Riven (23 page)

Stella grabbed his hand, dug her nails in. ‘Fuck off.’

Mason pulled back, saw that she’d drawn blood. ‘Okay, you want to keep it purely professional? Fine. I want six grand for this tape. Or,’ he held it up, ‘Doyle gets a private screening and gets to know the dates.’

‘So, what’s the payback time, a few months? Six?’

‘Oh no, Stella,’ Mason winked, ‘two days max. Forty-eight hours. It’s not that I don’t trust you but there’s no point in giving you time to make up some dross for Doyle. This needs to be kept fresh. Forty-eight hours, hen.’

Stella turned, crossed the dark car park and climbed into her four-by-four, the red sole of her shoe flashing. When she put the key into the ignition, her hand shook. She glanced at the CCTV camera above the exit, put her foot down on the accelerator and drove, missing Mason by inches.

Twenty minutes later Stella parked the car in the darkest spot behind the Smuggler’s Rest. She opened her mobile, punched in the number and waited for it to be answered. ‘Sonny, it’s Stella. I’m round the back. I need to ask a favour.’

A few minutes later, Sonny climbed into the four-by-four.

Ten minutes later he stepped out again and Stella drove off, alone.

Wheeler sat on the sofa, a glass of wine in her hand, Sonny Rollins on the CD, the track ‘St Thomas’ playing. She had left the blinds open and a crescent moon sat in the dark sky. The storm had passed and she watched the raindrops fall gently against the window panes. She had been thinking about James Gilmore and how, other than his mother, no one seemed to care very much that he was dead. Where were the friends and lovers who make up the substance and fabric of one’s life? She wondered who would be at his funeral. She had attended funerals where there had been standing room only and others where she had been one of two attendees. The other being the minister. She guessed Gilmore’s would be more like the latter, although his colleagues at Watervale Academy, St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High might get together to make a bit of a show. Maybe, but she hadn’t sensed any real friendship or warmth towards him from any of the other staff, not even from Nancy Paton.

Wheeler shook herself; she was getting maudlin. She crossed to the wall where she had leaned a cork noticeboard. She did this with every case she worked on – it gave her both the space and the opportunity to think away from the station. She closed her eyes, remembering the scene at James Gilmore’s house, remembering exactly where his body had hung, the distance between the body and the doorway, the distance to the window, and also the shape his outline had taken and its relationship with the other objects in the room. She had carefully stored all the images and the facts in her memory and would hold them there until the case was solved and her part in the process finished. Then it would be over to the authorities and the courts. The prosecution and defence lawyers would argue their points and the judge and jury would reach a conclusion on whoever had been charged. Then the bloody images stored in her memory would fade and finally disappear and she would be fresh for the next case.

‘But not yet,’ she reminded herself, speaking aloud in the empty room. ‘Not just yet.’ Covering a large section of the board were her scribbled notes on the case, a map of Glasgow with pins showing the locations they had so far. Gilmore’s house, his mother’s apartment at the Courtyard Retirement Home in Milngavie, Watervale Academy, St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High. Watervale was obviously in the roughest area; the two other schools were both in the Southside and had a reputation of being ‘good’ schools.

Next, Wheeler looked at Gilmore’s personal details; she’d placed a question mark against his sexuality. If he had been gay, he had decided to keep it quiet. Another question mark was next to the word ‘partner’. There was no indication he’d had either a recent girlfriend or a boyfriend. Or was Ross right and Gilmore was an abuser? A number of children from all three schools had been spoken to, but nothing had ever been reported. Or even hinted at.

Wheeler sipped her wine, looked at her notes, followed the arrows from Doyle to Weirdo, from William MacIntyre to George Grey, who was in contact with Gilmore through Watervale Academy. Wheeler stared at the notes but nothing came from them. Nothing. This was unusual – she usually got some kind of a spark – something triggered her imagination. There was something about this case that was wrong.

‘Right,’ she said out loud, ‘go right back to the beginning.’ Top left in the diagram were Alec and Rab. Two boys, no convictions, would-be petty thieves perhaps, anything more? She studied the line diagrams, the links: they were both at Watervale but there was nothing linking Gilmore’s death and the two boys, other than the school itself. And that would link him to all of the other members of staff, including the head teacher Nancy Paton. Wheeler discounted the staff. They had looked into the list of names. The most they had come up with regarding criminal activity had been a few speeding fines and parking tickets.

