In Place of Death (9 page)

‘I'm not sure you
are
supposed to be detached. How can you do your job if you don't care? You're supposed to be human, not a robot. And you're taking on a
lot. You can't save the whole world, Rach. You can just do your best for those who matter most and you're doing that.'

She raised her head so she could look at him. ‘I've never thought this before but you might actually be smarter than you look.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Don't mention it.

‘So what happens next with the tunnel guy? Have you got a name for him?'

She banged a small fist lightly against his chest. ‘You're pushing your luck. Yes, we have a name. He signed himself into the Rosewood as Brian Christie. It doesn't match
anyone on Missing Persons but we're looking.'

Suddenly, the voice that Winter couldn't quite hear faded away. He felt the whisper of it go from the room and out the window into the night sky. He'd never heard of a Brian
Christie. It was a relief and at the same time an odd disappointment. That wasn't something he'd even begin to think of trying to explain to Rachel though. She had enough to worry
about.

Monday morning

It took Narey a moment to realize what the sound on the other end of the line was when she answered the phone. The beeps were from another century and she couldn't
remember when she'd last heard them. It was someone calling from a phone box. Finally, a coin dropped and the line cleared.

‘Hello? Detective Narey? Inspector Narey?'

The man's voice was old and rather weak. She had just about placed it when he confirmed it for her.

‘It's Walter McMeekin. From the Rosewood Hotel. You said to call if I remembered anything else. Well I have, sort of. It's no much, mind.'

She reached for a pen and pulled a notepad towards her. ‘Hi, Walter. Thanks for calling. Listen, anything at all could help us. What did you remember?'

‘Well, like I said, it's no much. But if you're still trying to find out about that laddie Brian then you maybe want to try down at the City Mission. The boy told me he'd
been down there. I remember him telling me that. Before he came to the Rosewood, he'd been down at Crimea Street.'

‘Walter, that's great. Did he say why he he'd been to the Mission?'

A pause. ‘No really. He said he'd been speaking to the boss man over there. I remember because I know him as well. Malcolm Colvin. Malky is what they call him. The project manager.
One of the good guys.'

‘Okay, Walter. I'll go down there today and check it out. You've been a big help.'

‘Och, no. It's nothing. That poor laddie. Best you find out what happened to him.'

‘We will. Are you doing okay, Walter?'

He laughed. ‘Ah'm doing how ah'm doing, hen. Better than I will be tonight no doubt and better than I will be tomorrow morning. I could say different but I've known
maself for too long.'

‘Take care of yourself.'

‘Too late for that, hen. Too late.'

The City Mission was nearly two hundred years old, the first of its kind in the world. They were a Christian organization, offering practical care like food and a roof over
people's heads when they needed it most. The current offices were on Crimea Street, a narrow warren halfway between Argyle Street and the Broomielaw. It was a new build that resembled a New
York loft conversion, all brick and floor-to-ceiling windows over five floors. The sign, GLASGOW CITY MISSION, ran from top to bottom, extended beyond the building's side.

Just a few yards away across the road, at the T-junction with Brown Street, an abandoned building sat in stark contrast, its tall arched windows covered in protective grilles, its ornate doorway
bricked up. Narey had paused as she got out of the car, fascinated by it being there in splendid isolation. She couldn't help but wonder what it had been, a tobacco baron's warehouse or
maybe his offices. A bit grand for one and maybe too plain for the other.

Toshney caught her looking at it. ‘Everything okay, Boss?'

‘Hmm? Yes. You never wondered what a building like that used to be in a former life?'

The DC looked bemused. ‘No.'

She sighed. ‘No, I don't suppose you have. Come on. He's waiting for us.'

Inside the front door, a middle-aged woman introduced herself as Maureen and told them she was the project manager's assistant. A quick call ahead had already let them know her boss was in
and would hang around until they turned up. Maureen led them up to the first floor where he sat waiting behind a desk.

Malcolm Colvin was only in his early thirties, a tousled mop of hair and stubble making him look more like he'd walked off a beach with a surfboard under his arm than managed a homeless
project.

