Riven (33 page)

‘And,’ Weirdo continued, ‘he went on about his auntie, the CID cop, Wheeler.’

‘Did he now?’ Doyle’s tone had changed. ‘How much did he tell her?’

‘He didn’t tell her he gave the kid the drugs, but he says Wheeler suspects.’

‘Because?’

‘She got the cops to get him in for interview. He says they believed him.’

‘But Wheeler didn’t? She’s CID and her nephew’s just given a wee lassie drugs and she died?’

‘Yeah.’

The silence lasted for half a minute.

‘You still there, Mr Doyle?’

‘Okay Weirdo. Good work. Let’s keep this to ourselves.’

The line went dead.

Sonny looked up. ‘You’re no allowed in here son, away hame and come back when you’re eighteen. Or at least when you look it. I’m closing early the night.’

Rab stood at the bar. ‘I only want an Irn-Bru. Need to talk to you, Sonny.’

Sonny glanced across at the twins, kept his voice down. ‘You’re not supposed tae be here son. Were ye no told tae keep away? You shouldnae be here.’

Rab nodded. ‘I only wanted tae get rid of this.’ He put his hand in his pocket.

‘Stop right there.’ Sonny held up his hand, horrified. ‘Round the back for fuckssake, dae you know nuthin?’

Rab followed him to the rear of the building, handed him the St Christopher medal and chain.

‘Aye, wee George told me there was a bit of tinsel round the old cunt’s neck. This it?’

Rab nodded. ‘I need tae eat, Sonny. I’m starving.’

‘Right ye’are, son. Ye’r ma still with that ugly cunt?’

Rab nodded.

Sonny pocketed the St Christopher and chain. Reached into his waistcoat and took out two ten-pound notes. ‘Take this meantime. This is too hot tae flog here; best it goes across the water. I’ll get the rest tae ye, less commission of course.’

Rab nodded, folded the notes and stuffed them into his jeans. ‘Manky said if I was stuck to go to see him. So I told him Smithy chased us. Me and Alec. He said Mr Doyle would sort it.’

‘Aye, well Andy Doyle has sorted a lot, you’ve got that right. But it’s over, wee man. Forget it now.’

‘But . . .’

‘Sshh.’

‘I’ve got the bat.’

‘Right. Where is it now?’

‘Allotment.’

‘I’ll get it rehomed.’

‘But George said somebody came intae Gilmore’s hoose and told him not to worry, that if he hadn’t done it then he was there to do . . . was it Mr Doyle? Was he there tae kill Mr Gilmore only George got there first?’

Sonny paused. ‘It’s best you forget what you heard, forget what you’re thinking now.’

‘Only George wouldnae say who wis there, who put Mr Gilmore on the hook . . . wis it Mr Doyle?’

‘It’s over. You know nothing, son. Nothing.’

Rab nodded. ‘That’s what I told the polis.’

‘Good.’

‘How come me and Alec cannae go tae London with George?’

Sonny peered at him. ‘Did Gilmore touch either of you two?’

‘Naw. But I hate where I’m living and Alec dis tae.’

Sonny sighed. ‘It’s no jist as easy as that, son. See it costs a lot and I mean a fuck load of money tae get the kind of therapy wee George is gonnae get. Wi it being residential and that, it means he lives in and gets fed and stuff.’

‘Aye, okay. I see whit ye mean.’

Sonny knew that Rab didn’t understand why one wean had got out of it but the rest of them were left. Gilmore might have been discovered abusing George but Rab and Alec were being neglected too. ‘Christ,’ Sonny shook himself, ‘I’m turning soft. Away round the front, I’ll get ye a wee vodka tae heat ye up, then you fuck off tae the chippy or for a pizza with Alec. Understand?’

Rab nodded and followed Sonny back into the bar.

It was after midnight and the rain had momentarily stopped battering the city. It was only a light drizzle by the time the Smuggler’s Rest closed. The twins had left earlier after Sonny had tipped them off about a lock-in at another pub. The Hangman’s was equally as salubrious as the Smuggler’s and Sonny had assured Shona and Heather that they would be welcome at the lock-in.

Sonny rinsed the few remaining glasses and left them upturned on the draining board for the morning. He moved quietly around the bar humming tunelessly to himself. He had his usual routine and he liked this time of the night, when it was quiet, when everyone had gone home or elsewhere. He poured himself a double vodka and sipped it as he wiped down the tables. He left the table in the corner to the last as one customer lay slumped on the chair, his body sagging, his head resting on the scarred table, mouth open, a stream of saliva dripping its way onto the table. Finally, when he had tidied everywhere else, Sonny went over to the table.

