Three people sat outside the room of the Chief Procurator Fiscal’s office, waiting to be called in. Colin Anderson was slightly concerned about what he was going to hear in the meeting and how his wife might take it. Brenda was texting their son to make sure that Moses was OK, despite the fact they had left home less than twenty minutes before.
Costello knew why they were there but said nothing. She had spent two hours at Archie’s house the previous night and told him a few home truths, fuelled by his treatment of her at the barbecue. For the first twenty minutes, she didn’t think he got more than two words in, and she had enjoyed it. She was sure that the minute she left, he had picked up the phone for some very long conversations about Joanna Craig, the legal firewall around Edward Dukes’ finances and the truth about Birdie Scanlon.
Now, she wanted this meeting to be over. It was a distraction to the case. She wanted to apply for permission to see Veronica’s medical records.
A change in the murmurings of voices inside the office caught her attention, but Costello couldn’t hear any exact words. Two male voices, maybe three, talking seriously, but there was no sense of any dissent. They were still preparing and she bet somebody in that room had worked an all-nighter – probably Archie.
So she waited, and watched, enjoying the rare opportunity to examine her boss and his wife, as mismatched as ever they were; as opposites, they didn’t even complement each other. They aggravated each other. This golden period in their relationship was happening because it played to Anderson’s knight-in-shining-armour complex, with Moses, and the way Rodger the conman had broken Brenda. As soon as she was back on her feet emotionally, and Moses had grown a little, the tension would start again.
She had gone round to the house on the terrace the previous night to advise them of the meeting without telling them what it was really about, and it struck Costello that there had been no changes made to Helena McAlpine’s house since the Andersons had moved in. Nothing. It was still a house of cream carpets, money and taste, not like their old house down near the hospital, where there had been kids, Lego and dirty washing everywhere. She knew they used one of the two lounges, and the kids had their bedrooms, but the posh room was never lived in – it was a shrine to Helena and Alan McAlpine. The Andersons lived in the kitchen.
The door of the office opened, and they were surprised to see a short dapper man, well-cut suit and a bow tie. Lee Galbraith, the forensic accounting specialist from the Met, welcomed them in.
Archie Walker was sitting behind his desk. He got up and welcomed them all very warmly; it was very nice to see them again, and maybe, when this was over, they could get together with Valerie for something to eat. He didn’t mention Costello’s visit to the house the night before and she noticed the lack of any representative from Operation Felix apart from Galbraith. That could be a good thing or a bad thing.
They made their introductions. The Andersons had met Galbraith before, and Brenda was already close to tears just recalling that meeting. Archie was pouring out coffee, automatically giving Costello a black tea instead. So he remembered that.
‘Nice to meet you, DI Costello,’ said Galbraith, sitting down, opening his briefcase, keen to get to business. ‘Did it not strike you as odd that you have been Mrs Craig’s neighbour for all these years and she had never mentioned to you that she had a daughter?’
‘Not really. We spoke about the weather and potatoes. And families can drift apart.’
‘Well, we have always believed that wherever Rodger – real name Simon Russell – goes, working on his long con, somebody has been before, smoothing the way for him – an associate really.’
‘I think I’m beginning to see …’ said Anderson slowly.
‘I think that might be his wife, Joanna Russell.’ He held out a wedding photograph. They were young, but recognizable: Joanna Craig and the man they knew as Rodger. ‘Joanna Craig, as she was.’
‘That’s a huge coincidence,’ said Brenda, the photograph wavering in her hand, the betrayal working its way deeper.
‘I think the point he’s making, Brenda, is that it wasn’t a coincidence,’ said her husband softly.
‘Operation Felix has always wondered how he knew so much about his victims. No wonder he fitted so well into your family; he had researched everything about you. The dossier on her laptop about your family runs to sixty pages,’ Galbraith explained. ‘I suspect they started working on their mother’s neighbour. Costello, single woman, big flat, good job and with a presumption of inherited wealth as both parents deceased and her being’ – he paused – ‘for our purposes, an only child. Then they fell across the connection to Anderson and Helena McAlpine, a much better financial proposition. And there had been marital strife? They’d see that as an opportunity, a lever to get in. So you see how the phone call from Joanna to Mrs Craig would go, and that was all they needed. Rodger – Simon – arrives in your life, a fully fledged version of what you need him to be. In other cases, Joanna has posed as a carer, a neighbour, a friend who meets them walking the dog, always passing information back to Simon for the big role he is about to play. But now that he’s in custody, he’s saying nothing about her. He said that he and his wife had separated many years ago. But we have the phone, the communication between them, texts and mobile calls going back over the years. So he is with us. She, it would seem, has gone.’
‘Was she planning to sell the flat?’ asked Costello.
‘Of course.’
‘What was Vera supposed to do?’
