Riven (10 page)

The car was idling at a red light on the road to Milngavie. The radio was on, a debate about the recent spate of violence against the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender community in Scotland was just finishing. Wheeler reached for the volume and turned it up. She knew Callum Fraser was very active in the community and may have been interviewed for the programme.

‘Shocking statistics have just been revealed which suggest that hate crimes that target individuals because of their sexual orientation are on the increase. The number of reported cases of homophobic abuse, including violent attacks, has increased dramatically in the past four years.

‘Strathclyde Police spokesperson DI Andrea Sinclair had this to say: “We are aware of the on going struggle to bring the perpetrators of these crimes to justice, but we are committed to doing so. We firmly believe that, while the statistics show an increase in attacks against the LGBT community, there is also an increase in convictions. We work hard with the LGBT community and hope that all incidents are reported. This way, a firm message is sent out to the wider community that these kinds of hate crimes will simply not be tolerated. Prejudice, whether based on gender, race, religion or sexual orientation, has no place in a modern Scotland.”’

The lights changed. The programme ended and a jingle advertising The Sandy Shack Nite Club began. Ross reached forward and switched off the radio. ‘You think Gilmore might’ve been gay?’

Wheeler stared out of the window, watched the grey clouds scudding across the sky. ‘Could have been. Nothing seems to point at much in the way of relationships, either way.’

‘But he wasn’t openly gay, like Callum. I mean, no one even hinted at anything at Watervale.’

‘No, but I’d imagine it wouldn’t be easy to come out if you were part of the educational establishment.’

‘Especially when you’re working with kids who might give you a bit of a hard time.’

‘Yep, it wouldn’t be just a bit of joking from the kids themselves. The usual prejudices might emerge from the other teachers or parents. It could’ve been tough going and maybe he preferred to keep his sexuality private.’

‘Do you think it might have been a hate crime?’ Ross asked.

‘From a group of anti-gay vigilantes? Doubt it somehow.’

‘Or maybe an ex-lover? Or back to square one and keep an open mind?’ Ross stopped the car at a red light.

‘Square one for the time being; until we gather more of the pieces of the jigsaw, we can’t see a pattern emerging.’

Ross watched the light change to green, moved the car forward.

She reached across and touched his shoulder.

He glanced at her, ‘What?’

‘Is that dog hair on you?’ She picked off the offending piece of fluff.

He ignored the question. ‘Do you think that maybe instead of going to visit old Mrs Gilmore, we should go see George Grey? Gilmore was working one-to-one with him. Maybe they chatted; maybe Gilmore let something slip. Or maybe wee George isn’t quite the angel Ms Paton made him out to be and he’s going to do a runner. What do you think?’

‘I think we go see George Grey later. Let’s go visit Gilmore’s mother first – she deserves it.’

‘Okay, but I’m glad Stewart delegated it to uniform. Telling an old dear that her son’s been murdered ranks up there with the crappiest part of this job.’

‘Stop being so bloody sensitive. Maybe she can shed some light on who Gilmore was; we’ve not got much of a picture to go on. If he was a ghost to his colleagues, I’m hoping that he will have meant much more to his mum. And besides, while poor Boyd and Robertson get to visit Manky Miller at the youth club, we get a nice old lady in Milngavie. So stop whining.’

They drove into Milngavie. According to their directions the home was just off Mugdock Road and close to Tannoch Loch. ‘We’re looking for The Courtyard Retirement Community,’ said Wheeler.

‘Death’s waiting room.’

‘Hold that thought,’ Wheeler said, ‘here’s the turning.’

‘That heater’s fucked. It’s boiling in here.’ Boyd’s shirt showed signs of sweat under his armpits as he parked the car outside the youth club and killed the engine. He had deliberately kept the sports news channel on full volume for the entire journey, which meant that conversation between him and Robertson would have been impossible. He glanced across at Robertson, noting that despite the heat, Robertson’s navy-blue suit and white shirt remained in pristine condition. His hair retained its dull sheen and today’s aftershave was lime-based.

‘Look.’ Boyd pointed to the end of the road. A group of boys stood huddled in the rain, hoods up close around their faces, watching them. Boyd waited for a couple of seconds until the boys moved off, then he opened the car door and stepped into the drizzle. He breathed deeply, theatrically. ‘Christ, Robertson, your aftershave is a bit strong in an enclosed environment.’

