Eve lay looking at the ceiling, waiting for the distinctive clunk of the gate as Lynne sneaked out. She had lain quiet and listened as her sister searched her desk, God knows what for – she wouldn’t find it. She had probably only found the file on Douglas – well, the bits Eve had wanted her to find. They really were stupid, those two. It was a shame, what was going to happen to Douglas. She had enjoyed tracking down every little aspect of his tawdry but charmed life. She felt like a stalker after a prize stag. She could admire its beauty, salute its majesty, but she would enjoy putting a bullet through its brain even more.
She stretched her legs out, slowly and carefully at first. The pins in the right one made it very stiff, and she still had to be careful about initial weight bearing. But, even though she had practised for long enough, she often surprised herself by how easily she could get to her feet.
Poor Lynne, silly frustrated old cow – if the house had been left to her rather than Eve, that bastard Douglas would have had it sold ages ago. The fact he was still sniffing round Lynne proved she had never put him right about the house not being hers at all. If it were, he would have taken her for everything she had, and Lynne would have found herself stuck in a dismal wee flat blighted by cheap conversion work, waiting for him to leave his ‘wife’. Which he would never do.
Eve limped to the window, and watched her sister hurry across the road and up the path to Stella’s flat. Stella would think Lynne was mad, going across to see her at this time of night on some strange whim.
Eve lumbered through to her own room, holding on to the wall for support. In her bedroom she got down on the floor, lying flat on her stomach. Kneeling was something she hadn’t quite mastered yet. She reached under her bed, pulled out the under-bed storage bag and groped around for a green shoebox secured by an elastic band. She opened it, checked the contents, and smiled at the little bag of white powder, its sticky yellow label marked with the letters NaCN, bordered by a black skull and cross-bones. The bag was wrapped up in the grey wig, accompanied by her mother’s glasses, a scarf and an ‘old lady’ brooch from the Oxfam shop in Byres Road. Lynne had already gone through the desk, so that would be the place to hide this now. She knew her sister, knew she wouldn’t give up; and if she got anything out of Stella McCorkindale, then she’d be even keener. Eve put the box on top of the bed and shoved the plastic storage bag back, making sure it was exactly where Lynne liked it to be. She took her time getting to her feet, her right leg sticking grotesquely out behind her. Upright, she waited for the dizziness to pass, then picked up the shoebox and went into the drawing room. Five minutes later, the contents of the box had been distributed throughout her desk, bits hidden here, other bits there. Most of it fitted under the removable shelf of her pastel box. Lynne would never look in there; it was far too messy. Eve then ripped the shoebox into tiny pieces and pushed them to the bottom of the bin in the kitchen.
By the time Lynne came back, Eve was back on the settee, complaining. ‘I’d just dropped off to sleep, and you woke me up, banging the bathroom door. It’s gone eleven! You know how hard I find it to get to sleep. Could you not be a bit more considerate?’
Peter Anderson was cold, colder than he had ever been in his life. It was quiet; there wasn’t even the sound of traffic up here. There was a door – it was slightly open – he had tried to push it closed but the concrete underneath was bumpy, the door got stuck. He had tried to pull it. The door had juddered and sprung back. The stab of the skelf into his thumb made him cry out; his hand started to bleed.
He put his hand against the door again; it didn’t move at all. Now he couldn’t get out, the gap left was too small.
He pulled his jumper tightly round him and put his anorak on back to front, the way he’d learned in the Cubs. He could snuggle into it now, and he sat on the floor with his back against the wall, hugging his knees, his head nodding backwards and forwards, muttering his Puff song to himself. Every so often he would hear a door open and close, hurried footsteps over his head. Once he had gone up to the smaller door and tried to open it, but it was locked.
He decided to call out the next time he heard footsteps come, but they never did. He must have curled into a ball and fallen asleep, then he was awoken by a noise. He put his hand out for his dinosaur. Instead of the warmth of his duvet, his fingers touched cold, hard concrete. Then he remembered.
He heard a car drive away. Then there was only dark and silence.
