by Lin Anderson
McNab, looking pissed off and miserable, had taken refuge beside her in the culvert. Finally he decided he’d humoured Rhona long enough.
‘Okay, we’re out of here, before the water tops my waders.’
They made their way back to the cathedral car park through the teeming rain. The crowds of visitors had taken refuge in the cathedral or in their cars. Those caught by the downpour in the Necropolis had had to make do with sheltering under trees, or in the lee of a gravestone. The cemetery’s steep downward paths had already been transformed into streams. The monsoon rains had come to Glasgow.
When they reached the vehicles, Kenny pronounced himself happy to continue as soon as the weather improved. Disappointment bit deep at Rhona, but she didn’t voice it. They’d done their best and found nothing. She declined McNab’s suggestion that she go back with him to the station, saying she was headed for the lab. In truth, she wanted time alone to think.
She drove down Castle Street and took a left into Duke Street. She’d been in this area so often recently, she felt she lived there. The creeping gentrification of the Merchant City would get here eventually. Already inner city regeneration had created a sleek curve of pink and cream flats, just south of the goods yard. Looking at future plans online, she had seen more such architectural wonders in store. Rhona felt quite proud of the planners’ vision. You couldn’t beat Glasgow for big ideas.
She drew in at the lorry entrance to the demolished railway building. From there she had a good view down Duke Street. On her left was the seventies-style block of flats Cathy had called home. Further along on her right was the imposing Victorian frontage of the Great Eastern.
She got out of the car and went to stand over the culvert and watch the water emerge below. McNab had been right to cancel the search. The level was visibly higher now, rushing from one opening to another as sheets of rain moved in from the west. Scenes like these must have driven Noah to build the Ark.
Rhona turned and walked back to the car. She was wasting her time when she could be doing something more useful. She started up the engine and switched the windscreen wipers on full. As she indicated to pull out, a figure darted across the road in front of her, taking shelter under the portico of the Great Eastern.
Rhona cancelled her signal and peered through the swishing wipers, trying to get a better view. The man took a swift look around before disappearing from sight. Rhona waited, puzzled, expecting him to reappear from behind one of the two central pillars. When he didn’t, she looked up and down Duke Street. There were no cars besides hers. The guy had either vanished into thin air or gone inside the building.
Bells began to go off in Rhona’s head. She locked the car and went for a look. The heavy front door was closed and locked. If the man had gone inside, he’d locked the door behind him. In the redevelopment plans for the area, the Great Eastern was due to be converted into flats, with a nursery built on the waste ground behind. Maybe the man had been an official from Glasgow City Council here on a visit?
Rhona walked the length of the building. There were no lights on inside, despite the gloom caused by the rainstorm. If a councillor was taking a tour, he was doing it in the dark. When she reached the end of the building she decided on impulse to take a quick look around the back.
A mess of outbuildings littered the rear, including a couple of corrugated iron sheds. On the Duke Street side, the hotel was five storeys high. Here it was seven. Rhona had never really noticed how close the basement was to the level of the burn. If there were cellars, they would be at water level or even lower. The Great Eastern had been built as a Victorian cotton mill. No doubt the works had used water from the burn in some capacity.
Rhona checked each of the back entrances, but the majority of them were firmly sealed. Only one gave her some hope, its padlock hanging loose from the rotten wood of the door. She stood for a moment, working out whether to take a look herself or give Bill a call. Then she saw a light flicker past a broken shutter on a basement window.
Rhona gently pulled the padlock free and slipped silently inside. In the dim light she made out a row of deep sinks and surmised this had been a laundry. She passed through swing doors into a long narrow corridor and turned west in the direction she’d seen the light.
What had been built as a workshop for cotton machinery had been divided by wooden partitions into numbered cubicles for homeless men. The effect was like a prison, apart from light filtering through the lattice work atop each partition wall.
