In Place of Death (31 page)

He became aware, through the soup that clogged his brain, that someone was standing over him. Remy? Surely not. He saw the toe of a black boot just inches from his eyes and, beside it, something
metallic scraped the ground. He'd got as far as working out that the metal object had been responsible for putting him on the ground when the thing disappeared from sight. Something inside
told him to move and he curled and rolled, throwing an arm up for protection.

A split second later that arm caught a glancing blow that still managed to send pain shooting through him. It had probably saved him though and he rolled again, away from the black boots and the
metal pole. There was a clang against the concrete that rang in his ears, missing him by inches. He could hear heavy breathing above him and a muttered ‘Fuck' as his assailant regretted
his failure.

Winter rolled as fast as he could, desperately trying to save himself. It wasn't quite fast enough as another dull blow caught him on the side, pain flooding his bones and electrifying his
senses. He rolled again and heard another miss. To his right he saw the top of the stairwell just a few feet away and made for it - no time to calculate whether it was a good idea or not. He spun
across the floor until it fell away beneath him and the spiral of concrete steps took over. He dropped fast and awkwardly, painfully, every edge of step chastising him.

Footsteps sounded as the world tumbled, the noise coming at him as if filtered through a washing machine; it was impossible to tell if they were gaining on him or not. He worried more about
tucking his head in and not bashing his brains out.

His initial spill had more or less run its own course but he forced it on, half falling, half jumping, further down the stairs until he hit the landing below. He immediately sprawled in the
direction of some half-bricks that were strewn there and began hurling them one after the other at the foot of the stairwell. Not with any real hope of hitting anyone but more as a signal of
intent, buying himself time to recover.

It seemed to have worked as no one appeared round the corner after him. Maybe the guy was less keen on a fight when Winter could see him coming. He stood there on shaking legs with an enormous
pain in his lower back, his eyes at once on the stairs but also scouring the landing for a weapon. He saw a plank of wood and grabbed that in one hand and a fist of brick in the other.

He held firm, trying to shut out the pain, listening and waiting, ready to fight. Nothing came. No sound from above, none below. All he could hear was the background music of the motorway and
the rush of blood in his ears. He waited and waited but his attacker, whoever he was, had either gone or was standing as still as Winter.

It was time to move. Down the stairs and out. The ache in his back was excruciating, dull and debilitating, but he had to get out of there.

He took the steps two at a time, reaching ground level to see the courtyard completely swallowed up by the dark. The walls loomed above and crowded in on him like prison guards. He stopped to
listen, for screams, for movement, for sounds of metal. Still nothing.

He went to the middle of the courtyard, his feet stumbling on stone and wood. Then, abruptly, on something softer but still solid. He stopped immediately. Not daring to move. He cautiously put
down the wood and the brick and wished that he still had the torch he'd dropped when he was hit. He reached into his back pocket, thankful to see that his mobile phone was still intact, and
switched on the flashlight.

The beam of light was thin but strong and yet it trembled as he swung it round to his feet. At once he saw a hand, an arm, blood. He stepped back quickly, tripping over a brick and following it
to the ground. The phone slipped from his grasp and he scrambled to pick it up.

On his knees, he could see the body stretched out unmoving. He shone the flashlight on it again and saw it was a man lying on his back, something long and thin driven through his chest.
Winter's mouth was hanging open and he could only stare, hardly believing the horror of what he was seeing. He got to his feet and inched closer, seeing the iron spike spearing the man just
below the ribcage, seeing his eyes wide open, his head slumped to the side. He was so pale and skinny. So young.

Remy. Remy Feeks.

Something stirred in Winter's stomach and made a beeline for his throat and he had to cover his mouth and gag it down. He wanted to vomit, to cry, to scream, to run. He
was the veteran of a couple of hundred dead bodies but this was different. Somehow, this was his fault.

