Riven (11 page)

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there; I never met the man. I’ve only worked here for a few months. That’s not to say he hasn’t visited his mother during this time – he has on a number of occasions. We have a system whereby everyone has to sign in and out. I checked the book and it records him being here last month, on the twenty-eighth; he arrived at 8.20 p.m. and left around 9.30 p.m. He was her only visitor. As far as I know, she has no other living relatives.’

‘Is there anyone who would have known him well? A member of staff, perhaps?’

‘I asked the carers but no one seems to have known him. A few saw him come and go, but by all accounts he kept to himself. “Self-contained” is how one carer described him, and,’ he added, ‘extremely polite. His mother is fastidious about manners.’

Wheeler rose. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Line. Maybe we should go and speak with Mrs Gilmore now?’

‘Of course. Helen, the family liaison officer, is waiting in the coffee lounge. We can collect her on the way.’

‘What’s Mrs Gilmore’s first name?’ Wheeler asked.

The manager seemed baffled. ‘Moira, why?’

‘Sometimes it’s better to use first names when giving someone bad news.’

‘It’s more personal, less formal,’ Ross added, as if he had remembered the section on dealing with bereavement in the handbook and could deliver it verbatim.

The manager hesitated. ‘As I said, Mrs Gilmore is a stickler for manners and I’m certain that she wouldn’t approve of you being so familiar.’

They made their way down a thickly carpeted corridor; the walls were painted a sunny yellow shade, in contrast to the grey sky visible through the windows. Ross sniffed. There was no smell other than a faint mustiness coming from the bowls of dusty pot-pourri that were dotted on occasional tables. They passed the coffee lounge where the FLO was waiting. She was heavyset and sat with her plump hands resting on her lap, sturdy legs crossed at the ankle. Her hair was cut in a short, business-like bob. She stood and introduced herself as Helen Curtis. Wheeler held out her hand. ‘Glad you’re here. Mrs Gilmore will need support.’ Curtis shook hands and smiled and fell into line behind them as they trooped on down the long corridor, finally stopping outside a closed door.

Line paused. ‘Shall I come in with you?’

‘Might be an idea.’

Wheeler knocked, heard an impatient voice announce, ‘Let yourself in – I’m recovering from an operation, remember?’

The manager opened the door.

They were following him into a small hallway when Wheeler’s phone bleeped a text message. She hung back while Ross and the FLO and the manager all went into the apartment. She glanced at her phone.
Jason
. She quickly scanned the message, got the gist.
Hung over. Party. Feeling ill. Will call later. Promise.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket, walked into the apartment and waited while everyone seated themselves. She glanced around, took in the pictures, was drawn to one in particular. The drawing was small but the line was unmistakable. The subject, a young woman, her hat drawn over her face, was typical of one of the Scottish Colourists. It was an original J.D. Fergusson. Wheeler felt a pang of avarice flit through her. She heard a sharp cough and turned from the picture to a woman in her late eighties. She wore a pale blue dress with a dark blue cardigan and a rope of pearls hung from a wrinkled neck. On each wrist she’d stacked slim gold bracelets and her gnarled fingers held enough bling to impress a rapper. Her white hair was set in stiff waves.

‘Mrs Gilmore?’ Wheeler asked.

The old woman sighed. ‘Of course. They’ve already been here, the boys in uniform.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I knew the minute I saw them that something had happened, that it was bad news.’ She spoke with authority, someone who was used to giving orders. She glanced at Ross, then back to Wheeler. ‘Which one of you is in charge?’

‘Both of us actually,’ Ross smiled gently.

Mrs Gilmore turned her face from the smile and Wheeler noticed how translucent the old lady’s skin was, a thin layer of gauze stretched tight over ancient bones.

‘I knew that something had happened to James.’ There was nothing ancient about the sharpness in Mrs Gilmore’s voice. ‘A mother’s instinct.’

‘Would you like a glass of water?’ Wheeler moved forward. The woman stared at her. Wheeler watched the woman study her, saw her take in her scuffed boots, the short hair, saw that she had been judged. And found lacking.

Mrs Gilmore leant on the arms of the chair and curled her fingers around the wood before letting out a long breath. ‘No.’ She met Wheeler’s gaze head on. ‘Well, sit down and let’s get on with this. What else have you come to tell me?’

