Written To Death (Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Book 3) Page 16

  “Tell me more. If he's as bad as you're suggesting, how come you've never mentioned him before? In fact, how come I haven't heard his name come up from my own people?”

  “I've not had any reason to discuss him. True, he's nothing but trouble, and always has been, but we haven't ever had cause or evidence to turn it into a police matter. Any time we've come close, his father's intervened, complaining about us being heavy-handed and pulling strings at a high level. It's left us fighting a rear-guard action.”

  “Who's the father?”

  “Mr Speirs, what did you expect?”

  “Very funny, Brian, your sense of humour hasn't improved. Now quit the clowning and tell me something meaningful. How come he's got clout?”

  “Sorry, Alex, I couldn't resist it, particularly as you were being so serious. The whole story is that Kevin's an only child and brought up by his mother. The parents separated when he was a toddler. She has her own problems, depression and nerves I've heard, and she can't cope. As a result, Kevin has almost total freedom to do what he wants and takes full advantage. Of course, his behaviour has a negative effect on the mother, which becomes a vicious circle with him behaving more and more outrageously. His father's a businessman, I'm told, very wealthy and with influential friends. I say friends, but according to rumour, he's more of a puppet-master. His name's Richard Speirs and he's alleged to pull the strings of quite a few politicians, including members of the Education Board. He hardly ever sees the boy and showers money on him instead of attention. He doesn't and never has exerted any discipline, and what we're left with is an out-of-control kid. He doesn't believe any of the rules apply to him, and whenever he comes close to being caught, Big Daddy steps out of the shadows and bails him out.”

  “And what sort of misdemeanours have you been unable to pin on him?”

  “Nothing's ever been pinned on him, but we know he's guilty of all the usual things: bullying, petty theft, intimidation, assault and, of course, swearing and smoking are a given. We've often had complaints, but then any witnesses seem to have memory lapses and can't remember seeing anything. That's not just the kids; it's teaching staff as well.”

  “Why was it never reported to us?” Alex asked.

  “There was no point. The complainant had usually withdrawn their statement and there was no-one or nothing to corroborate the incident.”

  “I understand, but our people are far more experienced at finding out the truth and extracting evidence where it's needed.”

  “We had nothing to give you and we had old man Speirs, or his lackeys, breathing down our necks.”

  “Okay Brian, I'm not having a go at you; I'm just frustrated that all this has been going on without us having the chance to do anything about it. What about friends? Who does he associate with?”

  “He doesn't. There used to be some lads he hung around with, but that was a couple of years back before Kevin became as radical. No doubt he scared them away. There isn't anyone we'd consider his friend, not within the school. He quite often has some of the junior pupils running his errands for him, but I doubt it's out of friendship; more likely, it's out of fear or else he's paying them. I've heard stories he associates with some other lads from outside of the district. They've been spotted meeting up at the school gates on occasions.”

  “Do you know who they are?”

  “I'm afraid not. I can put out some feelers if you like.”

  “Yes, please. Now, you said they meet at the gates. Does that mean he's a diligent pupil?”

  “It's not how I'd describe him. He's intelligent enough and he's very good at English; a gifted writer, actually, but he chooses if and when he's prepared to make any effort. If it's something he likes or wants to do, then he's filled with enthusiasm and very often excels. However, when it's not what he wants to do, he makes no effort and very often doesn't even turn up.”

  “You said he liked writing,” Alex said. “Did he have any connection with the writing group?”

  “Now you mention it, yes. The group judges our short story competition and Kevin was the winner last year.”

  “Really, did he have any interaction with Sheila Armstrong?”

  Brian thought for several seconds. “With the competitions, the entries are made using code names so the judges have no idea whose work they're evaluating. However, once the judging has been done, members of the writing group come in to the prize-giving. They read out their critique and they award the prizes. It was Sheila who did it last year. She must have met Kevin.”

  “And did they meet at any other time?”

  “Not as far as the school was concerned, but I couldn't tell you about anything out-with.”

