His third day on the case started badly for DI Colin Anderson with an angry phone call from the sergeant who had initially investigated the Carruthers case up at Maryhill. He was furious that somebody else was reviewing the work, and he was going to get his DCI to complain to Anderson’s DCI. He sounded like a little boy in the playground, saying, ‘My dad’s bigger than your dad.’ Anderson had affably wished him good luck with that one and put the phone down. He had a spare few minutes before his meeting with Howlett so he set the alarm on his mobile, just in case he got too engrossed, and picked up the Carruthers file from the tray. The fiscal’s office had ruled his death a suicide because of the contents of this file. Coffee in hand, he began to read.
On the face of it, it was indeed a straightforward suicide. The post mortem report said death was due to ‘multiple injuries consistent with a fall from a height’, and the fact that the safety catch had been removed with a screwdriver tended to rule out an accident in the eyes of the fiscal. Mrs Carruthers had no explanation for that; her statement said they always used the tilt-and-turn when they cleaned the windows, which appeared to rule out an accident.
So, the safety catch had been removed, but by whom?
Anderson skimmed on, flicking the pages over. There was no mention of a screwdriver, no mention of the screws. Had somebody picked them up and pocketed them? The thought didn’t make Anderson feel any easier.
He looked at the black and white pictures of the body of Thomas Carruthers, aged sixty-eight. The only emotion on his poor smashed face was surprise. If, in his last minute on the planet, he had seen his former life flashing before him, or the pearly gates opening up for him at the end of a brilliantly lit tunnel, it had surprised him. At least, something had. His feet, twisted at impossible angles, were covered by bloodied socks. A dark slipper, circled in red, lay right at the edge of the picture. The next photo was a close-up, in high resolution. Anderson could see the little craters in the concrete, and tiny fronds of moss holding on to tenuous life, all in sharp focus under the scrutiny of the camera. The internal scaffolding of Carruthers’ face had collapsed under the impact into a weird asymmetry, and there was a lake of blood spreading under his eye, with little rivers forming in the runnels of the concrete. A mangle of broken glass and dark plastic that Anderson presumed had been his specs was compressed against the bruised flesh of his cheek.
Why did he still have on his slippers and glasses? Why didn’t he take them off and leave them neatly, with a note? The way suicides are supposed to.
Anderson paused, looking down at the picture; the point of his finger drifted on to Carruthers’ exposed hip, to the small linear pattern of bruising on his skin.
ACC Howlett’s office looked as though it should smell of old leather and cigarette smoke. Instead it smelled faintly of TCP. Howlett himself was smaller than Anderson remembered – not just thinner, but as though the man himself had shrivelled.
‘Quite a reputation you’ve carved out for yourself,’ Howlett observed, then continued without waiting for a response, ‘I was talking to a colleague of yours only yesterday.’
‘DS Costello? Yes, I know.’
‘You two are close? I understand you’ve worked together for the last five years or so with no hint of disruption between you.’
‘I think we know each other’s strengths and weaknesses,’ answered Anderson ambiguously.
‘So, if DS Costello was alerted to something, do you think she would come to you?’
‘Unless she was expressly told not to, sir. In which case, she wouldn’t.’
Howlett smiled a little. ‘But I presume she has told you that we have her back in harness, so to speak.’
‘And that was all she said. She can be far more discreet than she makes herself out to be.’ Anderson crossed his legs, giving the impression of relaxing. He hadn’t trusted Howlett when he had first walked in, and he had no inkling that he was about to reappraise the man any time soon. ‘She did tell me where, because she would have difficulty getting there – she hasn’t been able to drive since what happened in February – and I offered to run her out there tonight.’
‘Good. So, if she came to you with vague suspicions of something, you would not be dismissive of her opinion?’
Anderson had no hesitation in answering. ‘I would never dismiss DS Costello’s opinion.’ He thought he had a glimmer of where this conversation might be going.
‘So, you know we’re sending her to Glen Fruin Academy. Did she tell you why?’
‘No.’
‘It’s a great school with a great tradition.’ Howlett nodded to a photograph of what looked like the school rowing team. ‘I was there for a couple of years myself.’
‘I think I had heard that,’ said Anderson, realizing that he now had no idea at all where this conversation was going.
‘Good, good,’ said Howlett, as if Anderson had answered an important question for him. Then he changed tack completely. ‘Did you make any progress on that girl in the river?’
‘Not my case, sir.’
Howlett ignored him ‘Do you have any reason to believe she’s foreign?’
Anderson looked at the ACC’s face, but it was unreadable. ‘I think there might be a suggestion of that. O’Hare would know more than me. No doubt he’ll furnish you with the paperwork in due course. Why don’t you ask the man in charge? I think that’s DCI MacKellar?’
‘Because I am asking you. So, that’s as far as you’ve got?’
‘As I said, it’s not my case, sir, and the Prof is not a man to be hurried.’
Howlett folded his arms, considering this, and frowned in concentrated thought. ‘And you have established that Biggart was probably burned alive. Any idea by whom?’