The corridor ended in a set of stairs going downwards. Rhona decided to go no further until she told someone where she was, then cursed herself when she realised she would have to go outside to get a decent signal. Curiosity finally won over caution. The staircase grew darker the lower she went. Assuming the man she was following had come down here, whatever source of light he carried was well out of sight by now.
Rhona was already working out her position in relation to the burn, and decided she must be nearly level with it. The police had searched this building and found nothing, but Rhona couldn’t shake off the feeling that if there was access to the culvert from here, it would be an ideal location to lose a body.
The foot of the stairs gave onto another dark corridor. Rhona cursed herself for not thinking of bringing the torch from the boot of the car. It was pointless going on without light. She might as well sit in the car and wait for the mystery man to emerge.
Standing in the semi-darkness, her senses on high alert, Rhona heard a faint female cry. For a moment she thought she’d imagined it. Then she heard it again. If she were hearing a ghost, it was the wrong sex. Any troubled spirits here would surely be those of lonely men.
57
RHONA STOOD STOCK still, the hairs on the back of her neck lifting. The faint cry came again, from somewhere below her. Her first instinct was to run. She stood poised for flight, adrenalin coursing through her veins, but didn’t move or call out. Whoever was in the building had no idea she was there. Until she knew what was going on, Rhona wanted to keep it that way.
She edged along the lower corridor, seeking a way down, wondering whether Terri was in the hostel and had been all along. When she reached the end, she found nothing but a brick wall. Rhona felt her way around one more time, in case she’d missed an opening in the dark, but it was definitely a dead end. If a lower level did exist, she couldn’t get to it from there. She grimaced in frustration and disappointment. There had been no repeat of the muffled cry in the last ten minutes and she was beginning to wonder if she’d simply fashioned it from the dead whisperings of an empty building. Rhona gave up and began to retrace her steps.
The return journey caused her more unease than the trip out. Then, she’d been intent on following the sound. Now she sensed that she was being followed, and it was making her uneasy. Rhona stopped and glanced behind her for the umpteenth time, finding nothing but darkness.
As she approached cubicle eleven, a low rustling brought her to a halt.
‘Terri?’ Rhona tried the handle.
When there was no response, she put her weight against the door. On the second push the lock gave way and the door swung open. Grey light filtered into an empty room and a torn curtain flapping at a broken window was revealed as the source of the sound.
The cubicle smelt strongly of decay, the walls spotted with damp. Rhona pulled the curtain aside and let daylight stream in. In the light the marks on the wall looked more like smears of old blood, but without her kit to test she couldn’t be sure. Anyone could have dossed down in the derelict building. Finding blood on a wall might have nothing to do with the current investigation. Rhona checked out the rest of the small cubicle, but apart from a metal bed frame and a broken chair there was nothing.
Intent on her examination, she almost forgot about the man she’d followed until she heard the heavy slam of the front door. Rhona made for the stairs, but by the time she got to a window, whoever had left by the main entrance was long gone.
Irritated, she
retraced her steps to the laundry room. She would contact Bill, tell him what had happened. He could check with the council and find out who might have been visiting the building. Whatever the outcome, she would urge another search of the hostel, particularly the lower levels.
When she pushed open the swing doors, the shadowy space of the old laundry echoed to the drumming of heavy rain on its corrugated roof. If she ventured outside, she would be soaked in seconds. Rhona decided to try and call Bill from where she was, despite the poor reception.
As she selected his number, she was suddenly aware that someone had stepped up behind her. Before she could cry out or turn, the muzzle of a gun jabbed the left-hand side of her head.
‘Drop the phone.’
Rhona released the mobile and it clattered to the stone floor. A kick from her hidden assailant sent it spinning into the shadows.
‘I’m …’ she began.
‘I know who you are.’
He pulled her backwards towards the swing doors.
‘I’ve called the police,’ Rhona tried to disguise the panic in her voice.
‘You’ll be dead by the time they arrive.’
