Riven by A J McCreanor Page B

not a spoiled child.’
    ‘We need to work with this.’
    ‘You need to work with this.’
    ‘What is it you need from others?’
    ‘One word. Loyalty.’ He stood, had reached the door in a second.
    ‘Same time, same place,’ she called after him.
    Heard the sound of the door slamming.
    Moore stood, crossed to the window and opened it wide, letting the cold, damp weather seep into the room. She breathed in deeply, held the icy air in her lungs for as long as she could before exhaling. The city was bathed in a grey glow made colourful by the umbrellas bobbing beneath her window. Moore crossed the room and lifted Andy Doyle’s untouched water glass, took it into the next room and began to rinse it under the tap. Watched as the water ran clean and cold.

Chapter 11
    Watervale.
    Ross drove. The scheme was similar to dozens of schemes across the city. Rows of council semis lined the streets; a few empty houses had their windows boarded up, metal grilles securing the doorways. A low one-storey building had a hand-painted sign on plywood: ‘
Watervale Youth Club
.’ A skinny cat shot across the road into a garden littered with broken glass. Dog shit dotted the pavement. A group of boys huddled together in the cold, their staffie-cross straining at its leash. As Wheeler and Ross drove past, the boys turned and stared hard at them. Wheeler smiled. They gave her the finger.
    ‘Fucking clichés,’ Ross grinned, turning into the school car park. ‘They look like they’re auditioning to be in a Peter Howson painting.’
    ‘Bless,’ said Wheeler, ‘making their wee mammies proud.’
    Watervale Academy was a two-storey building thrown up in the seventies and then forgotten. It was covered in graffiti and the windows had a protective covering of wire mesh, through which crisp and sweet wrappers had become entangled together with assorted plastic bags. The door was locked. Wheeler pressed the buzzer beside the intercom and heard a voice ask who they were. She spoke into it, heard the door click open and they were through to the reception area where a small woman with a round, kind face held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Margaret Field, the deputy head teacher.’
    They showed her their ID.
    ‘It’s dreadful news about James Gilmore. Just awful. Nancy Paton called me – what a nightmare.’ She pushed a book across the desk. ‘I’m afraid you’ll need to sign in, just name and time. Rules.’
    They signed.
    ‘I’ve set up an interview room for you; I hope it’ll be okay.’
    ‘Great, thanks,’ said Ross.
    ‘Every class has a classroom assistant,’ she continued, ‘so I’ve arranged for each teacher to come and speak with you, then go back and then the assistant will come. That way you get to see everyone, but the class remains covered at all times. Does this suit?’
    ‘Perfect,’ Ross said.
    ‘Did you know Mr Gilmore?’ Wheeler asked and she could feel the woman draw away from her.
    ‘No, not really. A hello now and again. Tuesday was his usual day. I take assembly on Tuesdays, so I was never in the staff room much. He seemed to just pass in and out.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘What is it about the police that always makes me feel a bit guilty?’
    ‘Everyone feels a bit like that.’ Ross gave her a wide smile.
    They walked through the main corridor; there was pupil artwork on the walls and a glass case with two large silver trophies. Wheeler glanced at them – they were two years out of date. She saw various framed photographs of winning teams at other presentations. Again out of date. A few Certificates of Merit were more recent.
    ‘I hope you don’t think the death is connected to the school?’ The deputy’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘The kids here can be a handful but none of them would do that. I’m sure of it. Neither Alec Munroe nor Rab Wilson had anything to do with this awful mess.’
    ‘Ms Paton’s already told us as much.’
    ‘I’m sure she did and she was