Riven (12 page)

‘Yes, she was upset and—’

But he was out of the door before she had finished speaking.

Ross stood at the side of her desk. ‘Read Grim’s report?’

‘Uh huh. Nothing we didn’t already know; no one’s come forward saying they had any information. Or saw anyone acting suspiciously.’

‘Nothing.’ Ross sounded disappointed and went back to his own desk, started typing up a report.

‘It’d be a brave person who wanted to get tangled up with whoever did this. I’d say if anyone saw anything and wants to talk, odds are they’ll do it anonymously.’ Wheeler knew she sounded cynical.

‘Wish they’d be quick,’ said Boyd. ‘Save me trawling through this list of schools. James Gilmore seems to have worked in every bloody school in Glasgow at some point in his career and some of them don’t even exist anymore.’

‘So quit whinging.’ Wheeler flexed her fingers above the keyboard. ‘You got anything positive yet?’

‘Hardly had a chance, have I?’ Boyd opened the drawer of his desk, peered in, shut it with a bang. Opened the second drawer, did the same.

Robertson was sitting at a table in the corner of the room, working his way through a long list of phone numbers from Gilmore’s mobile. She called across to him. ‘Anything?’

He looked up from the list. ‘So far all the calls have been to the three schools where Gilmore worked, a couple to the home where his mother’s staying. Not much of a result.’

‘And no saved texts on his mobile. Weird.’ Boyd slammed the third drawer.

‘Very odd.’ Wheeler turned from her computer.

‘What is?’ Ross asked.

‘Doesn’t everyone keep texts?’ She looked around.

Ross shrugged. ‘A couple, maybe.’

Boyd nodded. ‘Loads – can’t be arsed going through them all deciding what to delete.’

‘Think he had another phone?’ Ross asked. ‘Or just no pals?’

‘Just no life it seems.’ Wheeler opened a bottle of water, took a sip. Wondered if it might be better if it was wine.

‘Fits in with him being a ghost.’ Ross swivelled his chair to face her.

‘Maybe he deleted all his messages at the end of the day, kind of like emptying the in-tray,’ Robertson offered.

‘OCD.’ Boyd raked through the pile of paperwork on his desk. ‘Where the hell’s my chocolate bar?’

‘It’s hardly obsessive to be organised – most of us function better that way.’ Robertson turned away, dialled, spoke into the handset, leaving another message on an answering machine.

Boyd gave him the finger.

Wheeler stood and stretched. ‘I’m done here. Need to get out into the fresh air.’

‘Avoid the shit storm more like.’ Boyd had found the half-eaten chocolate bar and had begun demolishing it. ‘When Stewart realises we’ve nothing to give him.’

Wheeler glanced across at Ross. ‘Let’s take a drive out to Gilmore’s house – we’ve an hour or so before the post-mortem. I want to see the house, see if it sparks anything.’

‘Get it straight in your mind?’ Ross was already logging out.

Wheeler pulled on her coat. ‘Yep, get it straight and see if anything else crops up. I can’t think straight staring at a bloody computer.’

Outside the cold air hit Ross in the face when he opened the door. ‘Bloody hell, it’s freezing.’

‘It is winter, muppet.’ Wheeler walked to the car, sleet settling for a moment on her face before melting and leaving a cold imprint across her skin.

They drove down London Road, took the turn-off on their left and drove to Gilmore’s house. Parked. Stayed in the car with the heater on full. Tried to ignore the smell of stale sweat and chips that clung to the interior of the car. They stared at the remains of Gilmore’s home.

The fire had ravaged the house, destroying most of the roof; the windows had been blown out and the old stone had lost its greyness and was now blackened and charred. The building had been secured and a notice prohibited entry.

‘Looks like a set for a horror movie. Gives me the creeps.’

‘What age are you, Ross – ten?’ She leant forward, drummed her fingers on the dashboard. ‘What are we missing?’

‘About the house?’

‘About the whole bloody case. There’s something we’re not seeing.’

‘Back to the start?’

‘Yep.’

‘Apparently an innocent guy was beaten to death.’

‘Then his house get torched.’

‘He’s a professional helper, no obvious signs of criminal behaviour, no drugs, no fraud, not even a bloody parking ticket. Nothing, clean as a whistle.’

‘And the two boys’ alibis held up. Both Alec Munroe and Robert Wilson were at a party the night Gilmore was killed – there are loads of witnesses who saw them get drunk on cheap cider and make arses of themselves. Most of them have it on their phones too. And of course it’s plastered across Facebook.’

‘So, the two boys weren’t involved.’

‘So who does that leave?’