Robertson ignored him and strode ahead towards the club. ‘Let’s get this over and done with; if Munroe and Wilson were involved in Gilmore’s murder, then this place might hold some of the missing information.’

Boyd lumbered along beside him, wheezing hard. ‘Aye, maybe. Hard to tell if they were involved but there’s not much chance that anybody from round here’s going to talk to us.’

‘If the two boys are not directly involved, then they know something – they’re not the innocents they pretend to be.’

‘How come you’re so sure?’

‘A hunch.’

‘Aye, right. A hunch didn’t do much for Quasimodo, but knock yourself out, Sherlock.’

As they approached the building the sign suggested that it was open. The padlock around the gated entrance told them otherwise.

Boyd glanced around, noted that the group of boys had returned and were watching. ‘A wee audience for us.’ He ignored them, read the sign:
Watervale Youth Club
and in smaller letters,
Support, advice and mentoring for those struggling in society
.

‘Shite.’ Boyd shook his head, felt a burst of annoyance. ‘I’ve seen what vicious criminals can do, how they ruin lives. Folk like Manky Miller think every fucker has rights – the
marginalised
have a right to get enough support to live within a society they hate.’

Robertson watched a figure turn into the road and saunter towards them.

Boyd built up steam for his argument, his voice rising. ‘Helping the marginalised, ignoring the law, encouraging and supporting people to live outside the law? This Manky’s an ex-con and a spineless cunt.’

The figure approached. Malcolm Miller scowled at them. ‘You the polis?’

Boyd and Robertson flashed their ID cards. Boyd could smell the body odour from the man. ‘We’d like a word if it’s convenient, Mr Miller.’

‘It’s not. I’m just on my way out.’ Manky checked his watch.

‘You’re not even in the place yet, Malcolm,’ said Boyd.

‘Mr Miller – we’re no pals.’

‘Mr Miller,’ Boyd corrected himself, ‘we’d still like a chat.’

‘I’m just here to collect some information, then I’m off. I’ve things to do, folk to help. Folk who’ve been intimidated by some of your lot in uniform.’

Boyd sighed, ‘Good of you to invite us in out the rain – we won’t keep you long.’

They waited until Manky had reluctantly unlocked the door, then followed him into an open-plan office. Robertson busied himself looking at the photocopied sheets that had been stuck around the wall offering advice. Boyd pulled a plastic chair over to Manky’s desk and made himself comfortable. ‘We won’t keep you long, Mr Miller. We just need some information.’

‘Information on what?’

‘The people who use this place, specifically the people who were here on Sunday night, the night of the Christmas party.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘In particular Rab Wilson and Alec Munroe – were they at the party all night?’

Manky stared at him. ‘And you’re sitting here asking about them because . . .? Suddenly you care about the kids round here? How’s that then?’

‘Because of recent developments,’ said Boyd.

Manky snorted. ‘You mean the murder? The old guy who worked at the school, the one who copped it?’

Boyd shifted in his chair. ‘So much for sympathy or compassion.’

Manky smirked. ‘I’m fresh out. What dae they call it, “compassion fatigue”? Think I’m suffering from a wee dose of that myself. And I can’t tell you anything about the two kids who found the body. They might’ve been here, hard to tell. It was a busy party, know what I’m saying?’

‘We’d like a list of the folk who were here.’ Boyd tried for a patient tone, failed. ‘Just print out your contacts list.’

‘Printer’s fucked.’ Manky studied his filthy nails. Chewed on a rag nail. ‘And there’s nae money tae repair it. And I cannae remember who wis here. Folk running in an out all night.’

Robertson walked over to the printer; it was in pieces.

Boyd leaned forward, his voice a hiss. ‘We want a list of names, Malcolm.’

Manky waited a minute before yawning in Boyd’s direction. ‘And you think one of the weans must automatically be a killer because they live round here? Nice detective work. No prejudiced thinking, jist clean solid police procedure and hard evidence.’ He leaned towards Boyd. ‘You dae
have
evidence?’

Boyd sucked his teeth.

‘Aye, I thought so. Sweet fuck all.’

Boyd sat back in his seat and slowly crossed one leg over the other. ‘I’m just asking for some
information
on people who attend the party, folk who use this place. At the moment that’s all.’

