Silenced

Book 2: Wheeler and Ross

by Anne Randall

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

He buried his victim alive. And now he's escaped from prison and is on the run in the city. Fiona Henderson, the daughter of the victim, has descended into a world of silence following her mother's murder - and has suddenly gone missing. Next, the body of a homeless person is found among the rubbish in a deserted alleyway. As DIs Wheeler and Ross investigate, more suspicious deaths occur and a pattern emerges: the victims are all homeless. And so the police are pitched against a killer who is hellbent on a mission to rid the streets of the vulnerable and dispossessed. With their investigation taking them further into Glasgow's netherworld, Wheeler and Ross uncover a criminal class ruthlessly willing to exploit the disaffected and a city of double standards, where morality is bought and sold. When the killer begins stalking DI Wheeler, she and Ross realise that the threat has become personal. Praise for Anne Randall: 'Brilliant' The Sun 'Assured and clever' Daily Mail

Release date: September 3, 2015

Publisher: Constable

Print pages: 368

Sample

Friday, 31 January, 9 a.m.

 

Glasgow was in the throes of the worst storm since records began and the name for it was Thundersnow. Thunder growled across the skyline as snow fell hard and fast over the city. In George Square, sleet fell over the stone lions that guarded the City Chambers, and the wind rapped hard and persistently on the windows. The other statues in the square remained stoic while a lone pigeon balanced on the head of Robert Burns and scrutinized the area for discarded food. The pavements were slippery and the gutters surged with water. New Year and its gaudy celebrations were long gone and only the frozen final day of January remained.

In Carmunnock, the Rose Memorial Crematorium, a low red-brick building, surrounded by a garden of remembrance, was open for business. The officiant at the service was Raymond Crook, an emaciated man who sported a slim pencil moustache. Crook stepped forward, gripped the side of the lectern, cleared his throat and began: ‘We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Chrissie Haedyear . . .’

Mark Haedyear sat listening to the description of the woman who had given birth to him. He would not think of her as mother. They had disowned each other early in their relationship, equally matched in their revulsion. Prison Officer Gerry McClure sat on Haedyear’s left and stifled a sneeze, burying his mottled nose in a menthol tissue. On Haedyear’s right, a second officer, Bill Irving, sat erect, stared straight ahead and kept his hands tightly clasped on his knee as a sheen of sweat spread across his bald head.

Haedyear glanced out through the snow-splattered windows and saw the trees bend to the wind’s demand. He heard the wind shriek and dance and felt that somehow it, too, was celebrating the death of Chrissie. Like Irving, Haedyear’s hands were clasped tightly and blue veins bulged under pale skin. The sleeves of his jacket only partly concealed the handcuffs. Haedyear felt the excitement rise but fought it down. Not yet. He forced himself to remain calm and to think mundane thoughts. He imagined the furnace and the flames that would consume first the coffin, then the body within, knew that the heat would be blistering, maybe even 1000 Celsius. It would devour everything, leaving only a residue of ash. Haedyear had calculated the amount: there would be as little as four pounds of her left. Four pounds of dirt to dump on the earth outside.

‘Now let us remember . . .’

The eulogy had come as part of the cheapest funeral package available, a generic, fill-in-the-deceased’s-details type of thing. Her name they already had. That he was the next of kin was the most important detail he had provided. It meant that he was in charge. He closed his eyes and listened to the deceased being described by a man who had never met her.

‘Chrissie Haedyear was a devoted wife and a loving mother.’

Well, the first part was true. His childhood had ended the day his father died. When he was five, his beloved father had been dead a year and it had been Haedyear’s first day at school. A milestone. Chrissie had knelt before him and placed her hands on his shoulders. For a moment he had hoped for a mother. Instead he heard her usual refrain, her shrill voice, hoarse with hatred: ‘You are the fucking reason I drink. Do you hear me?’

He had gone to school, face covered with vodka-soaked spittle. She had kept on at him until he was seven, when he’d grabbed the steel poker and turned on her. The blood had silenced her and she’d never touched him again. At twelve, thanks to his father’s legacy, he’d gone to Oakwood, which he’d left at eighteen to attend university. He had never visited the house again, had never even seen Chrissie. And now she would be incinerated.

