Her eyes closed over and she blew a thin sigh between her lips. ‘I called him. Didn’t get a whole lot of sense though and he didn’t know who I was. I cut it short because he was getting distressed.’
Winter massaged her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. ‘Sorry. I know how hard it is when he doesn’t know you.’
‘It’s harder for him. All of it.’
‘I know. But still—’
He was cut off by a text alert on her phone and she manoeuvred a hand beneath her to pluck it from her back pocket. Whatever she saw revitalized her immediately.
‘From Kirsten Fairweather. She’s emailed me the facial reconstruction of the Molendinar guy.’
With that she levered herself off him and hurried to fetch her laptop. In moments she was back, sitting alongside him this time as the computer booted up.
‘So what do you know about this guy? Off the record . . .’
She gave him a weary look before opening up her mail to find that, sure enough, there was an email from Kirsten. She clicked on it and waited for the image to build.
‘Strictly between us. He seemed to be homeless, living at the Rosewood Hotel. We think his name is Euan Hepburn. But . . .’
Clocks stopped and traffic noise disappeared. Winter’s world missed a beat. The reconstruction stared back at him from the screen. Narey’s eyes narrowed as she caught the look on his face.
‘Do you know him?’
His instinct was to lie but the truth was written all over him.
‘Yes. Well, I used to. Years ago.’
‘And is he Euan Hepburn?
‘Yes.’
‘Tony, are you okay? Did you know him well?’
This time he managed to lie. ‘No. Not really.’
She studied him for a bit, clearly doubting him and seeing how shocked he was. He had to give her something else.
‘I haven’t seen him in years. He’d moved to England to work, last I heard. I had no idea he was back in Glasgow. But he wasn’t homeless, I really doubt that.’
‘Then what? He had been staying in the Rosewood.’
‘Euan was a journalist. Freelance.’
She just nodded. ‘I thought he might be. Explains why he’d been asking so many questions.’
‘Questions about what? Or who?’
She put the shutters up again. He could see them rising on her face.
‘I don’t know yet. That’s what I need to find out. You didn’t recognize him in the Molendinar?’
Part of him had, he remembered that. The quiet voice that he’d been quick to dismiss. Maybe deeper down he’d known but hadn’t wanted it to be. Not Euan.
‘The body was so far gone. The decomposition . . .’
‘But now, does it fit with the guy you knew?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, it’s definitely him.’
‘Did he have family? I need to contact relatives.’
‘He had a sister who lived up north somewhere, near Aberdeen. They weren’t close. His parents were both dead.’
‘Tony, what the hell would he have been doing in that tunnel?’
He was ready for the question and didn’t hesitate. ‘I’ve no idea. Sorry.’
Another extended stare before she nodded. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Okay then. I’m going to have a shower. Wash some of this day off me. Dinner once I get out?’
‘Sounds good.’
They moved together and he hugged her, staring over her shoulder and through the window to the street-lit sky beyond. There was a ghost out there somewhere in the darkness.
Euan Hepburn. Euan fucking Hepburn.
Chapter 17
August 2006
Winter turned a corner and saw the corridor stretch out endlessly before him, the patterned carpet an eyesore, garish pink walls flocked with flaking paint and closed doors off left and right. The place was infested with asbestos and word was it was basically falling to bits. Hard to believe it was once the most prestigious hotel in Glasgow.
The Central Hotel. Frank Sinatra had stayed here when he was in town. Winston Churchill and John F. Kennedy too. It was the place for all the Hollywood stars when they visited. Mae West, Gene Kelly, Judy Garland, Cary Grant, you name it. Roy Rogers even booked a room for his horse, Trigger. It had been on the way down for years though and now it had come to this. A shithole.
Some said it was a shithole with ghosts. The haunted spirit of a scullery maid who fell to her death down a lift shaft from the seventh floor. Or of the guest who hanged himself in his room. Just bollocks, obviously. Winter didn’t have time for that kind of stuff. The place was creepy though, no doubt about that.