‘We have a sighting on CCTV. We’re making an appeal this morning for a positive ID; the young gentleman is definitely key to all this. There’s no misper that matches him so time to go public, I think.’ Anderson couldn’t resist flicking a look at the clock.
‘I am insisting on a media blackout on most of this. So, just appeal for the ID of the young man in connection with an arson attack. That’s all they need to know.’
‘Don’t worry, the team are committed to tracing him,’ Anderson elaborated.
‘Oh yes, the team that came with you.’ Howlett rubbed his fingers gently together, as if he was slightly bored now. ‘And what about Biggart himself?’
‘Well, the murder of his wife last night puts a different –’
Howlett did not seem interested. ‘But apart from that, the man himself?’
‘They had a nice house and he seems to have lived there. But he also used a flat he paid no rent for – a perk of some kind, we think. The flat is one of several that also appear to be unrented – well, unoccupied, at any rate. It doesn’t look like a typical love nest away from the wife and kids.’
‘More like a hive of industry?’ The question was very matter-of-fact.
‘Might be. I’ve requested some samples from the towels in the flat next door.’ Anderson took a breath and started to theorize. ‘I have an idea that the ceiling was rigged for lights. I think that Biggart might have graduated from dealing in films to making them. O’Hare was mooting the possibility that that is what the River Girl had been used for.’ Anderson watched Howlett for any response. There was none; he got the feeling he was not telling him anything new. ‘That means there might be a supply of girls from somewhere.’
Howlett’s eyes watched Anderson carefully from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, scrutinizing him rather than listening to him. ‘But you suspect there was some questionable sexual activity going on.’ Howlett’s statement didn’t invite a response. Instead he leaned forward, fixing Anderson with his deceptively mild gaze. ‘If you feel you are being constrained in any way in this case, come and see me. Directly, I mean.’
Anderson nodded, feeling a slight stab in his stomach. There was a lot going on here that he knew nothing about. Did Howlett think he knew a lot more than he did? Maybe there was some new test for a DCI – work out what the bloody job is before you get the chance to do it.
‘Not a pleasant man, Mr Biggart. Whoever lit that match did the world a favour.’ Howlett pulled a thick file from his drawer. Old, crumpled, dog-eared and stained with coffee rings, it must have been read many times. Anderson felt his heart sink further. ‘No doubt you will be looking for somebody who hated his guts. Somebody who might have watched him blister and burn then quietly let himself out the door.’
‘I didn’t know you were so well informed, sir.’
‘I am well informed about everything in this case, DCI Anderson,’ said Howlett. ‘And I mean DCI Anderson.’
‘Oh – er – right, sir. Thank you.’
‘I am well informed about you, about your team as you like to call it, and about your career so far and exactly where it is going. By that I mean upwards. You have a good track record.’ Howlett stood up and sat on the edge of the desk, a very casual pose, but there was nothing casual about his words. ‘If you are looking for somebody who hated Mr Biggart then you are looking at a fair few. This file will help you in your search. But I would rather you read it and then locked it in a drawer out of sight of the lower ranks, no matter how much you think you can trust them. A few years ago, a very few years ago, Biggart was just a small-time pimp who beat up anyone smaller than him. Then something changed. It looks as though somebody started backing him, giving him advice, funding him almost, no doubt while vastly overestimating his intelligence. If they’d realized they’d made a mistake, they would just have shot him. They wouldn’t have bothered going to all that trouble. The manner of his death leaves some questions unanswered. The manner of his wife’s death even more so, the “blood eagle” so beloved of the Russian mafia. With that degree of violence, the execution of the operation, almost military in its precision. Nobody saw anything. Nothing at all.’
‘It had struck me, sir.’
‘I guess you’re starting at the bottom of the pile, investigating the person who lit the match. Find out who he is, but don’t stop at the fire setter; you’ll get further looking at Biggart. If you get anywhere at all, come to me, please.’
Anderson took the file, it was thick and very heavy. ‘Are we looking for somebody in particular?’
For the first time Howlett looked uncomfortable. ‘Kukolnyik,’ was all he said.
‘And that is what?’
‘More of a who. “The Puppeteer” is a literal translation. He – or she – who pulls the strings and has us dance to his tune. Most of that file is background. You will pick up the invisible thread of some puppet master in there, and that’s who I would like you to find. I don’t really want that being made common knowledge outside your team – just say you are working on the Biggart case.’ Howlett went on. ‘And if you need any more detailed information about Biggart, you should speak to Eric Moffat, who’s here in Glasgow for a little while. He was fully operational in Biggart’s youth, so speak to him and see what background he can give you that never made it into the official record. Listen well, but say little. And I want you to speak to Moffat, not Lambie or any of the others. I’m not sure if Moffat fully understands how the force has changed since he left …’ Howlett leaned back in his seat, and took a breath as if he had a pain somewhere. ‘I’ve consulted Dr Mick Batten about this, you will find notes from him in the file. I intend to call him in, I know you two work well together. How are you getting on at Partick?’
