Riven (24 page)

‘And how we don’t have any . . .’

‘Any what exactly?’

‘Just that we don’t . . . we haven’t, you know, in a long while.’

‘You spoke to him about our sex life?’

‘I was desperate – you won’t talk to me, we hardly touch.’

‘So, the best way to resolve this is to go and speak to someone outside of our marriage? To air our dirty laundry in public?’ His voice bitter, accusing.

‘I didn’t mean to talk about it,’ Margaret pleaded. ‘I didn’t know who to turn to.’

‘I suppose you told the women at the meeting too; I suppose now the whole Hall knows?’

‘No, just Elder Morrison.’

‘I see. And what did he say?’

Her shoulders slumped. ‘He told me to be patient, that you had a stressful job. That it’s not all about my needs.’

‘Your bloody needs! That’s all you think about. Maybe you should never have got married – maybe being an old maid would have suited you better because you don’t seem to be able to handle being a good wife, do you?’

The tears fell steadily. Margaret didn’t bother trying to brush them away.

‘Well, Margaret?’ he bellowed.

‘I want to have a baby.’ Her voice a whisper, ‘I want us to have children.’

‘So then maybe you listen to him, maybe you think about me for a change and all the stress I’m under at work, instead of your own selfish needs. I work fucking hard to keep a roof over our heads.’ It was the first time he had sworn at her.

‘I work too, you know.’ Her voice was quiet, losing conviction.

‘You’re unbelievable. Can you really compare your shitty part-time job at the bakery with my career? Do you know what it’s like to work in the real world?’

She reached for the kitchen towel, began shredding it. ‘I only took it until the babies came along. You encouraged me.’

‘I encouraged you to take it to get you out of the house, to give you something to do instead of obsessing about children all day.’

‘I’m not obsessed. Mum agrees that it’s time I had a family of my own.’

‘You’ve spoken to your mother as well? Well, that’s just great. Is there anyone who doesn’t know?’

Margaret was confused. ‘But I always talk to Mum.’

‘Then maybe it’s time for you to grow up and be an adult for once. Anyway, how can we afford a family with our mortgage? You do the sums.’

‘We could sell the house.’

‘And live where?’

‘We could ask Mum and Dad if we could stay there for a bit. They could help us.’

Robertson rubbed the back of his neck, flexed his fingers, stared out at the back garden. ‘Listen, that is never going to happen. And I don’t want you ever, do you hear me, EVER to go talking to others about me behind my back. Got it?’

Silence.

He turned to her, leaned into her face. ‘DO YOU HEAR ME?’

Margaret nodded.

‘And if anyone needs help it’s you. You need to get to the doctor again, get some tranquillisers or something to calm you down. You’re losing it, you know that don’t you?’

She began sobbing again.

He grabbed his coat, slammed the door behind him. He drove as fast as the speed limit would allow, desperate to get away from her nagging and far away from their claustrophobic home. Robertson felt the familiar band of pain tighten around his head and press in on his thoughts. He gripped the steering wheel, fought the desire to press hard on the accelerator, kept driving, out of Glasgow, out to the Campsies, past the Gospel Hall and out into the dark hills. Far away from his wife, Elder Morrison and a marriage that was choking the breath out of him.

Wheeler switched off the television and went through to the kitchen, put on the kettle and scooped a spoonful of coffee into a mug. While waiting for the kettle to boil she reached for the radio, switched it on and heard the start of the news. ‘A body has been found in Glasgow’s West End, believed to be that of a student from Glasgow University . . .’

The ringing wove its way through her concentration. Her mobile flashed a familiar number. ‘Ross?’

‘Boss. They’ve just found a body off the Great Western Road.’

‘I heard it on the radio just now.’

‘You want me to call them?’

‘Quicker to go over?’

‘I’ll pick you up. Ten minutes.’

She was pacing the pavement when he arrived. She had texted Jason. Nothing.

Wheeler’s stomach churned as she heard another text come through. She glanced at it. Her sister.

I’m worried. I think something may have happened to Jason.

Wheeler pulled on her seat belt. Christ, she hoped her sister wasn’t psychic.

They drove in silence, arriving at the scene in a few minutes. She joined Ross inside the police cordon. Beyond, a crowd had gathered, muttering and staring at the ominous tableau. Police cars and an ambulance had killed their sirens but their lights still flashed danger. The shiny red BMW was parked nearby. Callum.

Wheeler felt the rain seep into her bones; she was freezing cold.

A stout DI marched towards them. ‘Morag Bruce,’ muttered Ross.

