In Place of Death (32 page)

Maybe that would be the easiest thing. Leave it to them. But it would look odd. He'd never turn down a job like that. Never. He had to go.

‘Siobhan, I'm only two minutes from my car. Tell them I'll be there in under ten minutes. And don't let them start without me.'

‘Okay, Tony. Will do.'

‘Thanks, Siobhan.'

‘Um, Tony? Don't you want to know
where
in Kinning Park?'

Shit.

The good news was that there wasn't much traffic on the Kingston Bridge and he was able to hammer it from the station car park to the factory in just seven minutes. His
camera gear was in the boot and so was a jacket that would cover his sweaty, dirt-streaked T-shirt.

He was no more than halfway along the adjoining street when he could see that the place wasn't as it had been on his first visit. The low whitewashed walls of the building on the corner
were flashing blue. When he turned into the street itself, he was greeted by a small army of emergency vehicles and the hurried to and fro of organized chaos.

The car sealed off most of the noise and it was like gliding into a silent movie that was just waiting for him to star in it. He pulled up and parked, breathed deeply and opened the door to let
the sound of the scene burst in. No going back now.

He hustled to the boot quickly, pulled the dark green waterproof over his T-shirt and grabbed his gear. The cop at the tape gave his ID the once-over and nodded him inside. There were footsteps
clattering everywhere and urgent voices calling through the darkness. Beyond those were the edges of lights that would have led him to the actual scene if he hadn't already known just where
to go.

The inner courtyard was less than a minute away. He had no idea who'd taken the call but hoped to hell it wasn't Rachel. That would mean more questions than he had answers to.
Anyone, anyone but her.

He pushed his way into the light, dazzled by it and having to shield his eyes until they adjusted. At first all he could see were the lights themselves and the white suits that flitted through
the glare. Shapes began to form but not before a voice called to him through the shimmer.

‘Winter. Get your arse over here pronto. Come on, we've waited long enough.'

It was almost as bad as it being Rachel. It was DCI Denny Kelbie, one of the most carnaptious little shits ever to join the police force. Five foot five inches of perpetual malice and grudge. At
his side was his regular DS, Jim Ferry, a lazy sod who had adopted his boss's antipathy to the world.

One thing though. Kelbie had called him by name and acted just the arsey way he normally would. If the call to the cops had mentioned Winter then Kelbie would have had him by the throat.

‘Hurry up. Get this done and get out of my way.' Kelbie was always itching for a fight but this night, more than any other, Winter couldn't give him the satisfaction of one. He
needed to protect himself.

‘Yes, sir. Just let the dog see the rabbit.' He had to control himself, not let any of it show. Kelbie would be all over it if he even suspected Winter had something to hide. He
didn't look the DCI in the eye, didn't dare, just brushed past him and took up position over the body. Kelbie was snapping away at him like a Jack Russell but Winter shut the words out,
tried his best to shut
everything
out, and do what he always did.

Remy Feeks was colder now, paler too. The last traces of life had drained away in the time it had taken Winter to flee and return. He was
more
dead. The kid hadn't stood a chance.
He'd been caught up in something that he wasn't equipped to deal with and it had killed him.

Winter managed to get his camera to his eye and forced his finger through the shutter release. He photographed Remy laid out in full, the iron railing through his chest, his head resting on a
broken brick in an ugly concrete graveyard. The building had died years ago and now it had another ghost to walk with its own.

He looked so young, even younger than he had done in the Botanics or Oran Mor. His freckles stood out against the alabaster of his bloodless skin, making him look like a teenager. He had no
right to be lying there dead. None whatsoever.

Winter focused on the cold edge of the railing where it entered the kid, seeing it pierce his shirt and rip his skin. Remy had been dead before the spike was hammered into him: that much was
obvious from the lack of blood on his chest. The railing had been an afterthought, a statement.

The death blow had been to the head: a fierce wound on the right temple was testament to that. It had rattled his brains, a fatal blunt-force trauma. Most probably using the same railing that
was stuck through him. There was another wound that had smashed his left cheek, leaving the bone shattered like eggshell. A swing to the killer's right then the same to the left. One
stunning, one killing.

