Riven (17 page)

‘Might do.’

‘No, even you’re not that evil.’

‘What? You don’t want your chums at the station to get wind of your heroics? Or a description of your ugly wee friend? Which is it?’

Ross walked ahead, just enough that she knew he was in the huff. But not so much that she withdrew her offer of breakfast.

They settled into the café, steam obscuring the windows. It was still early and the café wasn’t yet full.

‘A large latte and the same as what he’s having,’ Wheeler said to the waitress.

‘Full breakfast, extra fried egg and extra potato scone and a tea for me, thanks.’

The waitress left.

‘Peckish then, Ross?’

‘Wee bit.’

‘It’ll be all that exercise with the three-legged one.’

They settled back. Wheeler picked up a copy of the
Chronicle
. They waited until the food and drinks had arrived, then began their chat.

‘Gilmore’s fading into the past a bit.’ Ross bit into his egg. ‘But there’s been a couple of interesting phone messages. Came through to the station last night.’

‘Who from?’

He sighed. ‘Anonymous callers.’

‘Saying what?’

‘That Gilmore’s one of the bad guys.’

‘Anything else?’ She sipped her latte.

‘One of them mentioned a guy called Arthur Wright, London. That’s all. I’ve looked him up, but we’ve nothing on an Arthur Wright. I’ve got a trace out on the calls.’

‘Gut instinct? You think they’re bogus or legit?’

‘Too early to call. I’ll keep on it.’ Ross started on his toast. ‘Either way, the case needs to be kept in the papers.’

‘I know, what with Christmas coming and look at this,’ she tapped the front page of the
Chronicle
, ‘the heid high yins are running scared that Glasgow’s going to get inundated with foreign girls for the sex trade now that we’re getting the Commonwealth Games.’

‘Read it already. Grim’s right though, might be a bit of a nightmare.’

‘I know.’ Wheeler tucked into her fried bread. ‘The thing is, we can worry about that later, but right now it’s pushing Gilmore’s murder off the news. There’s hardly anything at all in the paper about his death.’

‘Off the news and out of the public’s mind,’ agreed Ross.

‘Exactly.’ Wheeler chewed thoughtfully.

‘Trouble is, he just doesn’t have much of a profile. A middle-aged man, a psychologist at a couple of schools in the city who’s a bit of a loner. No wife, no kids.’

‘So no sad pictures or pleas from them,’ said Wheeler.

‘Exactly,’ he paused. ‘Maybe it points in one direction.’

Wheeler sipped her latte, paused. ‘Paedophile?’

‘Possible.’

‘Facts?’

‘Nothing yet, either way. I’m just saying it’s possible.’

‘I’ll keep an open mind. Certainly he has a hell of a low profile. No girlfriend. No friends. All he has is an elderly mum in a care home.’

‘And she’s a bit of a bitch.’

‘That’s the trouble, Ross, it’s not sexy. His life was pretty empty. Folk just aren’t that interested.’

Ross wiped the egg yolk from his plate with a piece of toast. ‘It’s a bit of a sad day when being battered to death in your own home is a one-day wonder.’ He finished the eggy toast and started on the potato scones. ‘Maybe we need to look again at the kids at Watervale.’

‘Because?’

‘Because, well it’s Watervale . . . you saw the scheme.’

Wheeler sipped her coffee. ‘Yeah, kids living in a rough scheme. Some of them pretty neglected,’ she paused. ‘Brain scans.’

‘Come again?’

‘I went to a lecture about brain scans.’

‘Talk about sexy.’

‘Shut it. It showed the disparity in brain size between kids who’ve been neglected and kids who have had a normal upbringing.’

‘Shocked?’

She nodded, recited the facts as best she could.

Ross listened and agreed. ‘Hard for some of them. On the other hand they’re not all neglected, those kids – some of them are just wee thugs. It’s a deliberate career choice. Some of them are just evil wee shites.’

‘You’re going to make the best dad, when the time comes, you know that don’t you?’

He smiled. ‘You offering?’

‘In your dreams, matey.’

He flushed, looked away. ‘Got the report from the other two schools, St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High. Boyd and Robertson did the interviews.’

‘Yeah, I saw it already. Nothing much in it, same as our report.’

‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘They described him pretty much the same as the staff from Watervale. The guy was a bloody ghost.’

She groaned. ‘We’ve nothing. Stewart’s going to love us.’

‘In the biblical sense, do you mean?’ Ross scraped his plate. ‘Would that suit you?’

Wheeler left the rest of her breakfast. ‘You’ve a mind like a sewer Ross, you know that, don’t you?’