His casual look was topped off with blue jeans and an open-necked white shirt. Narey noted that he was good-looking in that superficial blue-eyed Greek god kind of way that more shallow women
might find attractive. He greeted her with a broad smile and she suppressed the temptation to bite him.

‘Mr Colvin, thanks for taking the time to see us.'

‘Not at all. And it's Malcolm. Glad if I can help in any way. Please, both of you, take a seat. Can I get you a coffee? Tea?'

Narey and Toshney sat but politely refused the offer of a drink. ‘How can I help you, Detective Inspector? You said on the phone it concerned someone I might know who had lived in the
Rosewood. I hope he's okay whoever it is and not in some kind of trouble.'

‘You assume it's a man.'

‘Well . . . you're right, I'm making an assumption. But it's a fair guess. As far as the homeless are concerned, men make up 93.3 per cent of our service users.' He
shrugged. ‘We keep records. And we see the proof with our own eyes. They are almost always men.'

‘Fair enough. And yes, it is a man. We're hoping you can help us identify him.'

Colvin looked slightly pained, his pin-up features crumpling apologetically. ‘I'll do what I can, Inspector Narey, but this job is all about trust. Both ways. I'm not going to
be earning the trust of the guys who come here if I turn them in to the police. I guess it depends what he's done.'

‘Malcolm, you don't need to worry about losing his trust. Unfortunately. What's he's done is died. We're trying to identify a murder victim.'

Colvin's mouth fell open for a moment before he steadied himself, dragging a hand through his hair. He breathed out hard. ‘Who was it? Sorry, that's what you want me to tell
you. Of course. Anything I can do.
Murder?
'

‘I'm afraid so, yes. We have a description of the man plus a possible name for him. As I said on the phone, we think he came down here to talk to you. Do you want a moment,
Malcolm?'

Colvin's hand was absently covering his mouth. ‘No, I . . . please ask me what you need to. Sorry, I shouldn't still be surprised when things happen to the guys out there. One
of our regulars hasn't been seen in a couple of months and he'd stayed at the Rosewood. I've been worried about him. What's the name you've been given of the man from
the Rosewood?'

‘We think he's called Brian Christie.'

‘No, that's not my guy and it doesn't ring any bells. I'm sure I don't know that name. What's the man's description?'

Narey told him. Colvin processed it slowly, clearly taking his time. Finally he shrugged. ‘Well . . . no. It could be so many of them.'

‘Walter also said this man asked a lot of questions.'

Colvin still looked blank but the assistant's voice came from the corner of the room. ‘I don't know the name Christie but the description does sound like someone who came in a
couple of times asking questions. His name was Euan though. Not Brian.'

Colvin's eyebrows rose as a penny dropped. ‘Yes, you're right, Maureen. Euan. Euan . . . Hepburn. It was maybe the name that threw me because I should have remembered him
straight away. He was a bit different.'

‘In what way?' Narey asked the question but thought she already knew the answer.

‘Well . . .' Colvin hesitated. ‘Don't quote me on this but he was different from most of the men that might have come from the Rosewood and most of those who use our
service. Most of them have suffered through personal problems and circumstances outwith their control. A lot of them are quite vulnerable.'

She didn't have the time to let him feel guilty about making generalizations about the mission's clients. She'd do that for him.

‘Malcolm, are you saying that he was sober?'

Colvin looked uncomfortable but nodded. ‘Yes. Made him stick out a bit. He wasn't the only one but it's unusual. He wasn't just sober, he'd
been
sober. And
I'm sure he didn't use drugs.'

‘And he asked questions?'

‘He wanted to know about the Rosewood Hotel. If that was somewhere I'd recommend for him to go. I told him I couldn't do that. There are a lot of places in the city better for
those in need than that place. In fact, and again don't quote me, I can't think of anywhere worse. The street would be a better option, honestly.'

‘What else did he want to know?'