‘Fine. Be nice to be working with Mick again,’ said Anderson, hoping Howlett would explain why a psychologist had been called in.
He didn’t.
‘From your record, I notice you feel comfortable working long hours with a small team. Not a practice that can easily be tolerated in today’s police service.’
‘No, sir, but it is effective. Yesterday I narrowly avoided a meeting that was purely about scheduling some more meetings.’
Howlett smiled thinly. ‘Such is the role of the DCI.’
‘I was a DI then.’
‘Your approach – delicate work, the need-to-know principle – does have its uses. But I’m afraid it’ll be a few months before the work at Partickhill is complete.’
‘I’ve worked in much worse places than Partick Central.’
Howlett steepled his fingers. ‘So, I take it you wouldn’t be interested in setting up a little unit of your own, just across the road at the university? In the lecture hall the hospital uses? Just for this operation, if you’ll pardon the pun?’
It was a command.
‘Anything that’s beneficial to the enquiry. And the precise objective of this operation is … ?’
‘To break the Puppeteer, simple as that. I’ve released Lambie, Wyngate. And you will liaise with Matilda McQueen and only her for any forensic work you need done, I don’t want any of this lying around a general lab. And Mulholland, of course – he’ll be useful.’
‘They’re all useful, sir,’ Anderson replied carefully.
‘They don’t all speak Russian, though, do they? The one stipulation is that I want tabs kept on each and every one of you, where you are every minute you are on duty. I want someone to be able just to look at the noticeboard and to know where you are and who you’re with at any time.’
‘OK, but for the sake of completeness, can you ask DCI MacKellar if he can reassign the case of the River Girl to me. And there’s a white Transit and –’
‘Indeed, consider it done. I wasn’t fully aware that MacKellar had split the investigation. I’ll sort it out straight away,’ he lifted the phone, pausing halfway. ‘And don’t forget DS Costello in all this.’
‘But she’s at –’
‘I know. I’m just telling you not to forget her. I’m afraid I don’t have any female staff free, so you might want to keep in close contact with her and the security team at Glen Fruin Academy. It was the Warden of the Academy who called us in. They don’t have a headmaster like any normal school; they have to have a Warden.’
‘Sounds like a hostel. But Warden or no, I presume he wants it kept quiet?’
‘It had better be kept quiet – he’s my brother-in-law. I’ll phone MacKellar now.’
It was a subtle dismissal so Anderson got up and left, letting his fingers run along the back of the leather chair. Howlett had mentioned the Russians twice. As fact.
He wondered what else Howlett knew.
Sitting in his car, parked on the steep hill at Pitt Street, Anderson thought about nipping into Costa in Sauchiehall Street and getting something to eat. Even the metropolitan bustle of the precinct, thronged with shoppers and sightseers, would be quieter than that bloody station at Partick, with the phone going every two minutes, and the strange habit they had of shouting across the room rather than just getting up and walking all of ten yards. The first thing he did was read the notes by Batten – the word ‘profile’ had gone out of favour – in which Batten had referred to the Puppeteer’s ‘characteristics’. He glanced through it, his heart chilling: intelligent, well read, patient, probably a businessman, flash with his money, very engaging, does charity work, probably has a legitimate reason to travel internationally, background in military, family or some kind of community tie, he will have a team working with him, people at his disposal. The word ‘communication’ had a question mark after it.
He turned the key in the ignition, so he could wind down the window, and rested his elbow on the door, letting the stifling car cool. The steering wheel was almost too hot to touch so he couldn’t drive away yet, anyway. He slipped on his sunglasses, glad of the anonymity they afforded him.
Anonymity? Was that why the passenger in the van was wearing them? Did that suggest that he thought his face was traceable, recognizable? Anderson didn’t want to insult Wyngate by asking him to enhance the tattoos on the man’s arm and then do a search on them. He needed to trust his team and let them get on with it. He was a DCI now, time he started to behave like one.
He needed time to think about what Howlett had just offered him. He was considering going somewhere quiet to have a look through that file. The ACC was no fool; he had handed Anderson either the opportunity of his career on a plate, or something that everyone else considered untouchable.
He picked up his phone and dialled Wyngate. ‘Gordon, I want you to pack up everything for the Biggart case, and the case of the girl in the river from next door.’
‘Biggart, right. And Rusalka. Yes, we’ve already started.’
‘Rusalka? You have a positive ID on her?’
‘No,’ said Wyngate sheepishly. ‘Just a name Mulholland’s given her. It’s some opera he knows – sounded just like The Little Mermaid to me.’
Anderson sighed. ‘Trust Vik to know about something poncy like that. Never mind, it’ll do. Look, just pack all that stuff up in boxes.’
‘Do you want me to do that now?’
‘Why, have you got something more important to do?’
‘Well, I’ve just had a strange call from HQ. I’ve to go to the Western and get the keys to the university lecture theatre from a janitor. And they want me to hang about at the theatre because some computers are being delivered. For us to use. I presumed you knew about it, sir, from the way it was said.’
