Anderson stood in the shadow of the great beech hedge outside the Corbett family home, breathing in the warm night air and the scent of wild garlic. The street was quiet; everybody else was getting a good night’s sleep, unaware that yet another tragedy had struck the family in the big house at the end of the drive. A car pulled up violently, and Jennifer’s father, Donald Corbett, got out and rushed into the house – either ignoring Anderson or, in his haste, failing to see him.
His phone went, and he cursed. Could they never give him a break? He looked at the number, registering that he knew it and that it wasn’t work. Not many people would call him at this hour from a 334 phone number – a West End number. It had to be something to do with Lambie.
He opened the phone, and a voice said, ‘Hello? Colin?’
It took a moment for him to work out who it was. He was glad it wasn’t Brenda. If it had been, this would be the ‘sorry about your friend’ phone call – the ‘that’s why you have to leave the job’ speech would come later.
This was somebody who was concerned. Concerned for him.
‘I’m so sorry, Colin. I’ve just heard; Donald just called me. How are you?’
‘Oh, hello, Helena. It’s all … it’s … very difficult.’ He felt his voice break. Another car pulled up, and he turned to face the hedge, aware that tears were now running down his face.
‘I didn’t want to phone Jennifer, but when the time is right, tell me and I’ll call her.’ She didn’t need to add, ‘I know what it’s like; I’ve been there.’
‘Her dad’s just arrived.’ He rubbed the fatigue from his eyes. ‘Helena?’
‘Yes?’
He couldn’t say it.
But she did. ‘You’re only two streets away. Why don’t you come round?’
He closed the call. A text had appeared. It was from Brenda. When will you be home? How are you feeling? Not her fault; nobody had told her. But he didn’t want to.
Not now.
How had he got here? He didn’t recall getting in his car, or driving the short distance to Helena’s house.
He parked at the bottom of the terrace and took his time over the long walk up. His brain knew that this thing had happened, but the rest of him – heart, mind, body – was deciding to be numb to the idea that Lambie was gone, gone for good, one small blade between the ribs all it took to end his life. Jennifer would not be his wife, his children would not be born, and he would never grow into the good detective he was planning to be. Such a waste. Such a waste, by such scum! And nobody yet knew why.
Anderson couldn’t really come to terms with any of it. That night when they had tried to save the wee girl on the ladder in the river, Lambie hadn’t hesitated to jump straight into the filthy freezing Clyde. He’d been there for his boss. But who had been there for him? He couldn’t even bear to think what Brenda would say. If Lambie could get stabbed and killed, any of them could. He looked round behind him, checking whether somebody was following him. Too tired to think, he walked on, the heavy warmth of the night air making his breathing labour a little on the upward slope.
Maybe Brenda was right. Maybe they should get away from all this to pastures new. Life was a fragile gift that could be taken away in a second, with no warning. He remembered the horror of the previous night – was it only the previous night? – and Moffat’s head exploding right in front of him. No matter how vehemently Howlett insisted, he himself had certainly been in danger. But somebody – capable of two kills with two bullets, with a high-powered weapon – had come to his rescue. Somebody who had run away through the trees. MacFadyean was hit by a car, Carruthers thrown from a high window. A slim blade had ended Lambie’s life. Howlett had been very deliberate in the lecture room in ensuring Costello knew she could count on Pettigrew. Did that mean he thought Costello was in some danger? Then there was Howlett’s insistence that the whiteboard should show where they were every time they left the station.
His pace quickened as he walked up the pavement of the high terrace. At Helena McAlpine’s house, he knew, there would be a big sofa, hot coffee and fresh toast; it was that kind of house. He thought about the dead, about Billy and Melinda Biggart, about Tommy Carruthers and Wullie MacFadyean. He thought about Rusalka. And he thought – how could he not? – about David Lambie. His sergeant. His friend. How close had he himself been to joining them all in death?
He jumped as a crow swooped down from a tree on to the fence ahead of him and perched there, glaring evilly at him. Then a second came down, hopping sideways along the fence to join its mate.
The first wee craw was greetin’ fer its maw.
The children’s song came into his head and wouldn’t leave. The first wee craw? That was poor little Rusalka, whose last frightened whisper had been ‘Mamochka’.
The second wee craw fell and broke its jaw.
Tommy Carruthers?
The third wee craw couldn’t flee awa’.
A nightmare vision composed of Melinda Biggart, a woman who had been butchered, her arms pulled out like wings, but no chance of flight.
And the fourth wee craw – the one who wisnae there at a’?
That was Wullie MacFadyean – a shadow of a man who everybody knew, but nobody knew anything about for sure. Or was it the Puppeteer, Kukolnyik, the evil controlling bastard at the very heart of his web of cruelty and corruption?
Woozy with fatigue and grief, Anderson almost fell over his own feet, and stopped walking. Christ, he was no good to anybody like this! He looked up and realized he was at Helena’s house. He heard the doorbell resonate all through the house, and the sound of feet coming to answer it, soft slippers on a tiled floor. Then the door opened, and there she was.
She didn’t smile. She didn’t say anything. She just held her arms out to him.
And he started to cry.
It was five thirty in the morning, and the early sun was glinting diamonds off the tarmac. Anderson could tell from the number of cars round the front door of their little lecture theatre that the room was already busy.
He felt he had no idea what he was doing. He had no idea what he was doing here, with the case, with his life.
He had been unfaithful to Brenda. Full stop. There had always been that unspoken desire between him and Helena, but it should never have happened. It certainly should not have happened the way it had.
But last night he had been so alone, so bereft – at the lowest point in his life that he could remember – and Helena had opened her arms to him. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world. And he couldn’t bring himself to regret a moment of it.
He had slid out of her bed and had a shower in the big bathroom on the half landing. Helena was still asleep when he laid the handwritten note on the pillow beside the auburn curls of her hair. She had not stirred when he let himself out of the front door. What he had said in the note was true. He loved her. And he thought he should say it, as if she hadn’t known for the last ten years. He could fool himself that the rest of the world knew nothing about it and never would. But he was not a good enough liar to keep something like this a secret.
Brenda would find out, sooner or later.
And then there was Costello – she would know the moment she laid eyes on him.
He thought about going to Australia. The idea was becoming appealing. But first he had to go to work and face whatever was coming his way. It wasn’t going to be good.
His phone went.
‘Are you sitting in your car?’ O’Hare asked. ‘And don’t lie, I can see you from here. I’m going across in a minute – do you want some coffee brought down?’
Five minutes later, the Prof opened the car door. ‘I’ll go away, if you want time alone.’ He handed in a coffee on a cardboard tray; beside it was a paper bag, folded to a triangle, the toast inside still warm.
For a moment, Anderson thought about falling in love with the good professor instead. ‘I’ve done enough thinking, thanks. Have a seat. You’re up early.’
‘I’ve not been to bed yet. Neither have you, from the look of you.’ O’Hare swung his long legs into the car, carefully balancing a coffee of his own. ‘Sad business, David Lambie.’
‘The paramedics said he didn’t suffer. Is that true?’
‘He would have felt a small nudge in the back, that’s all. And before you start feeling guilty again, you have nothing to blame yourself for, Colin; it’s one of those things that happen when you do the job you do. No point in feeling that it should have been you. It wasn’t you, so get on with finding who did it.’
Anderson nodded. He’d heard better pep talks but, coming from the Prof, this one worked. ‘Pretty much what Jennifer said,’ he agreed. ‘I’m just gathering my strength to go in there.’
‘Well, they all feel the way you do, so in there might be the best place to be.’ O’Hare moved in his seat. ‘Young Richard Spence took a turn for the worse last night, went into complete liver failure. Time for the daddy to step up.’
‘Will he be allowed, do you think?’
‘I damn well hope so. He’s that boy’s only chance.’
ACC Howlett was looking more shrunken than ever in his ill-fitting uniform, but the tired old eyes were sharp and watchful.
‘At the press conference, the official story will simply be that DS David Lambie was attacked with a knife and suffered a fatal wound,’ he told the assembled company. ‘We will take care neither to confirm nor deny any connection between the attack and any case he was working on, or even if he was on duty at the time.’
The rest of what he said was rather more what they had expected. They had all lost a valued colleague and a dear friend. It was a great tragedy. But while they mourned his passing, they must realize that he died doing a job he was committed to. They must show a similar commitment, and the guilty parties must be called to account. Only towards the end of his address did the ACC show the edge of his temper.
