It was eight thirty in the morning, still dark and the day looked as though it wasn’t going to make much of an effort to get any lighter. Fine flakes of snow danced in the air and whipped the faces of the unwary, stinging warm flesh and bringing tears to unprotected eyes. The temperature outside was minus two, and it wasn’t much warmer in the station. The non-accidental meeting in the corridor between DCI Rebecca Quinn and DI Colin Anderson only served to drop the temperature even further.
Anderson was polite, but firm. He blocked her way, forcing her to a halt. ‘I want a word with you.’
‘I’m busy, DI Anderson, and we have a meeting, now. There is a time and a place…’
‘Yes, and it’s here and now. This meeting is about the cyanide, isn’t it? Not about the boys?’
DCI Quinn bit her lip but didn’t answer.
‘The search teams are in disarray and nobody cares, nobody is checking, least of all you, which makes me think that you are, to put it politely, merely going through the motions on one case. All the intelligent resources are going to the other. So, what’s going on?’
‘DI Anderson, I can appreciate your point. But five people have died from cyanide poisoning, the source of which has not yet been confirmed. Five people. If that was a series of murders, with visible blood and guts, we would not be standing here having this conversation, would we? Just because the method is subtle does not mean they are any less dead; it does not mean the victims or their families suffered any less.’ She hissed the last words under her breath as a cleaner walked by. ‘As for the children, we are following leads, you know that.’
‘What leads?’
‘Leads. The biggest lead we have is being followed up, I assure you. We are doing everything we can. But you are not doing it.’
‘So, who is?’
Quinn betrayed herself by a little sideways glance through the glass wall of her office. ‘I need to go.’ She walked away, sidestepping him, her heels clicking efficiently on the lino.
‘It’s difficult to run two parallel enquiries. It could be dangerous. If your big lead is wrong, if you get found out…’ Quinn stopped in her tracks and turned. ‘We need to be squeaky clean on this – you said so yourself.’
‘And if my hands are tied?’
‘Untie them. Give me PC Smythe.’
‘PC Smythe? Don’t know him.’
‘So, you won’t miss him. And give me Wyngate for the IT. Give me the original search team back. A vehicle on site. A civilian who knows their way around a Home Office database. Let me do it properly.’
Quinn looked thoughtful.
Anderson pressed the point. ‘Then if the shit hits the fan, it won’t land on us. Not on our shift.’
Quinn nodded slowly. ‘OK.’ And turned away.
Anderson followed the line of her earlier glance. DS Littlewood was on the phone, eyes closed, his thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked as though he had been there all night and Anderson had no reason to believe otherwise. Littlewood’s computer was locked; he was working on his own… Then Anderson remembered Littlewood’s years on Vice.
The dirty squad.
Paedophiles.
Anderson leaned back against the wall and cursed.
‘Right, you lot, important developments.’ DCI Quinn tapped the edge of a file against the edge of the desk, waiting for silence. ‘Can we have some more lights please?’ She waited until the fluorescent strips flickered into life with their low, steady hum. ‘Right, Lewis, do you want to take them through this? The tampering?’
Almost as one, the squad shifted a little in their seats. Costello looked at Anderson who was staring out of the window, looking at the dark clouds gathering, his thoughts miles away. He wasn’t paying one bit of attention. He wasn’t pointing out this was hers… her investigation…
Lewis handed a set of photographs to Mulholland, and gestured to a gap that had been cleared on the wall.
‘The first victim that we found was Barbara Cummings. She worked up at Rowanhill Library. She was forty-six, divorced, with three kids who all stayed at home. She worked full-time and travelled every day by public transport, which took her up Byres Road. She collapsed at home on Saturday, 9th December, sometime in the afternoon. There was nobody in the house at the time. She was found dead in her armchair. The PM report was unremarkable, the slight red flush was noted but ascribed to her previous alcohol dependency. No Toxicology report was requested, so she was cremated exactly one week later. She was in the habit of using over-the-counter medication for the headaches she put down to eye strain, and in the past she had used a tablet called Headeze. She shopped at Waldo for odds and ends that she could carry on the bus.’
Mulholland hung up a photograph of a woman, dark-haired, with a wide smile showing very uneven teeth.
