A sodden poster of Luca Scott was hanging by a tattered corner. Costello leaned against a lamp post, checking the time on her mobile. Half one: she should be back at work, trying to find him, but she was blind in one eye, and the pain in her temple was intensifying. The Sanomigraine had been too little, too late.
She stood on the kerb, wet hair sticking to her scalp, Christmas music cutting through her head like cheesewire. The cars on Byres Road were queuing back all the way up to the lights at Queen Margaret Drive. The headlights seemed to be dancing in pairs under the parabolas of the Christmas lights above, merging into one and separating again. She couldn’t even see straight; there was no way she could drive like this. She was frozen, sweat making her clothes damp, chilling her to the bone. She started to walk along the pavement to keep warm, one foot in front of the other, one foot… then the other…
‘Oi, Costello?’ a voice said. As she put her hand over her bad eye, a figure came into view… anorak, blond hair, tall… ‘It is you, isn’t it?’
Yes, it’s me. Who else would I be? ‘Colin?’ She felt the blood drain from her head, her knees started to buckle, and she gave up every pretence of being well. She felt a strong arm round her, folding her into the passenger seat of a battered blue Astra, and was aware of a furry dragon being retrieved from under her before she sat on it.
‘You look about as good as I feel.’
She heard the seat belt being clicked home and she leaned her head against the cool headrest, and closed her eyes. ‘Why, what happened to you?’
‘I’ve been Quinned. And you’re for it tomorrow. I think she’s going to get a tracking device put on you,’ said Anderson, smoothing Costello’s jacket collar underneath the seat belt.
Costello realized she was slowly stroking the fur of the dragon, now on her lap. ‘Who cares?’
‘Are you going back into work?’
‘No, I’m going home. It took me bloody ages to get through the tunnel and I didn’t get my migraine tablet in time.’
‘Accident on the Kingston Bridge, that’s why the traffic’s so heavy.’
‘My sight isn’t good enough to drive now. I was trying to find a taxi.’ She swayed a little in her seat. ‘I told Irvine. I’m sure I told Wyngate. Might as well talk to a brick wall. Look, it’s just a migraine. I’ll be fine tomorrow. It’s because I’m overtired.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Anderson shut the passenger car door and walked round to the driver’s side, holding a hand up in mid-air in an apology to the traffic queue. The slam of the driver’s door bagatelled around in Costello’s head. She leaned forward, eyes closed, and held her head in both hands, concentrating very hard on not being sick. ‘The problem with this squad is,’ Anderson went on, ‘the right hand has no idea what the left is up to. Kate Lewis is doing a…’
‘Who?’ Costello screwed up her face.
‘Some high-flyer – great legs and not enough skirt – she’s organizing a photo shoot with a blond boy standing on the street in the rain and…’
‘If you want somebody to act as his mum and headbutt a puggie, you can count me out.’
‘As subtle as ever. For Christ’s sake, the poor woman had a grand mal fit. Lewis won’t re-enact that, I hope,’ he added. ‘But yes, that’s what we’re arranging. Costello, you look terrible, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘Yeah, well.’ For a minute Anderson thought Costello was going to cry. ‘It’s been a difficult few weeks. It’s been hard. ’
Anderson lifted his own hand from the gear stick and patted the back of her hand, then asked quietly, ‘How did it go with Sarah McGuire?’
‘I wasn’t happy. Couldn’t exactly tell you why, though. With McAlpine I’d have said straight out: I don’t like her, she’s up to something, and he’d have understood. Can’t do that with Quinn, eh? I’d have to submit it in a bloody report in triplicate.’
‘We have until tomorrow to make something of it. But apparently Sarah McGuire has already phoned to track down the Fire Investigation report.’
‘She’s entitled to ask, I suppose.’
‘But not to see it, if she’s a suspect. Is she a suspect?’ asked Anderson.
‘Could be; she’s very quick off the mark for one so grief-stricken with bereavement, don’t you think?’
‘And Quinn went apeshit because you hadn’t filed your report and weren’t around.’
‘Tough.’
