Riven (9 page)

‘In which case, you’re fucked,’ Ross answered, ‘so you’d better start
praying
the keys are to a Pandora’s box of goodies leading us to the killer.’

Robertson flushed.

‘Ignore him, Robertson, he’s on his period.’ Wheeler glanced at the list of objects found in Gilmore’s house. ‘There are a couple that don’t look like house keys. Sort through them, find out what they open. And search through his diary, see where he’s been, who he’s spent time with, go through his mobile, ring all the numbers stored on it. Find out who he called last. Double up with Boyd and split the lists.’

‘Already onto it.’ Robertson held up a list of names and numbers. ‘So far all the calls have been to schools and his mother’s home.’

‘Okay, good. Keep at it. And both of you take a trip out to the youth club. Speak to Miller, try to get some idea of who was at the party on Sunday night and find out if Alec Munroe and Rab Wilson were there all night.’ She spent the next few minutes issuing orders, trying to galvanise the day shift while hoping to keep the sleep-deprived night shift inspired. Then the briefing was over.

As she gathered her notes, two uniformed constables walked past her and one muttered, ‘I think the two lads are definitely in on it.’

‘Nah,’ the other said, ‘breaking and entering. That’s about the height of them. Criminal fucking masterminds they’re not. Poor weans were white with shock. I heard that wee Munroe laddie started crying. Wanted his mammy. Christ, no way he could’ve battered anyone to death.’

‘You’d be surprised. Delayed shock maybe? Good actor?’

‘Nah. You’re talking shite. They’re innocent.’

‘Want to bet on it?’

‘Fair enough, how much?’

Wheeler watched them leave the room and thought that their conversation accurately summed up the team. Divided.

Ross turned to her. ‘Watervale it is then? But can we stop off for coffee on the way? I’m starving.’

‘Can’t think why – you had loads to eat last night.’

‘That was a whole other day away. Besides,’ he said, patting his stomach, ‘I need to keep myself refuelled.’

‘We don’t have time and anyway, you’re not a bloody racehorse, Ross.’

She was out of the door and down the corridor before he’d finished saying, ‘See myself more as a stallion, Wheeler.’

Tuesday, 9 a.m.

‘. . . And why was that?’ The woman stared at him.

No answer.

The wall clock tick-tocked softly in the background. Outside the window the steady thrum of traffic from Clarkston Road passed underneath the second-floor office. Rush hour, mothers dropping children off at nursery, school, playgroup, childminder. Folk going to work. Day shift driving in to start the day, night shift driving home. HGVs in for the long commute across Europe. A world busy with itself, the everyday noise only mildly dampened by the constant beat of rain against the window pane.

Dr Sylvia Moore sat in a leather and chrome Le Corbusier chair, her long legs crossed, her red hair shorn tight to her head. She wore a fitted black trouser suit, a heavy gold watch and flat patent leather brogues. Her face was free from make-up.

She repeated the question, ‘Why was that?’ adding, ‘Do you think?’

This time an answer. ‘Why was what?’

‘Why did you feel you couldn’t reach out to her?’

Doyle shrugged, ‘Who knows?’

Her voice hard, ‘You do, Andy. You know why you couldn’t reach out to her.’

His fist on the side of the Le Corbusier, skin on chrome, harsh, beating. ‘She’s a fucking woman, I don’t know! I don’t understand you lot.’

‘Us lot?’

‘Fucking women. I mean, I buy her stuff, anything she wants. I paid to go to a charity do, paid to get sat at the same table as some fucking art-house producer who needs “investment” for his next project, some play about fuck-knows-what. All for Stella.’

‘But that’s not enough, is it? She wants more . . . what is it she wants?’

‘Fuck knows.’ He paused. ‘She wants to be a star but she’s got fuck-all talent.’

‘If Stella was here what would she say? Apart from you buying her stardom, or at least a part in a play, what else does she want from you?’

Shrug.

The gentle tick-tock of the clock; outside a police siren screamed past, its wail fading in seconds.

‘Is she in love with you?’

A shrug. ‘Mibbe. But I don’t understand her.’

‘Do you want to understand Stella?’

Another shrug.

‘Would it be different if you were in love with her?’

‘Probably.’

‘But you’re not?’

‘No.’

