Riven (26 page)

Eventually she spoke. ‘You look angry.’

‘The thought of Stella fucking around with somebody else makes me bloody angry.’

‘Okay, so we’ve established that you have a need for people around you to be loyal.’

‘Aye,’ said Doyle.

‘This was one need you identified quite quickly. Can you remember when this idea of loyalty began, when the need for it became so important?’ Moore waited, saw conflicting emotions flit across his face. Saw him struggle to find answers. Finally he spoke. ‘At the home.’ His voice small, embarrassed.

‘Stobwent-Hill Children’s Home where you grew up?’

‘Aye.’

‘Go on.’

‘What?’

‘Loyalty, what did it mean to you at the home?’

‘Like a foundation, like it was a stable thing when my life was . . .’

‘Unstable?’ she offered.

He nodded.

‘Go on.’

The anger was back. ‘Shite, it’s textbook psychobabble isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

‘I didn’t have a family, so I felt like I had no foundation. You know how family is always there as a kind of a foundation or an anchor?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even if they’re a shite family?’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, I wanted to have this foundation but I didn’t have it, so I needed to create it. I needed to create a family.’

‘And how did you do this?’.

Doyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat, stared at the wall. Moore watched the anger dissipate. Eventually he answered, ‘I made them up.’

‘Okay, how did you do this?’ she repeated.

‘There were boxes of old photographs in the TV lounge at the home, a load of shite mainly, but I liked looking through them.’

‘Because?’

‘Because there were loads of pictures of families, and in the pictures they were all standing together, arms linked and smiling into the camera. Rubbish stuff, but I liked it.’

‘Why did you like it? What was it that appealed to you?’

‘Fuckssake, you’re the therapist, is it not bloody obvious?’ Anger again. Knuckles beating against leather and chrome.

Moore blinked, watched Doyle, finally asked, ‘So why don’t you tell me then?’

‘I used to look at the photographs and fantasise that those families were my family and that they’d had to go away for different reasons, but they would come back to collect me. Loads of stories, one to fit every photograph. Over the years I made up a million stories about families who all wanted me as their son.’

‘What kind of families did you create?’

Doyle drummed his hand on the side of the chair.

Moore waited.

‘Christ, this was Glasgow in the eighties and I was in a fucking children’s home. I made up a family that were so far away from the dysfunctional cunts that I saw around me. All the fucked-up shit on offer, I didn’t want. I wanted smooth, clean, powerful people to be in my family.’ He peered at her. ‘I suppose you think I’m nuts. Do you even get this?’

‘I get it. So who was your favourite fictional family?’

‘Fuck knows.’

‘You know.’

Silence.

Finally he answered, ‘A mismatch of characters from the telly.’

‘Okay, but who? A mismatch of which characters from the television?’

Doyle stared out of the window, eyes calm. ‘They were outsiders mainly, kind of like me. Folk who didn’t fit in but didn’t give a shit. Folk who did it their way.’

‘Who?’

‘I feel stupid saying.’

‘You were a child in a home – why would you be stupid to imagine a family? That’s what you’re here for, to sort things out before you decide about having a family yourself.’

‘Okay,’ he sighed, ‘I watched a lot of telly – it was the eighties, remember?’

‘Go on.’

‘I imagined my family would be kind of like the A-team. Folk with the balls to change things.’

She noted the grey pallor, the hopelessness in his voice as he revisited his childhood. ‘Why was that so important?’

‘Why do you think?’

‘Because you couldn’t change things?’

‘Not then.’

‘But you can now?’

‘I used to sit in the stinking TV lounge and watch the A-team and plan what I would do when I was an adult. I’d make a list of people who’d pissed me off and figure out ways of getting revenge on them.’

‘Do you still have the list?’

Doyle nodded. ‘I’ve managed to . . .’ he paused, ‘delete a few names over the years. Then again I’ve added a few.’

‘Recently?’

‘It’s an ongoing process.’

‘And do you still want revenge on these people?’

‘It’s pretty much what makes life worth living.’ Doyle glanced at his watch. ‘Time up, I’m out of here,’ his voice suddenly energised, his eyes sparkling, one darker than the other. He stood, straightened his jacket and strolled towards the door.