Anderson put a smile into his voice. ‘Yes, it’s OK, just that the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing. You sort it out any way you can but by five p.m. tonight we will be working out of there rather than Partick Central.’
‘Is that why the IT guys are getting a system up and running for us?’
‘Probably. Phone me if you have any problems.’ He rang off.
A small hand-picked team all to himself, nothing too formal, nothing too traceable. But why?
One explanation came to him as easily as an ice cream down the back of the throat. They had been a secure unit at Partickhill and all Howlett had done was to take the four or five officers he knew he could trust, the implication being that there was somebody in Partick who could not be trusted. A mole.
Clever. If Anderson didn’t know what he was chasing, he wouldn’t go looking for what he wanted to find. He would simply find it without prejudice.
They were still packing up, their colleagues watching with a mix of pleasure at seeing the back of them and a touch of envy that they were moving somewhere with double the floor space for a tenth of the staff, when the door of the incident room opened and DCI MacKellar came in. With him was a tall tanned man with grey hair and gold-rimmed glasses, in a pristine white long-sleeved white shirt and expensive linen trousers, who looked around as if he owned the place. A few of the Partick team said hello, and two older members of the CID went up and shook hands warmly. The heartfelt double-handed handshake might have been Masonic for all Anderson knew. He looked enquiringly at Lambie, but Lambie shrugged, ‘No idea.’ Mulholland scribbled something and slipped a scrap of paper to Anderson as he walked past: If his name’s Moffat then he’s God.
So, this was the man Howlett had told him to talk to.
Anderson went back to reading the list of injuries and identifying marks on the Bridge Boy when MacKellar tapped him on the arm.
‘I think congratulations are in order. Well done.’ The handshake was genuine. ‘I was kind of hoping for it myself, you know. But, well done.’
‘For what?’ asked Anderson. ‘All I have is a DCI position, nothing else.’
MacKellar dropped his voice as there was an outbreak of laughter at some in-joke by Moffat. ‘You didn’t get LOCUST?’
Anderson shook his head, then added mischievously, ‘In fact, I think we are moving out to give you more room. Make what you will of that.’
‘Great, ta. Nice one, Colin.’ MacKellar punched him on the arm. ‘Cheers.’
Anderson went back to his reading, ignoring the adoring throng around Moffat. The Bridge Boy was holding on, Dr Redman had reported, but only just; he might be in need of a liver transplant. Anderson made a mental note of points to look for on the missing persons register, though one flick-through had produced no likely matches. He couldn’t help but watch Moffat from the corner of his eye, thinking about Batten’s list. Moffat had obviously lived abroad for a while, Australia from the sound of it – somebody called him ‘Crocodile Dundee’ to a hoot of laughter – and was well enough respected to be allowed to walk around the station freely. Arrangements were being made to go out for a drink.
‘Yeah, I’m over for a whole load of reasons, but wasn’t expecting Tommy’s funeral,’ Moffat was explaining.
Anderson could not help listening. Lambie, who was loading files into a box with the slow deliberation of one whose concentration was elsewhere, was clearly listening as well.
‘And who are these guys? I think I know you,’ Moffat said to Anderson. ‘By reputation, if nothing else.’
‘Don’t believe everything you hear. DCI Colin Anderson,’ Anderson said, relishing the sound of his new title.
Lambie’s head jerked up in surprise; he grinned but said nothing.
‘DCI Anderson? I’m glad the grapevine was to be believed.’ Moffat smiled. ‘Congratulations. You’re very well thought of by the top brass, I hear.’
‘More than I ever get to hear,’ said Anderson.
‘And you worked with an old mentor of mine, I think – Alan McAlpine.’
‘Yes, I did.’ Anderson was confused for a minute. Moffat was older than McAlpine had been by a good few years.
‘I was in the military before I joined the force,’ explained Moffat, as if he had read Anderson’s thoughts. ‘He showed me the ropes. Hard bastard, but fair.’ His blue eyes looked deep into Anderson’s. ‘If I can be of any assistance to you, any assistance,’ he emphasized, ‘in the next few days, just let me know. I’m not going back to Oz for another week.’
Anderson nodded to show that he understood; a subtle invite to an off-the-record conversation passed between the two of them without any of the others noticing. ‘This is DC Mulholland, and DS Lambie.’ He waved a hand at them in introduction. ‘DC Wyngate is around somewhere. So, you moving on?’
Moffat looked down at the paper Anderson had just been reading. His old colleagues drifted away, waving and calling that they’d see him later. ‘So, somebody did for Billy the Bastard. I’m glad I lived long enough to see that.’ Then Moffat leaned over and asked under his breath, ‘The lad with the ears – Wyngate – is he trying to track those tattoos?’
So, he had clocked the photograph pinned to the file – the last thing to go into the box so it would be the first out. Anderson nodded.
‘Get him to do it quickly, then let me have a look-see; I might be able to help.’
‘For ID?’
‘I’ll tell you once I see them.’ Moffat looked closely at Anderson. ‘I do remember you, you know.’
‘You have the advantage of me, though I recognize you from somewhere.’