‘Then you’re just stringing her along?’

‘Love isn’t what I need.’

‘Most people need to be loved, to feel wanted, appreciated, connected.’

‘Good for them, but I’m not most people.’

‘No.’ Moore watched him, saw the anger leave him. ‘So, what is it you need, Andy?’

She waited while the pause stretched over several seconds.

He glanced at his watch. ‘Time’s up. I’m out of here.’

‘We’re not finished.’

‘I am.’ He stood.

‘Then you’re bailing out.’

‘Christ.’ He sat down again.

‘You need to look at your actions, take responsibility for yourself and your interactions with others. You’re not a child, you’re a grown-up. Stop acting like a spoilt child.’

His eyes glittered, one darker than the other, his voice a whisper, ‘I do fucking take responsibility for everything I do. And I am always a fucking adult. And I am not a spoiled child.’

‘We need to work with this.’

‘You need to work with this.’

‘What is it you need from others?’

‘One word. Loyalty.’ He stood, had reached the door in a second.

‘Same time, same place,’ she called after him.

Heard the sound of the door slamming.

Moore stood, crossed to the window and opened it wide, letting the cold, damp weather seep into the room. She breathed in deeply, held the icy air in her lungs for as long as she could before exhaling. The city was bathed in a grey glow made colourful by the umbrellas bobbing beneath her window. Moore crossed the room and lifted Andy Doyle’s untouched water glass, took it into the next room and began to rinse it under the tap. Watched as the water ran clean and cold.

Watervale.

Ross drove. The scheme was similar to dozens of schemes across the city. Rows of council semis lined the streets; a few empty houses had their windows boarded up, metal grilles securing the doorways. A low one-storey building had a hand-painted sign on plywood: ‘
Watervale Youth Club
.’ A skinny cat shot across the road into a garden littered with broken glass. Dog shit dotted the pavement. A group of boys huddled together in the cold, their staffie-cross straining at its leash. As Wheeler and Ross drove past, the boys turned and stared hard at them. Wheeler smiled. They gave her the finger.

‘Fucking clichés,’ Ross grinned, turning into the school car park. ‘They look like they’re auditioning to be in a Peter Howson painting.’

‘Bless,’ said Wheeler, ‘making their wee mammies proud.’

Watervale Academy was a two-storey building thrown up in the seventies and then forgotten. It was covered in graffiti and the windows had a protective covering of wire mesh, through which crisp and sweet wrappers had become entangled together with assorted plastic bags. The door was locked. Wheeler pressed the buzzer beside the intercom and heard a voice ask who they were. She spoke into it, heard the door click open and they were through to the reception area where a small woman with a round, kind face held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Margaret Field, the deputy head teacher.’

They showed her their ID.

‘It’s dreadful news about James Gilmore. Just awful. Nancy Paton called me – what a nightmare.’ She pushed a book across the desk. ‘I’m afraid you’ll need to sign in, just name and time. Rules.’

They signed.

‘I’ve set up an interview room for you; I hope it’ll be okay.’

‘Great, thanks,’ said Ross.

‘Every class has a classroom assistant,’ she continued, ‘so I’ve arranged for each teacher to come and speak with you, then go back and then the assistant will come. That way you get to see everyone, but the class remains covered at all times. Does this suit?’

‘Perfect,’ Ross said.

‘Did you know Mr Gilmore?’ Wheeler asked and she could feel the woman draw away from her.

‘No, not really. A hello now and again. Tuesday was his usual day. I take assembly on Tuesdays, so I was never in the staff room much. He seemed to just pass in and out.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘What is it about the police that always makes me feel a bit guilty?’

‘Everyone feels a bit like that.’ Ross gave her a wide smile.

They walked through the main corridor; there was pupil artwork on the walls and a glass case with two large silver trophies. Wheeler glanced at them – they were two years out of date. She saw various framed photographs of winning teams at other presentations. Again out of date. A few Certificates of Merit were more recent.

‘I hope you don’t think the death is connected to the school?’ The deputy’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘The kids here can be a handful but none of them would do that. I’m sure of it. Neither Alec Munroe nor Rab Wilson had anything to do with this awful mess.’

‘Ms Paton’s already told us as much.’

‘I’m sure she did and she was right to.’

