Riven (19 page)

‘This stuff seems to echo the house though,’ said Robertson. ‘Everything’s kind of dying. I mean it’s all so tatty, so tired.’ Robertson sounded depressed. ‘A life not lived to the full.’

‘Garbage really,’ the constable offered. ‘Why did he even want to keep all of this?’

‘People do though, don’t they, they stuff it all in the attic or the garage. Hoarders. It’s a condition,’ suggested Boyd.

‘It’s all rubbish though, isn’t it?’ the constable repeated.

‘Garbage,’ agreed Boyd, glancing through a dusty photograph album. ‘Gilmore as a child on a bike . . . at school . . . class photograph . . . university graduation . . . someone’s wedding.’ Gilmore was five foot six, and was thin with wary eyes. In the photographs he wore checked shirts, grey ties, tweed jackets. Nothing bright, nothing stylish. It seemed that James Gilmore had never wanted to stand out. ‘Nondescript.’ Boyd closed the album. ‘Just the same information we heard from the schools.’ He glanced at Robertson. ‘Anything else?’

‘Nothing that stands out, no big gambling debts, no Sky sports package. Gets through a fair bit of cash though.’ He flicked through the statements. ‘Doesn’t go into overdraft but cuts it fine every month. I didn’t see much in the house to reflect this.’

‘Maybe he paid for his mother’s care?’ said Boyd.

‘No, she’s a woman with means; seems her husband Murdo was a very successful academic – he’s written quite a few textbooks and left her with more than enough for her care.’

‘Bookies?’ suggested Boyd.

‘Then he was on a losing streak.’

‘In more ways than one.’

An hour later and they had left the uniforms to continue. Boyd was working at his computer and Robertson was beginning to work on the set of keys.

Stewart strolled into the room, perched himself on the edge of a desk. ‘I’ve put the press conference back half an hour,’ he tapped one foot impatiently, ‘so what’ve we got?’

Robertson patted the papers on his desk. ‘Just finished trawling through this lot, boss. Nothing out of the ordinary. Next up I’ll check the keys, see if I can locate where they were used.’ He held up a key with an electronic tag attached. This looks like the most interesting.’

‘A lock-up, maybe, or a storage unit?’

‘Nothing about the company, no name.’

‘Odd.’

‘I’ll call round, see if I can find out which companies use this kind of tag.’

Stewart turned to Boyd. ‘Anything?’

Boyd put down his second cup of coffee and tapped the computer screen. ‘Still going through Gilmore’s diary. He was at a charity do last month at the River Hotel.’

‘Expensive place,’ said Stewart.

‘Fundraiser for a kids’ charity,’ Boyd scrolled down the screen, ‘the twenty-second of November.’

‘And?’ Stewart asked.

‘High-profile dinner, auction and everything. Lord Provost and loads of high heid yins at it. But only a couple of folk we’re interested in.’ He scrolled down the page and clicked on the mouse. A slide show began and he clicked through it until he found what he was looking for. He turned the screen towards Stewart.

‘What am I looking at?’

‘Overview of the tables, see,’ he pointed, ‘here and here.’

Stewart looked at the picture while Boyd talked him through his find. ‘Here’s Andy Doyle holding court at one table.’ Stewart stared at the picture; Doyle was chatting, hands mid-air, making a point to a thin man seated next to him. On the other side of Doyle, Stella was wearing an off-the-shoulder silver dress that showed too much cleavage. Her eyes were shining as she smiled at Doyle.

‘And look at this,’ Boyd continued. ‘James Gilmore is at a table on the other side of the room.’

‘Excellent, Boyd. Now all we need is to ID the guy next to Doyle.’

Boyd tapped the screen animatedly. ‘I know who he is, boss. The guy Doyle’s talking to is Jay Haddington. He’s some kind of a big-shot producer – I heard he was trying to raise money for his next project.’

‘I want to speak to Jay Haddington; get hold of him, Boyd,’ said Stewart.

‘Will do, boss.’ Boyd reached for the phone.

‘How come you know all this, Boyd? I mean about the producer guy?’ Stewart sounded impressed.

‘My girlfriend’s in the business, boss.’

Stewart stood, brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from his pristine suit. ‘Keep digging. I’ll call Wheeler, update her on the development, get her to go speak to Doyle. And remember the press conference in half an hour – you two will be on show.’ He strode out of the room.

Wheeler was finishing her coffee when she heard a text go through to her phone. Checked it. Her sister.

