Riven

by A J McCreanor

  ‘But?’ prompted Boyd.

  ‘But he never really wanted to spend time with me on my own, only if we were out and about being seen by others. He was a cold fish at home.’

  ‘How long were you dating?’ asked Wheeler.

  ‘On and off for about six months.’

  ‘Why did he break up with you?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘Oh, he never broke up with me,’ Debbie laughed, ‘I chucked him.’

  ‘Can I ask why?’ Wheeler recognised something in Debbie’s tone. Resignation, disappointment. Something had been far wrong. She wondered if Debbie would tell them.

  ‘He couldn’t get it up.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Boyd had gulped his coffee so quickly it had burned his mouth.

  ‘Happens to most men now and again; I suppose you’ll be aware of that,’ she nodded to Boyd. He studied the pattern on the carpet.

  ‘Go on,’ said Wheeler.

  ‘Well he could never do it – it was never on the “on” button if you get my drift, it was always on the “off”, so I told him to sling his hook. Us girls need a bit of fun, don’t we?’ she grinned at Wheeler. ‘And I wasn’t having any.’

  ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘Badly. He proposed.’

  ‘Marriage?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  Debbie sat back in her sofa and drained the last of her coffee. ‘I’ve thought long and hard about that over the years. Me, I was working in the local chippy; he was a graduate. He never loved me, I knew that.’

  ‘So why the proposal?’ prompted Wheeler.

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but I reckon he might have needed a . . .’ she put her hands in the air and made the shape of quotation marks, ‘a wee wifie.’

  ‘Because?’ Wheeler asked but she already knew the answer.

  ‘Because, I reckon he was gay and needed a wee wifie to keep up appearances. Had to be – couldn’t have sex, didn’t fancy women. Couldn’t even fake it.’

  ‘Not many men can,’ muttered Boyd.

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Wheeler.

  Debbie paused. ‘Nothing else that I can remember.’

  ‘Thanks very much for your time.’ Wheeler stood to leave.

  ‘More coffee?’ suggested Debbie.

  ‘We’ll let ourselves out. Thanks again.’ Wheeler offered her hand, Debbie shook it then turned to Boyd, winked at him. ‘You mind visit any time you like. I reckon we’re a couple of kindred spirits you and me.’

  In the corridor the smell of air freshener seemed to have intensified. ‘Let’s take the stairs.’ Wheeler strode on. ‘You were certainly a hit back there.’

  Boyd had the decency to blush. ‘You think Gilmore was gay?’

  Wheeler took the steps two at a time. ‘Or maybe he just didn’t like his girlfriend that much.’

  ‘She’s a bit scary right enough but he still wanted to keep her as a cover. What was he hiding?’

  ‘I know, it looks quite suspicious.’

  ‘Or sinister.’ The word hung in the air.

  She paused. ‘But there was nothing in his past to suggest . . .’

  But Boyd was there before she finished. ‘Kids?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Nothing turned up in any reports; there were no accusations. Nothing.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ They both knew that meant very little.

  ‘Pete Newton said the killer hated his mother. Sounds like Gilmore wasn’t so keen on his old dear if he never mentioned her in the six months that he was dating Debbie.’

  ‘I’ve met his old dear and she’s anything but a dear.’

  ‘Gilmore’s ghost is taking on form.’

  Outside the cold hit them. ‘Where to now?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘Back to the station to carry on our sleuthing work. I’ve got a gut feeling.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Something’s changed in this case. The station will be a hive of activity.’

  Chapter 57

  The CID suite at the station was dead, deserted except for Robertson and some uniformed officers who were frantically typing at computers. Wheeler could tell something had happened but the atmosphere was all wrong.

  ‘Well?’ She looked at Robertson, took in the faintly creased suit, the tired expression. He looked like he hadn’t slept. ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘Clydebank.’

  She could tell by the flatness of his tone. ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing yet, except this.’ He handed her a slip of paper with an address scrawled on it. ‘Stewart says to get out there ASAP. We found the address on two of Gilmore’s old parking tickets at the bottom of one of the boxes. Finally called them; it turns out that the key’s for a steel storage unit in Clydebank – Solid Steel Solutions.’