Moffat slapped Anderson on the back. ‘Of course you do, boy, of course you do. I used to kick your arse when you were a probationer. God, that was years ago.’
‘Eric? Eric Moffat? I don’t recall. But then I got my arse kicked by loads of people in those days.’
‘Well, rumours of my death were exaggerated, as you can see – I just retired to Australia, where it’s only slightly cooler than hell.’
‘Must have a chat with you about that. My wife wants us to go out there.’
‘Nice place, can’t say a word against it.’ Moffat polished his glasses on the end of his tie before slipping them on again. ‘Look, let’s meet for a beer when there’re fewer folk about.’ He pulled a card out from his top pocket. ‘There’s my cell number, call me and we’ll have a chat. Might save you a lot of legwork.’
Anderson looked at the card. Moffat lived in Brisbane, in Queensland. And he couldn’t say a word against it. Oh God, Anderson prayed, please don’t let him and Brenda ever meet.
Anderson decided there was no point in him being there while they were connecting computers and dragging furniture around, so he left the boys to it – they knew what to do. He would go home and sit in his garden with a blank sheet of paper and try to make some connections.
A colour print of the mocked-up image of the Bridge Boy had arrived, and Anderson was impressed. It was a good image for the appeal, he’d called in a few favours, and Bridge Boy’s face would be all over the morning editions. He was keeping a tight rein on anything going to the papers, but he needed help with this one. The boy’s fingerprints were not on record. His dental records were proving useless – so many of his teeth had been pulled out. And DNA testing would only be of use if they had a comparison. Better to put his face out there, place a guard on his bed and see what came out of the woodwork. He decided to go home and plan his strategy for the case.
But getting out of the station proved to be difficult.
A rather harassed-looking Lambie met him on the stairs, and pulled him back through the security door. ‘Look, can I speak to you about Carruthers? There’s a few things that don’t really add up. I’ve requested the CCTV film for the area round the flat. For the six hours before the … incident.’
Anderson looked out of the window, watching Wyngate manhandle a box into the boot of his car.
‘I’ve talked to the solicitor. You know that Carruthers put twenty grand in a bank account his wife didn’t know about, one single payment in November 1996. Well, it’s a lot more than that now with interest. Untouched, totally. The bank records show it was a win on a horse, and they were shown all the paperwork at the time. Enough to satisfy them, seemingly,’ Lambie continued in a low tone.
‘Except – don’t tell me – Tommy never bet on anything in his life. Seemingly may be about right.’
‘Once the solicitor told Mrs Carruthers, she told Costello. She really had no idea about that money. She seems almost scared of it.’
‘And Carruthers was a cop at that time.’
‘A bent cop?’
Anderson shrugged. ‘If that money is all they find, only bent once, from the look of it. But whatever he did to earn it – could it really have been something bad enough to drive him to suicide fourteen years later? Or maybe he was murdered for it. Keep on it, keep me posted. Tell me, what do you know of ex-DCI Eric Moffat?’
Lambie shrugged. ‘Off the record?’
‘Dish the dirt.’
‘Masonic, bit too sectarian for my liking but give him his due, he almost brought down gangland Glasgow single-handed. He took both the O’Donnells and the McGregors on and wiped the floor with them. I never worked with him for long, though. He went Down Under, probably for his own good. Is he back because of that bloody book about the Marchetti boy? I think the author gives him a roasting.’
‘Was he involved in that?’
‘Is the Pope a Catholic? That’s how he made his name.’
Now, Anderson was back in his garden sipping a cup of hot strong coffee. Nesbitt was at his feet, chewing at his favourite tennis ball with loud growling noises, and Brenda was leaning against the garden fence, yattering to the neighbour about Australia, no doubt. She was standing with one hand on her hip, just where Carruthers’ body had had marks, Anderson was reminded. He had noticed them in the post mortem photographs, particularly the one that clearly showed straight, linear scrapes among the chaos of injuries caused by the fall – the tipping point, the pivot. A jump wouldn’t have caused that. He could get O’Hare to have a look at the pictures – well, pictures were all they had, as the body had been cremated.
And another thing: Moffat comes back on the scene and Carruthers is found dead at the bottom of a block of flats. This is just after the publication of a book about the kidnap of a boy, and Moffat was in charge of that. The kidnap that made Moffat’s career – not because he solved it but because of the disruption it created in the criminal underworld.
Was it all connected somehow, and did Howlett know? There was nothing really, thought Anderson, running through it in his mind. Apart from the timing – and, as they say in the theatre, timing is everything. Lambie really needed to look at those diaries he’d spotted in Carruthers’ flat.
Nesbitt sneezed loudly and Anderson went back to his blank piece of paper. He made three headings: ‘Bridge Boy’, ‘Biggart’, ‘River Girl’. Then he scored them out. He wrote ‘Rusalka’ across the top, and the word ‘Russian’. ‘Biggart’ with a red line through to show he was deceased. ‘Melinda Biggart’ with a similar line. He put a ‘+’ between them, with ‘pretty boy’ in between. Anderson was sure he had torched Biggart, but he had not killed Melinda. Then he recalled Howlett saying that the ‘blood eagle’ as a method of killing was … what was the word he had used? … beloved of the Russian mafia.
