Riven (21 page)

‘Ivan Saunders isnae a coward,’ he spat. He waited for a second but knew that they weren’t getting up and so sprinted back towards his car, heart beating, adrenaline surging through him. He unlocked the door, slid in and started the engine, decided not to go back the way he’d come and nosed the car out into the traffic, turning left. He felt that he was flying. The visit to the pawn shop to retrieve his wedding ring was completely forgotten.

He drove straight to the Watervale school and parked the car on the main road. As he locked it he felt eyes on him, spun around, but there was nothing. The road led into the academy and he followed it, waiting for the inevitable gangs to secrete themselves from the buildings. But no one appeared, leaving him with the sensation of being watched. He walked to the youth centre; it was locked. Rab Wilson walked by, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his fleece.

‘Hey son,’ Saunders called, ‘mon over here, I need a wee chat.’

Rab stood watching him.

‘It’s okay son, I just want a wee bit of info. You from round here?’

Rab nodded.

‘Got a name?’

‘Aye.’

Saunders waited.

Rab let him wait.

Saunders began talking. They stood in the rain and Saunders briefed Rab, told him how some poor old woman was in tears because her only son had been murdered. Asked Rab if he’d heard anything about it. Anything at all.

Rab shook his head, ‘Nothin’. Only that it happened. You polis?’

‘Private.’

‘How come?’

‘Gilmore’s wee mammy doesn’t trust the polis to find out who killed her son.’

‘That right?’

Saunders nodded. ‘See if you’re from around here, maybe you can tell me who would know something? Who’s part of the community, who’d have heard a wee whisper?’

Rab stared at the wet pavement. Said nothing.

‘You not worried that there’s a murderer around here son?’

Rab blinked. ‘Shit happens.’

‘What about the youth club – who runs it?’

‘Malcolm Miller.’

‘He around?’

‘Mibbe. Later, when it opens.’

Saunders watched the boy walk off. He knew the boy was lying. Knew that the body had been discovered by two youths – that much his contact at the station had given him – but still he had to be careful. He couldn’t be seen to be treading on polis turf,
compromising their investigation
as they liked to remind him. Still, he would check out the shops in the area, find out who knew Gilmore, get some insight into who the man was. Then later he’d come back and speak with Malcolm Miller.

Saunders knew after an hour of chatting to the locals that the word was out. They knew someone was looking for information. And would pay for it.

He just didn’t expect it to be him.

He was two-thirds of the way down the road, going back towards his car to eat a greasy sausage roll, when they appeared, three youths, hoods up, scarves around their faces. Same old, same old he thought. Except these weren’t tired old jakies. He stopped, waited for them to approach. At the same time he felt more than saw a couple of others move in behind him, cutting off his escape. He waited, his fingers on the flex. Tried to summon adrenaline. Failed. Balled the sausage roll into its wrapper and tossed it. Took a step forward and heard a car screech to a halt behind him.

Saunders turned and was felled by the man who was behind him, felt a solid boot crunch into his mouth, felt teeth loosen, closed his eyes as blood began to pour onto the street. Tried to grasp the flex but someone was standing on his hand, biker boot crushing bone. Saunders looked up through the wet and blood and saw a halo surrounding the man. He remembered his childhood, raised as a Catholic. The halo shone as it had in the picture books at his school, only this time it wasn’t gold, it was purple. Saunders closed his eyes and let himself drift into unconsciousness.

Across the city, Doyle took the call. ‘Our friend’s not playing nice today? Okay Weirdo. And Weirdo?’ Doyle paused. ‘Make sure Rab stays in touch with you via Manky.’

‘Will do, Mr Doyle.’

‘I spoke to Smithy. If he pulls any more of his stunts, I want to know.’

‘Okay, Mr Doyle. Manky was just saying he got a visit from the filth.’

‘And?’

‘He told them nothing.’

‘Tell him to keep it that way.’ Doyle put down the phone.