It ran the whole length of the railway station along Gordon Street and a fair way down the Hope Street side too. All the rooms were massive, twice maybe three times the size of modern hotel rooms. The word was that a new company was going to take the hotel over and spend a packet on refurbishing it. For him, that meant going in while he could and seeing it for what it was.
It had been easy enough to find his way in through an unboarded, unbarred window. Laurel and Hardy, Bob Hope, Edward G. Robinson and the Queen: they’d all come in past the doorman at the front.
He stopped at one bedroom window, through which faint morning light was streaming, and looked down onto the station below. It spread out like a vast greenhouse under its glass roof, only a few trains rumbling in and out because of the early hour. One hundred and thirty years trains had been coming and going from down there, the hotel just four years younger. Beyond the station, Glasgow yawned into the distance, its rooftops stretching to begin its day. He had to move before the city arrived with the milk.
He pushed open other doors as he paced along the corridor. Some had curtains and tables, some looked as if they were waiting to be made up for the next guest. In the half-light of a Glasgow dawn, they all gave the impression they had someone sleeping or standing in the shadows.
When he finally got to the end of the passageway, Winter turned and climbed an uncarpeted staircase, a beautiful piece of Victorian craftsmanship that creaked and groaned beneath his feet. He paused for a moment to catch the view outside and instead caught his breath as he heard other footsteps on the floor above him. Or were they below? He stopped and they did too. It must have been an echo. Or maybe just the ghost of the suicidal guest, the man who’d topped himself because of the lurid wallpaper.
He climbed three flights and explored each floor, his footsteps resonating on the stairs in search of friends. Enough noise to wake the dead. A couple of hours slid by as he found empty rooms and rooms littered with cabling, packaging boxes and general rubbish. In two rooms, he lifted the corner of a brash patterned carpet and found that it covered a beautiful Italian marble floor.
He knew that the top three floors used to be used for the staff; waiters and chambermaids and the like; plus servants of the rich and famous who stayed there. These floors were noisier, creaking more than the others and with a constant, unsettling hum as gusts of wind blew through from some unseen hole. The top of the building seemed to be alive, noisily breathing in and out. From somewhere close there was a rustle and a scurry as creatures made themselves scarce at his arrival and he thought he heard a sudden beating of wings from around a corner. The startled cooing of a pigeon confirmed it.
One dark brown door, stencilled Ladies’ Toilet & Bathroom, was pushed back to reveal intricate green-and-white tiles that must have dated back to the 1920s, a broken mosaic floor and large ceramic baths that held a million bacteria. Large washbasins and exposed wiring also conspired to ruin what it had once been.
Something moved behind him. He turned to see two pigeons fly past the open door, heading along the corridor in the direction he’d come from. Winter strode over and popped his head out but they’d already disappeared from sight. All that was left was their shadows.
The distant sound of the birds and their flapping wings began to merge with the groan
of the wind and with floorboards that continued to screech long after he’d stepped upon them. The building was talking to him, complaining about its condition like an old man left in a corner to cough and wheeze.
Breathing deeply, Winter opened the next door and then another, seeing just the same faded normality that he’d seen before. The next, a small attic room, was dressed in dust and a dark colour scheme that could have been brown or grey or just old. What caught his eye was a metal door on the far wall. It gleamed darkly and begged him to come closer for a look.
It was only about five foot high and seemed newer than the rest of the room. An addition. Yet it still gave off a vibe of age, a rustiness that was maybe by design. The metal handle, the same dark brown colour as the door, begged him to turn it. Shaking his head in wonder, he grabbed and pulled.
The door came towards him with a grunt, revealing not another room but a closet, painted a creamy white inside. It was a narrow recess into the wall, maybe five foot high, the same as the door and three or four feet deep. Tall enough for a child to stand up in, big enough to hold an adult if they ducked. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. The three walls of the closet were lined with razor blades.
He stood on the threshold, crouching and dipping his head, seeing that the blades were indeed razor sharp and had been carefully and firmly pushed into the walls. Behind him another floorboard creaked and the wind sang. There must have been . . . he counted . . . Jesus, there were maybe two hundred blades.
