Riven (8 page)

But there was no need to look back.

Out front, the light flicked for a moment before beginning to spread. First the hall erupted into a fireball and then the rest followed. Weirdo was halfway across the graveyard when he heard the sound of shattered glass as the windows blew, belching black smoke into the wet night.

He stood for a second watching the scene, before running through the graveyard, over the wall, limping to his car and climbing inside. He headed home the long way, ignoring the distant wail of a fire engine. Felt a rush of pleasure. Andy Doyle would be pleased.

Job done.

The Dreamer turns in his sleep, eyelids flickering, unaware of the rain falling outside the window. Instead he is reliving another night, hearing the rain on another roof, the sound of breath leaving another man’s body. The groan of the wind outside. The night he had killed Gilmore had been the stormiest night since records began. He had watched the water course from the roof tiles as if the weather itself were trying to wash the house free from blood. The Dreamer moves in his sleep as images flash across his mind, blood mixed with matter. Blood and water. The blood of sinners mixing in some unholy communion.

Tuesday, 10 December

It was six a.m. when Wheeler returned from her morning run. She showered, dressed and was out of the door twenty minutes later. On the way to the station she listened to a CD, humming along to Sonny Rollins while she systematically revised all the evidence they had gathered so far in the case. By the time she drove into the station car park, she had come to no new conclusions as to why James Gilmore had met with such a brutal death but she knew that the team would uncover more and more pieces of the jigsaw, until they had the complete picture. She opened the door to the station and felt the familiar sense of anticipation that descended on her at the beginning of each case.

She was early for the briefing and sat nursing a black coffee, waiting for the others to arrive. The room was chilly; a forlorn halogen heater rotated mutely at the front of the room, giving off a bright light but precious little heat. The station would heat up as the day progressed and be sweltering before midday. Wheeler looked out of the window: it was still dark outside. Inside, the room was in a seventies time warp. It was a large room, walls the colour of vomit, the skirting a peculiar sludge shade. The parquet flooring had suffered over the years and was now chipped and pieces that were missing had been ignored, leaving the floor uneven. The obligatory fluorescent light flickered lazily overhead. By seven a.m. the room was full and the whole team was assembled; those on night shift were bleary-eyed, needing their beds, while the day shift were yawning, not long out of theirs, but Stewart had requested that everyone attend.

Stewart strode to the front of the room and placed his notes on a desk, patting them firmly into place as if that would create some kind of order from the chaos of their predicament. He cleared his throat and looked at the team, keeping both his voice and his gaze controlled.

‘Can anyone tell me how in God’s name James Gilmore’s house got torched last night?’

Some of the team looked at him, some looked at the floor, others studied the wall. All of them said nothing. Wheeler waited. She knew that the two uniformed cops who’d been in the patrol car were going to be
severely reprimanded
and that Stewart was going to
personally
investigate. And after that the two officers would still face disciplinary action. Wheeler, like the rest of the team, knew that the shit had hit the fan and was about to drip all over them.

Then Stewart let himself go. ‘Did you hear what I said?’ he bellowed, banging his fist on the desk. In front of him, officers shifted uncomfortably on their seats but didn’t voice what they were thinking, that last night’s debacle had nothing to do with them. They were part of a team, and somewhere down the line of command someone had messed up and now they were all complicit.

‘But surely the evidence had already been removed.’ Ross spoke clearly, attempting to move the briefing on. ‘So, nothing of any note could have been lost in the fire.’

Stewart turned on him. ‘Nothing of any note was lost? Forgive me, Ross, I didn’t know that you were psychic. A wee talent you’ve kept hidden?’

Ross’s blush moved from his neck to his cheeks. ‘What I mean, boss, is that—’

But Stewart cut him off. ‘Is that meant to make me feel better? That at least we managed to collect
some
evidence before the place was torched? And since you’re psychic, perhaps you’d like to tell us who managed to get by two of Strathclyde’s finest and burn the bloody house down?’ Speckles of spit escaped from Stewart’s mouth and landed on his notes.

Ross kept his eyes on the floor. Said nothing.

Stewart turned from him and addressed the team. ‘So, despite our best efforts and you will admit they haven’t been
sterling
so far, the killer or killers managed to murder James Gilmore, then sneak back into the house
under our noses
and destroy whatever else it was they didn’t want us to find. But thank you,
acting
DI Ross, I’m gratified that in your opinion we’ve no cause to worry.’

