Chapter 56
Wheeler opened the door and a blast of heat from the station hit her. She took the stairs to the CID suite two at a time and walked into the room just in time to overhear something positive.
‘Well, it’s a result.’
‘Cheers, boss.’
Stewart was perched on the edge of her desk, still talking. ‘We’ll get someone out there to interview her.’ Boyd was finishing his morning coffee and was looking very pleased with himself and she guessed it wasn’t just because he was scoffing the last of a Belgian bun and was on a sugar hit.
Boyd brushed the flakes of the bun from his shirt.
Wheeler dumped her coat over her chair. ‘What?’
‘Boyd’s traced an ex-girlfriend of James Gilmore’s,’ said Stewart.
‘And not Angela Meek,’ added Boyd.
‘Aye, right.’ Stewart smoothed his tie and fiddled with his cufflinks. ‘Well, Angela Meek was cremated thirty years ago and her ashes scattered on the Clyde, so no, not her.’
‘His mother didn’t seem to think he’d dated again,’ said Wheeler.
‘This woman says she dated him a while back, but she phoned in, left a message. Mammies don’t always know best,’ said Boyd.
‘So, go see her, Wheeler.’ Stewart stood and arched his back, groaned. ‘Bloody squash.’
‘On my way.’ As she watched Stewart leave the room, she tried to shake the image of him in a dress. Failed.
‘I’ll drive.’ Boyd pulled on his padded anorak, stood waiting for her like an eager puppy. A very round puppy.
‘No chance. I’ve seen your driving; it’s worse than Ross’s.’
‘That bad?’
‘Uh huh. And don’t sound so pleased about it.’
Beside her in the car, Boyd was dipping into a bag of crisps. ‘We going past the stone circle?’
‘Come again?’
‘The stone circle up by Sighthill.’
‘You kidding me?’
‘Nope. There was a stone circle built in the 1970s up by Sighthill. Properly aligned and everything.’
She peered at him. ‘Glasgow’s very own Stonehenge?’
He tucked into the last of the crisps. ‘You mind?’ He pointed to the radio.
‘Go ahead.’
Boyd turned the dial to hear the sports discussion. Wheeler tuned out, thought about a Glasgow stone circle and decided she might check it out at some point, see if it really existed. Right now she needed to get to Gilmore’s ex-girlfriend. Debbie Morgan lived in a flat on the thirteenth floor of a high-rise in Sighthill. One of the remaining high-rises which had so far escaped demolition. Wheeler drove through the city, towards the Tron theatre, turning up the High Street and driving on past the Royal Infirmary.
A few minutes later she turned the car into the car park. The weather meant that they trotted from the car to the entrance to the building. They took the lift; it smelled of cheap air freshener. Boyd sniffed. ‘Could be worse.’
The thirteenth floor was immaculate; potted plants lined the corridor and little welcome mats sat outside doors.
The woman who opened the door was in her late forties, bleach-blonde, skinny. Smelled like a smoker. Sported a black eye. ‘You the polis?’
Wheeler and Boyd flashed their ID cards.
They followed her into a sitting room that could have rivalled Santa’s grotto. A huge silver tree stood in the corner of the room, every branch dripping with baubles, tinsel, ropes of glittering beads and multicoloured fairy lights. A pink angel sat on top of the tree, one eye winking. Boyd stared at it. ‘That thing winking at me?’
Debbie flushed with pleasure. ‘I know, it’s brilliant, isn’t it? Runs off a wee battery.’
‘My girlfriend would love that,’ Boyd said.
‘I got it from the Barras . . . and—’
Wheeler cleared her throat.
Boyd flushed. ‘Sorry boss, just stuck for a pressie and—’
Debbie tried to save him by changing the subject. ‘Yous two want coffee?’
‘No thanks, we’re fine.’
‘Wouldn’t mind, thanks.’
They’d spoken in unison.