He stared and saw the young guy, speared most probably with the same kind of railing that someone had used to strike Winter on the back. The aborted scream he'd heard earlier:
that
had been Remy. He'd been murdered and Winter was to have been next. All he could do was stare.

Stare and think. He saw Remy but thought of Euan Hepburn's decaying corpse in the Molendinar. It was his fault that Euan had been there on his own, his fault that Remy was lying dead.
Winter was drowning in a pool of shock and guilt.

Maybe that's why he didn't hear the sirens at first. By the time he was aware of them, he knew they'd been in earshot for longer. His head came up and he took it in slowly, his
feet still glued to the spot he stood on. Police cars. Coming closer.

He ran to the lower back building. Lower but still maybe thirty feet high. The words
ACOS!
And
ALEK!
were sprayed in large white lettering near the top and he knew someone had
managed to get up there to do it. Past the wall there was a pile of scrap and above it a second wall that might just let him scramble to the top of the first. He leaped onto a long piece of wood
propped against the wall, falling back and trying again, driven on by the now deafening sirens. Succeeding this time, and from there onto a mess of loose metal that just about bore his weight. He
stretched and jumped and clawed to the top of the wall, hauling himself up.

He picked his way over the flat roof, then a corrugated ridge behind. There was only a wide grass verge and a drop into the dark separating him from the motorway, cars still streaming along it.
The only way out was straight down but in this light he had no idea how far it was. He'd no option. He turned briefly to face the biscuit factory before kneeling on top of the wall and
slipping over the side where he held on with both hands. Do it. He let go and fell, the side of his face just avoiding the brick wall as he dropped. Falling until landing on soft grass and rolling
head over heels towards the sounds of cars.

The sirens and the factory were on one side of him, the M8 on the other. It made for an easy but crazy choice. He got to his feet, finding an ache in his right leg that almost matched the one in
his back, and scanned the lanes in front of him. The traffic had thinned out a bit but was still scarily busy. He pulled up the hood on his fleece till it covered as much of his head and face as
possible then waited, swallowed hard, and ran. He was halfway, still alive, still hurting, still scared. He halted then ran again. Into the middle and climbing over the barrier. Drivers were
blasting their horns furiously but a gap came and he hurtled into the traffic once more, not daring to look until he made it across.

He was sweating hard, his back soaking, as he clambered over a wire-mesh fence to the other side. From there it was easy, down an embankment and onto a quiet tree-lined street on the farside of
the industrial estate. He knew Shields Road subway was on that side, somewhere to his left, and he headed for it as quickly as his injuries would let him.

The fleece was ditched in a bush just before the subway station and he managed to walk in as straight and unflustered as he could. On the outside at least. Inside, his guts
were churning.

On the platform it was all he could do not to look at the cameras. He knew they were up there, following his every move. Instead, he stared at his feet or at the far wall, urging the train to
arrive and get him out of there. When it did he got inside, found a corner seat and studied an advert above the window, avoiding all eye contact and trying not to picture Remy Feeks' broken
body.

The kid had been caught in the middle of something he couldn't survive. Winter was sure that Remy had done nothing more than explore the Molendinar and find Euan Hepburn's body. He
was the witness who became the victim.

Now Remy Feeks was lying in the rubble of the factory with a railing stuck through his chest. His skinny frame was punctured and his freckled face was as grey as a gravestone. Winter was shaking
with guilt and anger and fear, wanting to shout and punch and run.

He had to hide his hands so that people couldn't see them trembling. He wedged them under himself, trapping them there so they couldn't give him away. It must have been all over his
face though. And if anyone could see the other side of his eyes then they'd see the face of the boy who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Winter was on the inner circle, going anti-clockwise on the Clockwork Orange and turning back on himself to where he'd come from. If he could have turned back time as easily then he would
have. He had five stops till Cowcaddens, five stops to pull himself together and make a plan. When he got out and within range of a phone signal then he was sure there would be a missed call
waiting for him. Telling him what he already knew. Dead body at the old biscuit factory. Get there now.