The final floorboard creaked just as he felt a shove in the middle of his back and he was propelled forward into the closet. He didn’t dare put his hands out to stop himself for fear of the blades and instead had to brake with his feet as best he could. The door closed firmly behind him and the closet was plunged into darkness.
The urge to move was huge but he had to fight it. He was wary of even turning to face the door to try to open it. The blades were maybe just an inch or two from his face, his chest, his wrists. And he couldn’t see a thing.
The floor-boards squealed again from the other side of the door, close enough for him to feel it.
‘Open this door. Open this fucking door!’
Nothing. Nothing but more creaking as if the floorboards were slowly bouncing.
‘Who’s there? Open this fucking door now!’
He began to edge his feet forward to gauge just where he was. His left shoe nudged forward maybe three or four inches when it hit the wall. He backed up, stopping when he realized he wasn’t certain whether there were blades in the back of the door behind him. He swung back his right leg and kicked out with his heel, slamming it into the door and wobbling dangerously as a result.
Laughter came from the other side of the door. A dirty laugh that was trying to be stifled but burst out uncontained. There were slaps against the door that made the metal ring and seemed to shrink the room; then, just as suddenly, there was light. He felt the air as the door pulled back behind him.
A voice came out of the laughter. ‘Step back. Straight back. Straight as a razor. Man, if I was any sharper I’d cut myself.’
Winter did as he was told. One step, two and he was out, standing up and whirling as soon as he was clear of the closet. In front of him, nearly doubled up in fits of laughter, was a guy about his own age, tears running down his cheeks.
‘Sorry, man. Seriously. Sorry. I just couldn’t resist.’
Winter swung his right arm, fist clenched, connected with the man’s jaw and put him flat on his back. The guy lay there, hand nursing his chin, and continued to laugh. He was about five foot eleven with short reddish fair hair, athletically built and with a wicked grin plastered over his face.
‘Fair enough. I deserved that. Just couldn’t help myself.’ A finger of his right hand tested his lips and saw it flecked with blood. ‘One shot’s all you get though. Okay?’
‘You could have killed me, you idiot.’ Winter softened as his rage slowly dwindled with relief. ‘Okay, maybe not killed me but those blades . . .’
The man held both hands up in surrender. ‘You’re right. It was stupid. Shouldn’t have done it.’ He got to his feet, slowly stretching out a hand. ‘I’m Euan Hepburn. Accept an apology?’
Winter shook his head and let a reluctant smile cross his face. ‘Tony Winter. Apology accepted. Just. You make a habit of doing stuff as stupid as that?’
Hepburn shrugged. ‘Yeah, pretty much. Some weird shit in this place, huh?’
‘You could say that. So it was you I heard moving around earlier?’
‘Either me or the ghost of the woman who fell down the lift shaft. You can never be sure somewhere like this. You know what this is?’ He nodded at the razorclad closet.
Winter shook his head.
‘It’s an art installation. Weird, huh? I’d heard about it. One of the reasons I wanted to explore in here. Look, how about I buy you a pint to make up for it.’
‘A pint?’ Winter looked at his watch. ‘It’s only seven thirty.’
Hepburn smiled mischievously. ‘Another quick scout round here and then a wee stroll to the Saltmarket. The Whistlin Kirk opens at eight. Need to get a breakfast with the beer, right enough. It’s the law.’
‘What kind of pub opens at eight in the morning?’
‘One that works what they call Grandfather Terms. So they can sell to shift workers. And I feel we’ve put a shift in going round here. What do you say?’
Winter laughed. ‘Why not? My mouth’s so dry—’
‘It thinks your throat’s been cut?’
‘Exactly.’
The Whistlin Kirk was in Greendyke Street, just a stone’s throw from the Clyde and just enough time to take your tie off if you’d walked from the High Court. It was only just gone eight but already there was a small, happy band with pints of lager in front of them on round tables. Plates held sausage, bacon and egg or filled rolls. The crowd was pensioner age, most pitched somewhere between sixty and eighty, and they all looked happy to be out of the house and still alive.
