Witness the Dead (10 page)

When Addison was interrupted once more by a noisy debate about Henry VIII and his wives, he’d had enough. He turned to study the three guys, each alternately shouting and whispering as they huddled across their pints of lager, all of them dressed as if they were some ill-advised throwback to the seventies. Addison reached back in his chair and thrust an arm into the middle of their table, plucking a mobile phone from the hands of one of the three.

‘Bobby?’ he called to the bar manager who, in the middle of pulling a pint, turned at the sound of his name. Addison tossed the mobile across the bar, where it was deftly caught. ‘You maybe want to keep that till the quiz is finished.’

The owner of the phone turned with a distinct ‘what the . . .?’ look on his face, anger and bewilderment all in one.

‘The answer’s Catherine of Aragon, ya cheating halfwit,’ Addison informed him.

‘Hey, now wait a minute.’ The guy got halfway out of his chair.

‘Leave it, Les,’ one of his pals warned him. ‘It’s no’ worth it.’

‘But he took my phone, Paul. My phone. You saw him, Neil. He took my phone.’

‘Oh, dry your eyes,’ Addison told him. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t shove it up your arse. Now keep the noise down. We’re talking.’

Les’s mouth opened and closed like a fish’s, as he saw the danger of continuing to argue. He and his teammates sensibly dropped their heads and turned back to their own table.

‘As I was saying,’ Addison resumed with a final glare at the quizzers and lowering his voice to an angry buzz, ‘Kelbie was married to someone else at the time but neglected to tell my sister that.’ He continued through gritted teeth, ‘He told her a pack of lies just to get into bed with her.’

A phrase involving pots and kettles leapt into Winter’s mind but he sensibly didn’t voice it.

‘Marie thought he was single and I don’t know what the hell she possibly saw in him, but she fell for the prick. That baldy wee nyaff? I know women are strange but that takes the fucking biscuit.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Marie took a phone call from some woman threatening to claw her eyes out. Marie obviously makes a polite request asking what the fuck the mental cow is talking about and makes a few choice threats of her own. The woman says she’s Kelbie’s wife. Says she’s going to kill Marie for stealing her man.’

‘Nice.’

‘Aye.’

The bitterness was swallowed down with a double mouthful of Guinness that emptied the glass.

‘Kelbie had convinced his wife that Marie had made all the running and that he was oh-so-fucking sorry for allowing himself to be trapped or conned or whatever he told her. The little ratbag got away with it.’

‘From you, too?’ The surprise in Winter’s voice was obvious. It wasn’t the kind of thing that his mate would let lie.

‘Yeah. From me, too. Marie was embarrassed even though none of it was her fault. She made me promise to let it go rather than make things worse by cutting Kelbie’s dick off and shoving it down his throat. So I did what she wanted. And every time I see the little shit I hate myself almost as much as I hate him.’

Addison was squeezing the life out of the empty pint glass and Winter thought it might actually smash in his grip. He reached out and put his own hand over his pal’s. ‘You want another one of those?’

Addison looked down at Winter’s hand, then slowly back up to face him, disbelief spreading across his features.

‘Aye. Of course I do. But it’s my round. And don’t go getting all sister act on me. Touch me again and you go on the same list as Kelbie.’

Winter sighed and was about to reply when Addison turned halfway out of his seat, the two empty glasses like ready weapons in his hands, the hubbub of the pub quiz clamouring behind him.

‘I’ll tell you something, wee man. This case is huge. I’ll be fucking damned if I’m going to let that wee shite get to the bottom of it before I do. This is personal.’

Chapter 13

Sunday evening

Emma Healey’s flat was a traditional red-stone tenement in Hill Street, not far from the Glasgow School of Art. Incongruously, to its left and up the hill, sat the modernist Junior School building belonging to St Aloysius College, with its glass-sided balconies and broad, floor-to-ceiling external blinds. Across the street was the time-and-grime-blackened elegance of the Chandlery Building, the original home of the college in its Italianate palazzo style with its pillared portico, a hundred and fifty years of Glasgow weather and pollution seemingly proving impervious to the powers of sandblasting.

Architecturally, there was no doubt that the tenement where Emma lived was the poor relation of the neighbourhood, but it was Glasgow working-class and bloody proud of it. Narey remembered reading that four recent Turner Prize winners had lived in Hill Street and wondered if Hannah’s little sister was an arty type.