Costello thought she looked familiar. Rowanhill Library? She thought she had spoken to her, maybe earlier in the year. There’d been a vandalism problem up at the library, and she remembered a small, broad woman with thick glasses and quiet, librarian shoes. Yes, it was definitely her. The photograph had a new hairdo but it was definitely the same woman.
‘Chronologically, however, the first was Duncan Thompson, who lived up in Novar Drive.’ Another photo went up – a young man with a wide smile, number one haircut, and a small stud in his nose. ‘He was twenty-eight, worked at the Department of Work and Pensions or whatever it’s called these days. He was found dead in his bed on the evening of Monday, 4th December. He had been last seen at his office Christmas night out at the Marriott on the Saturday night, where he had got very drunk. He didn’t make it to work on the Monday. So, a colleague tracked down his sister, who called round and found him dead. He had choked on his own vomit sometime on the Sunday morning. That seemed like a pretty clear cause of death, so – again – no Tox report was done. The sister said that he’d had a packet of Headeze on the worktop beside his kettle and a glass of water beside the bed, as you would if you were expecting a monumental hangover, but neither item is still around to be examined. He was buried on Friday, 8th December.’
Lewis turned to another photograph. ‘Moira McCulloch collapsed at her mother’s flat, and died in the ambulance on the way to the Western. There was some cause of doubt re the death certificate – it was noted she was red-faced with blue fingertips and extremities, and her brain was very swollen. All that might point to cyanide. However, because of the impossibility of establishing cause of death, her body is still available for testing. We’ve asked for a Tox report to be done as a matter of some urgency, and we’re awaiting results.
‘John Campbell and Sarah McGuire, we are familiar with. And lastly, Nessie Faulkner.’ Mulholland pinned up his last picture; a small grey-haired lady, with small round glasses under a white bowling hat, smiling for the camera in triumph. She looked like everybody’s favourite granny. ‘We know from her son that she definitely did purchase Headeze capsules, probably on Wednesday, 13th December, from Waldo in Byres Road.’
Costello noticed that Lewis hadn’t acknowledged Wyngate or Anderson for their hard work. The hyena was reverting to type. She decided to step in.
‘I’ve had an e-mail from Malin Andersson, two s’s. She was the nurse who was on duty while Lars Lundeberg was in hospital. Being Swedish herself she got to know quite a few of his visitors during his five-day hospital stay. She did a bit of asking around for me. Well, Lars’s flatmate Shona remembers giving him a Headeze for a hangover. He was always on the scrounge for them, apparently. As you know, the flat is at Peel Street, and Shona shops at Waldo. Over and out.’
‘Thank you for that, Costello,’ Lewis said, the words almost choking her.
‘Well, we are a team,’ Costello smiled sweetly.
‘There’s no widespread pattern, no other cases reported by the Poison Unit,’ Lewis resumed, almost as though she regarded Costello’s information as an unwelcome interruption. ‘All products have been removed from shelves nationwide and a recall put out: Do not use under any circumstances. As yet, we can’t find anybody who is that pissed off with that branch of Waldo. Or indeed, any branch of Waldo. In the meantime anybody admitted to A&E with symptoms of high colour and difficulty in breathing will get red-flagged on arrival – oxygen, clothes off, skin washed, stomach pumped, all to slow absorption, because the test can take longer than the cyanide takes to kill you.’ She turned to Mulholland. ‘Vik? Any news?’
Mulholland smiled, like the cat that got the cream. ‘Well, listen to this. The obvious place is the Uni, but as there are no students in at the moment the labs were quick to tell me no cyanide has gone missing. They assured me their systems are foolproof. Even so, they’re sending us a list of students and staff who have access, just in case somebody has approached them, in the pub – you know the kind of thing.’
Quinn pressed her hands to pursed lips as though praying. ‘So far, so good. What else?’
‘There are three chemical plants within a thirty-mile radius that use sodium and potassium cyanide,’ Mulholland resumed. ‘But again, it’s carefully regulated. They have to record any loss, and there’s been no spillage to account for the amount our tamperer would have required. I’ve thought about printers’ labs, et cetera, but the guy at the Poison Unit says that’s not the right stuff.’
‘Schools don’t use it?’