  “If you're going to do some fishing anyway, see if you can find out if anyone else has any useful information. Witnesses, hearsay or rumours, I'll take the lot and then try to sort the wheat from the chaff.”

  “Okay, Alex, I'll see what I can do.”

  Before the receiver reached the rest, Alex started yelling instructions to Phil. He wanted every record pulled and every piece of information searched to find anything they could about Richard Speirs. Not waiting for a response, he picked up his car keys and was out the door within seconds.

  Twenty minutes later, he drew to a halt in the car-park of a Lidl supermarket in Pollocksheilds. He locked his vehicle and walked for a short distance, past the Shawbridge Arcade, then he stepped through the door of a traditional watering hole. It was a compact pub with a long timber bar. Although clean and fresh, it had the feeling of an old-style, spit and sawdust, working man's pub. Indeed, had it not been for the wall-mounted, wide-screen television, permanently tuned to Sky Sports, it could have been transferred straight out of the nineteen-forties. Alex quickly scanned the room and found his target sitting at a booth in the corner – a small man with rat-like features. Even though he was indoors, he was wearing a cap and a fawn coloured trench-coat buttoned up to the neck. A quarter-full, pint-sized, glass tankard was in his hand containing bright orange liquid.

  Pleased to see he was sitting alone, Alex sidled into the booth and moved close, leaning over to whisper in his ear, “Hello, Shuggie, long time no see.”

  The man had been half-asleep and jumped, roused by the interruption. “It's you, Mr Warren. What are you wanting?”

  “Now come on, Shuggie, you don't sound very happy to see me. You needn't get upset, it's not you I'm after.”

  “It wouldn't matter if it was. I've done nothing wrong, so there's nothing you can get me for,” he answered defiantly. “I've made my mistakes over the years, but I've served my time and all I want now is a quiet life.”

  “Let me get you a top-up, Shuggie. What are you on?”

  “Very kind of you, Mr Warren. I'll have another orange juice and soda,” he replied and drained the remaining liquid from his glass.

  “You don't want a chaser to go with it?” Alex offered.

  “No thanks, I've been off the hard stuff for a good while now. In fact, no alcohol has passed my lips for close on four years and I'm healthier for it.”

  “Well, how come you spend every afternoon of your life in a pub?”

  Shuggie shrugged. “Where else is there for me to go? I know most of the folk that come in here. I come here for the companionship. We meet here to discuss what's happening and watch whatever game's on the box,” Shuggie said, indicating towards the big screen.

  “Well, although you hardly ever leave this place, you somehow seem to hear a lot about what's going on, so I'm here to find out what you know.”

  Shuggie raised his eyebrows. “And precisely what do you want me to tell you?”

  “If I knew precisely that, then I wouldn't need to ask,” Alex answered cryptically. “On a more serious note, I want to hear anything you can tell me about a young lad from Clarkston, his name's Kevin Speirs.”

  Shuggie sat impassively until Alex reached into his pocket, unfurled a twenty pound note and placed it on the table. He snatched the money at lightning speed then be
gan, speaking in hushed tones, “I've heard of him, Mr Warren, but I've no wish to meet him. He's a nasty piece of work from all accounts. He's done some muggings. I've heard some stories that he and a couple of mates go about the town when the pubs come out and pick on anyone they think is, let's say, 'under the influence.' They don't just take money though. They give the poor sods a good kicking as well. They've also picked on beggars, rolled them over and taken anything they could.”

  “How come we've not had any reports?”

  “Come on, Mr Warren, most of the beggars are illegals, or of the few that aren't, many have no reason to be begging in the first place. The police are hardly going to be their first port of call even if they do have a legitimate reason for complaint. As for the drunks, someone turning up at A&E complaining about being ripped off, when they were too steamin' to tell them what had happened, wouldn't be given top priority by your lads.”

  “Yes, that's a fair comment,” Alex answered. “But there has to be more to it.”

