Riven

Book 1: Wheeler and Ross

by Anne Randall

Genres: Police Procedurals; Noir; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

A gripping debut psychological novel you won't want to put down. 'Assured and clever' The Sun First he kills. A psychologist is found brutally murdered, an addict jumps to his death and a student is found dead. These are the facts. And they are all that DIs Wheeler and Ross have. He waits. As Wheeler and Ross weave through the layers of Glasgow's underbelly they find a subculture where truth and lies are interchangeable commodities and violence is the favoured currency. He watches. The killer stays one step ahead of them as Wheeler uncovers a web of deceit in which her own nephew is entangled. He leaves his legacy... And as the case draws to a close, Wheeler has to confront her own integrity and face the dilemma: is justice always served by the truth? Praise for Anne Randall 'Brilliant' The Sun 'For fans of Stuart MacBride, this is a delight to read. Anne Randall is a welcome addition to the Scottish crime scene. Glasgow is in very dangerous hands' Crimesquad 'As assured and clever a novel of "tartan noir" as you could hope to find' Daily Mail

Release date: October 23, 2014

Publisher: Constable

Print pages: 384

Sample

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday, 13 December

William MacIntyre took advantage of the shift change at Glasgow’s Royal Infirmary. The nurses were congregated around the desk at the far end of the ward. The day shift was ending and the night shift was beginning. It was eight o’clock, and, outside, icy sleet fell in sheets from the sky. At the hospital entrance, a diverse group of smokers huddled in the rain, sucking tar deep into their lungs and holding it there before reluctantly exhaling. MacIntyre ignored them and shuffled on, his head bent against the sleet. His movements were slow but eventually he reached his destination.

The bridge.

Pulling his coat tight around him, he swayed slightly before finding his balance again. Christ but it was cold. He clamped his jaw shut to stop his teeth from chattering. Despite the methadone, pain had started to gnaw at his kidneys. Instinctively he put his right hand over them and rubbed the three stumps where his fingers had once been, over the pain, kneading them into his back. Under his coat the flimsy green hospital gown crackled against his paper-thin skin. Above him, sodium streetlights bled over the wet concrete, staining it nicotine-yellow. He tried to take a deep breath but the night air was coated with ice. MacIntyre inched closer to the edge, heard the constant thrum of the traffic beneath him. Castle Street fed into the High Street, one of Glasgow’s main arteries, and the road below him snaked around the Victorian facade of the infirmary, past the gothic cathedral and the crypts of the Necropolis where the official number of bodies entombed lay at 50,000.

At the bottom of the High Street, a bus pulled away from the stop and gathered speed. MacIntyre waited until he saw the driver’s face before scrambling over the barricade. Screwing his eyes shut, he muttered a curse before stepping into air.

‘Christ, that was brutal.’ Andy Doyle sat at a table in the Victorian bar in the Bluestone Theatre. ‘I thought pantos were meant to be a laugh.’

His companion, Smithy, nodded in agreement, making the deep folds of fat around his neck wobble. ‘Aye, it wis garbage right enough.’ He took a sly glance at Doyle, wondering whether or not to risk a comment. ‘Thought Stella was good though.’ Waited for the response.

Doyle stared at him until he looked away. ‘Stella’s way off limits to you.’

Smithy realised his mistake and tried to make amends by digging himself a bigger hole. ‘Am just saying though, she looked great up there on the stage. Great part that. Back of the chorus line, right enough, but she’s a real talent though, eh?’

‘Mibbe,’ Doyle replied, but his attention had shifted to a skinny boy who had come into the bar. The boy wore a ripped cagoule and filthy jeans and his face was scarred with acne. Doyle turned to Smithy. ‘Piss off. Go wait in the car.’

The boy approached the table and stood waiting, dripping rainwater onto the floor.

Doyle sipped his drink. ‘Well?’

‘Okay Mr Doyle?’

Doyle looked across to the bar. ‘What’ve you got?’