He nodded. ‘Aye, but just so you notice me one way or another.’

She stood up. ‘Let’s go, muppet.’

They were sitting in the CID suite by nine. Stewart was perched on her desk for one of his informal chats. Wheeler looked up from her computer and saw that once again he looked pristine in a dove-grey suit. She instinctively touched her own trousers – same outfit as yesterday. She felt slightly grubby, thought maybe the smell from the greasy breakfast she’d shared with Ross still clung to her. They were in their way to see George Grey but Stewart obviously wanted something. ‘Boss?’

Stewart stared down at her. ‘The Grim Reaper will be in my office in ten minutes. Make it worth my while seeing the little gremlin and throw him a bone. What have you got?’

Wheeler could smell his citrus aftershave, felt that he was sitting too close. She sat back in her seat, felt the blush creeping up her face. ‘Love to, boss,’ she tapped a pile of reports, ‘but still sifting through the evidence. Going through the house to house again as you suggested, but it seems no one saw anything suspicious.’

‘Uh huh.’ Stewart waited.

‘That’s the thing. James Gilmore was nothing out of the ordinary. Apparently he was just a decent guy doing a decent job. But his death was completely out of the ordinary.’

‘Unless . . .’ said Ross.

‘Go on.’

‘Paedophile?’ said Ross. ‘Would account for the way he died – someone out for revenge?’

‘Evidence?’

‘There were a couple of calls that came in from pay phones—’

‘From?’

‘Haven’t traced them yet, boss, but one caller warned us about Gilmore not being one of the good guys. The other linked him to Arthur Wright, London.’

‘Who?’

Ross shrugged. ‘Came up blank but I’ll keep digging.’

‘Get the calls traced.’

‘Will do.’

‘Any other theories?’ Stewart waited.

‘Could’ve been a dealer? He worked city-wide, so it’s pretty good cover?’ Robertson offered.

‘Gilmore was a supplier?’ Boyd sounded doubtful. ‘And going up against the McGregors and the Tenants, not to mention the independent entrepreneurial nutters out there?’

‘No, maybe not going up against them but working for them,’ said Robertson. ‘If Gilmore got himself involved in something that he shouldn’t have, it may be that he paid the price.’

‘Okay,’ said Stewart, ‘so, we’ve nothing. Let’s start something.’

‘Boss?’

Stewart cleared his throat. ‘I’ll tell Grim to write up an article about our zero-tolerance approach in the lead-up to Christmas. We’ll make it known that we’ll be targeting all known offenders.’

‘Everyone, boss?’ Ross was already doing the maths.

‘We’ll tell them it’s everyone. In reality it’ll just be the usual scum who’ll be stopped and searched.’

Wheeler warmed to the idea. ‘Make it difficult for them to do their not-so-legitimate business.’

Stewart smiled at her. ‘Exactly, we make their daily life complete shite and so they’ll need to get us off their back. Someone knows something about this murder; it didn’t happen in isolation. The bloodied clothes the killer was wearing, the car he used. Someone must be boasting about it to their pals. Something has to give.’ He crossed to the window, looked out at the grey sky. ‘There’s a dozen incentives already in place that this can easily dovetail in with.’

‘Stop and search is never popular,’ said Wheeler.

‘We’re not trying to be popular,’ replied Stewart. ‘We’re trying to be a pain in the backside. This’ll hit the dealers and if we hit them hard enough they’d grass up their own granny, never mind whoever did Gilmore.’

‘So we hassle them until they snap?’ said Boyd.

‘Exactly. We know the main players and their teams – let’s make them uncomfortable.’ He smiled. ‘Okay, let’s go with that. I’ll get the word out via Grim and the
Chronicle
. Might as well try to shake things up a bit.’ Stewart adjusted his tie and marched to the door. Wheeler watched him leave the room, thinking that he was right. They had nothing new and they had nothing to lose by stirring up some bad feeling.

‘You not going through to watch the performance, then? See the big man in action?’ Ross grinned at her, fanning his hand in front of his face. ‘You warm? Only you look a bit flushed.’

Wheeler stood, pushed the reports to the side. ‘Shut it, you. I’m off to the loo, then we’re having a chat with George Grey.’

When she passed Stewart’s office, the door was open and he was sitting behind his desk. Grim was seated on a hard chair facing Stewart. She heard them begin.

‘Good to see you, Grim,’ said Stewart.

‘Likewise, Stewart.’

Neither managed to convey even a hint of sincerity.

‘Okay, enough with the pleasantries – let’s get on. Grim, I want you to run an article on a police crackdown, a type of zero-tolerance, and here’s why.’

