Costello was already on the phone when Anderson walked into the incident room. From the look of the half-eaten cake and the empty cups, she and Wyngate had been there for some time, although the meeting had been called for nine a.m. to give them an extra hour. Wyngate had checked up on Mulholland; his condition had deteriorated a little during the night.
‘Aasha’s mother,’ mouthed Wyngate, shrugging to indicate that he had no idea about the reason for the call.
Seeing Anderson, Costello said, ‘Do you mind if I put you on speakerphone, Mrs Ariti? My colleague has just come in – the man who was with me when we found your daughter.’
She nodded and pressed the icon.
‘So that’s all it was, then – she was starving herself?’ The voice from the phone floated out, forceful and wanting answers.
‘It’s tragic, but not as uncommon as you might think.’
The noise of sobbing filled the room. ‘We brought her up to be stronger than that. She was such a bright, kind-hearted young woman. She died because her boyfriend finished with her and went out with some skinny malinky instead? He put a picture of her up on Instagram – the same one, again and again. It wasn’t a good picture, and she thought it made her look fat. It really got to her. She was losing weight for the wedding. They haven’t even finished making her dress.’ She started to cry. ‘Are you sure … are you really sure that’s what it was – the diet?’
‘There are still test results to come back, Mrs Ariti, but the pathologist is sure.’
‘He was very kind when he spoke to me.’
There was a long pause. Costello looked at Anderson for help, but he shook his head.
‘We do see it a lot. Nobody knows the stresses their children are under nowadays. They go off into the big world and they appear to be coping, but deep down, nobody knows.’
‘I guess you are right.’ Her voice broke. ‘Did she look OK – you know, when you found her?’
Costello shrugged at Anderson again. What was she supposed to say to that? When Costello saw her, Aasha had been in the water for over twenty-four hours.
‘She looked at peace, Mrs Ariti.’
‘This is where Elizabeth Shand was last seen on the sixteenth of June 1978 – it was a Friday night.’ Wyngate looked up at the flat, the dirty windows, the boarded-up doors, the knee-high grass with the obligatory mattress lying upright against the wall. ‘If she ran away from this, I can’t blame her,’ he said. As they stood on the pavement, a nosy rat stuck his head out and had a sniff at them. It retreated, dismissing them as neither dangerous nor edible.
‘I can’t see Birdie Scanlon trusting anybody who came from this background to look after her children. Especially with her husband being a cop.’
‘Maybe that didn’t matter. It might be more of a sacrifice they were after. Somebody troubled.’ Wyngate looked round. ‘Do you mind them?’
‘Who? Wife-beating bastards like Muir?’
‘No, rats. The girls have a couple of them – nice wee things. You can teach them to do tricks, they know their names, they come when they are called and can understand simple commands.’
‘Good God. Any more of that and they will be recruiting them for Police Scotland. Shall we?’ She indicated the front door. ‘I think we should take a deep breath before we go in.’
‘How do you want to play it?’
‘Keep it nice. We have no real reason to be here.’
‘Apart from the fact that he has a rap sheet as long as my arm for violence to women. And then Lizzie disappeared. She’s the right age, right build to be the babysitter, and she had given birth.’
They walked up to the large main door, which was hanging off its hinges, so they slid past it, clambered over an old pram parked across the close and made their way up the stairs to the flat, middle floor, right. Only the right side of the tenement was inhabited; the left side had been condemned, due to the bulging of the end wall.
‘Is this safe?’ asked Wyngate looking at the big crack in the step as they went up the stinking stairway.
‘Safer than the piece of shite we are about to interview.’
Wyngate knocked on the door, and they both pulled out their warrant cards, ready; they did not expect to gain entry. Sandy Muir could smell a cop at a hundred paces.
The door opened a little way, and a small triangular face appeared behind it. It was difficult to know if it was male or female – pinched, thin, pale, anything from fifteen to thirty, or younger or older.
‘Hi, I am DI Costello, this is DC Wyngate. Can we have a wee word?’
The door closed slightly but not entirely. ‘Sandy? Police!’
A smoke-rasped voice fired out of the living room. ‘Aye, ah thought ah could smell shite.’
‘It’s about a missing person report Mr Muir made in 1978.’
‘Youse took yer bloody time.’
‘Cold case,’ smiled Costello politely. ‘Can we come in and have a wee word with you, Mr Muir? You filed the report.’
The face went quickly to the side, and the door jerked open. An old man stood behind it, old enough to be the girl’s father or grandfather. So he had another abusive relationship, picking on the younger and weaker, as he got older and frailer.
‘Mr Muir, you don’t know me, but we’d like to talk to you about the 1978 missing person report on Lizzie Shand.’
‘Aye. Whit o’ it?’ His lips were lined with white foam. He hadn’t washed that morning. The flat smelled, he smelled. Costello couldn’t believe she was going to say the next words that came out of her mouth.
‘Do you mind if we came in?’
‘Aboot Lizzie?’