‘No, ma’am; too risky, apparently.’ He flipped over a page in his notebook, checking he had missed nothing, then smiled again, this time like the cat that got the cream of the cat next door as well. ‘Then I tried the internet, and within four minutes I could have bought any amount from the States, and it would have been here within the week. And as this type of criminal is organized and patient, the psychology of waiting wouldn’t be an issue.’
Quinn looked at him. ‘And?’
‘Texas. The fourth one down was St Andrew’s Pharmaceuticals, so I thought I’d try them first – the name, you know…’
‘And?’
‘And they acknowledged an order from Scotland – a recent order – but refused to go any further without authorization.’
‘I’ll get clearance. Christ – Texas! Texas! Do they really have such lax drug laws? Wyngate, you get a list of all companies that sell on the net, and start asking if any of them have had a recent enquiry from Scotland. If there was a purchase made, it would be by credit card and therefore traceable. Get on to it. And get back to me within twenty-four hours.’
‘There’s a time difference,’ said Wyngate cautiously.
‘Twenty-four hours is twenty-four hours; it doesn’t matter which side of the bloody Atlantic you’re on. Tomorrow, nine thirty, get to it. I’ll give you both the clearance you need to obtain the bank card details.’
The laser eyes of DCI Rebecca Quinn fired round the room. ‘I don’t need to tell you how carefully we are going to have to play this.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I have a meeting with Peter Moss of Waldo at ten and I’m requesting advice from the Serious Crime Squad – the next logical step is a blackmail demand, and we’re not equipped to deal with that. Forensics are awaiting the recovered boxes of tampered capsules from Sarah McGuire’s place, so if they can be brought to my desk asap, Irvine…?’
Everybody turned to Irvine, who went very red.
‘But these things are tamper-proof, surely,’ said Anderson, turning away from the window. ‘This isn’t the first scare like this. Tylenol? The baby food tampering?’
‘One thing this is not is a scare, DI Anderson.’ DCI Quinn snapped. ‘Malicious product tampering is terrorism. It involves lots of innocent victims. And it only takes one bozo to get lucky once, don’t forget that. Costello and Lewis, I want you to follow the cyanide once Mulholland gets his information clarified.’ The team looked at each other, immediately wrong-footed. ‘Problems? No? Good! Costello, you’ve been quiet for too long. Have you anything else to add?’
Undeterred by the note of sarcasm in Quinn’s voice, Costello seized the moment. ‘DI Anderson is right – these should be tamper-proof,’ she said. ‘But I spent some time yesterday figuring out what I would do if I were a tamperer. Shall I show you?’ Everyone crowded round, happy to witness something concrete. She pulled out the pack of painkillers Agnes had given her. ‘So, the tamperer buys two boxes, takes them home, peels off the safety tab with a razor blade, and removes the bubble pack.’
She then, to an engrossed audience, demonstrated how to lift the foil from the plastic strip. She tipped the red and white capsule into her hand, where she pulled it apart, spilling the white powder into the cup of her palm. ‘I had a go at re-filling a capsule with salt in the canteen, and it was almost impossible to get the two halves back together without creating a dent or squashing the edge. But if you warm one in the palm of your hand, and put the other half in the fridge, it’s a lot easier. After that, all you do is reverse the process to package it up again. And do some inverse shoplifting. And…’ Costello hurried on as though afraid someone would interrupt her, ‘… Karen McGuire was doing a history project on the fall of the Third Reich. The Nazis used cyanide as a method of suicide, and there were books about the war in the house. That makes me very suspicious of that family.’
‘So, is the mother on the suspect list for definite?’ asked Anderson, looking at his notes. ‘Bloody stupid of her to take it herself.’
‘If you crunch a whole capsule between your teeth, death is quite quick,’ Costello repeated patiently. ‘But if you take a smaller dose on a full stomach, absorption is slower. She knew her daughter was in the house, she knew she was safe.’
‘So,’ said Quinn, taking the floor again, ‘if you are right, do we think the others were killed at random to sidetrack us?’
‘Could be. But I’d say the money motive is too compelling to pass over,’ said Costello with conviction. ‘Sarah is dead keen to find out how much of her inheritance is left undamaged. She inherits all four flats, you know…’
‘Costello,’ Quinn cut in. ‘Just watch your attitude. Not every lady who lunches is a patricidal sociopath.’