‘Bit of news, thought you’d want to know.’ He clawed at the track marks on his arm. ‘Guy jumped off a bridge earlier on in the night.’

‘Anybody important?’

The boy raked his nails through his skin, drawing blood. ‘MacIntyre. William MacIntyre did a flyer off the bridge near the Royal.’

Doyle sat back in his chair. ‘Thought he was in the hospital. An overdose?’

The boy stopped scratching, began clenching and unclenching his fists, shifted from foot to foot. ‘Aye, but he left. Just walked out the door – nobody stopped him or nothing.’

‘Is that right?’ Doyle gave the boy his full attention.

‘Aye.’

‘So he just walks out of the Royal and then he jumps?’

The boy nodded then made a downward gesture with his hand. ‘Splat.’

‘Nasty.’

‘Very nasty,’ the boy paused, tried for a smile, almost succeeded. ‘Baxters.’

Doyle glared at him. ‘Come again?’

‘He’s soup.’

Doyle smiled. He saw Stella come into the bar and scan it anxiously for him; he raised his hand. She smoothed down her silver dress and made her way towards him, high heels clicking on the wooden floor.

The boy gave a shaky thumbs up. ‘Right then,’ he paused, ‘I’ll be off then Mr Doyle.’ He waited.

Doyle kept his voice low. ‘Tell Smithy I said okay. One bag. He’s round the corner.’

He watched Stella teeter towards him. The news of MacIntyre’s death made up for him having to sit through her atrocious performance.

She reached the table and held onto it to steady herself on her heels, stuffed the chewing gum into her cheek before asking, ‘Well babe, what’d you think?’

Doyle put his hands together and made a little clapping noise. ‘Great, Stella, you were wonderful.’

‘It’s okay then that I go out with my pals to celebrate?’

Doyle looked at her, saw the blush, saw her look away. Kept his voice calm. ‘Of course, I need to go see Weirdo for a wee chat. Business. Need to tidy up some lose ends.’

Stella’s face relaxed. ‘Great, we’ll hook up at home later? Have a good meeting.’

‘You have fun,’ he grinned, watching her. Saw her smile fade for a second before she pasted it back on. For someone going out to celebrate, she didn’t look too happy.

Monday, 9 December (four days earlier)

It was early evening and the sky over the East End of Glasgow was gunmetal grey, solemn and cold. Beyond the stone wall, the old graveyard stretched out, the dead earth waiting patiently for the turn of the year and then later, spring, when longer days and shorter nights would see a thaw and the rebirth could begin. Gravestones that had been toppled long ago rested in shrouds of lichen and moss. The trees were naked, their branches stretched heavenwards in despair at the desolation surrounding them. Beyond the graveyard stood a solitary house, silently hoarding its secret, its back door ajar. Waiting.

The two youths stood in the rain peering at the door; through the slit they could make out a dark hallway. Alec Munroe was the smaller of the two. He wore a yellow shell suit, trainers and black woollen gloves. His dark hair was shaved close to his head. He spoke first. ‘Am no sure, Rab. What if someone comes?’ The tremor in his voice gave him away.

‘You shittin’ it wee man?’ Rab Wilson tried for a laugh but it was a hollow sound. A head taller than his friend, he assumed the authority in their relationship. He wore denims, a fleece jacket and old, battered trainers. He hadn’t bothered with gloves, but had wound a long red scarf around his throat. His thick blond hair was dark with rain.

They waited, listening. The wind moaned around the house, breathing into cracks and gaps. Rab glanced back at the dirt track. Empty still. Much of the noise from the traffic on the London Road was muted by the heavy rain but he heard the occasional roar of a lorry on its way to the English capital. Rab wondered how his father was doing in London and if he would ever see him again.

Alec folded his arms tight across his chest to stop the trembling. ‘Ye sure there’s nobody about? That his car over there?’ He nodded in the direction of a blue Ford Focus parked a short way from the house.