‘Yes, Elizabeth Shand,’ she repeated.
He nodded at his young companion and then the door opened fully, and they walked to the front of the flat and the big room that faced the street.
‘This one o’ yon cauld cases we see on the tele?’
‘Yes, Mr Muir, it is. We do periodic reviews of all the cold cases – you know, missing women, all that kind of thing.’
He sat down on the leather chair in front of a massive TV that was halfway up the wall. There was a cigarette packet on the burned arm of the chair, three dirty cups and a bottle of Thunderbird on the floor beside it, but apart from the smell, the flat was quite clean. All they needed to do was open the window. Costello was yearning for the smell of urine that had scented the stairwell. This was stale body sweat, old smoke and, she suspected, recent sex.
He didn’t ask them to sit down, for which Costello was grateful.
‘So something’s come up, aboot Lizzie? She was up the duff, you know. Ah’d like tae know whit happened to ma wean.’
‘You last saw Lizzie on the sixteenth of June 1978?’
‘That soonds aboot right. Ah’d be lying if ah said ah remembered, but if that’s whit ah said at the time, then that’ll be right.’ He smiled. He had one tooth, reminding Costello of the reruns of Steptoe and Son.
She could see a ghost of the easy charm that he used to trap vulnerable women – it was pleasant and comfortable, secure. He still had crinkly brown eyes that looked so benign they could belong to a puppy. He once put a hot iron through his girlfriend’s skull. Costello could see him squeezing his pregnant girlfriend round the neck, keeping the pressure on with his fingers until she was dead.
‘Do you recall the last time you saw her?’ She had read the report, memorized it word for word.
‘Aye, well. Ah think we wur in the pub and we came back tae the flat. We wur in Maryhill at the time. We wur having quite a wee sesh, me and Lizzie, and Tam from doon the street.’
‘Thomas Whitehill?’
‘She’s no as stupid as she looks,’ said Muir to Wyngate.
‘Don’t answer that, Wyngate,’ said Costello with humour, not wanting to antagonize Muir. If he clamped up, they would get nothing. If he felt relaxed and superior, he might slip up and make a mistake.
‘Aye, he wur here wi’ his bird, noe name but she’d big tits, wee skinny arse. Lizzie wur pissed, she wanted mair vodka and hud a hairy fit. She fucked aff. Ah went oot after her, and the last ah sees o’ her wis her walking up the street to the cemetery. It wis safe tae dae that then, safer than it’s noo.’
‘Well, that’s underfunding for you,’ said Costello mildly. ‘And that was the last you saw of her?’
‘Aye.’
‘Did she have any family?’
‘A ma she didnae speak tae. Ah spoke tae her a few times to see if Lizzie wis there, but she hadnae heard a dicky.’
‘You believed her?’
‘Ah did not. And ah suspected that she knew wur the baby wis, so ah pressed her, but she said nothin’.’
‘Lizzie was living here at that time?’
‘Gibson Street, ah think. Women’s hostel, but she kept gettin’ booted oot on her arse. Ah think she’s dead.’
‘Should we be looking for a body?’
‘It’s a dangerous city oot there.’
‘I thought you said it was safe?’
‘Safer, still perverts oot there walkin’ the streets, tae clever fur youse tae catch, eh? Hidin’ in plain sight – some o’ them cops even. So excuse me, but ah huv better things tae dae wi ma time than breathe the same air as youse guys.’
He ushered them towards the door. A thin bony hand clamped on her shoulder, squeezing the bone.
‘And if she turns up, ah wanna know where ma wean is. It’ll be forty-three noo, needs to know who the da is, ah have that right. So if youse find her, get her telt.’
Even now the threat was there.
‘If anything comes to light, Mr Muir, we shall do all that the law allows us to do.’
‘You’re a piece of shite.’
Costello and Wyngate walked towards the door. The shadow of the girl was still standing in the corner. She had not moved at all.
Wyngate was going out of the door; his hand was on the Yale lock, twisted the catch and opened it. He was out into the close when a hand shot out and closed the door, trapping Costello inside the flat. She turned and stared Muir right in his face. His breath stank, and she could see hatred flame in his eyes.
‘You are a bit auld in the tooth but still tae young tae remember the perverts that used tae be on the streets in those days, in the City of Glasgow. The cops were up tae their shite like everybody else, and if ah’m thinking aboot whit happened to Lizzie, ah’d be looking a wee bitty closer tae home than here. In fact, if ah wis you, ah wouldn’t bother coming out ma own fuckin’ office.’
‘If that is a vague accusation, do you have somebody in mind?’ she asked sweetly.
‘Me? Ah never says a fuckin’ word. Now goodbye, sweetheart. On yer way. See how far yer investigation gets afore it’s pulled from you like a deid rat oot a sewer.’
There was a knock at the door. ‘Are you OK in there, Costello?’
‘Yes, just coming. The smell in here is getting to me.’
Muir smiled at her as she opened the door.
As she passed, he leaned forward. ‘Nae smoke withoot a flame hen.’