Anderson watched as Costello’s head lolled alarmingly. ‘Do you want to go to the doctor?’ He glanced at his watch, as if he had somewhere important to go. ‘It would give Quinn a whole load of paperwork if you snuffed it somewhere official.’
‘No, just home.’ She ground her teeth; she was going to be sick.
‘I’m supposed to be out picking up Peter’s Puff the Magic Dragon outfit for his nativity play. Poor Brenda’s stuck at home with Claire moaning about a sore throat. Although you can never tell with her; she might just be jealous of all the attention Peter’s getting, with his starring role. But I’ll nip home later,’ he sighed. ‘Should I cut on to the expressway? I really need to get back to the station asap.’
‘Expressway is quicker.’ Costello’s voice was staccato. She tried to open the window with clumsy fingers, trying to find the handle without moving her head or opening her eyes. ‘Puff the Magic Dragon…?’
‘Don’t ask.’ As the car stopped at the lights on Great Western Road, Anderson reached across and wound down the window for her, knowing that Brenda would go ballistic if Costello threw up in the car. ‘And I should really do some Christmas shopping at some point. You’re a woman – any idea what Brenda might want as a present?’
‘A divorce?’
‘Not thinking of spending that much.’ Anderson sighed, ‘But, as you say, the last few weeks have been difficult for us all. I’ve not been much use at home at the moment; Brenda has had a lot to cope with…’
‘You lost your best friend.’ Costello looked out the window, then closed her eyes, as if the daylight itself were painful.
‘We lost our best friend.’
‘We certainly did.’ Costello sat forward, holding her head, trying to anticipate the movement of the car as it weaved through the narrow streets of Rowanhill to get back to the river. Her heightened senses picked up the smell of petrol. She could sense the sweet chemical scent of fresh newspaper somewhere in the car, the stale grease of yesterday’s chips…
‘Can you stop the car?’ she said urgently. Anderson pulled over, the tyres bumping on to the raised coping stones beside a grass verge. Costello opened the door and suspended herself by the seat belt, as her stomach emptied out three cream crackers and two cups of Earl Grey, as vile coming up as they had been going down.
The thumping intensified until it felt as if her brain would split, and for a moment she thought she was going to faint. The concrete came dangerously close, then she felt a hand close gently on the back of her collar and herself slowly being pulled upright, back into the seat. She put her head in her hands, wanting to die. She knew that something very unpleasant was dangling from her nose and something even more unpleasant was dribbling from the corner of her mouth. But Anderson, the doting father of two, had a whole boxful of tissues in the glove compartment. He had to pull a few used crusty ones out of the box first, apologizing for his disgusting son. ‘Better now?’
She clamped a clean tissue over her mouth and nodded carefully.
He reached across her, closing the door against the cold wind, and she felt the car pull into the traffic, heard the constant drum of rain on the windscreen, the gentle tick of the wipers, back and forth, back and forth. She opened her eyes, and saw droplets of water, each with a little comet tail behind, being swiped by the blade of the wiper against the glass, only to be replaced by more… and more.
Then she realized she was home.
There was a gentle nudge at her shoulder. ‘I think that’s your mobile. It’s the station. I’ll get it. I’ll tell them you’ll phone in when you’re fit.’
‘It’ll pass now I’ve been sick,’ Costello croaked. ‘I’ll be fine tomorrow.’
Anderson flipped the phone open. ‘DS Costello’s mobile, hello.’
‘And when did you start answering her phone?’ snapped DCI Quinn.
By five past two the meeting was still only half full. A picture of a second boy with a stud earring now hung beside the new photograph of Luca with the police horse. Troy McEwen had disappeared from the playground off Horselethill Road sometime the evening before. The incident board told its own story.
The DCI had reapplied her red lipstick, removed her jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her white blouse, ready for business. She consulted a list on a battered clipboard and surveyed the room. ‘Is this it? Where is everybody?’
PC Gail Irvine peered at the list over Quinn’s shoulder. ‘Yip, this is your lot. It’s this throat infection, Christmas leave…’
‘Has DS Costello called in sick?’ There was silence. ‘DI Anderson? Has DS Costello called in sick?’
