Riven (32 page)

‘Ex-girlfriend.’

‘Thought you went round there the other night?’

‘It was a relapse for both of us. It’s over. Sure you don’t fancy coming into town for a drink?’

Wheeler felt the rain run down her neck, felt the cold of the wind against her face, felt her headache retreat. ‘Maybe. Depends. Where are you?’

He paused. ‘Bar 99.’

She laughed, ‘Could you have aimed any lower?’

‘There was supposed to be live music.’ He sounded defensive.

‘Is there a band on?’ she groaned. ‘I couldn’t face music tonight.’

‘It was cancelled.’

Bar 99 was right next to the River Clyde. It was a pub to get lost in. Usually crowded, dark and with enough nooks and crannies to talk without fear of being overheard. A place where you could talk about a case without anyone hearing. So ideal in some ways.

‘Tempted?’

‘Okay. Let me drop the car off first.’

She drove home, parked the car and walked through Candleriggs and its ropes of twinkling fairy lights and glowing Christmas decorations. She passed the Bluestone Theatre and turned, kept going until she heard the roar from the River Clyde. A few minutes later and she walked into Bar 99, all low ceilings, dark wood panels and a warm atmosphere. It was busy in the back but there were stools free at the bar. She looked around, saw Ross ensconced at a corner table with two heavyset women. Both women wore thick eyeliner, even thicker foundation and painted smiles. Wheeler nodded to Ross, he rose, and the smiles on the women’s faces turned sour. Wheeler settled at the bar and ordered a Chardonnay.

‘Medium or large?’ asked the barman.

She had to stop herself asking for a bottle. ‘Large, thanks.’ She watched it being set in front of her.

Ross shuffled onto a stool beside her. ‘Out of your depth there, Ross,’ she smiled as she sipped the cold wine.

‘Christ, you’re telling me. I just came in for a quick pint and they pounced.’

‘You’re fresh meat.’ She glanced back; the two women looked like they wanted to kill her. ‘Sure you don’t want to go back, be the meat in their sandwich?’

He shuddered. Nodded to the barman. ‘Pint of heavy please.’

The barman began to pour. ‘No interested in the two lassies back there then, son?’

‘No way.’

‘They’ll be gutted – they must’ve thought it was their lucky night.’

‘Think they’ll get over it,’ said Ross, paying for both his pint and Wheeler’s wine.

‘Think they already have,’ the barman grinned.

They turned to look. A small, thin man in his late sixties wearing a pencil moustache and a freshly pressed tweed suit had perched himself at the table, fitting snugly between the two women.

‘Carnage.’ Wheeler shuddered and turned back to the bar.

The barman gave Ross his change. ‘Och, he’ll die happy, hen. Ye cannae begrudge him that.’ He left them alone and went to the far side of the bar.

They sat in silence for a few minutes; the new development in the case had robbed them of their adrenaline. Both of them knew they would have to find it again.

‘So, what brings you out on a night like this?’ Ross gave her his smarmiest smile.

‘Is that your best chat-up line, Ross?’

‘Would it work?’

‘Tell me, has it ever worked?’

‘True.’ He sipped his pint. The music was loud, Snow Patrol.

She kept her voice low. ‘So what are we left with?’

‘James Gilmore died because he was abusing children. There are hundreds of victims and it could be any one of them. And to be honest, Wheeler, I wouldn’t blame them for killing the bastard.’

‘That’s it exactly,’ she sipped her wine, ‘I think the whole of the station wants to just let this one go.’

‘Yeah.’

‘But that’s not our job.’

He studied the clientele in the pub. Said nothing.

Wheeler continued, ‘We’ve nothing new and eventually Grim will write up what was found at the unit in Clydebank. No one will come forward and there’s no chance of a conviction, is there?’

‘Some folk will believe that it’s a waste of taxpayers’ money to go searching for whoever did this; they’ll believe the killer did us a favour in the long run. And I can’t blame them.’

‘You think Andy Doyle had anything to do with it?’

‘Evidence?’ asked Ross.

She looked at her glass. ‘Nothing, other than they met at the charity do.’

‘Him and a few hundred others; it’s not enough, is it?’

‘No.’

‘I think Doyle maybe knows who did it, but whether or not it was him . . . who knows? We have no motive.’

She sipped her wine. ‘I know. And Lauren Taylor’s death, just horrible. It’s been a fucking awful week.’

‘You got the update on Jason?’

