Riven (18 page)

She shifted on the arm of the sofa, listened to someone retch in the bathroom above, heard the cistern flush, then a hacking cough sound, until finally she heard footsteps on the bare stairs. A skeletal man wearing a stained vest and jogging bottoms wheezed his way into the room and stood in front of her.

‘I’m DI Wheeler and this is my colleague DI Ross.’ They flashed their ID again.

The man ignored their cards. ‘The filth? The school said you’d be round. Whit’s the matter, you cannae solve sumthin’ and you want to pick on George?’

‘We just need to ask your step-son a couple of questions.’

‘See, that’s where you’re wrong, right off, hen. I’m no his step-da. His da scarpered long ago. My name’s MacIntyre, William MacIntyre, and,’ he pointed to George with his right hand showing the three stumps that used to be fingers, ‘that there’s no step-wean o’ mine.’

Ross coughed. ‘Guardian?’

‘Ah live wi’ his ma. Is that good enough fur you?’ He leaned in towards her and Wheeler got the benefit of a mouth full of decaying teeth. She stared instead at the gnarled stumps. Wheeler wondered how he had lost the fingers; it didn’t look like they had been created by professional medical intervention. She turned away and faced George, waited a second until he had swallowed the last of his drink, then she began.

‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Mr Gilmore was found dead at his home on Monday evening.’

George nodded. ‘Aye, I heard he copped it.’

‘Whit? Gilmore’s deid?’ MacIntyre flopped onto the sofa.

‘You knew him, Mr MacIntyre?’

‘No well – he worked with George though, didn’t he?’

George nodded.

‘Can you remember the last time you saw him, George?’

‘Last week, I think it was Tuesday.’ He paused. ‘Aye it was Tuesday, ’cause right after I talked to him I had to go and get changed. We had P.E.’

‘Was there anything unusual about him? Did he seem nervous or tense?’

‘Naw.’

‘How’d he croak it?’ MacIntyre’s voice was low. Feral, sleekit. His left hand rubbed at the stumps, massaging the wrinkled skin.

Wheeler stared at him. ‘You didn’t see it reported on the telly or read anything in the
Chronicle
about it?’

MacIntyre sniffed and then coughed up a ball of phlegm, rolled it around his mouth, swallowed. ‘Flu, hen, I’ve been out of the game for a few days.’

Wheeler had noticed the track marks, fresh, not old. Heroin, just as Nancy Paton had told them. If MacIntyre had been out of it for a few days it was because he’d scored enough to keep him in his own personal nirvana. ‘Is Mrs Grey able to speak with us?’

He jerked a thumb at the ceiling. ‘She’s in her bed – she’s got a dose of the flu as well, right enough.’ He gnawed on his thumb nail. ‘So, how’d he die, then? Whit happened?’

She heard the tremor in his voice. Noted it. Watched George take his empty can of Irn-Bru into the kitchen, heard him scrunch it into the bin, and she kept her voice low while watching MacIntyre’s reaction. ‘He was found murdered in his home, Mr MacIntyre.’

‘Not very nice.’ Ross stared at MacIntyre, watching his pale face turn yellow.

‘Fuckssake.’ MacIntyre shuddered, then he rounded on them. ‘And you arses are trying to pin it on George, is that it?’

‘Why would you think that?’ asked Wheeler.

‘Cause that’s what pigs dae.’ MacIntyre glowered at her like a malevolent gargoyle.

‘We’re just trying to find out if Mr Gilmore seemed in any way different over the past few weeks. It might help us with our enquiries.’

‘Well, George’s telt you he wis jist the same, noo beat it. Scram.’ MacIntyre started shaking, first his hands, then his arms; finally his whole body was twitching. George stood in the doorway watching.

Wheeler stood. ‘Can you remember anything unusual about Mr Gilmore, George? Hear of anyone threaten him or someone who might want to harm him?’

The boy stared at the stained carpet, his voice still. ‘Don’t know nothing about him. Hardly ever saw him.’

She tried for eye contact. ‘You sure?’

George blinked at the carpet. ‘Sure.’

Outside the weather had begun in earnest; sleet fell in horizontal sheets as they made their way back to the car.

‘Well, William MacIntyre’s a right ladies’ man – what a charmer. Ross, he could teach you a thing or two.’

‘Aye. I thought so.’

‘He was awful freaked about Gilmore’s death, considering that he never really knew the man.’

‘Aye, I thought he looked a bit too shaken up about someone he’d barely known. Doesn’t seem the type to waste time with emotions. Doesn’t figure.’

‘Agreed. He knows more than he’s letting on.’