‘Do you know the boys well?’

‘Alec needs to be getting an apprenticeship for painting and decorating; it’s his best chance of work. Rab could do a few things, loves drama, always nattering on about NCIS or the other shows. He was a good boxer too. They are good kids who are struggling with different challenges. This place was their refuge against a hostile world. It becomes home to many of them, when their own home is a place of neglect or hostility. We do our best to make the building as welcoming as possible. Except the exterior – the council are refusing to come out and paint over it again. Seems we’ve been vandalised once too often, taxpayers’ money, accountability, that kind of rubbish response.’ The deputy head wasn’t happy. ‘How can the kids feel safe and protected when the council won’t even paint the place?’

‘About Mr Gilmore,’ Wheeler reminded her.

‘Yes, sorry, I didn’t really know him well – he was peripatetic.’

‘But you must have had meetings, surely, about the children?’

‘Of course, but they are usually multi-departmental and I’m often called away. He was a quiet, professional man who seemed content enough in his job. Not someone who made waves. He wasn’t loud or challenging. He seemed decent enough . . .’ she trailed off.

Three hours later and they’d heard the same thing a dozen times, different variations on Gilmore’s lack of presence.

‘I didn’t really know him – he just came in and out of the school. A couple of times he came to meetings with the social worker, Mary Burns; she’s off long-term sick. Stress. Her husband . . . poor soul.’

‘No idea he lived alone. Never really knew him. Sent a note to class when he needed to interview any of the kids, then I’d send them off to him. Hardly had any dealing with the man. Mary Burns might know, but she’s off sick.’

‘Seemed a nice enough man. Was he married? Leave any family? It’s a tragedy, isn’t it? We were all in shock.’

‘Just awful. No, I never really spoke to him. Just sent the kids he wanted to work with along to him and then he sent them back, typed up his reports and emailed them to me.’

‘He could’ve been a ghost, weaving his way in and out, not leaving a trace.’ They were alone together and Ross sipped the coffee the school secretary had brought them. He helped himself to another chocolate biscuit from a plate piled high with biscuits, cake and fingers of shortbread. He saw Wheeler look at him. ‘What? I’ll work it off at the gym. Right now I need to refuel.’

Wheeler heard the frustration in his voice. They’d seen the desk James Gilmore had used; nothing personal had been stored there. They’d asked to speak with George Grey. ‘George is off sick today. When he didn’t come in this morning we called home. He said he had a bug.’ Wheeler had copied down his address – a wee home visit was in order.

Finally she stood. ‘Let’s go, Ross, nothing much’s happening here.’ She took the tray back in to the secretary. ‘Thanks for the coffee and biscuits.’

‘Awful shock about Mr Gilmore.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Only to say hello to when he signed in and out.’

Figured.

‘Not one to talk about his social life then?’

‘I think he did mention his mother once, said that she was quite poorly.’

Wheeler put the tray on a table. ‘Yes, we’re on our way there now. Did he say much about her?’

‘Only that she was often poorly. I said mine was too. It was just in passing.’ The secretary screwed up her eyes in concentration. ‘I think she’s in a home out by Milngavie. I can’t be sure but I got the impression it was out that way. I could check if you like?’

‘We already have her address thanks,’ said Wheeler.

They walked to the car in the rain. Wheeler spotted him first. ‘Looks like we’re being watched.’

Ross looked at the boy who was sitting on his bike, watching them. His knuckles showed white as he gripped the handlebar. His hood was pulled tight around his face; only two dark eyes and a scowl were visible. Ross walked towards him, but immediately the boy pushed off on his bike and a second later he had disappeared around the corner of a house.

‘Too old to be a schoolie.’

‘So are Alec Munroe and Rab Wilson but they seem connected to the place.’ Wheeler stared at the houses. ‘You think there are kids behind those curtains watching us?’

Ross glanced down the road; he could feel eyes watching but there was no one in sight. ‘Probably – we’re the pigs, remember.’

‘Come on,’ Wheeler opened the car door, ‘let’s go to Milngavie and speak to James Gilmore’s poor old mother. I hope she’s not too much of a wreck.’

‘She’s bound to be in pieces. Her only son’s dead. I just hope she can hold it together long enough to talk to us.’

A few minutes later they were on their way.