Riven (15 page)

Ross pulled off his socks and walked into the kitchen, shoved them into the washing machine and slammed the door shut on the smell. The dog had followed him and stood watching from the doorway. He stared at her. ‘You, in future, you keep it in until I get back. Cross your fucking legs if you have to.’ He collected the bucket and mop and started the clean-up.

The dog stared. Wagged her tail some more, looked at the door. Whined.

‘Oh for God’s sake, I’m just in out the rain.’

The mutt waited patiently. Then whined again. Paused. Began again.

Ross dumped the mop. ‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’

More whining, this time softer but still insistent.

Ross decided that he couldn’t be arsed going in search of socks, so he just pulled on his boots, feeling the leather harsh against his bare skin. He grabbed the lead. ‘Well, pee-the-bed, let’s go.’

Once outside the flat, he turned left and carried on down Argyle Street, towards the Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery. The huge baroque building was floodlit and impressive even in the rain. Ross had been inside often enough to see different exhibitions, though he tended to avoid it when the massive pipe organ was being played. He liked it best when it was quiet and he could be alone with his thoughts and whatever exhibition he’d gone to see. He walked across the grass, the mutt trotting happily beside him. He patted his pocket, checking for poo bags, and walked around the perimeter of the building. They passed the bronze sculpture of St Mungo, the patron saint of Glasgow, fashioned as patron of art and music, and continued over the bridge that crossed the River Kelvin.

They turned right into Byres Road, which was full of revellers spilling out of the pubs and restaurants. Music was blaring out from The Vineyard and Ross ignored a drunk who pointed to the dog and shouted, ‘You walking that thing for a laugh?’ Followed by, ‘Should it no be in the circus?’ They walked on, crossing Byres Road and stopped outside the chippy. Its windows were steamed up and the smell of frying food hit him; his stomach growled in response. He was on the verge of going in when the dog tugged on the lead, crouched down and deposited a steaming poo. Ross bent down, felt the rain run through his hair, knew his jeans were soaked. Grabbed the soft poo in a plastic bag and tied the tops, trying to ignore the smell. As he turned he saw Kat Wheeler coming out of the Italian restaurant opposite. The tall guy she was with was telling her something funny. She laughed up at him. Ross turned and dragged the dog back the way they’d come, depositing the plastic bag in the first bin he saw.

Once home, the dog shook herself over the hall floor before padding through to the sitting room. She jumped onto the sofa and turned in a circle a few times before settling down. She was asleep in seconds, a gentle wheeze emanating from her snout.

Ross was wide awake.

He stood in the hallway deliberating. Not for long. Ten minutes later he was heading east along Argyle Street, towards the station, windscreen wipers humming a rhythmic chorus. He switched on the radio; the sports discussion was midway through.

‘Raith Rovers,’ the presenter laughed, ‘were they robbed tonight, or were Partick Thistle just too good for them? You decide. Call us with your views on—’

‘Fuck off,’ Ross muttered, switched to a music channel, leaned back in his seat as
Fairytale of New York
began. ‘Bloody Christmas music,’ he leaned forward, his hand hovering for a second before he rested it back on the steering wheel. A few bars in and he was singing along.

Tommy Cunningham was behind the desk and smirked as Ross passed. Ross ignored him, took the stairs to the CID suite two at a time, pulled open the door and was pleased to find it empty. He grabbed a pile of reports that had been left on his desk and settled himself to read through the list of phone messages that had come through following Stewart’s appeal. After the first few pages he crossed to the kettle and switched it on, scooped coffee into a mug and rooted around the room for biscuits. He found some in Boyd’s desk, took two and settled back at his desk. There had been a number of responses to Gilmore’s death but some would be bogus, some would be mistaken and others, well, Ross hoped that they would be helpful. Whoever killed Gilmore was out there watching, waiting and perhaps planning another attack.

Ross turned the page, read through another list of calls, making notes as he went along.

I did it. It was me. No, I didn’t know him before, it was a random attack but it was me. Definitely.
The caller had given his name, number and had cheerfully agreed to come into the station to be interviewed. How helpful. Ross put a question mark next to the name. The police had left out much of the detail surrounding the beating, in particular the fact that the body had been hung on a hook. That information was known only to the police and the killer and would help them sift through the time wasters.