‘I’m serious!’
‘That’s what worries me.’
A nervous-looking Gail Irvine crept over with the bagged and tagged Headeze from Sarah McGuire’s house. Quinn gave the package a cursory glance and passed it back to be sent to Forensics. She looked tired, almost defeated, then she took a deep breath and tapped her pen in the palm of her hand. ‘But if money really is the motive here, don’t let us forget Waldo’s management team; who is in financial difficulty, whose ex-wife is in debt…? We’ll put Irvine on that. Whatever dirt you can find, Irvine, dig it out.’ Quinn straightened, and her voice became brisk once more. ‘Right, we’ll run with both these: the targeting of Waldo by those unknown, and the possibility that someone – possibly Sarah McGuire…’ she nodded some kind of well done at Costello, ‘… but possibly someone else, is attempting to hide one murder among several.’
‘What about video footage?’ asked Anderson. ‘Any from the store?’
‘Only folk buying their groceries,’ said Quinn. She dusted one hand against the other. ‘Might be worth another look once we have a suspect we can recognize.’
Lewis had been fiddling with some tablets of her own. ‘Look at my Piriton; it’s impossible to tamper with this.’
‘Well, you’ll be all right then, won’t you?’ Costello muttered. ‘Pity.’
‘Fuckin’ child molesters, should be strung up by the balls,’ Littlewood grunted as he bumped into Anderson’s desk for the third time.
He was not a quick-witted man. He was an old-school detective, big and brusque, and being kept at the station made him feel caged. He was pacing up and down, muttering obscenities and scratching every part of his anatomy.
Anderson got the feeling Littlewood was hanging around for a reason, but he could wait. His phone rang, showing his home number; he ignored it. ‘If you have to keep fiddling with yourself, could you go and do it somewhere else? I can do without the distraction. Can you believe this – Quinn has just detailed me to find some staff to go through the hundreds of crank calls we are about to receive because word has got out about that bastard O’Neill putting up £100,000 reward money for information leading to the safe return of these boys. £50,000 each! And now – can you believe this – I am supposed to go up there and say thanks to the nice man.’
Littlewood stopped pacing. ‘It’s not been confirmed, so who put the word out? I thought we’d put the brakes on that.’
‘Wouldn’t put it past his PR people to leak it. It’ll look really bad if HQ doesn’t allow it. Rumour of a fiver is enough to get some folk selling their granny.’
Littlewood leaned over Anderson’s desk, gnarled nicotine-stained fingers splayed wide. ‘So, you’re going out to see Rogan O’Neill today,’ he said quietly.
‘I just said so, didn’t I?’
‘You and Costello are going to keep him sweet so he’ll stay in line about the reward.’ Littlewood leaned over, talking right in Anderson’s ear. ‘And you’ve to give him a big thank you for the security for this afternoon.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘It’s my business to know.’
Anderson could smell the stale tobacco on his skin, see the nicotine-stained hairs in his nose. ‘And? Spill, Littlewood, I’m not daft.’
‘Officially, he’s just doing an appeal, and donating money to the cause. Unofficially, I have a plan of my own.’ Littlewood shrugged. ‘Costello, come here, will you? I want you to ask O’Neill when he got here – and find out when his crew arrived.’
She came over, and folded her arms sulkily when he told her where she and Anderson were going.
‘If you meet her, the blonde twiglet, make friends and be nice,’ said Littlewood.
‘Why?’
‘Just do it. Do the casual chit chat. Find out who’s with them and why, find out whether Rogan carries the same crew – sound engineers, roadies – with him all the time, especially Dec Slater and Jinky Jones. Be nice to him too – good cop, inquisitive cop, act infatuated, flatter him – you know how to do that.’
‘I’ll tell him I was his tambourine girl once.’ She ignored Anderson’s wry smirk. ‘More than once, actually. Oh, yes! I was plucked from the audience and sat on his chair and serenaded.’
‘By a bald aging sex machine? I thought that whole tambourine thing was a ploy to get into the knickers of the best-looking chick in the audience,’ growled Littlewood. ‘And you were the best he could do?’
Costello smiled a saccharine smile.
