Shadow Man, page 19
A quick look round the room while that sinks in. ‘I know there’s a lot of stuff in the media right now about what a sterling job we’re doing. Or not, right? Well, forget that. Put it right out of your minds. Because I know the effort we’re all putting into this, and I know it’s going to pay off.’
A voice from the back of the room. ‘We’re assuming it’s the same guy, right?’
‘Treating them as separate but linked, yes. So what we need to look at is—’
Heads turning as the door opens. A bulky presence fills the doorway, dark, grey-flecked hair cut to accentuate an imagined resemblance to George Clooney – just about possible, Mahler concedes, if Clooney lived on a diet of Big Macs and pints of heavy – and sporting purple-yellow bruises round each eye, like a particularly ill-advised pair of shades. Andy ‘Marmite’ Black, Burnett Road’s finest. At least, according to Andy Black.
‘Feeling better, Andy?’ Mahler makes his mouth approximate a smile. ‘We’ll be done in ten minutes.’
Black takes a long, leisurely look around the room until he catches sight of Karen. ‘No worries. I’ll catch up with DS Gilchrist in the meantime—’
‘As I said, we’ll be free in ten minutes. There’s an office booked upstairs, if you check with Admin.’
Silence. Black’s jaw working what’s either a wad of chewing gum or the inside of his cheek as Mahler waits. Then a grudging nod. ‘Fine. See you in ten.’
As the door closes behind Black, Mahler hands over to Fergie for the duty allocations. Digging deeper into Donnie Stewart’s life falls to Gary, backed up by a couple of uniforms, and Donna’s tasked with tracking down Connor Ryan while Pete starts piecing together everything they have. House-to-house enquiries haven’t yielded much so far, but Mahler’s not ruling them out yet. The properties near the Ness Islands are a mix of care homes, flats and B&Bs with a sprinkling of larger houses, many still in single ownership. And the greater the mix of properties, the greater the potential pool of witnesses.
‘Talk to everyone,’ Mahler finishes up. ‘Nursing staff on late shifts, delivery drivers, insomniacs – anyone who might have been around on the night of the murder. Anything they mention that might be relevant, let’s get it noted. Remember, we had Stewart downstairs in the custody suite not that long ago, sleeping off a drinking bout. I’ll leave you to imagine the headlines once the press get wind of that one. So we go back to the beginning with this, right back – where was Stewart hiding out? What was he living on since Morven’s murder? He must have had funds from somewhere.’
‘Could have been living rough,’ Gary offers.
‘So ask around again – usual places, usual faces. And take a look at any break-ins to unoccupied buildings recently – garages, sheds, anywhere he could have holed up. He was a functioning alcoholic, so flash his mugshot in the pubs, the supermarkets, anywhere he might have got booze from. Look, this is Inverness, not London – people interact. Someone will know where Stewart’s been living, what he’s been doing. We just have to find them.’
‘Do you think there’s a connection, boss?’ Fergie asks when the team’s left. ‘Between Stewart and Connor Ryan, I mean?’
Mahler shrugs. There has to be a connection between Stewart and Morven’s killer, and Ryan might have – might have – had a motive after Anna had broken up with him. But fifteen years later? He looks across at the whiteboard image of Connor Ryan, culled from a now defunct Facebook page.
Taken on a skiing holiday with a group of colleagues, it shows Ryan giving the obligatory thumbs up for the camera. Suntanned, athletic, sporting the kind of wide, half-vacuous grin the unimaginative like to call ‘infectious’, Ryan looks like no one’s vision of a multiple murderer. But then, Mahler reflects, neither had Ted Bundy.
‘It’d be nice and tidy, wouldn’t it? And God knows, we could use some of that right now. But take a look at this.’ He holds up a battered red-top decorated with the ghosts of abandoned coffee cups, and flips it open. ‘From our showbiz correspondent: “The truth behind the smiles – Morven Murray’s colleagues speak out.” If one-eighth of these comments are actual quotes, Morven was about as well-loved by her co-workers as the Grim Reaper.’
Fergie peers over his shoulder. ‘Nice. “Selfish control freak Morven made my life a misery” – Christ, that’s from one of her co-presenters! Didn’t take them long to get the knives out, did it?’