Nervous sniggers spread around the room. Stewart ignored them. ‘So, let’s move on. Who was James Gilmore?’

Wheeler spoke. ‘James Gilmore, age fifty-four, lived alone. Unmarried. Worked as an educational psychologist peripatetically in Glasgow schools.’

Stewart continued, ‘A victim who was found by two former pupils of Watervale Academy beaten to death in his own home.’ Stewart glanced behind him; photographs of the body had been pinned onto the board. He waited for a few seconds, letting the team take in the horrendous images. Watched the faces scowl in concentration as they registered the bloody purple of Gilmore’s battered flesh and the hook on which the body had been hung.

‘Okay. Now we know what we’re dealing with, I want you to think about who would do something like this.’ He looked around the room then continued, ‘What do we have?’

Silence.

‘Well, let’s get updated. Someone must have seen something. Let’s start with door-to-door enquiries.’ He pointed to a uniformed officer in the second row. ‘Well?’

‘Door-to-door gave up nothing helpful, boss. It seems that Gilmore’s house is too remote for him to have anyone just passing by. A few neighbours knew him by sight and said that they were on nodding terms with him but nothing more. There were never any invites round for drinks or dinner; apparently he never socialised with any of his neighbours. Not even a card at Christmas, nothing. He kept himself very much to himself.’

‘A ghost,’ muttered Ross.

‘What was that?’ Stewart turned towards him.

‘Nancy Paton, the head teacher at Watervale, made it sound like Gilmore came and went so quietly it was like he was a ghost,’ he paused, ‘albeit, according to her, a benign one.’

Stewart pursed his lips. ‘So, he came and went without any real presence? Your take on him, Ross?’

‘The guy was a bit of a loner – he’d no wife or girlfriend and he worked with kids on a one-to-one.’ He paused, letting the possibility hang in the air.

‘Any evidence?’

Ross shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

Stewart looked at Wheeler. ‘What’s your gut instinct about the head teacher? Do you think she trusted him?’

Wheeler nodded. ‘Absolutely. She said he was very good with the kids.’

‘Then keep an open mind.’ Stewart glanced around the team. ‘Last known movements?’

More silence.

Wheeler spoke again. ‘Hard to tell – he wasn’t due at Watervale until today. He had two other schools on his rota,’ she checked her notes, ‘St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High. I’ll call them today. Send someone over to interview the staff.’

He looked at her, the tension easing from his face. ‘Good and check receipts, find out where he did his shopping, get CCTV from the stores. Where did he buy his petrol? They must have CCTV in the forecourts. Which garage did he use to get his car MOT’d? Check all of the usual background information.’ He paused. ‘Education personnel have emailed Gilmore’s file and it chimes in with what Ms Paton said about the other schools. James Gilmore’s mother is in a home in Milngavie. She’s recovering from a minor operation but I’ve sent two uniformed officers and an FLO to break the news to her.’

‘The death knock,’ muttered Ross.

‘And DI Wheeler will go see her today,’ said Stewart. ‘Now, did you get anything else from the head teacher?’

Wheeler glanced at her notes. ‘Nothing much, boss. She said James Gilmore was one of the good guys, tried to help the kids at school. He worked with one child in particular, George Grey. Gilmore had no real conflict with any of the kids, no run-ins, he was generally seen to be on their side,’ she paused, ‘and Ms Paton was particularly adamant that neither Alec Munroe nor Rab Wilson could’ve been involved in his death.’

‘She said she’d bet her whole career on it,’ added Ross.

‘Well that’s understandable, given that she was their head teacher, but let’s not just take her word for it – let’s try to keep an open mind, shall we?’ Stewart steepled his fingers. ‘They’re neither in nor out of the frame. At this point good police work is about gathering information and evidence – it’s too early to eliminate anyone unless we know conclusively that they had no involvement in the murder.’

Wheeler drummed her fingers on the side of her chair. ‘The kids definitely couldn’t be involved. No blood spatters, boss, no scratches, nothing.’ She’d spoken her thoughts out loud.

‘Remember, Wheeler, theirs are the only footprints we have at the scene,’ said Stewart.

