Riven (4 page)

‘Bandit country.’

She stopped in the corridor. ‘Besides, Mason’s gone AWOL. He got out of the Bar-L okay, but apparently he never made it home to his beloved.’

‘A blonde tart named Lizzie Coughlin,’ Ross said. ‘Apparently she’s stayed faithful, turned up for weekly visits, played the supportive partner all these years.’

‘Any relation to Kenny Coughlin?’

‘His daughter.’

‘But Mason skipped the big reunion. Why? After all that time, where does he have to be that’s so important he doesn’t make it home? Unless someone got to him first?’

Ross pursed his lips.

‘Exactly my point. It’s suspicious.’

‘Does it have to be? He was never a class act from what I heard, so maybe he’s out drinking and whoring. Three and a half years is a long time to be celibate.’

‘You think he’s out partying?’ Wheeler thought about it. ‘Maybe, but he could be in more trouble than suffering a bit of a hangover.’

‘Well, wouldn’t you be out on the razz if you’d been locked up for years?’

‘I think he’d still want to see Lizzie, especially if he’s been celibate for all that time.’

‘True,’ agreed Ross. ‘What’s the point in paying for it when you can get it for free?’

Wheeler slapped his arm. ‘God, it’s a wonder a romantic like you is still single.’

Ross started up the stairs. ‘I think he’s involved – it’s too much of a coincidence. Mason gets out, then there’s this.’

‘Okay, so let’s go have a chat with the two boys, see if they give us anything. See if there’s a link from Mason to Gilmore.’ She pushed open the door to the CID suite.

‘Or to one of the other lot.’ He followed her.

‘That would be a result.’ She looked at Boyd. ‘The two boys ready?’

‘DCI Stewart’s going to interview them, says there’s another interview he wants you to do.’

She dumped her wet coat on the back of a chair; she’d learned in the army how to take orders. Her mobile rang. She recognised the number – her sister again. Wheeler heard it beep. A text. She glanced at it.

Why r u not answering? Jason’s not returning my calls. I’m SICK with worry. I think he’s in TROUBLE.

‘Problem?’ asked Ross.

‘My bloody sister’s paranoid about her son Jason, going off to Glasgow University and into the big bad world. We’ve never been close and now that he’s in Glasgow she pretty much wants me to stalk him.’

‘I take it you’re not one big happy family?’ Ross asked.

‘We’re not close.’ She turned away, unwilling to explain. Their father had died in a road accident when they were toddlers and their mother died when they were teenagers. After her mother’s death Wheeler had her first tattoo done, in gothic script between her shoulder blades –
Vita non est vivere sed valere vita est
(life is more than merely staying alive) – and enlisted in the army. Years later, after her last tour of yet another war-torn country, she’d celebrated leaving the army with a final tattoo,
Omnia causa fiunt
(everything happens for a reason). It was a fairytale she hoped would negate the reality of what she’d seen. Too much had happened for no reason. Meanwhile, Jo had met and married Simon Thorne, a Somerset farmer, and twenty years of polite distance between the sisters had followed, until now, when Jason had landed on Wheeler’s patch. Wheeler watched Ross leave the CID suite, then she deleted the text.

Detective Chief Inspector Craig Stewart bumped into Ross in the corridor just outside one of the interview rooms. Stewart’s grey hair was shorn as usual, to a peak, and was still damp from the rain. His slate-grey eyes were shrewd. He wore a dark-blue suit, a pink-gold Rolex and a broad gold wedding band. He nodded to Ross. ‘I’ve a few minutes before my meeting with DI Wheeler. I’ve already interviewed the Wilson boy.’

‘Anything?’ asked Ross.

‘He was giving it the whole “I’m completely innocent” spiel. He should’ve thought that argument through before admitting that they were there to steal.’

‘He made a bad choice there,’ Ross muttered, ‘but do you think they’re in the frame for the murder?’

Stewart frowned. ‘I’m keeping an open mind. They’ve not a speck of blood on them and they have an alibi for last night, a Christmas party at the youth club. Apparently it’s all been uploaded onto Facebook; should be easy enough to check with the other kids who were there. We’re already on it. They’ve never been in trouble before and seem like okay kids, but you never know.’

‘Bloody bad luck if they just chanced on a dead body.’

‘Certainly it’s a coincidence.’

‘Confident?’

Stewart shrugged, ‘He seemed a bit fazed but not like you or I would be in their place at their age.’