‘Well he wanted to know why I thought it was so bad. Wanted to know about other places in the city for the homeless, good and bad. He asked if people ever got out of the Rosewood in one
piece. We chatted for quite a while.'

Narey nodded absently, her lips pursed in thought. ‘Malcolm, you said you kept records. Would Euan Hepburn feature in them?'

‘He should. After we spoke, I passed him on down the line to get him what help we could. Keeping him out of the Rosewood was the one thing I wanted to do. He didn't strike me as
lasting long in there. He didn't belong. I'll get what we have on him.'

When Colvin returned five minutes later, he found Narey staring idly out the window at the old building opposite. They were level with the top of the arched windows and she could now see that
the upper floors in red brick were newer than the pale stone of the ground level.

‘It's a great building, isn't it?' Malcolm Colvin sensed her admiration . ‘I could look at it all day. I love old places like that. Can't get enough of
them.'

The man's expression changed when he remembered the single piece of paper he'd come back with. His apologetic look didn't fill Narey with much hope.

‘Inspector Narey, I'm sorry but we've no record of him. I spoke to the staff but the only one that remembers him thinks that he just left after speaking to me. We'd asked
him to wait so we could help him out but it seems he just slipped away. He must have left us and gone to the Rosewood despite what I said.'

‘Shit. So what's this?' She nodded at the piece of paper Colvin held.

The man gave a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘My mobile number. In case I can help with anything else.'

Narey caught the birth of a smirk on Toshney's face. It died a sudden death as soon as he saw her looking. She thanked Colvin, said she'd be in touch if they needed anything more and
began to direct the DC out the door with a glare.

Colvin called after them, ‘Inspector Narey. I might be completely wrong here but Euan . . . well like I said, he was different from most men that come here. I'm not even sure he was
homeless at all.'

‘Nor me, Malcolm. Nor me.'

Monday afternoon

It sometimes occurred to Winter that his uncle, Danny Neilson, had never changed in all the time he'd known him. Danny had seemed old to him when Winter was a kid. Old
but big and strong, patient and wise. None of that had altered. Danny was one of those people who grew into his age. Being in his sixties seemed to suit him. He'd filled out into what he
should always have been.

He'd done his thirty years in the police, mainly as a sergeant, and he still worked a beat of sorts. He spent his nights as a taxi-rank superintendent keeping part of Glasgow safe and the
other part in order as best he could. The drunk had not yet been stewed that Danny couldn't keep in line.

Danny was Danny. Solid. Always there when he was needed, gruff, tough and rough but capable of being as gentle as a summer breeze. And the smartest man that Winter had ever known.

When Tony had called wanting to speak, Danny had suggested they meet for a lunchtime coffee in Lola & Livvy's under the Hielanman's Umbrella - the glasswalled railway bridge that
carried Central Station's platforms across Argyle Street and was historically a meeting place for Highlanders relocated to the big city. The café was fronted in the green and gold of
the Umbrella's refurb, and inside it had a Mediterranean vibe with tiled floors, exposed walls, whitewashed wood and red-leather sofas.

‘This place is a bit trendy for you, isn't it?'

Danny shrugged and lifted his mug as evidence. ‘Great coffee. Great cakes as well. What do I care what the décor's like?'

‘Fair enough. Wasn't trying to suggest you weren't a man of refinement.'

‘Yes you were. So how have you been, son? Haven't heard from you in a month or two. Everything okay?'

‘Sure. Rachel's enjoying her promotion. Working like a slave but loving it. She's picked up a new murder case and that's always guaranteed to make a girl
happy.'

‘The body pulled out of the Molendinar near the Great Eastern?'

Winter nodded.

‘Odd one. Saw it on the news. Did you do the photography?'

‘Yeah. The body had been there for at least a month so it was in a right state. Hell of a place to work in as well.'

‘Sounds right up your street. You'll have been in stranger places than that.'

Winter didn't rise to it, seeing the gleam in Danny's eye and hearing the tease.

‘Anyway, I asked how you were, not how Rachel was. So what aren't you telling me?'