Next message.
You need to be looking at James Gilmore and Arthur Wright. London. That’s all I’m saying.

Ross read on; the man had been asked for his name and a contact number. Both had been refused. He’d been calling from a public call box somewhere. Ross jotted down the name
Arthur Wright, London
. Underlined it. Beside it he wrote
trace the call
. Then he read on.

I think I might have known a guy called James Gilmore. Going back a while now mind you . . . wee guy, ginger hair? ...

I knew James when he was doing his training. I think it was a James Gilmore, not sure now that I think about it, maybe his name was Jamie, that’d be much the same but . . .

I know something important about James Gilmore. He was one of the bad guys. He wasn’t what he appeared to be; he was a fucking psycho. I don’t want to give my name. I can’t be implicated in this. But he’s not what he seemed. Look at his history. Just look at his history.
No name, no number. Public phone box. Again Ross wrote
trace call
in his notebook and read on. Two callers, both anonymous, had suggested that Gilmore hadn’t been one of the good guys. Either they were muddying the waters for the police or Gilmore had a life that he’d kept hidden from everyone. Ross favoured the last idea. He fired up the computer, opened the police database and typed in ‘Arthur Wright, London’, pressed enter and waited.

A half hour later and he’d found nothing useful. Ross was closing down his computer when his mobile chirruped. A text. He glanced at the sender. Sarah, his ex-girlfriend. The broody one.

I’m lonely. Want to come over?

Ross thought about their last conversation. About her wanting kids, him not ever wanting them. Nothing had changed for him and he couldn’t carry on seeing someone who so clearly wanted a family. Children would never be on his radar. Wife, kids, dog. He didn’t want the package. Ross picked a stray dog hair from his jacket – well he’d been suckered into having one out of three, but that was it. He wondered idly if Sarah had changed her mind but he knew that there was no chance. If he were being honest, she was lonely and probably a bit bored and what she was offering was sex. He paused for a heartbeat before texting,
Will bring wine.

A second later she replied,
Food?

He sighed.
Chinese or Indian?

Indian. Yum.

Ross stuffed the notes into the tray on his desk and switched off the light on his way out of the room. Good food and hopefully great sex; it was a decent end to a hard day. He even nodded to Cunningham on his way out of the station.

‘Well, for a start you can take these and shove them up your fucking arse.’

A can of lager split as the four-pack hit the wall behind him. Mason knew it had been a mistake to come home. Lizzie Coughlin was more than pissed at him. Well fuck her, he just needed to get his stuff, that was all, in and out. No messing. He heard the hiss of the lager as it ran down the wall and foamed onto the carpet. Then the bloody bird began tweeting. Fuck, he stared at the birdcage as he walked towards the bedroom door. The yellow bird blinked back. Duchess. Stupid name. Stupid bird. Same as Lizzie.

‘You’ve been in the Bar-L for years, then you’re out and you can’t make it home and now, at this hour, you’ve decided to breeze back in. Where the hell were you?’ Hysterical. Voice trembling. Eyes bloodshot. She’d been on the vodka again.

Mason bared his teeth. ‘I’ve been busy. Not that it’s got anything to dae with you. I’m off. I’m going into business. A partnership. Fifty-fifty.’

Lizzie, hands on her hips, sneered, ‘Oh aye? Doing what?’

Mason tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘Nosy cow. Let’s just say I’ve got a bit of merchandise and I’m standing back and waiting for the dividend to be paid.’

Lizzie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Whose merchandise?’

‘You wouldnae know him.’

‘Try me.’

‘It’s none of your business – keep your snout out of it.’

‘You’ve wanted tae get intae the drugs scene for ever, but it’s moved on since you went inside; you’ve nae chance. It’s all sewn up.’

‘That right?’

‘Aye, Tenant, Doyle, Jamieson. Do you know nothing?’

‘Like you’d know anything,’ he sneered. ‘Tenant’s giving me a way in.’

‘Wee Stevie Tenant’s intae drugs and you’ve nae money, so where are you planning on getting your “dividend” from?’

Mason stared at her. Stevie Tenant was Davey’s younger brother but there was no point in telling her she had the wrong brother. It had nothing to do with her and besides, there was something more important he had to say. ‘You’re staying out of it, Lizzie. You’re no going to be part of it, so there’s nae point in asking. See us? We’re over. You’re history. The lager was tae soften the blow, seeing as how I’m a gentleman, but as usual you’ve lost the fucking plot.’

