Shadow Man, page 9
‘Watch out!’
Mahler shoves Fergie to one side and puts out a hand to grab the writer, but it’s too late. The mumbling man lurches forward, his mouth open like a dark unsavoury chasm, and projectile-vomits over the floor, the foot of the desk . . . and most of James Gordon.
‘Ah, Jeez.’ The custody sergeant rolls his eyes as the man slumps to his knees, his head lolling from side to side. ‘My clean floor, man!’
The older of the two PCs gets a hand under the man’s arm and hauls him to his feet. ‘Think that’s bad? You should see the bloody van. Come on, son, get a grip, eh?’
‘We’ll leave you to it, sergeant. Mr Gordon, this way.’ Mahler steps over the spreading pool of vomit and guides the shuddering writer to the exit. ‘No lasting damage, I hope?’
Gordon looks down at his ruined clothing and musters a grey-faced smile. ‘Nothing the dry-cleaners can’t cope with, I’m sure.’
At the door, he turns back to Mahler. ‘About Anna . . . look, I know what I said, but she’s not a murderer, Inspector. I’ll stake my life on it.’
‘Bit over the top, boss,’ Fergie remarks as they watch Gordon cross the car park. ‘That “stake my life” bit, I mean.’
‘He’s a writer, they tend to the dramatic. What do you make of him?’
‘Thought he was going to throw up when he realised it probably wasn’t a deer he heard. But we’ve been through those woods and along the shore – if the killer did go that way, he made damn sure not to leave any forensics behind. No trace of the weapon, either.’
‘Which ties in with his MO.’ And Mahler’s betting he’d used his proximity to the water to get rid of any remaining evidence. ‘But argues against Ross Campbell being involved, at least directly. Though I’d be happier if we could tie these timings down.’
Fergie nods. ‘Gordon seemed awful keen to fit in with whatever Anna Murray told us, didn’t he? Mind you, she wasn’t sure about what time they got back.’
‘She didn’t seem very sure about a lot of things. I’ll buy jet lag for some of it, but—’
A clanking sound announces the arrival of ‘the cleaning crew’ – a very young PC with a mop and bucket and an air of resignation. He surveys the scene, shaking his head as though in disbelief at the amount of bodily fluid one skinny, semi-naked drunk can expel, and gets to work.
‘Boss.’ Fergie leaps backwards, away from the swishing mop. ‘You want me to talk to Anna Murray again?’
‘Not at this stage. But check with the reception staff at both hotels and the bar staff at Bunchrew, see if we can get these timings cleared up. And then—’ the swishing sounds have stopped. Mahler glances at the young PC and shakes his head. ‘Time to reconvene upstairs. I’m out in half an hour, so I need you to sort out the actions from this. And see where we are with tracking down this missing kitchen porter, yes?’
‘No problem. And if Braveheart comes looking for those end of quarter figures—’
‘I’m supporting a junior colleague in a potentially challenging situation with the partner of a recent victim of crime.’
‘You mean you’re off out with Karen to get Kevin Ramsay’s girlfriend back on side?’
‘Wasn’t that what I just said?’
‘Aye well, good luck with that. So, Flash Gordon there . . . shame about his fancy jacket, eh?’
‘I’m sure he knows a good dry cleaner.’ The writer’s car, a silver 4×4, is parked close to the barrier. Mahler watches Gordon rummage in the boot, his jacket held out in front of him as though it might burst into flames at any moment. An interesting morning, he reflects. Productive, even.
‘Maybe.’ There’s a distinct smirk on Fergie’s face. ‘Never going to get the stink out though, is he? Not properly.’
‘Not in a million years.’
16
2.15 P.M.
Kevin Ramsay’s girlfriend lives in what Mahler’s mother still calls ‘New Hilton’, a social housing development to the south-east of the town. Built largely in the 1970s, when Inverness was starting to expand in earnest, the area is starting to show its age. The harling on the older buildings has a grey, discoloured look, and there are tell-tale signs of neglect here and there . . . still, there are worse places to live, Mahler thinks. A lot worse. Though the look on Karen’s face as they pull up outside Gemma Fraser’s block of flats makes it clear she can’t imagine many.