‘Sometimes it’s hard to tell with junkies. See the shaking – he needed his fix. And all that stuff about flu was complete bollocks.’

‘Flu symptoms,’ she agreed, ‘otherwise known as withdrawal symptoms.’

Ross patted his stomach. ‘Is it time for our coffee pow-wow yet?’

‘You still needing a wee coffee after all that food earlier?’

‘I was up early.’

‘Running?’

‘Running, then walking the dog – can’t all be swanning about at arty-farty lectures.’

‘Wimp.’

‘I’m starved.’

‘Your metabolism’s out of whack.’

‘It’s pretty efficient,’ he said proudly. ‘It’s all the exercise.’

She took out her phone. ‘I’ll phone in for a quick recce to see if there’s been any developments.’

‘Yeah, we can’t be expected to do all the work.’

She stared at him. ‘You’re a skiver, Ross.’

‘I’m hurt. I was at the station till late last night.’

‘Turn up anything?’

‘Just the two calls.’

She settled herself into the car, punched in the number for the station. ‘I’m impressed, Ross. You’ll soon just about have earned your acting DI.’

He ignored her, drove quickly but made sure he kept inside the speed limit. Listened to Wheeler speak with Boyd.

Twenty minutes later Wheeler and Ross sat in the back of the café. They ordered two coffees and two Danish pastries.

‘I’ll be back in a jiff.’ Ross raced out.

He was back before the coffee arrived.

‘What’s wrong? Scared I’d ask you to pay?’

‘Nope, just needed to get some of this.’ He held up a small spray-bottle of hand sanitiser. ‘Want some?’

She shook her head. ‘Once again. You’re a wimp.’

He squirted gel onto both palms and rubbed them together vigorously. ‘No, but MacIntyre’s house, bloody hell. I felt itchy just sitting there. Lice, nits and fleas, take your pick.’

‘I know, but what the head teacher said was right – George Grey is a poor wee soul. Do you think he could have had anything to do with Gilmore’s death?’

‘Stranger things,’ Ross said as the coffee and buns arrived, ‘stranger things.’

Doyle sipped scalding black coffee and then spoke. ‘Yeah, Weirdo, he’s on his way in to see me. Tell Manky good work.’ He switched off the phone and waited. A few minutes later, he heard a knock on the door.

‘Come in.’

Smithy waddled across the carpet, hands stuffed into the pockets of his tracksuit top, voice chirpy. ‘Mr D, you needed to see me?’

Doyle studied the walk, thought he detected a hint of swagger. Kept his voice reasonable. ‘Tell me Smithy, have you got a death wish?’

The hint of a swagger disappeared. ‘I’m not with you?’

‘Easy enough question, Smithy.’

Silence.

‘HAVE YOU GOT A FUCKING DEATH WISH?’

Smithy looked at the carpet, then at the Gaggia, looking for an answer, any answer. Came up with none. Decided on the direct approach. ‘No?’

Doyle stared at him. ‘See, that’s not how it appears. Unless I’ve got it wrong, I run this outfit. Right?’

‘Right, Mr Doyle.’

‘And so when I hear about a shitty fat toerag like you going it alone, ACTING SOLO, then I get concerned.’

Confusion. Panic. A flash of guilt. Tried to hide it. Failed. ‘I never, I never sold anything on, honest.’ He moved from foot to foot. Scratched his neck. Coughed.

‘I’m not talking about the merchandise, Smithy.’ Doyle waited.

Eventually, ‘I never said nothing to Stella, Mr Doyle, honest. I mean she’s a lovely lassie and all that but I never . . . honest . . . no’ for a minute . . .’

‘I’m no’ talking about Stella. Take a minute, Smithy, have a think. When were you last a right arse? Care to hazard a guess?’

Doyle watched Smithy’s face contort. Heard his breathing quicken. Could almost smell the sweat. Waited. Then waited some more. Eventually he put him out of his misery. ‘See that’s a worry, that you can’t remember being an arse.’

Smithy rubbed a hand across the fold of fat that was his neck. His fingers glistened with sweat.

‘I’m talking about scaring two wee boys half to death last night. Or can you not remember driving my four-by-four across waste ground? Does it not ring any bells?’ Doyle watched the colour spread up Smithy’s neck, waited until his face and neck were inflamed before adding, ‘See, that makes me angry.’

‘I was just showing some initiative.’ His voice a squeak.

‘You, Smithy, aren’t paid to think. You’re certainly not paid to act out your own wee gangster fantasies. You’re paid to do what I tell you. That’s all.’

Smithy sighed, relieved. ‘Aye, right ye are, Mr Doyle. Just thought the wee shits needed a scare.’ Rubbed some more sweat from his neck. Wiped his damp fingers on the sleeve of his fleece.

