In Place of Death (24 page)

‘It's not that bad. And it pays well.'

‘You never think of doing press photography, newspapers and stuff?'

‘Not my kind of thing. I don't need the hassle. Weddings, people are usually in a good mood. How's the sales business?'

Haddow shrugged. ‘People always want new kitchens but they can't always afford them. My job is to persuade the wife to persuade the husband that they can afford it. I always go after
the woman.'

‘Bit sexist, no?'

‘It's the way of the world. I don't sell, I don't earn. You do what you have to do.'

‘I guess so.'

The group emerged together onto the underground platform at the Botanics, the gardens themselves above their heads. For all that this was kid's stuff compared to most of
the explores in Glasgow, Remy couldn't deny that it was still an eerie sight.

Sure, the place was defaced, overgrown, decrepit and a bit dangerous but it also took you back a hundred and twenty years to when this place bustled with people making their way from the West
End to the city centre.

Now it was a ghost station. Bare and windswept, century-old brick covered in graffiti and a rustic lane where the track used to be. The lightwell above them ran almost the length of the
platforms, letting moonlight slip through the gaps left by the great girders.

A lot of the scrawling on the walls was just mindless stuff but there was some pretty good art as well. One section of brown brick was daubed with the white-painted inscription
Meat For The
Beast
and beside it was a drawing of some poor screaming soul being devoured by a ghoul. The dripping maw of another fearsome creature was further along, only the feet of a victim sticking out
of the mouth. On another dark section was written
When The Wolves Come Out Of The Walls.
Simple but effective if you want to scare the shit out of people.

Of course it made him think of the Molendinar and the man left in there. How could it not? It also made him think of the beast that cut the man's throat. Demons and victims.

They milled around both platforms and the line in ones and twos. Gopher, Ally and Lorna were taking photographs, lining up arty shots using the lights by the look of it. Metinides was working
his camera too, taking shots of graffiti and down the platforms into the tunnel but also photographing the group. No one else seemed to notice and it looked like that was the way that Metinides
wanted it.

The longer Remy watched, the more he was sure of it. The guy was snapping a piece of graffiti or the line but he was always doing it as one or more of the group crossed his path. What the hell
was he up to?

Narey's incident room had changed out of all recognition. Three new faces on the wall and a host of new faces, not all exactly friendly, in front of her. In not much more
than twenty-four hours, she had gone from having one murder case and the probability of losing another to holding the hottest ticket in town. The danger of that was getting her fingers burned.

She turned her back for a moment on the assorted detectives of MIT, and looked at the five faces on the wall. Euan Hepburn, looking straight at the camera in a press accreditation shot. Jennifer
Cairns, smiling in a publicity picture taken for her website. Derek Wharton, young and stern in his driver's licence photo. Then two police mug shots. Christopher Hart with a scar on his
cheek and a smirk on his face. Davie McGlashan appearing soft and bashful with a thick grey beard.

As she looked at all five of them together, she began to lose the courage of her convictions. Could they really all be linked and was the connection really urbexing? Some of the bastards sitting
and waiting behind her would doubtless be ready to laugh it out of court. Shit, part of her was wishing she'd never made this happen. Too late now though.

Addison was going to kick it off. It was officially under his command but they knew she was running the investigation. It was her half-baked theory and it would certainly all be hers if it went
wrong.

‘Okay, listen up. DI Narey is going to bring everyone up to speed on where we are with Euan Hepburn and Jennifer Cairns. The enquiry has widened and we are looking at three other possible,
I stress
possible,
deaths in connection with this investigation. You'll all be going away from here with leads to follow so pay attention.'

She rose, feeling unusually nervous, and began going through the five victims one by one. Some of it was old ground for a few of them but that didn't matter. It would be much more of a
mistake to leave something out than to repeat it. She began with Hepburn and worked her way through them.