Anderson raised his eyebrows. ‘So, what does it mean, that bloody song? The best bit is that husky “Goodnight”. I’ve heard it twice at funerals… puts a tingle down my spine every time.’
‘What I want to know, Costello,’ said Littlewood, leaning across the desk, ‘is – did you shag him as well?’
‘Well, you’ll never know the answer to that, will you?’ said Costello. And she turned away, humming: Say hello to the tambourine girl.
Walking into the Glasgow Hilton, Colin Anderson realized he was angry – angry at Lewis and Irvine, angry at Quinn, at the job, at Brenda. Angry at Santa and the season of goodwill. He and Costello had walked round to Rogan’s hotel from the station, the roads being closed due to the fair and Rogan’s personal appearance. He was relieved he had Costello with him. She was happy to walk in silence; she didn’t need to yabber on all the time. Anderson thanked God he hadn’t been sent out with Kate Lewis; he would have strangled her by now.
Just before they walked into the hotel foyer he said, ‘Do something for me, Costello? Brenda’s busy, and Helena offered to pick up Peter and take him to the fair. Could you ring her and say I’m taking her up on it? Voice an opinion and you’re dead.’
‘Fine, boss,’ said Costello, barely concealing an impish smirk.
In the lift, they stood in silence, watching the green light climb up the floors. Costello waited until the lift door slid open. ‘Colin? Is that a CD in your pocket or are you just pleased to see Rogan?’
‘Leave it,’ said Anderson out of the side of his mouth as they both showed their warrant cards to the beautifully groomed receptionist.
Anderson straightened his tie, and patted the jacket pocket that held the Rogan O’Neill’s Greatest Hits CD set Vik Mulholland had given him for Rogan to sign. Vik had been seriously annoyed when he heard about the interview, and that he wasn’t going.
Costello had imagined Rogan O’Neill dark and tanned, greying a little at the temples, walking around his luxury suite in the Hilton wearing a thick white towelling robe, with hot and cold running champagne on tap. Instead, he was sitting in an armchair wearing a blue crumpled tracksuit and eating an orange, his white stubby thumbs waggling the segments apart. His single earring, the star-shaped pinkie ring, the gold chain round his neck, were the same as always, and although he was starting to look his age, whatever age he was, he was still desperately handsome.
‘Oh heck, it’s the polis,’ he said in broad Glaswegian, genuinely pleased to see them because he was so bored. And he seemed to be having trouble with his podiatrist, who was balancing his foot on a small surgical plinth.
‘If it’s a bad time, we’ll wait outside,’ said Costello, somehow uncomfortable with the idea of interviewing her hero while he got his toenails cut.
The podiatrist, kneeling at Rogan’s feet, held up a scalpel and steadied the sole of his foot in a latex-gloved hand. She glared at him. ‘Stay still!’
‘You two have a wee seat and watch. This silly bint is trying to slice my toes off and if she’s going to commit grievous bodily, I want witnesses.’
The podiatrist rolled her eyes in Costello’s direction. ‘If I was at all humanitarian, it would be your vocal cords I’d slice.’
Rogan pointed at her. ‘You keep your eyes on the job, hen. I have to use my toes to count, you know.’
‘I remember,’ said the podiatrist. ‘I was at school with you.’
Rogan shoved a segment of orange in his mouth sideways and pulled his lips back in an orange smile. ‘Bloody ages since anybody even half interesting came to talk to me.’
‘Cheers,’ replied the podiatrist, with the gentle sarcasm of an old friend.
Costello had never been in the main suite in the Hilton, with its leather settees and huge white curtains that cascaded to the floor. Matching Osprey luggage was strewn everywhere, trunks and cases and bags, most of them open and rummaged through. In the corner stood a computer, the only thing in the room that was set up with any degree of permanence.
‘Two things I wanted to say,’ Rogan announced, getting straight down to business. ‘One: I’m putting up a reward about these two missing kids – a reward for each, for their safe return.’
‘While we are grateful,’ said Anderson carefully, ‘it’s not always a help. It can bring a lot of pranksters and timewasters out the woodwork. And there are rules, regulations…’
‘Fuck ’em. It’ll help, and it’s a done deal officially now. You’re the first to know. My secretary got a fax from Stewart Street.’