Wheeler walked on, made a quick stop at the loo and marched back to her desk. ‘Ross, we’re off to see George Grey.’

Wheeler and Ross pulled up outside a row of tenement buildings that were not scheduled for demolition. But should have been. Ross killed the engine. ‘Let’s give it a second, see if the rain goes off a bit.’ He looked at the houses. ‘We need one of those wee sanitising units. This place is worse than the scheme at Watervale.’

‘Can’t all be trendy West Enders like yourself, Ross.’

‘Right enough.’ He turned to her. ‘Rovers got beat last night.’

Wheeler laughed. ‘So? Is that not a regular occurrence? Surely you can’t be surprised?’

‘Fair enough.’ He paused, stared out at the rain. ‘You out and about yourself?’

She looked at him. ‘Well I wasn’t out watching football, if that’s what you’re asking.’

He waited, ‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Good time?’

Wheeler stepped out of the car. ‘I told you, I went to a lecture on brain scans.’

He waited.

She slammed the door.

He grunted, got out the other side, automatically smoothed down his hair.

She watched him. ‘Don’t think the photographers will be here today. Besides, there’s another bit of dog hair on your jacket. Either your grooming’s slipping or you’re letting that mutt sleep on everything.’

‘Shit.’ He brushed the hairs from his jacket and was locking the door when the half-brick sailed by his head and smashed onto the bonnet of the car. Wheeler spun round and saw three boys running into one of the tenement buildings. The taller of them turned back, his voice ferocious, ‘Fucking scumbag pigs!’ A smaller boy shouted, ‘Oink, oink.’ The third wasn’t quite so humorous: ‘Next time the brick’ll kill you.’ He paused, spat on the ground then followed his friends into the close.

She looked at Ross. ‘It’s a welcome of sorts.’

Ross grabbed the brick and chucked it onto the ground. ‘No point going after them, is there?’

‘What for? We’ll be led a merry dance round the houses. Come on, we’ve got work to do.’ She walked into the mouth of the close. ‘George Grey’s house is on the ground floor, so we’re probably not going to be ambushed.’ Wheeler paused outside a wooden door; the paint was peeling and the central glass panel had been severely cracked and gaffa-taped back together, giving a warped mosaic effect. Wheeler grimaced. ‘I’m thinking industrial chic – what do you think?’

Ross stood beside her and whined, ‘I haven’t even had a chance to digest my breakfast before that crappy wee welcoming committee outside.’

She patted his arm. ‘Aw diddums is all sensitive again. The big boys upset you? Never mind, I’ll buy you coffee and a bun later if you’re good.’ She knocked hard and waited.

A boy of around sixteen answered.

‘You George Grey, son?’

The boy nodded, turned back and shouted into the house, ‘It’s the polis.’

Wheeler looked at Ross. ‘Are we that obvious?’ They flashed their ID but the boy had already turned away.

They followed the boy into a dank hallway, the wallpaper flaked and torn, and through into a cramped room. The smell of damp hung in the air. George stood in the filthy kitchen. ‘I’m just havin’ ma breakfast. That okay?’

‘Of course.’

‘You want some?’

They shook their heads. ‘Thanks anyway.’ Wheeler waited while he scraped the dregs from a margarine tub and smoothed it over two pieces of pan bread, then took a handful of crisps from an opened packet and laid them on the bread. Squeezed on a good dollop of budget-range tomato ketchup, put the two slices of bread together and scrunched down hard. Opened a can of Irn-Bru and slurped about half of it down before looking up at them. ‘School said you’d come and talk to me.’ He walked through into the sitting room. ‘Whit aboot?’

Wheeler and Ross followed him into the room. Wheeler tried to ignore the cloying smell of urine and stale vomit and walked towards the sofa. She perched herself on the arm, avoiding the worst of the damp and mould. She battled to understand why social services couldn’t improve a place like this. Fumigate it maybe. But then what? Demolition would be an answer.

‘We need to have a wee word about Mr Gilmore. But it can wait till you’ve finished your breakfast.’

She watched George Grey start on his sandwich. He was about five-five. Thin, greasy strands of hair fell in defeated layers over a bony forehead. He wasn’t just skinny, he was painfully emaciated. He settled himself on a greasy beanbag and stared at her. Dark eyes peered out from his gaunt face. They were the darkest blue she had ever seen, but she had never seen an expression so lacking in hope, so soulless. If she had to name it, George Grey was the walking dead. She sighed; he was like other terminally neglected children, whose life was over before it had really begun. A part of him had already died. What remained was what she had to interview.