Riven Page 7

  Wheeler nodded. ‘Absolutely. She said he was very good with the kids.’

  ‘Then keep an open mind.’ Stewart glanced around the team. ‘Last known movements?’

  More silence.

  Wheeler spoke again. ‘Hard to tell – he wasn’t due at Watervale until today. He had two other schools on his rota,’ she checked her notes, ‘St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High. I’ll call them today. Send someone over to interview the staff.’

  He looked at her, the tension easing from his face. ‘Good and check receipts, find out where he did his shopping, get CCTV from the stores. Where did he buy his petrol? They must have CCTV in the forecourts. Which garage did he use to get his car MOT’d? Check all of the usual background information.’ He paused. ‘Education personnel have emailed Gilmore’s file and it chimes in with what Ms Paton said about the other schools. James Gilmore’s mother is in a home in Milngavie. She’s recovering from a minor operation but I’ve sent two uniformed officers and an FLO to break the news to her.’

  ‘The death knock,’ muttered Ross.

  ‘And DI Wheeler will go see her today,’ said Stewart. ‘Now, did you get anything else from the head teacher?’

  Wheeler glanced at her notes. ‘Nothing much, boss. She said James Gilmore was one of the good guys, tried to help the kids at school. He worked with one child in particular, George Grey. Gilmore had no real conflict with any of the kids, no run-ins, he was generally seen to be on their side,’ she paused, ‘and Ms Paton was particularly adamant that neither Alec Munroe nor Rab Wilson could’ve been involved in his death.’

  ‘She said she’d bet her whole career on it,’ added Ross.

  ‘Well that’s understandable, given that she was their head teacher, but let’s not just take her word for it – let’s try to keep an open mind, shall we?’ Stewart steepled his fingers. ‘They’re neither in nor out of the frame. At this point good police work is about gathering information and evidence – it’s too early to eliminate anyone unless we know conclusively that they had no involvement in the murder.’

  Wheeler drummed her fingers on the side of her chair. ‘The kids definitely couldn’t be involved. No blood spatters, boss, no scratches, nothing.’ She’d spoken her thoughts out loud.

  ‘Remember, Wheeler, theirs are the only footprints we have at the scene,’ said Stewart.

  ‘The killer was careful, boss, wiped the place down before he left. He’s a pro. These kids are less than amateurs,’ said Wheeler.

  ‘But they could’ve known whoever did it,’ suggested a female uniformed officer sitting at the back of the room. ‘It could’ve been one of their pals – a school like that, who knows?’

  ‘Or a brother, father, uncle,’ agreed Boyd. ‘Gilmore could have upset someone associated with the school.’

  ‘It would have to have been a very bad upset to result in a murder,’ Ross said.

  Stewart tapped his fingers on his notes. ‘So for the moment it’s too early to dismiss the idea that the murder isn’t linked in some way to the school. What do we know about the place?’ He looked around the room, ‘Anyone have any direct dealings with Watervale Academy in the past?’

  Only one person nodded.

  ‘Well, spit it out Robertson.’

  All eyes were on him and Robertson flushed. ‘It was personal business, sir.’

  ‘Not now it isn’t. Go on. Shoot.’

  ‘Outreach, sir.’

  ‘Sorry, come again?’

  ‘My hall—’

  ‘Your hall?’ Stewart interrupted.

  ‘The Gospel Hall I belong to, sir, we do outreach. We go into schools, give a wee talk about God and try to get to know the kids. We spend a bit of time telling them how to accept God, try to get them to listen to . . . the right side of things.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘Well, we also encourage them to come to Sunday School and Bible-study class. To turn to the Lord and be saved.’

  ‘Bible-bashers,’ said Ross under his breath, ‘happy-clappies.’

  Stewart looked at Ross. ‘Unhelpful.’

  ‘So did anyone from Watervale come to the classes?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘A few,’ Robertson replied, ‘but not recently. This was over a year ago. A couple of kids came for a few Sundays, then they tailed off. By that time we were recruiting in . . . I mean we were visiting . . . other schools.’

  ‘And Gilmore?’

