Riven (31 page)

Wheeler noted the expression, the tone. This was the breakthrough they’d been looking for but something was wrong. Robertson’s tone and the fact that the team had
all
taken off. For a visit to a storage unit. Gilmore had a big house in Glasgow – why did he need a storage unit too? And why was it way out in Clydebank?

She was at the door before she thought to ask, ‘Robertson, anything else happen?’

He nodded. ‘Better ask Ross.’

Minutes later Wheeler and Boyd were driving out of the city. Clydebank was out at West Dunbartonshire, about thirteen miles from Carmyle, and the journey would normally have taken them around half an hour.

‘Shit,’ Wheeler cursed again as they sat in traffic which was backed up on the M74. Sleet was falling fast and visibility was poor. Boyd sighed, switched on the radio, switched it off again. Tried not to appear agitated but failed. Drummed his fingers on his seat belt. Swore under his breath.

The A814 was the same: traffic was backed up and nothing was moving. Wheeler drove cautiously when they were moving, careful not to let the car slide. Eventually after almost an hour they got to their destination and saw that ‘Solid Steel Solutions’ was set in a remote area on the outskirts of Clydebank. The secure storage on offer was rows of steel shipping containers around ten feet by eight feet. Each had its own padlock. Wheeler looked at the entrance; it would usually be accessed by sliding the electronic key tag over the pad which would activate the huge metal gates. Once a car was inside, the gates would automatically close behind it. Right now the gates were permanently set on open to accommodate the police cars. She glanced around and guessed from the lack of an on-site office that the site was not usually manned, but she could see four personnel in suits standing in the sleet talking to Stewart.

As Wheeler and Boyd approached, Stewart broke off to acknowledge her and point to a storage unit at the end of the row. He needn’t have bothered – it was crawling with CID and uniform.

Ross came out of the unit as she approached. Shook his head, walked on.

Stewart finished with the men in suits and stood beside her. He touched her elbow.

She looked at him. ‘Boss?’

‘A quick look, Wheeler,’ he instructed her. ‘Don’t linger.’

Inside, her footsteps echoed on the concrete floor. There was metal shelving running the length of the unit. On the shelves in neat, ordered packs, were thousands of photographs and pictures. James Gilmore had been methodical in his storage. There were bundles of images, scribbled locations. She glanced at one of the older packages:
Stobwent-Hill Children’s Home, Glasgow
. As far as she knew the home no longer existed – it was long gone, its child residents scattered across the city. Other labels simply described the images as
Downloads 2008–2009, 2009–2010, 2010–2011
. On the shelves there were thousands of pictures, some developed, others downloaded. All dated, sorted chronologically, the most recent at the front. All revolting. Gilmore had been a paedophile for decades. He was in some of the photographs – she guessed that he was the man in the mask, holding the chains. Wheeler glanced at one, saw the bleakness in the young boy’s eyes, the leather collar tethered around his thin neck, and felt her stomach heave, her mouth fill with bile, her forehead break out in a cold sweat. She turned away, headed for the exit and was grateful when she stood outside taking in gulps of cold sleet. She tightened both hands into fists. Walked over to Stewart, who was talking to a group of officers. Her throat was sore and she wanted to throw up. ‘Boss?’

‘Right, get this lot dusted for prints, bagged and tagged and shipped out.’ Stewart’s face was grey, his knuckles white as he spoke to the officers. He looked at her. ‘Back to the station. We can’t do any more here and I think you’ve seen enough.’

She had.

Boyd was staying put, so she drove back, insisted on it. Said that she needed to concentrate. Ross sat beside her. She waited until they were out of Clydebank before she spoke. ‘You were right.’

‘Bastard.’ Ross stared out at the River Clyde. ‘Fucking bastard.’

‘Robertson said there was something else.’

‘Yeah, I finally got a reference for Arthur Wright. And a phone trace for the two calls about Gilmore.’

‘The ones about Gilmore being linked to him and not being a good guy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And?’

‘They were from a payphone in the Watervale scheme. Near the youth club. Someone had done their homework. Maybe they didn’t want to talk to the polis but they found out about Gilmore and passed the info along.’

‘Took us long enough to find it though.’

‘It was a long shot. Arthur Wright had been deported from the US, went back to his original name, then an alias. It was cross-referenced, but it took forever to trace.’