There was another list of names bracketed beside the school. Known offenders who’d attended the school in previous years. Not that unusual – most schools had at least a few kids who went off the rails after they left. She counted the names: twenty-three. That wasn’t the impression she had received from either the head teacher, Ms Paton, or the deputy, Margaret Field. According to them, their kids weren’t criminals. Were they just in denial? Or was Matt Barnes right, that kids from such a deprived area made their way outside of society? She checked through the list of their misdemeanours. It was mainly theft and gang fights. One had been done for murder and another two had been done for manslaughter. They were doing time in the Bar-L.

Her mobile sounded; she glanced at it. Another text from her sister.

I’m still worried about Jason – he’s gone AWOL again. I think something’s happened to him.

Wheeler deleted it. She’d looked him up; he was fine. Let them sort it out.

Then a call came through, but Wheeler ignored it, heard it go through to voicemail. Listened – her sister was near hysterical. Wheeler spoke aloud, ‘What the fuck is it with mothers and their sons?’ She deleted the message.

The CD ended. Wheeler went into the kitchen and topped up her wine, brought it back through to the sitting room and flicked on the telly. A documentary was about to start on a group of her favourite Scottish painters. She lifted the remote and turned up the volume.

‘The Scottish Colourists . . . Fergusson . . . Peploe . . . Cadell . . . Hunter . . .’

She settled into the sofa, pushed thoughts of Gilmore’s dead body and the deprivation of George Grey’s life aside. Sipped her wine and let the presenter guide her through the formation of the Colourists.

The building was a four-storey blonde sandstone close to the university; the top storey had a balcony and she had sunbathed there on the odd day Glasgow’s weather had allowed. Lauren shared the flat with four others.

Lauren scrunched down on the sofa and pointed the remote towards the CD player. Rihanna thundered from the speakers. Jason was sprawled on the floor. ‘And if we drive out tomorrow go easy – it’s my car, remember, Jason. You’re not driving it like you do your old banger.’

He turned towards her, gave her a mock salute. ‘Scout’s honour.’

‘Right and why are you wearing those gloves inside?’

‘My mum bought them for me; aren’t they great?’ Jason looked at the expensive leather driving gloves. They were a bit over the top, like his mum, but he loved them. They were a symbol of what he would become, a great lawyer.

‘So, where are we going exactly?’

‘Hamilton.’

‘Because?’

‘You said you wanted to hear it.’

‘The echo?’

‘The best echo in Europe.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s true,’ Jason said, ‘there’s this big fuck-off vault, which has the longest-lasting echo of anywhere in the world.’

‘The whole world? All the canyons and—’

He cut her off. ‘Well, maybe not them . . . I mean, it’s got the longest echo of anything man-made.’

‘So, you were lying!’ She laughed, her head back against the sofa, her sparkly hair band lying askew. ‘Why do you want to go there?’

‘So I can sing to you, serenade you.’

‘Seduce me more like,’ she said.

‘Lauren, it’ll be amazing.’

‘The seduction,’ she laughed, ‘or the singing?’

‘From past feedback, I’m guessing both.’

‘That’ll be shining bright.’ She adjusted her hair band, smoothed down her hair. ‘Will we be able to get in?’

‘We’ll break in.’

She looked at him sideways, ‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Yeah, we’ll just have a look tomorrow; I think you have to arrange special access.’ He reached for the map which was lying beside him, traced the route they would take, follow the M74, on out through Glasgow to Mount Vernon and its sandstone villas and the huge Greenoakhill Quarry. On through Uddingston and Bothwell and then Hamilton. He fired up the laptop and showed her a photograph of the mausoleum. ‘Looks phallic, don’t you think?’

She peered at it. ‘In your dreams, Jason.’

The dome stood over a hundred feet high. A ghostly reminder of the excess of Hamilton Palace and its long-dead duke.

‘What’s its story?’

‘It was a burial chamber for the tenth Duke of Hamilton. He’d a big thing for Egypt so had himself interred in an Egyptian sarcophagus, and the rest of the rellies stored in a crypt underneath.’

