Riven (2 page)

Acting Detective Inspector Steven Ross shuffled papers together and crammed them into his in-tray, smoothing them down with a satisfied smirk. ‘The game might get postponed.’

Boyd shrugged. ‘Personally, I don’t give a toss.’

She stood behind Boyd. ‘Me neither; I think the murder takes precedence here.’

Boyd swivelled round in his chair, spilling coffee onto his wrinkled white shirt. ‘Sorry, didn’t hear you come in.’

Ross stood, hastily pulled on his leather jacket and automatically smoothed his dark hair. ‘Ready when you are.’

‘Well get a bloody move on – I had to leave a night out for this.’

She was at the front desk signing for the pool car when he caught up with her.

Tommy Cunningham, the desk sergeant with ninety-seven days left at the station before he retired, sucked air through pursed lips. ‘Dearie me,’ he said in a soft Irish accent, ‘tell me you’re not taking that eejit with you?’

‘’Fraid so TC.’

‘See that he keeps it on the road this time, won’t you?’ Cunningham sounded doubtful.

Ross shook his head. ‘Can’t believe you fuckers are still going on about it. Accidents happen all the bloody time.’

Cunningham sighed. ‘Shit happens to some more than to others, son. See, I think that maybe you’re jinxed. Did you even pass your SDT?’

Wheeler smirked; all officers had to achieve at least seventy-five per cent in order to pass the Standard Driver Training Course.

‘I got ninety per cent,’ muttered Ross, ‘but thanks for asking.’

‘And now we’ve a pool car with a rare big dent in it, because of you,’ Cunningham grinned at Ross.

Ross didn’t return it. ‘Adds to its character.’

‘You’re a bloody eejit, son.’

Wheeler made for the door. ‘He might be, TC, but he’s our eejit.’

‘Right enough.’ Cunningham shook his head, his voice resigned, ‘he’s ours.’

Ross kept his silence and followed her out.

Wheeler closed the door behind them, trapping the sticky heat in the station. Outside, a freezing Glasgow downpour was well under way but she strode ahead, oblivious to the rain, her blonde hair plastered to her head.

Ross strolled beside her, long legs easily keeping pace. ‘Nightmare this weather. Last night’s storm nearly took the roof off my flat.’

‘Here, catch,’ she tossed the keys at him, ‘you’re driving.’

‘How come?’

‘Weather’s shite,’ she paused, ‘and apparently you need the practice.’

Ross hauled fourteen and a half stones of honed muscle into the driver’s seat. Settled himself. Pointedly said nothing.

The car started on the second attempt, the engine growling malevolently, windscreen wipers smearing a gentle coat of grease across the screen. Ross groaned. ‘Christ, I can hardly see a thing.’

Wheeler pushed the seat belt into place and waited for the click before answering, ‘Quit whining and try to focus on the task in hand.’

‘I know,
the poor sod who’s been battered
. . . I am a professional.’

‘A professional numpty.’ Wheeler’s mobile rang; she wasn’t in the mood. ‘Yeah?’

The person on the other end paused before asking, ‘Kat?’

‘I can’t talk now Jo, I’m on a case.’ Wheeler switched off her phone.

He glanced at her, ‘Family?’

‘Flipping yes. Again.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘Aye, lucky me.’

A few minutes later they were settled on the A74, London Road, linking Hamilton Road at one end to the High Street in Glasgow’s city centre at the other. On their right were blocks of flats, many with their windows illuminated with Christmas trees dripping with tinsel, fairy lights and shiny baubles, bright against the dark of night. On their far left the River Clyde meandered through the city from its source in the Lowther Hills, out into the Firth of Clyde and into the Irish Sea. The Clyde was over a hundred miles long and its waters held some of the city’s darker secrets.

Ross navigated the road carefully; visibility was poor. As he concentrated, Wheeler reached across, turned on the radio and listened to the local news.

‘. . . The father of a twenty-four-year-old man who was attacked by a gang outside a gay nightclub last weekend has made a plea for more information to be brought forward. William Johnstone was beaten to the ground and left unconscious as the gang ran off towards the city centre. His father, Alan, issued this appeal: “Someone has to know who these men are – they are someone’s son, brother or husband. Whoever is shielding them should share their blame.” William remains in a critical condition in the Royal Infirmary.

‘. . . A fight in a south-side pub between rival football fans has resulted in one man being taken to hospital, where his condition was said to be stable. A twenty-year-old man has been arrested in connection with this incident and is due to appear in court . . .