‘. . . and Chrissie, a woman who surely did her best all her life, will indeed be sadly missed.’

‘Come here, you little shit. I want to kill you.’

‘. . . a woman who cared greatly for her husband and child.’

‘I wish you had never been born.’

‘. . . but she will live for ever in the thoughts of the loved ones she has left behind.’

‘You’ll never be loved. Who could love a fuck-up like you?’

Haedyear opened his eyes and scanned the mourners. There were five in all. They were all old neighbours from Clarkston. Chrissie had had no friends who would grieve over her death. No one to hear the news that she had finally drunk herself to death. Haedyear knew that Chrissie had wanted to be laid to rest beside her adored husband in the graveyard. ‘Cremation,’ he’d told them at the Rose Memorial, ‘and scatter her ashes in the garden of remembrance.’ He glanced at his watch: there were a few more minutes to kill.

Eventually it was over. Haedyear watched the coffin disappear and the curtains close. He turned to McClure. ‘I need a quick trip to the Gents and then we can head back. I just want to say how much I appreciate you coming all the way out here just to let me say goodbye to my mother. She was a wonderful woman and I’ll miss her very much.’ McClure and Irving grunted their condolences and the trio walked out of the room and headed for the toilets. The sweat on Irving’s head had solidified, like a film of skin around a hard-boiled egg. He went ahead and scoured the cubicles for unlocked windows, a false ceiling, a concealed exit. He returned and told them, ‘Nothing, all okay.’

He lied.

McClure sneezed loudly into a crumpled tissue. ‘Christ, Haedyear, be quick. I’m dying here.’

Haedyear smiled. ‘Will do.’

And he was.

In his badly lit office at the Glasgow Chronicle, Graham Reaper sat at his desk eating a lukewarm mince pie. Flakes of greasy pastry and minute grains of salty meat floated onto the keyboard of his computer until finally he noticed, leaned down and blew hard, dispersing the tiny shards. The reporter’s pallor was as grey as the pastry and his eyes were bloodshot. He glanced at the clock: in an hour he would have another liquid break. A pint of heavy. Sustenance. Just the one. He’d only have the one. Aye, right. Mibbe. When his mobile rang he dumped the pie on his desk and checked the number. He spoke quickly: ‘Aye?’ As chief reporter he didn’t have to trouble himself with manners – it was enough to be efficient.

‘Grim?’

Reaper listened to the wheeze, recognized the tremor in the voice. Jimmy Westcott, kitchen porter at the jail, badly needed a drink. Reaper knew that Westcott was also a heavy smoker and keen gambler and lost more in a month than he’d ever earned. He wasn’t quite the poster boy for healthy living. ‘Okay, Westie, what’ve you got?’

‘I’ve got a cracking wee story for you, Grim.’

‘Well, spit it out.’

A pause. ‘The thing is, I need the money upfront. I owe a bit here and there and the guys I’m talking about, well, you don’t mess with them. I’m serious, Grim, they’re not reasonable . . .’ His voice drifted off.

Reaper kept his tone the right side of bored. ‘Not my problem, Westie. ’

Silence.

Reaper gave Westcott enough time to consider his severely limited options. He heard the rattle of a cough. A spit. A sigh. Then Westcott began to wheeze out his information in short, secretive bursts. Reaper grabbed a pen and took quick, urgent notes. Five minutes later he switched off his mobile and knew that he had the lead story. He hammered the digits into his mobile – his next call was to the police media liaison officer. Their conversation was brief but throughout it Reaper typed furiously. Then he called the crematorium. Unsurprisingly it was closed. He called the emergency contact and got a number for the officiant, Raymond Crook. Reaper knew that Crook would be with the police, but he’d get to him later. He also knew that it was useless to try to contact Gerry McClure and Bill Irving, the two prison officers involved. They would be suspended while the investigation was conducted. Reaper’s gut instinct told him that at least one of them had been complicit in the escape. At this point he didn’t know which one or why, or what Haedyear had on him. He guessed that serious threats would have been made, perhaps to a family member, but unearthing that story was for another time. Right now he had the scoop.