And it was very dark. He was trying hard not to be scared. He could hear music from somewhere, like a brass band doing Christmas songs, but nobody was singing and it all sounded very far away. He joined in with the words he knew, and those he didn’t know he made up, singing quietly to himself. And waited for his Dad to come and get him. His hand began to hurt again so, for the first time in two years, he sat down and sucked his thumb.
Vik Mulholland pulled on his gloves as he left the station, glad to leave the chaos behind. It was a bitter cold, clear night; snow was falling, and he had to take care to avoid stepping in the piles of slush at the side of the pavement and in the gutter. He could hear them still having a right knees-up down on Byres Road. The West End in particular was treating it like some kind of winter carnival and nature had obliged by producing this, the most beautiful fall of calm snow. As he headed down Hyndland Road, he could hear the Salvation Army brass band in the distance having a go at ‘Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ – everybody in the West End could probably hear it.
Vik quickened his pace as he turned into Beaumont Place. Outside number 42 Frances was standing in the street, her collar up round her neck, shoulders hunched – a slender black witch delicately outlined against the snow.
‘Fran?’ Vik called, loudly. Then, more quietly when she did not answer, ‘Fran, are you OK? It’s nearly midnight, for God’s sake. You’ll freeze out here.’
‘They look like ghosts, don’t they?’ she muttered in her husky voice, the words clouding with her breath and melting into the air.
Vik turned to look at the Sally Army band, just visible on the corner of the street. What little light there was played around their feet, their silhouettes anchorless, adrift.
Frances had been crying; slow, silent tears had marked her face. Vik lifted her chin with the knuckle of his forefinger and wiped them away.
‘I was trying to be festive. I thought if I stood out here in the snow listening to that music,’ she sniffed, ‘I might come over all Dickensian and romantic.’
‘And cold,’ added Vik, his feet thumping the ground.
‘But I just get so depressed.’ The tears started again. ‘It’s all so bloody depressing.’
‘Well, maybe this time…’ Vik took both her hands in his. ‘Maybe this time it will be different. This time you stand a chance of being happy. What about that for a present?’
‘Yeah, what about it?’ But she was smiling. She leaned forward and kissed him. ‘I’ve been thinking about…’
No, not now. He pulled away. ‘Look, I need to speak to you about something. Work.’
‘Oh…’ Frances sounded hurt. She turned away from him slightly, as the band switched to ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’. ‘I thought you were here to see me.’
Littlewood was the only one who still had his own desk nowadays, the only one whose computer the others couldn’t access. Costello had spent ten minutes furtively tapping away at his computer, but all her guesses at his passwords had failed. At the same time, she was dialling the eternally engaged Mick Batten. She glanced into Quinn’s office. Something was happening. The most experienced guy in the field was working on his own, on a need-to-know basis, and the rest were not privy to whatever was going on. If she hadn’t found out what Quinn and Littlewood were up to by midnight, she was going to go in there and lose the plot with both of them. Quinn and Littlewood looked as though their meeting was breaking up. Costello went back to her own desk, and dialled Mick’s number yet again.
‘Costello! So, what gives?’ The Liverpudlian voice of Dr Mick Batten sounded weary at the other end of the phone.
‘Sorry for disturbing you so late, Mick.’ She glanced at the clock, the hour hand almost at the witching hour.
‘You’re not the first.’
‘I’m worried. Colin wouldn’t speak to you. So, I feel I have to…’ Costello’s voice trailed off.
‘About what?’ Batten sounded quite unperturbed.
‘These missing boys, Mick. We need your help.’
‘While I’m flattered, Costello, you know what I’m going to say.’ She heard him sip something, and a gentle clink as if a teaspoon had rattled in the mug. Or ice in whisky. ‘I’ve not been instructed to act for you. And I told you when you were working on the Crucifixion Killer case, it’s all educated guesswork. Your force will appoint somebody who is good.’
‘Yes, I know that. But it’s Christmas, Mick. The bloody request form won’t be filled in until the admin staff come back.’
‘And?’ A slow, appreciative swallow. Whisky.
‘They won’t be as good as you.’
‘You are not one to flatter.’
‘No, I’m not. It’s a fact.’ Costello snapped back, her voice quiet and crisp. ‘Mick, they’ve taken Peter Anderson. It’s been four hours. We need some help here. Please.’