‘I understand that DS Lambie was asked to fetch the diary, and was then given permission to take it home and bring it here in the morning. But there was no mention of that on the noticeboard.’ He gazed around at the team, like a tired old owl. ‘I’m not seeking to apportion blame for his death – I doubt if any details would have helped. But when I said “at all times”, I meant it – for a very good reason.’ He turned away, trying to compose himself.
‘Are we being followed, sir? I mean, how did they know?’ Wyngate voiced the question in everybody’s mind.
‘I can only presume, with hindsight, that they have been watching the flats at Bruce Court. They wanted that diary for something, and they had tried every which way to get it. They killed Carruthers but he wouldn’t tell. His wife does not know. Tommy Carruthers might have hidden it so well that he took the secrets to his grave.’
‘But what is the significance of the diary? Somebody killed Lambie to get it, but why?’ asked Mulholland.
‘That is something we do not yet know for certain. According to his wife, the diary was the 1977 journal, but David had pointed out to her that most of January was missing. Had he taken that section out and put it elsewhere? She also said that David had been asking about Simone Sangster’s visit in October 2008. Carruthers had no involvement in the case that Sangster was writing about. But there must be a connection.’
‘So, do we ask Sangster?’ said Anderson.
‘No,’ said Howlett strongly. ‘She’s a media whore; we are not going there.’ He dropped his head into his hands, as if the effort of thinking was physically painful. ‘We have had the rest of the diaries brought down here. We might find something that makes sense of it all –’
‘Please,’ Wyngate interrupted, raising his hand tentatively like a nervous schoolkid. ‘January 1977 was the date of the hill walk that Graham Hunter never returned from. I’m sorry to harp on about it, but it is important.’
‘Go on, Gordon, everything is important,’ said Anderson.
‘It’s just that David asked me to scout about for reports, so I Googled the police recreational magazine. I looked up the archive online. Who ran the police hill-walking club? Eric Moffat. So, he was nominally in charge of that walk. The Prof remembers the case, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ replied O’Hare. ‘And I’m tracking down both sets of records – Hunter’s and Purcie’s – just in case my memory misleads me. But I know they were both on that walk.’
‘As were Carruthers and MacFadyean.’
It was O’Hare who broke the ensuing silence. ‘Which means there’s no one left to ask,’ he said. ‘They were “gey few and they’re a’ deid”. I’ll do my best with what’s in the records, but those diary pages may provide the only real truth.’
‘We have the diary from 1976 in which Carruthers is writing about the planned trip that proved fatal to Hunter. That may yield something.’ Howlett coughed slightly. ‘However, the diary from 1996 is also missing. That was the year Alessandro Marchetti was abducted. And, as you say, Simone Sangster had been sniffing around, researching her book.’
‘And Moffat was in charge of that investigation. Wyngate will look further into the hill-walking incident in 1977. Dr Batten, maybe you could cast your profiler’s eye over the journals?’
The psychologist nodded. ‘Something in 1977 – something on that walk – changed that man’s mindset for the rest of his life.’ He sighed. ‘The death of his companion is a pretty good bet.’
‘Vik, I would like you to look into the events of 1996, and what Mr Carruthers was doing then. Especially what he was doing when the kidnap was going on. A kidnap, I will remind you, that may have ended up in Glen Fruin. I believe Mary Carruthers is going to see her solicitor this morning with regard to the money that was placed in a bank account in that same year. See if we can get any lead on that.’
‘Do you think we’re on the track of the ransom money, sir?’ asked Wyngate eagerly.
‘There was no ransom paid,’ said Anderson.
Wyngate looked abashed.
‘It wasn’t a win on the horses, that’s for certain, no matter what the paperwork said.’
Howlett then changed the subject. ‘Yesterday evening, at the Highland Glen Hotel, DS Costello found the white Transit van that was used to run over Wullie MacFadyean in Glen Fruin. The paint seems to be a match for specks of paint found on his clothing. Matilda will go back to the deposition site, out near the Corbie Wood, today and review the evidence at the scene.’ He coughed again. ‘There is a great deal of blood – old, and more recent – in the floor pans. And the interior walls and floor show signs of having been rather inadequately hosed out.’
‘The mobile torture site?’ asked Mulholland.
‘It seems that way. Costello reports they were using the van for the hotel laundry, and to go to the Cash and Carry. So, it could be out and about at all times of the day and night, keys left lying around.’
‘We need to keep that hotel under surveillance,’ said Anderson, scribbling something in his notebook.
Howlett shook his head. ‘Well, whoever they are, they now know that we are on to them. But yes, subtle surveillance. Meanwhile, Matilda has all the blood under analysis but we do know that there is more than one type. Some of it has already been matched to Richard Spence, and at least four other blood types also appear to be involved. It is going to take a while.’ Howlett bowed his head a little, as though suddenly tired. ‘I think that’s everything. Now, while we are all shocked by the events of the last twenty-four hours, we still want to nail whoever did this. And we want no leaks from this room – no more mistakes. From now on, you play by my rules. Whereabouts on the noticeboard at all times. And we go in pairs.’
‘What about Costello? She’s a bit out on her own,’ said Anderson.
‘I’m sure DS Costello can look after herself.’
‘She didn’t do so well the last time she tried,’ muttered O’Hare.
‘Sorry, that wasn’t all. DS Costello –’ Howlett pointed at the board ‘– has made a connection that could be very significant. Saskia Morosova is at the school in Glen Fruin. Her father owns PSM properties. It could all be legitimate, but Costello and Pettigrew are keeping their own watching brief up there.’
‘A Russian businessman who lives in Moscow and has his daughter at school here?’ asked Batten. ‘Sounds good to me.’
Auld Archie was having one of his difficult days, Agnes reported. Her actual words were, ‘He’s being a right royal fucking pain in the butt this morning.’ She held her hand over the toaster, waiting for the bread to pop up. ‘Over breakfast he started pointing at Alice because she was doing that moaning thing she does. Then it was Billy’s turn to be pointed at because he was making slurping noises with his egg.’
‘He always makes slurping noises with his egg,’ Ella said.
‘Then, when I tried to wheel him out the breakfast room, he just went apeshit, damn near bit me. Wanted to listen to the TV, he said. Ah, he’s as deaf as a post, that one,’ she scorned. ‘Though maybe he’s so gaga he doesn’t know he’s deaf yet.’
Marion started buttering her toast with care. ‘He was sitting beside the TV last night, guarding the remote. I thought that was odd, because normally he hates the thing and goes out the minute it gets turned on. But all the rest were asleep, so I didn’t think it worth winding him up.’
‘He looked like he was waiting for the news at breakfast,’ said Agnes. ‘And then I caught him looking at the Daily Record. So, I took it off the old bugger and brought it down here,’ she giggled.
‘So, what was he so interested in?’
‘The Lockerbie Bomber? Andy Murray? Christ knows. Told you he was gaga.’ Agnes turned over the page, not noticing the black and white image of the Bridge Boy. The sidebar read: Mystery man still critical after expressway plunge.
‘What do you have, DC Wyngate?’ asked O’Hare, watching as Wyngate flicked the pages on his shorthand pad back and forth, each page covered with lists and dates in blue biro.
‘Well, it turns out that Carruthers was off duty the night of the 8th of October 1996, whereas MacFadyean requested the night off.’
‘In 1996? The day of the kidnapping?’
Wyngate nodded. ‘And the senior investigating officer in the Marchetti/Piacini kidnapping was one DCI Eric Moffat.’
O’Hare felt relieved that Eric Moffat was in a cold drawer in the mortuary and had ceased to be a problem. He thought – not for the first time – how much less complicated the dead were than the living.
‘I’ve got the post mortem reports on Graham Hunter,’ he said. ‘And I’ve requested the actual photographs of the skull. Maybe, if we have another look at those, we might be able to work out better now than we could have in 1977 what actually caused the injury.’
‘And the weather reports at the time,’ Wyngate said, with more flicking of pages, ‘show that the weather was due to close in, but they still went. It was a full-blown blizzard. I think the trip was supposed to be up and back, three days max, but they were away for nearly five.’
‘Five days? In that weather? Madness. Makes you wonder why they set off.’