Outside, the weather raged against the building and the wind spat hail at the glass windows. In a few minutes he had finished the online news. He sat back, picked up the last bite of pie and scoffed it while reading his work.

Murderer Escapes

Police are today hunting for a murderer who absconded from prison while temporarily released on compassionate leave. Convicted killer Mark Haedyear, 38, escaped in what can only be described as an audacious act while attending a service for his mother, Chrissie Haedyaer, at the Rose Memorial Crematorium in Carmunnock. After the service had concluded, Haedyear managed to escape through a window at the rear of the building.

Haedyear, originally from the Clarkston area of the city, was a former pupil at the prestigious Oakwood School and had served only three years of a life sentence for the abduction and murder of Amanda Henderson in 2011. Mrs Henderson, 35, was an art historian who had been invited to deliver a lecture at Southside College, where Haedyear also worked.

After abducting his victim, Haedyear kept her prisoner in an underground chamber in a woodland area close to his home. During an intensive police investigation, Haedyear had been interviewed with the rest of the college staff but was subsequently released. It was only after police received an anonymous tip-off that his home, car and the adjoining woodland area were searched and Amanda Henderson’s body found.

Police are appealing for the public’s help in tracing Haedyear, and earlier a police spokesperson had this to say: ‘Mark Haedyear is an extremely dangerous criminal and should not be approached. If you have any information at all about this person, please call the number below. I can assure you that all calls will be treated in the strictest confidence.’

Haedyear is described as white, five foot nine with a slim build. He has cropped fair hair and green eyes.

Earlier today a member of staff at the crematorium said, ‘I’m extremely shocked by this incident and hope that it does not reflect badly on the Rose Memorial Crematorium. When prisoners are on compassionate leave they are usually heavily guarded and their entry and exit from any area is closely monitored. I can’t imagine how this happened.’

It is thought that Haedyear escaped through the window and scrambled across open countryside to make his getaway. While he could have been acting independently there has also been the suggestion that he may have had an accomplice in order to facilitate the speed of his escape while wearing handcuffs. The two officers who were supervising the prisoner have been interviewed by the police and released. They will, however, be suspended from duty while an inquiry is conducted.

 

Reaper typed up the telephone numbers the police had issued and sat back in his chair. Decided the piece read well enough. Job done. He glanced at the clock. Time for a pint. Just the one, he told himself. Aye, mibbe.

Tollcross Road. The road was deserted, the lights from the small shops and cafés had been extinguished, metal grilles and shutters dragged across doors and windows. Alarms had been set and their red eyes winked in the dark. In an alleyway the wind gusted salty chip wrappers around doorways as an ancient grey rat risked a foray into the blue skip parked behind Lou’s Place. It was overflowing with plastic refuse bags, polystyrene cartons, crisp packets and scraps of meat from discarded kebabs. Soiled paper napkins bled crimson sauce into the mess. The rat sat on his hind legs, two front paws in the air, as if begging, but he was sniffing for danger. His nose quivered for a moment as he paused before sensing that it was safe to proceed. He gnawed quickly, feasting on bits of meat while his rheumy eyes scanned the street. He watched. Listened. He stayed alert but he was safe for the moment. There was no one around and the foul-smelling skip was unremarkable, except that on the road beside it the tip of a scruffy black trainer protruded. It was cheap and well-worn. The old rat nibbled on his dinner, his half-blind eyes darting from the alleyway to the road and back until he heard rather than saw the gritting truck approach. Although still hungry, he abandoned his meal and, trailing his mangled leg behind him, crawled into the safety of darkness.

Clive Hill was at the wheel of the truck. He was forty-seven. A born introvert, Hill craved the solitude of the permanent night shift. He was unused to crowds and noise and had worked alone for thirty years. Every winter he gritted the roads, driving steadily through the night. In his free time he walked the city, tracing the old lanes and alleyways, the abandoned factories and deserted buildings. He knew Glasgow intimately, had uncovered the city’s hidden gems. He walked in the early hours of morning, around dawn, when foxes slunk through the streets, their amber eyes the eyes of wolves. Hill had watched animals who lie hidden and watchful during daylight hours, venture out under cover of darkness. He’d seen bats sail through the night air, their nocturnal dance witnessed only by himself and an indifferent moon. But if Hill had uncovered gems, he also knew what the shadows of the city concealed, its hidden shame. He’d seen rain sluice blood and hair from the streets and had felt the violence linger in the air. But Hill loved Glasgow, and over the years he had accepted and understood just about everything that the city had offered. Sometimes he had even excused it. Until now.