The view out towards the Campsies was beautiful, the rain creating a fine mist across the countryside, like a watercolour painting, but it was lost on her. Had she looked up she would have seen the hills in the distance, a dark outline against stormy sky. An artist’s dream scene. Instead, Margaret Robertson sat in her parked car and worried at the tissue in her hands, shredding and tearing and reducing it to dust. She listened to the thrum of rain on the car roof and the rhythm of the windscreen wipers for a few minutes before switching on the radio. She flicked through different channels, but there were limited options given the poor reception so she decided not to bother and switched it off again. Took another tissue out of her handbag and began the shredding process again. She was parked in front of the Gospel Hall, blinking at the phrase in front of her.

THE LORD REWARDS EVERYONE ACCORDING TO WHAT THEY HAVE DONE

The two-foot-high letters stood beneath the huge wooden cross that dominated the front of the low, modern building. Rain lashed against glass and concrete, and the railings that surrounded the hall dripped with water. The hall stood in its own grounds at the foot of the Campsie hills, its gates firmly locked against both the elements and non-believers.

The sky had darkened to black and a storm hung in the air by the time the car pulled in behind her. Elder Morrison was behind the wheel. He was in his early seventies; silver hair hung at angles around a pinched face, a hooked nose and thin, tight lips.

Inside, the hall was cold, but she wrapped her coat around her and sat, waiting for him to join her.

‘So, Mrs Robertson, you needed to see me?’ His voice was cold, his words measuring out gravitas with every syllable.

She looked at his face, searching for kindness but instead found righteousness. Her hands kneaded themselves red raw. ‘I need to talk to someone about my husband, Ian.’

‘Yes, I know, the policeman. He’s a good man. I know he works with our Outreach Team.’

‘Yes, he does, but that’s not why I’m here . . . I mean he . . . we . . . I’m not sure how to begin.’

‘The beginning is always a good place.’ His eyes the eyes of a hawk.

So she told him. Starting with their marriage, how she had hoped for a family, how it had never happened.

‘Perhaps it is the stresses of modern life. Your husband has a very demanding and stressful job. Be patient. Don’t become a nag or a shrew. Never become a burden to him.’

She looked at her hands, saw the rawness, heard the frustration in her voice. ‘You don’t understand; he won’t talk about any of this. He just blanks me.’

‘Then you must be patient, wait until he needs to talk. It cannot be all about your needs; the Lord warns us of our desires.’

She blurted it out. ‘I think he’s having an affair.’

Morrison steepled his fingers, pointed them heavenward, sat back in his seat and scowled, ‘Because?’

‘He doesn’t seem to need intimacy; he won’t even touch me.’

‘Again. It’s about your needs.’

Margaret sat in silence, listened to the storm rage outside.

‘Do you love him?’

‘I don’t know,’ her voice small, defensive. ‘He won’t ever say it to me and now I don’t know if I do love him still. I certainly don’t trust him.’

‘Then why on earth did you marry the poor man?’ It was more an accusation than a question.

‘I don’t know. It was different then – he was different. I think he really wanted to get married but . . .’

‘But?’ he prompted.

‘But now I think he’s seeing someone else. He goes out, won’t tell me where he’s going, he comes home late, goes straight into the shower and then goes to sleep.’

Elder Morrison pursed his lips. ‘Then let’s look for guidance.’ He reached across for his Bible, flicked through it for a second, selected the text and read in a sonorous voice, ‘Ephesians five, verses twenty-two to twenty-five. “Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord . . . For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church . . . ”’

Margaret nodded her head, whispered, ‘I know all this . . . but . . .’ She began to cry.

‘Then why are you doubting him? Does he beat you?’

She shook her head.

‘Keep you short of housekeeping?’

‘I have a job.’

‘Abuse you in any fashion?’

‘I told you, he never touches me.’

Elder Morrison rose. ‘Patience is what is required, Mrs Robertson, rather than these continual, perplexing demands. Give it another few months – if nothing has changed, then we can talk again, but it’s my opinion that you need to look at yourself and not to your husband.’

She stood and walked to the door.

He followed her, paused in the doorway. ‘In the meantime, try to see things from your husband’s perspective. Try to understand that he’s doing his best, in all areas. Marriage is more than the demands of the flesh.’

She stared at him, tears rolling down her cheeks.

‘I will pray for you.’ He turned and began bolting the doorway. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Robertson.’

Outside, Margaret stumbled to the car as the storm raged overhead. The clouds had gathered above her and seemed to follow her as she drove away from the hall, turning the car reluctantly towards home.