‘You’re out for the count, Mason.’ Sonny wiped around Maurice Mason’s head before leaning over and checking his breathing. It was regular and shallow. It was as if he had fallen asleep. Or maybe he was just a happy drunk who’d nestled down after one too many. Or perhaps he had simply fallen unconscious naturally. Instead of being dosed with Rohypnol. Either way Mason was snoring contentedly. Sonny went to the bar, searched underneath and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. He walked back to the table, hauled Mason into a sitting position and patted down his coat. He opened Mason’s wallet, removed most of the contents, left the loose change and smiled, ‘This is for wee Rab in exchange for the bling.’

The video was in the right-hand pocket. Sonny slid the packet out, checked to see that the video was in place before letting Mason’s face crash back onto the table, breaking his nose in the process. Then Sonny tut-tutted, ‘Careless, Mason. You need tae be more careful or you’ll hurt yourself.’ He took out the St Christopher medal and chain and fastened it around Mason’s neck. ‘I wis going tae flog this, Mason, but it’s your lucky day, you get tae wear it.’

Sonny strolled to the counter, reached underneath and took out a large black holdall, unzipped it and unfolded a thick tarpaulin and spread it on the floor, found the ropes he’d stored earlier and placed them all together.

Then he got to work.

Outside at the back of the pub, a battered blue van was reversing quietly into the deserted car park.

‘Think of it as a wee road trip for Mason.’ Stella winked at Lizzie as Sonny loaded Mason into the back of the van.

‘You jist after doing your stint at the panto?’ Sonny asked, noting the silver dress, the high heels and heavy make-up. He didn’t mention the wig and dark glasses she was holding.

‘Aye Sonny, it went like a dream.’

‘You and Doyle not out celebrating?’

She shook her head. ‘He thinks I’m out with my pals; besides, him and Weirdo are having a wee meeting. Business.’

‘You sure you want tae dae this Stella? I could’ve done it for you, no problem.’ Sonny sounded solicitous.

Stella smiled at him. ‘Definitely, Sonny. We need to say a wee cheerio to him ourselves, don’t we Lizzie? You and me, we both need closure.’

Lizzie nodded. ‘But I went tae see Doyle . . . will the polis no think that—’

Stella cut her off. ‘The polis don’t know that you went to see Andy. No one knows.’ She turned to Sonny. ‘Who saw Mason in here earlier?’

‘Only the twins and they left before I put him out. Anyway, they’d never talk to the polis.’

‘No chance,’ Stella agreed, helping to heft the body into the van.

Sonny stooped to test the rope tied around the body. ‘He’ll be out for a good few hours.’

‘He go under okay?’ Stella asked.

‘Aye. Easy enough, although his nose is busted so his breathing’s already fucked. And I put the wee bit of tinsel round his neck for luck.’

Stella looked at him. ‘Tinsel?’

‘You don’t know about it doll, but it’ll come in handy.’

Stella smiled. ‘Feeding time for the fishes.’

Lizzie whimpered.

Stella looked at her, pointed a warning finger. ‘Once it’s done, it’s done, Lizzie. End of. Move on. Lizzie Coughlin, you’re not your father’s daughter. I’m disappointed.’

Lizzie hiccupped softly but nodded her head. ‘No, I thought I could dae it . . . but . . .’

‘But what, Lizzie?’ Stella’s voice was harsh.

‘Nothing, Stella. Whatever you say.’

Sonny and Stella exchanged a look. Sonny kept his voice low. ‘She gonnae be okay? Cause, you know if not . . .’

Stella stared hard at Lizzie. ‘Well?’

Lizzie nodded. ‘I’m okay.’

Sonny continued, ‘We can’t take any chances; it wouldn’t be . . . safe to leave any loose ends hanging around.’ He let the meaning hang in the air.

Lizzie shivered and pulled her jacket closer around her. ‘I’m fine. Honest. You can trust me.’

Sonny said nothing. He slammed the van door and stood back, nodded to Stella. Ignored Lizzie.

The two women climbed into the van, reached for their seat belts and secured them in place. Only Lizzie’s hands were shaking. She glanced at Stella. ‘Maggie, I mean Mags . . . sorry I mean . . .’

‘It’s Stella. Lizzie, what the fuck is the matter with you?’

‘Sorry, I’m just nervous,’ Lizzie muttered. She tried to steady her voice. ‘I thought Margaret was a lovely name.’