‘The killer was careful, boss, wiped the place down before he left. He’s a pro. These kids are less than amateurs,’ said Wheeler.

‘But they could’ve known whoever did it,’ suggested a female uniformed officer sitting at the back of the room. ‘It could’ve been one of their pals – a school like that, who knows?’

‘Or a brother, father, uncle,’ agreed Boyd. ‘Gilmore could have upset someone associated with the school.’

‘It would have to have been a very bad upset to result in a murder,’ Ross said.

Stewart tapped his fingers on his notes. ‘So for the moment it’s too early to dismiss the idea that the murder isn’t linked in some way to the school. What do we know about the place?’ He looked around the room, ‘Anyone have any direct dealings with Watervale Academy in the past?’

Only one person nodded.

‘Well, spit it out Robertson.’

All eyes were on him and Robertson flushed. ‘It was personal business, sir.’

‘Not now it isn’t. Go on. Shoot.’

‘Outreach, sir.’

‘Sorry, come again?’

‘My hall—’

‘Your hall?’ Stewart interrupted.

‘The Gospel Hall I belong to, sir, we do outreach. We go into schools, give a wee talk about God and try to get to know the kids. We spend a bit of time telling them how to accept God, try to get them to listen to . . . the right side of things.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘Well, we also encourage them to come to Sunday School and Bible-study class. To turn to the Lord and be saved.’

‘Bible-bashers,’ said Ross under his breath, ‘happy-clappies.’

Stewart looked at Ross. ‘Unhelpful.’

‘So did anyone from Watervale come to the classes?’ Boyd asked.

‘A few,’ Robertson replied, ‘but not recently. This was over a year ago. A couple of kids came for a few Sundays, then they tailed off. By that time we were recruiting in . . . I mean we were visiting . . . other schools.’

‘And Gilmore?’

‘I only met him once or twice, in passing. We didn’t have a real conversation.’

‘He didn’t want to be saved then?’

Sniggers around the room.

Robertson ignored them. ‘He’d no interest in our work, sir, none at all.’

Stewart grunted before turning to the rest of the team. ‘Moving on, I want you all out there. I want someone to go pay a visit to the local youth club.’ He checked his notes. ‘It’s being run by an ex-con name of Malcolm Miller, known as Manky. Apparently there was a party the night of the murder. DI Wheeler, you get back to the school, get a feel for the place, find out what sort of a guy Gilmore was and check out the kids, see if any of them had a grudge against him. See if there were any incidents reported.’ He held up his hand, palm facing the team. ‘And no, I’m not convinced Alec Munroe or Rab Wilson had anything to do with this, but as mentioned they all have big brothers, dads, uncles. Remember the scheme the school’s in – a fair few of the residents are candidates for Barlinnie and Manky Miller was inside himself.’ Stewart looked at the team. ‘Okay?’

Nods and agreement.

‘And while we are on the subject of Barlinnie residents, Maurice Mason’s been released and according to our snitches he’s gone AWOL. Mason gets out of Barlinnie and someone is found murdered; let’s just be aware of the coincidence.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Okay, let’s get to it. I want to know everything about James Gilmore by close of play today, at the latest. DI Wheeler will dish out your chores. And I want the case done and dusted by Christmas, not hanging over me when I’m lying on a beach sunning myself. Okay?’

More nods and grunts of agreement all round. Stewart shuffled his large sheaf of papers into a semblance of order and marched out.

Wheeler walked to the front of the room and pointed at Boyd. ‘Go through Gilmore’s address book; call everyone in it. Follow up every lead, no matter how small.’

He grabbed his jacket. ‘Aye, of course, but first off, a coffee and a minute to eat my breakfast roll, though. I’m starving.’

‘God almighty, if you must, but be quick,’ said Wheeler.

‘I’ve been up all night,’ he smirked.

She remembered what Ross had told her about Boyd’s new girlfriend. ‘Too much information, Boyd – I don’t need to know.’ She turned to Robertson. ‘You take the sets of keys, find out what they open and where. He must have secrets somewhere; there was sod all in his house.’

‘He must have a secret life,’ Ross chimed in.

‘Maybe there’s no secret life,’ said Robertson sourly. ‘Believe it or not, not everyone has one.’