Riven (25 page)

He started on again, walking and reciting curses in time with his footsteps, ignoring the wet, on and on under arches and through alleyways, always sticking to the shadows, only stopping now and then to draw from the bottle. By the time he’d reached Charing Cross and the Mitchell library the bottle was empty. ‘Fuck this.’ He hurled the bottle at the library, listening to the glass shatter as it hit the wall. He swayed. The vast building stood in front of him. The biggest public reference library in Europe was floodlit, the distinctive dome glittering against the black sky. He watched the rain batter in vain against the huge structure. Jason’s eyes filled with tears of self-pity as he whispered, ‘It’s all fucking useless. There’s no point to any of it.’

He moved off, walked down Sauchiehall Street to where it joined Argyle Street. Above him the sky was dark and heavy with rain. He reached the Kelvingrove Art Gallery, the building looming out of the dark; beyond the gallery, the spires of Glasgow University pointed to a stormy heaven. Finally Jason stopped on the Kelvin Bridge and stood, bloodshot eyes watching the River Kelvin surge beneath him. He listened to the noise of the water, imagining an underwater world where the inhabitants of the Kelvin dance an aquatic ballet on their urgent way through the city. Decided he would join them. A glance behind him; there was no one. This weather, no one was out unless they had to be. Overhead the trio of lights from the Victorian lamp cast a sombre glow. He looked up at the university buildings, shrouded in darkness. Wondered why he’d ever gone in the first place. Stared at the silent buildings, willed them to call to him. Heard nothing but the roar of water beneath his feet. Imagined instead that it was the river that was calling to him.

A few minutes and it would be over. Four minutes max if he allowed the water to take him, if he refused to struggle. He closed his eyes, relaxed his shoulders, listened to the rush and swell of the Kelvin, felt himself pulled towards the water. He put his hands on the bridge, breathed in the icy air, reasoned to himself that he was already soaking wet and so was halfway there. He stood on tiptoe and began climbing onto the bridge. Felt it slippery under his wet fingers. Felt his mobile vibrate. He stopped climbing, pulled out his phone, glanced at the name. Kat Wheeler. Auntie Kat had texted him earlier. He ignored it, stuffed the phone back into his jeans pocket and felt his stomach churn, felt the alcohol sour in his gut and then watched as his vomit cascaded into the water. He stuffed his fingers back into his pocket and grabbed his mobile, cursed loudly before hurling it into the air, where it hovered for a second before plunging into the water, barely making a splash. Jason took a deep breath and turned back towards the city centre.

His fingers worried at the sheet. Although asleep, he heard the noises clearly. His memory had stored them and would keep them for ever. As he slept he let the sounds overwhelm him. They began with the whoosh of the bat when it first made contact with James Gilmore, then there was the clumsy noise he made when he fell. After that there were his cries of pain, then the pleading, before, finally, the soft moan as he slipped into unconsciousness. The sound the bat made when it made contact with skin and a different sound altogether when it broke bone. Then the silence, watching Gilmore’s skin break apart and blood leak from the wounds. Hearing Gilmore’s breath leaving his body for the last time and knowing it was over. Then the silence in the room with only the distant sound of lorries on the London Road to shatter it. Lorries which were moving on, leaving the city and its dead behind. The Dreamer sighed in his sleep, his fingers stilled, their worrying over. He breathed deeply and rhythmically and dreamed of standing in a field full of sunshine and flowers.

Thursday, 12 December

At five a.m. Wheeler sat in her kitchen with a cup of coffee and scrolled down the list of news articles on her phone until she found the one she wanted.

Grim had gone for a discreet heading.

The body of Lauren Taylor, 21, was found late last night outside her flat near Great Western Road in Glasgow’s West End. The Glasgow University student is believed to have fallen to her death.

A dog walker discovered Lauren’s body and called an ambulance. Paramedics tried to resuscitate Lauren but she was pronounced dead at the scene. Lauren was a popular member of the university and was studying English Literature. She had also enrolled in the exchange programme at the university and had been scheduled to spend a year at an American university.

Lauren’s family are devastated by the news and have asked for their privacy to be respected at this time.