‘Known thugs?’ Ross stared at the sleet lying on the windscreen and reached over to switch on the wipers.

‘We know that at least two of them were out of the country when Gilmore was killed,’ said Wheeler.

‘Convenient.’

‘Well, it seems that Jamieson was at his mammy’s funeral. He couldn’t have arranged for her to pass away at the same time as Gilmore died.’

‘No but he could have arranged to have Gilmore killed.’

‘True.’

‘Tenant?’ asked Ross.

‘Big wedding anniversary – seems him and Nicky have been an item for twenty years. Treated her to a week in Vegas.’

‘Classy. Means nothing though; they’ve got a whole team of thugs who could’ve done it.’

‘I know.’

‘Doyle?’

She looked out of the window – they were getting nowhere. Sleet was drifting gently over the charred remains of Gilmore’s house, leaving a light dusting of white. ‘Very festive, this weather. Let’s get going. Stewart wants a clear slate for his Christmas holiday.’

‘Still but it leaves us with—’

She smiled. ‘I know. Absolutely sweet FA. Right, let’s clear off then. The PM’s at four o’clock – you ready?’

But he had already started the car.

They’d only just left the burned-out shell of a house and were driving towards the city centre when he began whining, ‘The smell of post-mortems clings – I can’t wash the smell off, can you?’

‘You’re exaggerating. It’s psychological,’ Wheeler lied.

‘And there’s a game tonight. Don’t want to go out smelling of death; it’s not good for the reputation.’

‘I’d have thought just turning up, they’d be overjoyed. Dead or alive. Who’re they playing?’

‘Plastic Whistle.’

‘Any chance they might scrape a win?’

Ross shifted uncomfortably on his seat. Stared ahead, concentrated on the road. Said nothing.

‘Too awkward a question?’ She leaned over, pointing. ‘Look at the state of you. You have gone and got yourself a wee pet, haven’t you? Are you that lonely?’ She picked the hairs from his jacket collar. ‘Dog hair.’

‘I’m just looking after a dog for a few days, that’s all.’

‘Poor mutt.’

‘Does all right.’

‘You’re never there.’

‘Old Mary across the road takes it round the block. Feeds it too.’

‘You’re a chancer, Ross – never met a bigger skiver.’

They drove towards Glasgow Cross. ‘Any chance we could have a quick coffee and a bun first? Settle my stomach before all that gore.’

She checked her watch. ‘If we’re quick.’

They settled into their seats in the café, ordered two coffees and a couple of Danish pastries. When the food arrived, Ross started munching happily. ‘It’s that buzz-buzz that gets me.’

She picked up a Danish and bit into it. ‘Mmm, these are lovely, nice and chewy, just the way I like them.’

‘That wee Stryker saw they use?’ Ross continued through mouthfuls. ‘Christ, what an evil wee thing. It’s like going to the dentist, then finding out you’re in a horror movie. Turns my stomach.’

‘Uh huh.’ She chomped happily on the sugar pastry. Sipped her coffee, let the warmth of the café envelop her.

Later he paid and they walked out into the rain.

‘Just a drizzle.’ Ross sounded more upbeat as they got into the car and drove to the mortuary. He parked the car next to Callum’s red BMW and killed the engine. Still he made no attempt to get out of the car.

Wheeler undid her seat belt. ‘Now I don’t want you to come over all sensitive on me, Ross.’

‘I won’t – I’m just saying, that wee saw’s a bastard.’

She climbed out of the car, pulling her coat close around her. ‘’Cause I’m not going to hold your hand if you keel over.’

He was close behind her. ‘Perish the thought.’

‘Aye, me too.’

Inside, Callum greeted them with a cheery wave. Behind him two young lab technicians were silently preparing the body and the photographer stood waiting. Everything would be recorded and photographed and the wounds measured while James Gilmore’s body was neatly dissected.

‘Well guys, let’s get started.’ Callum’s voice boomed around the room, bouncing off the pristine white tiles.

Wheeler watched him work. He was always cool and businesslike, but then this was his business.

Callum switched on the microphone and recorded the date and time, then a list of everyone present. Finally he named the victim and began describing his clothing in detail before standing back to allow the photographer to do his job. Once the clothing had been photographed, Callum carefully began to remove it, before finally passing it to one of the techs, who bagged and labelled it.

There was no jewellery on James Gilmore’s body, no sign of the St Christopher that his father had given him. Gilmore had no tattoos, no piercings and his body showed nothing out of the ordinary, unless you counted the bruises that criss-crossed his torso.