  ‘I only met him once or twice, in passing. We didn’t have a real conversation.’

  ‘He didn’t want to be saved then?’

  Sniggers around the room.

  Robertson ignored them. ‘He’d no interest in our work, sir, none at all.’

  Stewart grunted before turning to the rest of the team. ‘Moving on, I want you all out there. I want someone to go pay a visit to the local youth club.’ He checked his notes. ‘It’s being run by an ex-con name of Malcolm Miller, known as Manky. Apparently there was a party the night of the murder. DI Wheeler, you get back to the school, get a feel for the place, find out what sort of a guy Gilmore was and check out the kids, see if any of them had a grudge against him. See if there were any incidents reported.’ He held up his hand, palm facing the team. ‘And no, I’m not convinced Alec Munroe or Rab Wilson had anything to do with this, but as mentioned they all have big brothers, dads, uncles. Remember the scheme the school’s in – a fair few of the residents are candidates for Barlinnie and Manky Miller was inside himself.’ Stewart looked at the team. ‘Okay?’

  Nods and agreement.

  ‘And while we are on the subject of Barlinnie residents, Maurice Mason’s been released and according to our snitches he’s gone AWOL. Mason gets out of Barlinnie and someone is found murdered; let’s just be aware of the coincidence.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Okay, let’s get to it. I want to know everything about James Gilmore by close of play today, at the latest. DI Wheeler will dish out your chores. And I want the case done and dusted by Christmas, not hanging over me when I’m lying on a beach sunning myself. Okay?’

  More nods and grunts of agreement all round. Stewart shuffled his large sheaf of papers into a semblance of order and marched out.

  Wheeler walked to the front of the room and pointed at Boyd. ‘Go through Gilmore’s address book; call everyone in it. Follow up every lead, no matter how small.’

  He grabbed his jacket. ‘Aye, of course, but first off, a coffee and a minute to eat my breakfast roll, though. I’m starving.’

  ‘God almighty, if you must, but be quick,’ said Wheeler.

  ‘I’ve been up all night,’ he smirked.

  She remembered what Ross had told her about Boyd’s new girlfriend. ‘Too much information, Boyd – I don’t need to know.’ She turned to Robertson. ‘You take the sets of keys, find out what they open and where. He must have secrets somewhere; there was sod all in his house.’

  ‘He must have a secret life,’ Ross chimed in.

  ‘Maybe there’s no secret life,’ said Robertson sourly. ‘Believe it or not, not everyone has one.’

  ‘In which case, you’re fucked,’ Ross answered, ‘so you’d better start praying the keys are to a Pandora’s box of goodies leading us to the killer.’

  Robertson flushed.

  ‘Ignore him, Robertson, he’s on his period.’ Wheeler glanced at the list of objects found in Gilmore’s house. ‘There are a couple that don’t look like house keys. Sort through them, find out what they open. And search through his diary, see where he’s been, who he’s spent time with, go through his mobile, ring all the numbers stored on it. Find out who he called last. Double up with Boyd and split the lists.’

  ‘Already onto it.’ Robertson held up a list of names and numbers. ‘So far all the calls have been to schools and his mother’s home.’

  ‘Okay, good. Keep at it. And both of you take a trip out to the youth club. Speak to Miller, try to get some idea of who was at the party on Sunday night and find out if Alec Munroe and Rab Wilson were there all night.�
� She spent the next few minutes issuing orders, trying to galvanise the day shift while hoping to keep the sleep-deprived night shift inspired. Then the briefing was over.

  As she gathered her notes, two uniformed constables walked past her and one muttered, ‘I think the two lads are definitely in on it.’

  ‘Nah,’ the other said, ‘breaking and entering. That’s about the height of them. Criminal fucking masterminds they’re not. Poor weans were white with shock. I heard that wee Munroe laddie started crying. Wanted his mammy. Christ, no way he could’ve battered anyone to death.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. Delayed shock maybe? Good actor?’

  ‘Nah. You’re talking shite. They’re innocent.’

  ‘Want to bet on it?’

  ‘Fair enough, how much?’

  Wheeler watched them leave the room and thought that their conversation accurately summed up the team. Divided.

