It was the constant buzz that unnerved him, like the sound of a million hearts beating as hard and as loudly as his own. George Grey gripped his holdall and walked behind a young couple who’d also been on the overnight coach. They walked into the sea of bodies, their heads down, marching resolutely towards the exit. The young man was adamant. ‘It’s a different scale here altogether. London’s massive compared to Glasgow.’

  His companion buttoned her coat up to the neck, shivering. ‘You’re not wrong there. Glasgow’s population is around what? The half million mark?’

  ‘Wee bit over but that’s the ball park.’ He walked beside her. ‘It’s a village in comparison.’

  ‘What’s London then?’

  ‘Seven point five million and still growing.’ The man hoisted his bag over his shoulder. ‘As I said, it’s a different scale.’

  They followed the sign for the tube station. George Grey did as he’d been told and turned towards the taxi rank, where he queued for a quarter of an hour before climbing into the back of a black cab. His hand shook as he gave the piece of paper to the driver; the address had been neatly written out. He sat back in the cab and gnawed at the nail on his thumb. The nail was ragged and torn and his fingers were translucent with the cold. Forty-five minutes later they drove through wrought-iron gates and down a long gravel driveway. Huge oak trees lined either side of the drive, casting shadows over an already cold day.

  ‘This used to be the lunatic asylum.’ The driver pulled up in front of the building and switched off the meter. ‘What’s it now then?’

  George Grey blinked, said nothing, thrust the notes into the driver’s hand and stepped out of the taxi and into a wind that whipped his face and tore at his clothes. The icy rain made his face feel raw. He waited until the taxi had driven off before turning towards the house. The place was in darkness save for a single light upstairs. The huge wooden door was closed; a bell on the left rang far into the house. He heard footsteps on a wooden floor, then the door opened. George Grey stood on the step in the rain and blinked at the man.

  ‘Come in George; I’ve been expecting you.’

  George heard the door close behind him and the lock fall into place.

  Chapter 56

  Wheeler opened the door and a blast of heat from the station hit her. She took the stairs to the CID suite two at a time and walked into the room just in time to overhear something positive.

  ‘Well, it’s a result.’

  ‘Cheers, boss.’

  Stewart was perched on the edge of her desk, still talking. ‘We’ll get someone out there to interview her.’ Boyd was finishing his morning coffee and was looking very pleased with himself and she guessed it wasn’t just because he was scoffing the last of a Belgian bun and was on a sugar hit.

  Boyd brushed the flakes of the bun from his shirt.

  Wheeler dumped her coat over her chair. ‘What?’

  ‘Boyd’s traced an ex-girlfriend of James Gilmore’s,’ said Stewart.

  ‘And not Angela Meek,’ added Boyd.

  ‘Aye, right.’ Stewart smoothed his tie and fiddled with his cufflinks. ‘Well, Angela Meek was cremated thirty years ago and her ashes scattered on the Clyde, so no, not her.’

  ‘His mother didn’t seem to think he’d dated again,’ said Wheeler.

  ‘This woman says she dated him a while back, but she phoned in, left a message. Mammies don’t always know best,’ said Boyd.

  ‘So, go see her, Wheeler.’ Stewart stood and arched his back, groaned. ‘Bloody squash.’

  ‘On my way.’ As she watched Stewart leave the room, she tried to shake the image of him in a dress. Failed.

  ‘I’ll drive.’ Boyd pulled on his padded anorak, stood waiting for her like an eager puppy. A very round puppy.

  ‘No chance. I’ve seen your driving; it’s worse than Ross’s.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Uh huh. And don’t sound so pleased about it.’

  Beside her in the car, Boyd was dipping into a bag of crisps. ‘We going past the stone circle?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘The stone circle up by Sighthill.’

  ‘You kidding me?’

  ‘Nope. There was a stone circle built in the 1970s up by Sighthill. Properly aligned and everything.’