The boy's mouth hung open, mid-shout, mid-scream, mid-plea. Maybe he was just asking why. Why him. Why this. He was so skinny, all angles and ridges. It couldn't have been any sort
of fair fight. Someone bigger and stronger, armed with the iron railing and a hunger to kill. Winter knew he should have done something to stop it before it got to this.

A pair of black shoes with thick heels stepped into the shot beside Remy's head. They tapped impatiently and there was no doubt who they belonged to. Winter let the camera drift up with
his eyes, the shutter hammering as he went, photographing Kelbie until he caught the twisted impatience on the DCI's face. When he'd done so, he switched his gaze and his lens back to
Remy, saying nothing. He knew Kelbie was mouthing off at him, spitting out words furiously, but he didn't hear and didn't care. He was doing his job the best he could. He owed that to
Remy Feeks.

When he was done, he backed away from the body and stood to take the inevitable onslaught of bitterness from Kelbie. The little man was so angry with the world that it was probably a long time
since he'd stopped to wonder why. For that minute it was Winter, for the next it would be the rain or the lack of it. It would always be something.

‘You can't get to the job on time and then you arse around taking unnecessary photographs. Inappropriate photographs. Campbell Baxter is right about you. The sooner you get shifted
out of here the better. You're a waste of fucking space.'

‘Is that right?'

Kelbie bristled, his lips curling back into a snarl. ‘Aye it is right, you cheeky shite. I'm going to see to it that your arse doesn't hit the door on the way out of Forensic
Services.'

‘Is that right?'

‘Winter, you are asking to have your head kicked as well as your arse. Watch your step.'

‘Is that right?'

He knew it wasn't wise but he could feel the anger rising in him and wasn't sure he could stop it. Euan Hepburn, Remy Feeks, it was all falling on top of him at once. And now this.
Maybe he should just headbutt Kelbie and be done with all of it. He pulled his head back and waited for the DCI to say one more word.

Instead Kelbie beat him to the punch, stepping forward so close that Winter could feel Kelbie's breath on his face and he couldn't throw his head forward at him. The man's eyes
were wild and Winter knew all he had to do was lean back and one of them would stick the nut on the other.

‘Boss!' Jim Ferry's arm came between them and for a second Winter thought that Kelbie was going to take a bite at it. ‘Back off, boss. There's a crime scene full of
witnesses here. Think about it.'

Winter just stared at the DCI, daring him to make a decision. Kelbie snarled wide-eyed but didn't push forward, his DS's words percolating slowly through his fury. He raised a hand
and pushed it flat against Winter's chest, shoving space between them and turning away with a final glare.

‘This isn't finished,' he called over his shoulder.

‘Is that right?' Winter knew it wasn't the time or place to be pushing his luck but he was beyond that. Reason had opened the window, jumped out and run for its life.

Kelbie paused but set off again just as quickly, Ferry's encouraging arm keeping him moving. Winter breathed hard and fast.

‘What is it with you, Tony? You got a death wish? You know what a turd Kelbie is.'

Winter turned his head to see one of the scene examiners, Paul Burke, standing beside him. ‘No death wish. There's enough of that without me wanting more. I just couldn't take
any more of his crap.'

‘Right. Well maybe you should remember that he's a DCI. And, if what I'm hearing is right, then your jacket is on a shoogly peg as it is.'

‘What are you hearing?' As if he didn't know.

‘That Baxter is gunning to get you made redundant and using the review to do it. Don't give him any more ammunition, mate.'

If only you knew, Winter thought. If only you knew. ‘Yeah. I'll try not to. Have you guys got anything else inside this place that needs photographed?'

Burke lifted his shoulders. ‘We're running the rule over the whole building but it's massive. They might have something on the upper levels but they'll likely have
photographed it themselves. We
can
point the camera in the right direction, you know.'

‘I know. I'll go check it out anyway though. See if I can lend a hand.'

