In Place of Death (7 page)

Two years on and off, Remy and Gabby had been going exploring together. Two years in which they'd become best friends but not boyfriend and girlfriend. He was a boy, she
was a girl. They were friends. That was it.

They'd trawled the muddy old railway tunnels that ran under London Road where they danced on the rusting remains of an ancient car. They managed to get into the former Woolworths building
on Argyle Street and wandered through the basement, the boiler room and the upper floors. They'd roamed the disused Gray Dunn biscuit factory in Kinning Park, searching its spooky warren of
floors.

They explored the shell of St Columba's Episcopal Church at midnight, having their own mass as a full moon streamed through the remaining stained-glass windows. They got into the former
Transport Museum where they walked the cobbled street and sat in the Black Maria and imagined they were chasing themselves. They had an impromptu picnic on the rubble behind the façade of
the old Woodilee Hospital at Lenzie.

They'd even climbed onto the roof of Glasgow University, clinging on for dear life and trying not to giggle as they looked down on the inner quadrangle and the chapel. They couldn't
believe the little walkways, doors and balconies that were up there. It was a bird's-eye view of Hogwarts.

It hadn't all been urbexing. They'd go out for drinks, as friends did. She'd been round at his dad's flat a couple of times, one Christmas Eve and once for his old
man's birthday. He even got an invite to her sister's wedding as her plus-one on the strict understanding that everyone would know that he wasn't
with
her.

So they stuck to old buildings and a platonic relationship that killed him a little. The year before they'd climbed the Finnieston Crane on his birthday, both with a bottle of beer tucked
in their backpacks, and then sat high above the Clyde to toast him being twenty-six. A couple of weeks after that they'd nearly got caught ‘swimming' in the empty pool of the old
Govanhill public baths.

They did all that and much more and yet he never had got round to asking her if maybe, you know, one day, they might actually go out on what normal people might consider to be a date. In a
normal place. He knew why he hadn't asked. In the back of his head he was scared that if he did then she'd say no and it would all be over.

His phone beeped to signal a text. It was her.

If anyone would know it would be her; she knew him better that anyone else. If he didn't get his shit together then she'd see through him in two seconds flat. She had this knack of
interrogating him, staring at him until he couldn't stand it any more and he'd crack every time. He certainly didn't need any of that.

So he stared down onto London Road watching people walking back and forth as if nothing had ever happened. For all he knew, Tesco's car park was covered in rogue trolleys and there was a
long line of lazy shoppers just standing waiting for them to magically appear at the front of the store. He couldn't give a toss.

He wasn't eating either. Just a couple of slices of toast and some cereal. Sometimes he thought it had all been a weird dream and he hadn't even been down the tunnel in the first
place. That was tempting to believe but he knew the truth. He could still feel the fabric of the guy's jacket and the sense of the arm crumbling under his touch. He could still smell the body
lying on top of him.

He'd washed his hands a hundred times over the past few days. Scrubbed at them, used every soap and shampoo he had. He could still feel it though. Still knew it was there.

He ignored it.

He ignored that too.

Great. Now Gabby was mad at him too. How the hell had it come to this?

Narey and Toshney parked up outside the Rosewood, got out of the car and looked at each other. They'd have been as well painting
POLICE
on the side of her car. And
on their foreheads come to that. Neither of them was wearing uniform but there weren't clothes plain enough that they wouldn't stand out a mile here.

It didn't look too terrible from the outside. It had been repainted in the last few years, a whitewash that hadn't yet surrendered to the elements, all the letters in the blue
signage were currently in place and it had handsome, if worn, art deco features. One step inside though and you saw it was carrying a title it couldn't justify. This was no hotel.

Instead it held one hundred and seventy guests. Residents might be a better term. Home from home for the homeless. All men. Every one of them a prisoner of drink or drugs or both, signing over
their housing benefit to pay for a room in the Rosewood.