‘And?’ her voice trailed off.

‘Same as back there.’ He jabbed his thumb back the way they’d come.

She drove to the station, parked, and they were in the CID suite, taking off their damp jackets, when Stewart arrived. ‘Meeting in my room in ten.’

She nodded but knew that the atmosphere in the suite had lost its charge. James Gilmore had been murdered but now that he had gone from victim to perpetrator, the energy for a conviction had dissipated.

‘Changes everything, doesn’t it?’ Ross pushed a cup of coffee in front of her. Slid a wrapped chocolate beside it. ‘Eat.’

She ate. ‘It shouldn’t change anything though, should it? Gilmore was brutally murdered and we still need to find out who did it.’ But she heard the weariness in her voice, the lack of emotion. An image from the storage unit flashed into her mind, a young boy’s face. The dead expression in his eyes. She sipped the black coffee, sighed, swallowed the chocolate, felt a rush of sugar and warmth. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

Ten minutes later and they were crowded into Stewart’s room.

Friday night

The strip lights in the Royal Infirmary were too bright for him. William MacIntyre half closed his eyes and watched while the doctor chatted to each patient in turn. He cursed under his breath as he waited for her to make her way around the ward. He clawed at his arm, felt the shakes begin again. Forced himself to lie down on the bed. Closed his eyes, prayed that the pain would disappear. Cursed again, this time loud enough for the man in the next bed to hear and respond. ‘Christ, will you shut up. You’re not the only one suffering.’

MacIntyre ignored him, focused instead on the progress of the doctor. He thought she looked about sixteen but he knew she had to be older. He studied her: she was small, about five two, but she had an athletic build and a fresh, open face and her long blonde hair was tied back in a pony-tail. She looked like a different species from him. Healthy. He felt his stomach spasm. Took a deep breath. Felt into the pain. Watched her smile at another patient, touch their hand. ‘Fuck,’ he hissed; the pain was worse. He closed his eyes. ‘Fuckssake,’ he whispered.

‘Shut it you,’ the man in the next bed snarled. ‘Think you’re the only one in pain, you junkie tosspot.’

Eventually she came to him, read his notes. A wee lassie telling him what he should be doing, what he should be taking. What a cunt. MacIntyre sat up in the bed, screwed his eyes at the name badge. Dr Susan Armstrong was still droning on.

‘Mr MacIntyre, we can help you with a withdrawal programme. I can get you signed up today if you like. It might not be available right away, it might take a week or so, but there are agencies that could help you. It would be a managed withdrawal, with plenty of support, including counselling. It wouldn’t be like going cold turkey on your own.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m no interested.’

‘Because?’

He shrugged – why bother going into it?

She moved closer to the bed. ‘You don’t understand. After an attempted suicide, we need to put help and support into place.’

He glared at her. ‘Mibbe you don’t fucking understand hen.’

‘I won’t put up with bad language.’ Her voice cold.

‘Well then shut it.’

The doctor took a step back, frowned, started again. ‘Mr MacIntyre, I’m here to help you. At least try to be civil.’

He felt his fingers twitch. Felt the ache deep in his bones. ‘How long have I got? How long can I stay here?’

‘In this ward?’

‘Aye, in the infirmary.’

‘Until tomorrow morning. Then I’m afraid we need to move you on. Which is why I’d like to get you signed up to the programme.’

MacIntyre shut his eyes. His voice cracked, ‘I took a fuckin’ overdose, could you no have just let me be?’

She glanced at her notes. ‘You were at home when you took the overdose.’

‘Aye, so?’

‘Your neighbour found you and called the ambulance.’

MacIntyre closed his eyes. ‘The neighbour’s a thieving git. Should never have been prowlin’ about ma hoose in the first place.’

‘That may well be but he saved your life and now I suggest that you accept help in managing your addiction. We have outside agencies who can help you. In the meantime I can get you on a methadone programme.’

MacIntyre gripped his hospital gown around him and sniffed. He heard more questions but ignored them all. He waited until the young doctor had moved off, exasperated, before he opened his mobile and dialled home. It took a while ringing before she answered.

Her voice was slurred. ‘Yesh?’ She didn’t have her teeth in.

‘I’m no coming back.’

‘Who’s thiss?’

‘Who the fuck dae ye think it is, ya daft cow?’