Narey pressed the buzzer to the second-floor flat and moments later a hesitant voice and the rasping sound of the intercom indicated that she and Andy Teven could enter. They climbed the tenement stairs in silence and found the door to the flat open.

Mother and daughter sat huddled together on the sofa in the white-walled living room, the decor drawing what little colour was left from their faces. Emma Healey’s eyes burned red from tears, contrasting raw against her bloodless cheeks. She looked up hopefully when Narey and Teven came in, searching their faces for signs that a terrible mistake had been made. Finding none, she slumped back in her seat. Her mother Mary, equally pale, sat open-mouthed, barely looking up as the officers entered the room, her fingers intertwined, working round each other feverishly.

Narey and Teven had already decided that they’d get better results if she led the interviews. A woman’s touch he’d said, more than a little sarcastically. Whatever he thought, they both knew she’d manage more of a connection with the Healeys.

‘Mrs Healey? Emma? I’m Detective Sergeant Rachel Narey. This is Detective Sergeant Andy Teven. Thanks for agreeing to speak to us. I won’t say I know how difficult this must be for you because I don’t. But I do feel for your loss.’

Both women nodded but Mary Healey did so without being able to look up at them. Her bottom lip quivered.

‘Sit down, Sergeant, please. Both of you.’ Emma Healey, a year or two younger than her sister but with the same pretty features and short, dark, bobbed hair, waved an arm in the direction of the two chairs in the room, and the two detectives settled into them. ‘My mum’s going to stay with me for a night or two. Can I get you something? Tea, coffee?’

‘No, thank you. We’ll try not to keep you too long. You’ve had a long day and it must be a lot to take in. But I do need to ask you some questions about Hannah if that’s okay.’

It was as if the mention of her daughter’s name woke Mary Healey from her near-trance. She looked up at them for the first time.

‘She’s a good girl, Sergeant. Never any bother like some you see going around. Neither of them ever been any bother.’ Mrs Healey reached out an unsteady hand and stroked her younger daughter’s face. A tear began to trickle down Emma’s cheek, dampening her mother’s fingers.

‘She’s never done drugs. Never got into trouble with the police. Never stayed out all night. Never any bother. She’s my baby girl. My baby.’

Narey hesitated, the mother’s words falling awkwardly between them. The silent gap seemed to stretch as she deliberated how to respond, but Mrs Healey ended it for her.

‘I know she’s dead, Sergeant. I can feel that she’s gone. I just don’t like talking about her as if she’s not here. You understand?’

Narey breathed out. ‘Yes. I think I do.’

‘What do you want to ask us?’

‘We need to build up a picture of the people in Hannah’s life. Who she was in contact with. Anyone who may have had anything against her. Who may have harmed her.’

Emma shook her head vigorously. ‘No one. Hannah didn’t have an enemy in the world. She wasn’t some goody-goody. We both . . .’ She cast a sideways glance at her mother. ‘Neither of us was angels but everyone loved Hannah. Honestly, Sergeant Narey. I can’t think of anyone who’d have wanted to hurt her.’

‘Well,’ Narey said, trying to soften her voice as much as she could, ‘someone did. And we’ll do everything possible to find out who it was. We know her boyfriend was Gary McGregor. How—’

‘It wasn’t Gary,’ Emma interrupted. ‘No way. He’d never have—’

‘It’s okay. We know Mr McGregor was in town when Hannah was attacked. We’ve seen him on CCTV and our interviews with him have confirmed that. We’re not considering him a suspect. But how long had he and Hannah been going out? Were there previous boyfriends?’

Emma’s hand went to her eyes, rubbing at them. ‘They’d been seeing each other for about eighteen months. I used to wind them up that they were love’s young dream. Besotted with each other, they were. I think they would have got married in a year or two . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

‘So there’s no way she’d have been seeing anyone else? Sorry but I have to ask.’

‘No way.’ The answer was clipped and resentful.

‘And previous boyfriends?’

Emma shrugged. ‘They seem so long ago. A boy named Keir Colvin lived in the next block of flats. But that was years ago and I think he moved to East Kilbride. There was another boy – what was his name, Mum? Lewis. Lewis . . . Jackson. I still see him around now and again and I think he and Hannah still talk to each other. Just friends like.’

Narey nodded, seeing Teven take a note of both names.