The truth was he couldn't care less about helping out. The only job he cared about was lying amid the rubble. He had to get upstairs though and retrace his steps as best he could, at least
enough to be able to say he'd been there if he was ever asked. If his DNA ever turned up somewhere it shouldn't.

He made his way back up the concrete spiral and over the same floors as he had before, working his way between the white suits that were doing fine thanks without any help from him. This was a
mess and he was in it right up to his neck and getting in even deeper.

Narey didn't need to be told that Gray Dunn was an urbexing site. Of course it would be. From the moment the name of the place was put to her, she knew. It was Rico
Giannandrea who had picked up on the possibility of the connection and called her to flag it up.

‘. . . body found at Gray Dunn in Kinning Park. The old biscuit factory. It's been abandoned for . . .'

It was all she heard and all she needed to know. Her mind was lost in a turmoil of possibilities, Rico's words going unheard until a name jumped out from the shadows.

‘Remy Feeks.'

‘What?
What did you say, Rico?'

‘There was ID on the body. A photo driver's licence. The victim's name is Remy Feeks.'

‘Shit.'

‘You know him?'

She slammed her hand against the desk and Rico must have heard it on the other side of the line.

‘Rachel? Ma'am?'

‘I don't know him as such. I think he was the person who found Hepburn's body in the Molendinar and phoned it in.'

‘Christ . . .'

‘I'm going to the factory. Phone them and let them know I'm on my way and I'm taking over. Phone DCI Addison for me as well, Rico. Thanks.'

She saw the cars and ambulances massed outside the building as soon as she turned into Stanley Street. The sight of the lights made her stomach turn over and the reality of it kicked in.

Her warrant card was in her hand the moment she'd locked the car door and she hurried to the tape and was glad to see uniforms on it that she recognized. They waved her through and she
climbed into protective clothing as quickly as she could, scrambling to put on gloves, hat and overshoes.

Spotlights had already been rigged up and she stepped into their harsh glare, instantly taking in the stark desolation of the place. The lights threw macabre graffiti shadows onto the walls and
made giants from broken stonework and twisted metal. It was like the factory was lying in wait for her.

Or maybe it had been waiting for Remy Feeks.

She saw a small army of forensics slipping by, upstairs and down, flitting across boulders and picking their way through debris. They were moving quickly but without a moment of rush. It was a
measured haste that she'd seen a thousand times.

There were still two of them hunched, all but motionless, in the clearing left by the parting of the swarm of bodies in the central courtyard. She was suddenly struck by the bizarre thought of
them all standing there like Wise Men and shepherds, the spotlight above the body leading her to it like a guiding star.

One of the shepherds looked over his shoulder, saw her approaching and spun on his heels towards her. Denny Kelbie looked like a man whose numbers had come up on the lottery when he'd
forgotten to buy the ticket. He was furious as he stepped up into her face.

‘This is a piece of shit. It's no way to run an investigation and you're way out of your depth.'

‘Anything else, sir?'

The DCI clearly had plenty more he wanted to say but she was sure that the phone call he'd have received from Addison or perhaps even from higher up had left him in no doubt that he had no
say in this any more. He spat on the ground at her feet and stormed off without another word. That suited her perfectly.

She walked over to stand above the two forensics working on the body and saw the kid stretched out beneath them. Fair hair and freckles, his face young and bloodless, and a railing puncturing
his chest. It was as if someone had murdered the Milky Bar Kid.

The SOCOs became aware of her presence and looked up as one. She knew them both by sight, Keiran Hardie and Matt McGowan.

‘Give me a minute, guys, please.'

They both got to their feet without dissent and stepped back.

‘I take it photographs have been done?'

‘Yes, ma'am,' McGowan confirmed. ‘Tony Winter has been and gone. Probably left about twenty minutes ago. We told him you were on your way but he didn't want to hang
around. Said he was done.'

Something about that made her uneasy but she didn't have the time or space in her head to debate it. The main thing was the job had been done. Now she had to do hers.