‘Unless there was another agenda all along.’ Wyngate shrugged. ‘I suppose they argued that they were heading for a bothy, so they would hole up there and come back down once the weather was better.’
A thought struck O’Hare. ‘At the enquiry, did they actually say how Hunter got separated from the rest?’
Wyngate flicked over his notes, ‘No – well, yes. They all made it to the bothy, and then Hunter went out into the blizzard. They all said they tried to stop him, tried to restrain him, but Hunter was adamant. Four against one?’ He handed two faded photographs to O’Hare.
‘Sounds totally irrational to me,’ said the pathologist. ‘Something must have happened to cause that. Drugs? Or a slow bleed to the brain? I wonder if there’s any mention in the diary that he fell earlier in the day and hurt his head. Wyngate, go over those statements very carefully, and compare them to the account in the journal,’ said O’Hare absentmindedly, looking at the pictures.
Wyngate opened his mouth to point out that the account in the journal was missing, then shut it again as the pathologist went on, ‘Ah, yes. These would have been taken in spring, when the body was found. Seana Bhraigh is a bastard of a hill, a great stack of jagged rock, with a brutal drop to the water below. Very dangerous to go near the edge in poor visibility. Hunter’s judgement must have been compromised in some way. He wasn’t an idiot; he was a good cop with a good career in front of him.’ He peered at Wyngate over his glasses. ‘Let’s think about distances. They must have got to the second bothy for Hunter to get near the stack of rock that we presume he fell from. So, even if we say he got to the top of the stack of rock, fell off, and his head was damaged in an impact on the way down, that still does not account for the strange behaviour that got him there in the first place. They can’t have it both ways.’
‘Well, they all said the same thing. They got to the second bothy about nine at night, had something to eat, just as the weather was closing in, and Hunter went out against their advice. Purcie, his pal, went out to try and stop him first, and the rest followed, in the snow, the high wind, the dark. They failed to get Hunter back in, and they never saw him again. All the official statements were absolutely consistent.’
O’Hare raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Absolutely consistent? In that weather and confusion? Don’t you think that makes it all the more suspicious?’
Costello was rather enjoying herself, and thinking that, in some small way, she was helping to avenge the death of David Lambie. She was sure bloody Saskia was the key to all this – she just could not yet see how. She recalled the way the girl had turned and waved at her on her first day, as if she knew who Costello was. However, at the moment she was having the time of her life going through Saskia’s things, rootling through her wardrobe and doing a thorough search. The Russian girl had an awful lot of designer clothes, and very few books – though the ones she had were in Russian and Dutch, as well as English. There were shoes everywhere and, hanging on the back of the door, not good enough to go into the wardrobe, two sets of school uniform.
But she was Russian, and thin – and that was enough for Costello. It wasn’t only Saskia’s property – a search warrant was a mute point – but if she had anything to do with Lambie’s death, she forfeited any right to privacy.
Pettigrew was outside, keeping watch for the return of the Three Graces in the slappermobile. Costello had faith in Pettigrew – he was ex-job, whatever his background, and he was a solid man in a crisis. She didn’t really want to think about the way the jacket had hung on him last night, and the gun it was concealing. Important people sent their children to Glen Fruin. So, why would there not be special security measures. Government-funded security measures? Security measures that involved carrying a gun?
But James Pettigrew, she was sure, was no ordinary security man. Just as she was sure Saskia Morosova was no ordinary school pupil. Howlett knew that; he had known it all along. A pity she and Pettigrew couldn’t have stayed around into the early hours to watch the girls come back to the hotel, and see who they came back with. But Lambie had died, and they had all rather lost heart. Matilda had got the van taken in for analysis, and Costello had left Mulholland with the paperwork and gone back to the school with Pettigrew.
He had been uncommunicative on the drive back, whistling to himself as he drove. Twice up the glen road she had caught the flash of headlights in the wing mirror, and told Pettigrew they were being followed. He had patted her hand and told her it was OK. He hadn’t even looked to check; he knew there was somebody there, keeping their distance.
Once home, she had got out without a word, shot all the deadbolts and tried to sleep.
But sleep had refused to be her companion. The room felt smaller, and the ceiling of the mezzanine that held the bed seemed lower, darker. She had raised her hand to her cheek and felt along the skin for the little piece of mesh. It was still there.
She had put on the bedside light and picked up Little Boy Lost. On the back cover was a dark-haired little boy, with an impish smile to melt your heart, and a little gold St Christopher medal round his neck.
Then she began to read.
That precluded sleep for her completely. She had read on until morning, when Pettigrew had come knocking to say that Saskia and her friends were not back yet, and now might be a good time to have a look round her room.
So, here she was, in the Wallace Room of the school’s accommodation block. Looking at Saskia’s single bed, with its slightly chipped wooden headboard, and the marked wallpaper, she could understand why the girls went to the Highland Glen Hotel for their romantic trysts.
The bedlinen would be changed by a member of staff, so there would be no point in hiding anything there. A quick look through the wardrobe had revealed nothing except that Saskia was a size six and wore extra-long trousers. Costello was convinced this combination would lead to very early osteoporosis and dearly wished it would prove so. She bounced one foot a little on the expensive wooden slatted floor. None of the boards looked as though it was pulled up on a regular basis.
She looked under the bed – nothing. A pink laptop sat on the desk, but Costello didn’t want to turn it on. Anything she would be interested in looking at would be secure and password-protected, anyway. Saskia might be a skinny osteoporotic slapper, but she would not be stupid. A couple of leads were plugged into the laptop: one looked like an iPod lead, and one might be for a camera. Beside it a pen, pencil and memory stick were lined up, ready. A tidy skinny osteoporotic slapper. Costello was hating Saskia more with every passing minute.
There was a safe in the wall, which Costello presumed was a remnant of older times when physical things could be stolen – not like identities, the tradable commodity of the twenty-first century. The door didn’t actually close, and probably hadn’t done so for years. Inside stood a female figure with eight arms, bearing loads of costume jewellery. Good stuff, probably, but not really valuable. There was a box of rings, one of bracelets, and a whole tray of earrings. Costello poked about a bit, more out of feminine curiosity than anything else, but found nothing of interest.
She looked round to see the shoe rack, and put her hand on the first pair of Jimmy Choos she had ever seen in real life. All the shoes were strappy except for the pair of trail boots at the door, a pair of school courts and a pair of Nike Pegasus running shoes. Then she saw a pair of winter boots paired neatly, kept upright with boot supports. She went over to them and looked at them, then picked them up. Something was wrong with their weight … they were lighter at the heel. Costello turned them upside down and had a good look. Oh yes. The thick sole on the heel? The tiny pin? She swung the sole to the side, revealing a narrow hollow in the heel. She stuck her finger in it, pulling out a memory stick with padding wrapped round it. She unwrapped it to reveal a printed label. Just letters, in Russian.
Costello put it back, carefully lining the boot up with its neighbour, before slipping quietly out of the room to join Pettigrew in the corridor.
‘Oh, hello!’ The voice sounded as though its owner had just had a fright. It was Rhona, the woman with the mad hair.
‘Hello,’ replied Costello, wondering what the chances were of a secret panel opening in the wall behind her so she could disappear through it.
‘Are you doing detective things? Were you going to search Drew Elphinstone’s room?’
It was a natural question, since Costello was in the accommodation wing. ‘I was actually going to …’ She pointed vaguely in the direction of Pettigrew, who was steadfastly refusing to look at her. Batten’s words came back to her. There would be signs of paranoia, signs of persecution. The boy needed help.
‘He’s just gone out, you know, for one of his walks. He won’t be back for a long time. But I have a master key, so you can go in and see what he’s got in there.’
‘And what do you expect me to find?’
‘Evidence!’ Rhona said, excitedly. ‘What else?’
‘What of?’
‘Do you not think they should have stopped Columbine before it started?’ Rhona asked, her hands stretched out as if she was pleading to Costello. ‘Please.’
‘Come on, then,’ and Costello found herself being led through a huge wooden dividing door to a different accommodation block. The boys’ block, she presumed. The tartan carpet here was a runner of well-worn Stewart. Rhona stopped and rattled a key in a door, which swung open. She turned her head from right to left, checking the corridors the way they did in films.