‘Not
some
folk,
vulnerable
folk.’ Manky took his time shifting papers, organising his in-tray, making sure he let them wait. Eventually he continued, ‘You wouldnae be here grasping at straws if you’d any leads. I imagine that the heid high yins are delighted with your lack of progress; it shows just how shit the polis at Carmyle station are.’ He pointed his finger at Boyd. ‘And instead of getting something concrete, you come in here sniffing about for some wean you could stitch up for the murder. Am I right?’

Boyd stood. ‘So, were you here all Sunday night yourself?’

Manky sniggered. ‘You want tae blame it on me now? Talk about clutching at straws. Have you nae imagination? I wis here all night. Ask anybody.’

Boyd walked to the door.

Robertson approached Manky.

‘Whit now?’ Manky was impatient.

‘I think you should reconsider. There’s a killer who is watching, waiting. He’s in this community and at the moment he’s getting away with murder. Even your clients aren’t safe.’

‘Our wee community looks after its own.’

‘A few names are all we’re looking for.’

‘No can do. You heard about client confidentiality? Well, if my clients cannae trust me, who can they trust? Certainly not you lot.’ He stared at Robertson. ‘This here is all those weans have,’ he paused, ‘so mind you two muppets shut the door on your way out.’

Robertson’s voice was harsh. ‘So you’re telling me that you can vouch for all of your clients on the night of the murder?’

‘I didnae say that.’

‘No you didn’t because you can’t, can you?’

‘You’ve no reason tae suspect any of the weans here. Or me. This is polis harassment. If you’ve got anything in the way of evidence then let’s see it.’ Manky reached out his hand. ‘Well?’

Robertson ignored the hand, sweat breaking out on his forehead. ‘You’re okay with the idea that you might be harbouring a murderer?’ He leant towards him. ‘You’re
absolutely sure
you’re okay with that?’

Manky grinned, showing a row of dark mercury fillings. ‘You’re fucking pathetic. I’m not
harbouring
anybody. Now get going.’

Robertson pulled out a card and dropped it onto the desk. ‘If you hear anything, anything at all. You call me.’

Manky didn’t do them the courtesy of waiting until they were out of the room before he picked up the card and dropped it into the wastepaper bin.

Outside, Boyd stalked ahead to the car. The rain had started again and he was soaked before he’d even opened the door. ‘Fucker knows more than he’s letting on.’ He settled himself into the driver’s seat and barely waited until Robertson had closed his door before he shot off.

‘Definitely lying,’ Robertson said.

They drove to the end of the road, turned and felt a hail of empty cans hurtle into the back window. Robertson gasped. Boyd ploughed on. ‘Bastards.’

The group of boys stood laughing and pointing as the cop car retreated. At a house at the end of the road, at an upstairs window, Rab Wilson stood in his bedroom and watched.

‘Hope it doesn’t have that old-folk smell of piss,’ Ross said.

Wheeler squinted at the cheerfully painted sign which read ‘Welcome to The Courtyard Retirement Community.’ Ross turned the car into the gravel drive. The Courtyard was a long, two-storey brick building set well back from the road in its own grounds. In the gardens pruned roses and hydrangeas bowed to the wind and shivered in the rain; only the heather looked like it was coping. Ross pressed the intercom, a man’s voice answered and they were buzzed through to the reception area, where a plump middle-aged man in a too-tight suit introduced himself. ‘Hello, I’m David Line. I’m one of the managers here at The Courtyard.’

Wheeler and Ross both flashed their ID and the three of them moved through to a stuffy office. Wheeler took off her coat and sat opposite the manager. Ross took the seat beside her, picked up a brochure from the desk and began fanning himself.

Wheeler began, ‘You know why we’re here?’

The manager shifted on his seat and rearranged his hands into a nervous knot of twitching fingers. There was a sound of knuckles cracking. He swallowed twice before speaking. ‘DCI Stewart called last night and again earlier this morning and outlined what happened. The two policemen and the family liaison officer arrived this morning. This is dreadful news about Mrs Gilmore’s son. Really, just awful. I can’t imagine . . .’ His voice drifted off, his face tortured with the images of a dead man. ‘And you know that she’s just out of hospital?’

They both nodded, paused for a second before Wheeler spoke. ‘Did you ever meet James Gilmore, Mr Line? Was he a frequent visitor?’