Wheeler perched on the end of a plump sofa and kept her voice gentle as she told the mother some of the circumstances around her son’s murder.

Mrs Gilmore sat in silence for a long moment before speaking. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. Saddened, yes, but surprised, no.’

Wheeler inched forward on the sofa. ‘Not surprised?’

‘Those people did it.’

‘Those people?’ Wheeler prompted.

Mrs Gilmore paused. ‘Scum. My son worked with scum. I imagine you do too.’

The FLO fussed around the old lady. ‘You’re in shock, Mrs Gilmore . . .’

‘On the contrary!’ Mrs Gilmore snapped. ‘I’ve just told you that I wasn’t surprised. The only surprise is that it didn’t happen years ago.’

‘You’re just out of hospital; I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.’ The FLO walked towards the kitchen.

‘You will do nothing of the kind. Do not touch anything of mine until I tell you. Now sit down.’

The FLO sat.

‘When exactly did he die? The uniformed police suggested Sunday or Monday. Which is it to be?’

‘His body was found on Monday evening but we think he was killed sometime the previous night.’

‘My son went against my wishes and left academia to work with . . .’ she paused, searching for an appropriate word, found it and continued, ‘he left a university position to work with trash.’

‘You didn’t approve of his career?’ Ross asked.

‘No. I never wanted him to do that sort of work. He should have followed his father, god rest him, into academia. His father was worried that this would happen one day.’ Her voice hardened. ‘That’s why he gave it to him.’

‘Gave him . . . ?’ Wheeler prompted.

The old lady patted her throat. ‘My husband, Murdo, gave James a St Christopher medal to keep him safe – a stupid, sentimental gesture but there you have it. My husband was somewhat emotional. I was the disciplinarian. Nevertheless I should like both the medal and the chain returned to me.’

Wheeler was pretty sure they hadn’t been listed among the items retrieved from the house. And James Gilmore had certainly not been wearing it when they found his body. ‘Can you describe it for us?’ she asked.

‘Twenty-four-carat gold – the medal is about half an inch wide, quite a chunky piece. It previously belonged to Murdo. And before that, to his older brother Duncan. Poor Duncan died of tuberculosis. People did in those days, you know.’

Ross glanced across at her and Wheeler met his eye. The old woman’s bitterness was a shock. Although it was one way of processing her grief. And she had suggested another possible motive for the death: theft.

Mrs Gilmore stared hard at Ross, her eyes bright and cold. ‘I would like the piece of jewellery returned immediately. It’s of considerable monetary value.’

Wheeler kept her voice neutral; there was no point in giving the old woman false hope. ‘We’ll have a look at . . . what we found in Mr Gilmore’s house and get back to you.’

‘But it would have been with him at the time – he always wore it. It was a talisman. Murdo told him to always wear it and I know he listened to his father.’

Wheeler nodded. ‘I’m sure he did but . . . when we discovered the body . . . there didn’t seem to be . . .’

Mrs Gilmore narrowed her eyes. ‘It wasn’t on his body, was it?’

‘No, it wasn’t.’

‘Was it found with his personal effects?’ Mrs Gilmore asked.

Wheeler shook her head. ‘No, I’m pretty sure it’s not listed.’

The old lady’s eyes glinted. ‘It was stolen, wasn’t it? Whoever killed James took it.’

Wheeler looked at the floor. ‘I’ll double-check if it was listed.’

‘You do that and get back to me immediately.’

Ross changed the subject. ‘Did James have a girlfriend?’

Mrs Gilmore shook her head. ‘He had a fiancée when he was in his early twenties. Angela Meek. She was a timid soul, frightened of her shadow as I recall. She died in a horrible accident; he never recovered.’

‘No one recently?’ Ross persisted.

‘None. That was it. After Angela died, something in him just seemed to curl up and die with her. He was his father’s son.’

‘In what way?’ asked Ross.

‘He was a martyr to emotional nonsense.’

‘Were there any close friends that you know of, maybe a colleague he got on particularly well with?’ Wheeler hesitated before adding, ‘Or a gym buddy or anyone he went on holiday with?’

Mrs Gilmore pursed her lips. ‘Never anyone that I knew of. After his bereavement he withdrew into himself – he was a quiet man who was far better than those he served.’

