Silenced (Wheeler and Ross Book 2) Read online

  She handed him the bag and made her way past two SOCOs, who were combing the ground for evidence. She entered the tent and announced herself to the man crouched over the body: ‘DI Kat Wheeler.’

  Ross was behind her. ‘DI Steven Ross.’

  The pathologist glanced at them, ‘Matt Elliot,’ then returned to his examination of the body. ‘I’m covering while Dr Fraser’s on holiday—’

  ‘Fraser’s on honeymoon in Gran Canaria,’ Ross finished for him. ‘And we get to freeze out here.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Elliot. ‘As far as I know he’s back in a few days, so he can recommence freezing.’

  Wheeler spoke: ‘So, Dr Elliot, what am I looking at? ’

  ‘Male, early twenties,’ said Elliot. ‘And I prefer Matt.’

  Ross peered at the body. ‘Was he killed on site?’

  ‘There’s nothing to suggest that he was dragged here – there are no imprints in the snow. In fact,’ Elliot muttered, ‘in this weather you’ll be lucky to get any footprints at all. He was just dumped beside all this refuse. Apologies for the odour from the skip.’

  ‘So, you may be kneeling next to all the evidence we have?’ said Wheeler.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Can you estimate the time of death?’

  ‘I can’t give you a precise time but, since rigor has set in, I’d say approximately two hours but it’s too early to call. I’ll need more time with the body to garner the facts.’

  Wheeler looked at the area around it. ‘There are no blood splatters and I take it no weapons have been found?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Elliot. ‘No lucky breaks by the look of it.’

  Wheeler bent over the corpse. The victim wore tight jeans, a cheap-looking T-shirt and a denim jacket. She studied the gaunt, elfin face. ‘Our victim had very fine features. Almost feline.’ She saw bruising around the neck and turned to the pathologist. ‘So what are we looking at? Strangulation?’

  ‘Obviously at this stage nothing’s conclusive but, yes, given the pattern of the bruises, I’d say that it looks likely.’

  Ross glanced at the body, swallowed. Looked away.

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Wheeler.

  ‘There are defence wounds on one hand and some bruising but, other than that, I can’t give you anything. At least, not until I meet up with him again back at the lab.’

  ‘I appreciate it,’ said Wheeler. She peered through the opening of the tent, watched the snow swirl around the scene and the SOCOs silent and precise, scrutinizing the frozen ground. ‘A desolate place to die, out here alone on a freezing night.’

  ‘If there’s ever a good place to be murdered,’ said Elliot. He stood and stretched, curving his spine and groaned. ‘Sorry, bloody tension in my lower back.’ He was around six three, lean, and his dark hair was shorn close to his head. He walked out of the tent. ‘This job’s not the best thing for backache.’

  ‘Sounds like you need a break,’ said Wheeler, following him out into the snow.

  ‘I’m just back from one – a road trip around the American Midwest in a hired Cadillac. ’

  ‘And you come back to this,’ said Wheeler.

  ‘It was worth it. Detroit was interesting, although the place has its own issues.’ He glanced back at the corpse. ‘Every city does.’

  The crime-scene photographer passed them, taking pictures of the scene, and Elliot spoke to one of the SOCOs: ‘I’m done here.’ The man gestured to two others, who had been waiting nearby.

  Wheeler watched them carry a body-bag into the tent. ‘We certainly have our challenges here in Glasgow.’

  Elliot turned to her. ‘The post-mortem will probably be scheduled for tomorrow, unless we have an emergency situation. Will you be attending?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Goodnight, then, DI Wheeler.’ Elliot walked towards his car.

  ‘Night, Dr Elliot.’

  Elliot turned back. ‘DI Wheeler?’

  She walked over, stood beside him. ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘I read about a convicted killer who escaped, Mark Haedyear. Do you think this death has anything to do with him?’

  ‘It’s too early to say.’

  ‘I did the post-mortem on his victim Amanda Henderson.’ He paused. ‘It was my first secondment here in Glasgow.’

  ‘It was a dreadful case,’ said Wheeler, ‘and it’s bloody awful that Haedyear has escaped.’