Hepburn led Winter to the bar where they were greeted with a nod by a woman in her thirties with blonde bobbed hair and a red apron over a black top. She sized them up and didn’t see any trouble she couldn’t handle.
‘Help you, boys?’
‘Two pints, please. A lager and a Guinness. And a bacon roll.’
‘Needs to be a roll each. It’s the law.’
They found a couple of seats in the corner, a bit along from a clean-shaven man in a hoodie who sat looking down silently into a pint of lager, a plate of square sausage and beans sitting untouched beside him.
The bar still had the stale whiff of last night’s booze but that was slowly disappearing through the open door along with the hangovers. Some customers chatted quietly, some cracked jokes and told each other lies. They all got what they wanted from it.
‘Nice place,’ Winter said quietly.
‘It is actually. Never any bother, keep a good pint, folk are friendly. Not my bit of town but I’d drink in here if I was local. And it’s cheap.’
Winter supped on his Guinness, deliberately letting a creamy crescent settle on his lip before licking it off. ‘You not got a job to go to today?’
‘Nothing till later. I work for myself so can generally choose when I come and go. I’m a freelance journalist.’
‘Yeah? What kind of stuff do you report on?’
He grinned. ‘Anything that pays. I do some undercover stuff but whatever pays the bills and lets me not work nine to five is fine by me. What about you?’
‘Photographer?’
‘Really? I know plenty but never seen you. Who do you work for?’
Winter dropped his voice. ‘The cops. Not long started.’
Hepburn laughed. ‘That explains it then. Obviously most of the guys I know are snappers for the papers.’
‘That’s not for me. So were you in the Central doing some undercover work?’
‘Jeez no. Just exploring. If I started exploring it to get paid, it w
ould take all the fun out of it. I have a couple of cameras and tend to use one for work and one for urbexing.’
‘Really? I do the same. One for work and one for me, although I usually take both to a job with me. Just habit, I guess. So where have you explored?’
They took turns to reel off places they’d been. The old Merkland Street station, the public baths, Govan dockyards, Woodilee Hospital out at Lenzie, the Titan at Clydebank, a succession of old schools, factories, churches and disused railway lines. It turned out they’d unknowingly been following in each other’s footsteps across the city. They were each other’s shadow.
‘This makes a change,’ Hepburn grinned. ‘I never get the chance to talk to other urbexers. Man, I didn’t even know I was an urbexer till I read about it online. Until then I thought I was the only eejit going into places I shouldn’t.’
‘I guess there’s a few of us. Guy I met reckoned there were maybe about nine or ten in Glasgow doing it. Can’t be sure though. We all just do our thing and no one talks about it – we hardly ever meet each other. How did you get into it?’
Hepburn tilted his head in thought. ‘My old primary school was getting knocked down and made into flats. I thought it was a shame and wanted to have a look around before they flattened it. They said I couldn’t, chance had gone. So I figured I’d go in anyway. Getting in was a piece of cake. Looked around the classrooms and the gym, went into the head’s office seeing I got called there on a regular basis. I even sat at a couple of my old desks. Amazing how the memories came back. Just as well I went in when I did though because the place burned down a week later.’
Winter groaned. ‘Let me guess. They found something inside. Asbestos maybe? The developers couldn’t get planning permission and then the place mysteriously caught fire.’
‘That’s exactly it. Amazing how many times that happens in Glasgow.’
‘Always just a coincidence though. Feel good when you were back in the school?’
‘Felt great. Being in there but also being in there because they’d told me I couldn’t. I got a buzz out of that. They’re always telling us we can’t go places or can’t do things. They treat us like kids, man. Beware of this, danger of that, don’t even think of going there. Load of crap. If I get hurt then it’s my own fault. I’m not going to sue anyone. Tell me I can’t and I want it all the more. You know?’
In Place of Death Page 10