She nodded. ‘They dragged him into the station in the West End. He swore he wasn’t involved. Eventually they let him go. They’re convinced that the evidence points to her getting off her face and accidentally falling from the balcony.’ She paused. ‘Do we know where she got the GHB?’

Ross drained the last of his pint. ‘We’re pretty certain it came via someone in the Tenant clan.’

‘Wee Stevie?’

‘Maybe, if he’s trying to go it alone.’

‘But he doesn’t operate near the university. Could Weirdo have supplied it? So then it would be Doyle that we’d be looking at?’

Ross shook his head. ‘No evidence to point that way.’

Wheeler drained her glass, waited until Ross had ordered again and the fresh drinks sat in front of them before she spoke. ‘Even if he’s not involved, Jason’s a heartless fuck.’

‘You reckon he gave her the stuff at some point in the last week?’

‘Highly possible.’

‘But he’s denying it?’

‘But I already know that he’s a liar.’

‘You sure about the drugs though?’

She sighed.

‘Burden of proof?’

She nodded. ‘And I’m not allowed to investigate because he’s fucking family. He’s involved in some way, I’m sure of it, but he’s going to get away with it. He could be done for supplying.’

The barman switched CDs. Van Morrison sang about a brown-eyed girl. The bar was getting busy and people were crowding in from the street. Ross nudged her. ‘Let’s get a comfortable seat.’

She followed his gaze; the two women and the thin man were disappearing out of the door, leaving their table free. ‘Result,’ the barman smiled as he followed them to the table and collected the empty glasses.

Wheeler’s phone chirruped. A text from her sister:
I demand to know what’s going on.

‘I bet you fucking do,’ Wheeler muttered, deleting the text.

Her mobile rang. ‘Let me just take this quickly, Ross.’

Her sister sounded hysterical. ‘I want to know what the problem is, Katherine.’

Wheeler kept her tone the right side of pissed off. ‘There’s a big problem, Jo. Fucking Jason.’

Silence, then, ‘He’s in trouble?’

‘Big trouble.’

‘Tell me.’

Wheeler told her.

Jo’s voice rose. ‘He won’t be involved – how can you even think that?’

‘He knew her. He knows a lot more than he’s saying.’

‘So? You need to clean up this mess.’

‘How come it’s now my mess?’

‘You’re police. You can sort this.’

‘Think Jason already tried that approach. It failed.’

‘And he’s family.’

‘He’s
your
family.’

‘You’ve never cared about family. I suppose you think that it’s my problem and you can’t be arsed helping us.’

Wheeler held the phone out in front of her, shook her head in disbelief. Let her sister rant for a few minutes, heard key phrases – ‘you were always rubbish at emotions’, ‘hopeless at being part of a family but then . . .’ a pause as if she was holding back. Then a new list of why Wheeler wasn’t a good sister, hadn’t been a good daughter, blah, blah, blah. Finally Wheeler clamped the phone back to her ear. ‘You finished with the character assassination?’

Jo hadn’t. ‘How would you even know how a mother feels? You’ve no idea what I’m going through.’

‘You’ve no idea how clichéd you sound.’

‘Let me explain something: it’s like a physical pain. An actual pain.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake get off your cross.’ Wheeler was losing patience. ‘A young girl has died and Jason could be involved. He’s certainly lying through his teeth about something.’

But her sister still hadn’t finished. ‘I’m suffering, Katherine.’

‘Yes you are,’ Wheeler paused, ‘from a terminal case of melodrama.’

‘You fucking cow!’

The phone went dead. Wheeler looked up, caught Ross watching her. ‘Played that one well, didn’t I? Didn’t exactly get her on board.’

‘Could’ve been better, I suppose. You going to call her back?’

Wheeler shook her head. ‘First time I heard her swear.’

‘You must have touched a nerve.’

‘She said I was rubbish at emotions and family. This coming from a woman who’s produced a fucking psychopath for a son.’

‘Charming.’

She sipped the chilled wine. ‘But I’m right.’

‘You think she’ll come round when she realises the trouble he could be in?’

‘I doubt it.’ Wheeler looked at him. ‘I think he’s like his mother; it runs in the family. Besides, officially he’s off the hook.’

‘Now it’s your fucking problem you little prick, so you should start worrying.’ Weirdo slammed his fist against the wall, narrowly missing Jason’s head.

‘I didn’t give it to her. She took it herself.’