‘You know she did,’ growled Anderson. He caught a sly smile from Kate Lewis, and smiled back just to confuse her. ‘And so has DC Burns, in case you missed that too.’
‘So, I may as well start then.’ Quinn tapped the photograph. ‘The first thing I have to say is that, no matter what happens with the missing children, no matter what Rogan O’Neill gets up to – this squad has to cope with it. There will be no more in the budget, no more personnel. So, what have we got to work with here? We’ve learned very little since the earlier briefing, but we’d better recap for the back shift. Troy McEwen’s disappearance is far too similar to the disappearance of Luca Scott for it to be a coincidence. So, it now looks like abduction. And, following that theory, abduction involving some planning and some kind of surveillance. So,’ Quinn continued, not bothering to hide her irritation, ‘let’s see if we can brainstorm and find some point of connection between the two. Mulholland and Costello had traced Luca as far as the amusement arcade in Byres Road, and we all know what happened when his mother had her fit. There was a biting wind that afternoon, it was dark, it was busy. The ambulance had to double-park and the usual gore-seekers had formed a crowd. In the confusion, Luca was forced or jostled on to the pavement, or perhaps he made his own way there. Everybody was looking in the opposite direction. Kate is organizing a re-enactment of the whole thing tomorrow at four p.m., with the press there.’ DS Kate Lewis rippled her fingers at the squad in a childlike wave, beaming. Quinn continued, ‘We’ll dress up a boy of the same height, and photograph him. Hopefully that will jog a few memories.’
Anderson caught Gail Irvine glaring at Kate Lewis and muttering something rude which sounded like stupid cow. ‘What was Luca wearing?’ he asked, moving the conversation on.
‘A parka from Primark. With a snorkel hood. And yes, they do hide the face, which will afford some anonymity to the stand-in.’ Quinn continued, ‘The mum, Lorraine, is still under observation in Levern-dale and can’t really remember anything. No matter which way round we go, we can’t get past her doctor. So, we have to accept that there’s not much more to be gained from her. Nobody knows who the father is, there’s no ongoing custody battle, and Luca has not appeared at any of his local haunts, so… It looks as if he just wandered up the road and vanished into thin air. DI Anderson?’
Anderson shrugged. ‘All procedures for a lost child have come up blank, so we’re now considering it an abduction. The CCTV backs up Patsy McKinnon’s statement, but we can’t see much what with the weather, the poor light and a whole load of people milling around.’
‘In the light of Troy’s disappearance, we must re-examine,’ Quinn took over. ‘Troy McEwen was wearing only leggings and a lightweight fleece – so, if he is out there, he will be cold, very cold. He was last seen around half past four yesterday. We have a sighting of him here on the swings up in Horselethill Park…’ She tapped the map, ‘… with his mum. The woman was described as sitting slumped on a bench in the playground. The sightings are not confirmed as it was dark, and nobody had a look at her face, but our witness – Mrs Moxham, who was out walking her wee dog – says it’s not the first time she’s seen them both. Troy’s mum has a distinctive Afghan, coat not dog. Mrs Moxham noticed the boy didn’t seem to have a jacket on. You know what the weather was like yesterday; rainy, murky, turning to sleet. The temperature went down to minus three. And Troy wasn’t reported missing until this morning, and that was by a neighbour. Forensics can pick up a whole mishmash of footprints up as far as the rubber matting of the playground, but any shoeprints we got are of doubtful value. We did get a scrape of blood which we’re looking at; however, it is only a scrape, not enough to indicate any real violence.’
‘Doesn’t rule it out, though,’ said Kate Lewis, reasonably.
‘Did his mother go home without the wee lad then?’ Irvine asked, in disgust.
‘The neighbour who reported him missing, Miss Cotter, has already given us a good statement. She’s a nice old dear, lives on the same landing as Troy,’ Lewis said, handing out photocopies of the statement. ‘You can see from this that it wasn’t unusual for Troy to go home on his own. He lived round the corner from the park, across busy roads but still close. The park was his mum’s favourite drinking den, so he was used to walking home, and if his own flat was locked, Miss Cotter would take him in. She noticed he wasn’t there this morning – the McEwens’ flat door was open, apparently – and that Troy’s mother, Alison, was dead to the world on the settee, clutching a bottle of pills in her hand.’