Not the best choice of words, Mahler reflects. But the article provides more confirmation that Morven hadn’t been as universally adored as her mother had chosen to believe. People who’d cosied up to her on TV were coming forward to air ancient grievances, certain of their audience now Morven could no longer face them down.
‘These people are the harmless ones, though,’ he points out. ‘They’re just venting. We’re looking for someone with enough of a grievance to kill for – and it looks as though our pool of potentials just keeps getting bigger.’
‘So where do we go next?’
The call logs. Most of the numbers have been accounted for, but there are a couple of numbers on the list that Pete hasn’t managed to trace. Mahler tells Fergie to get him to take another look at them. ‘And talk to Glyn Hadley again. Don’t stand for any waffle about client confidentiality – he was Morven’s agent for years, he knows who she had major fall-outs with.’
Mahler glances at his mobile. A message from Karen, with a scowling badger emoji, indicating Black’s about to enter carpet-chewing mode. ‘Right, I’m needed upstairs. If anything comes in about Connor Ryan or Donnie Stewart, I want to know right away.’
Forty-five minutes later, Mahler’s back at his desk. The handover briefing with Andy Black and Karen had been scheduled to run for a full hour, but he’d already ensured Black had been emailed all the relevant updates beforehand. True, the rest of the time could have been used for an informal discussion about the way forward, but Black had made it clear he’d be looking at the suggestion that Gemma, Kevin’s girlfriend, had been having an affair with Eddie Scrimgeour, a gaunt and vicious house-breaker with a string of violent offences to his name.
According to Black’s ‘source’, Scrimgeour had taken it badly when she’d ended the affair and vowed revenge. But as there’s no evidence that Gemma even knew Scrimgeour and the source happens to be Kevin’s embittered alcoholic ex, Mahler had resisted the urge to suggest Black stops mixing his painkillers with strong drink. He’d invented an urgent phone call and made his escape. Karen had given him a reproachful look, but it was either that or introduce Black’s face to the surface of the desk. Repeatedly.
He opens his emails and watches the screen populate with a forest of red flags. Crime statistics response to be actioned. The latest overtime totals versus projected figures, with a comment from June that looks to be ninety per cent exclamation marks and scowling emoticons. And two requests for annual leave or a duty swap next month, one from Pete and one from Gary, both pleading special circumstances. Both just happening to coincide with the Tartan Heart music festival at Belladrum. As Fergie would say, aye, right. He sends them a one-line reply and opens the crime statistics report.
‘Boss—’
He doesn’t bother looking up. ‘No chance, Pete. Not even if your long-lost brother is headlining at Bella with—’
‘They’ve got the rest of the mobile.’
While he’d been briefing June, word had come in that the crime scene search had been completed. Stewart had been standing near the footbridge when he was attacked and the initial struggle had taken place there, not far from where Mahler had seen the shards of plastic. But his assailant had dragged him further down the bank towards the burn, presumably to minimise the chance of being seen, and continued the attack there.
‘It’s in a hell of a state,’ Pete warns him. ‘Smashed to bits. But the motherboard and chips are in reasonable nick, so there’s a chance the tech guys at Gartcosh will recover some data from it. Good one, eh?’ Pete’s grin wavers as he looks down at the Post-it stuck to his hand. ‘Oh, aye, and we’ve got some more info on Connor Ryan.’
The look on Pete’s face tells him he’s not going to like this one. ‘He’s inside? Or joined a religious order? Left the country?’
‘I wish. If he was banged up, at least we’d be able to find him. But since he left his job, he hasn’t gone anywhere or done anything – it’s like he’s dropped off the edge of the world.’
‘He can’t be living on fresh air. Cash point records? Supermarket shops? Online purchases? The man can’t have just vanished!’
Pete shakes his head. ‘Sorry, boss. But it looks like he’d been planning to do just that. The week before he disappeared, he told his bank he needed readies for a building project he was planning. He closed two ISAs and withdrew the money over three days – not transferred, just withdrew it. As far as we can see, he’s gone to ground with over fifteen grand of ready cash.’
