Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Collection

Chapter 6

Alex knew where Stevenson lived as his personal confrontation with him had taken place at his home, but as no one else knew of this he had to go through the process of having his address confirmed before setting out. Stevenson"s house was located in Whitecraigs, one of the most affluent suburbs of Glasgow.

Most of the rush hour biz had dissipated and the traffic was comparatively light. However, masses of pedestrians were still around on Great Western Road enjoying the novelty of the first evening for a month where it wasn"t pissing down with rain. The Bohemian-style of Glasgow"s West End meant many shops remained open late and this was complemented by the abundance of restaurants, cafés and bars seeking to lure in early evening trade.

Alex turned right towards Charing Cross and was lucky not to be held back by its profusion of traffic lights before dropping onto the slip road to the M8 motorway, rising onto the Kingston Bridge to cross the River Clyde. After passing the first turn off, he pulled across to the inside lane and opted for the M77 when the motorways split. Even though it had been open for several years now, Alex marvelled at how much time this new road saved him when he was travelling out of the city towards the South Side or Ayrshire. Although knowing the road well, he allowed himself to be guided by the satnav as he negotiated his way to Stevenson"s residence.

Alex parked with two wheels mounting the pavement on the narrow avenue outside the house and he and McAvoy took the long walk along the mono-block driveway towards the sprawling, ranch-style, detached property. Their path bisected a large lawn with symmetrical flowerbeds cut into it arranged with geometric accuracy. Given the time of year, it was not surprising that there were no flowers and precious little foliage. The lawn had apparently missed its last cut of the season and was ankle length with an abundant sprinkling of autumn leaves which had yet to be gathered.

As they approached the entrance to the house, they could see a tiny red light flashing. It was coming from an alarm box positioned on the wall to the side of the front door about ten feet above the path. As they came nearer, it became obvious that the box had been tampered with as the damaged casing swung back and forward on its hinges, squeaking in the breeze. Behind the facing some wires and electronic components were hanging out. The front door was double-glazed uPVC with multipoint locks. The locks were serving no purpose as the door was ajar and a wedge of light shone out illuminating a triangle on the ground at the entranceway. Alex slipped open his mobile and called for backup together with the scene of crime team. He stood guard while McAvoy patrolled the perimeter but there was no sign of anyone inside. While waiting, Alex called through to Giffnock police station to check if there had been any reports from neighbours or automated calls from the intruder alarm. No reports had been made and the alarm was of a stand-alone variety, more a cosmetic deterrent than an effective protection for the house.

Before long reinforcements arrived and, kitted up again in a white suit, gloves and shoe covers, Alex, followed by McAvoy, cautiously entered the property to assess the situation.

The inside of the house was a shambles, looking as if a tornado had hit it. Walking from room to room, Alex found only devastation. The hallway opened onto a large open-plan lounge, dining room and kitchen. All the furniture had been overturned and the couches were slashed open, their poly-fibre contents spewed across the floor. A huge LED television screen was half hanging from its mounting on the wall and a Blue Ray player, DVD recorder and satellite decoder had been toppled onto the floor along with a shelf load of disks containing several current titles, some pirate versions of soon to be released movies and several hardcore p**n films. Alex noted that the cases were open but no disks were inside. Broken pieces of fine porcelain adorned the thick-piled carpets and a large number of what looked to be good quality original artworks had been stripped off the wall and cast about in a haphazard fashion, often with frames broken and glass smashed. Amongst the debris, Alex immediately recognised works by some well-respected contemporary local artists, including Peter Howson, Ed Hunter, Joe Henderson and Jolomo, the signing name of John Lowrie Morrison. After meeting his alimony, child maintenance responsibilities and paying his day-to-day living costs, Alex had little left over to indulge in other interests but he still maintained a passion for art and he was deeply saddened to see fine pieces treated so badly. He fought the urge to pick them up, dust them off and replace them on the walls, knowing the scene of crime team had first to exhaust their investigations and tests, so instead he turned his back and scanned the kitchen area. Shelves had been cleared and drawers tipped out, including the fridge and freezer. The only sign of life he had so far detected was a group of flies congregating over the deposit from an overturned cat-litter tray in the utility area behind the kitchen. Trying to pick his steps carefully to avoid disturbing anything, he checked the sun lounge, bedrooms and bathrooms to find similar results, furniture upset and slashed and contents strewn across the floors. There were a number of designer label suits and jackets with their linings torn out. It was clear to Alex that whoever did this to the house was not a random thug out to cause damage, but someone exhaustively taking the house apart looking for something in particular. But what? It didn"t take long for him to know for sure. The last room he entered was Stevenson"s private office. Alex realised that it must have been kept locked as the door was hanging askew with splinters on the frame where it had been prised open. Bookshelves had been toppled and an array of leather bound texts littered the floor. A beautifully carved mahogany desk lay on its back, showing signs that its drawers had been chiselled open to access its contents. The casing of a Hewlett Packard computer was amongst the debris and a similarly labelled screen lay broken on the floor. Several plain, plastic-covered photograph albums were spread about having already disgorged most of their contents. Looking closer, Warren realised many of the photographs depicted couples and some groups of naked bodies. They seemed to be stills taken from movie films and he could tell, even from the few that he could see, they formed sequences and showed the participants before during and after s****l activity. Many were partial shots or strange angles and it was clear that they hadn"t been posed but instead had been taken surreptitiously.