‘Can’t imagine they did it – they’re surely not that stupid that they’d go back the next day and call it in. Then confess all to Robertson when he turned up.’

‘Agreed, so even if they’re just two boys intent on thieving, I’ll give them a bit of a fright, see if it manages to persuade them to get back on the straight and narrow.’ Stewart’s eyes creased. ‘You hear about them being on the bus?’

Ross sniggered.

‘So, I’m thinking that boys like that aren’t career criminals. Neither of them would last a day in the Bar-L.’

Ross made a cutting gesture across his throat. ‘They’d have no chance if they were put in with folk like Maurice Mason.’

Stewart’s lip curled at Mason’s name. ‘Agreed, so it’s our job to change the course of their lives. Sit in the observation room if you like. Give me your take on the wee lad. See if that body-language course you took has paid off.’ Stewart walked off, leaving a vaporous trail of aftershave lingering in the corridor.

Ross turned to his left. A few seconds later he settled himself into an uncomfortable moulded plastic chair and stared through the one-way mirror. Beside him, Robertson was already ensconced in an identical chair, toe tapping impatiently, staring ahead. Neither greeted the other.

After a few minutes, the interview began.

Alec Munroe sat hunched over a desk which was pockmarked with gouges and graffiti, an untouched mug of weak tea in front of him. He was picking at a weeping cold sore on his top lip. Every few seconds the tip of his tongue appeared, collecting a stray drop of blood. He swallowed hard. His eyes stayed on Stewart as he entered the room, sat at the desk, adjusted his cuffs and fiddled with one of his cufflinks. Boyd lumbered across the room, opened a package and put the tape into the machine. Burped loudly. Didn’t bother excusing himself.

Stewart began immediately, speaking clearly, noting the date, time and the participants in the room. He stared at the boy, kept his voice low. ‘So Alec, why don’t you start by talking me through the events leading up to you and your pal, Robert Wilson, finding the body of James Gilmore. I know that you’ve already told DS Robertson, but just humour me. Talk me through it.’

Munroe swallowed and looked first at Boyd, then back to Stewart. ‘Is there no supposed to be a lawyer here?’

Stewart gave a sorrowful smile and held out his hands, palms up. ‘Are you requesting legal representation now, son?’

‘No, but . . .’

‘But what?’

‘Nuthin’, jist, see on the telly . . .?’ Munroe looked at Boyd. Boyd studied the floor.

‘You’re not on the telly, son,’ Stewart continued, ‘you’re not even being charged, we just want to know how you managed to stumble on a dead body. Remember your size eight and your pal’s size ten footprints are all we have at the scene of a murder.’ Good cop. Tone reasonable, but foot tapping impatiently on the lino. A clue to the bad cop about to emerge.

Alec Munroe started to snivel; small hiccupping sounds echoed around the room. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, wet running across self-inflicted, amateur tattoos – an eagle, a badly smudged creature which looked like it might have been intended to resemble a snake. All a mess.

Stewart leaned closer, whispered, ‘How did you manage to stumble upon a battered-to-death body?’

Silence.

‘How did you even know where Gilmore lived?’

Alec sounded confused. ‘We jist walked around a bit. It was jist . . . he told a few of us about the area he lived in . . . we walked around a bit,’ he repeated, ‘till eventually we found it.’

‘Do you understand what I’m saying here, son, ’cause this is serious stuff?’

Alec sniffed. Hiccupped. Wiped his hand across his eyes.

‘A dead body is the worst sort of trouble you can be in, you know?’

‘This wisnae meant tae happen.’

‘Okay, tell me what was meant to happen.’

‘Naw!’ Alec put his head in his hands.

Stewart leaned in at the boy and kept his tone even. ‘You will tell me what was meant to happen in that house, son. You will tell me everything. You understand?’

Munroe kept his head in his hands, refusing to look at Stewart.

Stewart leaned across the table, his voice cold. ‘And get on with it.’

In the room next door, Robertson was leaning forward in his seat, elbows resting on knees, engrossed in what was happening through the wall. He licked his lips, head bent a little to the side, his features frozen in concentration, following Stewart’s every move.

On the other side of the glass Stewart sensed a change in the atmosphere, knew what it meant. Munroe had stopped snivelling, had decided to talk. Stewart stared at the boy and waited. He had all night if need be.