He’s driving in the early morning, through the grey half-light that’s as close as the Highlands get to darkness in these long summer months. Driving through the mountains, over the pass at Drumochter and the Slochd Summit, the only car for miles like the last survivor of some global catastrophe.
No boats, no bridges left for him to burn, not now – for better or worse, all his choices have been made. But he imagines the road boiling behind him as he drives, fiery rivers of lava-flowing molten in his wake. Time, his ally for so long, has turned against him. And everything he thought he could rely on has begun to fall apart.
He glances at the road sign as he passes. Another eighty miles before he’s reached his destination. Another eighty miles before he can let himself relax. A surge of anger grips him, tensing his shoulders, making him hunch over the wheel.
He’d made his plans so carefully, worked out every step. And nothing had fazed him, not even when he’d had to improvise. Stewart, though – letting Stewart live had been a mistake, he sees that now. But what should he have done, killed the man for an accident of timing? He’s not a monster, whatever the world might think.
And at first, Stewart had seemed like a gift from the gods. A weak man, a frightened man, too stupid to raise the alarm and save himself. A man to be made use of, or so he’d thought. Only he’d got that badly wrong. Dangerously wrong. And everything may hinge on how well he’s managed to put that right.
Coming up to the turn-off in the early morning mist. Leaving the main road behind him, slipping through the silent villages like a ghost, his anger slowly ebbing as he drives. He needs to think things through, to make sure he’s left nothing to chance this time. But his memory . . . he suspects his memory is lying to him, showing him things that didn’t happen. Hiding things that did. How is he supposed to know what to do if nothing it shows him is real?
Walking down to the Ness Islands to meet Stewart, he remembers that. Waiting for the light to fail, his mind clear, his breathing calm, unhurried. Knowing what had to be done. Thinking it would be easier, this time. Then when the kitchen porter appeared, when everything seemed so perfect . . . his body had failed him. He’d stood frozen, arms clamped to his sides as the seconds passed and Stewart grew increasingly nervous, muttering to himself and stamping his feet in the evening chill. Another minute and the man would have turned and run, he’s sure of it—
Then the runaway dog had burst through the bushes. It bounded across the footbridge, its owner hurtling past a few seconds later. And he’d known then why he’d been made to wait. This wasn’t meant to be easy – this was to test his strength, his determination. To show how far he’d come. And what he was willing to do.
Is it any wonder he can’t remember it all? Oh, there are moments when the images are there in front of him, sharp and bright and terrible. But they are moments only, disconnected things that have no power over him, and he pushes them away without hesitation. What he’s done hasn’t been through choice and it doesn’t make him a monster. Maybe there are no monsters, he thinks, only people like him, people who’d been forced to act to save their own lives.
In the end, he can’t regret Stewart too much. Stewart had tried to trick him, and he’d paid the price. But what he’s contemplating now . . .
Another loose end to be dealt with. The most dangerous act of all, this one, because if he makes a single mistake there’s no way back, not this time. And even if he’s successful, he can’t be completely sure he’s safe. But doing nothing isn’t an option either – and he’s never shied away from hard choices, has he? The choice, if you can call it that, was made a long time ago. Fifteen years ago.
34
If he’s got nothing to hide, Ryan’s done a suspiciously good job of disappearing, Mahler concludes. Not only has he withdrawn enough cash to see him through several months of modest living – and a couple of really immodest ones, if such is his plan – but he’s been bright enough to stop making any calls on his mobile or carrying out any sort of activity online.
‘Sold his car around the same time.’ Fergie adds another note to Ryan’s section of the whiteboard. ‘For cash, of course. And the rent’s paid up on his flat for six months in advance. He really doesn’t want to be found, does he?’
‘Apparently not.’ Mahler stares at the lecturer’s smiling mugshot. ‘What about friends, colleagues?’
‘Bit of a rolling stone, by all accounts – loads of friends, but no really close ones. And I drew a blank with the colleagues too.’ The departmental secretary at Ryan’s college described him as a lovely man. But yes, he did have a bit of a temper. And he’d seemed a little moodier, a bit preoccupied before he left. But all the staff got a bit grumpy around finals time, and she’d assumed he was just stressed. ‘He sent in a letter of resignation dated the day he disappeared, all i’s dotted and t’s crossed, and just buggered off.’