‘Fuck knows, but there’s naebody here. There’s nae lights on. Come on ya numpty.’ Rab pushed open the door and paused, waiting for the creak to die away before stepping into the hallway. ‘See, it’s empty. Let’s have a wee shuftie and mind we’re only takin’ what we can carry.’

‘God, it’s mingin’,’ muttered Alec.

‘Aye well, we’ll mind tell folk that old Gilmore’s hoose stinks.’

‘Dis stink but.’

‘What kind of a cunt would live in a hoose like this?’ Rab tiptoed to the sitting-room door and tentatively pushed it open. They were there to steal what they could from Gilmore’s house. A wee bit of thieving and money in their pocket if they could sell it on. It was the way forward. A career of sorts and the only one open to them at present. Rab knew Gilmore worked at Watervale Academy and that there was a parents’ night that night at the school. All the staff would be there. Rab stepped into the shabby room and adjusted his eyes to the dim light. ‘Noo just grab stuff an’ remember—’, but he didn’t finish his sentence. Instead he stood transfixed by the image in front of him. The bloated body was hanging from a hook on the wall, its neck almost completely severed by the rope. Its blackened eyes bulged at them from a face livid with bruises.

James Gilmore was still at home.

Alec wrapped his arms around himself, swallowed hard, tried but couldn’t look at the body.

Rab moved towards it and stared into the dead man’s face for a full minute before turning his back on the corpse. ‘Alec, my wee pal?’

‘Aye.’

‘Call the polis.’

A voice, angry, accusing, bellowed into the darkness.

‘STAY WHERE YOU ARE! DON’T MOVE!’

The sound of gunfire.

Silence.

In the People’s Theatre, in the middle of the third row, Kat Wheeler held her breath.

‘STOP!’

More shots.

Then silence.

Wheeler felt the familiar rhythm of her heart, heard her breathing return to its usual pace, soft, gentle, unwilling to disturb the silence.

Darkness and silence.

Then the beat of a single drum. The glare of the searchlight trained on the audience. The sound system, loud.

‘YOU!’

‘STOP!’

The blinding light, too harsh after the cool of dark, scanned the audience. She blinked hard, felt the familiar vibration begin on her leg, small and tremulous but insistent. She wriggled, tried to extract the phone from her jeans. Two fingers flailing. Failed.

‘FREEZE!’ bellowed the voice.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

The vibration stopped.

‘ARE YOU READY TO DIE?’

She hadn’t thought too long and hard about it.

‘YOU CAN’T ESCAPE DEATH!’

The searchlight off. Welcome darkness. Silence.

The vibration returned; this time she was ready and yanked the phone from her jeans, its glow a solitary prick of light in the darkness. The too-familiar number blazed silently on the screen.

The searchlight was back on, scanning the room. ‘WELL?’

Her voice less than a whisper, ‘I have to take this.’

Beside her, Imogen’s reply, ‘Have to? Or choose to?’

Wheeler stumbled over feet, pushed past knees, finally forcing a large woman in a red dress to stand to let her through. Wheeler mouthed a silent apology while noticing the stubble around his lipsticked mouth, saw the Adam’s apple move.

‘WHAT’S IT TO BE?’

She saw the gold necklace, a pentagram. He smiled as she pushed past him. She flickered a smile in return, noticed his hair, a short undercut with a bit of a quiff on top, a haircut identical to her own. She wondered fleetingly if they went to the same barber. She moved on, ignoring the scowls and huffs of disapproval from the other people in the row, until finally she lurched through a door and heard it close behind her. In the corridor she leant against the wall, flipped open her phone and punched in the number. Kept her voice low and controlled. ‘This had better be good.’

Five minutes later she had texted her apologies to Imogen and was driving out towards Carmyle Police Station in Glasgow’s East End. The station was in the centre of the triangle between Auchenshuggle, Mount Vernon and the South Lanarkshire border. Twenty-eight minutes later she barged into the station, took the stairs to the CID suite two at a time and was rounding the corner just in time to hear a familiar sound. One of the team whining.