‘Ned City, here we go again.’ Karen gets out of the car and looks round. Her leather jacket is zipped to the neck, her burgundy hair gelled into don’t-mess-with-me spikes. ‘Oh, the joys. You sure you want to do this today?’
‘You have a better day in mind?’
She shrugs. ‘Just seems a bit knee-jerk after her rant to the Highland News last week. If it looks like we’re harassing her—’
‘We are not harassing her.’ Mahler glances up at the third-floor window. No-one there now, but the blind is moving slightly, as though someone’s just stepped out of sight. ‘I’m introducing myself as senior investigating officer, and we’re bringing her up to date with developments.’
‘And sounding her out about Cazza MacKay.’
‘That too. But softly-softly at this stage, please. I don’t want her spooked.’
Though if Karen’s CHIS is right and Cazza MacKay’s been paying regular visits to Gemma since Kevin’s death, she’s probably spooked enough already, Mahler reflects. Even in his new, semi-respectable businessman guise, Cazza MacKay isn’t the kind of man you’d want to get a social call from.
The communal entrance to the flats has been wedged open, so they make their way upstairs. There’s no answer to Mahler’s first three rings. But on his final try, as Karen’s fishing for a card to shove through the letter box, the door to the flat eases open and Gemma peers out. She’s a small, scrubbed-clean blonde with wary eyes and what looks like a new plaster cast on her right arm.
‘I’m on my way out.’
Mahler holds out his warrant card. ‘This won’t take long, I promise.’
After a moment, she shrugs. ‘Please yourselves. But watch my clean floor, I’ve just hoovered.’
She leads the way into a tiny, immaculate living room. The walls are decorated in shades of cream and aqua, and there are delicate glass ornaments on every gleaming surface. Mahler tries and fails to imagine Kevin Ramsay ever feeling at home here.
‘Great picture.’ Karen goes over to look at the studio portrait of two young children that’s occupying pride of place above the fire surround. The boy has a crew cut and Kevin’s pinched, old-young features. The girl, a couple of years younger, is posing, chin on hands, in a princess outfit and bright pink trainers. ‘That place in the Market, was it?’
Gemma nods. ‘Kevin bought her the fancy dress,’ she tells them. ‘The trainers too. Leanne pestered me for ages, but I said she had to wait for her birthday. Kevin wasn’t having it, though – just went out and got them for her.’
‘That was good of him . . . oh, let me.’ Mahler bends to help her move the pile of paperwork she’s struggling to fit into a folder. ‘Awkward, isn’t it, when it’s the right arm.’
‘My own fault.’ She lowers herself into an armchair, grimacing as her plaster cast hits the edge of the coffee table. ‘Tripped over Kyle’s dumper truck . . . ach, just leave that lot, I’ll sort them later.’
Mahler glances at the brochure on the top of the pile. ‘You’re going to college?’
‘Health & Social Care, starting in September. At least, I was . . . Kevin was going to help me with the kids and I have a wee job, so we’d just about have managed.’ Gemma gives him a bleak look. ‘That’s the end of that, isn’t it?’
Mahler winces at the thought of Kevin Ramsay being in charge of a hamster, let alone two under-fives. But who’s to say he wasn’t a domestic goddess on the quiet? ‘I’m sorry. But you should talk to the college. They might be able to sort something out.’
‘Maybe.’ She gestures at the couch. ‘Go on then, you may as well sit. So how come I get a detective inspector this time? Because I spoke to the papers?’
‘That isn’t why we’re here.’ Mahler introduces himself as the officer in charge and explains about the burnt-out van. ‘Believe me, I understand how frustrating it must be for you. We’re doing our best to find whoever’s responsible for Kevin’s death, and we’re making progress, but I do need you to work with us on this.’ He takes out his card and puts it on the coffee table. ‘If there’s anything you think of after we’ve gone, anything that might help, please get in touch . . . and I promise to keep you informed of what’s going on. Deal?’
Gemma looks at Karen, and back at Mahler. ‘Aye, fair enough. But there’s nothing else I can tell you. Kevin . . .’ She shakes her head, blinking away tears. ‘God knows, he wasn’t perfect. But he was trying to sort himself out. Trying really hard.’