Debbie Morgan looked at them. ‘What’s it to be then?’
Wheeler spoke. ‘Nothing for me but if my colleague here wants something.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Boyd.
Debbie patted Boyd’s arm. ‘It’s no problem, I’ll make us a coffee. I fancy a wee Bailey’s coffee myself. What about you?’
Boyd glanced at Wheeler. ‘Maybe just the coffee then.’
‘On duty? Ach I’m sure your boss’ll no mind,’ she stared at Wheeler, ‘will you?’
‘Actually I do.’ Wheeler smiled. ‘No point in drinking this early.’
Debbie shot Boyd a sympathetic glance. ‘I’ll away and make you a straight coffee. No wee treats,’ she stared reproachfully at Wheeler, ‘even though it is nearly Christmas.’
When she returned with the tray, she joined them on the sofa, slotting herself neatly between the arm of the sofa and Boyd. It was a tight squeeze. ‘So, I read about James, that’s why I phoned you and left a message. I read that he got killed last Sunday but I’ve been away for a few days or I would’ve called in straight away. I had a wee accident.’ She touched her blackened eye.
‘You okay now?’ Boyd asked.
‘Fine, ta.’
‘I’m sorry about how you heard of James Gilmore’s death.’ Wheeler kept her voice compassionate. ‘You said in the message you’d been dating.’
‘Ages ago, I mean years ago. It didn’t last long.’
‘We spoke to his mother,’ said Wheeler. ‘She seemed to think he’d only ever had one girlfriend.’
‘Never met her. Didn’t even know his mum was still alive – he never mentioned her. James didn’t talk about much; he was a bit secretive. But also a bit of a show-off.’
Boyd leaned forward. ‘In what way?’
‘He wouldn’t talk about his work much, said it was confidential. And we hardly went out on our own, you know, just the two of us? He always wanted to go to the same places his work cronies would go to; it was kind of like he was proud that we were dating. It’s not that he especially liked them or anything. But . . .’
‘But?’ prompted Boyd.
‘But he never really wanted to spend time with me on my own, only if we were out and about being seen by others. He was a cold fish at home.’
‘How long were you dating?’ asked Wheeler.
‘On and off for about six months.’
‘Why did he break up with you?’ asked Boyd.
‘Oh, he never broke up with me,’ Debbie laughed, ‘I chucked him.’
‘Can I ask why?’ Wheeler recognised something in Debbie’s tone. Resignation, disappointment. Something had been far wrong. She wondered if Debbie would tell them.
‘He couldn’t get it up.’
‘Sorry?’ Boyd had gulped his coffee so quickly it had burned his mouth.
‘Happens to most men now and again; I suppose you’ll be aware of that,’ she nodded to Boyd. He studied the pattern on the carpet.
‘Go on,’ said Wheeler.
‘Well he could never do it – it was never on the “on” button if you get my drift, it was always on the “off”, so I told him to sling his hook. Us girls need a bit of fun, don’t we?’ she grinned at Wheeler. ‘And I wasn’t having any.’
‘How did he take it?’
‘Badly. He proposed.’
‘Marriage?’
‘Aye.’
‘Why would he do that?’
Debbie sat back in her sofa and drained the last of her coffee. ‘I’ve thought long and hard about that over the years. Me, I was working in the local chippy; he was a graduate. He never loved me, I knew that.’
‘So why the proposal?’ prompted Wheeler.
‘I don’t know for sure, but I reckon he might have needed a . . .’ she put her hands in the air and made the shape of quotation marks, ‘a wee wifie.’
‘Because?’ Wheeler asked but she already knew the answer.
‘Because, I reckon he was gay and needed a wee wifie to keep up appearances. Had to be – couldn’t have sex, didn’t fancy women. Couldn’t even fake it.’
‘Not many men can,’ muttered Boyd.
‘Anything else?’ asked Wheeler.
Debbie paused. ‘Nothing else that I can remember.’