‘I’m dumped? Is that it?’

‘Aye.’

‘And you’re going in with wee Stevie?’

‘Correct in that I’m going into partnership with someone.’

‘So who’ll you be up against?’ she asked.

He ignored her.

‘It’s got to be Andy Doyle.’ Lizzie watched Mason swagger into the bedroom and emerge a few seconds later with his bag stuffed full of clothes.

‘I’ll be back for the CDs and stuff when I get settled.’

‘So you think you can just walk out on me? Nae chance there. You’re not walking out.’

It was like a white light when it happened, like a migraine beginning, but instead of being painful, it became energising. He dropped the bag and crossed the room in an instant. He was aware that Lizzie had stopped yelling and had started to tremble. He smiled reassuringly as he reached out to her, kept smiling as he raised his right hand and curled his fingers around her throat. Mason held her with just enough pressure to stop the air flow. Waited, watched her flail, arms flapping, mouth gurgling, eyes bulging. Kept his voice low, quiet, sincere: ‘If you ever mouth off at me again, I’ll kill you. Think on Lizzie, you get in my way and you’re dead meat. And don’t bother running tae your auld da. I’ve enough pals inside – I’ll get him chibbed. He’s an old timer, remember that. Yesterday’s news. Just like yourself.’ He waited a few more seconds then let go. Heard her retching and choking as he crossed the room, glanced back, saw that she was doubled over, gasping for air. Bared his teeth in a grin.

Mason grabbed his coat, picked up his bag and opened the door, then he paused, turned back. Opened the cage and took the bird in his right hand, felt its heartbeat quicken, squeezed it hard and used his thumb to flick its head back. Felt the heartbeat flicker, then stop.

Lizzie screamed behind him but it was a weak, snivelling scream. Mason slammed the door and walked to the car, started up the engine and rolled down the window. He turned his car away from Haghill. Next stop was a drink at the Smuggler’s. He smiled, teeth bared at the night sky; it was good to be free.

A waste ground in North Glasgow.

‘It’s got nits.’

‘It’s no nits, ya numpty, it’s fleas.’

‘Oh aye, so there’s a difference?’

‘Aye.’

Rab Wilson held the pigeon in his hands. ‘And see, it’s tagged – it’s a racer.’

Alec Munroe stared at it. ‘So, how come it’s sitting here in the middle of the road?’

‘It’s knackered.’

‘How?’

‘They race them from a long way away – France, sometimes. The birds get as far as they can and they’re just too knackered to go on, so they stop. Just stop for a lie down.’

‘So they just die then?’

‘Sometimes. Depends where they come down.’

‘How come you know all this?’

‘My Ma’s ex-boyfriend was intae racing pigeons.’

‘Hammy?’

‘Naw, before him.’

‘Thought his name was Billy?’

‘Before Billy.’

‘The wan that broke your nose?’

‘’Fore him.’

‘Cannae remember that far back.’

‘He was called Jock. He was okay.’

‘Then how come your ma chucked him?’

‘He got pissed and shagged my Auntie Tracy. Long time ago now. It spoiled my Christmas though, all the screaming and chucking things at each other. My Ma tells everybody she’s no got a sister. But she has so.’

‘Is that no what Christmas with the family’s all aboot?’

‘Aye, cannae wait to get away and get my own place.’

‘Me tae.’

They stood watching the rain fall into dark puddles.

Alec broke the silence. ‘Whit’s your Ma’s new boyfriend like?’

‘Kenny? He’s an evil bastard. I hate him.’

‘Right.’

‘Jock wisnae bad though but he’s an old cunt an’ now he’s in hospital for an operation. Won’t be oot for a month. He’s got an allotment but.’

‘You get tae go down?’

‘Aye, he got me a shed. Padlocked an’ everything. It’s mine. Get tae keep all ma stuff in it.’

Alec sniffed. ‘Whit about this then?’

‘Whit?’

Alec looked down at the bird. ‘See if we leave it here, Rab, will a cat no get it, or a fox? Or just the fucking freezing weather?’

‘Mibbe.’

They stared at the pigeon. Rab spoke. ‘Better to kill it here then than leave it to get scoffed by a fox. Get a brick and bash its heid in.’