When the lights from his truck had picked out the outline of the trainer, Hill had braked sharply, switched on the hazards and jumped onto the frozen ground. He had landed awkwardly on the icy pavement and had to steady himself against the door of the truck. He glanced around but there was no one in sight – he double-checked before he approached the body. He knelt on one knee at the side of the skip, felt the snow seep through his trouser leg and spread a cold, damp stain over his skin. He shivered, looked at the man lying before him and stared into a face he recognized. ‘Shit.’ He leaned towards the body, checked for breathing but heard nothing, only the wail of a far-off siren fading into the night. He took out his mobile and pressed the same digit three times. Then he began speaking. Slowly at first, so that the woman at the other end of the line could understand what he was saying. He was asked to repeat himself and did so until the police had been summoned.

He stood in the snow, heard thunder roll across the city. Watched the flakes falling silently. Waited. Hill did not touch the body, did not look at it. He would not allow himself to wonder what had happened. He told himself that the police would come and that they would take over. He wondered briefly about the tracks his truck might have obliterated, saw the snow grey and compacted by the vehicle’s tyres. Hill closed his eyes and let the storm wash over him. He allowed the snow to cling to his face, his eyes, his mouth. He allowed it to still him.

‘So, you’re saying I’m fucked.’ It was more of a statement than a question. Detective Inspector Kat Wheeler sat on a banquette in the alcove furthest from the stage and tried to make herself heard. Her blonde hair was shorn at the sides and longer on top, making a little quiff. She lifted a large glass of Chardonnay, took a sip and surveyed the food on the table in front of her. It was fare more suited to a wake. Scotch pies sat in pools of grease, fat bridies and sausage rolls hummed heart attack, and bowls of chips, with three types of mayonnaise, nudged the chances a little higher. But she had to eat. She decided the chips were the least toxic and speared a fat one with her fork. Around the room, the karaoke lights flashed green, red, blue and yellow on a continuous cycle. Acting Detective Inspector Steven Ross sipped his pint and reached for a piece of greasy garlic bread. He munched it before looking at her, blinking his long dark lashes over pale blue eyes. He waited a second before asking, ‘So, Stewart told you to forget it?’

‘Yep. Case closed.’ She glanced at a group of police officers huddled in front of the stage, the karaoke crew. ‘They’ll have hangovers from hell in the morning.’

‘Aye, but tonight’s the night to forget it all. Besides, it’s a celebration. Boyd got engaged and we solved the case.’

‘I’m not sure we’re celebrating the right result, Ross.’

‘We’re celebrating a result, a pretty good one in the circumstances.’

She looked at him, kept munching. Took another sip of wine. Waited.

He sighed. ‘You know the score, Wheeler. Sure you’ve photographic evidence, which may, just may, link Andy Doyle to James Gilmore but it’s a bit of a long shot.’

She finished the chip and reached for another. ‘It’s shit. Do you think I should take it higher?’

‘Come on, you already know the answer to that and, anyway, you’d get no support.’

She didn’t contradict him.

‘It would ruin their stats. From their point of view, the case is solved. Maurice Mason killed James Gilmore. Case closed. Two bastards are now off the radar, the heid-high yins are thrilled.’

‘Right. An ex-con was found dead.’ She speared another fat chip from the basket. Dipped it in the garlic mayonnaise. Ate. ‘And he was conveniently—’

Ross cut her off: ‘Wearing a St Christopher medal, which had been stolen from a murdered paedophile. You can see how it makes sense.’

‘It’s too neat, though, isn’t it?’

‘The top brass are delirious. The case is resolved. Big fucking result. You saw how Grim wrote it up in the Chronicle . . .’