A spokesperson for Glasgow University issued this statement: ‘We are all greatly saddened by this news. Our thoughts go to Lauren’s family at this tragic time. They are in our prayers.’

Friends have also opened a condolence page for Lauren on Facebook.

But it was the photograph that depressed Wheeler. She stared at it over her coffee cup. The doe eyes, the long hair. The picture had been taken recently; she looked no different from when Wheeler had seen her in the pub with Jason. Only twenty-one with her future ahead of her. Wheeler poured the remainder of her coffee into the sink. Her stomach had curdled.

She knew it was useless but she called Jason anyway. It went straight through to voicemail. She would speak to Stewart about getting him picked up. Either he’d seen Lauren that night, in which case he needed to talk to the police, or he hadn’t, in which case they could discount him from the investigation.

She pulled on her running shoes, opened the door and headed out into the cold, dark morning. She needed to let go of her frustration about Jason and also the lack of progress in the Gilmore case, and pounding the streets was as good a way as any to refocus.

Five miles later and she was back. She kicked off her running shoes and stripped naked, padded through the hallway into the bathroom and turned on the shower. The steam rose through the air and she slathered on rose-scented oil. In the hall the buzzer sounded. And again. She heard the commotion outside. A voice shouting, calling her name. She grabbed a robe and darted through the hall and across the sitting room. She peered out of the window. Below in the street a solitary, soaked figure stared up at her. Jason.

She crossed to the hall, slammed her hand against the buzzer and tried to stop her heart from thundering.

A moment later he stood dripping wet on her kitchen floor. He looked exhausted.

‘Fuckssake, Jason, I nearly had a heart attack. Where have you been?’

He stared at the floor. Said nothing.

After a minute he spoke. ‘You didn’t answer your buzzer.’

She heard the slur in his voice. ‘Wait there.’ She ran to the wardrobe, grabbed an old sweatshirt, collected more towels from the bathroom and threw them at him. ‘Sort yourself out; I’ll put on some coffee.’

When she returned he was sitting on the sofa, sniffing.

She studied him, saw the tremor, the downturned eyes. Nothing remained of the bravado she’d seen in the pub. The night he had been with Lauren. ‘You know about Lauren Taylor?’

He nodded. ‘I heard about it from a friend. He texted me.’

‘Have you called your mum?’

‘No, not yet.’

She’d trust that to be the truth. ‘Think maybe you should.’

‘Don’t have my phone.’

She tossed her mobile to him. ‘Call her now, while I pour the coffee.’

When she came back, he’d made the call. ‘Told her I’d call later for a longer chat.’

‘Yeah?’

He nodded, ‘Yeah.’ He sipped his coffee. Said nothing for a long while.

‘So, about Lauren Taylor’s death? When was the last time you saw her?’’

‘I didn’t know her that well.’

‘Wasn’t she the girl in the pub with you?’

He stared at the floor. ‘We were just drinking buddies, like half of my lecture class. You know, just hanging out. Nothing special. I haven’t seen her since.’

She listened to the tone of his voice, to the timbre. Decided that, once again, it wasn’t authentic. Lauren Taylor had meant more to him than just a drinking buddy and she was pretty sure that he was also lying about having not seen her again. ‘You had your arm around her in the pub.’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘You were friends with her and now she’s dead and you say “yeah, so”? Were you there when she died?’

‘NO!’

‘You were buying from Weirdo; you’re already taking drugs. Why should I believe you?’

‘Only dope, I told you. Not the hard stuff.’

‘Was Lauren taking drugs?’

He looked at the floor. ‘No idea.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Really, you’ve no idea?’

He stared at the floor. ‘Maybe, I don’t know. I didn’t know her that well.’

‘Well, the cops’ll pay you a visit. Anything you want to tell me before they talk to you? Might be better for you to volunteer the info.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like if you were there with Lauren?’

‘I told you, she was just a pal and I wasn’t with her when she died.’

‘Was she suicidal? Depressed?’

‘How the fuck would I know?’

Wheeler balled her right hand into a fist but kept it at her side. ‘You were supposed to be her friend.’

Again, he stared at the floor. Said nothing.

‘Well? Lauren’s dead, and you seem very accepting of it.’

‘What do you want from me? Shit happens. I thought you of all people would know that.’

