Riven (30 page)

The Dreamer sleeps fitfully. He dreams of that night, of the storm. He dreams of leaving the house just as the big man was arriving. Both of them had had the same intention, had wanted the same outcome. Gilmore dead. The Dreamer hadn’t known that; he had felt that he had to do it. The Dreamer’s eyelashes flutter against his face, tears fall and his hand automatically rises to brush them away. He dreams of walking through the graveyard, of the storm soaking the blood from his clothes. Listening to the voice above the storm, being told what to do. Understanding that everything had changed.

Robertson parked his car in the driveway and as the overhead security light came on he saw a fox disappear through the hedge. He walked to the front door and put his key into the lock, turned it, pushed open the door and went inside. Despite the two painkillers he felt the headache spread across his skull.

He stood in the hall and knew that she was behind him before she spoke.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Out.’

‘I called the station.’

‘I know.’

‘You haven’t been at work, have you?’

‘No.’

‘Where then?’

He stared at the carpet. It was over. ‘Out, driving around, thinking.’

‘About?’

‘Us.’

She waited.

‘We’re over. I’m leaving.’

Saw her look at him; she was hollow-eyed from crying. She started to shake. Robertson left her in the hall and went to the bedroom, took the case out of the cupboard and began packing.

Heard his wife crying, heard her anger rage into words, then sounds. Ignored it; it was white noise in the background of his journey.

A few minutes later and he was in the car again, driving through the empty streets, finally stopping at a cheap hotel. For the time being, it would do. He heard his mobile shrill, checked the number. It was Margaret. He switched it off.

Friday, 13 December
Morning

It was the constant buzz that unnerved him, like the sound of a million hearts beating as hard and as loudly as his own. George Grey gripped his holdall and walked behind a young couple who’d also been on the overnight coach. They walked into the sea of bodies, their heads down, marching resolutely towards the exit. The young man was adamant. ‘It’s a different scale here altogether. London’s massive compared to Glasgow.’

His companion buttoned her coat up to the neck, shivering. ‘You’re not wrong there. Glasgow’s population is around what? The half million mark?’

‘Wee bit over but that’s the ball park.’ He walked beside her. ‘It’s a village in comparison.’

‘What’s London then?’

‘Seven point five million and still growing.’ The man hoisted his bag over his shoulder. ‘As I said, it’s a different scale.’

They followed the sign for the tube station. George Grey did as he’d been told and turned towards the taxi rank, where he queued for a quarter of an hour before climbing into the back of a black cab. His hand shook as he gave the piece of paper to the driver; the address had been neatly written out. He sat back in the cab and gnawed at the nail on his thumb. The nail was ragged and torn and his fingers were translucent with the cold. Forty-five minutes later they drove through wrought-iron gates and down a long gravel driveway. Huge oak trees lined either side of the drive, casting shadows over an already cold day.

‘This used to be the lunatic asylum.’ The driver pulled up in front of the building and switched off the meter. ‘What’s it now then?’

George Grey blinked, said nothing, thrust the notes into the driver’s hand and stepped out of the taxi and into a wind that whipped his face and tore at his clothes. The icy rain made his face feel raw. He waited until the taxi had driven off before turning towards the house. The place was in darkness save for a single light upstairs. The huge wooden door was closed; a bell on the left rang far into the house. He heard footsteps on a wooden floor, then the door opened. George Grey stood on the step in the rain and blinked at the man.

‘Come in George; I’ve been expecting you.’

George heard the door close behind him and the lock fall into place.

Wheeler opened the door and a blast of heat from the station hit her. She took the stairs to the CID suite two at a time and walked into the room just in time to overhear something positive.

‘Well, it’s a result.’

‘Cheers, boss.’

Stewart was perched on the edge of her desk, still talking. ‘We’ll get someone out there to interview her.’ Boyd was finishing his morning coffee and was looking very pleased with himself and she guessed it wasn’t just because he was scoffing the last of a Belgian bun and was on a sugar hit.

Boyd brushed the flakes of the bun from his shirt.

Wheeler dumped her coat over her chair. ‘What?’

‘Boyd’s traced an ex-girlfriend of James Gilmore’s,’ said Stewart.

‘And not Angela Meek,’ added Boyd.

‘Aye, right.’ Stewart smoothed his tie and fiddled with his cufflinks. ‘Well, Angela Meek was cremated thirty years ago and her ashes scattered on the Clyde, so no, not her.’

‘His mother didn’t seem to think he’d dated again,’ said Wheeler.