The room smelled of sex. The sheets were damp and crumpled and the silver room-service tray lay discarded on the floor, the bottles of wine empty, the napkins stained, plates cleared.

Sometimes one just wasn’t enough. Jay Haddington chuckled to himself as he lay naked on the bed of his London hotel room. He was rolling his third spliff when he remembered to dial his office answering machine and pick up his messages. He lit the end of his spliff and closed his eyes, inhaled and kept the smoke there until the message had ended.

‘Mr Haddington? Detective Constable Alexander Boyd from Carmyle Police Station trying to contact you. Would you mind calling us back on . . .’

Haddington nodded at the phone, took another drag and nodded again. The voice asking him to call the police station was far away, too far for him to reach. He listened to the message again, wondered vaguely what it was about and was still holding the phone when his twenty-year-old girlfriend came out of the shower, leaned across and took his spliff, took a long drag, then listened to the message.

‘Jay, you need to speak to them.’

‘Now?’ he giggled, bit his lip in remorse when he saw that she wasn’t laughing. ‘After this one’s finished?’

She took it from his hand. ‘Not afterwards, you’ll barely be able to speak. Do it now – it could be important.’

She scribbled down the number then tapped it into his mobile, handed the phone back to him. He got through on the second ring. Asked to speak to DC Boyd and was put right through.

‘DC Boyd.’

‘Hi, my name’s . . . Jay . . . Haddington. I’m returning your phone call.’

Boyd heard the spaces between the words and recognised that he was talking to a stoned man. Decided to ignore it – instead he explained why he was calling. Jay Haddington told him everything he needed to know. No, he hadn’t known Andy Doyle before that evening at the charity event. Nevertheless he was very impressed with both Mr Doyle and his lovely girlfriend Stella. He had been particularly pleased by Mr Doyle’s decision to invest in his new play. And of course Stella’s kind offer of playing a small part in return for the investment.

‘No, Mr James Gilmore doesn’t ring any bells either . . . he was in attendance that evening too? . . . Sorry . . . is he in the business? Oh, I see, murdered, how awful . . . no I’m sure I never met him . . .’ and so the conversation continued until Boyd thanked Mr Jay Haddington for his time and hung up.

Haddington lay on the bed and closed his eyes.

‘You okay babe?’ His girlfriend stroked his arm, put the spliff back into his mouth, let him draw on it, ‘only you look kind of upset.’

‘A murder in Glasgow – seems the guy was at the charity do last month.’

‘And?’

‘And from the way the police constable mentioned Andy Doyle, I believe they think he may be involved.’

The two of them sat closer. ‘Is he a criminal?’

Haddington drew on the spliff before answering, ‘All I know is that he’s an investor.’

His girlfriend did the mime, covering her ears with each hand, then her mouth and finally her eyes. Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil.

Wheeler stood in front of Stewart’s desk. Waited. Ross stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb.

‘Ivan Saunders was admitted to Accident and Emergency at the Royal Infirmary an hour ago,’ Stewart told them.

Ross frowned, ‘Isn’t he the PI who works out of a crappy office across from Central Station?’

‘Exactly the one.’

They waited.

‘His head was split open because he sniffed around the Watervale scheme asking about James Gilmore.’

‘Why was he asking?’ By the time Wheeler finished asking the question, she had the answer. ‘The old lady?’

Stewart drummed his fingers on his desk. ‘The wee toerag was employed by Mrs Gilmore to investigate her son’s murder. Seems she doesn’t rate our chances of finding her son’s killer.’

‘Charming,’ said Wheeler. ‘Does she know she’s messing up the investigation?’

‘I mentioned it to her when I called but I’m sending a uniform out to see her, to tell her in the gentlest way possible to keep out of this until our investigation is complete.’

‘No more hiring PIs,’ said Ross.

‘Meantime Mrs Gilmore has been contacted by the
Chronicle
.’

‘Grim?’

‘Grim,’ Stewart said, ‘offering a sympathetic interview from the grieving mother’s point of view.’

‘The grieving mother who doesn’t rate the police,’ said Wheeler. ‘I can just imagine how the article would read.’