‘And has she ever mentioned anyone showing a particular interest in her? Chatting her up or pestering her, maybe?’

Emma shrugged again. Then a look crossed her face.

‘There’s Mr Grey. But, well, it’s probably nothing and I’d just be getting someone into trouble.’

‘Let me judge whether it’s nothing or not. Who’s Mr Grey?’

‘Just this guy who goes into the hairdresser’s where Hannah works. Worked. And his name’s not really Mr Grey. That’s just what Hannah called him. He was called Ronnie something or other.’

Narey leaned forward in her seat. ‘Tell me about him.’

Emma Healey wavered, cast another long look at her mother before speaking. ‘He was a perv, that’s what Hannah said. He gave her the creeps. He always went in there and asked for her even though he had to pay three times what he would in a barber’s. He spent the whole time looking at her in the mirror and she reckoned he was . . . well, playing with himself under the apron. She called him Mr Grey because of the colour of his hair and after the guy in
Fifty Shades
. A right perv, she said.’

The girl’s mother looked at her, puzzled by the sudden insight into Hannah’s life. ‘What are you saying, Emma? Who is this man?’

Emma’s face looked apologetic. ‘I maybe shouldn’t have said anything. He probably just fancied Hannah. It doesn’t make him a—’

She choked on the word but Andy Teven picked it up, speaking for the first time.

‘A killer? It might. You not think, DS Narey?’

Narey looked at the drained faces of the two women in front of her and nodded slightly. ‘Yeah. It might. Emma, tell me everything you know about him.’

Chapter 14

Monday morning

CINDERELLA KILLER:
SHOELESS GIRLS FOUND DEAD

The newspaper headline screamed at them from the billboard outside the corner shop next door to the Hyndland Café on Clarence Drive. Winter had got the subway to Partick and walked over while Narey had, unusually for her, shaken off the cobwebs by strolling there to meet him from her flat at the foot of Highburgh Road.

Their meeting had been billed, unofficially, as a catch-up. Winter wasn’t even sure what that meant but was fairly certain it meant something different to him from what it did to Rachel, just as he’d interpreted things differently when she’d said they’d have to take things slowly for a while, as she needed to concentrate on looking after her dad. He’d interpreted that as his being dumped and little had happened since to convince him otherwise.

She’d wanted to move her dad out of the care home and back into his own house or even in with her, but his condition just hadn’t allowed it. The Alzheimer’s had deteriorated such that Alan Narey simply couldn’t be left on his own. Rachel had decided that whatever spare time she had had to be dedicated to him rather than to Tony. He understood, sort of. But he didn’t like it.

They’d both cried, perhaps for the same thing, perhaps for something different. He’d gone back to his flat and she to hers, a mile and a half of loneliness between them. It occurred to him that although Rachel spent a lot of her time with her dad, she was even lonelier than he was.

This morning, she’d got to the café just before him and was standing staring at the board in all its shouting block-capitals glory. He could see her right foot tapping furiously and knew instinctively that she was angry. So much for the catch-up.

‘Jesus. Addy is going to go absolutely mental.’

‘Oh, he sure is. At least I might get that useless tosser Toshney out of my hair.’

‘You think it was him that spoke to the press? He’s not that stupid surely?’

‘Well, someone is. Thing is, even if it wasn’t Toshney, Addison is going to blame him anyway. I wouldn’t want to be in his . . . shoes.’

‘No mention of what was written on their stomachs?’

‘You can see what I can see, can’t you?’

He sighed softly. ‘You want me to get the paper or just read the free ones in the café?’

‘Go and buy any paper that has this in it. I don’t want to have to wrestle it out of someone’s hands. And I would.’

‘Oh, I know you would. Get me a bacon roll and an orange juice, will you?’

It was only the
Sun
that had the story. Plastered over three pages including the front. They’d managed to get hold of photographs of both Kirsty McAndrew and Hannah Healey, the girls smiling incongruously out of the page. The head line conveniently ignored that Hannah had one shoe on. Or else it disregarded the fact that Kirsty had one fewer than Cinderella.

A quick scan showed no mention of the lipstick scrawl, so that was at least something. There was a lot of play about the two cemeteries with words such as
ghoulish
,
macabre
and
grisly
featuring throughout the piece. It was manna from heaven for the tabloids but Winter doubted that Addison or Shirley would see it that way. Or Rachel, come to that.