‘Charming.’

‘It was all in vain though – they all had to be moved.’

‘Nightmare. Because?’

‘Flooding. The River Clyde burst its banks.’

‘And so no quirky resting place?’

‘Inside the dome are the whispering walls.’

‘The what?’

‘The whispering walls,’ Jason explained. ‘So, if you and me stand at either end of the walls, but facing away from each other, facing into the wall, we could still have a conversation just by whispering to each other – our voices would be amplified.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Really, honestly, wait and see, but we might not be able to see the heads close up.’

‘The heads?’

He flicked through the images on the laptop to show her. ‘The heads are called Life, Death and Immortality. They’re carved over the entrance to the crypt. It’s amazing though, ’cause Life and Death have weathered and faded with age, but Immortality hasn’t.’

‘Immortality through death then?’

‘Suppose so.’

‘Cool.’

Jason moved across to the window, opened it and peered out. Dark clouds momentarily obliterated the moon. The wind seethed and howled.

‘Jason and Lauren were bewitched by the dark beauty of the landscape.’ Jason looked at her and laughed. ‘Only one thing would improve this.’ He closed the window and walked towards her.

She snuggled into the sofa. ‘You’ve a one-track mind.’

‘Not that; I’ve got something.’ He reached across her and grabbed his rucksack, unzipped it. Heard Lauren start to laugh. Started laughing himself.

‘What is it?’

‘Liquid G.’

‘GHB?’

‘Yeah.’ He placed a small plastic bottle on an empty CD case, went into the kitchen and returned with a glass and a bottle of cordial. He looked across at her. ‘Want me to go first?’

‘Yeah, but where’s your glass?’

He reached into his rucksack and pulled out a hip flask. ‘I keep this with me always.’ He began to pour.

The song had ended and the next one had begun when Jason lay back on the floor and let the sensation wash over him. He looked across at Lauren – she was lying flat out on the sofa, a smile on her face, her eyes closed.

The television was on in Ian Robertson’s sitting room, the sound turned down. Images of the Scottish Colourists and their art flicked in silence as Robertson paced the room. Finally he heard the noise of a car outside. He was at the window in a second and stood watching his wife’s car pull into the driveway. He drummed his fingers on the sill, frowning. When she saw him Margaret blushed, looked at the ground. It was then that he knew. He waited until she was in the hall before going to meet her. He kept his voice casual, neutral.

‘Where’ve you been?’

She wouldn’t meet his gaze; instead she concentrated on hanging up her coat. ‘Out.’

‘I can see that. Where?’

‘I went for a drive.’ She crossed to the kitchen, put on the kettle. Stood with her back to him.

‘Margaret, we don’t have secrets. We’re not that kind of a couple.’

She turned to him, her eyes filling up. ‘But we do have secrets, Ian. I feel as if I’m in this marriage alone. You come and go without even waking me sometimes. You go out at night and never tell me where you’re going. It’s as if I don’t matter. Sometimes I feel I don’t exist.’ Her shoulders began to shake; the familiar sobbing began.

He reached out and held her, let her cry for a few minutes before he spoke. Kept his voice even. ‘What brought all this on?’

‘It’s been building for a long while.’

‘What has?’

She held out her hands. ‘All this, me being kept out of your life. I’ve tried to talk to you about it, but . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

He turned from her, looked out of the window, watched the outside light go on and illuminate the garden. A fox padded across the lawn, its bushy tail amber in the light. Robertson watched it disappear into their neighbour’s garden. He could hear the noise it made as it ate the dog food his neighbour insisted on leaving out for it. Robertson sighed, turned back to her. ‘I’ll need to see to that fence. Get it sorted once and for all – it’s like a zoo out there sometimes.’

Margaret said nothing.

The kettle had boiled and he went to the cupboard, took down two mugs. ‘Tea or coffee, Margaret?’

Her voice was calm. ‘I went to see Elder Morrison.’

He froze, let his hands fall to his side, struggled but failed to keep the anger from his voice. ‘You went to see Elder Morrison? About what?’

It came out in a rush. ‘I went to talk to him, about us, about our issues. How we’ve not been getting on. How we barely see each other and we never talk.’

He waited. ‘And?’