‘Time up,’ agreed Moore, but the door had closed behind him. She sat for a few moments. She noted that Doyle’s body language had confirmed what she had suspected, that he felt most alive when he was engaged with the idea of exacting revenge. Moore knew for certain that she had found Doyle’s passion and understood that it was this that had propelled him from a children’s home into adulthood and the semblance of a successful career. She was in no doubt that Doyle was withholding information about his business and that he had the demeanour of a man of violence, but, she reasoned with herself, that wasn’t why he was in therapy. He had come to confront his demons, to let go, to move on. He was ambitious and wanted to enter into what he called ‘acceptable society’ and maybe have a family, knowing that at present, in his own words, he ‘stuck out a mile’. Part of Andy Doyle craved acceptance and wanted to fit into a society he mistrusted. He wanted to leave the poor, orphaned boy behind, but that would be difficult. At their initial meeting Moore had been clear about the boundaries of the client/therapist relationship and he understood that if he told her anything that compromised either himself or another individual she may have to contact the police. So far this hadn’t happened, but Moore wondered about the spaces between the words and what had been left unsaid.

She’d told Doyle that in order for therapy to be successful there were certain requirements, including self-reflection, challenge and ultimately the desire for change. At the time he’d seemed confident, excited even about the possibility of change; now, however, she wondered about him. Was Andy Doyle willing to do what was required to make those changes?

‘Okay TC, I’m on my way down.’ Wheeler stood and rubbed the back of her neck, easing a dull ache. She made her way into the corridor and headed for the stairs. She knew that Stewart had contacted Morag Bruce and that Jason would be interviewed at the station in the West End. Other than what she had told them, Wheeler was not to be involved. Meanwhile Stewart had asked her to collect the profiler when he arrived. She wandered down the stairs, still rubbing her neck and wondering what, if anything, this guy could bring to the investigation. Whoever Pete Newton was, she doubted that he’d be popular with the team; she only hoped they’d be at least civil to him. She turned into reception and Cunningham pointed to the man in the waiting area.

He was standing with his back to her but turned as she walked towards him. Wheeler offered her hand. ‘DI Kat Wheeler.’ When he took it his was a firm, solid, handshake which stopped short of causing pain. ‘Pete Newton,’ he smiled. There was something about him, something familiar. The aquiline nose, the green eyes, the haircut that matched her own – short at the sides, a quiff on top. A gold pentagram glinted at his neck. She squinted up at him. ‘Have we met?’

He leaned towards her, his aftershave heavy in the air, and whispered, ‘The play.’

Wheeler took a step back. ‘Sorry?’

‘I think I saw you at the play the other night.’

She stared at him, noted the dark lashes, the height. Remembered that she’d had to push past him. Remembered the stubble around his lipsticked mouth and the Adam’s apple. ‘You were in the red dress?’

‘A particular favourite,’ he laughed, his eyes creasing.

She said nothing.

‘Shocked?’ he asked.

‘No,’ not quite the truth, ‘surprised maybe.’

He pursed his lips, tapping his index finger against them. ‘Shh then, it’ll be our wee secret. I don’t think the boys in blue would appreciate my particular brand of sartorial elegance, do you?’

Wheeler shrugged her response and headed up the stairs. Newton followed close behind.

Upstairs, Ross was meandering into the room. Robertson followed behind him and looked to be in a particularly sour mood. In the back row, four uniformed officers were chatting quietly. Wheeler turned to Newton, ‘I’d bet that there isn’t a cross-dresser among that lot.’

‘You’d think so, looking at them now, but you’d be surprised – we’re an eclectic bunch. There’s more of us around than you think.’

‘Right.’

‘See that tall guy with the leather jacket? He’d look great in light blue. It would bring out his eyes.’

She looked at Ross, who was settling himself into a chair. ‘He could certainly take advice. Maybe approach him after your talk? I’m sure he’d love it.’

‘Let’s leave it to his girlfriend, if he has one. Mine certainly keeps me on my toes.’ He paused. ‘She thought the red was too much. What did you think?’

‘It seemed okay,’ said Wheeler.

‘Okay for a cross-dresser or okay lovely?’

‘Let’s just say it brought out your eyes.’

He sniffed, tried for a hurt look, failed, laughed instead. ‘You hated it. Fair enough.’