He pulled out his phone and keyed in the words ‘blood eagle’ and read that it was a method of torture and execution mentioned in Norse sagas. He scrolled down, reading the method, which involved cutting the ribs of the victim by the spine, then breaking the ribs so they resembled bloodstained wings. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to think about Melinda. She had been cut down the front, a reverse blood eagle that had immediately brought the Russians to Howlett’s mind. And Rusalka was, probably, a Russian.
He keyed in the word ‘Rusalka’, uncertain how to spell it. He was interested to know why Mulholland of all people had given the dead girl that name. Up flashed a Wikipedia article: … an opera by Antonín Dvořák … first performed in Prague in 1901 … based on Slavic fairy tales … Curious, he scrolled down to the synopsis. Rusalka was a water sprite, who fell in love with a human prince betrothed to a princess, and lost the power of speech. Wyngate was right; it was a darker, more elemental version of The Little Mermaid.
But without Walt Disney’s happy ending.
‘Do you have some cover story for this?’ Anderson flung Costello’s small suitcase into the back seat of the Jazz, slammed the door, and got into the car. He reached across and picked up the book lying on top of her bag on her knee. Little Boy Lost by Simone Sangster. ‘And why are you reading this shite?’
‘It came with the job. I may as well as read it.’
Anderson was confused.
‘This place was implicated as a getaway route.’ She looked at him. ‘Do you know anything?’
‘Obviously not, but I don’t think you’ll learn much reading that crap. The Marchettis tried to get it banned, you know. Does it mention Eric Moffat anywhere?’ He noticed Costello startle slightly.
‘Yes, but I’ve not got that far.’
‘But you do know him? What do you think?’
‘He dumped me from a case. The only time in my career. So, no, I don’t think much of him.’ She adjusted her short hair. ‘He’s back for Carruthers’ funeral, isn’t he?’
Anderson pulled on to the dual carriageway, looking at the water of the Clyde, a deep sapphire blue in the late light, rhomboids of silver flashing across the top of subtle waves. He imagined them as pieces of the jigsaw, coming together and then being pulled apart. Moffat, Glen Fruin, the kidnap? He kept his voice level. ‘Did you deserve to get put off the case?’
Costello seemed to consider her answer. ‘I was a rookie. ’93, was it? A woman had been stabbed in the NCP in Mitchell Lane. I was first on the scene, but he turned up and said I was useless. He wasn’t wrong, but it was the way he said it while this poor woman was just lying there, pregnant, on oil-stained freezing concrete. She was covered in blood. I held her hand. Her nails were bitten right down to the quick. Moffat said I was being useless and sent me on my way.’ She looked out of the window, her head against the glass. ‘It wasn’t nice.’
‘And what happened.’
‘Nothing. I was never asked to write it up. Nobody was ever charged. Not long afterwards, they had found the body of a man named Liam Flynn, decapitated with a machete, and I was told that Moffat had stopped looking for any more suspects. Some kind of street justice had been done. I was told to leave it at that.’
‘Was she connected, then?’
‘Only slightly. Pauline, part of the McGregor family but not an active one.’
Anderson’s mind was racing ahead, looking at the facts, his brain trying to make the pieces of the jigsaw fit. ‘So, how far have you got with the book?’
‘It’s mostly about Sangster’s theory that the family had something to do with it. Don’t you think it’s strange to have a male babysitter? But then, the parents did know him well – he’d worked for them for some while in their restaurant. Piacini, he was called. And the normal babysitter had let them down at the last moment. It’s a crap read but the bit about Glen Fruin is interesting.’
‘And what happened here?’
‘All it says is that a car similar to one seen somewhere near the Marchettis’ flat was seen forty minutes later driving through Glen Fruin. But it’s all maybes – there was no concrete evidence. It’s a good conspiracy theory, though. That they were getting the kid out to the coast. That’s one thing about this country, we have a great coastline for hiding things.’
That was the second time in so many days that Anderson had heard that sentiment. ‘So, the first time Piacini is left in charge, he and the child both go missing? And stay missing? Dead or alive, they must be somewhere.’
‘Must be dead, otherwise they would have resurfaced. But were they brought through here to get to the coast or be dumped somewhere? The glen was home to some torpedo testing centre during the war or something, it being long and narrow and tucked out of the way. It’s not easy to kidnap a child and keep him secure somewhere. There’s all sorts of underground, hidden-away things up here.’ She sounded excited, like a child. ‘There’s a great underground tank there that they used to test the Dambusters’ bouncing bomb, then it was used for hydro-ballistic research.’
‘Like you’d know what that was.’
‘Good deposition site for a couple of dead bodies. It’s an overflow reservoir now.’
‘I read in the Herald recently that a lot of the older tunnels and drains are being tested for recommissioning, something to do with anti-terrorism. But that’s down at the un-posh end. You’ll be up in the seriously posh bit. You do know that there’s bugger all up there but the school? The nearest shop is six miles away.’
