Riven Read online

  Ross groaned. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Wheeler, ‘he’s feeling tired and emotional. We’ll be at the PM tomorrow. What time?’

  ‘I’ll let you know – we’re backed up just now, but I’ll try to give him priority. Although,’ he paused, ‘I think it’s obvious . . .’

  She cut him off, ‘I know, I know, it’s obvious what happened.’

  ‘Indeed it is. A man was battered to death. All you need to do is find out the “who” and the “why”.’

  She chewed her bottom lip as she followed him into the hall. Her phone bleeped again. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen – her sister again. She flicked it off as she passed three young SOCOs. Overheard one whisper to Ross, ‘Haddy, get it? Short for haddock.’

  Behind her Ross tutted, ‘Aye, I get it. Fish tea. He’s been battered.’

  At least their laughter was subdued.

  Outside, Callum pointed at the house. ‘You see the extra-wide doorway?’

  She saw it.

  ‘This place was the old slaughterhouse and that’s where they herded the cattle in for slaughter. Of course it’s been renovated since then and that stained glass put in. It’s totally out of character with the building. Not that there’s much left of anything really – it’s all a bit of a wreck. But the hook the body was found hanging on is an original feature and would have been used to tether the animals before they were killed.’ He smiled at her. ‘Are you absolutely sure about that lift, Katherine?’

  ‘Sure.’ She watched Callum lumber towards his car, felt herself breathe in the cold damp air and was grateful to be out of the house, away from the atmosphere of evil. She inhaled again, deeper this time, bringing the freezing air low into her lungs, enjoying the shock it gave her system. She watched the crime-scene photographer come out of the house and continue taking pictures before she half turned back to the house and opened her mouth to yell, but he was already striding towards her, long legs covering the ground easily. ‘No need to shout,’ Ross said, ‘I’m here already. We’re going to interview the two boys. Right?’

  She smiled at him. ‘Bingo.’

  Chapter 3

  Ross turned the car into the station car park and braked sharply. ‘Christ, I nearly killed the wee shite’.

  The wee shite in question, Graham Reaper, was chief reporter with the Glasgow Evening Chronicle and he flashed a crooked smile before signalling to his photographer to get a picture of the cops. He already had the headline in mind: Gruesome Find in Glasgow’s East End! Murder Inquiry Begins.

  ‘You ever wonder how Grim gets here so fast?’ Ross parked the car, pausing to smooth down his hair before releasing his seat belt.

  ‘Aye, he’s being tipped off and if Stewart ever finds out who the hell’s doing it, they’ll be fucked.’ She glanced at him. ‘You always so worried about your appearance?’

  ‘Well, if I’m going to be in the paper . . . there’s no harm in looking my best. You never know who’ll see it.’

  ‘You single again?’

  ‘I know it’s hard to believe.’

  ‘What happened to the last girlfriend – what was her name?’

  ‘Sarah.’

  ‘Aye, her. What happened?’

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘The usual in that she woke up one day and realised that you’re a numpty?’

  Ross tried for a hurt look. ‘The usual in that she started blethering on about rings, future plans, kids. She even mentioned coming off the pill. That sort of shite.’ He mimed putting two fingers down his throat and gagging.

  ‘You not want a wee “mini-you”? Thought that would be right up your street.’

  ‘No way. I’m too young. In my prime.’ He threw open the door, blinked back the flash from the camera. He fixed a ‘no comment’ smile to his face and made for the door.

  She had already reached it when the reporter caught up with her. ‘So, a murder inquiry, Inspector Wheeler – any comment?’

  ‘You know better than to ask for anything at this point, Grim; there’ll be an official statement later and if you’re really lucky Stewart will throw you a press conference by mid-week.’

  ‘Aye but is it gang-related? It must be, surely? Drugs? A turf war? What’s your take on it?’

  ‘See the above answer.’

  ‘Got anything to do with Maurice Mason being released?’ he persisted. ‘Christ sake hen, gimme something.’

  She smiled.

  ‘Come on, eh? Man needs to make a living here. Give me a break, I’m only doing my job.’

  ‘Well, okay Grim,’ she stopped and turned towards him, ‘but you first. You tell me who called you about this, who’s giving you the heads up on these cases?’

  Grim gave her a sly smile. ‘You know I cannae reveal my sources hen. It wouldn’t be professional.’

  ‘That right?’ she asked, holding open the station door to let Ross go inside.

  ‘Aye,’ Grim made to follow her, ‘but maybe we could have a wee chat, off the record like?’

  Wheeler walked into the station and slammed the door, heard Grim curse her. Shrugged, ‘Let the ugly wee runt get soaked.’

  ‘Still but,’ Ross stood beside her, shaking his head like a dog who’d just returned from a walk in the rain.

  She stood beside him, the rain drops from her boots leaking onto the cracked linoleum. ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘Mason,’ said Ross.

  Tommy Cunningham sat behind the desk. ‘That bastard got out early.’

  ‘Aye, he did, TC,’ she agreed. ‘I wonder what he’ll be up to now he no longer has his own rent-a-thug empire.’

  Cunningham scowled. ‘He’ll be up to his old tricks again.’

  She walked to the desk and was signing the pool car back in before she continued, ‘Mason gets released from Barlinnie and James Gilmore gets battered to death in what was his territory. We already know Mason expresses himself best with his knuckles.’

  ‘Who’s Mason got history with?’ Ross continued. ‘The Tenant clan? McGregor’s lot? Or a freelancer, maybe Andy Doyle or Roddy Jamieson?’

  ‘Mason’s always been a freelancer, can’t seem to get on with folk. Saying that, he’s probably got history with half the freelance thugs in the city, Jamieson and Doyle included.’

  ‘Doyle’s the most ambitious,’ said Ross. ‘His star’s on the ascendant.’

  ‘True. But he stays on his own turf. Well, so far.’

  ‘The others?’

  ‘The Tenants and McGregors are way more insular. Unless Mason’s become part of their setup and I doubt that; it’s family members only. He’d have to marry in, it’s that tight-knit in both families.’

  ‘Okay but I still can’t help thinking it’s a hell of a coincidence. Mason gets out and someone gets murdered.’

  ‘Trouble is, this part of the city has a bit of an overlap. Tenants to the north, Jamieson’s crew to the south – around here’s a bit of a no-man’s-land.’

  ‘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.’

&n
bsp; ‘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.

  Chapter 4

  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.’