  Wheeler noted the expression, the tone. This was the breakthrough they’d been looking for but something was wrong. Robertson’s tone and the fact that the team had all taken off. For a visit to a storage unit. Gilmore had a big house in Glasgow – why did he need a storage unit too? And why was it way out in Clydebank?

  She was at the door before she thought to ask, ‘Robertson, anything else happen?’

  He nodded. ‘Better ask Ross.’

  Minutes later Wheeler and Boyd were driving out of the city. Clydebank was out at West Dunbartonshire, about thirteen miles from Carmyle, and the journey would normally have taken them around half an hour.

  ‘Shit,’ Wheeler cursed again as they sat in traffic which was backed up on the M74. Sleet was falling fast and visibility was poor. Boyd sighed, switched on the radio, switched it off again. Tried not to appear agitated but failed. Drummed his fingers on his seat belt. Swore under his breath.

  The A814 was the same: traffic was backed up and nothing was moving. Wheeler drove cautiously when they were moving, careful not to let the car slide. Eventually after almost an hour they got to their destination and saw that ‘Solid Steel Solutions’ was set in a remote area on the outskirts of Clydebank. The secure storage on offer was rows of steel shipping containers around ten feet by eight feet. Each had its own padlock. Wheeler looked at the entrance; it would usually be accessed by sliding the electronic key tag over the pad which would activate the huge metal gates. Once a car was inside, the gates would automatically close behind it. Right now the gates were permanently set on open to accommodate the police cars. She glanced around and guessed from the lack of an on-site office that the site was not usually manned, but she could see four personnel in suits standing in the sleet talking to Stewart.

  As Wheeler and Boyd approached, Stewart broke off to acknowledge her and point to a storage unit at the end of the row. He needn’t have bothered – it was crawling with CID and uniform.

  Ross came out of the unit as she approached. Shook his head, walked on.

  Stewart finished with the men in suits and stood beside her. He touched her elbow.

  She looked at him. ‘Boss?’

  ‘A quick look, Wheeler,’ he instructed her. ‘Don’t linger.’

  Inside, her footsteps echoed on the concrete floor. There was metal shelving running the length of the unit. On the shelves in neat, ordered packs, were thousands of photographs and pictures. James Gilmore had been methodical in his storage. There were bundles of images, scribbled locations. She glanced at one of the older packages: Stobwent-Hill Children’s Home, Glasgow. As far as she knew the home no longer existed – it was long gone, its child residents scattered across the city. Other labels simply described the images as Downloads 2008–2009, 2009–2010, 2010–2011. On the shelves there were thousands of pictures, some developed, others downloaded. All dated, sorted chronologically, the most recent at the front. All revolting. Gilmore had been a paedophile for decades. He was in some of the photographs – she guessed that he was the man in the mask, holding the chains. Wheeler glanced at one, saw the bleakness in the young boy’s eyes, the leather collar tethered around his thin neck, and felt her stomach heave, her mouth fill with bile, her forehead break
out in a cold sweat. She turned away, headed for the exit and was grateful when she stood outside taking in gulps of cold sleet. She tightened both hands into fists. Walked over to Stewart, who was talking to a group of officers. Her throat was sore and she wanted to throw up. ‘Boss?’

  ‘Right, get this lot dusted for prints, bagged and tagged and shipped out.’ Stewart’s face was grey, his knuckles white as he spoke to the officers. He looked at her. ‘Back to the station. We can’t do any more here and I think you’ve seen enough.’

  She had.

  Boyd was staying put, so she drove back, insisted on it. Said that she needed to concentrate. Ross sat beside her. She waited until they were out of Clydebank before she spoke. ‘You were right.’

  ‘Bastard.’ Ross stared out at the River Clyde. ‘Fucking bastard.’

  ‘Robertson said there was something else.’

  ‘Yeah, I finally got a reference for Arthur Wright. And a phone trace for the two calls about Gilmore.’