‘How so?’

‘I asked them if they’d taken anything from Gilmore’s. Said no.’

‘You believe them?’

Relaxed smirk. ‘Hard to tell with them wee pricks.’

‘Is that right?’

Smithy heard the tone. Stopped talking. Stopped smirking. Almost stopped breathing.

‘So you warned them off?’

Smithy nodded.

‘So, what next? They’ll go home and tell their wee pals, what exactly?’

‘Not to squeal.’

‘Or else, what?’

Chest out, flabby thumb prodding his chest. ‘They’ll get it from me.’

‘And then the polis will come after you?’

‘Mibbe.’ The smirk was back in place. ‘But I’ll no say anything. I’ll stay schtum.’ Smithy made a zipping gesture across his mouth.

‘Is that right?’

Again the tone.

Smithy swallowed.

‘And when the polis can’t be arsed wasting their time going after a fuck-up like you, they’ll aim a bit higher. Mibbe they’ll ask around, see who you work for and then mibbe they’ll come and pay me a wee visit? Seeing as now they have a convenient link from me to James Gilmore via the two wee boys, thanks to you.’

Smithy tried to steady himself but the sway was way too obvious.

The smell in the CID suite was of dust, dampness and old ghosts. Two uniformed officers had joined Boyd and Robertson, who were working slowly and methodically through James Gilmore’s possessions. The seals on the cardboard boxes had been broken and the contents grouped into piles. Robertson sat at his desk in a fog of aftershave and began sifting through more papers. Old bank statements had been paperclipped together. ‘Nothing much out of the ordinary – mortgage, electricity and gas all paid by direct debit. A few cash withdrawals, usually fifty or sixty pounds at a time. If anything was stolen, it doesn’t look like they managed to get very far. Certainly, no one’s hacked into Gilmore’s account.’ Robertson continued muttering to himself.

Boyd stood up, stretched and headed towards the kettle; the uniforms had made their own coffee earlier so he turned to Robertson: ‘You want a coffee?’

Silence. Robertson kept on reading.

‘Hey, Robertson, you’re miles away.’

Robertson glanced up. ‘What?’

‘You want a coffee?’

‘No, I’m good, thanks.’ He turned back to his box. ‘You seen the secondment that’s up for grabs?’

Boyd scooped two heaped spoonfuls of coffee into a greasy mug. ‘Nope, but you have – can’t wait for promotion to come around?’

Robertson shrugged. ‘What can I say, I’m ambitious. Need to get on.’

‘I’m too knackered to even think of it.’

‘You look shattered.’

‘Cheers for that. It’s the new girlfriend – she’s keeping me up all night.’

Robertson pursed his lips, turned away, busied himself. ‘What about your wife?’

‘I never mention the new girlfriend; it’d only upset her.’

Stewart strode into the room. ‘Remember, you two, press conference in an hour. Mind and scrub up. Boyd, try to look less like a criminal waster and more like a police officer.’

Boyd smiled. ‘Will do.’ He nodded to a female officer in uniform who’d come into the room. ‘You want to give me a hand going through this stuff?’ He handed her a pile of papers, receipts, bills and envelopes. There was a stack of parking tickets on top. ‘Sorry it smells a bit. His house was damp.’

She took the pile and sat at a desk, began sorting.

Boyd took his coffee and began flicking through the photographs in another box. There were old cards, scraps of notepaper that Gilmore had scribbled on. Boyd held up an old birthday card – the writing inside was thick, etched into the paper. It was signed, ‘Moira and Murdo Gilmore. Your parents.’

‘Who signs birthday cards “your parents”?’ He showed it to the female officer.

‘This it then?’ A young constable had entered the room and stood amidst the boxes.

‘
’
Fraid so.’ Boyd nodded to a box. ‘Everything that was found has been recorded and now we get to have a nosy through.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Musty. Damp.’

‘Depressing,’ muttered the constable, looking through the contents of the box. ‘It’s not much to show for a life, is it?’ He scanned the pile. ‘Old bits of paper, parking tickets, stuff cut out of magazines. A pile of old photography magazines. Why bother? It’s the digital age.’

‘He seemed to be stuck in a different era,’ Boyd agreed, dredging through more paperwork.

‘Even my wee granny has a camera on her phone and she’s ancient.’ The constable kept searching.

‘Maybe he liked the romance of developing his own photographs? Ever heard of Avedon, Arnold, Doisneau?’

‘No,’ replied the constable.

‘Christ, that makes me feel old.’ Boyd had stopped sifting and had begun searching through his desk for biscuits. Found some.