‘Weather’s shite.’ Detective Constable Alexander Boyd nodded towards the window before slurping black coffee from a chipped mug.

Acting Detective Inspector Steven Ross shuffled papers together and crammed them into his in-tray, smoothing them down with a satisfied smirk. ‘The game might get postponed.’

Boyd shrugged. ‘Personally, I don’t give a toss.’

She stood behind Boyd. ‘Me neither; I think the murder takes precedence here.’

Boyd swivelled round in his chair, spilling coffee onto his wrinkled white shirt. ‘Sorry, didn’t hear you come in.’

Ross stood, hastily pulled on his leather jacket and automatically smoothed his dark hair. ‘Ready when you are.’

‘Well get a bloody move on – I had to leave a night out for this.’

She was at the front desk signing for the pool car when he caught up with her.

Tommy Cunningham, the desk sergeant with ninety-seven days left at the station before he retired, sucked air through pursed lips. ‘Dearie me,’ he said in a soft Irish accent, ‘tell me you’re not taking that eejit with you?’

‘’Fraid so TC.’

‘See that he keeps it on the road this time, won’t you?’ Cunningham sounded doubtful.

Ross shook his head. ‘Can’t believe you fuckers are still going on about it. Accidents happen all the bloody time.’

Cunningham sighed. ‘Shit happens to some more than to others, son. See, I think that maybe you’re jinxed. Did you even pass your SDT?’

Wheeler smirked; all officers had to achieve at least seventy-five per cent in order to pass the Standard Driver Training Course.

‘I got ninety per cent,’ muttered Ross, ‘but thanks for asking.’

‘And now we’ve a pool car with a rare big dent in it, because of you,’ Cunningham grinned at Ross.

Ross didn’t return it. ‘Adds to its character.’

‘You’re a bloody eejit, son.’

Wheeler made for the door. ‘He might be, TC, but he’s our eejit.’

‘Right enough.’ Cunningham shook his head, his voice resigned, ‘he’s ours.’

Ross kept his silence and followed her out.

Wheeler closed the door behind them, trapping the sticky heat in the station. Outside, a freezing Glasgow downpour was well under way but she strode ahead, oblivious to the rain, her blonde hair plastered to her head.

Ross strolled beside her, long legs easily keeping pace. ‘Nightmare this weather. Last night’s storm nearly took the roof off my flat.’

‘Here, catch,’ she tossed the keys at him, ‘you’re driving.’

‘How come?’

‘Weather’s shite,’ she paused, ‘and apparently you need the practice.’

Ross hauled fourteen and a half stones of honed muscle into the driver’s seat. Settled himself. Pointedly said nothing.

The car started on the second attempt, the engine growling malevolently, windscreen wipers smearing a gentle coat of grease across the screen. Ross groaned. ‘Christ, I can hardly see a thing.’

Wheeler pushed the seat belt into place and waited for the click before answering, ‘Quit whining and try to focus on the task in hand.’

‘I know, the poor sod who’s been battered . . . I am a professional.’

‘A professional numpty.’ Wheeler’s mobile rang; she wasn’t in the mood. ‘Yeah?’

The person on the other end paused before asking, ‘Kat?’

‘I can’t talk now Jo, I’m on a case.’ Wheeler switched off her phone.

He glanced at her, ‘Family?’

‘Flipping yes. Again.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘Aye, lucky me.’

A few minutes later they were settled on the A74, London Road, linking Hamilton Road at one end to the High Street in Glasgow’s city centre at the other. On their right were blocks of flats, many with their windows illuminated with Christmas trees dripping with tinsel, fairy lights and shiny baubles, bright against the dark of night. On their far left the River Clyde meandered through the city from its source in the Lowther Hills, out into the Firth of Clyde and into the Irish Sea. The Clyde was over a hundred miles long and its waters held some of the city’s darker secrets.