She saw a few faces wrinkle in scepticism and made a mental note not to forget who they were. DS Aaron Petrie, sore at her getting promoted rather than him. DI Bill Storey who probably thought
the case should have been given over to him. DS Lewis McTeer who had just never liked her and had probably never liked any woman. Fuck them.

Not everyone had been so antagonistic though. She'd already made phone calls on the other three deaths and the lead officers had been keen to help. Actually doing so proved more difficult
though.

DS Dugald Lindsay had talked to her about the body found on the ruined floor of the seminary but couldn't provide much in the way of answers.

‘I just don't know. I always felt there could be more to it but I couldn't find anything to prove it one way or the other. Maybe I was always bugged by the fact that if someone
did want to stage an accident then a place like the seminary, which was remote even before it fell into ruin, would be perfect. It just seemed too neat, you know? No chance of witnesses or
CCTV.

‘Wharton did have gambling debts and I looked into it but didn't get anywhere. It wasn't a lot of money, just a few grand. And plenty of people owe that without getting killed
for it.

‘His family said he did visit abandoned places as a hobby but they didn't really understand it. I wish I could tell you more but I can't.'

DI Martin Telfer at Organized Crime had filled her in on what they had on Christopher Hart's death but had to confess it was nothing concrete.

‘Crispy Hart worked for the Mullen brothers, did a bit of everything, basically whatever they told him to do. Thief, bagman, hard man, dealer. Whatever. It's possible he stepped out
of line and Mullen punished him but we don't think so.'

She thought it best not to mention that she'd just heard the same thing from the horse's mouth.

‘Mullen was having troubles with Jack Hulston around that time. The usual territory crap, turf wars. Maybe Hart was done as part of that but we've no intel to back it up. A guy like
that would have had a hundred enemies and a handful of mourners. Often with these gangland killings, we know who did it and we just can't stick it on them. Usually someone's shooting
his mouth off and that gets back to us but there was none of that this time. Not a word. I can't see how it fits with these other cases of yours though.'

Maybe it doesn't. Maybe it does.

The death of Davie McGlashan hadn't even merited a detective on the case. She spoke to Constable Elaine Paton, one of the two who'd been called when the man's body had been
found. She was surprised to get the call from MIT, thinking the matter was closed.

‘We did a sweep of the saw works, ma'am. There were bundles of clothing and little things like a toothbrush and empty food tins that certainly made it look like he'd been there
for some time. Certainly more than one night. No sign there had been more than one person there though. Just Mr McGlashan as far as we could see. Forensics came in, took photographs, did their
stuff then moved the body out. It was all pretty routine.'

‘Nothing strange about it at all that you can remember?'

‘No, ma'am. Like I say, it was . . . Well maybe there was one thing. Maybe nothing.'

‘What was it?'

‘Well it seemed likely that the man had died in his sleep. The way he was positioned, still under his blanket. But there were two bottles of Buckfast near the body. Neither of them had
been opened and that struck me as a bit odd. I don't know many drinkers that wouldn't have had at least some before they'd gone to sleep. Most would have had at least one of the
bottles.'

‘Were there empties? Maybe he'd drunk something else.'

‘No, ma'am. None. He hadn't had a drink.'

That little nugget didn't seem to impress many of the detectives in the incident room. One or two took notes but most seemed to shrug it off. Seeing it, she gave them the lecture about
every little thing being important even though she knew it would just turn a few further against her.

As she spoke, she saw Detective Chief Superintendent Tom Crosby, the lead on Major Crime, slip into the back of the room. Great. Just what she needed. Crosby, known obviously enough as Bing,
stood with his arms folded across his chest and listened intently. A couple of heads turned to see him standing there but she pulled them back.

‘There is a community out there in Glasgow, right now, continuing to explore old buildings, enter abandoned premises and disused tunnels. They are doing this out of sight and by the nature
of it, out of our protection. We have no reason to think that whoever is responsible for these deaths will kill again but equally, we have no reason to think they have stopped.