‘She didn’t care. These people are professional. Their scamming goes beyond what a normal person can conceive of. It’s their job. The lawyer would be presented with a document passing the house to her daughter to sell, or a fake power of attorney, a fake medical report recommending that Mrs Craig is no longer fit to make these decisions. Fake passports, fake ID.’
‘And leave her with no place to live?’
‘You’d be surprised how often it happens. What we are more interested in now is that she’s done a runner. We have been going through Vera Craig’s flat and have found the ten grand, bagged up in a side compartment of a suitcase, ready to go. She has gone a fair way in realizing her mother’s assets into cash. Simon is still in custody in London. This might break him – it smashes his “I was only being nice and they misunderstood” version of events.’
‘He seemed so kind. He was kind and so … and I am obviously very gullible.’ Brenda’s voice was shrill.
‘No, you’re not. He’s very skilled at what he does. They pick their mark and they will spend months, years, making sure that it works. They researched you for over eighteen months. You were a project to them. Colin being called away and then being caught by the weather in Glen Riske might appear coincidental, but ask yourself whether Colin would have gone if Rodger hadn’t been in the house to help Brenda. They don’t only manipulate the people; they manipulate the entire situation.’
‘The intelligence he had about you on his computer is impressive. He echoed your interest in everything, so he slotted into your life exactly.’
It was Costello who broke the soundtrack of Brenda quietly weeping. Her husband put his hand over hers, and she didn’t pull hers away. ‘Did you visit Mrs Craig at the hospital yesterday?’
‘I may have. I needed some background.’
‘Background or evidence? Did you give her that key to give to me, knowing I’d go into the flat?’
‘I work with people like Rodger all the time and some of it rubs off. He’s not the only one to manipulate a situation. I know my mark, DI Costello.’
‘I entered a crime scene unlawfully.’
‘No, you entered it as a concerned neighbour.’
‘Tell Diane Mathieson at Complaints that.’
‘I already have.’
‘That was sneaky.’
‘And you are predictable.’
As she drove from the meeting at the fiscal’s office back to the annexe at Partickhill, Costello received a phone call. She was needed at Partickhill Station, but the caller would not tell her why, apart from the fact that there was somebody there who wanted to speak to her. She ended the call, thinking about Frankie Scanlon. If he was around, he would know by now that they were looking for him. He had been a good copper in his day. He’d know that he was on their list of persons of interest.
She was shown into the long corridor with the family room at the end, and she nipped into the toilet to wash her hands, looking at her pale face in the mirror, her hair like a collapsing haystack. She assessed her thoughts and the best way to play this. He knew about interview techniques. Better to let him talk, be careful to give nothing away.
The family-room door was open, and an elderly woman in a light-blue anorak and a younger man in jeans with a hiker’s rucksack were sipping some tea the constable on the desk had made them. Costello noticed the good biscuits, so that meant that these two were here for the benefit of the police. What it was about, though, she had no idea. If these two were Scanlons, they might be a wife and son, but not the man himself.
They had asked for her. They had not given any names but said they had information that was important to an ongoing case. They both looked very nervous.
Costello introduced herself and slid into the seat opposite them. ‘Well, I hope we are looking after you OK. Was the coffee good?’
‘We’ve come quite a long way.’
‘From where?’
‘From Lochgoilhead. We got the bus down this morning.’
‘Oh,’ said Costello. ‘Well, thank you for coming such a distance.’ She looked at the man and the woman. Mother and son, she guessed. The woman in her seventies. That put her in the age range of the Peacocks.
The door opened, and the same PC came back in, smirking and talking about the weather, very relaxed and casual as he put more coffee and tea in front of them.
‘So what can we do for you?’
‘I think it’s more a question of what my mother can do for you, but before we do that, we need some assurances.’
Costello smiled at the old woman who looked half terrified.
‘If we don’t get those assurances, then we will leave without uttering a further word.’ He was a small man; he wasn’t used to making such statements and it did not ring true.
‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ said the mother, shaking her head slightly. ‘I didn’t.’
Costello recognized the Glaswegian behind her cultured Highland lilt, but the son sounded as if he had been born up there.
‘I’m sure you haven’t, but there’s obviously something on your mind. Why don’t you tell me what it is?’
She began to cry, gentle tears running down her face, making Costello feel like a right bitch.
‘Mum, we’re saying nothing unless we have assurances.’
‘If you have committed no criminal act, then there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘What about wasting police time?’
‘Yes, that’s taken very seriously, I won’t deny that.’
‘OK.’ The son took a deep breath. ‘Over forty years ago …’ He faltered.
Costello felt her spine tingle. ‘I’m sure that anything you say can only be of assistance to us. What assurances do you want? If you killed somebody, then you need a lawyer present. If you only wasted police time, then please speak freely.’
The son asked his mother, ‘Do you want me to …’
The older woman nodded and picked up her coffee cup, holding it in both hands as if the room was cold and it was her only source of warmth.