‘So, why did she not think Troy had just gone out?’
‘If his mum was having one of her little episodes, i.e. she was pissed, Troy would go next door to Miss Cotter for his breakfast. But he didn’t this morning…’
Anderson read through Miss Cotter’s statement and could see it all in his mind, a modern-day tale of Babes in the Wood but without the happy ending. Troy McEwen, at seven years old, had enough savvy to find his way through the maze of dark streets that nestle between Horselethill Circus and Byres Road. He knew his own close, and he knew his own door would be on the latch if his mum was in, or to bang Miss Cotter’s letter box if his mum was out. And in he would go, and have chips. Anderson would bet his bottom dollar that had been the pattern of Troy’s life ever since the dad walked out. He thought of Peter, his life full of dragons and pet goldfish. The way a wee boy’s life should be.
Gail Irvine tentatively raised her hand. ‘From the door-to-door reports, it looks as though Troy wasn’t the only one in and out of Miss Cotter’s flat. She entertains quite a few of the wee kids round there.’
Quinn nodded. ‘Might be of interest.’ She turned to the wall and ran through the grid search that had already been covered, her finger indicating the ever-increasing circles on the map that centred on the last sighting of Troy. With each hour that passed, the circle was expanding. The abduction sites were less than half a mile apart, so by the end of the day the search teams would be going through the same premises for Troy as they had for Luca the previous day. Even as Quinn resumed speaking, they could hear doors opening and closing downstairs, a constant tramping of boots along the corridor as the search team reassembled, grabbed a cup of tea, warmed their feet and went back out again.
‘I’m afraid the search of the McEwens’ flat gave us no leads and, as far as we can tell, nothing else is missing. I want somebody to have another look at it before we talk to the mother, try and get a bit of a feel for the boy. What made him go away just in the clothes he stood up in? He’d no coat, no thick anorak, and it’s going down to minus three again tonight. There was nothing in the fridge – you all know what that means. I don’t think the mother quite grasps the gravity of the situation. She thinks Troy will just turn up… We need to be careful not to interview her without her social worker’s knowledge; need I say more?’ Quinn cracked her fingers. ‘And I don’t need to remind you that family members are responsible for eighty-five per cent of child disappearances. So, are both boys safe and sound somewhere that we have yet to hear about? Do they know each other?’ She kicked a table leg with her heel. ‘But we’ll go with the theory that they have both been abducted. What about the CCTV at the park? Was it any use?’
‘There are no cameras at the park itself. We can see the woman and the dog on the way there, but the tape is so bad, they look like snowmen in a blizzard. We don’t actually see Troy. Or anybody else,’ came a mumbled reply.
‘The camera would only pick them up if they came out to go to Byres Road or up on to Great Western Road. There’s a whole maze of side streets and back lanes in between, it’s a bloody rabbit warren. Look at the geography – the two main roads form a right angle and the park is dead centre, if you’ll pardon the phrase. So is this station, in fact,’ Anderson pointed out.
Quinn sighed. ‘So, cast the net a bit wider.’
They groaned.
‘Both boys disappeared in public places. They must have gone somewhere.’ She gestured vaguely at the four corners of the map. ‘Go through all the statements again. Examine what we have, compare it with the door to door, see if we can match anything up. Look again at the lower end of Byres Road, the pubs, the back alleys. We know Troy was wearing a fleece when he went missing, but somebody might have put a parka on him. So, look for a boy with a hood up. DI Anderson…?’
He nodded.
‘… Any discrepancy, I want to know; especially close to the location of the last sightings by the dog walker Moxham and the cashier McKinnon. Vehicle alerts have gone out, all with these photos.’ Quinn indicated the blown-up photos on the incident board. ‘I’ve asked both boys’ social work teams to liaise with each other and to note any point of contact between them, so I daresay we can expect them to report back sometime before the next millennium. If anybody has a friend in that office, call in any favours you can. Littlewood, does that MO cast anything up on the sex offenders register?’