‘There’ll probably be a Harvey Nicks on site,’ Costello grunted.
Though it was going on for ten o’clock, the light was only just starting to fade, and the midges were out in force. Anderson could smell Costello’s citronella repellent spray. ‘It’ll be a nice drive. Glen Fruin is one of the most attractive glens in Scotland, you know.’
‘So, not only are the kids a load of over-privileged little sods, they have a nice view as well.’
‘I don’t think that attitude is going to help, Costello. The term “button it” comes to mind. Just be careful. There’re not a lot of places you can run to, and you can’t drive.’
‘I’m only going up to have a look around, not start a revolution.’ Costello ignored him. ‘But I’ll need to use a landline; the mobile reception is patchy.’
‘Well, you have my number if you need me, if you get stuck.’ Anderson turned on to the expressway and headed west. ‘What is it all about, anyway?’
‘Important people send their children to Glen Fruin. So I cannae tell you,’ Costello said, bored and leaning her head against the window.
As they neared Glen Fruin, Anderson turned right, taking the low road through the glen. Within minutes the trees had closed over the road, creating a long dark tunnel that still held the balmy heat of the day trapped under the canopy of the leaves. He had the feeling it was an omen that Costello had no real idea what she was being sent to ‘observe’.
‘Sorry to nag,’ he started again. ‘But is there somebody you can trust up here?’
‘Apart from the Warden, there’s a security guy called Pettigrew. Colin? What the hell do you think I can’t cope with? These kids can’t even wipe their own arses without a nanny.’
‘Be careful, and watch your back. Don’t drink anything or eat anything that might have been tampered with. Just be on your guard.’
There was a slow head-turn from the passenger seat. ‘Do you really think I can’t look after myself?’
‘Fine,’ said Anderson, and he put his foot down.
Rosie wondered how long it would take her to die. She knew you could die within hours without water, especially in this weather, and she’d had no water now for … how long was an hour, anyway? She had had to void her bowels again, and the air in the bedroom was wretched and foul.
Then she heard a bluebottle, a gentle hum that came close and louder until it seemed to be buzzing in her ear. She couldn’t lift a hand to wave it away, and it kept landing on the soiled sheets, trying to get through to eat at her skin. Then there were two of them. Then another, and another, until she couldn’t fight them off any more. Now she really started to panic. She was going to die of thirst, and the flies were going to swarm over her and eat her as she rotted, stinking the whole house out. She closed her eyes, and thought about Wullie. She thought about death.
She heard a noise, and her eyes shot open. It was Wullie, coming back! She tried to call out to him, joy flooding her heart, and her voice caught in her throat. Wullie was back, he was back … Then reality caught up with her – the noise was scuffling, a thud. Even if he had forgotten his key, Wullie knew that there was a spare one under the stone – he was terrible with keys. Her eyes automatically darted to the laptop, to the disks.
She closed her eyes again. Wullie had not come back, and now they were coming for her. She screwed her eyes closed as somebody walked into the room. She could hear his quiet footfall, could hear him breathing, smell a waft of cigarette smoke. Somebody was watching her. Now she knew true fear, total terrifying fear. Only one of them – why had they sent only one? He still wasn’t moving. He just stood there, watching her, smelling her, and she could feel his eyes crawling all over her exposed flesh. The bluebottles rose from the bed to buzz in circles round the ceiling.
She held her breath, and waited – for the blow, the bullet, the knife.
‘What’s that over there?’ asked Anderson.
‘Over where?’
‘In those trees, what a racket!’ He pulled the car to a halt. ‘Down there, just at the treeline. It’s like a scene from The Birds.’ He leaned across to get a better look out of Costello’s window.
‘Can’t see anything, but those crows are having a good investigation of whatever it is.’
‘They are pulling at something. Oh God, that’s horrible. Listen to them.’
The noise of them screeching and squawking filled the air.
‘Probably just a dead sheep?’ She could hear them crowing and cawing, she could hear the wind high in the trees, and she tried to quell the panic. She could do this. She closed her eyes tighter, in quiet desperation, when she heard the key click in the ignition and the engine die. ‘Can we not get a move on, Colin? It’s getting late, and it’s dark.’
‘Just a minute. I want to have a look.’ Anderson unclipped his seat belt and got out of the car. He walked round the back of the car and paused on the grass verge, peering up into the woods.
Costello resisted the urge to lean over and press the lock on his door. Instead she watched him walk away, before taking a step down into a dip. He paused, bending forward, his hands on his knees, moving his head from one side to the other, his eyes fixed on something low down. Without standing up he reached into his back pocket for his phone, and pressed a single button. Then he started talking, straightening up and looking over his shoulder, giving somebody their location. Costello felt a cold hand round her heart. She was starting to feel trapped. But she forced herself to open the car door, intending just to get out and stand there.
Anderson heard the sound of the door opening, and turned and saw her. He held up his free hand. Stay there.
But, hypnotized by the shadows in the trees, she started walking.
