Riven (20 page)

‘Has he now? I wonder what he did to piss someone off?’

‘So, if you do remember anything, or think of anything at all, regardless of how small or insignificant it may seem . . .’

Doyle smiled and held open the door. ‘Then you’ll be the first to know,’ he paused, Katherine.’

She spun round. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Wheeler.’

The smile had vanished; instead his dark eye glittered. ‘Whatever you say.’

The door closed quietly behind them.

They turned back towards the car.

Ross: ‘How come he knows your name?’

‘He could’ve picked it up anywhere. I shouldn’t have reacted. He was just playing games.’

‘Very cocky guy, very sure of himself.’

Wheeler opened the car door. ‘Folk that are too sure of themselves have more chance of slipping up.’

‘Still think he’s involved?’

‘Let’s just say I think Doyle is involved in many things. Meantime, let’s go find out who else was on that list for the charity do.’

They were back at the station within the hour. Wheeler paused at the desk to talk to TC. Ross headed up the stairs. In the CID suite Robertson’s aftershave hung in the air but his chair was empty.

‘Where’s the boy wonder then?’ Ross threw his jacket over his own chair and settled himself at his desk. The room was busy and hummed with the sound of both CID staff and uniformed officers talking on the phone, tapping at their computers, reading notes and compiling reports.

‘While you were skiving off to visit Andy Doyle, some of us were doing the real police work.’ Boyd finished off a chocolate biscuit and brushed the crumbs from his shirt.

‘Oh aye, what’s that then?’ Ross said. ‘Scoffing biscuits, chatting with our local reporters after the press conference?’

Boyd tut-tutted his disapproval. ‘Nope, I’ve been collating vital evidence, Ross. Surely you must remember it? It’s part of police procedure. Cast your mind back to what they taught you at Tulliallan. I know it’s a bit of an ask but go on, give it a go.’

‘Ho ho ho. Very funny,’ said Ross.

‘Aye, hysterical – am I not just Santa’s little helper?’

‘So what have you come up with apart from your “I’m a proper little helper elf” routine?’

Boyd swallowed the last of his coffee and licked his lips before replying, ‘Forensics eventually got back to us. A fingerprint, well not a whole one, that would be too much to ask, but a partial turned up at Gilmore’s.’

‘You get a match?’

‘Robertson’s off trying to find a match, but it’s quite an unusual fingerprint, so there’s hope.’

‘How so?’

‘It’s the shape of the whorl – it seems too flat, it’s an odd shape.’

‘You’ve lost me,’ Ross said.

‘Look.’ Boyd pointed to the copy of the fingerprint. Ross went over to him, stood behind him, ‘Go on.’

‘Whorls on fingerprints are usually kind of like a spiral, going round; this one looks like it’s been flattened. And also there’s an old scar. So it looks pretty hopeful – if our guy’s on file then we’re onto him.’ Boyd couldn’t keep the enthusiasm from his voice.

‘I hope we’ve got him on file.’ Ross went back to his desk. ‘Maybe we’ve turned a corner in the case.’

‘If we have, you owe me one.’

‘It’s not a bloody trade-off. I was out talking to George Grey and seeing Andy Doyle – hardly a wee jolly.’

‘Since when does skiving off for a wee chat count as work?’

Ross scrunched up a piece of A4 and lobbed it at Boyd’s head. It struck home.

Boyd ignored it. ‘As I said, we do the real police work here. Talking of the man, did you get anything from Doyle?’

‘Not a sausage. He’s the complete innocent.’

‘Aye right, he just employs others to do his dirty work for him. Anything from the wee boy, George Grey?’

‘Zero. Saw nothing suspicious, heard even less. The last time he saw Gilmore, he was the same as usual, nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘Waste of time?’

‘Guy who’s living there, William MacIntyre, was freaked about Gilmore’s death. Didn’t strike me as the caring type. Did you lot find anything else or is the partial it?’ asked Ross.

Boyd shrugged. ‘Not much. Still wading through the boxes and Robertson’s trying to identify all the keys. The poor wee lad’s cross-eyed with concentration. I think he reckons if he can crack the case single-handedly then promotion will be the next step. If not that then a wee stint somewhere cushy on a secondment. The only flaw in his plan is he’s underestimating just how much you’ll miss him. I think he’s inspired by you getting the acting job, Ross, and he reckons it’s his turn next.’

‘That’ll be shining bright,’ Ross huffed. ‘He’s got no chance of a secondment; the boy’s a dreamer. He needs to put in the graft first, like I did.’