Costello stepped in, leaving Rhona to stand guard outside. The curtains were pulled tightly closed, so she put the light on. The wardrobe in here didn’t hang open like Saskia’s; it was locked shut. The room smelled of stale sweat and lack of ventilation. The bed had been made with almost military precision, yet hanging all the way round the walls at shoulder height were handwritten letters, each hanging by one corner from a drawing pin. All had been written to Drew – and all the handwriting was the same. Costello pulled out a jotter from under a pile of books. The writing was the same as that on the letters.
Drew Elphinstone was writing letters to himself.
She looked closely at the letters, noting the appearance of strange symbols now and again, then she looked at the dates. The more recent letters displayed more writing, more urgency in the style, and more symbols. She didn’t recognize any of them.
She leaned over the bed to look at the letters hanging above it. They looked fingered, as if they had been read again and again. She would ask Rhona about the mail Drew received. How much of this arrived for him in the post and landed on that big table in the hall? Or did he just sit and write in his room on his own?
‘Have you found anything?’ Rhona called through the slightly open door.
‘Nothing,’ Costello called back, turning her attention to the bookcase.
Drew’s choice of reading matter was all about survival. Costello pulled a couple out: an SAS survival handbook – the ultimate guide to surviving anywhere – and its neighbour, a book about animal traps and trapping. She knelt down to read the spines of the rest. Her foot kicked against something, and she crouched down, ignoring the dust on the parquet floor. Under the bed was a big old-fashioned leather suitcase with leather handles and metal buckles. There was no dust in front of the suitcase, so it had been moved, and recently. Costello kept an eye on the door as she pulled the suitcase out slowly and quietly. She undid the buckles, had a quick look inside, then looked again to confirm what she was seeing.
She pulled out a small brochure with illustrations on how to trap people without having to be there. She recognized the large-scale version of what she had seen beside the river – the pit that had hurt Libby. She flicked through the rest, stopping at a picture, obviously torn from a book, of a naked and brutalized body, with terrible cuts and slashes. Somebody had written over it the names of the arteries, whether each cut would kill, and how deep the knife had to go. Somebody was doing their homework.
She suddenly understood Rhona’s concern – if the school merely thought they had a problem before, they certainly had one now.
Anderson was back at Glen Fruin, back at the site where they had discovered MacFadyean’s body, waiting for Matilda to turn up. Mulholland was strolling around in the undergrowth, having a good look around for any sign of discarded evidence as to where MacFadyean might have lived.
Anderson pulled his sweat-sticky shirt away from his back and gazed up at Ben Lomond, feeling the confusion of his life seep away a little in the stillness of the warm air. The ben had stood there for millions of years, and it would still be there in another million years. Lambie’s life by comparison was less than a blink of an eye.
Anderson felt himself hold back the tears – too much had been happening too soon. Costello had phoned him from a landline at the school and had reported that Saskia was up to something secretive. He had passed that on to Howlett, whose advice had been to wait.
In the early morning they had visited the post office at Luss to speak to the two sisters who ran it. Two cups of tea, two scones and a close encounter with an Alsatian later, they had some decent information. Wullie, as he was known, had been in and out of the post office nearly every day for years. They only knew he lived ‘up there somewhere’. This was accompanied by a vague gesture westwards in the direction of the hills surrounding Glen Fruin. He had been seen many a time, walking along the Low Road. There were no houses up the High Road, explained one of the sisters.
Anderson looked around and mentally got his bearings. At the top of the glen, the new road went over to the naval base at the Gare Loch. The old road, a wee single track, went along the bottom of the glen. So, Wullie must have lived along here somewhere. It was still a decent walk northwards on a busy road to get to Luss, but there could be any number of old tracks and trails up there.
The sisters had been sure there was no Mrs MacFadyean, but he did eat a lot of Quality Street. And he was ‘a fillum buff’. Gina explained he got them from a rental company. ‘The one that uses those little red envelopes shaped like pillar boxes.’
There was one still waiting for him – it was now locked in the boot of Anderson’s car, wrapped in a tartan paper bag.
So, they had a chatty, sociable recluse, a chocoholic diabetic, a married man with no wife and no known address, who had the same interest in films as a dead drug dealer.
Anderson was still thinking all that through when Matilda’s Ford pulled up behind the Jazz.
She got out and announced, ‘I don’t like this place.’ She gazed around at the trees. ‘It gives me the creeps.’
‘Are you scared?’ teased Mulholland.
‘Yes,’ said Matilda, quite unabashed. At that minute, the crows were disturbed and started up with their racket. Matilda jumped at the sudden noise.
‘And why are we here again?’ asked Mulholland.
‘I need to see if there are any more paint samples in the road, anything to ascertain where exactly MacFadyean was when the van hit him. And I’ll be looking for evidence of how he got down there, off the road, to end up in the position he did,’ Matilda said briskly. ‘I have photographs of the body in situ, so between us we should be able to work it out.’
‘Well, you two find what you need to find,’ said Anderson. ‘I’m going in search of the house.’
Mulholland protested. ‘But I need to get back to Glasgow. I have to track down that DVD rental company. Maybe they can give us an address for MacFadyean’s place.’
‘I think you’ll find it was always care of the post office. He wasn’t daft, this guy, was he? But I’m sure if you speak nicely to Matilda she’ll run you back when she’s finished, seeing as you’re both going back to the same place. I am going to drive up and down this lane endlessly until I find where MacFadyean lived, and then we are going to search the place. The glen isn’t that long – nine miles or so – it must be somewhere along here, and within walking distance of the road. You’ve got all the details you need, so I’m taking the DVD with me.’
‘Can I not come with you?’
‘No, you can’t, Vik, so bugger off.’
Anderson climbed back into his car, glad to be alone. He looked around the wooded hills, scanning the tops, knowing that there was somebody up there, watching out for him. He checked his mobile phone, wondering whether to text Helena. Phone her? Wait for her to phone him? He had no bloody idea what he was supposed to do now. How did men who balanced more than one woman ever manage? One was enough, but two? Add in Costello back on full form, and his life was over.
He glanced out of the side window and saw Matilda and Mulholland looking apprehensive, like Hansel and Gretel about to be abandoned in the forest by their father.
But Matilda had her car. And although they were in the middle of nowhere, Lambie had been killed in the city, in a quiet suburban street. Anderson wound down the window. ‘One hour max, and stay together!’ It would do them good, he told himself; every challenge was character building.
He waved at them in the rear-view mirror as he drove away, then decided to put both hands on the steering wheel as the road narrowed dangerously, the edges crumbling away, often to a drop with jagged rocks and deep ravines. But the sheep looked happy, standing at all kinds of odd angles and pulling at the short grass with little twists of their heads. As the road turned down the glen, closer to the river, the mountains receded to a glorious backdrop of lush greenery. There were no hidden houses here, just the odd farm dotted along the patchwork of fields that carpeted the floor of the glen. He stopped at a few of them along the route, knocking on doors. He chatted with a wifie hanging out the washing, with somebody standing in a mucky yard texting on his mobile, and with a man taking a tractor to bits.
The uniform branch of the local nick had been there before him. No, no one actually knew anything about Wullie MacFadyean. They recognized his description as somebody they had seen around, somebody they had stood next to at the post office – a farmer had even given him a run into Glasgow once.
But nobody had ever given him a run home. Nobody knew where home was. It was always ‘somewhere up the glen’.
This man was steadily going up in Anderson’s estimation. He spent the next hour driving up and down the glen, looking for houses on the high road and the low road, but he could see nothing. He scanned the dense, deep green blanket of trees on the north side before driving to the top of the glen. Here he got out and looked again, with binoculars. He turned at the sound of a car behind him.
It was the military police, wanting to know exactly what he thought he was doing.
‘I think this might be it.’
‘Big place, innit?’
‘Site of the old Linwood car plant. Nearly eight thousand people worked here once. Then it was reborn as an industrial estate. Hence the name Phoenix.’
Wyngate looked around. ‘Look at all that security.’
He was in one of his dumb moods. Mulholland wished, momentarily, that he was still in the car with the walking intellect that was Matilda McQueen. At least with her he learned something; with Wyngate he got the feeling he was babysitting.