‘Anything wrong?’ Ross scoffed the last of his pastry.

‘My nephew’s gone AWOL again. I met up with him, told him to keep in touch with his mother. Promised he would. Lying wee shite can’t be bothered.’

‘Happens at uni all the time – first time away from home, everyone goes a bit mental. It’s kind of compulsory.’

‘You talking from experience then?’

‘Of course,’ he said.

‘I know it’s bloody normal, but try telling that to his muppet of a mother. She’s imagining him lying in the gutter, with his head bashed in.’

‘Bit unlikely, given he’s only mixing with other students and probably the most dangerous thing he does is skive off lectures.’

‘Well he’s up to a bit more than that.’ She thought of Weirdo. Said nothing. She deleted the text – her sister would just have to grow up. Her mobile rang; she mouthed ‘Stewart’ to Ross and took the call.

‘Okay . . . Yeah . . . Will do.’ She finished the call and sat back in her seat. ‘Well. Boyd found something.’

‘What?’

‘He found a picture online, some big charity do at the River Hotel that Gilmore attended.’

‘So Gilmore had a social life after all. And expensive tastes.’

‘He wasn’t the only one at the do.’

‘Let me guess – he was there with a girlfriend?’

‘No, he went as a representative of the education establishment.’

‘And I’m guessing someone interesting was there, so, if not a girlfriend, a boyfriend?’

‘You’re rubbish, Ross. I’ll give you a clue: who lives beside a big tip?’

‘Andy Doyle was at the do?’

‘Indeed he was, our very own community-minded local businessman.’

‘We off to see him then?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Glad I’ve had a coffee.’

She knew what he meant. ‘Me too. Sets you up, doesn’t it?’

‘You driving?’

‘In this weather, what do you think?’

The press were gathered together in the biggest room at the station. At the front a large, gilt-framed picture of the Queen looked down on the assembled reporters. Stewart, Boyd and Robertson walked into the room. Stewart looked at the reporters, disappointed at the turnout. ‘Looks like James Gilmore’s old news,’ he said under his breath. Boyd nodded as the three officers lined up behind the table. He introduced DCI Stewart, who looked straight at his audience and spoke clearly, enunciating each word. ‘We have gathered a considerable amount of information and leads which we are pursuing regarding the death of James Gilmore. We are heartened by the response from the public and are appealing for witnesses to continue to come forward. We are particularly interested in two callers who wouldn’t leave their names or their contact numbers. We are appealing to them to please call back as soon as possible.’

‘So, what’s the update, chief inspector?’ a woman called from the back of the room. ‘Surely you have something to give us?’

‘At this point we are still gathering leads and once we have solid evidence we will take it forward. For now we are still appealing for information.’

Grumbles around the room.

A young photographer stood at the back of the room watching. He stared at Robertson, waited until he knew that the detective had seen him, then he smiled. Robertson scowled, looked away, studied his notes.

‘Is that his house?’ Ross had turned off the engine and they sat for a moment listening to the rain dance on the roof of the car.

Andrew Doyle lived in detached splendour in a stone villa in Mount Vernon. The area was close to one of the biggest landfill sites in Europe. Greenoakhill Quarry covered over 200 acres of land and buried half a million tons of waste a year.

‘He’s got a big dumping ground,’ said Ross, ‘right on his doorstep.’

They had parked at the bottom of the drive and looked up at what estate agents would call a substantial detached residence. The garden was big enough to be termed ‘grounds’ and a wide gravel path wound its way to the villa. A blue Mercedes, a black four-by-four and a silver Jaguar were parked outside.

‘Well covered for transport,’ said Ross.

‘Aye and the M74 and the M8 are just over there,’ Wheeler noted. ‘He could be in and out of the city in a heartbeat.’

‘It’s quite nice, though. No quite your Brutalist architecture is it?’

Wheeler started up the drive. ‘Think maybe the brutality goes on inside.’

She rang a bell that sounded way down in the bowels of the house. A few minutes later a skinny woman teetering in high heels opened the door.

‘We’re looking for Mr Andrew Doyle.’

The woman pursed her lipsticked mouth. ‘Who’s asking?’

Wheeler and Ross flashed their ID. Ross gave her his best smile. ‘Mrs Doyle?’

The woman shook her head. ‘Girlfriend. Name’s Stella. Wait here.’ She stepped back into the hallway. ‘Andy’s downstairs in the gym; I’ll just go give him a shout.’