The DI smiled. ‘Hey Ross.’

He nodded. ‘What have you got, Morag?’

‘Young girl. Poor kid. Out here in this weather. No place to die.’

Wheeler felt a rush of guilt at the relief which washed over her. It wasn’t Jason. But still, the girl had been someone’s daughter.

Bruce leaned across the cordon. ‘Want to go see, Ross? Does it tie in with anything you’re working on?’

Ross looked at Wheeler. She thought about it. ‘No,’ she turned to the woman, ‘we’ll leave it to you. She doesn’t belong to us.’

Bruce nodded. ‘It’s an awful shame to go like that. Looks like she fell from her balcony.’ The policewoman glanced up at the fourth-floor window; bright lights illuminated it. The police were already inside.

Wheeler thought about Jason and his friends, all of their lives ahead of them. She nodded to Bruce. ‘A bloody waste.’

‘Aye. Poor lassie, horrible way to go. And wearing a wee sparkly hair band.’

Wheeler felt sick. She swallowed. ‘Maybe a quick glance, see if I can shed any light on it?’

‘Be my guest. Looks pretty straightforward though.’

Wheeler trudged towards the body. Her mobile rang and she snatched it from her pocket, expecting her sister. Saw that it was Paul Buchan. She paused for a second, aware that rain was trickling down her neck. Then she switched the phone to mute and stuffed it back into her pocket before following Ross through the throng.

Callum was coming towards them. ‘Just finished. Tragic.’

‘Uh huh,’ Wheeler agreed.

‘So why are you here?’ Callum was curious.

She walked on. ‘Christ knows.’

He called after her. ‘Any further forward with our Mr Gilmore?’

She told him the truth. ‘Going round in circles and getting nowhere fast.’

She stood over the body. She had known when she had heard about the hair band. Must be hundreds of them sold, but she had known. She’d just wanted to make sure. She turned to Ross. ‘Fucking nightmare.’ Knew she should say it. Knew that she should tell them the girl was a friend of her nephew Jason. Said nothing.

Ross finished reading the notes and handed them back to Morag Bruce, who stood waiting. ‘Student ID says her name’s Lauren Taylor.’

Wheeler nodded. Kept waiting to find her voice and tell Ross that Jason knew the girl. Tried to still the voice that told her, so what? Half of Glasgow University must have known Lauren. Why drop her nephew in it? A student death wasn’t unknown. Then she came to her senses – what the fuck was she thinking? Wheeler pulled Ross aside, found her voice and told him she’d seen Jason with the dead girl. ‘And he had his arm around her minutes before he scored from Weirdo.’

Ross shook his head. ‘Fuckssake, Wheeler.’

‘I know. He swore it was just dope.’

‘And you believed him?’

‘Students take dope all the time – doesn’t mean he’s involved with this.’ She pointed back to the scene.

‘Doesn’t mean he’s not. So, what’re you going to do?’

She walked ahead of him. ‘Check the facts.’ She spoke to Bruce: ‘Thanks for letting us take a look. You sure it’s straightforward?’

Bruce nodded. ‘Looks like she fell or . . . jumped maybe. There was no sign of a struggle, but we’re keeping an open mind. Investigation will be thorough. There was only one glass on the table inside, nothing to suggest anyone else was there – looked like she’d been drinking.’

‘Definitely alone?’ Wheeler asked.

Morag Bruce peered at her. ‘Looks that way but . . . as I say, the investigation’s just getting started.’

Wheeler stood in the rain, felt it soak into her skin. Said nothing.

‘Got what you needed?’ Bruce had already turned back towards the body.

Wheeler wasn’t sure what she needed. She fingered the mobile in her pocket, thought of calling the station. Getting them to pick Jason up. She called Jason again, left another message on his mobile. Told him to call her ASAP.

Ross was waiting for her at the car and he did the universal mime for going for a drink. She realised she was still gripping her phone. She let it drop into her pocket and gave Ross a firm nod. A few minutes later they were back in his car.

He started the engine. ‘That give you a shock?’

She nodded. ‘More ways than one.’

‘You wondered if it might be Jason lying out there?’

At the mention of his name she winced. ‘What if he’s involved?’

‘You think he was there?’

‘He did at least know the girl. I just don’t want to jump to conclusions. I’m getting as bad as my hysterical sister.’

‘Peas in a pod are you?’

‘No chance, we’re opposites. She’s prone to melodramatic outbursts.’

‘While you’re perfect?’