58
‘WE’VE BROUGHT IN Craig Minto,’ Janice said. ‘Liz Paterson from the food van reported him going into a pub in the Gallowgate. We have him in an interview room, if you want to speak to him.’
Bill couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do more.
Minty’s cheek tattoo said ‘No Surrender’, and he had one to match across his left hand. Bill assumed it was a religious war cry and not a message for the police. Minty was a big guy, more so in the confines of the interview room. Not the definitive wee Glasgow hard man, but his expression of malevolent defiance was the same as every other drug dealer and gangland member Bill had ever brought in. His baldness was made up for by thick eyebrows meeting in the middle of a jutting forehead. Minty was a perfect illustration of the missing link. Glasgow’s answer to Neanderthal man.
Forensic had found Minty’s prints all over the equipment in the flat, so there was no way he could get out of that one. What interested Bill was any link with the deaths of Lucie, Cathy and the disappearance of Leanne.
‘Lucie Webster,’ Bill said.
Minty cocked his head to one side, like a dog that doesn’t understand a command.
‘We found your semen in her body.’
A storm gathered between the big man’s brows.
‘Mine and who the fuck else? Wee bitch was doing it more than she told me.’
‘So you killed her.’
Minty looked offended. ‘I don’t kill my bitches.’
‘You just knock them about.’
‘I teach them what’s mine.’
‘What about Leanne Quinn?’
‘She wasn’t mine.’
‘She owed you money.’
‘Half of fucking Calton owes me money. If I killed them, how would I get it?’
‘Cathy McIver.’
‘Too old for my stable.’
‘Not a junkie, you mean?’
Minty gave Bill a withering look. ‘You’re fucked. You know that? You’ve no fucking idea who killed Lucie or Cathy, so you bring me in to look fucking good.’
There was an element of truth in what Minty was saying. Picking him up looked like a success. Against constant failure that was a plus.
‘What if we do a deal? You give us what you know, we’ll tell the judge you helped.’
Bill’s suggestion was met with a blank look. He tried another tack.
‘Father Duffy gave Leanne money to pay you off.’
Minty looked surprised. ‘So that’s where the wee bitch got it.’
‘Leanne brought you the money?’
Minty shook his head.
Leanne had been terrified of Minty, what if she’d asked someone else to deliver? Bill went for it.
‘Cathy brought you the money, didn’t she?’
Minty’s expression was a picture of wounded innocence.
‘She pissed you off, so you shot her.’
‘I don’t have a gun.’
‘There was a print on the gag used to shut her up.’
‘A gag? Not surprised. Cathy always was mouthy.’
Minty knew it wasn’t his print on the gag. But he had met Cathy the night she died. Bill was sure of it.
‘Cathy contacted you and you met her to pick up Leanne’s money.’
Minty’s piggy eyes narrowed calculatingly.
‘What if I did?’
‘Any help finding Cathy’s killer will be noted in your file.’
Minty digested that, decided he had nothing to lose.
‘Cathy got word to me she had the money. We met. She handed it over. I left.’
‘When?’
‘Sunday night. Near her flat in Duke Street.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing.’
‘Where was she when you left?’
‘Standing outside the Great Eastern.’
Waiting for her killer.
‘Did she say anything about meeting someone?’
Minty thought about that. He was smart enough to know he’d given Bill nothing worth writing in a file.
‘She was headed for High Street Station.’
High Street was on the North Clyde Line. Cathy hadn’t gone to Queen Street to catch a train for Cardross. She’d left from the High Street.
Bill left the pimp to stew. The incident room was a buzz of noise. Bringing in Minty had been good for morale. Bill tried to check on McNab, see how he was getting on in the culvert. When he couldn’t reach him, he assumed they were still below ground. No doubt McNab would call in if they found anything of significance.
Bill was reading the emails from Rhona when Janice came in.