‘. . . A woman has been charged with child neglect after leaving her three-year-old daughter alone in a house in the Springburn area of the city for three days. The thirty-three-year-old woman, Bernadette Malcolm, stated that she had been to a series of parties held over one weekend and had “forgotten to go home” . . .’

Wheeler let the news wash over her and thought of the murder scene they were about to visit. She watched the Christmas trees in the windows of houses and hoped that, despite the gloomy news, most residents of the city would have a happy Christmas.

The radio continued its report.

‘. . . The release of notorious Glasgow criminal Maurice Mason from Barlinnie prison on Friday, after serving only half of his seven-year sentence for manslaughter, has sparked an outcry from the family of the victim. Scott Henderson, thirty-nine, died shortly after a frenzied attack by Mason. The controversial decision to release Mason came at a time when pressure to—’

‘All good news,’ she sighed, reaching forward and switching the radio off. ‘And Maurice Mason’s out in time for Christmas.’

‘Cheer up, it’ll soon be the holidays and let’s positively reframe it, think of Maurice Mason being let out as a wee early Christmas present for us. What could be cosier?’ Ross grinned. ‘And talking of Christmas pressies, you got mine yet?’

Wheeler stared ahead. ‘Thought we’d agreed that we wouldn’t bother with presents? Just do the Secret Santa thing with the rest of the station?’

Everyone at the station did a ‘Secret Santa’ dip for anything around ten pounds and the usual rubbish turned up – joke aprons, flavoured condoms, plastic nonsense that would end up in the bin by January – but it was about as familiar as Wheeler wanted to get with most of her colleagues.

‘But aren’t we more than that?’ asked Ross.

‘Like what?’

‘We’re partners.’

‘We’re not in an American cop show, we’re part of the team.’ But she knew what he meant; they were closer and they did work better together than with the others.

‘Suppose.’ Ross indicated and switched lane. Ahead of them, the security lights from the whisky distillery glowed in the darkness. Ross turned off the road and bumped the car down a single-track lane which was so rutted Wheeler felt the car lurch to the side. Ross drove on, past the walls encircling the old cemetery, the mossy gravestones slick with rain. Wheeler opened the window and a rush of cold air filled the car, bringing with it the smell of damp vegetation. The cemetery had been closed for years and languished, neglected. Finally, at the end of the lane they stopped beside a shiny new BMW, the colour of congealed blood. Personalised plates told her that CA11UM was on duty.

Ross turned to her. ‘You okay?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be okay?’

‘You know, dead bodies, that kind of . . . stuff.’

‘You worried you’ll faint?’

He smiled. ‘Might do. Will you pick me up?’

‘No chance,’ she muttered, getting out of the car, ‘but I’d stomp over you to get to the case, would that suit?’

She watched him grimace before striding through the rain. She ignored the downpour, knowing that her hair was already flattened, that her skin would be pale with the cold.

Across the drive, a scene-of-crime officer was examining a Ford Focus. She shouted to him, ‘That his car then?’

The man nodded, water dripping from his nose.

‘Get anything useful?’ she asked but she already knew the answer.

‘Too early to say.’ The man turned away and concentrated on the car.

She looked at the house. Once it would have been a solid building, but the old stones had suffered decades of neglect; stained-glass windows rattled in rotted frames, slate tiles gaped obscure patterns across the roof. The door was too wide for the house, and the garden, an anarchic knot of weeds, had long since gone wild. ‘Would’ve been lovely once.’

‘Aye.’ Ross shifted from one foot to the other, distracted. ‘Shit.’

‘What’s up with you?’

‘Cramp.’

‘For goodness’ sake.’

‘Still, but it’s sore.’

She stared at the house. ‘It looks close to derelict now.’

He shook his left leg vigorously. ‘Seen worse.’

Fluorescent police tape twisted and snapped in the wind, catching the light from the open door. She ducked under. ‘Come on smiler, let’s go join the party.’ Ross followed, his limp pronounced. Up ahead the familiar scene was being re-enacted. Assorted SOCOs, each contained in their own world, were moving silently like spectres, searching the ground, gathering information, bagging evidence.

A young detective sergeant walked briskly towards them, his thin lips stretched into a tight smile. His navy-blue suit was pristine, his dark hair smoothed into a side parting and his brogues held a dull sheen. A hit of lemon aftershave arrived ahead of him.

‘How does he even do that?’ She tried not to sound impressed. ‘I look and smell like wet dog.’

‘Freak,’ coughed Ross.