  Elliot got into his car, pressed the automatic button to wind down the window. ‘Can I offer you a lift?’

  She heard Thelonious Monk’s ‘Bolivar Blues’ drift into the night air. ‘I’m fine, thanks, Dr Elliot. Good taste in music, though.’

  ‘You like jazz?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Great minds,’ Elliot smiled, ‘and it’s Matt.’

  ‘Matt.’

  As he drove away, Wheeler turned and nearly collided with Ross.

  ‘Careful, Wheeler. You feeling a bit giddy?’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Elliot’s dazzling talent.’

  She ignored him.

  He sighed dramatically. ‘He had nice eyes, don’t you think? An unusual colour. Would you say violet?’

  ‘Shut it, you.’

  ‘Okay.’ He dropped the tone. ‘I’ve organized our lift back to the station.’

  ‘Soon. Let’s hang around for a bit and try to get a feel for the place.’

  ‘In this weather?’

  ‘Yes, in this weather,’ said Wheeler. ‘What do we have? A young homeless man is killed and his body dumped. Did he know his killer or was it random?’

  ‘Too soon to call.’

  ‘Poor sod, what a life. But presumably he’d be known at one of the shelters or at the soup run. And this card from the Letum Institute, you know anything about them?’

  ‘Never heard of them but we can pay them a wee visit tomorrow. Also the homeless units, if he was using them.’

  ‘In this weather they’re probably full. We’ll get to them tomorrow. For now, let uniform see what information they can get. Our victim might have been sleeping here on a regular basis – maybe someone in the local community knew him. ’

  ‘And them?’ Ross nodded to the rubberneckers they’d passed earlier. The group stood huddled together, their faces peering out from under brollies or hoods, desperate to get a closer look at the corpse and find out the story.

  ‘We’ll get through them all in time,’ said Wheeler. ‘Uniform will take statements – they can keep them up half the night since they don’t seem to have any bloody homes to go to. You get anything else while I was talking to Matt?’

  ‘We’ve located the owner of the takeaway and a car is being sent round to pick him up. He’ll be at the station waiting for us.’

  ‘Good.’ Wheeler moved away from the tent and the cars and walked to the far edge of the crime scene. Ross followed her.

  ‘If Matt’s right and the victim was killed at the scene, what was he doing here? And was the killer waiting for him? Or did he track his victim?’ she asked, ducking under the police cordon. The roads had been closed and they stood at the intersection between Tollcross Road, Wellshot Road and Braidfauld Street. ‘North, south, east or west, Ross. Which way should we be looking?’

  ‘Our killer could be anywhere in the city,’ said Ross. ‘Just because he has killed here means very little.’

  ‘Does he live in the East End? Is it important for him to have killed here?’

  ‘Or was the target here?’

  ‘DI Wheeler, are you giving the press conference tomorrow?’ Reaper shouted. ‘If so, what time?’

  Wheeler ignored him. ‘Talk about interrupting a line of thought. Let’s go.’

  Ross walked beside her. ‘Did you see Grim’s report in the Chronicle?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Statistics show that Glasgow has the lowest life expectancy in the UK.‘

  ‘Is that supposed to help the victim, Ross? Maybe act as a wee consolation, the idea that he wasn’t long for this world anyway?’

  ‘I only meant that he’s now part of the statistics and that they’re always skewed by crime. Glasgow’s not that unhealthy.’

  ‘It just the pesky dead folk messing up the stats? You worried you’ll keel over before making it through the ranks? Is that it, Ross? Is this about your ambition?’

  ‘I’m only saying that maybe the report sounds worse than it is, that if we take out the crime stats—’

  ‘You’re all heart, you do know that, don’t you?’ She watched the black body-bag being loaded into the van, heard Cameron Craig land on the support with a dull thud. He would be transported across town to the Southside mortuary at the Southern General Hospital complex. They watched the van drive off. Wheeler pulled her coat tight around her, shivered. ‘What kind of a bloody life did the poor guy have, living rough? Can you imagine sleeping out in this?’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t have a choice.’