He pulled his Audi to a halt at the security gate and they both showed their ID to the man in the booth. Even in the stifling heat he had a good uniform on, and his booth was full of all kinds of cameras and high-end security kit. He waved them through, and the barrier rose, but only to let the car through into an area enclosed by high railings, spiked at the top. On each corner were security cameras that swung to focus on the car. A second gate opened, and the security man signalled that they should pull through and park.
‘What the hell is this place? Fort Knox?’ asked Wyngate in wonder.
‘Not far from it,’ said Mulholland. ‘Who knows what’s in these warehouses? And there’s PillarBoxFlix, right over there.’
The big security man gestured that they should get out, and they followed him one at a time through a turnstile. ‘I’ll see your warrant cards, please,’ he said. He had the kind of face it was better not to argue with. They handed them over, and he nodded as he examined them carefully. ‘Do you mind if I phone, while you wait here?’
Yes, I do mind actually, now get out the way, you monkey in a gorilla suit, were the words forming in Mulholland’s mind. He said, ‘Of course not.’
The man walked away.
‘So, why is a DVD rental company in a place like this?’ Wyngate asked.
‘It’ll all be computerized, with one huge bloody website and a small staff, but a massive amount of stock.’
‘I wonder how much stock they hold and how much it’s worth?’
‘That’s not why we’re here. We know Biggart and MacFadyean got DVDs from here. PSM own it. Whoever torched Biggart left some for us to see and make a connection. I’d put money on it. So, we’ll be careful what we say in here.’
‘I thought they were going to shoot me there and then.’ Anderson sat down on the sandstone wall bordering the front lawn at the school and ran his fingers through his hair. It was oppressively hot, but at least he was out of the lecture room.
‘No wonder, standing on top of a hill looking at a top-secret naval base through binoculars. What did you think they were going to do? Blow you a kiss?’
Anderson smiled. Costello the sharp mouth was on her way back. ‘It took some smart talking to get out of it.’
‘Oh, so who did the smart talking for you?’ asked Costello. ‘I bet one of the MPs walked away while the other one spoke to you.’
‘Well, yes. He was on the phone to Howlett, I think. Probably making sure I was legit.’
‘And then Howlett phoned here and authorized you to have free run of the place. If you want to practise the art of subtle observation –’ Costello looked over his shoulder ‘– look at those two down on the lawn. What do you think the relationship is between them?’
‘Who am I spying on?’
‘The girl down there. Short black hair. Talking to Pettigrew. She’s had some experience of cops; she could tell I was one just by looking.’
‘Interesting,’ said Anderson. ‘But some people can. Mostly those who want to avoid us right enough. What’s her name?’
The security man was standing and talking, as if he was explaining something. The girl was sitting, head in her hands, as if she didn’t want to hear.
‘Elizabeth Hamilton.’
‘It doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘I don’t think that’s troublesome pupil and security man, is it?’ Costello suggested.
‘They certainly look as if they have a bit of history, those two.’ He watched as Jim Pettigrew shook his head and walked away, clearly with nothing resolved. Libby turned away, her chin on her hand, definitely not watching him go. Whatever it was he was offering had been soundly rejected. ‘Have you asked him if there’s an issue between them?’
‘I think he has enough to worry about. See that boy there? The one in the vegetable garden? That’s the one I was taking to Batten about. He’s not well.’
‘And hot, with that leather coat on. He’s standing there swinging a stick in mid-air.’
‘Fighting his invisible demons. But he is obsessed with survival and self-defence. That includes killing people. He draws pictures of people and describes how to defend yourself, what to shoot them with – and what happens to them when you do. He practises digging traps for people the way the SAS do. He knows how to do a blood eagle sacrifice – the Viking kind, not the back-to-front one we’re dealing with.’
Anderson noted the ‘we’.
‘In fact, I’d say he’s made a bit of a study of it.’
Anderson frowned slightly. ‘Is he dangerous?’
‘I bet they asked that at Columbine! I’m not joking, Colin.’
‘That bad?’ One look at her face told him that she was deadly serious.
‘Rhona – that teacher, councillor or whatever – thinks he’s the reason why I’m here, and I can see why. I can see the school’s dilemma. The boy’s parents are separated, and in different parts of the world. The words “washed their hands of him” come to mind. But if the school try to get him removed, or referred to a psychiatrist, they could be in trouble. They can only do so much without parental consent, unless he does something appalling. And then they’ll be in trouble, up to their necks. Meanwhile, Daddy’s lawyer just sends Mummy’s lawyer a letter, and with each day that passes another sandwich leaves the picnic. It’s fine to say “please come and remove your son” but how do you force somebody to do it? Physically, I mean? It takes time.’
‘I don’t have the answer to that one. We’ll ask Howlett – he has enough shiny badges to pull strings, I’m sure.’ Anderson contemplated for a minute. ‘But you know why you were sent here, don’t you?’
‘Saskia. Do you think that memory stick is important.’
‘The fact she’s Russian, with the surname Morosova, is important. The memory stick is important enough for her to hide. But it might just be her bank account details, for all we know. Has it dawned on you that Pettigrew might have been watching her as well? Do you think he knew exactly where they were going last night?’
‘I got the feeling it was no surprise to him. I think we are witnesses to it all. The Highland Glen is starting to look more and more like a Russian mafia base. Janet Appleby probably was sent to stay there by her insurance company because whoever insured the Apollo building had some sort of link – maybe perfectly above board – with Red Eagle Properties, which we know is ultimately owned by Morosov. It would have been useful for them to keep her under their noses. Thank God she flew out the country. And the van is registered there. Matilda will prove by the blood samples on the floor that Richard was in the back. No amount of hosing down removes blood from a floor pan. On paper, the van was being used quite legitimately to take laundry back and forth, or go to the Cash and Carry. They could hardly say on the expense accounts that they used it as a mobile slaughterhouse, could they? I suppose Howlett’s theory is not to go in mob-handed, because that would just send the Russians and their entire network underground. We want to catch the Puppeteer guy, remember.’
‘Softly, softly, I think. And keep them in plain sight.’ Anderson watched as the boy leaned his head back, his mouth wide open as if he was baying at some secret moon. ‘You do need to do something about that boy, by the way.’
‘I need proof. I’ve asked Jim to come out with me tonight and follow the little bugger on his midnight wanderings.’
‘Are you up to that?’
‘I was sent here to do a job, and I will do it.’
‘I hope Jim said no, you’re off your head.’
‘He didn’t. In fact, he said yes.’
‘Why do I bother?’
‘I’ve often wondered.’
They sat in silence for a minute, watching the boy, who was still swinging the stick around, fighting some unseen enemy. There was a detachment and ferocity about his movements that spoke of true violence.
Costello shuddered.
‘How are you sleeping?’ Anderson asked.
‘Actually I’m not really sleeping at all. I spent most of last night reading Little Boy Lost, that book about the Marchetti child. I’ve got to the bit where she is discussing the getaway and the alleged police incompetence regarding that part of the investigation. Simone Sangster says there were reports of a white Volvo being seen parked underneath the Erskine Bridge, and later a white car was seen coming up this glen – up the old road.’
‘And?’ Anderson was intrigued.
‘She says a blue car was found burned out in the rough ground near the lay-by, down on the dual carriageway. One of Sangster’s theories is that they switched cars there. The blue car took the boy from the flat to the lay-by under the bridge, where they swapped to the Volvo and torched the blue car. Then they drove through Glen Fruin in the Volvo to get to the west coast and the open water.’
‘Theory, you say? Was the car driving up the glen identified as a Volvo, or just as a white car?’
‘The latter. And she says that the white Volvo was never correctly identified, so I think you should have another go at tracing that car – in case it was another piece of Moffat’s particular brand of policing. Go back to the original statements, check that all attempts were made to trace the plate. If the plate wasn’t found, check the most likely mistaken numbers. Did any of them belong to a white Volvo? And go back to the DVLA – this was 1996, before automatic plate recognition, so you’ll have to do it the hard way. Don’t just take what it says on file as gospel, double-check. The only thing we know is that the babysitter was in on it all along.’
‘But we don’t know that for absolute certain,’ Anderson reminded her gently.
‘Why doesn’t Howlett just bloody find Fairbairn, arrest him and get it out of him?’
‘Because the wee shite has disappeared, that’s why. He’s nowhere to be found. And Howlett can’t go public with it, as he wants it all to be kept very low key. Nothing’s been released to the press. Nobody even knows yet that Moffat is dead. Or his sidekick, Perky. Apart from the guy who shot them. And anyway –’
Anderson’s phone rang.