‘We're on the clock here. We need to work all sides of this and get a result as quickly as possible. Becca Maxwell has information sheets for everyone on urbexing, who does what and
where. Read them.'

She saw a couple of them, Petrie and McTeer, whispering to each other and both had grins on their faces. Arseholes, the pair of them. She'd sort them but doing it in front of Bing Crosby
wasn't the way.

Minutes later, the briefing was over and the detectives were dispersing with varying degrees of enthusiasm. She allowed herself to catch McTeer's eye, just enough to let him know she was
on to him.

She turned back to see Crosby deep in conversation with Addison. He was shaking his head a lot and occasionally gesticulating with his right arm. For his part, Addison was bending his head
forward and speaking quietly so no one else could hear. It looked for all the world like a pissed-off Detective Chief Superintendent and a defensive DCI. She didn't like it.

Crosby left with a final shake of his head and, once he was out of the room, Addison approached her.

‘Let me guess, he wants to offer me a promotion.'

‘Not quite. It was all I could do to stop him reprimanding you. He's gone to cool off and you'd better hope he does.'

She wasn't sure she wanted to know but had to ask. ‘What's he so mad about?'

Addison loomed over her. ‘Not just him. I
told you
not to go near Bobby Mullen. What the hell did you think you were doing, Rachel?'

‘Ah. That.'

‘Yes,
that.
He got a call from Ken Bryson to say you'd been seen going into Mullen's pub. It's a toss-up whether Bryson or Crosby will have you sacked first. You
were talking about a ticking clock on this case, Rachel. Well it's ticking for you too. You'd
better
get a result.'

They'd gone straight to Oran Mor for a drink after the walk to the Botanics. It had been Remy's idea. The place used to be a church before it was turned into a pub
so what better for them than an old building that had survived more or less intact after it hadn't been wanted any more. Okay, so it had been tarted up inside but it wasn't quite
gentrified. They'd also be able to get in a corner and talk without too much chance of being overheard.

It was all dark wood and panelling inside, pillars and pews and low ceilings. It was shadowy, intimate even. Like another tunnel but this time with alcohol. Remy would be going easy though; no
boozing for him but he'd make sure everyone else had plenty. He got the first round in, encouraged a ‘proper' drink for those that said no and got himself a lager shandy that
looked like a real pint.

When he came back with the tray of drinks, he saw Gabby and Miller were sitting next to each other, heads tight together in conversation. He didn't like that much but maybe later he could
get something out of her of what the arse was saying. He needed to get whatever he could from all these people because he wasn't sure he'd be seeing them again.

He handed out the glasses and parked himself next to Lorna the NightLight who had ordered a glass of white wine. She'd actually asked for a small glass but he'd got her a large. She
was so skinny that he couldn't imagine she'd be able to hold much alcohol at all. That made him feel bad, but he needed people to talk.

‘That was fun,' she said. ‘Thanks for organizing it. I'd only ever been there with an ex-boyfriend before. It was good to do it as a group. It felt like we were occupying
the place.'

‘You usually go on your own then?'

‘Oh no. I go with a couple of friends. My pal Lizzie and her boyfriend Gus. They don't post on OtherWorld though. We all do the urbexing but I do the photographs and stick them
online. Probably why you wouldn't know to invite them along.'

‘Yes, probably.' He sighed inside, wondering how many other part-time explorers were out there who didn't use the forum. Clearly neither of Lorna's friends could be
Tunnel Man though.

‘So you only know the two of them?'

‘Just those two. People have posted after seeing my photos but I don't know them. Still, now I know five other people that do it.'

‘Six.' The voice came from above them, someone standing. They all glanced up.

‘I take it you're the muppets that walked the Botanics line this evening?'

They were looking at a lean, flint-cheeked guy in his early thirties with sleek black hair. He tried to switch to a smile when he saw everyone staring but didn't quite pull it off.