There was a slightly confused silence on the other end of the phone. ‘Peter Anderson? I know that name…’
‘Colin Anderson’s son. You know how important the first few hours are, and the clock is ticking.’
The silence on the phone intensified; she knew Batten was gathering his thoughts and putting his analytical brain into gear. She pushed on. ‘We think we’re under pressure from upstairs to follow certain lines of enquiry.’
‘Is that not the point?’ asked Batten.
‘Not when the ground troops are thinking otherwise. We think any profiler will only be asked to look at the profiles of paedophiles. The investigation is getting narrower when it should be getting wider… Things are being leaked to the press.’ She sat down, her legs suddenly too weak to hold her up. ‘I’m not sure what’s going on, but the new DCI and John Littlewood seem to be going off at a tangent that nobody else knows about and I – well, I don’t think it’s healthy. If you were here, you’d agree. Can I send you some stuff to look at?’
‘Like you said, it’s nearly Christmas. It would take ages to get permission.’
‘Without permission?’
‘Costello, how well do you know Peter Anderson?’
‘He’s Colin’s son. How well do you think I know him?’
‘Then you should distance yourself from it, you know that. Knowing them means you cease to function effectively. Look, I spent yesterday talking to a man…’ the voice faltered a bit, ‘… talking to a man who’d picked out his daughter’s eyes with a knife because he thought she had the eyes of Satan. The child was four years old…’ A sip of whisky, quickly swallowed.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Costello felt a cold wave of nausea.
‘… and my daughter is four years old. So, how long would I survive in this job if I let it get into my head?’
‘But how would you feel if your daughter was taken and I quoted the rulebook?’
Silence. Ice chinking on to crystal. ‘We didn’t have this conversation. You have my fax number?’
Costello bit back her tears, said a quiet thank you, and hung up. She looked round; nobody was watching, and the fax machine was blinking idle in the corner. She took a deep breath, picked up the briefing summary sheet, and prayed to a God she didn’t believe in.
As Mulholland trudged slowly back up the hill to the station, the night was eerily light with undisturbed snow, and no wind stirred. The sounds of drunken happiness were muffled. All is calm, all is bright. Everything seemed to be waiting.
Frances’s eyes had filled up the minute he had mentioned work. ‘I thought you were here to see me,’ she said. She had sounded hurt, angry even. When he explained about Peter, she had become distressed and in the end she had fled back into her house, wounded, hurting.
No, she hadn’t seen Peter or Brenda at the German Market. She just hadn’t wanted to go home on her own after the fair. She was depressed and she wanted to be among people. Yes, she had noticed the men in the long coats, and yes, she had recognized the logo. And she thought she had recognized the two men. Mulholland quickened his step, breaking into a run – they needed to know about that at the station. Frances was sure they were Dec Slater and maybe Jinky Jones. She was sure about Dec, not so sure about Jinky.
The logo was that of Rogan O’Neill’s home-coming tour – anybody would know that.
‘Right, guys.’ Quinn rapped on the table for silence. Behind her on the wall someone had pinned up a map of the United States, but no one was brave enough to ask why. ‘I know we’re all tired, but we’ve got Colin out the building for half an hour – he’s in good hands, Burns will keep him calm, he’s taken him for a walk and to get some food into him. We can only imagine what he’s going through.’ Quinn stopped and adjusted the elastic that held her ponytail. ‘Of course, he’s not going anywhere until we get the wee guy back, but each and every one of us would be the same.’ There was a murmur of empathy. ‘So, thanks to you all for coming in. Now, first, let’s check out what we have. Brenda Anderson has given us a minute-by-minute account of her shopping trip, and Irvine has the list of all the stalls she visited prior to Peter’s abduction.
‘We’ve caught the first edition of tomorrow’s paper – we’re banking on the front page, and a photograph. However, we’re keeping Peter’s father’s ID to ourselves for now. The media are honouring that. Somebody from Stewart Street is coming down to interview Colin, to go over old cases, dig up old enemies, just in case this abduction has nothing to do with the other two and some bastard’s been given ideas. Burns will stay with him. Meanwhile we are reviewing the film of the reconstruction of Luca’s abduction, which featured Peter Anderson of course.’ Quinn noticed Costello’s eyes narrowing; she paused, as if inviting her to say something, but Costello shook her head.