Without moving her head, she whispered back. ‘And always fight fire with fire, Mr Muir.’
‘Sorry, Wyngate, but I need to go home and spend an hour under the shower. You might want to as well. God knows what we might’ve picked up in there. I’ve a nice invitation to turn up at Partick Central and be interviewed about Vera Craig tomorrow. So after my shower, I’m going to the hospital to see how Vik is doing. And if I float past Vera’s room and pop in to say hello, then so be it.’
Wyngate executed a quick three-point turn, desperate to get away before his tyres were stolen. ‘You’ll just get yourself into more trouble.’
‘How could I be in more trouble? Vera needs to know what is going on.’
‘I still don’t think …’
‘Well, you don’t really get paid to think, do you? Tell Anderson that he’s doing the other visit on his own. I’m sure he’ll manage. Then we’ll regroup tonight, or are you sloping off home?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Wyngate. And he thought about explaining to his wife that he’d be working late, again.
Costello slipped the key into the lock of Vera Craig’s flat, feeling like a thief. Joanna’s hire car was not in the car park, so she presumed she had some time. She had her phone ready and she was going to photograph everything she could find that might give her a lead on Joanna Craig and her machinations.
When she arrived at the hospital, she had found herself on a list of banned people. There was only one person that Mrs Craig was now allowed to see, and the staff had instructions that if Costello persisted, they were to call security.
She asked who was the one allowed to visit, presuming it was Joanna.
The nurse didn’t say anything, but rolled her eyes and said with precise emphasis, ‘Some members of the family are allowed.’
‘The daughter, then? Shit!’
‘Nope, she’s banned as well. You can tell that we’re upset by that.’ The nurse smiled sweetly.
‘OK, that’s OK.’ Costello was thinking hard.
‘A middle-aged man with a bow tie. He brought her flowers. They spoke for quite a while. I thought it was her son.’ She reached behind the computer screen. ‘But she left this for you. You’re the police officer, aren’t you? Said you were to get it if you popped in, but said we were to remind you to be careful. Is there something going on?’
In the car, Costello had opened the envelope, found a key and took that as a sign.
It might have been Complaints and Investigations who had banned her, but she didn’t see them banning Vera’s daughter. And they didn’t tend to walk around in bow ties.
At the flat, she walked down the hall, just as she had on the day when she had found Vera, but the place smelled of curry and strong perfume. There was a damp towel lying on the hall carpet. The place was a tip. The Viking longship was missing, as was its glass case. The silver spoons were gone from the wall. She saw them lying on the dining-room table, next to a laptop.
Mrs Craig’s beautiful flat was a mess. The bed was a heap of duvet. The china doll was lying in the corner, its lace skirts up in the air, its creepy face smashed in. There was a faint scar on the wall, telling the story of where the doll had been thrown.
The kitchen was full of stacked takeaway dishes, and the smell of rotten leftovers floated from the bin. She peered into the toilet. It hadn’t been flushed and there was a small mountain of dirty clothes on the floor.
Was Joanna really the daughter of wee super-clean Mrs Craig who loved her bleach and her Pledge?
She found a paper pad on top of a copy of Miller’s Antiques Handbook and Price Guide on the dining-room table, beside a spoon that had been lifted from its cradle in the rack. There were two phone numbers scribbled down and some items of jewellery listed. She Googled the phone numbers on her own phone. The local number was McTear’s Auctioneers’ valuation line. The other was a London number, Christie’s. Well, that was the boat and the spoons going up for auction. A few rings lay out on the table – older styles but probably full of quality gems. She picked up one of the rings, reading the inscription Vera and Davy, and a date: 23/10/1968. Her wedding day? Sitting down, she knocked the pad with her elbow, revealing a mobile phone lying on the table where Joanna’s right hand would have been. A woman like Joanna wouldn’t go out without her phone – who did that these days? Was this a second phone?
It was locked, of course, but she held it up to the window on its side, looking at the pattern of fingerprints. People always slid their fingers the same way and never varied it. She bet Joanna cleaned her phone as often as she flushed the toilet.
She walked over to the window and on her fifth try the phone unlocked, and she scrolled and read. And read. Photographing the phone screen with her own phone. Suddenly, it all started to make sense. Why Vera Craig would not want DI Costello to ever meet Joanna Craig or Joanna Russell or Joanna McPherson. What a bitch!
She was still at the window, two phones in her hands – her own and what she now knew to be a burner. Then she heard a car come into the car park three floors below: Joanna’s hire car zooming in at forty miles an hour. Costello watched as she got out, wondering if she’d been at the hospital and now felt the net closing. Joanna did look rather harassed, opening the boot and taking out a large empty holdall. A quick glance round the car park, then something made her look up.
And she stopped in her tracks.
Costello slowly held up her phone. Then the burner. She held them against the glass so Joanna could see.
Their eyes met for a moment, and Costello thought, Well, come on, hen, if you think you’re hard enough.