  “Yeah, maybe that's the more interesting bit. He's still just a kid and he and his mates have been treading on other people's toes but nothing's been done about it. I can't be sure of the reason, but it's reckoned someone's bought off the opposition, paid for him to be given space, something like that.”

  “And do you have any idea of who?” Alex asked.

  “Not exactly, but there's some talk he's involved with an Eastern European unit.”

  “Now we're getting somewhere. Tell me more.”

  “There isn't any more. There may be nothing to it. I don't know anything else and I don't want to. I don't need to tell you what it's like with these people. They don't have any rules. They'd stick a knife in you as soon look at you. You don't get involved, not if you want a long and happy life. You certainly don't talk about anything they do and, if anyone else is stupid enough to, then you don't listen.”

  Okay, Shuggie. Can you tell me anything about young Kevin's old man? His name's Richard Speirs.”

  Shuggie mused over the name, repeating it to himself a few times. His nose twitched, increasing his rat-like expression, then shook his head. “The name means nothing, that's it, Mr Warren, I don't know any more. Richard Speirs doesn't ring any bells.”

  “It's a start,” Alex replied. “Okay, thanks anyway,” Alex stood and lifted a card from his wallet and slipped it across the table accompanied by a ten pound note. “Here, take this. If you think of something else or if you hear anything, anything at all about Kevin or Richard Speirs, then I want to know, and I'll make it worth your while.”

  Alex was feeling exhausted as he walked back to collect his car. It was a good exhaustion; he felt he'd achieved a great deal but he felt physically drained. He remembered he'd sent Steve and Donny to bring Graeme in for questioning and he'd told Sanjay he wanted to be present. Alex rushed back to the office, hoping he hadn't held anyone back by his absence.

  More by good fortune than judgement, he arrived at the same time as Graeme was being escorted towards an interview room.

  Chapter 17

  Opening her email, Sandra examined an item newly in from the M.E. It was his preliminary report and she confirmed the findings were consistent with the initial indications. Water was in Carson's lungs and the cause of death was drowning. There was a severe gash to the back of his head and considerable bruising to the torso. The report made it clear that the injuries had been sustained prior to death and they would almost certainly have completely incapacitated the victim. The head wound was profound and, left unattended, it would likely have led to death, but in this instance it hadn't killed him. Being immersed unconscious in the flowing waters of the Clyde had taken its toll first. The overall impression corroborated the theory of Carson taking a beating on the Tuesday evening, then being dumped in the water to drown, with his body washing ashore where he had been found that morning.

  'My God, that was only this morning,' she thought. 'It feels like a week away. Only a few days ago, Alex and I were lazing on a Mediterranean beach, now look at us,' she mused. 'Two murders, a serious assault and an armed robbery to deal with, not to mention a baby on the way.' She smiled openly at the thought of her pregnancy.

  “Is that some good news for a change?” Peter asked, seeing her apparently looking at the screen with a happy expression.

  Sandra quickly brought her thoughts back to the here and now.

  “We need to pin down these hoodies,” she replied, avoiding the question. “I want to hold off going after Speirs until we have some more to go on. Have you found out anything for me?”

  “Working from our database, I've pulled out all the likely suspects who're the right age group and type and have a link to the Castlemilk area. To start with, we want to talk to these two.” Peter handed her a sheet of paper with the profiles of two brothers, Sean and Thomas McGuire, aged seventeen and fifteen respectively.

  Sandra cast her eye over the document. “Bring them in,” she instructed, “and send two cars, I want them kept apart.”

  “Would it not be easier to go out to them?” Peter enquired.

  “Easier, yes, but less effective. I'd like them picked up and brought in, before they see us or find out any details of what it's all about. It'll give them a chance to sweat a little before we start. Reading between the lines of what's in your summary, they're pretty full of themselves, the younger one in particular. I'd like to shake that confidence a bit, and having the discussion on our home territory and not theirs is a good start. Just to be on the safe side, have an appropriate adult in attendance. I don't want to risk any a claims of coercion.”