Littlewood shook his head, scratching his beer belly through his white T-shirt. ‘Nothing as yet, ma’am. I’m going to Stewart Street HQ to look at that myself, chat up a few contacts, see if anything has come down the wire yet. I’ll report to the DI, ma’am.’
‘Good. Wyngate, get on with tracing all Troy’s relatives, recheck his usual haunts, press them to think where else he might be. Lewis, get on with the reconstruction. And Mulholland, get something ready for the cameras; they’re parked downstairs. Irvine will help you. Bear in mind we’ll only have one shot at this. Anderson, you’re checking statements and collating the results of the door to door. And Costello can join in when she deigns to grace us with her presence. The rest of you, get on with the grid and the door to door, and stay in touch with DI Anderson. I want those photographs everywhere. Somebody saw those boys, with somebody, going somewhere. And, I expect you – no, I am telling you – to man this office 24/7. No leave until you are all dead on your feet.’
‘Dad, is that you?’ A bout of coughing came from the back room.
‘Yes, sweetheart, I’m home.’
‘Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home,’ squealed Peter in delight. ‘Did you get my dragon suit?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Why?’ Peter managed to stretch the word out to three syllables of outrage.
Colin pretended to cuff him, and said, ‘Because. Let’s go in and see your sister; she’s not well.’
They went into Claire’s room. She lay on the bed, her favourite Paddington Bear beside her. She looked hot, with a sheen of sweat over her pale face.
The Barbie-themed room smelled stale. ‘I’m poorly,’ said Claire, impersonating a dying swan, her voice dry and croaky.
‘She said she felt like shite,’ added Peter, with some enthusiasm.
‘I didn’t say that, Dad, honestly, I didn’t.’ Her large eyes looked as black as coal and her hair, wet with sweat, lay sleek against her skull. ‘My throat’s really sore. See that big lump?’ She opened her mouth. ‘That’s my gland. The doctor said it was swollen.’
‘Did the doctor say that today?’ asked Anderson.
‘No, yesterday. You were supposed to get my stuff last night but you didn’t come home for ages.’
‘Sorry, pal, I was busy.’ Colin kept his tone light while mentally wanting to strangle Brenda. She could have gone for the prescription; it would have taken her ten minutes. He bit back his anger and made up his mind. ‘Right, this is what is going to happen.’ They both listened. Dad was always easier to get round than Mum and they could sense weakness. ‘I’m going to go out and get your medicine…’
‘Wouldn’t some ice cream be better? My throat’s really hot.’
‘I think it would help, Dad,’ Peter agreed. ‘My goldfish died today.’
Anderson tried to see the connection but failed. Not for the first time, he got the feeling that his son would end up either running the country, or in jail.
Brenda was doing her teeth in the bathroom. Anderson could see a new outfit spread out on the bed, the TK Maxx label still on it. A glittery top and a pair of silk trousers in powder blue. Then he realized he had no idea where she was going. Or who with.
He turned back to the kids. ‘Right, here’s the game plan. You,’ he looked at Claire, ‘stay in your bed and do not move till I get back.’
‘What if Mum goes out and you don’t come back?’ asked Claire, pointing a finger at him.
Colin met her fingertip with his own. ‘She won’t. You stay here with Pooh and Paddington, and don’t move.’
She tutted in annoyance at being treated like a child, but her arms went round both bears just the same.
‘Peter, you come with me. We will get the medicine and get some…’
‘Ice cream,’ they both said in unison. Colin raised a finger to his lips.
He went into the bedroom. Brenda was peering in the mirror, rubbing foundation over her face. ‘Can you stay in for now?’ he asked her. ‘I’m going to nip out for the prescription, I know you’ve been busy today.’
‘Did you get his dragon suit? No, I bet you didn’t.’ She didn’t look at him. ‘As usual, my life depends on what you are doing at your bloody work. But I’m being picked up at half six, and I am leaving at half six. So you’d better be back.’
‘If I’m not, you can follow in a taxi, or ask them to wait. I’ll only be a few minutes. Pour some wine down their throats. It’ll be cheaper than going… where are you going anyway?’ He placed his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently. He could smell a perfume he wasn’t familiar with.