Boyd guffawed.

‘And the keys could just be some old set,’ Ross continued. ‘Folk hang onto all sorts of rubbish.’

Boyd belched. ‘Suppose. You getting any more grief about the accident? TC was going on about it again. He reckons that you should resit your driving test and that we should all get to watch. A wee afternoon of spectator sport.’

‘He’s an old shit-stirring git.’

‘Is it going any further?’

Ross shook his head. ‘They’re letting it lie.’

‘You’re a lucky bastard Ross, you know that don’t you? Teflon fucking coated.’

Ross sniffed, crossed to the kettle, switched it on. ‘There was no harm done.’

‘There was no one else on the road, you mean.’ Boyd dropped his voice. ‘Were you pissed?’

‘What do you think?’ Ross tried for his best hurt look. ‘I’m a cop. Remember?’

‘I’m only asking, so, what happened?’

‘Nothing bloody happened – it was a dark night, stormy. Typical winter weather. End of story. Accidents happen all the time.’

‘All’s well that ends well, then?’

‘Aye, will be if we crack this case. At least the partial fingerprint’s a breakthrough. And there’s a wee link to Doyle.’

‘And Rovers might get promoted,’ Boyd laughed.

‘I’m not holding my breath.’ Ross spooned coffee into the mug, poured boiling water over it.

‘Best not to, given their form.’

‘Ho ho ho.’

‘Very festive.’ Wheeler marched into the room, dumped her coat on the chair. ‘That coffee for me?’

Ross handed it over.

‘Got the full list of people who attended the charity do at the River Hotel.’ She gave Boyd her best smile. ‘It’ll be painstaking work, sifting through it.’

‘I’ll bet.’ He stared at his computer. ‘I pity the poor sod that gets it.’

‘But for the right candidate, the right kind of CID guy . . . an ambitious go-getter, who’s also a team player . . .’ she trailed off.

The penny dropped. ‘You’re joking, right? More desk-bound stuff? I’ll be losing the use of my legs.’

‘That’s more to do with the new girlfriend,’ muttered Ross.

‘I’ll stand you a bacon roll and a coffee,’ Wheeler offered.

‘Already had one earlier, thanks.’ Boyd stared harder at his computer.

‘And a biscuit a minute ago,’ Ross added.

‘Can’t be tempted?’ Wheeler held out the list of names to Boyd. ‘As a big favour? You know I’m rubbish at lists.’

‘Only the girlfriend’s doing a sponsored walk,’ Boyd said, changing the subject.

‘That right?’ Wheeler said. ‘What’s it for?’

‘Local cat and dog home. She’s a soft muppet for strays.’

‘She must be if she took you on.’ Wheeler glanced across at Ross. He ignored her but Wheeler saw the blush rise up his neck; he was waiting for her to tell Boyd about his ugly wee three-legged pal. She sighed, ‘I’m surrounded by nutters – what’s the damage?’

Boyd slid the sponsor form across the table. ‘A fiver and we’re on, a tenner and it’ll get priority.’

Wheeler took a five-pound note from her purse. ‘It’ll be a fiver and it’ll be priority.’

Boyd relented. ‘Throw in a chocolate bar as well then. Looking at that lot I’ll need another sugar hit in an hour or two.’

‘You know I’ve got a soft spot for you, Boyd, don’t you?’ Wheeler handed him the list and signed the sponsor form.

‘Aye,’ he took them, ‘it’s a ditch in the Cathkin Braes, where all the bodies are buried.’

Ross opened his drawer and took out the notes, opened the search engine on his computer and typed in
Arthur Wright, London
. Waited. ‘Shit.’

‘What, you Googled him?’

‘Yep.’

Boyd smiled. ‘About a million hits?’

‘Yep.’ Ross scanned a few, closed the link. ‘There must be thousands of links to Arthur Wright or Arthur or Wright.’

‘Might be bogus – you know how many nutters there are out there. Trying to be helpful but muddying the waters instead. You get a trace on the calls yet?’

‘Not yet,’ Ross picked up the phone. ‘I was just going to chase that up.’

In the corner a young uniformed officer picked up a file from the desk and made for the stairs; once outside he paused to quickly text.

In the offices of the Chronicle Grim read the text:
Found partial fingerprint, no one we know. Still searching database in hope of match.

Grim smiled – he had more for his next article than Stewart had given the rest of them at the press conference. He texted back:
Keep at it and keep me informed – we have a deal remember.
Clicked send. Grim looked out of his office window; the sky was grey and the rain had started again. He grinned.