  Ross turned to her. ‘Watervale it is then? But can we stop off for coffee on the way? I’m starving.’

  ‘Can’t think why – you had loads to eat last night.’

  ‘That was a whole other day away. Besides,’ he said, patting his stomach, ‘I need to keep myself refuelled.’

  ‘We don’t have time and anyway, you’re not a bloody racehorse, Ross.’

  She was out of the door and down the corridor before he’d finished saying, ‘See myself more as a stallion, Wheeler.’

  Chapter 10

  Tuesday, 9 a.m.

  ‘. . . And why was that?’ The woman stared at him.

  No answer.

  The wall clock tick-tocked softly in the background. Outside the window the steady thrum of traffic from Clarkston Road passed underneath the second-floor office. Rush hour, mothers dropping children off at nursery, school, playgroup, childminder. Folk going to work. Day shift driving in to start the day, night shift driving home. HGVs in for the long commute across Europe. A world busy with itself, the everyday noise only mildly dampened by the constant beat of rain against the window pane.

  Dr Sylvia Moore sat in a leather and chrome Le Corbusier chair, her long legs crossed, her red hair shorn tight to her head. She wore a fitted black trouser suit, a heavy gold watch and flat patent leather brogues. Her face was free from make-up.

  She repeated the question, ‘Why was that?’ adding, ‘Do you think?’

  This time an answer. ‘Why was what?’

  ‘Why did you feel you couldn’t reach out to her?’

  Doyle shrugged, ‘Who knows?’

  Her voice hard, ‘You do, Andy. You know why you couldn’t reach out to her.’

  His fist on the side of the Le Corbusier, skin on chrome, harsh, beating. ‘She’s a fucking woman, I don’t know! I don’t understand you lot.’

  ‘Us lot?’

  ‘Fucking women. I mean, I buy her stuff, anything she wants. I paid to go to a charity do, paid to get sat at the same table as some fucking art-house producer who needs “investment” for his next project, some play about fuck-knows-what. All for Stella.’

  ‘But that’s not enough, is it? She wants more . . . what is it she wants?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’ He paused. ‘She wants to be a star but she’s got fuck-all talent.’

  ‘If Stella was here what would she say? Apart from you buying her stardom, or at least a part in a play, what else does she want from you?’

  Shrug.

  The gentle tick-tock of the clock; outside a police siren screamed past, its wail fading in seconds.

  ‘Is she in love with you?’

  A shrug. ‘Mibbe. But I don’t understand her.’

  ‘Do you want to understand Stella?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Would it be different if you were in love with her?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘But you’re not?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you’re just stringing her along?’

  ‘Love isn’t what I need.’

  ‘Most people need to be loved, to feel wanted, appreciated, connected.’

  ‘Good for them, but I’m not most people.’

  ‘No.’ Moore watched him, saw the anger leave him. ‘So, what is it you need, Andy?’

  She waited while the pause stretched over several seconds.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Time’s up. I’m out of here.’

  ‘We’re not finished.’

  ‘I am.’ He stood.

  ‘Then you’re bailing out.’

  ‘Christ.’ He sat down again.

  ‘You need to look at your actions, take responsibility for yourself and your interactions with others. You’re not a child, you’re a grown-up. Stop acting like a spoilt child.’

  His eyes glittered, one darker than the other, his voice a whisper, ‘I do fucking take responsibility for everything I do. And I am always a fucking adult. And I am not a spoiled child.’

  ‘We need to work with this.’

  ‘You need to work with this.’

  ‘What is it you need from others?’

  ‘One word. Loyalty.’ He stood, had reached the door in a second.

  ‘Same time, same place,’ she called after him.

  Heard the sound of the door slamming.

  Moore stood, crossed to the window and opened it wide, letting the cold, damp weather seep into the room. She breathed in deeply, held the icy air in her lungs for as long as she could before exhaling. The city was bathed in a grey glow made colourful by the umbrellas bobbing beneath her window. Moore crossed the room and lifted Andy Doyle’s untouched water glass, took it into the next room and began to rinse it under the tap. Watched as the water ran clean and cold.