Eventually Munroe began, his voice a whisper. ‘We knew where he lived – he’d told some of the folk at school. No exactly the address but it’s a wee rutted track. Easy enough to find.’ He sniffed quietly.

Stewart sat back in his seat. ‘Go on.’

‘So we decided, that since he was going tae be at the parents’ night, that we’d go and—’

In the next room Ross’s chair scraped across the floor when he stood. He’d seen enough.

He was back at his desk in seconds.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Wheeler asked.

‘Watching Stewart in action, trying to change the course of the two boys’ lives or scaring them into a confession. Not sure which; either way, it’s not how I’d go about interviewing potential suspects.’

Wheeler sat back in her seat. ‘Right, so how he’s going about it? Good cop, bad cop stuff – I’ve seen him do it. It’s effective, Ross.’

‘Trouble is, it muddies the waters. What if one of them says he did it?’

‘Why would they, if they’re innocent?’

Ross pursed his lips. ‘Maybe they know who did it and they’re scared. Maybe it would be safer for one of them to cover for the killer. It’s too early to call. The boy’s body language says he didn’t do it.’

Wheeler chewed at the stray rag nail on her thumb as she looked at the few notes she had jotted down about James Gilmore. ‘I don’t think they’d hang around if they were guilty. They might be a wee bit slow but they’re not stupid.’

Ross sat at his desk, powered up his computer. ‘I think I pissed Stewart off.’

‘How so?’

‘I mentioned Maurice Mason getting out of the Bar-L. Stewart just about spat when I mentioned his name.’

‘How come he’s so pissed about Mason?’ asked Wheeler.

‘Mason got off with manslaughter.’

‘So? It’s a result. He was put away.’

‘Not the one Stewart was looking for – it was his case, remember? You know he has his own moral compass and according to it, Mason should have been done for murder. The boss is going for promotion and the top brass have long memories.’

Wheeler sat back in her chair, looked around the tired room, the flaking paint and the worn furniture and wondered how it was meant to inspire success. She rubbed her eyes. ‘Anyway, how long’s the interrogation going to be?’

‘Not long; it looked like Alec Munroe was just starting to unravel.’

‘Wee soul . . . what a nightmare, finding a dead body when all you’re trying to do is lift something to sell.’

A cough from the doorway cut her off. Stewart squared his shoulders. ‘I think you’ll find some of them are a wee bit more savvy than they appear, DI Wheeler. I think that Alec Munroe could get an Oscar for his performance in there, snivelling and sighing like a professional actor. If you’re right and they are just lost souls, then we should try to help get them back onto the right path. But let’s remember that they were there to thieve; they’re not innocent bystanders. He managed to talk to Robertson at the scene. Why?’ He beckoned to her. ‘A moment?’ He led the way to his office, settled himself behind his desk.

She stood waiting, glanced at the framed photographs on his desk. Him looking like a film star in every one. And his wife, Adrianne, looking the same.

Stewart steepled his fingers, pointing his manicured nails at the ceiling. Then he watched her for a second, licked his lips. ‘Wheeler, I think we need to focus on the school. Maybe the two wee muppets back there aren’t involved at all, but,’ he stared hard at her, ‘we still need to keep digging.’

She waited.

‘I think that
probably
the two boys aren’t involved but in that case we have to eliminate them. Their prints are in the house.’

‘But we can explain that.’

‘Let’s just hold it for the time being. I want you to go make a home visit.’

She knew what was coming even before he said it. A woman’s job.

‘We’re getting someone from Education Personnel out of their beds to get Gilmore’s records. Meantime the good news is that Watervale’s head teacher, Ms Paton, has been located; the bad news is she’s off to a family wedding in Canada first thing in the morning and so she needs to be interviewed tonight.’ He handed her a scrap of paper with an address scrawled on it. ‘The head teacher’s also supplied us with Gilmore’s next of kin – his mother lives in a care home in Milngavie.’

‘Boss?’

‘She’s just coming round from an operation and is still groggy. The doctor says to wait until tomorrow when she can understand things a bit more.’

‘Surely she should be told first?’

‘Not while she can’t take it in. You can take Boyd or Ross with you to interview the head teacher. You know you’re great at getting information.’

She looked at him. ‘Woman’s intuition?’

He smiled. ‘What? I know you have your own way of working,’ he paused, ‘but for now though, let’s just agree to go with mine? Give it a go?’ He held eye contact a fraction too long.