‘And hasn’t been seen since.’ There’s a gathering pain at the base of Mahler’s skull. He reaches in his drawer for a pill, dry-swallows it.
‘You all right, boss?’
‘Fine. So Ryan was last seen on’ – he checks his notes – ‘the fifteenth of April. He’s got no car. None of his colleagues gave him a lift anywhere, which leaves—’
‘Taxis? Buses? Trains?’ Pete offers.
Mahler nods. ‘All of the above. So start with the local taxi firms and see if anyone remembers picking him up – I know, it’s a long shot. But right now, that’s all we’ve got.’ And most people, Mahler reflects, are creatures of habit. In a small university town like St Andrews, there will be two or three firms the staff and students use most regularly – and if they’re lucky, Ryan will have done the same. ‘If you’ve no joy there, he must have gone by bus. See if the bus station has CCTV, and work from there.’
Pete gives him a dubious look. ‘They won’t have kept the images, not after all this time.’
‘So let’s hope he took a taxi to wherever he was going, yes? And keep hassling his phone provider about his mobile – if he so much as orders a pizza on it, we’ll have him.’
He leaves Pete grumbling over his keyboard and asks Fergie to chase up the CCTV images from the nearest locations to the Ness Islands for the night of Donnie Stewart’s murder. The chances of finding anything useful on them are close to zero, but it’s just possible Stewart’s killer might have been caught on camera as he made his way to his meeting with the kitchen porter. Assuming he came on foot, of course. Assuming he didn’t arrive from the Drummond direction and walk down Merlewood Brae. Assuming a whole raft of scenarios which, Mahler concedes, basically boil down to a bloody house of cards.
The pain in his skull is building, a slow relentless pressure heading for his temples. He goes downstairs and out through the custody suite for what passes for fresh air this close to the station, and finds Karen sitting on the courtyard wall, attempting a post-mortem on the remains of a sausage roll. From the look on her face, the filling appears to have died of extreme old age.
‘You could take it back and get a refund. If it’s that bad.’
She shrugs. ‘I’ve had worse. Just needed to get out for a minute, you know? Clear my head.’ She shrouds the sausage roll with a paper napkin and gives it a decent burial by lobbing it into the bin. ‘Don’t tell me you’re actually planning to walk over to the garage and buy something to eat like us common folk?’
‘You were eating that? I thought it was some sort of experiment.’
‘Funny guy. I’ve got a bag of brownie bites we can go halfers on if you want.’
‘I’ll pass, thanks.’ He has, after all, his reputation to consider. Most of his junior colleagues assume he gets his nourishment by rising from his tomb to feast on the blood of the living, and he sees no reason to disabuse them of the notion. ‘Everything okay? Apart from your impending death by junk food, I mean.’
‘Kevin’s girlfriend, Gemma Fraser. She’s done a bunk. Went round to see her with the FLO and her place is all locked up. I checked with the nursery and the bairns haven’t been for a week.’
‘You talk to her neighbours?’
Karen nods. ‘Told them she was going on holiday. Two weeks in Mallorca with the bairns – a big surprise for them, apparently, so she asked her pals to keep it hush-hush.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose.’ Possible, but barring a lottery win or the intervention of a fairy godmother, not exactly likely. ‘You didn’t buy it?’
‘Would you? Christ, Lukas, the lassie’s not got two pennies to rub together. How could she afford a bloody holiday? Andy said give it a few days and do a follow-up on Monday, but . . .’ she shakes her head.
‘You happy with that?’
The look on her face is answer enough. Andy Black’s officially in charge on the Kevin Ramsay case, of course, and all the lines of enquiry should originate from him. Mahler’s job is to concentrate on Morven Murray’s case, June’s made that perfectly clear. Abundantly clear, in every briefing Mahler’s had with her since Black’s brow-ridged features had returned to grace Burnett Road’s MIT again. But she hasn’t said anything about taking a short, therapeutic stroll to ward off an impending migraine. About twenty minutes ought to do it, Mahler reckons. Twenty minutes to see off several birds with one projectile. Because he’s got a pretty good idea what might be behind Gemma’s sudden disappearance. And it certainly isn’t a fairy godmother.