The second punch hit Jason hard in the stomach. He doubled over and began to cry. Weirdo kept his voice low, controlled, professional. ‘Doesn’t fucking matter does it, you lying to yourself? Or the polis. Important thing for me is to find out where it’s from. See, I know you didn’t get it from me. You got it from some other cunt and now you’re going to tell me who, or I’m going to cut your shrivelled balls off and make you suck on them like sweeties. Understand?’

‘I need to remind you . . . you need to watch it,’ Jason wheezed. ‘You know I have a contact in the police force.’

Weirdo paused his fist mid-air. ‘Aye, so you said.’

Jason tried to hold the stare. Failed. ‘It’s true, I do have a contact, so you better stop this now.’

Weirdo leaned into Jason’s face. ‘You trying to scare the shite out of me?’

Jason misread the signs, gathered himself, tried for some bravado. ‘I already told you, my Auntie Katherine is an inspector with the CID.’

Weirdo laughed; Doyle was right – it was like taking sweeties from a baby. ‘And I care . . . because?’

Jason gave his answer the gravitas he felt it deserved. ‘A detective inspector can arrest you and put you in jail.’

Weirdo paused and pretended to think for a moment. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells with me; what was the name again?’

‘Detective Inspector Katherine Wheeler, Carmyle Station, CID.’

‘Oh aye, I remember now. I passed on that wee snippet to my boss already.’

Jason began to relax.

‘It’s just,’ Weirdo leaned in closer, his spit landing on Jason’s face, ‘that
Katherine’s
already been round to see my boss. My boss didn’t seem too upset.’ Weirdo continued, ‘And as for me, well I don’t give a flying fuck who your wee auntie is, get it?’

Jason got it. After the next punch hit the wall, again narrowly missing his head, Jason slid down onto his knees and knew that it was over.

‘Well?’ Weirdo stood back. Waited.

‘Stevie,’ Jason whispered.

‘Go on.’

‘Stevie Tenant. Guy said his name was Stevie Tenant.’

‘And how the fuck did you get to meet him?’

‘Your friend.’

‘My friend?’ Weirdo asked but he already knew the answer. Jason would never have seen Weirdo with Doyle, but he had seen him with Smithy.

‘The fat guy who was in the car with you.’

Bingo. ‘And now you’re going to go snivelling to your wee auntie?’

Silence.

‘Well?’

‘She already knows . . . that I knew Lauren.’

‘And?’

‘I said nothing about the drugs. She didn’t believe me though.’

‘Because?’

‘The West End cops already had me in. She told them to interview me.’

‘Go on.’

‘I told them I didn’t know anything about the drugs and they believed me. I never mentioned Stevie, honest.’

Weirdo shrugged. ‘I don’t give a fuck if you dob wee Stevie in it but there’s a few things you might want to be aware of.’ Weirdo bent down again and stuck his mouth next to Jason’s ear. ‘So, a word to the wise wee man, if you think I’m a scary fucker and I see from the wet on your jeans that you do, just try wee Stevie aka Crusher Tenant. If you want tae try and dob him in it with your wee auntie, you might want to stop by the undertakers’ and choose a nice wee burial plot for yourself first. And maybe one for your wee auntie
Katherine
as well. Happy shopping.’

Jason sniffed, wiped the snot from his top lip and stared at the carpet. Ignored the mess on his jeans.

‘See, now you’ve lied to the polis. Told wee porkies. I could mention it to them. I reckon the polis could have you banged up for supplying. And you might want to have a good think about what happens to little pricks like you in the Bar-L.’ Weirdo held up a finger. ‘One, your fuck-off English accent is going tae have them wetting themselves with joy.’ Another finger. ‘Two, the shit you supplied killed a wee lassie.’ A third finger. ‘Three, and this is the bull’s eye, why they’re really gonnae love you. You’re the nephew of a polis. The polis who maybe put them behind bars.’ He leaned into Jason’s face so far that spittle hit Jason’s cheek again. ‘And when I say they’ll love you, I mean it in the raw, physical way. Loving you until it hurts. You get my drift?’

Weirdo stood, stared at Jason for a few seconds, saw the tears form, then shook his head, ‘Fucking wean.’ As he closed the door quietly behind him, he heard the sound of Jason sobbing. Weirdo pulled out his mobile, punched in the number. Waited. ‘Hello, Mr Doyle?’

Silence.

‘It’s me.’

‘Go on.’

‘Just paid a visit to the student.’

‘And?’

‘He gave the Lauren kid the gear.’

‘Where did he get it?’

‘Wee Stevie . . . via Smithy.’

‘That right?’ Weirdo heard the edge in Doyle’s voice sharpen.