  ‘The ones about Gilmore being linked to him and not being a good guy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They were from a payphone in the Watervale scheme. Near the youth club. Someone had done their homework. Maybe they didn’t want to talk to the polis but they found out about Gilmore and passed the info along.’

  ‘Took us long enough to find it though.’

  ‘It was a long shot. Arthur Wright had been deported from the US, went back to his original name, then an alias. It was cross-referenced, but it took forever to trace.’

  ‘And?’ her voice trailed off.

  ‘Same as back there.’ He jabbed his thumb back the way they’d come.

  She drove to the station, parked, and they were in the CID suite, taking off their damp jackets, when Stewart arrived. ‘Meeting in my room in ten.’

  She nodded but knew that the atmosphere in the suite had lost its charge. James Gilmore had been murdered but now that he had gone from victim to perpetrator, the energy for a conviction had dissipated.

  ‘Changes everything, doesn’t it?’ Ross pushed a cup of coffee in front of her. Slid a wrapped chocolate beside it. ‘Eat.’

  She ate. ‘It shouldn’t change anything though, should it? Gilmore was brutally murdered and we still need to find out who did it.’ But she heard the weariness in her voice, the lack of emotion. An image from the storage unit flashed into her mind, a young boy’s face. The dead expression in his eyes. She sipped the black coffee, sighed, swallowed the chocolate, felt a rush of sugar and warmth. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

  Ten minutes later and they were crowded into Stewart’s room.

  Chapter 58

  Friday night

  The strip lights in the Royal Infirmary were too bright for him. William MacIntyre half closed his eyes and watched while the doctor chatted to each patient in turn. He cursed under his breath as he waited for her to make her way around the ward. He clawed at his arm, felt the shakes begin again. Forced himself to lie down on the bed. Closed his eyes, prayed that the pain would disappear. Cursed again, this time loud enough for the man in the next bed to hear and respond. ‘Christ, will you shut up. You’re not the only one suffering.’

  MacIntyre ignored him, focused instead on the progress of the doctor. He thought she looked about sixteen but he knew she had to be older. He studied her: she was small, about five two, but she had an athletic build and a fresh, open face and her long blonde hair was tied back in a pony-tail. She looked like a different species from him. Healthy. He felt his stomach spasm. Took a deep breath. Felt into the pain. Watched her smile at another patient, touch their hand. ‘Fuck,’ he hissed; the pain was worse. He closed his eyes. ‘Fuckssake,’ he whispered.

  ‘Shut it you,’ the man in the next bed snarled. ‘Think you’re the only one in pain, you junkie tosspot.’

  Eventually she came to him, read his notes. A wee lassie telling him what he should be doing, what he should be taking. What a cunt. MacIntyre sat up in the bed, screwed his eyes at the name badge. Dr Susan Armstrong was still droning on.

  ‘Mr MacIntyre, we can help you with a withdrawal programme. I can get you signed up today if you like. It might not be available right away, it might take a week or so, but there are agencies that could help you. It would be a managed withdrawal, with plenty of support, including counselling. It wouldn’t be like going cold turkey on your own.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m no interested.’

  ‘Because?’

  He shrugged – why bother going into it?

  She moved closer to the bed. ‘You don’t understand. After an attempted suicide, we need to put help and support into place.’

  He glared at her. ‘Mibbe you don’t fucking understand hen.’

  ‘I won’t put up with bad language.’ Her voice cold.

  ‘Well then shut it.’

  The doctor took a step back, frowned, started again. ‘Mr MacIntyre, I’m here to help you. At least try to be civil.’

  He felt his fingers twitch. Felt the ache deep in his bones. ‘How long have I got? How long can I stay here?’

  ‘In this ward?’

  ‘Aye, in the infirmary.’

  ‘Until tomorrow morning. Then I’m afraid we need to move you on. Which is why I’d like to get you signed up to the programme.’

  MacIntyre shut his eyes. His voice cracked, ‘I took a fuckin’ overdose, could you no have just let me be?’

  She glanced at her notes. ‘You were at home when you took the overdose.’

  ‘Aye, so?’

  ‘Your neighbour found you and called the ambulance.’