‘Must have been rough on you, though.’ Karen leans forward, a sympathetic smile on her face. ‘Two young kids, and Kevin . . . half the folks he hung out with, I wouldn’t have wanted anywhere near a wee palace like this. Didn’t it bug you at all? Or did you just get used to it?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
No. Mahler shakes his head at Karen. Leave it.
‘Cazza MacKay.’ Karen sits back, folds her arms. ‘A friend of yours, is he? Because he’s been seen leaving your place, Gemma. More than once.’
Silence. The shutters coming down on Gemma’s face, ridding it of any kind of expression. Apart from one.
‘You’ve been fucking spying on me?’ She jumps up, knocking the pile of papers to the floor. ‘You fucking bunch of . . . Cazza’s one of the good guys, right? He came to see if we needed anything. What’s wrong with that?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Mahler glances at Karen. ‘We were concerned, that’s all. Look, we’ll let you get on . . . and I promise you, we’re not going to give up on finding Kevin’s killer, Gemma. We—’
‘Aye, right. Well, I’ll not hold my breath on that one, eh? Now bugger off. Go on, get out of my bloody house!’
The sound of the door slamming follows them down the stairwell and out into the street.
‘Lukas, that wasn’t—’
Mahler holds up his hand. ‘Let’s hold the post-mortem over coffee, shall we? I know just the place.’
Inverness’s newest supermarket, perched above the Slackbuie roundabout, has what’s probably the highest café in the town . . . and on a wet, miserable Friday afternoon, probably the least well-patronised. Mahler collects two mugs of hot brown liquid and brings them over to one of the window tables.
Karen stares at what he’s just put down in front of her. ‘That’s a latte?’
‘Think of it as a penance.’ He glances at his mug. In need of caffeine, he’d bought it on the assumption it couldn’t be as bad as it looked. He takes another look, revises his opinion and pushes it aside. ‘Want to tell me what happened back there?’
She shakes her head. ‘Don’t lay this one on me, Lukas. I told you Gemma wouldn’t give you anything.’
‘She did give us something. She confirmed Cazza’s been to see her . . . she might even have told us why, if you’d stuck to the script. What the hell did you think you were doing?’
‘My bloody job. Cutting through the crap and getting to the truth.’ She raises the mug towards him, parodying a toast. ‘Cheers. So is that my bollocking over with for now? Great view here, by the way. Rolling hills to your left and bloody Jakeyville to the right.’
‘It really gets to you, doesn’t it? Why do you hate it so much?’
A hiss of exasperation. ‘I don’t hate it, Lukas – Christ, I was born there! I hate what guys like Cazza MacKay are turning it into.’
‘Then it’s a pity you spooked Gemma before we found out how she really broke her arm.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Don’t tell me you bought that “tripped over a toy” nonsense? The place is like a bloody show home!’ He shakes his head. ‘Cazza came visiting, all right . . . to shut her up about something. And to make sure she got the message, the bastard left his calling card.’
‘And you thought you’d . . . what, charm it out of her? For God’s sake, Lukas – she might not like me, but at least she knows I’m real.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning she knows you don’t actually give a fuck about her sad wee life. As soon as Andy’s back, you’ll be off this case faster than shit off a shovel . . . and we’ll be the ones left clearing up.’
So that’s where this is going. Mahler sits back, crosses his arms. ‘And you’re willing to take up the slack, is that it? As acting SIO, no doubt. Karen, you know I can’t—’
‘June can. And you’re her blue-eyed boy, aren’t you? Look, it’ll help both of us, for fuck’s sake – you get to concentrate on your big, high-profile case, and I get a result here.’ A flash of her old smile as she touches his arm. ‘You know I can do this, Lukas. And I bloody deserve it.’
She pushes her latte aside and folds her arms, her posture mirroring his. She’s a rising star, he’s known that for some time – bright, tenacious, ultra-committed, Karen’s got what it takes to climb the ladder at Police Scotland. Chief Superintendent? ACC, maybe, or even higher. Kevin Ramsay’s case could be a stepping stone for her, and with Andy Black still on sick leave, Karen’s hungry for the chance to show what she can do.