Wheeler stared at the dead body; it had become an object, a slab of meat to be stored in the cooling area of the mortuary. Exactly what Stewart had not wanted to happen in the newspaper report. People quickly forgot about a slab of meat. A few days ago, this body had been a professional man, and according to his mother, a gentle man, so how could this have happened? Wheeler stared at what was left of the educational psychologist and wondered if he could ever have imagined his death would have been so violent.

She watched Callum move around the table, measuring the length and depth of the injuries, still talking, still recording everything, and knew that what he had said at Gilmore’s house had been right. The post-mortem wasn’t going to give up any great secrets; this wasn’t an American cop show, when the case would be solved in sixty minutes or less. Dissecting James Gilmore’s body was only going to reinforce what they already knew – that he’d been battered to death. And that there were very few clues as to who did it.

‘Did he even put up a fight?’ asked Ross. ‘Did he have any chance to defend himself?’

Callum shook his head. ‘There are no signs of defence wounds.’ He picked up one of the hands, scraped under the nails, held up the swab. ‘Clean, no torn skin, no blood, no bits of clothing. Whoever it was came at him like a thunderbolt. And didn’t stop hammering him until the job was done.’

Tuesday evening

Wheeler was at home listening to Hank Mobley’s
Soul Station
and getting ready to go out. The CD had just finished when a text came through from her sister. Wheeler read it: same old. She quickly sent a text to Jason.

CALL YOUR MOTHER.

A minute later she had a reply.
I already did
.

Liar.

She glanced at the clock; she just about had time. She called her sister, kept it brief and insisted that Jo did the same. ‘So shoot – what’s with all the texts?’

Five minutes later she had a clear understanding of what Jason was up to. He was stone-walling his mother and she was going nuts down in Somerset. Wheeler heard Jo’s frustration.

‘Okay,
just this once
, I’ll go check on him. Where’s he likely to be, at home or out and about? Has he got a favourite pub?’

‘The Vineyard.’

‘Fine.’

Wheeler grabbed her boots and coat, pulled her hair into a bit of a quiff and within ten minutes was standing outside her flat in the wind and rain. She waited until the wrought-iron gates closed behind her before turning, head down into the wind and walking to Ingram Street. She stood in the entrance to a hotel and waited and watched four taxis pass, their orange lights dimmed, telling her they were not for hire. Eventually one turned off the High Street and made its way towards her, its light glowing. She flagged it down, climbed into the warmth of the back seat and settled herself.

‘The Vineyard, Byres Road, please.’

The driver switched on the meter before driving off.

From the window she watched the festive crowds mill around the city centre, saw parties of office workers on their Christmas night out, the girls in tiny sequined dresses and bare legs flashing fake tan and sky-high heels, some walking like newborn colts as they navigated the icy pavements. Five minutes later the driver stopped outside The Vineyard and Wheeler handed him her fare, adding a tip. At last a smile.

Wheeler walked to the pub entrance. The Vineyard offered a healthy student discount and the music was loud. It was a bit of a long shot that he’d be there. There were at least a half dozen student pubs in a small area around Byres Road. She decided that if she had to, she’d at least look into them all.

Once inside the pub, she went to the bar and ordered a large glass of Chardonnay. If she had to babysit her nephew, she reasoned, then she might as well enjoy herself. She paid for her drink and strolled to the back area, sat in one of the huge red banquettes and made sure that she had an uninterrupted view of the bar and also that she could see out of the large window onto the street outside. Byres Road was one long road full of cafés, pubs and restaurants. It was close to the university and students seemed to spend most of their time in the area. If Jason was out drinking this would be the best place to find him.

The place began to fill up, mainly with students, killing time till they went back to waitressing or maybe just waiting until the clubs opened. Lazy sods, thought Wheeler. A few groups of office workers came in looking for a quick drink on the way home. She had almost finished her wine when she saw him. He arrived with a group of three others, two boys and a girl. Wheeler saw Jason’s pallor, grey and wan. She hoped it was from studying hard but she doubted that it was anything as sensible. The trio with him were all as bad, all super-skinny, with sunken cheeks and attitude,
heroin chic
she’d heard it called. The girl was the thinnest, bony arms dangling from a black T-shirt. She wore a tiny miniskirt over thick black tights, a thick smear of black eyeliner and what looked like purple lipstick. She looked like a goth model, all long limbs and big doe eyes. On her head she wore a wee sparkly hair band. Jason was the tallest of the group, but the boys all wore the same uniform of skinny jeans, sloppy retro T-shirts, baseball boots, floppy hair tumbling over as-yet unlined faces. One boy wore a beanie hat fixed at a specifically cool angle.