‘You have to walk further up the hill for a good signal. The terrace here is too much in the cradle of the mountains.’ Costello just caught sight of a figure in the trees, pulling back into cover, as she pointed the way to Anderson.
He started to walk, telling his caller to hang on, he was waiting for a better signal.
The figure in the trees set off in the same direction as Anderson. Costello kept her eyes on the treeline, her glance flicking from the retreating figure of her colleague to the trees where the figure had been.
Nothing.
‘How can I help you?’
The air in the warehouse was deliciously cool, the air con was on full blast. So was the smile of Sally, as she introduced herself. She smiled at everything – even if you told her she had halitosis, Mulholland thought, she would simply stand there and smile. She was smiling now at him and Wyngate, apparently not at all fazed by two detectives standing in her office.
‘Just some background, Sally. How long have you worked here?’
‘About ten years.’ She brushed aside the long blonde hair that fell like snakes across her black dress.
The office was ultra-modern, with a thin blue carpet and two desks. Beyond a glass screen they could see a huge library of the same red sleeves as they had found at Biggart’s flat.
‘I run the place.’
‘All on your own?’ Mulholland smiled back.
‘I’ve another two girls who come in during the week, and there’s a guy part time. But they’re all on their lunch break at the moment – or they’ve nipped out the back for a fag,’ Sally admitted.
‘Can you tell us about an address in Apollo Court?’
‘Up the West End, the old cinema? I know we send stuff there. Any address in particular?’
‘Just tell us about the whole building. And do you do any stuff that might be a bit under the radar? A bit on the rude side?’
‘Only legit X-certificate.’ She folded her arms, pushing up her bosom – an intentional distraction? ‘All our stuff’s legit. Customers pay a monthly fee and we let them have four films out at any time. As long as they send them back, we don’t care how many they take over the year. They’re all originals, no dodgy copies or anything. You can come and take a look, if you want.’
‘Can we have a printout of all the films ordered to number G2 Apollo Court in the last year? Surname doesn’t matter, just that address.’
‘I’m not sure if I can do that.’ Did the smile slide just a fraction? ‘Do you not need a search warrant or something?’
‘We could go and get one, but as the tenant of the flat is dead, it might be less hassle if you just print it out for us. Now.’ Mulholland leaned across, his seductive smile more than a match for hers.
Wyngate wondered how he did it.
‘No harm, then. Do you want to watch me do it?’
‘Oh, I’m sure we can trust you,’ said Mulholland, not taking his eyes off her as she called up a screen and scrolled down, her false nails clicking in a way that made his fillings hurt.
‘For the last year?’ she confirmed.
Mulholland nodded, carefully watching what her fingers were actually doing.
Wyngate sauntered over casually to the storage bins, keeping up an audible monologue for Sally’s benefit. ‘Right, so these are the films that are sent back, waiting to be put back on the shelves. So, an order comes through online. The DVD is stored according to a code, it gets taken off the shelf, checked off and sent out – is that right? Just three people to handle all these DVDs?’ Wyngate was playing the village idiot.
‘Hardly nuclear physics, is it?’ Sally said loftily. ‘The brains are in the system.’
The printer jumped into life, and a single sheet was fired out. Sally handed it to Mulholland.
‘Funny how you can tell so much about people by what they order,’ she observed. ‘Whoever lived at that address liked mindless violence and kiddies’ cartoons. I bet that’s a weekend father keeping his child amused.’
Mulholland looked down the list of films as Sally accompanied him back to the warehouse entrance. Wyngate trailed close behind him. Goodfellas, all three Saw titles, Scarface. Some vile-sounding things he’d never heard of – and didn’t want to. Then Shrek. Toy Story. He had to agree with her. At the bottom of the headed paper he found the VAT number and the company registration. PillarBoxFlix was owned by PSM Ltd.
Sally tapped out the exit code and escorted them out. The security man was outside, waiting for them.
‘Don’t hesitate, will you, if you need to know anything else,’ Sally said, the smile still firmly in place. ‘I’ve never been involved in a murder investigation before.’
Wyngate waited until they were in the car, door closed, before asking, ‘Did we mention the word murder? We didn’t, did we?’
The moment Mulholland walked into the lecture theatre, he went up to the board and read the notice about Pavel Sergeievich Morosov. The background check had borne little fruit, just a long list of business interests and two addresses – one in Moscow city centre, one outside the city. He was a wealthy, well-respected businessman who travelled a lot.
‘Is that all we have on him?’
‘So far,’ said Anderson, who was trying to concentrate on tracking down Mary Carruthers. ‘He appears legit. One hundred per cent.’
‘Of course he does. You looked at those DVDs yet?’
‘I was waiting for you.’ Anderson indicated the brand-new DVD player on the table, its flex still wrapped. Mulholland plugged it in while Anderson scowled at his telephone and punched Redial yet again. ‘Mrs Carruthers has been at the solicitor’s for bloody ages,’ he complained. ‘We really do need to talk to her – softly, softly or otherwise.’
‘Probably gone into town to spend all her dosh.’ Mulholland switched the machine on, and a digital HELLO appeared.
‘That’s what my wife would have done.’ Anderson winced as he remembered that he still had to face Brenda; he couldn’t put that one off for ever. He went to the end of the table where Lambie had sat, and flicked through his odd bits of paper. His heart dropped at the sight of the doodle in his colleague’s notebook – a small heart with the letters ‘J’ and ‘D’ coloured in. He tore the page out and slipped it into his pocket.
He’d make sure Jennifer got it.
‘Howlett did say it was this morning Mary was going to the solicitor, didn’t he? You’d think she’d have been home for her lunch long since.’ He flicked through more notes, found a phone number, dialled it and sat listening until the ringing went to answerphone. ‘No answer from the solicitor either.’ He put the phone down, and picked up a few typed sheets clipped together. ‘What’s this?’
‘Oh, I’ve summarized that for you,’ said Wyngate. ‘It’s the HR record of Rosita Maria Harmon, who became the second Mrs Wullie MacFadyean.’
‘I thought I told you to do that, Mulholland.’
‘Well, I’m doing this.’ Mulholland opened the red DVD cover, read the label. ‘It’s a kiddies’ film, looks original. Don’t tell me MacFadyean had kids too.’ He slid it in and pressed Play. The machine growled quietly, showing an error signal. He shrugged, ejected it and tried the other. The label was the same. Error. He looked helplessly at Anderson.
‘Give it here,’ said Wyngate. He looked closely at it. ‘This is a CD, I think.’ He slipped the first disk into his computer, which whirred obligingly. ‘Password-protected,’ he reported.
Anderson leaned over his shoulder. ‘Can you hack in?’
‘You watch too many films, boss.’ Wyngate tapped a few keys. ‘But from the size, it’s just a document, nothing complicated.’
‘OK,’ Anderson said slowly, sitting down. He pointed at the computer, a hunch forming in his head. ‘So, could this be their method of communication? As simple as that? Just that – through the post?’
‘Difficult for us to trace. Will I take it down to the IT guys?’
‘No, get them up here. Good work, you two.’ Anderson’s mind was working overtime. ‘So, to the lovely Rosita, who became Mrs Wullie MacFadyean. How did you get that information?’
Wyngate smiled cherubically. ‘A friend in the Police Federation.’
Anderson flicked through the sheets. ‘This is a summary?’
‘It’s a long story.’
Anderson glared at him. ‘Just tell me, Wyngate.’
‘Well, she was one clever cookie – she was a tactical chief.’
Anderson looked blank.
‘In charge of tactical firearms teams and an adviser to the Public Order Incident Team.’
Anderson breathed out slowly. ‘OK, so not somebody to be crept up on in the canteen.’ The little hunch was starting to play a tune in the back of his mind.
‘Despite her office job, she still had to do her officer safety training. She kept dodging it due to health issues that were unspecified. But, reading between the lines, she has dietary issues.’
‘Too fat or too thin?’
‘The former. She injured her knee on the training day and took the police force all the way. She never returned to her not very active duty, but the force refused to pay out and punted her off the job.’
Anderson sighed. ‘OK, longer summary than that.’