Detective Sergeant Ian Robertson greeted her with a polite nod, while ignoring Ross.

‘What’ve you got?’ Wheeler asked.

‘Male, deceased, fifty-four years old. Looks like he lived alone. One toothbrush, only male clothes in the wardrobe, nothing to suggest anyone else lived there.’

‘And?’

‘He was an educational psychologist. He was peripatetic, travelled around different schools across the city.’

‘And?’ Wheeler sighed; it was like drawing teeth. ‘Got a name?’

‘James Gilmore.’

She held out her hand. ‘Gimme those, Robertson, it’ll be bloody quicker for me to read them.’ She scanned the neatly written notes. Two boys had found the body. It was a far from pleasant sight as it had ‘shown considerable signs of beating’. The boys were in shock and the body was waiting for her inside. She thrust the notes back at the sergeant – ‘Fine,’ – turned, ‘Well, Ross, if you’re ready?’

Robertson held up his hand, neat, manicured nails, broad gold wedding band gleaming. ‘There’s something else.’

She paused. ‘Go on.’

‘I knew him.’

Wheeler whistled. ‘Geez, was he a friend?’

Robertson flinched. ‘No, nothing like that. We weren’t close. I didn’t know him well at all; I only met him once, twice maybe, that’s all.’

She waited.

He studied his shoes. ‘We met at one of the schools he visited.’

‘Which one?’

‘Watervale Academy.’

Wheeler recognised the name. The school was in the north of the city, slap-bang in the middle of a run-down shambles of a scheme. She knew that the school’s nickname was Waterfuck and having Academy tagged on was seen by some as a cruel joke thought up by the heid high yins in Glasgow City Council. Watervale catered for some of Glasgow’s most challenging kids.

‘The school for kids with behavioural problems?’ She looked at Robertson.

Robertson nodded. ‘Some have special needs too.’

‘Aye a special need to kick the shit out of anyone who gets in their way,’ muttered Ross.

Wheeler ignored him and addressed Robertson. ‘You there on police business?’ Like a lot of schools in the city, uniformed police sometimes had to visit. But CID was another thing. And it wasn’t even their area. She was curious why Robertson had visited the school. She waited. He hadn’t answered her question. ‘So why were you there?’

Robertson looked at the ground, the rain damping his hair. Still it remained in place. He glanced at Ross, winced, ‘Personal business.’

She saw his discomfort. Felt the tension between the two men deepen. Decided to ignore it – they were meant to be grown-ups and she wasn’t their mammy. Heard her mobile ring. Checked the number. Her sister. Ignored her too.

Wheeler watched as a SOCO passed, his suit rustling as he walked, before turning back to Robertson. ‘And the two boys who found him, how’re they doing?’

‘They’re both very upset, as you can imagine.’

‘I’ll bet. I hope they’re not still here?’

‘Course not. I had them taken to the station.’

‘Good. So, what do we know about them?’

Robertson checked his notes. ‘Alec Munroe and Rab Wilson, both nineteen and both ex-Watervale Academy.’

‘So they knew the victim?’

‘Only that he visited the school. They’d left before he started there. But they knew his name – they still hang out with kids from the school.’

‘At their age?’

He nodded. ‘Said all their pals still went there. They came to the house on the off chance it was empty.’

‘All the way across the city? That doesn’t seem right.’

‘On the bus.’

‘On the bus,’ she repeated, ‘because?’

He glanced at his notes. ‘Parents’ night at school – they thought all the staff would be there. They were going to rob the place.’

She whistled. ‘Geez, they broke in and found a body – bad luck there boys.’

‘
Technically
they didn’t break in,’ he corrected her, ‘the door was already open.’

She looked at Robertson, then at the house, trying to imagine the scene. ‘Uh huh. And how’d you find out about the intended robbery?’

Robertson beamed. ‘They told me.’

‘Christ,’ Ross spluttered, ‘they’re no Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, are they?’

Robertson kept his voice low. ‘Humour’s hardly appropriate, given the grave circumstances.’ He busied himself rereading his notes.

‘Fuckin’ amateurs! On the bus!’ Ross was still sniggering.

She glanced at Ross, took in the fitted jacket, purposely tight over a taught six-pack. His body was gym-toned, hers ex-army-honed. He had long legs, broad shoulders. Dark hair, pale blue eyes, long lashes. She knew that if he was chocolate he’d eat himself. He was also loud and routinely inappropriate. That said, she still liked him. She looked at Robertson, noting how a faint smir of rain seemed to hover over his suit, while her trousers were already soaked.