  Chapter 11

  Watervale.

  Ross drove. The scheme was similar to dozens of schemes across the city. Rows of council semis lined the streets; a few empty houses had their windows boarded up, metal grilles securing the doorways. A low one-storey building had a hand-painted sign on plywood: ‘Watervale Youth Club.’ A skinny cat shot across the road into a garden littered with broken glass. Dog shit dotted the pavement. A group of boys huddled together in the cold, their staffie-cross straining at its leash. As Wheeler and Ross drove past, the boys turned and stared hard at them. Wheeler smiled. They gave her the finger.

  ‘Fucking clichés,’ Ross grinned, turning into the school car park. ‘They look like they’re auditioning to be in a Peter Howson painting.’

  ‘Bless,’ said Wheeler, ‘making their wee mammies proud.’

  Watervale Academy was a two-storey building thrown up in the seventies and then forgotten. It was covered in graffiti and the windows had a protective covering of wire mesh, through which crisp and sweet wrappers had become entangled together with assorted plastic bags. The door was locked. Wheeler pressed the buzzer beside the intercom and heard a voice ask who they were. She spoke into it, heard the door click open and they were through to the reception area where a small woman with a round, kind face held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Margaret Field, the deputy head teacher.’

  They showed her their ID.

  ‘It’s dreadful news about James Gilmore. Just awful. Nancy Paton called me – what a nightmare.’ She pushed a book across the desk. ‘I’m afraid you’ll need to sign in, just name and time. Rules.’

  They signed.

  ‘I’ve set up an interview room for you; I hope it’ll be okay.’

  ‘Great, thanks,’ said Ross.

  ‘Every class has a classroom assistant,’ she continued, ‘so I’ve arranged for each teacher to come and speak with you, then go back and then the assistant will come. That way you get to see everyone, but the class remains covered at all times. Does this suit?’

  ‘Perfect,’ Ross said.

  ‘Did you know Mr Gilmore?’ Wheeler asked and she could feel the woman draw away from her.

  ‘No, not really. A hello now and again. Tuesday was his usual day. I take assembly on Tuesdays, so I was never in the staff room much. He seemed to just pass in and out.’ Sh
e gave a nervous laugh. ‘What is it about the police that always makes me feel a bit guilty?’

  ‘Everyone feels a bit like that.’ Ross gave her a wide smile.

  They walked through the main corridor; there was pupil artwork on the walls and a glass case with two large silver trophies. Wheeler glanced at them – they were two years out of date. She saw various framed photographs of winning teams at other presentations. Again out of date. A few Certificates of Merit were more recent.

  ‘I hope you don’t think the death is connected to the school?’ The deputy’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘The kids here can be a handful but none of them would do that. I’m sure of it. Neither Alec Munroe nor Rab Wilson had anything to do with this awful mess.’

  ‘Ms Paton’s already told us as much.’

  ‘I’m sure she did and she was right to.’

  ‘Do you know the boys well?’

  ‘Alec needs to be getting an apprenticeship for painting and decorating; it’s his best chance of work. Rab could do a few things, loves drama, always nattering on about NCIS or the other shows. He was a good boxer too. They are good kids who are struggling with different challenges. This place was their refuge against a hostile world. It becomes home to many of them, when their own home is a place of neglect or hostility. We do our best to make the building as welcoming as possible. Except the exterior – the council are refusing to come out and paint over it again. Seems we’ve been vandalised once too often, taxpayers’ money, accountability, that kind of rubbish response.’ The deputy head wasn’t happy. ‘How can the kids feel safe and protected when the council won’t even paint the place?’

  ‘About Mr Gilmore,’ Wheeler reminded her.

  ‘Yes, sorry, I didn’t really know him well – he was peripatetic.’

  ‘But you must have had meetings, surely, about the children?’

  ‘Of course, but they are usually multi-departmental and I’m often called away. He was a quiet, professional man who seemed content enough in his job. Not someone who made waves. He wasn’t loud or challenging. He seemed decent enough . . .’ she trailed off.

  Three hours later and they’d heard the same thing a dozen times, different variations on Gilmore’s lack of presence.