Ivan Saunders sat in his office looking out of the window at the crowds streaming into Glasgow Central Station, their umbrellas bobbing in a haphazard dance. He held his mobile in one hand, clamped to his ear, and a cigarette in the other, on which he puffed furiously between sentences. In his ten years as a private investigator, he had yet to encounter a tone as condescending as the one adopted by his newest client.

He listened to the old lady rant ‘. . . feral this . . . scum that’. Apparently she knew her son would wind up dead; she’d been waiting for the visit from the police for years. Saunders stubbed out his cigarette on a cracked saucer which was already overflowing with butts and began doodling some of the phrases the old lady was wittering about. He’d bet his fee that she’d hit the sherry bottle already. ‘. . . James . . . worked with . . . underprivileged kids . . . tough area of the city . . . Watervale.’ He gently placed the mobile on the desk top and quietly relit another cigarette; when he picked up the phone again, she was still talking. He puffed on his cigarette, greedily inhaling the nicotine as he listened to her talk out her rage, only occasionally interjecting, ‘Yes, the police aren’t the brightest bulbs in the box, are they? No, I agree, couldn’t find a needle in the proverbial . . . Of course I’ll report directly back to you . . .’

He ground the butt of the second cigarette on the saucer and wound up the conversation. ‘Yeah, I’ll start right now, I’ll go along to the area, yep, I’ll check out Watervale and ask around a bit, then take a look around the other areas . . . Yep, Mrs Gilmore, I’ve got it, but we already covered this when I came out to the Courtyard to see you.’ He hadn’t liked the old woman’s tone then, even less now.

He ended the call, reopened his packet of cigarettes and lit his third. He was sure that the old lady was onto nothing and that he was wasting his time and her money: whoever battered James Gilmore to death was a professional and knew enough to cover his tracks. If the police had no new evidence – and Saunders presumed that they didn’t – then he could easily bank on a few days’ work from the old lady. He doubted that he’d find anything but he’d be earning money for a change. He picked up his keys, pocketed his cigarettes, turned off the lights and locked the office. He hoped, not for the first time, that Strathclyde Police wouldn’t turn up with fresh evidence just when he was getting started. He badly needed a break. He would go to the Watervale scheme and ask around, but first he needed a wee detour into the city centre to the pawnbroker to retrieve his wedding ring. His ex had left him a message – she wanted to try again. Saunders sighed, a waste of time but he’d give it a go.

He’d parked his car in a piece of waste ground about half a mile’s walk from the city centre but it was free and, with his finances, well worth the inconvenience. He walked down to Clyde Street and kept to the path that hugged the river. He heard the comment just as he passed the deserted area around the Jamaica bridge: ‘Hey mate, any spare change?’

Saunders glanced at the man, took in the grubby outstretched hand, the skeletal face. Saunders walked on, not wasting his voice. He had only managed a few paces when the bottle hurled past his head, whistling softly before smashing at his feet. He spun round – the homeless guy had been joined by three mates and they were all walking towards him, their hoods up, faces concealed. Saunders glanced around him. The road was empty – there was nothing for it. ‘Bastards’ he muttered and started running, took a right along the darkened arches running under the bridge, felt his lungs explode with the exertion and cold air, heard his feet slam into the wet tarmacadam, heard the noise of traffic up ahead and took a second to look behind him. They were standing where he’d left them, just doing nothing. Only laughing. ‘Taking the fucking piss,’ Saunders gasped, letting himself bend over, catching his breath, spitting phlegm onto the wet pavement, ‘fuckers were only taking the piss.’

He straightened himself, took another look – they were still there, watching, smirking. One gave him the finger. Useless jakies. Saunders felt the bile fill his stomach, felt every fear and frustration come back to him. Decided to slip back. Kept to the shadows, heart beating, put his hand in his right pocket and felt the rubber flex. He took a left and doubled back; now he was behind them. They stood huddled, numb with the rain, their sport over for now. Surprise always worked. He sprang at them, whipped out the flex and started on the backs of their knees, thrashing and whipping until they’d folded, screaming in pain, blood pouring from their wounds.

‘Jakey bastards.’ Saunders felt the laugh rise in his throat, slapped the flex into a face, saw blood spurt. Gone was the veneer of professional respectability he’d constructed for his clients; now he was back to Ivan Saunders, the boy from Barlanark, who as a youth was a local gang leader. All that was behind him now but he still missed the rush of adrenaline.