‘That too, but I am calm and rational. And physically we’re opposites – she’s small and fragile.’

‘You’re not huge.’

‘No, tall. Athletic. I’m happy with it. We’ve just nothing in common.’

‘Why don’t you call Jason?’

‘Think I haven’t tried?’

‘Go round to his digs?’

She sighed. ‘Yeah.’

He indicated and turned the car into the road. ‘Let’s do it together, now?’

‘Thanks.’ She gave him the address and ten minutes later they hammered on a student residence which was deserted. Wheeler glanced at the empty flats, all in darkness. ‘I know most of the students have gone home for the holidays but I thought maybe one or two might be around.’ She shoved a note through Jason’s letterbox and a few minutes later they were back in the car and driving towards Byres Road.

Ross parked the car; they checked the Vineyard and a few of the other student pubs. Finally, Wheeler said, ‘That’s it, let’s take a break.’

Wheeler and Ross were settled at the back of the café bar. Once again he ordered food and organised the drinks. ‘You look shattered.’

‘Cheers.’

The food arrived and they ate for a few moments before he spoke. ‘Morag Bruce said there was only one glass in the living room; what makes you think Jason’s involved?’

‘I just want to be sure that he’s not in any way involved.’

They continued the conversation, exploring the what ifs, the maybes, until they had exhausted every angle.

‘And maybe it was as it looked – a poor girl who accidentally fell from her balcony after having a bit too much to drink,’ Ross suggested.

Wheeler nodded. ‘I know.’ She sipped the last of her wine. Finally she sat back. ‘Feel a bit better. Thank you for this.’

Ross polished off the last of the chips before pointing to her glass. ‘Another?’

She paused, allowed the wine to hit the spot and herself to feel normal. ‘Only if there’s more food coming.’

‘Christ, I’ll be bankrupt. Bloody West End prices.’

‘I’ll pay.’ She dug around in her purse.

‘You’re all right. Just think of it as a bribe for when I go for promotion. Having the acting DI is okay but I’d prefer it to be permanent. You can mentor me.’

She looked at the empty chip bowls in front of her. ‘Christ, if that’s a bribe for me mentoring you, you’re not aiming very high.’

He ignored the comment, went to the bar. Reordered. Glanced back at her, saw that the colour had returned to her face.

It was late when he dropped her home.

It was two a.m. and the rain battered the pavement and icy drops chilled the bones of anyone caught in its downpour. Jason walked on, not caring in which direction he was headed. Twenty minutes later he found himself in the city centre. It was quiet apart from a few disparate groups of revellers looking for taxis or late-night buses. Deserted stores burned their lights brightly, illuminating gifts and items on Christmas displays. The city had closed down; streetlights cast eerie shadows in back lanes and doorways. As he walked, Jason’s jacket flapped open around him – he was oblivious of the rivulets of rain coursing down his neck, soaking his skin. His shirt was glued to him. His jeans were heavy with water but Jason was floating on a drug-induced high. He heard his footsteps squelch on concrete, marvelled at the sound. He walked down Buchanan Street, past the statue of Donald Dewar and on down to St Enoch Square. He moved quickly but wondered what it would be like to fly. He looked up at buildings and imagined soaring from the rooftops. He giggled to himself, wondered if he should call Lauren. Maybe he shouldn’t have left her? He danced across the road, moving towards the River Clyde, its banks swollen, its waters high. Ahead was the Jamaica Street Bridge, one of many bridges which crossed the river. Underneath, the arches were in complete darkness. The concrete walkway led him past a small group of jumpy addicts huddled around a short, fat dealer. Their transaction almost complete, they turned to stare at Jason. Soon, their shakes would be temporarily stilled and their lumpen shapes would rest on cold concrete or damp doorways. Jason passed some of the homeless of the city who had swaddled themselves in thick cardboard. He strolled on, smiling. He passed a statue standing high on a plinth, the figure’s arms outstretched, informing the city dwellers that it was ‘Better to die on your feet than live forever on your knees.’

Then it hit him.

Somewhere in the recess of his mind he remembered and the memory gathered momentum and rushed past the euphoria and into his consciousness and Jason huddled under the statue, blinking back tears. He couldn’t call her; she had gone. He took out a half bottle of rum and drew on it until he was gasping. Tried to stop the tremble in his hand. Failed. Cursed himself. Cursed Lauren. Mostly though, he cursed Smithy for introducing him to Stevie. Jason wondered what the fuck was going to happen to him if the police found out he’d given Lauren the drugs.