‘Yeah, I remember. Carmyle police should be justifiably proud of their investigation.’

‘Just leave it, Wheeler. Pastures new and all that, and for starters that lunatic Haedyear’s done a runner.’

‘I know,’ said Wheeler. ‘You think he’ll head back to his old stomping ground, in Clarkston?’

‘He’d be a fool if he was even still in the city. My guess is he’ll be long gone,’ said Ross. ‘You think the two prison officers were in on it?’

Wheeler sipped her wine. ‘They’ve both been interviewed and released, but suspended from duty while the inquiry’s ongoing. Even if they’re not involved, they might end up losing their jobs.’

‘Seems a bit harsh if it was done by an outsider.’

‘But they weren’t thorough enough. I mean, Haedyear scarpered.’ Wheeler paused. ‘Anyway, should you be out on the ran-dan tonight, given that you’re going to be a dad?’

Ross shifted in his seat. ‘It’s all off again.’

‘The pregnancy?’

‘No, she’s still going ahead with it but it’s over between us.’

‘Again?’

‘Again.’

‘Because?’

‘She went into fantasy La-la Land.’

‘That’ll be the hormones kicking in.’

‘Wanted me to leave the force, get a nine-to-five. Be there for the kid.’

‘What did she suggest?’

‘Insurance.’

‘Right. I can just see you in insurance,’ said Wheeler.

‘She wanted the whole cartoon dream. Even the picket fence.’

‘Roses round the door?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But you’d miss the glamour of this job.’ Wheeler looked round the room. The Belter Bar and Grill was all about cheap booze and even cheaper artery-clogging deep-fried food. Even the humble vegetable had been coated in batter and deep-fried in fat. Tempura. Their boss DCI Stewart hadn’t turned up, but those who had were either swaying to the cheesy karaoke or looking distinctly glassy-eyed.

Ross sipped his pint. ‘I’m quite nervous about becoming a dad. Being a role model and all that stuff.’

‘You’ll be okay.’

‘Since we’re on the subject, did you ever want kids?’

Wheeler studied the contents of the chip basket. Speared a chip. Chewed. Said nothing.

Ross took the hint. He glanced across at the stage and changed the subject. ‘Look out, Boyd’s going up.’

Wheeler watched as Detective Constable Alexander Boyd lumbered towards the stage. ‘Nightmare. How does Boyd not even know how shit he is?’

‘Classic denial.’ Ross shuddered. They settled themselves for the trauma as Boyd took the stage and began comprehensively to strangle every note of Bryan Adams’s ‘(Everything I Do) I Do It For You’.

A police sergeant in a too-tight shiny black shirt roared from the back of the room, ‘Get them out for the boys!’ Boyd duly complied and opened his shirt to expose a generous expanse of flaccid flesh and tufts of thick dark chest hair. The team yelled and applauded as he gyrated and sang with no discernible talent in either department. Finally he finished and, flushed with success, left the stage to make his way to his fiancée. The upstairs function room in the bar was heaving, but not everyone in the place was drunk – the staff on the whole were pretty sober.

‘So, if not the case, at least let’s celebrate Boyd’s engagement.’ Ross raised his glass. ‘The happy couple look delirious.’

‘And stocious.’ Wheeler lifted hers.

‘That too.’

‘Has no one mentioned the fact that Boyd’s still married or would that just be inconvenient?’

‘It definitely would seem that way. Anyway, his wife refused a divorce – he’ll need to sit it out.’

‘That the lucky woman?’ Wheeler looked across to Boyd’s fiancée. Took in the tight red T-shirt, the short black skirt and the fishnets.

‘She looks like she’s dressed for work,’ said Ross. ‘Subtle she’s not.’

‘Tell me what she does again?’

‘She’s a burlesque dancer at Foaming Frothies. Boyd’s in Heaven.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Wheeler, as the screen on her mobile lit up. She glanced at the number, headed to the far corner and pressed the phone to her ear. She listened carefully before making her way back to Ross. ‘New case.’ She went behind the bar, switched on the overhead lights and killed the soundtrack. She ignored the yells and waited for the boos to subside befo. . .