She stared at him. ‘Why didn’t you phone? I left messages. Went to your flat.’

‘I lost my phone.’ He yawned. ‘I’m shattered.’ A sly glance. ‘You going to tell Mum about seeing me with Weirdo?’

‘What do you think?’ The truth was, she didn’t give a shit. Jason was going to get a visit from the CID; that would be scarier than his mother.

‘Mum’ll go ballistic if she knows I smoke dope.’

Wheeler looked at him, couldn’t believe that he could be so naive. ‘You’ve no idea the trouble you could be in, have you?’

‘You know what she’s like. You’re lucky.’

‘That right?’ Unclenched her fist; let him rot in jail if they found anything linking him to the girl’s death.

‘Not having parents.’

Wheeler wondered who they’d send to interview Jason, or would they drag him into the station? She would request the latter. Scare the shit out of him. ‘How come not having parents is now a positive?’

‘Well, at least they’re not here to nag you.’

Wheeler stared at her nephew. What a fucking charmer.

Jason cleared his throat. ‘I need to get back home.’ He waited.

She let him wait.

He paused, looked at her from behind his fringe. ‘I’ve no cash on me though.’

Finally she got it, the hesitation, the waiting. So this was how he played his mother. Wheeler went to the door, opened it. Waited.

‘A tenner?’

She shook her head. ‘You’ve got Weirdo on speed dial, a young girl is dead and you want money?’

‘I need it. I’ve no food in the flat . . . and—’

‘And tell it to someone who gives a shit. And Jason?’

He waited.

‘I can take you to the station but it would look better if you went in yourself.’

‘But you’re . . .’ His expression told her what she’d expected: the only reason he’d come to see her was he thought that she’d protect him. Little shit.

‘Yeah?’ she looked hard at him. ‘I’m what?’

‘Nothing. I’ll go myself.’ He left, slamming the door on his way out.

She stood at the window and saw him walk head down into the rain. Saw him check his pockets then hail a taxi. Her nephew. An addict. And a liar. Fucking great.

Wheeler was still thinking about him when she reached the station.

They were midway through the session. Dr Moore sat quietly, waited until Doyle settled again after his outburst. ‘So, that’s why you decided on twice-weekly sessions?’

‘Might as well get it over and done with.’ One eye blazing black, the other cold.

Moore smiled warmly. ‘I’m delighted that you’re willing to put in the psychological work, Andy. It’s sometimes painful work but ultimately it’s healthier to get it done, and then usually we can move on.’

Silence.

‘What I’m saying is you should be proud of yourself for coming to therapy and embracing challenge and change.’

‘Aye right, whatever. Let’s get on.’

‘Okay, so last time we talked about your need for people to be loyal.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Can you give me an example?’

Doyle thought about it. ‘The guys who work for me, I need to know they won’t join the opposition. I need to know that they’ll be loyal.’

‘You need to be able to trust them?’

‘Trust is mibbe taking it too far; I need to know that they’ll be loyal. End of.’

‘Has anyone ever let you down?’

‘A couple of guys in the early days.’

‘And how did you react?’

‘Don’t get your drift.’

‘What happened?’

Doyle clapped his hands together and made a sharp noise. ‘Whoosh . . . Gone.’

Moore waited.

Doyle stared at her. ‘Nothing sinister, just that they decided to . . . relocate.’

‘So you demand complete loyalty?’

Doyle nodded.

‘There’s no room for people to make mistakes? After all, we’re all human, we all mess up.’

‘You mess up, you move on; that’s my motto.’

‘Does this include Stella?’

‘Aye.’

‘So, what if Stella was to be disloyal?’

‘If she was fucking around behind my back?’

‘I didn’t mean specifically in a sexual way but okay, what if she was to have an affair?’

Doyle sat back in the chair, considered it. ‘If she had an affair then that would be it. Game over.’

‘You wouldn’t want to try to work through it? Perhaps go for couple counselling?’

‘I told you, it’d be game over. Done. She’d be dead meat.’

Moore stared at him.

He corrected himself. ‘I mean she’d be history.’

‘You wouldn’t give her a second chance?’

‘Fuck no.’

‘Okay.’ Moore waited.

Silence.