Riven (34 page)

‘I’ve never though. Even though ma da . . . well, you know.’

‘Then you need to man up, Lizzie. Get over yourself. Mason was a fucking waste of space.’ Stella put the van into gear. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘Aye but still, it’s murder and . . .’

‘Shite, it’s a service to society. The cunt’s gone AWOL. That’s all the polis will know. That’s all anybody needs to know.’

Lizzie stared out of the window and watched the sky. Dark clouds rolled across the moon. Her eyes filled up; she brushed the tears away.

‘And Doyle never gets to know about our wee trip, okay?’ Stella said.

Lizzie nodded.

On the way back to the city Stella sang along with every song on the radio, her hand thumping the steering wheel loudest to Cheryl Cole’s ‘Fight for this Love’. Stella sang like her life had just got better; she felt for the video in her jacket pocket, imagined Mason at the bottom of the Clyde and grinned as she sped through the sleeping city. She dropped Lizzie close to a taxi rank before abandoning the van, keys still in the ignition. It would be picked up and burned out. The polis would just find another burned-out vehicle, nothing to get excited about. Sonny had it all arranged. Stella left the gloves, wig and glasses on the seat. Threw the wellington boots in the back and slammed the door behind her.

Once home she poured herself a drink, took it through to the TV lounge and slipped a
Mad Men
DVD into the player. By the time Doyle had returned she was on her third episode of the drama and her fourth vodka.

He poured himself a double.

Stella smiled. ‘A good business meeting with Weirdo, babe?’

‘Aye, but I heard that there was an unexpected death the night.’

Stella gripped her glass tight, swallowed hard, ‘That right, babe? I never heard anything. Who died?’

‘No one important, guy called MacIntyre jumped off a bridge.’

Stella sipped her vodka. Breathed deeply.

‘You okay?’ Doyle looked at her. ‘Good night?’

Stella smiled, raised her glass. ‘Fabulous.’

George Grey turns in his sleep, fingers worrying at unfamiliar sheets. Unfamiliar smells. He sighs, eyelids flickering, lashes damp with tears. Remembering. It had been his sixth birthday when MacIntyre had first taken him to Gilmore’s house and left him there. That’s when it had all started. George whimpers in his sleep. Eventually he awakens. There is a low light on in the room, the kind of night light a child may have in their bedroom.

There is a knock on the door. A voice asks him, ‘Are you okay, George?’

‘I’m okay.’ George feels calmer and soon he closes his eyes again and falls asleep. Now he dreams of the future. He is standing in a field. He can hear birds singing; he feels the grass beneath him. The sun is shining and the tears dry on his face. George smiles.

Outside the wind rages through skeletal trees and rain lashes at the brass sign. The Keenan Institute.

Saturday, 14 December

Doyle sipped his coffee and didn’t bother to rearrange his face into any kind of civil. That kind of shite could wait. He heard footsteps walk towards his office, then pause. The knock on the door was slight, tentative, respectful. Aye, well it had better be fucking respectful.

Smithy inched his way into the room. Tried to say, ‘Okay, Mr Doyle?’ but his voice had deserted him. Stood, hands clasped together, shaking. Blubber glistening, pools of sweat cooling.

Looked like his bowels might let him down.

Doyle shook his head sadly. ‘You like robins, Smithy?’

Smithy shifted uncomfortably. Said nothing. Eyes darting.

‘What about sparrows?’

Smithy stared at the thick carpet, clenched his buttocks. Concentrated.

‘You deaf, Smithy?’

‘Is it like a trick question, Mr Doyle? If you want me to like them, aye, fair enough. But if no, well that’s fine as well. Jist, you know, jist tell me.’ He licked his lips. ‘Whit’s the right answer?’

‘You tell me, Smithy.’

Smithy bit his lip. Hard. Drew blood. Sucked it back into his mouth quickly.

‘I find wee birds handy, you know?’

‘How’s that then Mr Doyle, you one of them . . . things . . . no sure of the name . . .?’ Smithy tried hard, like he was fighting for his life, ‘A tweeter . . . a twitcher?’

Doyle smiled. ‘An ornithologist, is that what you mean Smithy?’

‘Aye Mr Doyle, that’s whit I mean.’ He sounded unsure.

‘Well, see a wee bird told me that you’ve been, now, what’s the right word here?’

Silence.

‘Fraternising
, yeah that’ll do. See the wee bird whispered in my ear that you and that bollocks Stevie Tenant have been seen having a wee get-together.’