  Wheeler said nothing. She saw the snow drift against the gates of the park and thought of the taxi driver and his wife visiting the rose gardens. Thought of Cameron Craig and heard the far-off thunder. ‘It looks like we’re done here.’ She began walking towards the police cars. ‘Come on, then. Let the uniforms do house-to-house and gather up the statements. Forensics will trawl through the skip. We’ll sift through their results tomorrow. Let’s get back to the station.’ She strode on through the sleet, all thoughts of the earlier night out gone, replaced by an image of a pale young man who had been brutally murdered, his body abandoned next to a skip in the middle of a snowstorm.

  Chapter 6

  Thanks to the broken radiator, the temperature in the interview room had reached minus numbers. Wheeler sat on a bright orange moulded-plastic chair, wrapped her fingers around her mug of coffee and watched the whorls of steam curl into the cold air while she waited for Clive Hill to compose himself. As if the man hadn’t been traumatized enough, she thought, he sat now in a freezing cold room. Beside her, Ross sipped his coffee.

  Eventually Wheeler spoke: ‘It’s okay, Mr Hill, take your time. When we’re finished here, we’ll arrange to have someone take you home.’

  Hill stared at the old desk, as if reading the pockmarks and graffiti might give him the answer to what had just happened. His coffee sat in front of him going cold. Eventually he glanced at her and nodded. ‘Okay. What is it you need to know?’

  Wheeler kept her voice gentle: ‘Mr Hill, I realize you’ve had a shock but we need to ask you a few questions.’

  Hill said nothing.

  Wheeler prompted, ‘Can you talk us through what happened tonight? Just tell us from when you started your shift and try to give us as much detail as you can remember. Anyone or anything you saw or heard. Anything at all.’

  Hill’s voice was so low Wheeler had to lean forward to hear it: ‘I was on my usual shift. The route runs through the East End, takes in most of Tollcross Road. Just gritting the road, you understand. Nothing to it. See the odd injured animal, or stocious drunk, but other than that, nothing.’ Hill stared hard at the desk.

  ‘Can you think about just before you discovered the body? Did you see anything odd or out of the ordinary?’ asked Wheeler. ‘Was there anyone out on the road, walking home maybe or walking their dog? Anyone at all?’

  Hill thought about it. He blinked. ‘I’ve seen enough over the years in Glasgow but nothing like this. Not ever. I mean a body. Poor wee guy.’

  ‘You knew the victim, didn’t you, Mr Hill?’

  ‘Knew him to speak to. He was homeless. Some of them sleep rough in doorways or alleyways, some go to squats. It’s a rubbish life they have and there’s an argument to say he might be better off now.’

  ‘Better off dead?’ said Wheeler.

  ‘He might find some peace.’

  ‘Are you a religious man, Mr Hill?’

  ‘I believe that there’s a God and some sort of afterlife, if that’s what you mean. It’s His people I’m not so keen on . . . but animals, I like animals. They don’t mean no harm.’ There was a tremor in his voice.

  ‘Did Cameron say anything else about his life?’ said Wheeler. ‘For example, anything about where he stayed, or who he was friends with?’

  ‘He mentioned that he had a pal. I think it was a lassie.’

  ‘Did he mention her name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is there anything else he told you? Anything at all?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Did he mention if he had any family?’

  Hill shook his head. ‘No, he never mentioned anything about a family. I’ve no idea if he had one. We just exchanged a few words now and again. I slipped him a few bob, seeing as he was down on his luck. But he never said much. As I said, I’m not that interested in folk, or in their stories. I just felt a bit sorry for him.’

  Wheeler placed the clear evidence bag on the table. ‘Do you recognize this?’

  Hill glanced at it. ‘No.’

  ‘Would you mind taking a closer look at it?’

  ‘Don’t need to. I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you just took a look,’ said Wheeler.

  Hill stared at her. ‘Am I supposed to recognize it?’

  Wheeler heard the change in Hill’s tone. ‘You’re not under suspicion, Mr Hill.’

  ‘It’s beginning to feel like it.’

  ‘You’re only helping us with our enquiries.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘The card was found beside Cameron’s body.’

  Hill shrugged. ‘I told you, I never saw any card.’

  ‘Does the Letum Institute mean anything to you?’