She watched Newton laugh, saw his relaxed stance. A man at peace with himself. Wheeler saw Stewart come into the room and head towards Newton. She left them chatting and walked across to Ross, sat down beside him and waited.

After a quick chat with Stewart, Pete Newton strode to the front of the room. He was six foot two with broad shoulders and hands the size of shovels. He knew that most of the team would think that he was a twat, so first off he fixed his glare on the guy he thought looked to be the most anal.

Robertson sat in the front row, a notepad resting on his lap, a silver and black ballpoint pen tapping on the paper. He looked up, caught Newton’s eye. Robertson smirked. Newton held his gaze. The smirk faded. Newton looked at the team, whose body language told him that they were already bored. He cleared his throat and began, his voice filling the room. ‘Hi, my name is Dr Pete Newton.’ His voice was deep, husky. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’

Smirks, a few coughs. A few shared glances, just enough to let him know that they hadn’t. Well, that much he knew already.

‘And while I’m no longer a detective,’ he continued, ‘I do feel that I can contribute something to this investigation.’

The team waited. Arms folded. Waiting for him to tell them something they didn’t already know.

‘DCI Stewart has asked me to share my thoughts on the recent murder of James Gilmore.’ He glanced at his notes. ‘And since I have some experience in researching the criminal mind, I agreed.’

The female uniform beside Robertson nudged him, kept her voice a low. ‘Yeah, we have a bit of experience in that area too.’

Robertson ignored her, stared ahead. Pen tapping on notepad.

Newton continued, ‘Right then, in the case of James Gilmore, his injuries are typical of a certain type of killer. With this kind of guy, it is not enough just to kill his victim, he endeavours to create the
absence
of the person. Killers like this are compelled to completely obliterate their victim and consequently their humanity. They want to reduce their victim to a piece of meat.’ He paused. ‘Hence Gilmore’s terrible injuries.’

Boyd spoke. ‘Why the additional effort to eradicate someone when surely the time spent doing so would make it more dangerous, there being less time to escape? Why wouldn’t it be enough just to kill them?’

Newton nodded. ‘Good question. Why would our killer bother to put in the additional time and energy when he could have killed Gilmore quickly?’ Newton looked around the team.

‘To murder in this way reinforces the killer’s belief in his superiority?’ offered Robertson.

‘Yes, but also to destroy the very presence of James Gilmore himself.’

A young uniformed officer from the back of the room spoke. ‘Do you think it could’ve been an ex-partner?’

Newton pursed his lips. ‘It’s possible that it could be an ex-partner, but in my opinion it would be unlikely to be a female. I believe that it was a man who murdered James Gilmore.’

‘Because?’ asked Wheeler, aware that she was arguing for the sake of it.

‘Because, statistically speaking, you would be looking for a male. And also, the degree of violence inflicted on the victim would indicate a male.’

‘A woman could have done it, or two working together?’ the uniformed officer said. ‘Remember Nikki Fullerton?’

‘Of course, I read about the case.’ Newton waited for her to continue.

‘She killed her husband and kept bits of him stuffed into handbags. She stored them in the loft.’

‘Yes, I know, and psychologically Fullerton’s a very interesting case, but nevertheless I’m certain that our killer is male. So moving on, firstly, why kill? What would motivate our killer?’

‘A grudge?’ said Boyd. ‘And if not a girlfriend then maybe a boyfriend?’

‘There were no signs that he was gay.’ Robertson twitched as he spoke.

‘There was no evidence of penetration, anal or oral. Before or after death,’ agreed Newton. ‘But that doesn’t tell us much. What do we know about the victim’s sexuality?’

‘A complete lack of any recent relationships,’ said Wheeler. ‘Other than a fiancée who died years ago, there’s been no mention of either a girlfriend or a boyfriend in past decades.’

‘Okay.’ Newton waited. ‘Any theories?’

‘It’s what it could point to,’ said Ross.

‘You think he was a paedophile?’ asked Newton.

Ross shrugged. ‘It’s a possibility.’

‘Of course. Any evidence?’

Ross shook his head.

Newton carried on, ‘Okay. Let’s keep an open mind. But what I want us to focus on is not the physical but the psychological aspect of the murder. The killer needed to feel powerful.’

‘Don’t they all?’ asked Boyd.