‘This woman says she dated him a while back, but she phoned in, left a message. Mammies don’t always know best,’ said Boyd.

‘So, go see her, Wheeler.’ Stewart stood and arched his back, groaned. ‘Bloody squash.’

‘On my way.’ As she watched Stewart leave the room, she tried to shake the image of him in a dress. Failed.

‘I’ll drive.’ Boyd pulled on his padded anorak, stood waiting for her like an eager puppy. A very round puppy.

‘No chance. I’ve seen your driving; it’s worse than Ross’s.’

‘That bad?’

‘Uh huh. And don’t sound so pleased about it.’

Beside her in the car, Boyd was dipping into a bag of crisps. ‘We going past the stone circle?’

‘Come again?’

‘The stone circle up by Sighthill.’

‘You kidding me?’

‘Nope. There was a stone circle built in the 1970s up by Sighthill. Properly aligned and everything.’

She peered at him. ‘Glasgow’s very own Stonehenge?’

He tucked into the last of the crisps. ‘You mind?’ He pointed to the radio.

‘Go ahead.’

Boyd turned the dial to hear the sports discussion. Wheeler tuned out, thought about a Glasgow stone circle and decided she might check it out at some point, see if it really existed. Right now she needed to get to Gilmore’s ex-girlfriend. Debbie Morgan lived in a flat on the thirteenth floor of a high-rise in Sighthill. One of the remaining high-rises which had so far escaped demolition. Wheeler drove through the city, towards the Tron theatre, turning up the High Street and driving on past the Royal Infirmary.

A few minutes later she turned the car into the car park. The weather meant that they trotted from the car to the entrance to the building. They took the lift; it smelled of cheap air freshener. Boyd sniffed. ‘Could be worse.’

The thirteenth floor was immaculate; potted plants lined the corridor and little welcome mats sat outside doors.

The woman who opened the door was in her late forties, bleach-blonde, skinny. Smelled like a smoker. Sported a black eye. ‘You the polis?’

Wheeler and Boyd flashed their ID cards.

They followed her into a sitting room that could have rivalled Santa’s grotto. A huge silver tree stood in the corner of the room, every branch dripping with baubles, tinsel, ropes of glittering beads and multicoloured fairy lights. A pink angel sat on top of the tree, one eye winking. Boyd stared at it. ‘That thing winking at me?’

Debbie flushed with pleasure. ‘I know, it’s brilliant, isn’t it? Runs off a wee battery.’

‘My girlfriend would love that,’ Boyd said.

‘I got it from the Barras . . . and—’

Wheeler cleared her throat.

Boyd flushed. ‘Sorry boss, just stuck for a pressie and—’

Debbie tried to save him by changing the subject. ‘Yous two want coffee?’

‘No thanks, we’re fine.’

‘Wouldn’t mind, thanks.’

They’d spoken in unison.

Debbie Morgan looked at them. ‘What’s it to be then?’

Wheeler spoke. ‘Nothing for me but if my colleague here wants something.’

‘It’s okay,’ said Boyd.

Debbie patted Boyd’s arm. ‘It’s no problem, I’ll make us a coffee. I fancy a wee Bailey’s coffee myself. What about you?’

Boyd glanced at Wheeler. ‘Maybe just the coffee then.’

‘On duty? Ach I’m sure your boss’ll no mind,’ she stared at Wheeler, ‘will you?’

‘Actually I do.’ Wheeler smiled. ‘No point in drinking this early.’

Debbie shot Boyd a sympathetic glance. ‘I’ll away and make you a straight coffee. No wee treats,’ she stared reproachfully at Wheeler, ‘even though it is nearly Christmas.’

When she returned with the tray, she joined them on the sofa, slotting herself neatly between the arm of the sofa and Boyd. It was a tight squeeze. ‘So, I read about James, that’s why I phoned you and left a message. I read that he got killed last Sunday but I’ve been away for a few days or I would’ve called in straight away. I had a wee accident.’ She touched her blackened eye.

‘You okay now?’ Boyd asked.

‘Fine, ta.’

‘I’m sorry about how you heard of James Gilmore’s death.’ Wheeler kept her voice compassionate. ‘You said in the message you’d been dating.’

‘Ages ago, I mean years ago. It didn’t last long.’

‘We spoke to his mother,’ said Wheeler. ‘She seemed to think he’d only ever had one girlfriend.’

‘Never met her. Didn’t even know his mum was still alive – he never mentioned her. James didn’t talk about much; he was a bit secretive. But also a bit of a show-off.’