  Hill paused for a second. ‘I’ve been to a few talks.’

  ‘Can you tell me more about it?’

  ‘It’s just a place where they have lots of talks and presentations.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Different stuff.’

  ‘And you attended these talks?’

  ‘A couple over the years.’

  ‘Can you remember what they were about?’

  ‘Some were psychological. There was one on Carl Jung. It’s interesting to sit and listen to experts. There’ve been a couple on the whole science versus spirituality argument. Guy called Ramsey gave a particularly good lecture on that.’

  ‘But Cameron Craig never mentioned the Letum?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you never bumped into him there?’

  ‘I don’t think it would’ve been his kind of place.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Just a hunch. He never mentioned books or anything.’

  Wheeler asked a few more questions before ending the interview. Clive Hill had given them all he was going to. She stood. ‘If you wait here, I’ll arrange for you to be taken home, Mr Hill. Once again, thank you for your time.’

  When they left the room, she turned to Ross. ‘Your take?’

  ‘He certainly changed his tone.’

  ‘Agreed. It could just be shock but I think we’ll keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Now for the owner of the takeaway, Lou’s Place.’

  A uniformed constable passed her in the corridor. ‘DCI Stewart’s already interviewed him. Then he asked me to drive Mr O’Keeffe home.’

  ‘Right,’ said Wheeler, heading into the CID suite. ‘No doubt Stewart will give us the update later.’

  ‘He’s gone,’ said the constable. ‘He got a phone call from home, said something about his wife.’

  ‘Adrianne?’

  ‘Seems she’s not too well.’

  Wheeler sat at her desk.

  Ross crossed to the kettle, made two coffees and put one in front of her. ‘Long night ahead, Wheeler, for us if not for Stewart.’

  Chapter 7

  ‘He absolutely slaughtered them.’

  Matt Elliot was standing in his kitchen, which, like the rest of his house, was Arts and Crafts. Oak cabinets concealed the minutiae of living while copper wall lamps cast a warm glow across the room. A dark green Aga emitted a steady, comforting heat. Outside the weather raged but the stained-glass windows, with their green and red stars set against a midnight blue background, reflected a quiet luminosity. The old stone mansion retained the heat, its thick walls a barrier to the freezing temperatures outside.

  ‘The evening flew by – honestly, it was absolutely amazing. The guy fucking nailed it. You should’ve been there.’

  Elliot poured his old school-friend Philip Bishop a whisky, then one for himself and dropped two ice cubes into his glass. ‘I would have been there, except I had to work.’

  ‘Some unlucky bastard got snuffed?’ Bishop sipped his drink.

  Elliot winced. ‘If you’re asking about the crime scene, then, yes, earlier this evening a man was murdered.’

  ‘Poor sod,’ said Bishop. ‘Anyway, about the guy tonight, it was an outrageous set. Unbelievable. You would have loved it. The audience were dead in the aisles.’

  ‘Where was he on – a comedy club?’

  ‘Are you kidding me? He was on at the SECC. The gig sold out in a few days. The guy’s huge. A fucking titan of comedy.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Damn right.’

  ‘Pretty young, though, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s in his late twenties, I think.’

  ‘The poor victim tonight was only in his twenties.’

  ‘Aye, well, different roads and all that, but having it all at his age, the awards, the sell-out gigs, a meteoric career. The whole fucking works. He’s a jammy bugger.’ Bishop raised his glass.

  Elliot leaned across to him and clinked. ‘Jammy right enough, but we’ll leave him to his fame, will we?’

  ‘Aye, good luck to him.’

  ‘Now, what about our show?’

  ‘Your show. You’re the talent. You took the photos.’

  ‘Ours. You have the venue.’

  ‘Aye, the fabulous Arthouse. Once a church and now a temple to hedonism.’

  ‘The very place,’ said Elliot. ‘Let’s go through to the study. They’re all organized.’

  The photographs had been framed and numbered and were stacked against the far wall, ready to be swathed in bubble-wrap and transported to the Arthouse. Elliot walked across to them. ‘I’m trying to be objective but it’s difficult when it’s your own work.’