Riven (29 page)

Not long after the coach had pulled out of Buchanan Street bus station Weirdo was standing in the piss-soaked living room of George Grey’s house. Weirdo smiled and cracked his knuckles more flamboyantly than was absolutely necessary, seeing as he already had William MacIntyre’s full attention.

‘See Wullie, we find it awfully fucking difficult to understand, so mibbe you could explain it to us?’

‘Us?’

‘Me and Mr Doyle. He wanted a word but seeing as how this fucking place needs fumigated, he sent me on tae have a wee chat.’

MacIntyre’s already grey pallor faded to white. ‘Doyle’s coming here?’

Weirdo shook his head. ‘You can appreciate why he wouldn’t want to come here in person, seeing as it’s a fucking cesspit, and you’ll also twig as to why he’s reluctant to invite you to his place, what with you smelling like the arsehole you are, can’t you, Wullie?’

MacIntyre shifted uncomfortably on his chair. Reached for a half-empty packet of cigarettes, took one, watched his hands shake as he tried to light it. Felt the sweat running down his back, pooling at the base of his spine and turning cold. He shivered. Tossed the packet of cigarettes onto the floor.

Weirdo paced across the sitting-room floor. ‘You listening to me Wullie?’

MacIntyre coughed, drawing phlegm from deep in his throat and spitting it into a discarded coffee cup. The dark globules landed on the green mould clinging to the cup and mixed with the dregs of cold, black coffee. He rubbed the three stumps on his hand into his back, trying to knead the pain from his kidneys. He failed. He failed also to keep the fear from his voice. ‘You gonnae tell me why Andy Doyle’s so interested in me?’

Weirdo’s phone rang. ‘Yeah? Right Mr Doyle, sure thing, no problem, I’ll tell him.’ He paused, listened, then responded, ‘Yes, he’s here. He’s playing the innocent. I’ll explain the terms of your offer.’ Weirdo paused, listened again, then spoke, ‘Oh aye, Mr Doyle, I’ll make sure it’s made very clear to him. There’ll be no room for any misunderstanding.’ Weirdo finished the call, turned to face MacIntyre. ‘Let’s begin.’ He held up the forefinger of his right hand. ‘First off, wee George Grey.’

‘That wee shite’s no here.’

‘Correct.’

MacIntyre shrugged. ‘Fuck knows where he is. Could be anywhere.’

Weirdo nodded, muttered under his breath, too low for MacIntyre to hear, ‘Best that you know nothing.’

‘Whit?’ MacIntyre screwed up his eyes, peered at Weirdo. ‘Whit did ye say?’

‘I said let’s back up a bit. Let’s have a wee think about George. Think mibbe you might want to tell me about whit was happening to him?’

MacIntyre slid further down in his chair, made himself small. ‘Nuthin. Nuthin wis happening tae him. If he says anything else, he’s a lying wee bastard.’

Weirdo bent over him. ‘See I cannae hear any conviction in your voice, Wullie. You’re a shite liar.’ He shook his head. ‘Fuck, have you nae talent at all?’

MacIntyre squeezed himself further into the chair. Weirdo continued, ‘Tell you what, I’ll make it easy for you. James Gilmore, care to tell me about whit was happening?’

MacIntyre shook his head. ‘There’s fuck all tae tell.’ But the tremor in his voice contradicted him.

Weirdo waited; eventually he bent over the cowering man and whispered, ‘We know.’

Silence.

Weirdo repeated himself. ‘We know.’

Silence. MacIntyre began shaking, tried to stop, failed.

Weirdo smiled. ‘See Mr Doyle keeps a wee list of cunts that need annihilated and Gilmore was on it.’

‘How’s that then? How was Gilmore on it?’

Weirdo paused, said nothing. Waited. Saw that MacIntyre still didn’t get it. Shook his head. Went back to his original point. ‘Have a wee think about Gilmore. Then have another wee think about how he met wee George all those years ago.’

MacIntyre flinched as if he had been hit.

Weirdo paused and watched while the penny dropped before he continued, ‘Now guess what?’

MacIntyre stared at him.

‘You guessed it,’ whispered Weirdo, ‘now you’re on Doyle’s list too.’

MacIntyre closed his eyes.

‘So, the thing is Wullie, given that you’re now on the list and given that Mr Doyle has been nice enough to warn you, what are you going to do about it?’

Weirdo left the house, pleased with his behaviour. He heard MacIntyre whimpering and congratulated himself that he hadn’t used his fists. Hadn’t needed to. Mr Doyle was right, Weirdo thought, he was getting better at this; he was ambitious after all. He smoothed his Mohican and clicked the metal stud in his mouth in time with his footsteps. He stopped walking when his mobile rang. ‘Mr Doyle.’