Boyd leaned forward. ‘In what way?’

‘He wouldn’t talk about his work much, said it was confidential. And we hardly went out on our own, you know, just the two of us? He always wanted to go to the same places his work cronies would go to; it was kind of like he was proud that we were dating. It’s not that he especially liked them or anything. But . . .’

‘But?’ prompted Boyd.

‘But he never really wanted to spend time with me on my own, only if we were out and about being seen by others. He was a cold fish at home.’

‘How long were you dating?’ asked Wheeler.

‘On and off for about six months.’

‘Why did he break up with you?’ asked Boyd.

‘Oh, he never broke up with me,’ Debbie laughed, ‘I chucked him.’

‘Can I ask why?’ Wheeler recognised something in Debbie’s tone. Resignation, disappointment. Something had been far wrong. She wondered if Debbie would tell them.

‘He couldn’t get it up.’

‘Sorry?’ Boyd had gulped his coffee so quickly it had burned his mouth.

‘Happens to most men now and again; I suppose you’ll be aware of that,’ she nodded to Boyd. He studied the pattern on the carpet.

‘Go on,’ said Wheeler.

‘Well he could never do it – it was never on the “on” button if you get my drift, it was always on the “off”, so I told him to sling his hook. Us girls need a bit of fun, don’t we?’ she grinned at Wheeler. ‘And I wasn’t having any.’

‘How did he take it?’

‘Badly. He proposed.’

‘Marriage?’

‘Aye.’

‘Why would he do that?’

Debbie sat back in her sofa and drained the last of her coffee. ‘I’ve thought long and hard about that over the years. Me, I was working in the local chippy; he was a graduate. He never loved me, I knew that.’

‘So why the proposal?’ prompted Wheeler.

‘I don’t know for sure, but I reckon he might have needed a . . .’ she put her hands in the air and made the shape of quotation marks, ‘a wee wifie.’

‘Because?’ Wheeler asked but she already knew the answer.

‘Because, I reckon he was gay and needed a wee wifie to keep up appearances. Had to be – couldn’t have sex, didn’t fancy women. Couldn’t even fake it.’

‘Not many men can,’ muttered Boyd.

‘Anything else?’ asked Wheeler.

Debbie paused. ‘Nothing else that I can remember.’

‘Thanks very much for your time.’ Wheeler stood to leave.

‘More coffee?’ suggested Debbie.

‘We’ll let ourselves out. Thanks again.’ Wheeler offered her hand, Debbie shook it then turned to Boyd, winked at him. ‘You mind visit any time you like. I reckon we’re a couple of kindred spirits you and me.’

In the corridor the smell of air freshener seemed to have intensified. ‘Let’s take the stairs.’ Wheeler strode on. ‘You were certainly a hit back there.’

Boyd had the decency to blush. ‘You think Gilmore was gay?’

Wheeler took the steps two at a time. ‘Or maybe he just didn’t like his girlfriend that much.’

‘She’s a bit scary right enough but he still wanted to keep her as a cover. What was he hiding?’

‘I know, it looks quite suspicious.’

‘Or sinister.’ The word hung in the air.

She paused. ‘But there was nothing in his past to suggest . . .’

But Boyd was there before she finished. ‘Kids?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Nothing turned up in any reports; there were no accusations. Nothing.’

‘Uh huh.’ They both knew that meant very little.

‘Pete Newton said the killer hated his mother. Sounds like Gilmore wasn’t so keen on his old dear if he never mentioned her in the six months that he was dating Debbie.’

‘I’ve met his old dear and she’s anything but a dear.’

‘Gilmore’s ghost is taking on form.’

Outside the cold hit them. ‘Where to now?’ asked Boyd.

‘Back to the station to carry on our sleuthing work. I’ve got a gut feeling.’

‘Go on.’

‘Something’s changed in this case. The station will be a hive of activity.’

The CID suite at the station was dead, deserted except for Robertson and some uniformed officers who were frantically typing at computers. Wheeler could tell something had happened but the atmosphere was all wrong.

‘Well?’ She looked at Robertson, took in the faintly creased suit, the tired expression. He looked like he hadn’t slept. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Clydebank.’

She could tell by the flatness of his tone. ‘And?’

‘Nothing yet, except this.’ He handed her a slip of paper with an address scrawled on it. ‘Stewart says to get out there ASAP. We found the address on two of Gilmore’s old parking tickets at the bottom of one of the boxes. Finally called them; it turns out that the key’s for a steel storage unit in Clydebank – Solid Steel Solutions.’