Mahler doesn’t blame her – when he was starting out, he might have done the same. And June Wallace, under pressure from the higher-ups, has been pretty clear about which case should take priority. If he chose to pull back from the Kevin Ramsay investigation, let Karen take on more responsibility until Andy Black’s return, June wouldn’t question his decision, he knows that. But his conscience would.
Because death is the ultimate leveller. It doesn’t discriminate by wealth or social standing or any other man-made marker – it equalises. He owes Kevin Ramsay the same commitment, the same attention, as Morven Murray, and that’s what he’s going to deliver. And if Karen can’t see that, she isn’t ready to take this on, not yet.
‘Morven Murray’s high-profile, yes,’ Mahler tells her. ‘But she’s not more important, not in my book. The woman we just left has lost her partner. She’s entitled to just as much effort from me as Morven’s family is.’
‘And what about Warren’s family? Do you ever think about what they deserved? Because I’m damn sure it wasn’t what happened.’
Warren Jackson again. Popular, salt-of-the-earth Jackson, the proverbial ‘bad apple’ Mahler had brought down with Karen’s help. A year further on, is she still holding that against him?
‘This isn’t about Jackson. It’s about a man who was run over and left dying in the street like a piece of bloody rubbish.’
She gives him a disgusted look. ‘Christ, Lukas, get real, will you? You don’t care about wee Kevin or his girlfriend – you don’t even care about Morven Murray. This is about you keeping your career ticking over until your mother finally—’
Pushing back his chair, hearing it scrape along the floor as he stands. Looking down at her, a dark pulse stirring in the shadow-places of his mind. Wanting her to go on. Wanting her to push a little more, until the anger he’s barely holding back finds the form, the voice it’s reaching for . . .
‘Don’t,’ Mahler advises. ‘Don’t follow that thought any further, Karen. For both our sakes.’ He drops the car keys onto the table in front of her. ‘When you’re done here, go and find out what Gemma told A&E about her arm. Then make a start on matching those missing 4×4s. I don’t expect you back at the shop for some time – in fact, I don’t expect our paths to cross at all for the remainder of this shift. Is that clear?’
She gives him a bright, malicious smile. ‘Pretty boy in a sharp suit . . . you think you’re untouchable, don’t you? Think you can come in and lord it over folk who’ve been here for years, grafting away and getting bugger all thanks for it. You need to stop kidding yourself, Lukas – you can stay here till they put you out to grass, but you’ll never fit in. And it’s fucking cold out there on your own.’
17
10.15 P.M.
When Fergie gets home, Zofia is in the living room, deep in conversation with Tomasz, her sister Gabriela’s eldest. Fergie stifles a sigh. He’s got nothing against Tomasz, but today has been a grade one on the bastard scale. The boss came back from visiting Gemma Fraser with a face like a thunderstorm looking for somewhere to happen, and Karen Gilchrist had stamped in an hour later, looking like fifty shades of pissed off. At which point Fergie had grabbed a spare DC and spent half the afternoon trying to track down Donnie Stewart, the missing kitchen porter.
They’d tried his flat to start with, on the off-chance Stewart would have been daft enough to go back there, but with no luck. After that, they’d spent a frustrating couple of hours flashing a decade-old mugshot of the man round his known drinking haunts, with bugger all success.
There had been a glimmer of hope when one old boy said he’d seen Stewart with Mina Williamson a couple of times. But when they’d tracked Mina down, she’d looked at them like they were idiots and told them she’d got better taste than that wino, thank you very much. Now if Fergie or his cute wee pal fancied buying her a drink . . . They’d exited the pub at a speed Usain Bolt would have been proud of, with Mina’s cackling laughter ringing in their ears.
Now all Fergie wants to do is slump in front of the telly and watch something mindless, with a can in his hand and Zofia cuddled up next to him. Only Zofia has what looks like a maths textbook in front of her, open at a page of xs and ys, which means she’s in the middle of a tutorial with Gaby’s least academic offspring.