‘You finished with that cunt MacIntyre?’

‘Aye, I’ve just left him.’

‘And he understands?’

‘Aye, he’s shitting himself.’

Weirdo listened to Doyle laugh. ‘Great, let him.’

Weirdo heard Doyle cover the phone, heard a muffled ‘Christ Stella, I told you I’ll be there the morrow night, but then I’m having to work late okay?’ Then he was back on the phone. ‘Stella’s got a part in a panto starting tomorrow night Weirdo, so I want all of this stuff done with; it’s not going to spoil my Christmas, got it?’

‘Aye.’

‘But after the panto, I want you and me to have a wee chin-wag about you moving up in the business. Okay? Stella’s going to be off celebrating with her actor pals, so it’ll just be the two of us.’

‘Great Mr Doyle.’

Doyle paused, lowered his voice. ‘Next wee job for you, Weirdo, I need you to check out a few things, then tomorrow I want you to get up to studentville. Understand?’

‘Sure. Students’ residences up by Maryhill?’

‘You’ll know the area well.’

‘Aye, of course, like the back of my hand.’

‘Pay a wee visit, discreet mind.’ Weirdo listened for the address, then the name of the student. Recognised the name. Waited while Doyle continued, ‘A wee lassie’s dead. GHB. Find out where it came from and if he had anything to do with it.’ The phone went dead. Weirdo turned and walked quickly towards the car park. Outside the rain had turned to sleet. In George’s Square the huge Christmas tree twinkled in the dark and festive songs rang out, wishing everyone peace and happiness, reminding the citizens of Glasgow to ‘Have A Very Merry Christmas!’

The residence Weirdo was looking for was out towards Maryhill. But that was tomorrow. First he had some errands to run in the East End. He nosed the car out into traffic, flicked the heat on full and switched on a Christmas compilation CD. He began belting out ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ followed by ‘White Christmas’. He’d sung along with the other songs while he cruised through the sleet, windscreen wipers beating their own rhythm. The city centre was full of revellers, out partying, laughing and skidding on the sleet-soaked pavements. Happy days.

The sleet hammered down over the deserted street in the north of the city. Robertson slowed the car to a crawl, stopped and listened to the steady rhythm of the windscreen wipers for a few minutes before finally killing the engine. He twisted his wedding ring from his finger and threw it into the glove compartment. He felt his heartbeat quicken, felt the tremor in his hand begin. He heard the thrum of rain on the roof of the car, the dying sounds of the engine as the heat escaped. He licked his lips, tasted mint toothpaste and bitter mouthwash. He felt adrenaline work its magic as he waited expectantly. His mobile rang and he glanced at the name:
Margaret
. He switched it off. Within minutes there was movement from the bushes. Robertson watched as the shadow of a young man left the cover of darkness and sauntered towards the car, hips thrust out, hands in pockets. As if he were only on a night stroll. As if this was the perfect weather for walking. He looked as if he was in his late teens, but early twenties was more probable. His jeans were skin-tight, revealing the outline of his legs and his crotch. He wore a tightly zipped leather jacket and dark trainers. His dark hair was mid-length and swept back from a pale face. Robertson waited. The man approached, opened the door, settled himself in the passenger seat. Robertson inhaled the ocean scent of aftershave. He glanced at the young man, took in a strong profile, a large nose, plump lips, a diamond stud earring. Robertson reached forward and started the car.

They drove in silence to the industrial park. It was deserted and huge metal buildings blanketed the space. Aside from his car, the car park was empty. Robertson did what he always did: he leaned across and began. Gently at first, touching, exploring, pressing. Later he pursued his desire more aggressively and felt adrenaline fly through his body until finally, when he was sated, he stopped and leaned back in his seat, sweat saturating his shirt. He pulled up his trousers, ran a sweaty hand through his hair and sat waiting, until his breathing returned to its regular pace.

They drove back in silence, the sweat on Robertson cooling to a deep chill. The young man combed his hair, adjusted his clothes and stared out of the window. Robertson’s mouth tasted sour – he swallowed a few times before he finally slowed the car, opened the window and spat into the sleet. When they came to their earlier meeting place Robertson leaned over, pushed open the door and shoved the young man into the freezing cold night, then threw the notes after him. Before driving off, Robertson reached into the glove compartment and retrieved his wedding ring. Then he switched on his phone. Saw another missed called from his wife. Ignored it.