‘She had a little alcohol in her bloodstream, and they argued that it contributed to her fall, and therefore her injury – and therefore she was liable. She shouldn’t have been at work having consumed alcohol, so she was booted out with no compensation. My friend said that Rosita was hell-bent on screwing the force for every penny they had, but got nowhere.’
‘And … ?’
‘Well, she was brilliant but her career was already on a shaky peg – she’d had two formal warnings. One for having an affair with another officer. He was married.’
‘Wullie MacFadyean.’ Anderson scanned the rest of the papers.
Wyngate lowered his voice. ‘The other warning got her bumped off the ITU, the equivalent of the Intelligence Cell Team in those days, for misuse of intelligence – looking up things on databases she’d no right to look up. She was already bitter when the legal battle over the knee injury started. It went on for three years, which is why my pal remembers it so well.’
‘Embittered ex-cop. Ripe pickings for somebody on the lookout for a police informer. Well, more than an informer. She knows how we work. She could … God, she could apply that know-how to any organization.’
‘Such as organized crime?’
‘But once she was off the force, she’d have no contacts.’ Anderson drummed the desk with his pen. ‘So, what do we think? What was she looking up on those databases? She was turned, wasn’t she? It might have happened before she left. She knows how to hide, as she knows how we track people.’
‘She’d know not to use a mobile phone or the Internet. So, where the fuck is she?’
‘And where was Wullie? He was still on the force. We could be looking at a team, operating like that for years. She’s still out there somewhere. So, let’s find her before somebody else does. Do we have a picture? If not, get one.’
‘Here’s her last picture from her ID, but that was years ago.’ Wyngate pinned the printout on the wall. A cheery, pretty face, short dark hair, chubby-cheeked but pretty.
Mulholland was standing, looking at Anderson and waiting for Wyngate to finish. ‘Until Mrs Carruthers comes to light, can I talk to you about this?’ He put down a pile of notes, indicating that Anderson should follow him to the corner of the room. ‘Skelpie Fairbairn didn’t do it.’
‘Didn’t do what?’
‘Whatever else Skelpie Fairbairn, Tito Piacini, did, I don’t think he had anything to do with the Lynda Osbourne case.’
‘I’m not really in the mood for this, Vik. I have rather a lot on my plate at the moment, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Have they brought him in yet?’ Mulholland demanded.
‘You know that he’s gone. He’s not returned to his digs, and the lawyer’s claiming ignorance of his whereabouts. We’re all getting a bit uneasy about it.’
Mulholland threw Anderson a look that could have turned the tide. ‘I’ve noticed in McAlpine’s notes that there was a taped interview with Fairbairn at the time. I think I’d like to get hold of that and hear it.’
‘Your wish is my command, fill your boots,’ Anderson said acidly.
‘And I think there’s somebody else I should talk to. Lynda’s father.’
Anderson stood back and looked at Mulholland. His voice was quiet but staccato with anger. ‘Vik, Fairbairn’s DNA identifies him as Tito Piacini, the babysitter in the Alessandro Marchetti case. We also have him raping that girl on the DVD. If you remember, Lambie and I found her chained at the bottom of a ladder in the bloody Clyde. She died there, Vik. And you want me to go on some sort of campaign to prove that scumbag’s innocence? Sorry, but am I missing something here?’
‘Yes, you’re missing the fact that we still need to catch the guy who sexually assaulted Lynda Osbourne, if Fairbairn did not do it – which is the state of the law as it stands.’
‘But he did.’
‘He did not, Anderson. And your personal conviction that Fairbairn was guilty is exactly what got you into the mess that you’re in now.’
‘I’m not in any mess.’ Anderson raised his voice.
Wyngate looked over, then looked away quickly.
Mulholland raised an ‘if you say so’ eyebrow. ‘Well, I’m going to go and have a word with Lynda Osbourne’s father.’
‘Why?’ asked Anderson quietly.
‘Because I want to.’
‘That would make it official.’
‘Well, so be it.’ And Mulholland walked off.
Anderson covered his face with the palms of his hands and sighed.
Looking in the mirror, Costello felt like the man in the old Milk Tray advert. She was dressed in black jogging trousers, dark trainers and a black jumper. She glanced around the room, looking for anything else to take with her. All she really needed was her phone. She had Pettigrew for protection.
She glanced at her watch – eleven twenty. Outside there was still a vestige of light around the fringes of the sky. She closed the door quietly behind her, and crept round the gravel of the big car park without being seen from the school.
They had agreed to meet down at the wooden bridge.
‘We’ve to move quickly. He’s already on his way,’ Pettigrew said.
‘He’s early.’
‘This way.’ He moved into a strange low run that easily ate up the ground. Costello tried to emulate it but each footfall ricocheted up her body, jarring every bone until it reached her left cheekbone, where it hurt like hell. She wondered who had taught Pettigrew to run like that. She trotted along instead, more noisily than she had intended, but at least she was keeping up.
A few minutes later, Pettigrew stepped behind an oak tree. It was very dark here under the canopy of the trees. There was a loud cawing of disturbed crows, then they settled back to silence. ‘You keeping up OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ Costello caught her breath, wiping the sweat from her eyes. ‘How do you know he’s on his way?’
‘He’s over there, moving in that direction.’
‘I can’t see anybody. But then he’s probably read some SAS book about how not to be seen,’ she said sarcastically.
‘I was scouting about a bit today. I found the track he uses, parallel to this, just over there. So, we’ll go this way.’
‘He put some traps on the path down there –’ she pointed down to the river ‘– so maybe we should go there. He might be trying to protect something that is important to him, to his psyche …’
‘No, I think we should go this way,’ Pettigrew said, allowing no further comment.
Costello hesitated, then followed him, keeping her eyes down, watching where she put her feet, aware that deep in her police brain a little voice was telling her something was wrong.
After five minutes or so, she tapped Pettigrew on the shoulder. ‘Aren’t we going too far south?’
‘No, we’re going slightly north.’ He pointed. ‘Where we want to be is right over there. He’s still moving, and moving fast. He’s in a hurry to go somewhere.’
‘I can’t hear him.’
It was really dark now, and nothing could be seen through the trees.
‘He’s there all right, and he’s getting ahead.’ Pettigrew moved off, darting confidently between the trees.
Costello hesitated. What was the big hurry? Maybe Pettigrew had seen something she hadn’t. She set off again, trying to catch up, but he was gone. She stopped in her tracks, and looked around, listening hard. Nothing. Pettigrew had disappeared. Could she find her way back? Of course – if she went north, sooner or later she would come to the road. Or she could call out. Drew must be way ahead, and Pettigrew couldn’t have got that far. She walked on quickly, listening hard but still hearing nothing. She jumped as a crow cawed loudly above her and swooped low over her head. Another three flew off after it, black shape-shifters gliding through the night.
She was out in the forest on her own.
Suddenly, two hands grabbed her shoulders, and she felt herself being dragged. She tried to struggle, to kick herself free, but her arms were pulled back and held tightly. She cried out as something soft went over her head.
The darkness really was total now.
‘Batten?’
‘Dr Batten to you.’ Mick offered ACC Howlett a cigarette. The late night was still warm, but the slight breath of wind coming up University Avenue promised a change on the way.
‘I shouldn’t, you know,’ the older man said, taking it gratefully.
Batten flicked the top of his battered lighter. He lit Howlett’s cigarette and then his own before perching on the wall. ‘How are you keeping?’
‘You have no idea how good that feels.’ Howlett leaned against the wall, looking out at the closing-time crowds spilling out of the pub, all laughing with the ease of the slightly drunk. He contemplated the end of his cigarette, then looked at Batten with weary eyes. ‘How did you know?’
‘You’ve lost a lot of weight, too quickly for your clothes to keep up. Your eyes are yellow. There’s a tremor in your right hand. And you’re not like the ACC Howlett I expected from your file. For a man who has a reputation for being cautious, you’re suddenly moving very fast. And for a man who’s a stickler for the rules, you’re breaking them right, left and centre. So, what are you trying to achieve before you shuffle off your mortal coil?’
‘Trying to put something right. I want to rid this city of a great evil.’ The words were breathed like some kind of personal mantra, and Howlett sounded as though he didn’t care if Batten believed him or not.
‘I see. Something you’ve tried to achieve all through your career is suddenly going to come right for you.’ His voice was calm, contemplative.