Ross navigated the road carefully; visibility was poor. As he concentrated, Wheeler reached across, turned on the radio and listened to the local news.

‘. . . The father of a twenty-four-year-old man who was attacked by a gang outside a gay nightclub last weekend has made a plea for more information to be brought forward. William Johnstone was beaten to the ground and left unconscious as the gang ran off towards the city centre. His father, Alan, issued this appeal: “Someone has to know who these men are – they are someone’s son, brother or husband. Whoever is shielding them should share their blame.” William remains in a critical condition in the Royal Infirmary.

‘. . . A fight in a south-side pub between rival football fans has resulted in one man being taken to hospital, where his condition was said to be stable. A twenty-year-old man has been arrested in connection with this incident and is due to appear in court . . .

‘. . . A woman has been charged with child neglect after leaving her three-year-old daughter alone in a house in the Springburn area of the city for three days. The thirty-three-year-old woman, Bernadette Malcolm, stated that she had been to a series of parties held over one weekend and had “forgotten to go home” . . .’

Wheeler let the news wash over her and thought of the murder scene they were about to visit. She watched the Christmas trees in the windows of houses and hoped that, despite the gloomy news, most residents of the city would have a happy Christmas.

The radio continued its report.

‘. . . The release of notorious Glasgow criminal Maurice Mason from Barlinnie prison on Friday, after serving only half of his seven-year sentence for manslaughter, has sparked an outcry from the family of the victim. Scott Henderson, thirty-nine, died shortly after a frenzied attack by Mason. The controversial decision to release Mason came at a time when pressure to—’

‘All good news,’ she sighed, reaching forward and switching the radio off. ‘And Maurice Mason’s out in time for Christmas.’

‘Cheer up, it’ll soon be the holidays and let’s positively reframe it, think of Maurice Mason being let out as a wee early Christmas present for us. What could be cosier?’ Ross grinned. ‘And talking of Christmas pressies, you got mine yet?’

Wheeler stared ahead. ‘Thought we’d agreed that we wouldn’t bother with presents? Just do the Secret Santa thing with the rest of the station?’

Everyone at the station did a ‘Secret Santa’ dip for anything around ten pounds and the usual rubbish turned up – joke aprons, flavoured condoms, plastic nonsense that would end up in the bin by January – but it was about as familiar as Wheeler wanted to get with most of her colleagues.

‘But aren’t we more than that?’ asked Ross.

‘Like what?’

‘We’re partners.’

‘We’re not in an American cop show, we’re part of the team.’ But she knew what he meant; they were closer and they did work better together than with the others.

‘Suppose.’ Ross indicated and switched lane. Ahead of them, the security lights from the whisky distillery glowed in the darkness. Ross turned off the road and bumped the car down a single-track lane which was so rutted Wheeler felt the car lurch to the side. Ross drove on, past the walls encircling the old cemetery, the mossy gravestones slick with rain. Wheeler opened the window and a rush of cold air filled the car, bringing with it the smell of damp vegetation. The cemetery had been closed for years and languished, neglected. Finally, at the end of the lane they stopped beside a shiny new BMW, the colour of congealed blood. Personalised plates told her that CA11UM was on duty.

Ross turned to her. ‘You okay?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be okay?’

‘You know, dead bodies, that kind of . . . stuff.’

‘You worried you’ll faint?’

He smiled. ‘Might do. Will you pick me up?’

‘No chance,’ she muttered, getting out of the car, ‘but I’d stomp over you to get to the case, would that suit?’

She watched him grimace before striding through the rain. She ignored the downpour, knowing that her hair was already flattened, that her skin would be pale with the cold.

Across the drive, a scene-of-crime officer was examining a Ford Focus. She shouted to him, ‘That his car then?’

The man nodded, water dripping from his nose.

‘Get anything useful?’ she asked but she already knew the answer.

‘Too early to say.’ The man turned away and concentrated on the car.