‘Out. I’m going bloody stir crazy in this bloody house with those two,’ she said, shrugging herself free of his touch.
‘Keep your voice down,’ said Colin calmly, aware Claire’s bedroom door was opening. ‘I’ll call if I get held up. If you really need to go, get Caroline in from next door to babysit. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ Anderson softened his voice and tried again. ‘You going somewhere nice?’
‘Christmas night out, with the girls.’
‘When will you be back?’
She sneered. ‘You’re never back when you say you’ll be. Why should I?’
‘Because you are going out with your pals and I’ve spent the day looking at…’ He felt Peter swinging at his elbow. ‘Never mind how I spent the day. Do you think you will be late? Will I wait up?’
‘Do what you want,’ Brenda said, rolling her eyes as she pulled the mascara brush through her lashes. ‘You normally do.’
He retreated into the hall as the bedroom door slammed shut. Peter hesitated for a moment before following his father downstairs.
It was the number plate Anderson noticed first. The blue BMW 5 Series was common enough but the plate – HF 113? He would have recognized it anywhere. The car was pulled hard against the kerb, its hazard warning lights flashing like fairy lights in the rain. Helena’s car. Helena Farrell, Helena McAlpine – Alan’s wife. Alan’s widow, he corrected himself. He felt a rush of familiar pleasure, as though the old Boss himself had come back to help out his former squad. But then he remembered – and the memory was almost enough to crush him.
Helena was crouching on the pavement, wielding the handle of a jack ineffectually. Anderson put on his own hazard lights at the last moment before pulling in front of the Beamer, while the car behind tooted in annoyance.
He looked in the rear-view mirror while Peter turned in his booster seat to look through the back window, holding his Monkey Meal with Cheeky Chips to his chest like a pensioner clutching a handbag full of Bingo winnings.
Helena Farrell got to her feet, hand up to protect her eyes from the rain, and looked at the tyre. She was thinner, less substantive, but it was definitely her. She had had her auburn hair cropped short. Colin preferred it long; he always had.
‘Stay here,’ he said to Peter, and added as an afterthought, ‘and don’t touch anything!’ He got out of the car. ‘Trouble?’ he shouted.
‘Colin! My knight in shining armour!’ Helena smiled through the rain, which was rapidly turning to sleet, flakes settling on the shoulders of her coat. ‘I’ve got a flat, and I can’t even get the nuts off the wheel.’ She kicked the jack with an elegant boot. ‘The AA said they’d be another two hours or so.’
He took the wrench off her, feeling like a man doing a man’s job. ‘I’ll do it.’ He crouched, running his hand under the sill of the car, pressing his thumb into the tyre. ‘Go and sit in my car. You’ll get soaked.’
‘I’m soaked already.’
‘Can you keep an eye on Peter then? I wouldn’t put it past him to drive off. I’ll shout if I need a hand.’ He watched her walk away, head down, into the rain. He wondered how her expensive cashmere coat would survive in his car, with its deep litter of Ribena cartons, and Peter’s Cheeky Chips fingerprints.
Six minutes later, with the Beamer standing on three alloys and a spare, Anderson put the jack back in the boot of Helena’s car. He put the flat tyre in the boot of his Astra, then he flicked the door open and dived into the driver’s seat. ‘How are you getting on?’ he asked.
The answer was surprisingly well. Helena had made herself at home in the back with Peter, and both were involved in a grave discourse on dragons and how to draw them. Helena looked up and smiled as Anderson twisted round in the driver’s seat, but she made no move to get out of the car. Her arm was round his son, her index finger pointing to the back of the Monkey Meal box – they both looked totally at ease.
‘A long, long tail,’ she was saying.
‘A long, long, long tail,’ Peter repeated, the pen going along the top of the box and down the side.
‘If you’d drawn him a bit smaller he would fit.’
‘Yeah, but he’s wagging his tail,’ Peter said in all seriousness, rotating the box so Helena could see.
‘I can’t thank you enough, Colin, rescuing a damsel in distress and all that.’