‘I want a team to go up to Miss Cotter’s flat and take the place apart. I know we’ve already searched that area, but just in case she really is a raving nutter we need to go through any outbuildings in the back court. Has she a plot or an allotment? Or a garage somewhere? Is this the only property she owns? If she has these children, she must be hiding them somewhere. Over the next twenty-four hours the temperature is going to plummet and the snow will freeze. Tell her it’s best for her to stay in and keep warm – well, we don’t want her falling over and breaking a hip, do we? And if she does leave the house, we’ll follow her. I’ll get the team organized for first light. We are leaving nothing to chance. I’ll get PC Smythe on to it.’
The door of the Incident Room opened, and Mulholland walked in, snow still clinging to his hair. ‘Those two guys on the CCTV tape? The logo was of Rogan’s tour, and Frances recognized them as Dec Slater and Jinky Jones. Dec hasn’t changed much over the years, but Jinky has. She got really upset, and I didn’t have the heart to bring her down here.’
Lewis swore under her breath, loud enough for everybody to hear.
Quinn nodded slowly. ‘Littlewood, take over here, will you? And I’ll remind you lot that anything said in this room is highly confidential. It goes no further, not to your wife, husband, kids – nobody. And particularly not to Colin Anderson, in view of what you’re about to hear.’ And she busied herself putting papers into a folder, then went into her own office and closed the door as if with a sense of relief.
Littlewood took an armful of transparencies, folders and envelopes from his drawer and placed them on his desk. He got straight to the point. ‘Here is a map of the USA,’ he began.
‘Yeah, we got that,’ said Lewis.
Littlewood ignored her. ‘And marked in blue are the locations of the disappearances of eight young boys over the last ten years, plus dates. Not much, you might reckon, for a country that size and given the movement of the population, but these disappearances correlate directly with – this.’ He pinned up over the map a transparency showing a second annotated map. ‘This shows the tours made by a certain rock star over the last ten years. Rogan O’Neill. When you superimpose it like this, you get an exact match of times, dates, states.’
‘Jesus! Is this what you’ve been working on?’ Costello leapt to her feet. ‘Why did you not say sooner? Why did you let it get this far?’
‘Go on, call me an arse; I know you want to,’ said Littlewood, unperturbed. ‘It was all very gradual at first. I was asked by upstairs to keep an eye out for any unusual activities of Rogan’s, then all this started happening. First Luca – well, we didn’t even think that was an abduction at first – then it all moved too fast. We’ve now decided that you do need to know.’
‘About time.’
‘Now obviously we can’t exactly walk up to O’Neill and search him, but we have a way in, don’t we, Costello?’
‘Lauren the bimbo? Yes, indeed,’ she said harshly. ‘And I’ll get something out of her, if she…’
‘She might not know,’ said Wyngate.
‘Oh, she knows. Or suspects,’ Costello’s voice was cold with ill-disguised disgust, remembering that one flicker of fear in Lauren when Rogan had spoken to her.
‘I am going to leave this envelope of photographs lying here. They don’t leave this room, they do not even leave this table. Anybody who looks at them needs a strong stomach. ’Nuff said.’
Mulholland slowly flicked through the pile of photographs, looking at each one before putting it to the back. The expression on his face did not change one iota but his skin paled. Occasionally he would pause, turn a photograph ninety degrees and then proceed with the next.
He handed one photograph to Wyngate, and Wyngate, already red-eyed with fatigue, swallowed hard and handed it back. ‘You don’t need to see these, Costello,’ said Mulholland.
‘You’re right, I don’t.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Lewis, sounding bored. She stood at the window, looking out, beautiful in profile, her make-up perfect, her curls still shiny in precise twirls. ‘I have a phone call to make.’ She strode past Costello, as if she had somewhere more important to go. Costello resisted the urge to trip her up.
‘I don’t believe some of these pictures,’ Mulholland said. ‘Every boy used, abused, brutalized, killed – who in the world…?’
‘Yeah, who?’ Anderson was leaning on the wall at the door.
‘Sorry, mate, didn’t see you there.’