Except he couldn't go like this. He had to sort himself. Get a change of clothes and a new head. He had to be able to go in there and do a professional job without stinking of sweat and
fear. Without giving himself away in two minutes flat.

Of course, it might not even be as simple as that. He had no idea what they'd seen or what they knew. Someone had obviously called them, most probably the someone who had killed Remy and
had tried to do the same to him. Had the bastard passed his name on to the cops? Had the cameras seen him arrive or leave? He knew nothing and didn't like it being that way.

Shit, where was the subway train now? Stops had passed and he hadn't noticed. He looked up and saw the carriage was pretty busy, late-evening shoppers or people heading home. Maybe the
police were already checking the stations, looking for a man in a hooded fleece. He caught his reflection in the window opposite and saw himself staring back, wide-eyed and dishevelled.

Someone had killed Remy Feeks and tried to frame
him
for it. Kill him or frame him.

This was crazy. He couldn't get his head round it and was sick to his stomach. He felt hot and cold at the same time and was sure his breathing was in overdrive. He needed to slow down his
thoughts, get them into some sort of order.

Then the train lurched to a stop, catching him by surprise and causing him to topple forward. His nerves were shot. The sign on the wall outside the carriage read
St Enoch's.
They
were in the city centre, just two stops from Cowcaddens where he'd get off for Stewart Street cop shop and his car.

A woman got on and sat down directly opposite and he knew she was looking at him. He glanced up despite himself and saw a large, older lady wrapped up in a warm coat with a scarf round her neck.
He was in just a T-shirt and in a state. No wonder she was staring.

He studied the floor and decided that, whatever else, he wasn't going to look up to see if she was still watching. Then he felt someone sit down beside him, the cushioned seat sinking.

‘Are you okay, son?'

He didn't look up. Pretended he thought she was talking to someone else. Maybe she would go away. Please, go away. Give me peace and go away.

A hand rested on his arm and squeezed it gently. ‘I hope you don't mind me sitting here, son. I'm not being nosy but you look like you need help.
Are
you
okay?'

No, he wasn't. He wasn't okay at all. Despite himself, he looked up and saw that the woman's face was a picture of maternal concern. He must have seemed even worse than he
thought. He had to pull himself together quickly.

He wondered how old she was. Early sixties maybe. Hair greying at the fringes and probably dyed elsewhere. Lines around her eyes and her mouth. His mother would be about the same age if
she'd lived. His mother. He realized how long it had been since he'd thought about her. Probably three months, that long since her birthday.

‘Have you got somewhere to go?'

Shit, did she think he was homeless?

‘Yes. Look, thanks but I'm fine. Just been a long day.'

She nodded but didn't believe a word. The train lumbered into Buchanan Street station but she didn't budge. She sat there with her warm hand on his arm. It felt good. Wrong and
utterly fucked up but good.

The train moved off again and he edged more upright in his seat. ‘My stop next. I'm fine, honestly.'

‘You take care of yourself. Do you need anything? Money?'

‘What? No. I mean . . . no thanks. I don't. Look, I need to . . .'

He got to his feet, the movement making her hand slide off his arm. Looking down at her, he felt the need to say something but words didn't come out. His mouth started a conversation that
his brain couldn't finish. The poor woman looked so worried for him. And maybe she was right.

He went to the doors and stared through the glass at the walls flashing by until they changed into the platform at Cowcaddens. He got off without looking back.

He had gone no more than a couple of paces from the subway entrance when his phone flashed at him. Two missed calls. He stood still for a few moments, gathering himself together then called one
of them back, desperately keeping his voice as steady as he could.

‘Hi. It's Tony Winter. Is that Siobhan? I missed a call.'

‘Hi, Tony. Yes, I was trying to get hold of you. You've got a job in Kinning Park. A murder. They'll be waiting for you. Can you get there sharpish or should I tell the SOCOs
to handle it?'