Anderson looked nonplussed. ‘So, excuse me for asking, did your publicity machine leak it before that? Just to get the jump on it?’
Rogan shook his head. ‘No, but if it hadn’t been agreed, I would have gone public with it anyway. Looks like one of your lot blabbed,’ he added in mock innocence.
‘Seems so, since the press are aware of it.’
‘Well they’re not aware of the fact I’ll double it if another kid goes missing. Money is the only language some folk speak.’ Rogan looked at him, carefully. ‘Sorry, son, didn’t catch your name.’
‘DI Anderson.’
‘We didn’t have coppers like you when I was a wee lad. They were big blokes, took you up a close and kicked yer arse, told yer dad, and if you were really unlucky they told yer mam and ye got yer arse kicked again. Anyway, you can put up with a few timewasters if it gets the kids back a bit quicker. Somebody knows where these wee guys are, and the amount I’ll put up will entice them out, believe me, pal. And two: I’m opening this thing at the school later. See that bit of paper over there?’ Costello got up and picked up from the walnut sideboard some sheets of A4, headed Arm-Strong Security. ‘Just thought I’d let the police know what security I was bringing with me.’
‘Surely all this was cleared with the community police when you agreed to open the fair?’ asked Costello.
‘That was then, this is now. I’m offering to foot the bill for a whole load of extras. That wee midgie guy is coming along, isn’t he?’
‘I believe so.’
‘That’ll draw the kids. And I’m not having any more taken. Do you know, they’ve a three-foot midge on the front of the first relief truck, so instead of switching on the Christmas lights, I’m turning on a midge… not a sexual experience I’ve had in the past.’ He paused, looking at Costello as if he’d just noticed her. ‘Do I know you from somewhere, pet?’ he asked.
‘I was a fan in the old days,’ said Costello, sneaking a look at the floor plan. ‘This is very generous of you, Mr O’Neill. Security like this is not cheap.’ She didn’t know a lot about it but it looked comprehensive.
‘Ma pals call me Rogue. No probs; I know how short-staffed you guys are with this illness and it being Christmas an’ all. Where you from, hen?’ he asked Costello.
‘Cardonald,’ said Costello.
‘And you were a fan, you say?’
‘I’ve still got the video of the Blackfriars concert.’
‘Remind me?’ said Rogan, circling his forefinger in the air.
‘It was filmed by one of your fans. You might remember him – he was a crazy guy who turned from heroin to being a Jehovah’s Witness in a week. He asked you not to swear during your set.’
‘And then went on to sell double glazing?’
‘That’s him,’ agreed Costello.
‘Aye, ah know who you mean, hen. He used to copy the videos and flog them for a couple of quid. He gave us the dosh – we needed it in those days.’
‘I know, I had to buy it, four times over. Lucky me,’ said the podiatrist dryly.
Rogan looked at Costello, as if seeing her in a new light. ‘Were you one of my tambourine girls?’ he asked her, smiling flirtatiously.
Anderson smirked.
‘Yes, I was.’ She coloured slightly.
‘One of the onstage ones, or one of the ones in the back of the van?’ Rogan laughed. ‘Don’t answer that – we only chose the lookers,’ he informed Anderson. ‘You know, I never think of them as having grown up.’
‘I was only sixteen at the time, if that.’
‘Wouldn’t have bothered him,’ said the podiatrist. ‘He only takes women from the audience who are half his age – well, a third his age these days, even a quarter if he’s in some American states.’ The podiatrist had a wee smile to herself.
Rogan winked at Costello. ‘Well, you must have been a stunner in your day, hen.’ He turned to Anderson. ‘And that’s the problem; they come out the woodwork twenty years later and spill to the tabloids.’ He brandished a newspaper with a blaring headline: My three-in-a-bed romp with Rogue. Rogan glanced at it again and looked pleased.
Costello dived in, scenting revenge. ‘Oh, DI Anderson has a CD for you to sign. For a friend.’
Rogan reached into his pocket for a pen. ‘Which one is it you have, son?’
DI Colin Anderson blushed at being called son again. ‘Your gift-boxed CD collection. And it’s not for a friend, it’s for a colleague’s girlfriend. Could you sign it “To Fran”?’