  “Righto, Ma'am, I'll get it organised. The only problem might be finding them. This time of day they could be anywhere and up to any sort of mischief.”

  “Just do what you can. The sooner the better.”

  It was three hours before the McGuire boys were tracked down and persuaded 'to help the police with their enquiries.'

  “Let's start with the young one, Thomas, isn't it?” Sandra asked.

  “That's right, we have him in room four,” Peter replied.

  Sandra walked into the room, started the recorder then introduced herself and Peter and explained his rights. “Do you understand what I've just said?” she asked.

  “Yeh, perfectly clear, but I'd like my brother to sit wi' me.”

  “I'm afraid that won't be possible. We have questions to ask him too, so my answer has to be no. You are entitled to have an adult present. We can bring in one of your parents if you'd like.”

  “You'd be lucky, you wilnae get them out o' the pub at this time.”

  “We can arrange for another relative, a teacher, or an approved responsible adult or a solicitor if you'd prefer,” Sandra offered.

  “Nah, I dinnae want some stranger listenin' in. It's either Sean or no-one.”

  “Well, it can't be Sean, as I've already explained,” Sandra repeated

  “So, it'll be no-one then,” Thomas said smugly.

  “Now we'd like to ask you some questions,” she started.

  Thomas leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head leisurely. “I don't need to say anythin', you've already telt me.”

  Sandra exhaled heavily, unable to hide her frustration. “You are correct that you don't need to say anything, but if you've done nothing wrong, then why not help us. Even if you have done something wrong, then any cooperation you give us will be taken into account when we decide what happens next.”

  “Ha Ha. You must think my heid buttons up at the back if you believe I'll do anythin' to help you stitch me up.”

  Sandra suppressed a smile, aware of the boy's mixed metaphors. “You've been watching too many bad movies and TV programmes. We're investigating a series of crimes and we're looking for information to help us to understand what's actually happened.”

  “Aye, right. You just keep talkin' and I'll just keep listenin'. I'll tell you nothin'. Now if you let Sean sit in wi' me, maybe I'll think again.”

&nbs
p; Sandra realised she'd get nothing from him as things stood, but wondered if he might be less uncooperative if left for a while. She indicated to Peter to leave the room and instructed a P.C. to remain in attendance. “I'll be back to see you in a short while,” she said, moments before the door closed.

  “A right tough wee bugger,” Peter said, once they were on their own.

  “He is that. He seemed awfully keen to be with his big brother and I don't reckon it was anything to do with his own lack of self-confidence. It's more likely he's afraid of what Sean might tell us and he wanted to warn him off first. Let's try working on Sean. You never know, we might hit it lucky.”

  They walked a few yards and entered another interview room. They went through the same process of introduction, but not before realising they were dealing with a completely different animal. Sean was much taller and broader than his younger brother. Lank, thin, bleached-blonde hair sprouted from his head and his face had a dark uneven shadow showing he had yet to master the art of shaving. He had a crumpled look and appeared in age to be well in excess of his teenage years. He sat with his arms crossed and his feet together on the floor, legs rigid, gently swaying back and forward, his eyes darting around the room nervously.

  He seemed almost relieved when Sandra and Peter entered the room, anxious to get whatever was to happen over and done with.

  “Okay, Sean, I've explained your rights, are you happy to keep talking to me?” Sandra opened.

  “Aye, aye, whatever.”

  Sandra glanced at Peter and gave a barely imperceptible nod. Her normal interview technique was first to try and put her suspect at ease hoping to eke out the information she wanted. However, seeing Sean's anxiousness, she thought it better to go straight in hoping to give him the opportunity of unburdening himself.

  “We understand you know Kevin Speirs,” Sandra stated

  “Aye, that's right, he's one o' my mates.”

  “And you've spent quite a bit of time with him this week.”

  “Well …” Sean became pensive.

  “We'd like you to tell us where you were on Monday afternoon around 2.00pm,” she continued.