She looked at the house. Once it would have been a solid building, but the old stones had suffered decades of neglect; stained-glass windows rattled in rotted frames, slate tiles gaped obscure patterns across the roof. The door was too wide for the house, and the garden, an anarchic knot of weeds, had long since gone wild. ‘Would’ve been lovely once.’

‘Aye.’ Ross shifted from one foot to the other, distracted. ‘Shit.’

‘What’s up with you?’

‘Cramp.’

‘For goodness’ sake.’

‘Still, but it’s sore.’

She stared at the house. ‘It looks close to derelict now.’

He shook his left leg vigorously. ‘Seen worse.’

Fluorescent police tape twisted and snapped in the wind, catching the light from the open door. She ducked under. ‘Come on smiler, let’s go join the party.’ Ross followed, his limp pronounced. Up ahead the familiar scene was being re-enacted. Assorted SOCOs, each contained in their own world, were moving silently like spectres, searching the ground, gathering information, bagging evidence.

A young detective sergeant walked briskly towards them, his thin lips stretched into a tight smile. His navy-blue suit was pristine, his dark hair smoothed into a side parting and his brogues held a dull sheen. A hit of lemon aftershave arrived ahead of him.

‘How does he even do that?’ She tried not to sound impressed. ‘I look and smell like wet dog.’

‘Freak,’ coughed Ross.

Detective Sergeant Ian Robertson greeted her with a polite nod, while ignoring Ross.

‘What’ve you got?’ Wheeler asked.

‘Male, deceased, fifty-four years old. Looks like he lived alone. One toothbrush, only male clothes in the wardrobe, nothing to suggest anyone else lived there.’

‘And?’

‘He was an educational psychologist. He was peripatetic, travelled around different schools across the city.’

‘And?’ Wheeler sighed; it was like drawing teeth. ‘Got a name?’

‘James Gilmore.’

She held out her hand. ‘Gimme those, Robertson, it’ll be bloody quicker for me to read them.’ She scanned the neatly written notes. Two boys had found the body. It was a far from pleasant sight as it had ‘shown considerable signs of beating’. The boys were in shock and the body was waiting for her inside. She thrust the notes back at the sergeant – ‘Fine,’ – turned, ‘Well, Ross, if you’re ready?’

Robertson held up his hand, neat, manicured nails, broad gold wedding band gleaming. ‘There’s something else.’

She paused. ‘Go on.’

‘I knew him.’

Wheeler whistled. ‘Geez, was he a friend?’

Robertson flinched. ‘No, nothing like that. We weren’t close. I didn’t know him well at all; I only met him once, twice maybe, that’s all.’

She waited.

He studied his shoes. ‘We met at one of the schools he visited.’

‘Which one?’

‘Watervale Academy.’

Wheeler recognised the name. The school was in the north of the city, slap-bang in the middle of a run-down shambles of a scheme. She knew that the school’s nickname was Waterfuck and having Academy tagged on was seen by some as a cruel joke thought up by the heid high yins in Glasgow City Council. Watervale catered for some of Glasgow’s most challenging kids.

‘The school for kids with behavioural problems?’ She looked at Robertson.

Robertson nodded. ‘Some have special needs too.’

‘Aye a special need to kick the shit out of anyone who gets in their way,’ muttered Ross.

Wheeler ignored him and addressed Robertson. ‘You there on police business?’ Like a lot of schools in the city, uniformed police sometimes had to visit. But CID was another thing. And it wasn’t even their area. She was curious why Robertson had visited the school. She waited. He hadn’t answered her question. ‘So why were you there?’

Robertson looked at the ground, the rain damping his hair. Still it remained in place. He glanced at Ross, winced, ‘Personal business.’

She saw his discomfort. Felt the tension between the two men deepen. Decided to ignore it – they were meant to be grown-ups and she wasn’t their mammy. Heard her mobile ring. Checked the number. Her sister. Ignored her too.

Wheeler watched as a SOCO passed, his suit rustling as he walked, before turning . . .