The reception area was behind a protective grille, a design feature generally underemployed by the Hilton or the Ritz. The grubby linoleum flooring felt sticky underfoot and there was a sickly
smell that seemed to grow with every second. A handful of hard plastic chairs were strewn around reception and looked as welcoming as the man behind the desk.

Shaven-headed with a tattoo running down his neck, the guy was in a blue tracksuit top and grey bottoms. He sported a few days' dark growth on his chin and a small scar on one cheekbone.
Glancing up, he saw Narey and Toshney approach and a silent swear word slipped his lips. This seemingly wasn't going to brighten his day any further.

‘Help you?' The question was as grudging as he could manage.

‘We're looking for Mickey Doig. Is he around?'

The man considered this and seemed to conclude that Mickey was indeed on the premises. He turned and walked a few paces to his left and pushed a door open. As it swung on its hinges, he shouted
inside. ‘Mickey! Cops are here to speak to you.'

A muffled ‘Fucksake' came back in reply. Moments later, an unhappy-looking forty-something appeared, drying his hands on a towel and eyes darting round the room. When they settled on
Narey, his face crumpled and another bit of life went out of him with a sigh. He clearly couldn't catch a break.

He was skinny with close-cropped dark hair and silver-rimmed glasses, maybe just five foot eight, and had a nervous look about him. His green sweatshirt hung loose and the sleeves were rolled up
to the elbow.

‘DS Narey. What do you want?'

‘It's DI Narey now and it's nice to see you too, Mickey. We wanted to ask you some questions.'

‘Ask
me
?' Doig's tone was defiant. ‘Don't see how I can help you. I don't know nothing about nothing. And everything's above board in here.
Completely kosher.'

With that, Doig flashed a look at his colleague behind the desk, the man hanging keenly on every word of the scene in front of him. Narey got the impression that Doig was posturing for Tattoo
Man's sake. Time to split them up.

‘No one's saying everything's not legit in here. But I'd like to have a look around. Make sure for myself. That okay with you?'

‘You got a warrant?' It was the guard dog behind the desk. Narey smiled at him.

‘No we don't, Mr . . .?'

A sullen pause. ‘Thomas Cochrane.'

‘We don't have a warrant, Mr Cochrane. Only looking to give the premises a quick once-over. That a problem?'

It seemed that it was. ‘I thought you wanted a word with Mickey.'

‘We do. A word about the hotel. We can do our talking while we're walking. Okay?'

Cochrane shrugged sourly. ‘I'll need to phone the owners. Let them know.'

‘Of course, sir. You do that. In the meantime, Mickey can give us the guided tour.'

Narey turned her back on the desk, gesturing for Toshney to follow before Cochrane could argue any further. She then flipped out her thumb and suggested that Doig get moving. Mickey sighed
theatrically and looked over at the desk, his hands held out wide. What choice did he have?

Doig led them to the harshly lit smoky stairwell and began to climb, his shoulders suitably slumped. ‘Just keep walking, Mickey,' Narey whispered behind him. ‘We'll talk
further up.' Doig nodded.

Footsteps above their heads signalled someone descending. Narey and Toshney looked up to see the soles of worn trainers coming unsteadily down the stairs. A tall, bulky man followed, shuffling
one step to the side for every one forward. He stopped, peering down to study them from behind thick spectacles. He swayed in thought.

‘Got any dolly on youse?' he slurred. ‘Methadone, any of youse?'

‘For fucksake,' Mickey huffed, clearly not impressed by the man's timing. ‘Down the stairs, Billy. Away with you.'

The man flattened himself against the wall, hearing the warning in Mickey's voice, and watched him and the cops walk on by. ‘Nae problem. Was only askin'. Not a
problem.'

Narey waited until they'd climbed a few more steps. ‘Everything kosher, that right, Mickey?'

Doig sighed. ‘I only work here. I don't make the rules, I don't make this dump the way it is and I don't make these guys the way they are. I just do what I'm
told.'