‘Sir, Ray Irvine has a lock-up not far from the Necropolis, off Alexandra Parade.’
Irvine was the type to have an expensive flat in Merchant City. Why did he need a lock-up in Denniston?
‘The CCU picked up the address via a porn distribution network,’ Janice told him. ‘When they checked who owned it, they discovered it was Irvine.’
Bill remembered Irvine’s arrogant smile. The man who could afford to buy anything.
‘Okay, go down there. Take someone from CCU with you. If Irvine’s involved in a distribution racket, we’ll get him on that.’ Bill would dearly love to see the smirk wiped of Ray Irvine’s face.
Bill got onto the latest from forensic. Rhona had noted in her email that no individuals called Henderson, Williams or Gordon were on the list from Realpaints, but both Rhu and Kip Marinas were customers of the specialised varnish. Bill gave Rhu a call and asked for the repair department. They put him through to Daniel Bradley.
‘We do stock that varnish, although it’s fairly specialised. Wooden-hulled yachts may make the heart beat faster, but they can also be a world of trouble. They need regular maintenance or they rot.’
Bill asked if they’d had a yacht like that in the yard recently.
‘Matter of fact we have one now. It’s still standing in the stocks. The guy working on it hasn’t been around this week.’
‘His name?’
‘Gordon. Mark Gordon.’ Bradley sounded worried. ‘Has something happened to him?’
Bill kept his voice steady. ‘Do you have an address or contact number?’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘I’ll need to look it out. Can I call you back?’
Bill agreed and rang off. Throw enough darts at the board and you hit the bull’s-eye eventually. He allowed himself to feel hopeful for the first time since they’d found the bodies in the Necropolis.
He called the incident room together, went to the whiteboard and circled Mark Gordon’s name with a flourish. This was the bastard and they were going to get him.
Ray’s lock-up was located at the end of a block of small business premises off Millbank Street. Standing out front, Bill could see the rise of the north flank of the Necropolis,
an easy cruising distance from there.
The room looked as though it was serving as a storage and distribution point, packaging and boxes piled everywhere. The boxes were filled with a variety of hardcore porn magazines and DVDs. A technical guy from the Computer Crime Unit was busy dismantling the computer system.
Janice indicated a manhole-size opening and a steep set of steps leading down to a basement, or dunny. As a kid Bill remembered being frightened of the dunny under his tenement home, its dank smell and darkness. He descended into familiar smelly territory, but here a long fluorescent bulb lit the shadowy recesses.
Bill looked about him. If he’d wanted a nightmare, here it was. Janice had followed him down, her expression mirroring his own. This was why she’d asked him to come right away.
An Aladdin’s cave of filth and depravity, it was a picture gallery of what Gary Forbes had written about in his blog. Countless photographs of countless women formed a gruesome collage on the walls. Lucie was there, the pregnant girl they had no name for, and the second victim in the Necropolis. All were being made to do things no human being should be subjected to.
Ray Irvine featured in many of the photographs. He’d said he went slumming when he made a killing in the financial markets. He’d taken photographs to prove it.
Bill sought Terri’s image in the gallery of horrors, and was grateful not to find her. But he did see the three murder victims whose photos they’d found on the internet.
‘He could have downloaded those, like we did,’ said Janice, echoing his own thoughts. ‘The rest could have been taken any time.’
Ray Irvine had been quite open about his relationships with prostitutes. They were a service he paid for. No doubt he paid to take photographs too. Just like Gary Forbes had paid to watch Lucie in action. Bought and paid for. No laws broken.
‘Forbes and Irvine. There’s no chance they know one another?’ suggested Janice.
Forbes wrote a blog on ‘Glasgow pussy’. Irvine ran a business distributing obscene photographs of local prostitutes. A connection between the two men seemed more than likely.
Janice drew his attention to another section.
‘Take a look at these, sir. Remember the doggers using the Necropolis? Looks like Irvine was their official photographer.’