Smithy turned white, started to shake. ‘I jist bumped into him in a pub, couple of times, Mr Doyle, honest.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Honest Mr Doyle. I jist nodded tae him. Couldnae ignore him could I?’

Doyle sat back in his chair, rested his hands on his boat of a desk. Watched Smithy try for a smile, his face a tangle of spasm. Waited some more. Saw the attempt to smile die on his face. Watched the face grow pale. Kept his voice low, reasonable. ‘See there’s something I don’t like. Any ideas?’

Smithy didn’t trust an answer, shook his head.

‘I don’t like it when folk are lying to me.’

Silence.

‘But worse than that, way fucking worse is something I hate.’ Doyle paused. ‘Care to hazard a guess Smithy?’

More silence.

‘I’ll take that as a no then. The thing I hate most in this fucking world is disloyalty.’ Doyle dropped his voice, held his palm out towards Smithy. ‘Can’t make it any clearer can I?’

‘But Mr D . . .’

Doyle held a finger to his lips. ‘Shhh, Smithy, it’s too late for excuses. Thinking back on it, there was the night that you chased the two wee boys. Seems to me like it wasn’t just a mistake, looks awfully like you were laying a trail for the polis. A trail which started at Gilmore and led to the wee boys, then to you and finally it ended at me. And now there’s a wee lassie lying dead. Now I’m no angel but a dead student isn’t good for business. Can you at least stretch your pea brain around that point?’

Smithy nodded. Look genuinely contrite. Relaxed a little.

A bit too premature.

‘So, what I’m saying is, if her drugs didn’t come from me via Weirdo, then they came from Tenant, McGregor or an independent. But, see, here’s my problem. That wee lassie was at Glasgow Uni, in the West End. Am I correct?’

Smithy nodded. Looked at the floor. Waited.

‘And who supplies the West End?’

‘You do Mr Doyle.’

‘But it wasn’t my gear – see my problem? Which brings us back to the wee bird that told me they’d seen you with Stevie Tenant.’

The penny dropped. Smithy knew that this wasn’t just a slap on the wrist.

‘You know your options?’

Smithy nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing erratically.

‘Relocation’s always the safest bet. Edinburgh’s mibbe too close, Aberdeen’s nice at this time of the year, or further up? Otherwise . . .’

‘No!’ Smithy held up his hands. ‘No. Please Mr Doyle, I’m out of here. Honest. I’ve a mate in Aberdeen I can stay with. First thing tomorrow morning . . .’ He stared at Doyle, saw his expression. ‘Just wanted to say cheerio to ma girlfriend?’

Saw that Doyle disagreed with that plan of action.

‘Aye, okay, I’m on my way to Buchanan Street bus station. Last bus . . .’

Doyle shook his head.

Smithy waited. Eventually asked, ‘I’ve no to go to Aberdeen?’

‘Aberdeen’s fine but you’ll be going by train. Faster. I want you gone. Understand?’

‘Next train leaving. Honest, Mr Doyle.’

‘You see be on it. Otherwise . . .’

But Smithy was already out of the door. His bowels had moved.

Later on, when she’d thought about it, when she had traced the events of that morning back to the beginning, Marjory Watkins decided that it was all the fault of her husband, Rory, like so many of the other things that had gone wrong in her life. It had been Rory’s idea to get the dog in the first place, a small border collie. A very handsome dog with a gentle face, a long nose, soft brown eyes and neat paws. Answered to the name of Prince. There wasn’t much wrong with Prince, Marjory thought, but he was a dog and dogs needed to be walked. Daily. That morning Rory had complained of flu again and that was why at 7.15 a.m. Marjory had been trailing after Prince in the cold morning drizzle.

Marjory had crossed the bridge and had been walking along the Clydeside when she’d spotted it. She’d stared at it for a few seconds but her eyesight was impeccable and she knew what she saw. The shape bobbing head-down in the freezing water was a human being, a man. Marjory gave a short cry and pointed, but other than the dog there was no one else to see the floating body. Marjory had not taken her phone with her that morning and so had to run into the road and flag down an early-morning bus. The driver called it in and had the kindness to pour her a cup of sweet tea from his flask as they waited for the police to arrive. Marjory had never cursed in her life, but that morning she called her husband a lazy bastard in front of the policeman. The policeman had nodded.