  She peered at him. ‘Glasgow’s very own Stonehenge?’

  He tucked into the last of the crisps. ‘You mind?’ He pointed to the radio.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Boyd turned the dial to hear the sports discussion. Wheeler tuned out, thought about a Glasgow stone circle and decided she might check it out at some point, see if it really existed. Right now she needed to get to Gilmore’s ex-girlfriend. Debbie Morgan lived in a flat on the thirteenth floor of a high-rise in Sighthill. One of the remaining high-rises which had so far escaped demolition. Wheeler drove through the city, towards the Tron theatre, turning up the High Street and driving on past the Royal Infirmary.

  A few minutes later she turned the car into the car park. The weather meant that they trotted from the car to the entrance to the building. They took the lift; it smelled of cheap air freshener. Boyd sniffed. ‘Could be worse.’

  The thirteenth floor was immaculate; potted plants lined the corridor and little welcome mats sat outside doors.

  The woman who opened the door was in her late forties, bleach-blonde, skinny. Smelled like a smoker. Sported a black eye. ‘You the polis?’

  Wheeler and Boyd flashed their ID cards.

  They followed her into a sitting room that could have rivalled Santa’s grotto. A huge silver tree stood in the corner of the room, every branch dripping with baubles, tinsel, ropes of glittering beads and multicoloured fairy lights. A pink angel sat on top of the tree, one eye winking. Boyd stared at it. ‘That thing winking at me?’

  Debbie flushed with pleasure. ‘I know, it’s brilliant, isn’t it? Runs off a wee battery.’

  ‘My girlfriend would love that,’ Boyd said.

  ‘I got it from the Barras . . . and—’

  Wheeler cleared her throat.

  Boyd flushed. ‘Sorry boss, just stuck for a pressie and—’

  Debbie tried to save him by changing the subject. ‘Yous two want coffee?’

  ‘No thanks, we’re fine.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind, thanks.’

  They’d spoken in unison.

  Debbie Morgan looked at them. ‘What’s it to be then?’

  Wheeler spoke. ‘Nothing for me but if my colleague here wants something.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Boyd.

  Debbie patted Boyd’s arm. ‘It’s no problem, I’ll make us a coffee. I fancy a wee Bailey’s coffee myself. What about you?’

  Boyd glanced at Wheeler. ‘Maybe just the coffee then.’

  ‘On duty? Ach I’m sure your boss’ll no mind,’ she stared at Wheeler, ‘will you?’

  ‘Actually I do.’ Wheeler smiled. ‘No point in drinking this early.’

  Debbie shot Boyd a sympathetic glance. ‘I’ll away and make you a straight coffee. No wee treats,’ she stared reproachfully at Wheeler, ‘even though it is nearly Christmas.’

  When she returned with the tray, she joined them on the sofa, slotting herself neatly between the arm of the sofa and Boyd. It was a tight squeeze. ‘So, I read about James, that’s why I phoned you and left a message. I read that he got killed last Sunday but I’ve been away for a few days or I would’ve called in straight away. I had a wee accident.’ She touched her blackened eye.

  ‘You okay now?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Fine, ta.’

  ‘I’m sorry about how you heard of James
Gilmore’s death.’ Wheeler kept her voice compassionate. ‘You said in the message you’d been dating.’

  ‘Ages ago, I mean years ago. It didn’t last long.’

  ‘We spoke to his mother,’ said Wheeler. ‘She seemed to think he’d only ever had one girlfriend.’

  ‘Never met her. Didn’t even know his mum was still alive – he never mentioned her. James didn’t talk about much; he was a bit secretive. But also a bit of a show-off.’

  Boyd leaned forward. ‘In what way?’

  ‘He wouldn’t talk about his work much, said it was confidential. And we hardly went out on our own, you know, just the two of us? He always wanted to go to the same places his work cronies would go to; it was kind of like he was proud that we were dating. It’s not that he especially liked them or anything. But . . .’