‘My mother is Elizabeth McGillivery.’ He spelled out the surname. ‘Her husband was a fisherman from Lochgoilhead. They met when Mum was working as a barmaid up there.’
‘Yes, her husband, but not your dad?’ asked Costello gently, looking at the son, imagining him forty years on – a life of no fresh air and poor diet, strip away a healthy outdoor life and all the years, and she could colour in the rest.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you Lizzie Shand?’ asked Costello quietly, leaning forward, trying to superimpose the wizened face in front of her on that old black-and-white poster.
The woman nodded.
‘She prefers to be called Betty,’ said her son. ‘Now. She’s called Betty now.’
Costello looked at the man – a younger, finer-featured version of his father. ‘We’re still looking for you, Betty.’
‘She’s very concerned, and so am I, that our whereabouts don’t become known to my father.’
‘Sandy Muir? He’ll hear nothing from me. We visited him yesterday. How did you know we were there, so quickly?’
‘That’s not important. Do you have any legal obligation to tell him that you know where I am?’
‘You are over eighteen. We don’t need to do anything.’
‘We know that he’s still alive. Please don’t tell him that you have found us.’
‘We won’t, I assure you. I wouldn’t want him near my family. I’m sorry, I don’t think I got your name.’
‘John. John McGillivery,’ he said, ready to challenge any correction. ‘I’ve been worried that you might have to tell him.’
‘You’re a responsible adult. You can do what you like,’ said Costello. ‘But tell me about yourself, Betty. What happened to you? You were reported missing in 1978 by Muir? How did you get away from him? Did you plan it?’
‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath. She was ashamed of the story she was about to tell, of the woman that she used to be. An unmarried young woman who gave her baby away and then changed her mind.
‘If you are about to tell me the story I think you are, then you have my admiration, Betty. I have read Muir’s file. I know about your early life. I know it all.’
‘You can be completely open,’ said John, just as Betty’s faded eyes swept up to meet Costello’s. Her son didn’t know all of it, she was sure of that.
‘I’m glad that we can close the file on you, Betty, and that you’re alive. And can you tell us what happened, just for the record. You’re last seen out with Muir, Big Tam and a redhead of no name.’
‘Sheila? Big Sheila McClymont. I haven’t thought of her in years.’ She sighed. ‘That was the night I had planned to go, once they all got drunk. Wee John was staying with friends of my mum in Lochgoilhead; I was always going back to get him.’ Her son reached out and touched her hand. ‘But I knew Sandy’d never leave me alone if he knew, so that’s why I did what I did. By that time, Sandy wasn’t letting me out of his sight. There was one particular night I was lucky to survive. He was never going to let me leave. So I disappeared. First I went away to have the baby, lay some foundation, then I came back, so that I could leave for good.’
‘He still drinks at the Glen Finnan,’ said Costello. ‘Is that how you knew?’
She nodded. ‘The same family runs the pub. Word got round that you were looking for me. The barman’s dad knew where to call. They knew vaguely where I had gone, so I got a visit from the minister this morning.’
John’s fingers tightened round his mother’s hand. She was shaking at the memory.
‘I bet Sandy had a young girl in tow, terrified, too frightened to speak.’
‘He did. It should be easier now to get away, but she has to realize she needs to get away. It’s so difficult for the victims to understand that they can break free. When you live with a controlling partner, that’s an incredibly difficult decision to make, and you made it.’
‘Yes. Well, no. It was made for me. I wanted to be with my son. If I’d come back with the boy, I knew he’d beat me again, he’d beat the baby. I had no choice. I went away to stay in a room with people who didn’t know me. They trusted me, had faith in me, although I had no faith. Not then. I met John McGillivery, and he stayed, even though he knew about young John.’
‘He was the only father I have ever needed.’
‘I was so scared that he would find me.’
‘Well, you’re still in the system as a missing person. Did you ever think of coming home?’
She thought before answering, a pause before she said, ‘Have you ever lived with a man like Sandy Muir? There was a police officer at one time – he took an interest and was asking questions about me. He tried to help.’
‘Really? What was his name?’
She shook her head. ‘I’d know it if I heard it.’
‘Scanlon?’
‘Scanlon. Fred? Frank? He offered me a job as a nanny to his children.’
‘Were you allowed to take John to that job?’
She shook her head. ‘No, he didn’t know about John, so I couldn’t take that offer, but I would have been too worried. It was in Glasgow, too close.’
‘Really?’ said Costello thinking back to how Lizzie Shand had appeared on their poster – the short dark hair, the slight build. Built like a bird. It would look bad if she took her pen out now and started taking notes, so she got up to leave.
John stood up, following her to the door, then hesitated. ‘Is he as bad as my mum makes out – my dad?’
‘He’s much worse. You stay clear of him. The past is behind you for a reason, so keep it that way. Take care of your mum.’