Weirdo stood in the train station sipping a takeaway coffee from a cardboard cup. The station was open-plan, which meant every chill from the weather outside travelled through, keeping the place about the same temperature as a freezer. He blew on his coffee and watched the steam rise through the cold air. He checked the timetable again; the train to Aberdeen was due to leave in ten minutes. So far no Smithy. His mobile rang. ‘Mr Doyle.’

‘He there yet, Weirdo?’

‘No, he’s not shown a face yet.’

‘Stay there.’

‘Aye, will do.’ He paused. ‘Is Smithy definitely meant tae be in this station, Mr Doyle?’

‘Aye.’

‘Only he’s cutting it fine – the train’s already in.’ Weirdo watched the rest of the passengers step onto the train. He glanced up and down the platform; there was still no sign of Smithy. He listened to Doyle speak.

‘And you know what to do if he doesnae show?’

‘Aye, Mr Doyle.’ The line went dead. Weirdo resumed his wait. Two teenagers passed, staring at his Mohican. Weirdo gave them a second then turned, staring hard at them as they passed, forcing them to look away. He sipped his coffee. Then he saw him. Smithy waddled towards the train, dragging an overstuffed holdall behind him.

Weirdo watched Smithy get on the train, waited until it had pulled out of the station. Checked that he hadn’t jumped off. Then he called Doyle. ‘All okay Mr Doyle.’

‘He’s definitely gone?’

‘Aye, wee prick left it to the last minute but the train’s away.’

‘He alone?’

‘Aye.’

‘Good.’

Wheeler was sitting at her desk in the CID suite doodling on a piece of paper. She hadn’t needed to be at the station – the team’s meeting with Stewart wasn’t for two hours – but she’d decided to finish up some paperwork. But instead of staying focused, she was finding it easier to waste time. She saw a text from Jo.

I spoke to a counsellor at university. She agrees Jason is traumatised by the death of his friend. He will be getting extensions on all of next term’s deadlines. Also counselling/extra time in exams. They will have support in place for him when he returns after the break. Jo.

Wheeler stared at the text.
Fuckssake
, she thought. Jason would have his day though, one day. She’d make sure of it. She deleted the text, then she checked her emails; nothing urgent. Finally she scrolled down the news link on her mobile, saw another article by Grim. Read on.

A man’s body was discovered in the River Clyde around 7 a.m. this morning.

The body was spotted by a passer-by. Mrs Marjory Watkins, 64, had taken her dog for an early-morning walk and made the gruesome discovery. Mrs Watkins, a receptionist at the Green Leaf Medical Centre, immediately raised the alarm.

The police were contacted and police divers recovered the man’s body. The man has yet to be identified and a post-mortem will be held later today to establish the cause of death. Police are appealing for witnesses and are at present continuing their enquiries.

Ross stood in the doorway, carrying two takeaway coffees and a greasy paper bag. He placed one of the coffees on her desk, opened the bag and offered her a pastry. ‘Any news?’

She took one and was chewing on it before she answered. ‘Another body’s been washed up in the Clyde.’

‘Suicide?’

She shrugged. ‘Too early to tell.’ She sipped the hot coffee. ‘Thanks for this, Ross, it’s lovely.’

‘You’re welcome.’ His voice was tired, flat.

‘Still down about the case?’ Wheeler took another bite of the pastry.

Ross glanced around the room, checking that they were alone. ‘Yeah, but a bit of news on the personal front.’

Wheeler waited.

‘Sarah thinks she’s pregnant.’

The pastry turned to cardboard in her mouth. ‘Pregnant?’

He nodded.

‘But I thought you’d told her you didn’t want kids?’

‘I did.’

‘And that it was over?’

‘That too. She came off the pill a month ago. Didn’t bother letting me know.’

‘Right.’

‘I can’t see us together long-term. It was only ever going to be a temporary thing.’

Wheeler sipped her coffee. ‘What are you going to do?’

He looked across to the window. Studied the weather.

The phone on her desk rang; she ignored it. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Trapped.’

‘She definitely plans to have the baby?’

He nodded.

The phone continued ringing. She sighed and grabbed it. ‘Yes?’

‘Not having a good day, Katherine?’

‘Callum, I’m sorry, I was miles away. How can I help you?’

His voice boomed down the line. ‘It’s I who can help you.’

‘Go on.’ She watched Ross, saw his miserable expression. Felt for him.

‘Some interesting news: the body washed up in the Clyde early this morning?’

‘Yes, I just read Grim’s report.’