‘I’ll get the tyre repaired for you.’ How easily it would have rolled off his tongue – seeing as Alan isn’t here to do it.
Helena smiled again and shook her head. ‘If you have time, that would be great. I’ve a lot on my plate at the moment.’ She changed the subject abruptly, and turned to Peter, saying rather formally, ‘It was a pleasure to meet you again, Peter. Come and see me sometime soon, and we can finish your dragon.’
‘You keep my crayon and you can help me colour it in.’
‘I’ll be on my way, Colin.’ She began edging her way towards the door.
‘What are you doing out in this? Should you not be…? I mean, how are you and everything?’
Helena bit her lower lip. ‘I get up in the morning, I miss my husband. I eat my breakfast, I miss my husband. I go to work, I miss my husband… you get the picture?’
‘We all miss Alan, but I can’t imagine how it must be for you.’ He rubbed the heel of his hand round the arc of the steering wheel. ‘But I asked how you are.’
She caught the meaning in his voice. ‘I have a meeting with a surgeon tomorrow at the Western.’ She reached to open the door but paused slightly. ‘Just my pre-op check thing; the big op won’t be until later in the week. It’s a small lump, it’s not been there long, but they’ll only know how much to take out when they are in there digging around. The only problem I really have is that I feel so cold all the time.’
‘Maybe because it is cold,’ Anderson smiled, flicking the windscreen wipers from normal to fast to clear the build-up of sleet, then switching them back to normal again. ‘If there’s a problem, phone me. Getting there? Getting back? Flat tyres?’
‘I will.’ She was looking at him thoughtfully, the streetlight casting raindrop shadows on her cheekbones. She looked stunning.
‘Hope it all goes OK,’ was all he could think of to say.
She sighed slightly. ‘I’ll be fine, Colin.’ Her hands still did not release the door catch. ‘Colin?’
There was something in her voice that made his heart jump. ‘Mmm?’
‘I’d booked our usual two tickets for the Christmas concert, Carols by Candlelight. Alan and I used to go every year. He said he hated it, but I think he enjoyed it all really.’
‘I know; he said he had to dress up like a penguin to see a lot of fat women shouting at each other in a power cut.’
Helena laughed. ‘That sounds like Alan.’ She stopped laughing. ‘And that’s my point.’ She pursed her lips and gave him a wry smile. ‘Well, this year they’re fundraising for the Pakistan earthquake and I feel I need to go. And I’d like to go with someone who remembers Alan, as he was, if you know what I mean. I want to talk about him, with somebody who knew him.’ Her voice was barely a whisper.
‘If that’s an invite, you’re on,’ said Colin, thinking that even if Brenda killed him, he’d die happy. ‘But in return you have to come and listen to Peter singing “Puff the Magic Dragon” as part of his nativity play at the fair. Are you not judging the drawings or something?’ he asked, belying the fact he had noted the time and date in his head the minute he’d seen the flyer.
‘I’m judging the kids’ art competition.’ She poked Peter’s Squidgy in the stomach. ‘They’re drawing this horrible wee guy that’s everywhere nowadays…’
‘My goldfish died,’ he said, prodding Helena with the rubber end of his pencil. ‘He’s in heaven now.’ Peter pointed to the roof of the car. ‘It’s a very special place,’ he said carefully.
Anderson sighed. ‘As in P.L.A.I.C.E…’ he explained.
‘The best place for a goldfish’s soul – as in S.O.L.E – to be.’ Helena ruffled Peter’s hair again, smiling at Colin, before she got out the car and walked back out into the rain.
He watched her in the mirror as she got into the BMW and raised a hand to him. He started the engine of the Astra, thinking. She had said something at the funeral about wishing she had had Alan’s children, something to comfort her, a little piece of him to remind her. And she had looked so natural, sitting in the back of the car with Peter…
As if reading his thoughts, Peter said, ‘She’s a nice lady. She’s going to finish my dragon.’
Anderson realized he was smiling, but whether at Peter or the thought of seeing Helena McAlpine again, he wasn’t quite sure. But he was sure of one thing; the woman had not looked well.