In the East End of the city, in the empty CID suite at Carmyle Police Station, Boyd was answering the phone. ‘Hello, Mrs Robertson . . . no Ian’s not here. As far as I know he left a few hours ago. Of course I’ll tell him to give you a bell if he comes in. Bye.’

The strip lighting glared across the room, blinking now and again as if trying to induce a headache. He stood, walked to the window and stared out. In the distance he could see the M8. Cars were crawling through a fresh downpour, their tail lights creating a hazy, meandering path into and out of the city. He thought of the landfill site beside Doyle’s house and wondered why Doyle, with his kind of money, had chosen to live so close to it. He crossed to the kettle and switched it on, glanced across at his desk; on top of the pile of paperwork was a list of some of the items retrieved from Gilmore’s house. Everything that had been removed after the discovery of the body had been analysed for fingerprints, stray hairs, small particles of fibres, anything that would help identify the killer. But apart from an unmatched partial fingerprint and two anonymous callers, they had nothing.

He heard the kettle click, turned from the window and was spooning coffee into a mug when Robertson came through the door, coat damp, hair dishevelled.

Boyd raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘You’re late back. And by the way, your missus is just off the phone. You need to give her a bell.’

Robertson ignored him.

‘You okay?’ Boyd asked, ‘only you look drookit.’

Robertson looked at him. ‘I didn’t expect to find anyone here at this time.’

‘Doing a bit extra, couldn’t sleep.’ Boyd held up his mug of coffee. ‘You want some? Think I might have a packet of biscuits somewhere if that thieving git Ross hasn’t swiped them.’

Robertson shivered. ‘No thanks. Just came in to pick up . . .’ he paused, looked around. His desk was, as ever, an altar to neatness. ‘I thought I’d forgotten something.’

‘Anything important?’ Boyd looked at his colleague’s desk, at the neat rows of pencils, three pens evenly spaced apart, all paperwork aligned. Anal, Ross had called it. Certainly it was organised.

Robertson sighed, ran his hand through wet hair.

Boyd saw that Robertson’s hands were trembling. ‘You okay?’

‘Me?’ asked Robertson. ‘Why wouldn’t I be okay?’

‘Fuck knows, I’m only asking.’ Boyd paused, stared at him. His tie was off and despite his obvious chill he was sweating. ‘You getting the flu?’

Robertson said nothing.

Boyd took his coffee back to his desk and flicked through the paperwork he’d laid out. There was a list of the phone messages that had come in after the police appeal for information had aired. There had been dozens of sightings of ‘suspicious’ people who’d been seen around the area at the time Gilmore had been killed.

He tried again. ‘You seen the number of dodgy sightings that’ve been called in?’

Robertson nodded.

‘Trouble is, it’s not that unusual to see people acting suspiciously in Glasgow. I guess we’re like most cities – we have our fair share of suspicious characters.’

‘We just need the right one,’ Robertson said.

‘True,’ agreed Boyd. ‘What we need is a very particular type of character, a murderer and preferably seen on Sunday night carrying a bloody baseball bat dripping with James Gilmore’s DNA.’

‘Aye right.’

Boyd flicked through the updates. ‘Nothing much of interest here.’ He sipped his coffee and once again read the neatly typed notes taken from the staff at St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High. ‘Word for word the notes from the other two schools could have been from Watervale Academy for all the insight they offer into who James Gilmore was.’

Silence. He looked up at Robertson, saw that he had pulled his shirt collar around his throat, held it there with shaking hands, struggled to keep his voice steady. ‘I’m off then.’

‘Did you get what you came in for?’ Boyd nodded to Robertson’s desk.

Robertson looked blank for a second before muttering, ‘It doesn’t matter.’

Boyd watched him leave. ‘Okay, see you in the morning.’

But Robertson had gone.

Boyd settled himself and began scrolling down the new list of messages. He was on the third message when he saw one that might actually be helpful.

‘Hello, I saw your appeal about James Gilmore. Me and James . . . we went out for a while. It was years ago though. Not sure it matters much. Haven’t seen him in donkey’s – maybe it’s wasting your time? Anyway, here’s my number. I could tell you a wee bit about him. Not sure it would be anything you didn’t already know. But let me know if you want to talk. Bye-bye.’

The woman’s name was listed as Ms Debbie Morgan and her home address was in Sighthill. She’d supplied both her home telephone number and her mobile. Boyd jotted them down. They could call her but it was always more helpful to meet with an individual; sometimes it was what they didn’t say that was the most useful. Boyd wondered why Gilmore’s mother hadn’t mentioned the woman. Maybe Gilmore had a secret life after all? He flicked to the next message.