  MacIntyre closed his eyes. ‘The neighbour’s a thieving git. Should never have been prowlin’ about ma hoose in the first place.’

  ‘That may well be but he saved your life and now I suggest that you accept help in managing your addiction. We have outside agencies who can help you. In the meantime I can get you on a methadone programme.’

  MacIntyre gripped his hospital gown around him and sniffed. He heard more questions but ignored them all. He waited until the young doctor had moved off, exasperated, before he opened his mobile and dialled home. It took a while ringing before she answered.

  Her voice was slurred. ‘Yesh?’ She didn’t have her teeth in.

  ‘I’m no coming back.’

  ‘Who’s thiss?’

  ‘Who the fuck dae ye think it is, ya daft cow?’

  A long pause. ‘Wullie?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Are ye no still in the Royal?’

  ‘Aye but I’m meant tae be out the morrow.’

  ‘Hame? You’re gonnae be hame in the morning?’

  ‘I’m no coming back but.’

  ‘How’ss that then?’

  ‘The fucker that got Gilmore’s coming for me next. I’m oan the list. I’m oan Doyle’s fucking list. Weirdo told me. Ma name’s right under fucking Gilmore’s and look what happened tae him.’

  A long pause, the penny dropping. ‘How doess he know, how doess Doyle know? How doess Weirdo know?’

  ‘I don’t know. But they fucking know. And George has disappeared. I think he told them about whit was happening.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Her voice a whisper.

  ‘Aye, I’m fucked. And I’m no letting them dae tae me whit they did tae Gilmore.’

  Silence.

  ‘You still there?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘So I’m off, away oot of it.’

  A long pause. ‘But where will you go?’

  His voice hardened. ‘There’s no a lot of choice is there? Whit I’m saying is my options are very-fucking-severely-limited.’

  ‘Well. Jist come hame then? Ish that no the besht thing?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Silence.

  ‘That’ss no nice.’

  ‘Well, the-games-a-fucking-bogey for me.’

  ‘Kin ye no sort it?’

  ‘How? It’s over fir me.’

  Silence.

  ‘Yo
u hear me?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘So.’

  ‘Aye. That’s me on ma own now?’

  MacIntyre switched off the phone. Lay on his back, felt the tears come, hot, salty. Turned onto his side and faced the wall. Closed his eyes. He felt the ache in his kidneys begin again and he stretched his right hand around to the soreness. The three stumps on his hand kneaded uselessly against the searing pain. MacIntyre knew about the list – Christ, everyone in Glasgow knew Doyle had a list. And now MacIntyre’s name was on it. MacIntyre knew it was over. Knew where he had to go.

  The bridge.

  He waited until the shift change had started, watched the nurses congregate around the desk at the far end of the ward. Looked at the clock: it was eight p.m. Through the window he saw sleet hammering down on the city. He crossed the ward, stumbled down the corridor to the lift. A few minutes later he was walking past a group of smokers at the hospital doorway; one of them spat on the ground as he passed. MacIntyre ignored them and walked out into the cold night and kept walking until he reached it.

  The bridge.

  He waited until the bus was in sight before he stepped off the bridge.

  Chapter 59

  It’s Friday night, surely you have some time off . . . are you around for a drink?

  Wheeler read the text from Paul Buchan. Pressed delete. She sat alone in the CID suite; it was silent apart from the distant thrum of traffic. Even the sleet outside had ceased battering against the window panes and had lessened to a drizzle. The overhead strip of fluorescent light was turned off. Wheeler sat under a halo of light from the desk lamp. There was just enough light for her to read the reports, to examine the evidence bags. The photographs had been dusted for prints, everything had been logged, recorded, noted. In the still calm of the night Wheeler reached for one of the bags, noticed the tremor in her hand as she pulled out the photographs and stared at each one in turn. Finally she began to stuff them back into the plastic bags. A few remained. Holding one of the pictures in her hand, she tried to imagine the reality of life for these boys. The boy in the photograph had his back to the camera and was completely naked, his skin blue-white with cold. The room was empty, only the boy standing alone, his skin pale but for the smear of red that seeped down his thighs.