‘It’s no special enough, is it? I always knew I was going to be a star, that I’d go stellar. So I got in there first and changed my name. Stella means star and I’m going to be one – that reason enough for you?’

Lizzie nodded, gripped onto her seat belt and stayed silent.

Stella nodded to Sonny and pulled out of the car park, carefully nudged the van onto the road and they set off. The roads were fairly quiet, other than a few cars, late-night buses and taxis. The rain had stopped and a full moon shone pale and cold over them as they drove out of the city. Stella stayed close to the roads running beside the River Clyde, knew that the river was swollen, its banks in places fragile and ready to burst. She knew that the Glasgow Humane Society would be patrolling the Clyde, rescuing those they could find or recovering cold bodies with dignity and compassion.

Stella drove carefully, avoiding as many CCTVs as she knew of. No matter, she wore a wig and glasses and her manicured hands were carefully ensconced in gloves. She gripped the wheel and chewed hard on gum for a few minutes before reaching over and turning on the radio.

‘And now we have Michelle Makepeace on line one to introduce her favourite song. Ever.’

‘So, like this is the best song ever. I love it . . .’

‘Thanks Michelle and here it is, Robbie Williams with “Let Me entertain You”.’

Stella smiled, turned up the volume, tucked the gum into the side of her mouth and sang along.

Lizzie waited until the karaoke had finished and cleared her throat. ‘You not worried Stella, that the polis will know it’s us? Trace the van tae us?’

Stella sighed. ‘Van was stolen to order – they’re gonnae find it burned out in the morning. Abandoned on a wee bit of wasteland over by the Watervale scheme. No worries, hen.’

‘And James Harris requested this one for his wife Alexandra, who’s due to give birth to their first baby in a few days. Good luck with that! Now here is,’
the presenter paused,
‘here is the song James requested: let’s hope it’s not a message to Alexandra! Here’s “Suspicious Minds” by the late, great, Elvis Presley.’

Eventually Stella turned off the road, drove down a deserted dirt track and into a narrow lane. Kept driving.

Beside her Lizzie was quiet and pale; she stared out of the window as they left the roads where the streetlights glowed orange and drove into the dark of the country. She didn’t ask where they were going.

Stella drove for half an hour before she turned off the lane and drove through a sodden field. The van lurched as it crossed the uneven ground. Stella rolled down the windows, heard the roar of the Clyde, knew that they were close to the river bank. Stella put the van in reverse. They both sat in silence listening to the sound of the water, the spray hiss into the cold dark air. The smell of the river.

Stella had picked out the tarpaulin herself, industrial-strength, which was helpful as they had to drag Mason’s body across the last part of the field. She changed into wellington boots. At the water’s edge, Stella took out her new knife and cut the rope Sonny had secured around the tarpaulin. She watched Mason’s body slide onto the sodden ground.

‘See, he might get washed up, Lizzie, and we don’t want it to look bad. We need it to look just like he’s fallen in after having one too many drinks.’

‘But the—’ Lizzie began.

Stella cut her off. ‘The roofies will be long gone from his system unless he washes up in the morning. And what are the chances of that?’

The drop was long, the splash muffled by the hiss of the river. Stella threw the knife in after him.

Lizzie cried softly.

‘Shh hen, there’s no one to hear.’ Stella paused for a second, shone the torch down where they had dropped the body. There was no trace of it. Mason’s body had slipped neatly underwater. Stella grinned.

Lizzie began snivelling again. ‘It’s gonnae be awful for him, waking up and being under the water and stuff. Cold and dark. Horrible.’

‘Shite, his heart would’ve stopped when he hit the freezing water. A wee heart attack before he even went under. Never even woke up. We did him a favour. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.’ She patted Lizzie’s arm. ‘He’ll be sleeping like a baby now.’

Lizzie blinked. ‘You sure that they always have a heart attack, right away, so they feel nothing?’

‘Always,’ Stella lied.

‘Best that way.’ Lizzie stared at the water, comforted. ‘Well, if he had to go . . . probably best that way.’

‘Mon.’ Stella grabbed the tarpaulin and strode back to the van.

Lizzie trotted along beside her. ‘That it?’

‘Aye, that’s it. The cunt’s gone.’

‘What now?’

‘Nothing, you know nothing. Let it be. You forget all about that wanker. Okay? Polis come looking for him, tell them he’s scarpered. You’ve no idea where he went. Besides, there’s no reason the polis should be looking for him.’

Lizzie shivered as she climbed back into the van. ‘I’ve not done anything like that before.’

‘Aye, so you said earlier. It’s not like I plan on making a habit of it.’