‘Costello, stay back!’
She walked on, her mind filling in the details her eyes saw: the blood, the eyes – no, no eyes – the flies, the green mottled skin of the face, the crows pecking at it, stripping it of its flesh …
‘Costello, get back to the car!’
But her feet were rooted to the ground. In a tree beside her, a crow scrawked loudly. Anderson clapped his hands to make it fly away. But it only flapped its wings and hopped from one branch to another.
‘Costello,’ repeated Anderson. ‘Go – back – to the car – now!’
Costello looked at the crow again. It cocked its head at her. Its grey beak was half open, and something once living was dangling from it.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’ll go back to the car.’
A black car pulled up, and a man got out of it, slamming the door and jogging across the road, giving Costello, who was now sitting in the car, a quick glance as he passed. He jumped over the ditch, down to the lower ground, and went over to talk to Anderson. Costello wound down the window, trying to listen to the conversation, but they were talking too quietly for her to hear. The other man was small and fine boned, but had a degree of muscle definition that was evident through his white T-shirt. Something about him was not right; he was much older than he appeared to be at first. He had a tan, and dark hair that looked dyed. And his teeth looked as though they belonged to somebody else. He slapped Anderson on the upper arm, like an old friend saying goodbye after a late-night drinking session. Such camaraderie, so soon?
Costello felt a twinge of jealousy. Who was he, and why had he appeared? Had Anderson phoned him, and if he had then why didn’t Costello know who he was? She thought about getting out of the car and going back across the ditch, then she looked up to see the crows still moving from branch to branch, edging closer until some signal was given by one of them and they all moved again before settling, watching, dark eyes fixed on the carrion below.
The small man was coming back up to the road. As Costello wound down the window, he opened the rear door and pulled out her case.
‘Come on, you,’ he said. ‘You can’t stay here. You’ve had a shock, and your boss will be here for ages once the accident investigation guys appear. I’ll take you up to the school.’
‘I haven’t had a shock,’ said Costello, not moving.
‘Then why is your face the same colour as sour milk – and just as pleasant to look at, at the moment – if you don’t mind me saying so?’
‘I do mind.’
‘You’ll get used to it. I’m Jim Pettigrew, security consultant, or insultant if you prefer. Now, do you mind getting your arse out of there so that we can get out of here before the MPs come along? If not, we’ll be here until the next World Cup while they go back three generations trying to find a Muslim or a Catholic in your background. Uh-oh, here they come. Time for us to get out the way. Move it.’
Costello got into the black car, a small Corsa. ‘And who are they, the blackshirts over there?’
‘The military police. Any incident along this road and they’re automatically notified and come sniffing. Otherwise they don’t really have that much to do up here, apart from bugger the sheep and make sure the nuclear submarines are parked properly.’
‘And you’re head of security at the school?’ asked Costello.
Pettigrew pulled the car away, waving at the two MPs who were getting out of their car.
Costello laid her head back in the seat. Oh, she had been here before. Something in the way he spoke. ‘You’re ex-job, aren’t you?’
‘Indeedy,’ he said. As he drove past the MPs he gave them a two-fingered salute below the level of the car window, whistling the theme from The Great Escape as the car sped away.
Auld Archie O’Donnell sat in the corner of the day room, his head hunched into his shoulders, chewing on his gums. He hated this bloody place. They’d taken him away from his favourite spot at the bay window to sit among this festering mass of dribbling window-lickers, and that was just the staff. He’d had dogs that were more intelligent than the morons in this place, and if he still had his gun he’d put the whole fucking lot of them out their misery. He chewed on his gums slightly more aggressively, enjoying the pain as soft flesh gave way to blood. He had been happy looking out across the garden and into the street where he could see the world go by. He was happy in his room, alone with his memories of the good days, able to have a shit without a fucking audience. Of course, it was easier for the staff to keep them all confined in the day room, tethered like animals, so they didn’t make a mess of the place after the cleaner had been round, just in case there was a random inspection and some poor sod had dared to leave a crumb somewhere.
Being in the day room meant there was no bloody peace at all. The huge TV sat unwatched but blaring out so the staff could hear it all over the home. Soap after soap after chat show, and reality show after soap. TV for the brain dead. Once in a blue moon they left it on a channel where they actually spoke the Queen’s English, and today had been such a day. He had heard the news; he’d had no choice. He had seen the appeal, the mocked-up face of the boy who had fallen from the bridge. It was expressionless, dead-eyed, but it was him. Auld Archie had then pulled a late copy of the Scottish Sun from a coffee table and stuffed it behind his cushion, pulling it out to read when the staff were on yet another coffee break and the other inhabitants of the day room were semi-comatose and drooling.
The boy was alive – critical, but alive. That’s all he needed to know.
Then Archie had sat, drawn deep within himself, until Ella had come to move him as the night air became chilled, and he had snarled at the woman, mouth open as if ready to bite her, and the stupid wee cow had buggered off to file a report about his aggression.
So, now he was alone, his head pulled well down. Alone in his world. He would not let them see his tears.