‘The get-out clause for arseholes everywhere,' Toshney chimed in.

‘Look, what is it you want? DI Narey, I thought you and me were square.'

‘Square?' She laughed. ‘You know that's not how it works, Mickey. Keep walking. You don't want it to look like you're helping us out. You just want to be sure
that you do. We're looking for someone that's maybe been living here.'

Doig raised an eyebrow nervously. ‘Living here? Name would be at the desk. Everybody's registered. Have to be to get benefit paid by the council.'

‘Yes and the money straight into the owners' pockets. No, we don't know for sure that he'd been living here. You tell us.'

Doig glanced around. ‘Tell me.'

‘He's in his early thirties. Reddish fair hair. Five foot eleven. Quite fit. Wore a light blue cagoule and a navy-blue fleece. Carried a grey-and-blue Nike backpack.'

The man's eyes stretched in disbelief. ‘That's all you got?'

Narey and Toshney looked at each other. ‘Pretty much. We don't think he was an alcoholic or an addict.'

‘Was?
This guy dead?'

Narey nodded.

Doig threw up his arms. ‘Listen, I don't know this guy. Description means nothing. If he wasn't a boozer and wasn't using then he wasn't staying here. Them's
the only kind we got.'

‘The description doesn't ring any bells?' Toshney asked him. ‘In here or anywhere else? DI Narey, did I imagine this or did you say something to me about still knowing
where Mr Doig's lock-up was?'

‘Fucksake . . . I'm not always on duty, I don't know everyone we've got. Okay, look, come and I'll get you to talk to Walter if he's here. It's not
lunchtime yet, chances are we'll catch him before he's out of things. Walter's old-school. Just the drink for him. He goes outside more than any of them and knows most of the guys
in Glasgow. If anyone can help you it's him. I'll introduce you then I'm out of it.'

‘Mickey, you'll be out of it when I say you are.'

Doig led them down a dingy corridor, the walls dirty and wallpaper torn. Halfway along, he skirted to one side and avoided a pool of vomit drying on the patterned carpet. ‘Not my
job,' he muttered before they could ask.

‘I suppose he's not your job either?' Narey was pointing to the far end of an adjoining corridor where a man sat slumped unconscious against a fire door. She strode away from
them to where the man, hoodie pulled down over his head, was sprawled. With a familiar rage growing inside her, she pulled gently at the man's arm and lifted his head. She walked back,
shaking her head animatedly, and got right in Doig's face.

‘Alive but sleeping in another world. You going to do something about him?'

Doig's mouth opened to complain but instead he nodded grudgingly. ‘Once we're done here.'

‘Make sure you do. I mean it, Mickey. I'm holding you responsible for this place whether that's fair or not.'

He nodded again, more resentfully this time, but recognizing the look on her face said nothing. At the end of the corridor, he stopped at a chipped white door and rapped on it with the back of
his hand. He knocked again and when there was no answer, he produced a key and opened up.

Over Doig's shoulder, they could see that the room was tiny and bare. A single bed was pushed up against one wall, a single sink against another and the windows were barred. The
unmistakable stench of stale urine seeped out. They could see why Walter spent so much time outside.

Her head spun with thoughts of another miserable little room, another life sentence without a judge or jury saying a word. She realized her fists were clenched and had to force herself to
release them.

‘I've seen prison cells bigger than this. Better equipped too.' Toshney sounded as angry as she was.

Narey didn't, couldn't, take her eyes off the room. ‘Difference is that you get to leave prison eventually. Usually, the only way to get out of this place is in a wooden box.
That right, Mickey?'

Doig had the good grace to look guilty. ‘Aye. Most die or top themselves. Let's try the TV room for Walter.'

Narey turned and moved quickly towards Doig. A startled Toshney managed to move between them in time. Through clenched teeth, Narey nodded at Toshney that she was fine. ‘TV room.
Let's go.'