A long pause. ‘Wullie?’

‘Aye.’

‘Are ye no still in the Royal?’

‘Aye but I’m meant tae be out the morrow.’

‘Hame? You’re gonnae be hame in the morning?’

‘I’m no coming back but.’

‘How’ss that then?’

‘The fucker that got Gilmore’s coming for me next. I’m oan the list. I’m oan Doyle’s fucking list. Weirdo told me. Ma name’s right under fucking Gilmore’s and look what happened tae him.’

A long pause, the penny dropping. ‘How doess he know, how doess Doyle know? How doess Weirdo know?’

‘I don’t know. But they fucking know. And George has disappeared. I think he told them about whit was happening.’

‘Fuck.’ Her voice a whisper.

‘Aye, I’m fucked. And I’m no letting them dae tae me whit they did tae Gilmore.’

Silence.

‘You still there?’

‘Aye.’

‘So I’m off, away oot of it.’

A long pause. ‘But where will you go?’

His voice hardened. ‘There’s no a lot of choice is there? Whit I’m saying is my options are very-fucking-severely-limited.’

‘Well. Jist come hame then? Ish that no the besht thing?’

‘Fuck off.’

Silence.

‘That’ss no nice.’

‘Well, the-games-a-fucking-bogey for me.’

‘Kin ye no sort it?’

‘How? It’s over fir me.’

Silence.

‘You hear me?’

‘Aye.’

‘So.’

‘Aye. That’s me on ma own now?’

MacIntyre switched off the phone. Lay on his back, felt the tears come, hot, salty. Turned onto his side and faced the wall. Closed his eyes. He felt the ache in his kidneys begin again and he stretched his right hand around to the soreness. The three stumps on his hand kneaded uselessly against the searing pain. MacIntyre knew about the list – Christ, everyone in Glasgow knew Doyle had a list. And now MacIntyre’s name was on it. MacIntyre knew it was over. Knew where he had to go.

The bridge.

He waited until the shift change had started, watched the nurses congregate around the desk at the far end of the ward. Looked at the clock: it was eight p.m. Through the window he saw sleet hammering down on the city. He crossed the ward, stumbled down the corridor to the lift. A few minutes later he was walking past a group of smokers at the hospital doorway; one of them spat on the ground as he passed. MacIntyre ignored them and walked out into the cold night and kept walking until he reached it.

The bridge.

He waited until the bus was in sight before he stepped off the bridge.

It’s Friday night, surely you have some time off . . . are you around for a drink
?

Wheeler read the text from Paul Buchan. Pressed delete. She sat alone in the CID suite; it was silent apart from the distant thrum of traffic. Even the sleet outside had ceased battering against the window panes and had lessened to a drizzle. The overhead strip of fluorescent light was turned off. Wheeler sat under a halo of light from the desk lamp. There was just enough light for her to read the reports, to examine the evidence bags. The photographs had been dusted for prints, everything had been logged, recorded, noted. In the still calm of the night Wheeler reached for one of the bags, noticed the tremor in her hand as she pulled out the photographs and stared at each one in turn. Finally she began to stuff them back into the plastic bags. A few remained. Holding one of the pictures in her hand, she tried to imagine the reality of life for these boys. The boy in the photograph had his back to the camera and was completely naked, his skin blue-white with cold. The room was empty, only the boy standing alone, his skin pale but for the smear of red that seeped down his thighs.

Wheeler put the photograph back with the others.

Downstairs, Tommy Cunningham was at the desk sipping coffee and finishing off a chocolate biscuit. He looked up as she approached. His voice was soft when he asked, ‘That you done, then, for the night?’

Wheeler glanced at him. ‘I’m done, TC. I’ve had more than enough of this case for today.’

‘Aye,’ Cunningham agreed, ‘I think we all have.’

‘Goodnight TC.’

‘Night hen.’

She pulled on her coat, shoved a hat over her damp hair and wandered into the rain. She could feel a tension headache start at the base of her neck. Her mobile rang. She glanced at the name.
Ross
. When she answered there was music in the background. ‘Wondered if you fancied a drink, maybe a chat about the case?’ Ross paused. ‘But maybe you’re shattered. And we’ll get the official debrief from Stewart tomorrow.’

‘It’s okay, I thought you were off to see your girlfriend?’