Alex knew they weren"t the type of photos used to titillate and the only conceivable purpose in Stevenson having them was for blackmail. He had always classified Stevenson as one of the most hateful forms of vermin but this new revelation took his opinion to a new nadir as he considered blackmailers to be the lowest possible form of scum. For the second time in only a few minutes, he resisted the temptation to leaf through pictures, wanting Connor"s team to finish their work first, but this time he had no interest in the artistic value; he merely wanted to identify a further group of people with a grudge against Stevenson and to search for clues to help him identify the actual murderer.

Alex was in no doubt that the person who trashed this house was the murderer. Stevenson must have driven him, or her, over the edge. To kill Stevenson in that way was unlikely to have been premeditated. Stevenson must have pushed them too far and they lashed out. They then must have been desperate to find the source Stevenson was using to blackmail them so they stole his keys to search his house. That meant they must have known where Stevenson lived, or been able to find out within a very short period of time.

While waiting for Connor"s crew to get on with their work, Alex phoned through to Sandra to make her aware of the latest developments.

“Nothing"s changed, you still need to do all the same groundwork, but because of the photos, I now think the murderer"s more likely to be a blackmail victim than someone Stevenson"s conned. So we can maybe go a bit easier in that direction. The only silver lining I see is that maybe some of his con victims needn"t undergo further torture. How"s progress with you.”

“I"ve put in a request for all CCTV footage in the area and it should be delivered by first thing in the morning. I"ve assigned teams to do a door to door, and we"ve got the mobile incident unit set up outside the shop. Anything else you want from me?”

“Nope, you"ve done well. I"m going to hang on here until I can get access to have a proper look round and collect everything we need to work with, then I"m calling it a night. I"d like to meet up with you at the incident van first thing tomorrow and we"ll take things from there. Wait a minute. Check out next of kin and any known family, friends and contacts. That way, come tomorrow, we can hit the ground running.”

Alex and McAvoy waited in the car until they were given free access to the house. The dry interlude had not lasted and a heavy sleety shower was descending. Alex switched on the engine to give them a modicum of heat and he had the wipers on intermittent with the demister on full and facing the screen to give them some visibility as thick condensation had clouded all the other windows. Once admitted, they conducted a slow and careful search for any items of interest. They lifted carpets looking for a safe but there was none. They collected and boxed all the photos and any paperwork relating to bank accounts and investments, without paying much attention to the content. Uniformed officers were assigned to make enquiries of the neighbours and then, sometime after 10.00pm, with the temperature dropping and a white covering already forming on the grass and pathways, they left the house. Warren made a four mile detour so he could drop McAvoy at his home in Croftfoot, a cottage flat, a quarter villa on the south side of Glasgow, then he found his way back to his own flat. Warren also lived on the south side. He rented a two-bedroom apartment in Shawlands, on the first floor of a traditional red sandstone tenement built more than a century ago. Although requiring little space himself, he maintained the larger property for the odd occasions when he was allowed to have his boys stay over with him. The flat itself comprised of an entrance hallway, large dining kitchen, bay-windowed lounge measuring eighteen feet by fifteen feet and overlooking a small private park and two spacious bedrooms, one with a double and the other two single beds. All the rooms had high ceilings, nearly ten feet tall, and they were bright and airy. Furnishings were adequate but minimalist and mostly had been provided by his landlord. Alex"s one precious keepsake was a watercolour painting he had commissioned from the artist Brian Large. The subject was his two boys when they had been aged two and four, pictured in happier days, when they"d been on a family holiday in Spain. Alex had provided Brian with a photograph and he had produced a remarkably detailed reproduction. Alex had been privileged to have known Brian for years as Alex"s uncle had attended school with him. Despite having received commissions from royalty and from the admiralty, Brian now lived the much clichéd, frugal life of an artist residing in a flat in a seaside town on a small island in the Clyde estuary, about forty miles from Glasgow.

Alex was worn out by the exertions of the day and he just wanted some sleep so he went straight to his bed. However, try as he might, sleep eluded him. He tossed and turned. Every time he came close to drifting off, images of Stevenson lying across the chaise longue returned to haunt him. He got up and made himself a hot milky drink, Horlicks, but it didn"t help. He lifted the box of photos he"d taken from Stevenson"s house and scanned through them but he was too tired to study them properly. All he really absorbed was the abundance of naked bodies indulging in a variety of s*x acts. Realising the context, his reaction was pity rather than stimulation. He collapsed back onto the bed and tried again to sleep, but it was well after three am before he finally drifted into a fitful slumber and his alarm had been set for seven.