‘Sometimes the only thing you need do to succeed is to give up hope.’
‘And is that worth endangering the lives of good men? My friends?’ Batten’s voice was interested, non-confrontational. They could have been discussing the merits of the canteen coffee.
‘Something is going to happen in this city. And we shall see a new heaven and a new earth.’
Batten glanced quickly to see if ACC Howlett had started to foam at the mouth, but he was merely speaking with a quiet certainty.
‘It will be the end of days. And we are, like it or not, moving towards it with every hour that passes.’
‘Are we getting a new Christ or something?’
Howlett drew on his cigarette imperturbably. ‘Not far from it. A new beginning. The good will rise up, and the evil will be driven out. I’ve just been trying to stack the odds in favour of the good. That’s all.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘OK, more like the lesser of two evils. Always better the devil you know.’
Batten nodded. ‘I am glad it’s only me you’re talking to. Anyone else, they’d wonder what else you’ve been smoking.’
Oh no, you bloody don’t! Costello tried to think clearly. She let her body go limp, allowing herself to fall to her knees, and pitched sideways, pulling her knees up and trying to roll, head tucked in. But somebody grabbed her arms through the blanket that covered her, tighter this time. She cried out involuntarily, and heard a voice say, ‘Don’t hurt her.’ Then she felt a warm hand over her face, and fingers forced her mouth open, a cold liquid crept along her tongue, and her mouth was closed over it. She felt her nostrils being pinched, and tried not to swallow, but the tasteless liquid was going to make her choke otherwise.
She had to. She had no choice.
She lay there, heart pounding, feeling a vague rush through her head, a dulling of her thought processes, and then felt herself being lifted up. Her legs took her weight, and she was moving again. Hands on her shoulders stopped her stumbling but pushed with just enough force to steer her onwards. Her brain was confused; it was telling her legs to stop, but they kept going. Why was she not screaming? Not terrified? Her brain was panicking, her body was not. Under her feet she felt the path give way to grass, then clumps of longer grass and, finally, a smooth carpet of turf. She felt the hands pressing on her shoulders, and another hand on her ankle. Then hands were all over her, under her arms, behind her knees. She was being lifted, carried, and she felt herself acquiescing meekly.
She couldn’t resist.
She heard a gate creaking open, then the metallic grating of ancient hinges. She felt herself being bundled, down, down, somewhere damp and musty. And dark. She knew it was dark. And cold.
Her feet were guided down metal rungs – how many? Then she was shifted sideways, and she sat down. Correction – someone had sat her down. On something very cold and hard. She felt something – a chain? – being put round her waist, and heard the click of a lock close by. Then her perch vibrated and lurched as someone transferred their weight from it, and their feet clanged on the rungs as they climbed up again.
Then there was that grating noise again. Some sort of trapdoor being closed over her head. Then silence.
She waited.
And waited, shivering with cold, but not fear.
She was underground. This place had seen none of the recent sun.
A strange calmness fell over her. Don’t hurt her.
She could sit here; she could wait. She still had her senses, she told herself; the drug would wear off.
She rubbed her cheek against the shoulder of her jumper, trying to wake herself up, though she knew she had not been asleep. Then she realized her hands were free. She slipped the cover from her face, and opened her eyes to the blackness. Cold damp air wafted against her skin.
She felt about with her fingers. She was sitting with her back against a wall of smooth brick, yet under her was cold metal mesh that bit into her thighs. She was numb, with that damp cold that eats into the bones. And she could smell water, hear it trickling far below. Yes, she was underground, yet high up. It made no sense. She stretched out her legs, quickly folding them again when she became aware that there was nothing in front of her, and a drop beneath her. She was on a ledge. For a minute she thought she would fall, and held herself totally still. Then she inched back to the wall behind her, the chain clinking in the dark. It was looped round a metal stanchion. Through a fog of not knowing what to do, she became aware of something hanging from her neck. A noose? One move too far, and it would tighten, and that would be the last thing she knew.
Yet she still wasn’t panicking. She should have been half dead with terror. Instead, she was starting to think a bit more clearly.
She felt for the noose. Not a rope, a tape. Weighted. She fumbled for the weight, and recognized it for what it was – a small stainless-steel torch. She switched it on and shone it slowly around her.
She was in a rectangular vertical shaft, lined with brick. In front of her, the wall glistened with water. To one side, a dark gaping chasm – a sewer? Some kind of underground communication tunnel left over from the war? Whatever it was, it disappeared into fathomless blackness. Fragments of stuff she’d had to read at school chased around inside her brain: Great God! This is an awful place … caverns measureless to man …
Close beside her, to her left, the beam caught a metal ladder. She followed it up all the way to the top. Twenty feet, then a grating – her way to reach the outside world. If she could get up there and get it open …
She moved forward carefully, then froze as she heard the rattle of a chain echo around the tunnel. She traced the chain with her torch beam. It was new, shining. But it was a chain clipped to the metal grid, easily unclipped with the pressure of her thumb. She ran it through her hands. Just enough slack to let her move, to tighten before she went too far. Were they keeping her safe? She unclipped herself, shining the beam around. There was only silence, except for the gentle gurgle of the underground stream.
To her right, the metal platform extended a few feet to the corner of the shaft. There was something on it, she could just see it, a few feet away. She edged along it, a strange confidence rising in her now that her limbs were once more under her own control, and shone the torch to see what it was. An animal, she thought at first. A rat? But it was just a small pile of … her heart began to race.
Don’t hurt her.
Bones.
Small human bones.
She sat and gazed at them, totally mesmerized, for a few minutes. Then she carefully lay down on her side and reached out towards the hint of gold gleaming in the torchlight.
She knew she had been drugged. And that some drugs can wipe the short-term memory. She had to remember this, had to obtain proof that she had been here, proof of what she had found. Just as she brought the little medal within reach, the torch beam picked out something else that made the blood almost stop in her veins. Hooked round the farther metal stanchion was something that looked all too familiar – a pair of handcuffs.
Stretching her arm out as far as she could get it to go, she managed to slide the very end of the torch under the fine gold chain, and with infinite care tugged it towards her, trying not to dislodge the little bones. Yes, she was disturbing a crime scene, and she’d get into trouble for it.
On the other hand, she might never get out of here at all. And in a hundred years’ time her own bones would be found, her skeletal hand still clutching Alessandro Marchetti’s gold St Christopher medal.
Anderson watched the minute hand move on to twelve, joining its mate at the bewitching hour. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the sofa cushions, enjoying the tick of the clock and the gentle snoring of Nesbitt in the corner. He wondered if he could train the dog to bite Mulholland on demand. He always knew that his constable was a career cop. If he saw a way to make his name, why should it matter to him that it would be at the cost of his boss’s career? They had worked together for six years or more. Six years. It meant nothing. Loyalty meant nothing. No loyalty as deep as the Molendinar for cops – there was more honour among thieves.
His thoughts were broken by the sound of Brenda coming downstairs, her gentle footfall on the carpet. He heard Nesbitt’s tail tap on the floor as she opened the door.
She perched on the arm of the sofa, wrapping her dressing gown round her, pulling her knees up to her chest. ‘You awake?’
‘No,’ he said, patting her on the knee.
‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Kind of numb, I suppose.’
‘Are you thinking about David Lambie?’
‘Mostly,’ he answered, with partial honesty.
‘Because you should be.’ She paused. ‘When all this is over, do you think we could plan a holiday? Not to go now, but plan it, for Christmas. I feel we have hardly seen you this summer.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. It’s all been a bit horrid.’
‘And it is not over, is it?’
‘No.’
‘We don’t have to live like this. We can have a new start.’
‘I know.’ He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. ‘Yes, I know.’
She reached for his hand and wrapped her fingers round his. ‘And another thing – all these Russian gangsters. Do you ever stop to think that one day they might come after you? After all, they came for David. I wasn’t going to say it, but it could have been you out there. And then where would the kids and I be? I know it’s your job, but is it worth it?’
‘How do you know about Russian gangsters?’
‘You think just because you walk about half blind, half asleep, everybody else in this family does. We watch the news, we read the newspapers. You need to leave the job.’
He sighed. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said again.
‘So, are you coming to bed?’
‘I’ll come up soon.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
He rested his head against the back of the sofa, closed his eyes, and thought very seriously about ignoring his mobile as it rang.