‘Aye, nae probs. Is she good-looking?’
‘Just remember, Rogue, you’re supposed to be a sensible father now. You’re saving kids these days, not shagging them,’ said the podiatrist. ‘Despite what it says in the papers.’
‘Wish I had the bloody energy. Have you taken a trip down to Cardonald recently…? Sorry, pet, what was your name?’
‘Costello.’
‘You have a first name?’ Rogan winked winningly.
‘Detective Sergeant.’ She winked back, and refused to look at Anderson. She was glad when the door from the adjoining room opened.
Even with her face devoid of make-up and her hair pulled back into a scrunchie, spiking like a blonde cactus, Lauren McCrae was stunning.
‘Hi,’ she said, her broad smile showing incredibly white and even teeth. Anderson nearly fell off his seat, and even Costello found it difficult to keep her eyes off her.
‘Get some drinks out the cabinet there, sweetheart,’ Rogan ordered. ‘I’ll have a lager.’
‘Honey, you’re doing an appearance later. You can have a Coke.’
Rogan ignored that. ‘Oh, and put it in a glass for me.’
‘What did your last slave die of?’ asked the podiatrist.
‘Blood poisoning, and you watch what you’re doing with that scalpel.’
‘Oh, honey, you just be quiet now.’ The honey-dripped Canadian voice was gentle.
‘So how do you find Scotland, Miss McCrae?’ asked Anderson.
‘She got off the fucking plane and there it was! Jesus, you polis can be thick.’
‘I’m finding Scot Land just fine,’ Lauren put in smoothly. ‘It’s maybe a little rainy, but I guess it’s fine.’ She shot a look at Costello, smiled shyly and looked away.
‘She’s from Toronto,’ Rogan said through a mouthful of orange. ‘They get cold, they get wet, but they don’t do cold and wet together.’
‘So, when did you fly in?’ asked Costello. Make friends, be nice…
Lauren smiled at her. ‘God, did you see the state my skin was in? You rehydrate and rehydrate, but it still shows.’
Costello nodded in wry sympathy, noting her question hadn’t actually been answered.
Lauren handed Rogan his Coke, and her hand shook slightly. She even moved, sinuous and silent, like a nervous racehorse.
Nervous? Scared? Wary… Costello searched for the right word.
The podiatrist picked up something that looked like an iron file.
‘In my day I’d have used that tae break out of Barlinnie Prison.’ Then Rogan remembered who he was talking to. ‘Not that I’ve ever been there – much.’
Costello tried again.
‘Do you still carry the same road crew with you as you did back then?’ she enquired. ‘Or did you leave them somewhere along the way?’ Costello was aware of Anderson looking at her.
Maybe it was her imagination, but Rogan paused before answering, as if thinking about what he was going to say. ‘No, the boys are still with me. We met when we were eight, and we’re still together… and that’s not PR, that’s the truth. See, I don’t like being surrounded by yes men, and those two will always tell me where to go. Jinky Jones and Dec Slater. We stick together.’
‘Ain’t that the truth!’ Lauren sighed, with a degree of bitterness that Costello didn’t miss. And there was something else – a small prickle in her posture, a little lie somewhere. ‘He even sent them over here last week, so they could see the castle before us. They’ll end up living with us. Again.’ She didn’t sound overjoyed.
‘And they’re here with you now?’ Costello probed.
‘Yeah, we move, they move. Same as for ever,’ said Lauren, spanning her fingers and examining her perfect nails.
Rogan O’Neill turned his head quickly, his jovial manner gone. The podiatrist halted the scalpel in mid-scrape.
‘Lauren is pregnant. I want my son born on Scottish soil, so we’re buying a castle. Look, you get back to your bosses, and tell them I’ll pay for all the security at the fair, and the sky’s the limit. You just send me the bill. I’m not having any more wee kids nicked while they’re waiting for Santa.’ Their dismissal couldn’t have been more obvious.
‘We’ll pass that on to our superiors. And we thank you for all your help.’ Costello walked towards the door, and Anderson followed.
‘Ouch!’ Rogan pulled his foot back quickly; a small bubble of red was growing on his big toe.
‘Oh, Rogan, I am sorry.’