‘When did you last see your son, Mrs Gilmore?’

She sniffed. ‘The twenty-eighth of last month. He was extremely busy. He loved helping . . .’ her lips dipped into a scowl, ‘those kind of people.’

‘Those kind of people.’ Wheeler echoed the words. ‘The children at Watervale?’

‘Delinquents, every one of them. Even if they’ve got parents, they’re useless. Feral brats that should never have been born. James was too soft.’ She peered at them. ‘What about his house – somebody has to go and make sure it’s secure. I gather you’ll attend to it?’

Ross coughed, looked at Wheeler.

Wheeler grimaced.

The old lady caught their exchange, her eyes darting between them. ‘What is it? What are you withholding?’

Ross told her and watched the wrinkled lips purse in disapproval; the beady eyes shone as she turned on them. ‘Well, well. The police fail to secure a crime scene and allow evidence to go up in smoke. My son’s house is lost to me, all his memories.’ She paused, lips drawn tighter in a deep scowl. ‘My lawyer will be in touch with the Strathclyde police force.’

Mrs Gilmore began quietly issuing orders: the manager was to contact her lawyer, the FLO was to pour her a sherry and immediately afterwards they were to leave her in peace.

Wheeler and Ross left, aware that they had silently been dismissed.

Outside, Ross turned to her. ‘That went well.’ He slammed the car door and started the engine.

‘Aye, well, it was never going to be easy but the old woman’s now got a vendetta against us for not protecting her son or his house.’

‘Compensation. How the hell could she even think about that when she’d just been told her son has been murdered?’

Wheeler strapped on her seat belt. ‘She’s been waiting for the news for years. You heard what she called the kids at Watervale, feral brats who should never have been born. She’s been working up to this moment since James Gilmore went to work at those schools.’

‘She’s going to be a fucking nightmare.’

‘I know, it’s a mess but the best we can do now, the only thing we can do, is catch the bastard who did it.’

‘Any chance of a coffee before we go back to the station?’

‘No chance.’ She fiddled with her phone, sent a text. Huffed.

‘Crisis?’

‘Och, still the family drama. Nephew’s determined to go off the rails; his mother’s still going nuts down in Somerset.’

‘And I guess you’re het?’

‘Aye, lucky me. I never wanted kids. Now I can see why. They’re a pain in the arse.’

‘Couldn’t agree more.’ Ross eased the car into the road and headed back towards Glasgow.

An hour later and Wheeler was in the CID suite feeling like she’d been there all day. The team were all desk-bound. Wheeler stared at her computer and scrolled through the news links until she found what she was looking for. Grim’s report was up to its usual standard.

Strathclyde Police have launched a murder inquiry after the body of a man was discovered on Monday evening. The shocking discovery was made in Glasgow’s East End. The body is believed to have lain undiscovered since Sunday.

A post-mortem examination will be carried out later today but police are urging the public to come forward with anything, regardless of how insignificant it may seem.

Detective Chief Inspector Craig Stewart of Carmyle Police Station is leading the investigation and earlier today he had this to say:

‘We would appeal for information relating to the murder which occurred in the London Road area on Sunday night. If anyone has any information they can come to Carmyle Police Station itself or phone directly and speak to one of my team. We would also like to appeal to anyone who may have seen anything unusual or anyone acting suspiciously in the past few days to come forward and contact the station. If anyone has any information at all which may help find the killer, then we urge you to contact us immediately. At present we cannot release the name of the victim until relatives have been informed, but more details will follow shortly.’

The report continued over two pages, but she had the gist. She also knew that whoever was feeding information to Grim was more than likely sitting in the station at that moment. She glanced around the room. Everyone was busy, answering phones, leafing through paperwork, scrolling down computer screens. Wheeler turned back to her own computer and finished the article. Stewart was a very effective cop. He used the symbiotic relationship between the police and the press well, but whoever had called Grim and tipped him off had crossed a line. She looked up as Stewart came into the room.

He stood in front of her desk. ‘Anything from the mother?’

She told him about the St Christopher medal.

‘Okay, well it’s something. Anything else?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing helpful . . . only . . .’

‘Let me guess, she wants to sue us over the fire at her son’s house? I get it. Let’s move on.’