Silenced (Wheeler and Ross Book 2) Read online

  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.

  Chapter 4

  ‘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 fro
m 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 before she announced, to a silent room, ‘A body has been found in our area.’

  A slurred prompt: ‘Go on, Wheeler.’

  ‘All I know at present is that we’re looking at a murder in the Tollcross Road area.’ She grabbed her coat and made for the door. Ross stood, pulled on his leather jacket and stared after her. ‘Guess I’ll be paying, then.’ But she was gone.

  The music was switched on again, but the party was over. The atmosphere in the room was subdued. Officers who were on duty in the morning either finished their drinks quickly or abandoned them. No point in going in to a murder inquiry with a hangover. Jackets were collected. Wives, husbands and taxis were called. It was home time.

  Outside, the weather raged around them. Thunder growled across the skyline as lightning flashed. ‘Thundersnow,’ muttered Wheeler, pulling up the collar of her coat as a taxi turned into Byres Road. She flagged it down.

  ‘So much for a night off and a wee break.’ Ross opened the door for her.

  Wheeler climbed in, gave the driver instructions and, once on their way, turned to Ross. ‘Quit whining. Don’t you know—’

  ‘Aye. Your usual refrain, “Some poor sod has been battered/shot/strangled to death”, delete as applicable, and here I am whining about the weather/timing/football results. Am I right?’

  Wheeler skelped his arm, then ignored him, preferring instead to stare out of the window as they started their journey across the city, from the West End, where red-sandstone tenement flats began around the hundred-thousand-pound mark, to the East End, where similar flats facing Tollcross Park went for half that.

  A few minutes later the driver broke the silence: ‘You polis, then?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Ross.

  ‘So I suppose you’ll not be able to tell me what this is about?’

  ‘Right,’ Ross replied.

  ‘I’m guessing you’re not uniform, so you’re CID, plus you’re leaving a night out by the looks of it, so I’d guess there’s been a death?’

  Silence.

  ‘And you can’t talk about it?’

  ‘Have you been working all evening?’ asked Wheeler.

  ‘Just came on about half an hour ago.’

  ‘You get any fares take you across the city to Tollcross?’

  ‘Sometimes, but not the night. Tollcross Road, though, near the park? That where we’re heading? The wife loves that park.’

  ‘That so?’ said Ross. ‘She use it a lot?’

  ‘Christ, aye. During the summer she’s never away from it. It’s the roses, son, she’s mad about them . . . We don’t have a garden and that rose garden’s famous – must be thousands of plants, all different types, mind . . . And the awards they win, a Garden of Excellence. The wife keeps up with it all. Lovely wee spot. Peaceful.’

  ‘Not tonight,’ muttered Ross.

  Chapter 5

  Twenty minutes later the taxi pulled up on Tollcross Road. Wheeler threw open the door and stepped onto an icy pavement. Ahead she could see the flashing lights of the patrol cars and a white SOCO tent had already been erected, along with spotlights to illuminate the scene. Beside her there was a row of parked cars and she saw Graham Reaper lurking behind one. ‘DI Wheeler, I need a quick word.’

  ‘Leave it, Grim.’

  ‘I could have it on the first page, lead with it? You might get a quick response from the public. Somebody must have seen something. What about it, eh?’

  ‘All in good time, Grim.’

  Reaper nodded to the police and SOCO vehicles. ‘I see that the Beamer’s not here. The Professor not on duty, then?’

  ‘Apparently Professor Callum Fraser’s not on duty,’ said Wheeler. ‘Well spotted, Grim, but I’m sure they’ve provided another pathologist.’

  ‘Fraser’s taking his sweet time getting back,’ Reaper complained. ‘If the Professor was here he’d give me the scoop.’

  Wheeler and Ross ignored him and walked on.

  ‘You reckon Grim had a point?’ asked Ross. ‘If Callum was on duty, he’d give him the heads-up?’

  ‘Callum wouldn’t give Grim a cold,’ said Wheeler. ‘And since Callum’s not here, let’s go see who’s replacing him.’

  Ross walked on, his head bent into the weather. ‘A guy called Matt Elliot’s been seconded into the post.’

  ‘I’m impressed, Ross – and you know this because?’

  ‘I bumped into Laura in the pub last night. She says he’s some arty-farty type.’

  ‘Thought that was your pet insult for me?’

  ‘His hobby is photography and apparently Laura reckons he’s pretty good. He’s got an exhibition coming up at the Arthouse. Laura wants to go.’

  Wheeler glanced at him. ‘You seeing your ex Laura Mearns again? And you’ve just broken up with Sarah? You’re a quick worker, Ross. ’

  ‘Laura and I are just friends.’ Ross studied the pavement. ‘Fresh snowfall. I’ll bet we get nothing. The bastard got in and out and the snow covered his tracks.’

  ‘Talk about positive thinking,’ muttered Wheeler, as they arrived at the edge of the crime scene. A taut ribbon of police tape cordoned off the area, and behind it, the do-not-enter message was reinforced by the impressive bulk of Constable Gareth Wilson. He stood stony-faced and rested a clipboard on the rotund stomach that extended proudly in front of him. Behind him stood Detective Sergeant Ian Robertson, his dark hair slicked back and his suit, as ever, pristine. Robertson was speaking to a member of the public and was making detailed notes. Beyond him a group of rubberneckers were straining to get a look at what was happening. SOCOs, all wearing the regulatory white suits and bootees, were carefully searching the scene. The space had been carved into sections and each SOCO had been assigned a specific area to cover. They moved silent as ghosts in the freezing night. Ross held up the tape while she ducked underneath.

  Wheeler strode across to the constable. ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘Road gritter name of Clive Hill was driving by, noticed a foot protruding from behind a skip. Parked up and discovered the body.’

  Wheeler looked across at a police car. Inside, a white face peered out at her. ‘That Mr Hill?’

  Wilson nodded. ‘Looks pretty distraught.’

  ‘Well, tell them to get him back to the station and give him a cup of tea and a biscuit. I’ll be back once I’ve seen what’s happening here. Is there a name?’

  Wilson che
cked his notes. ‘Victim was identified as Cameron Craig.’

  ‘And we know this because?’

  ‘Clive Hill identified him. Seems they’ve chatted a few times and Cameron Craig was the name he gave. Hill said that the victim was homeless and that he was living rough.’

  ‘Anything else? Did the victim have a Big Issue identification badge?’

  ‘Nothing to formally ID him . . .’ the constable produced an evidence bag ‘. . . but this was lying beside the body.’

  Wheeler held the plastic bag up to the light. Inside there was a damp business card, its edges curled. The image was of a moon reflecting on water and a line of text. She read aloud, ‘“What will you create today that will make your tomorrow better?”’ She turned it over. ‘“The Letum Institute.”’ She glanced at Wilson. ‘That it?’

  ‘’Fraid so. But at least it’s something to go on.’

  ‘True. We have a starting point. Any prints?’

  ‘Nothing so far. The snow’s been falling continually, no visible tyre marks or footprints. Think the gritter truck kind of messed with the road tracks.’