Ross took a step forward. ‘May we wait inside?’

Stella opened the door wide. ‘Suppose. Wait here in the hall though, and no snooping.’

She left them in the hallway. Glanced back as she went through the doorway, green eyes flashing, tight mouth set in a scowl.

A few minutes later Andy Doyle appeared at the far end of the hall and strode towards them. He wore tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt stretched taut over his chest. Wheeler noted the cropped hair, the thick muscles, but it was his expression that troubled her the most. Andy Doyle looked like there was fire behind his eyes. She held his gaze, noted the brown of one eye was far darker than the other; heterochromia meant that it blazed black.

He stopped in front of her, too close. She could smell him, a mixture of expensive cologne and fresh sweat.

‘Now what?’

‘Mr Doyle,’ Wheeler began, ‘I’m DI—’

Doyle cut her off. ‘Aye, so big deal, you’re the polis. I could’ve told you that much from across the hall. What’s the problem?’

Wheeler kept her voice neutral. ‘We just want to ask you a few questions about a man name of James Gilmore.’

‘Doesn’t ring any bells.’

‘You met last month. At the charity gala night, in the River Hotel?’

‘Which night was that?’

She checked her notes. ‘The twenty-second of November; there was a big gala do for a children’s charity – the Lord Provost was there.’

Doyle shrugged. ‘I go to a lot of functions. Hard to remember.’

‘You were seen chatting to a producer, name of Jay Haddington,’ Wheeler prompted.

‘Oh aye, I remember now, the producer. Good food at the do but crap weather if I remember right.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’ Ross sounded anything but.

‘So the producer guy, what’s he done?’

‘Nothing as far as I’m aware of; it’s another man we’re interested in. Mr James Gilmore? He also attended the event.’

‘Him and a few hundred others. I do remember talking to the producer guy – what was his name again?’

‘Jay Haddington.’

‘That’s it. Haddington.’

‘Do you remember what you spoke about?’

‘He wanted money for his new play. Investors. Thought I might give it a punt.’

‘Didn’t have you down as a thespian, Mr Doyle.’ Ross kept his voice smooth.

‘There might be a part in the play for Stella, so it’s a win-win situation.’

Wheeler brought out the photograph of Gilmore she’d taken from the school records. ‘Can you take a look at this please and see if it rings any bells?’

Doyle took the photograph from her, stared at it for a few seconds before shaking his head. ‘Can’t help you. As far as I can tell, I’ve never met him before. Mibbe he was at the charity do, but I didn’t meet him.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Aye, certain.’ He gave her back the photograph. ‘Why would I lie?’

She let the question stand for a minute.

‘Aren’t you curious why we’re here?’

‘Seeing as you’re polis, I can hazard a guess. Either this Mr Gilmore’s done something or someone’s done something to him. You’re not uniform, so it’s a bit higher up the pecking order. A wee jolly for the CID, so let’s say there’s been some kind of an assault. Am I right?’

Ross nodded. ‘In the general ball park. Amazing.’

Doyle warmed to the subject. ‘Not one but two cops from the CID, so let’s go “double or quits”: he’s either attacked or killed somebody or somebody’s attacked or killed him. Am I close?’

Wheeler: ‘You’re psychic.’

‘Sunday night. Would you mind telling us where you were?’ said Ross.

‘And since you asked about Sunday night, I’d imagine that’s when it happened,’ Doyle smiled, revealing too-even teeth, the result of expensive dentistry.

‘Would you mind telling us where you were?’ Ross repeated.

Doyle looked past them, studied the sky. ‘Would I mind?’

Wheeler kept her voice calm. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Here. I was here with Stella, watching the telly.’

‘What was on the telly on Sunday?’

‘We watched a box set. One of Stella’s – I think it was
Mad Men
.’

‘And I’m sure Stella will back you,’ Ross said.

‘What do you think?’ Doyle smiled and continued, ‘And since I’ve told you I was home all night and it can be,’ he glanced at Ross, ‘corroborated, then you want me to help you. See if I can recall meeting James Gilmore anywhere?’

They waited.

‘And after that, to see if I can think of any wee toerags that either he might want to harm or who might want to harm him.’ Doyle laughed. ‘Is that not kind of like me doing your job for you?’

Wheeler put the photograph back in her pocket. ‘Not quite. It’s called cooperating with the police. And a man has been murdered.’