‘Obviously.’ Anderson put his hands deep in his pockets, and looked directly at Littlewood. ‘What’s going on?’
DCI Quinn was out of her office like a bat out of hell. ‘OK, Anderson – you are now a witness, not a detective. Littlewood, take Colin down to the canteen, and go through the conversation he and Costello had with O’Neill, right now. What you said to Rogan, what he said to you, Colin, and what Costello said to him. Then show him the photos of the crowd that turned up outside Joozy Jackpots, or whatever the bloody place is called; he might recognize somebody.’
Littlewood put a hand on to Anderson’s arm and led him out, following Burns who had already started down the stairs.
‘Will somebody keep an eye on him? For a big man he’s a right creeping Jesus. Wyngate, get out the CCTV from the fair again and home in on the time frame. Then do the same with the films of the German Market. See if you see any hats with logos of Rogan’s homecoming tour at the fair. Phone the hotels where Rogan’s crew are staying; they’ll have a record of door entry activity for each room. Another thing – try and get the ID photos for everybody involved in that US tour. I want to know if those two guys we see hanging around are Jinky Jones and Dec Slater. Those two and Rogan himself are the only three who link every incident in the States, but for God’s sake be careful who you ask. Just try to marry something up. I’ll get Irvine to help you once she’s free.’
DS Lewis shimmied back into the room. ‘What are you giving Costello to do, or is she off on one of her tangents?’
‘What do you mean – Lauren McCrae?’ asked Quinn.
Lewis shrugged, her lips tauntingly drifting into a smile.
Rebecca Quinn settled herself behind her desk, indulging in her usual disconcerting habit of looking at her paperwork while relishing the disquiet of her victim.
‘So, what are you up to?’ She put her index finger to her lips and licked it, spikily turning over a page of some update she was reading.
‘Working,’ Costello said petulantly.
‘It’s wearing a bit thin,’ said Quinn. She sighed and twisted her seat from the desk, bending over and tightening the laces on her trainers. ‘Are you doing something without my permission? And I don’t mean the Lauren McCrae thing.’
‘I’m talking to Dr Mick Batten. Without your permission.’
‘About what?’
‘Peter’s disappearance.’ Costello stopped. Quinn looked up. ‘He says I shouldn’t get involved.’
‘But do you ever do as you are told? You are off the case.’
‘What!’
‘You heard – you’re off the case. Now be quiet, Costello,’ said Quinn, not unkindly. ‘Sit down and listen. Are you and Colin Anderson having an affair?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever?’
‘No!’
‘OK, just wanted to make sure.’
‘That’s Lewis, gossiping…’
‘A bad habit of hers. But you two are close, so you are very involved and I don’t like it. It’s not healthy on a case like this. And you have no idea how hard it is to take over a team that’s as close as you lot. You seem to hate each other but you slip and slide together like a well-oiled machine; so well oiled I can’t seem to get a grip on any of you. You don’t trust me.’ Their eyes met. Quinn dropped hers first. ‘And that affects how well the team works.’
Costello didn’t know what she was supposed to say. ‘It’s just the way we are, ma’am, nothing personal.’
‘But it is too personal, and you’re too close. I can’t have you and Colin going off at your own tangents. And for that reason you are both off the case. Burns is babysitting Colin, and he’s big enough to hit him if he has to. I’ve no doubt that everyone out there would speak to him before they’d speak to me, regardless of procedure.’
‘True.’
‘And you have to stay off the case. I know you’re seeing Lauren McCrae,’ Quinn glanced at her watch, and sighed when she realized the minutes and hours had crawled into Saturday, ‘today – Littlewood will brief you – but once that’s over, you’re on the cyanide stuff; you can make your own case, do your own thing. God knows you do that anyway.’ Quinn pursed her lips. ‘But if you feel like obeying orders for once, you can get out and get on with your own work. If you don’t, and all this documentation disappears and gets faxed to Mick Batten behind my back, I’ll be very upset…’
Costello’s hand paused on the door handle, and she held her breath.
‘… But not as upset as I would be if it didn’t.’ Quinn slowly pushed a narrow beige file across her desk, close enough for Costello to reach easily, then she stood up and turned away to look out of the window. ‘Shut the door behind you.’