4

1.00 a.m., Wednesday 10 February 2010

She was in the womb again.

Floating.

Turning the clock back.

Eyes closed. Ears muffled. Floating.

No sound, no vision.

Tethered and secure, she floated. Cushioned. Warm.

She could feel her hair like filigree on her cheek, tendrils of seaweed dancing free in the water.

She breathed. Then she sank and exhaled, breath bubbling through the water.

She was safe down here.

So here he was, sitting in the Honda Jazz, with the lights on, and the clock showing 1.05 a.m. Count Basie was giving it his all with ‘Splanky’ on the CD. The car’s interior was spotless, Anderson realized, and his heart gave a little jolt. There should have been some detritus, some waste from the children, a CD of some prepubescent manufactured boy band he had never heard of, or a collection of Peter’s cartoons kicking around the floor. But the floor was immaculate.

Not that Peter was drawing much nowadays. He really didn’t do much of anything; he just clung to his mother’s hand and glared at his father through dark narrowing eyes.

The fog was getting worse. When Anderson had arrived outside Strathearn House, home of the Kennedys, he’d been able to see the gable end of the gatehouse clearly from here. Now, only fifteen minutes later, he couldn’t even see the gates on the far side of the road. DCI Quinn had been specific: Wait for me in the street. He was glad she had taken it on herself to break the news to the Kennedys.

He pushed his fingers deeper into his gloves. There was a malevolent quality about this fog, the way it encased you, disabled you, disorientated you. Whether it was physical or not, the sheer density of it made it difficult to breathe. There could be anything out there, stalking him, creeping up behind him. He turned down the CD a little, then turned it off, then he flicked the door lock of the car.

Just in case.

God, he was cold.

It crossed his mind to phone Brenda and tell her to be careful. The family home, her home, was on the south side but only just. The small housing estate behind the Southern General Hospital was low-lying; the fog would creep up the river first, and the house was less than half a mile from the river bank. Then he remembered – it was the small hours of the morning. She would be in bed, in her bed, with Peter. The psychologist was having a field day with that one. Fine for a four-year-old, not so fine for a nine-year-old. Take him back to his own bed, firmly and calmly, the psychologist said; comfort only reinforced the fact there was something wrong.

But of course there was something wrong. Daddy wasn’t there.

Anderson looked up as the fog behind him swirled, clouding and corrupting the orange light from the street lamp. He only actually saw Quinn’s Lexus when it was grille to grille with the Jazz. Quinn was on the phone and as she walked smartly to the passenger door of his own car, she was talking, constantly, incessantly.

‘With all due respect, sir,’ she was saying, in a manner that suggested no respect at all. ‘You don’t get to my age without amassing a certain amount of experience. And yes I can bring something to it – I can bring my team.’ She fell silent as the other end of the phone chattered away, and rolled her eyes at Anderson as she climbed into his car. ‘… And now there is another victim with similar injuries, who lives a few hundred yards from the station … the body was out at the Barochan Moss. Yes, I appreciate that lies in K Division jurisdiction, sir … I feel at this point, sir, I have to say that it was one of my officers who correctly identified the victim … Yes, and the suspect of that name was found dead in a property directly behind our station. My officers and myself have already established a supportive relationship with the Whyte family – notwithstanding the small matter of the previous investigation by K Division … Indeed … thank you, sir.’

DCI Quinn sighed and closed the phone. ‘To say nothing of the small matter of us having the body of Incident One in the mortuary and the victim of Incident Two in the Western Infirmary, both on our doorstep.’ She reclined back against the headrest and closed her eyes.

‘Costello was wondering why O’Hare was so insistent on that,’ said Anderson.

‘Don’t forget that O’Hare knows Donald Corbett well. I don’t think the case of Emily Corbett has ever been far from the Prof’s mind. So if he saw something there, a connection … well, let’s leave it at that.’

‘So how did it go? Are we getting the case?’

DCI Quinn shrugged. ‘The ACC Crime is away to talk to his boss. They’ll have to come to some arrangement soon. And Marita being who she is, nobody’s taking a decision without getting it in triplicate; they’re all so scared these days.’

‘Messy if K Division get it, ma’am.’ Anderson started to drum his gloved fingers against the steering wheel. ‘But Mulholland was all over the scene right enough.’

‘The ACC was quite clear; Vik has all the credentials to be the public face of the new police service. Yes, I am totally aware of what you’re thinking, but you’re not the one who makes the decisions. Vik is bright, attractive, charismatic. And he’s an incredibly focused young man.’

‘And we are not focused?’

‘You’re certainly not. You’ve been sitting here thinking about your kids getting around in this fog. Don’t lie to me, Anderson, I know you too well.’

‘Well, Mulholland is a warped … sod.’

‘The word you were going to use rhymes with banker, but you’re too polite. He took six months’ leave of absence after that debacle three years ago, went to Russia to visit his mother’s relatives, and got his head together. Since then he’s been totally driven, a career cop. And there’s something else.’

‘I guess I’m not going to like this.’ Anderson leaned forward over the steering wheel, bracing himself for bad news.

‘There’s a photojournalist around, recording the work of the Strathclyde Police Service for the visual arts exhibition in the summer. He’s at Govan at the moment.’ She looked at the dashboard clock. ‘Well, he was, but I bet he’s just had a phone call and is on his way to the Moss. They’ve been waiting for a good story, a week in the life of the murder squad.’

Anderson almost laughed. ‘There’s no way the victim’s family will agree to that.’

‘If we were talking about a normal family I would agree, but Marita might. She’s a professional celebrity, so it’s profile and money for her. Her husband Iain, her new husband – is he number three?’

‘Or four. I’ve lost count. Rumour has it that’s why she’s only known by her first name. She changes the second one so often.’

‘Anyway, Iain Kennedy is a respected man in this city, and she will have the full weight of the press on her side. She’ll be on the front of every tabloid tomorrow, and if we’re not careful so will we. And if we’re not very careful we could find ourselves being part of a terrible docudrama. So we’re getting off lightly with a photographer who, as far as I’m aware, is a half-decent human being. Some guy called Harry Castilia? Castigilia? I’ve seen some of his stuff in the art pages of the Herald, all black and white and moody. It said in the memo he’d done some award-winning stuff in Somalia and Darfur. God knows what he’ll make of this lot. At least he and his sidekick have a respected track record and better them than a Channel Five camera crew following us about,’ Quinn explained. ‘Oh, I meant to mention – Browne’s at the hospital now, being checked over.’ She rubbed her nose between thumb and forefinger. Tiredness was setting in. She sighed. ‘Thank God we didn’t jump the gun and tell Iain Kennedy his wife was dead, just as she was coming down the stairs looking rather marvellous and with a steady pulse. We’re going to play this very carefully.’

‘So we’re working the case as if it’s ours? Attempted murder? Grievous bodily?’

‘Until we’re told otherwise. Come on.’

Anderson fired up the engine, reversed and turned into the short approach to the gate. An electric sensor on the metal stanchion flashed, and Anderson pressed a button to open the driver’s window, ready to speak to the intercom which crackled in readiness.

‘Go ahead,’ said Quinn. ‘The gates are opening.’

‘Must work on a sensor.’ He drove slowly forward, passing the little gatehouse, its lights trying hard against the fog. He continued slowly up the drive, following the verge on the right, up the gravel drive towards the main house. The dense shrubs on either side glittered with frost, Christmas-card pretty.

The driveway opened out into a cobbled parking area in front of the big house. Small lights around the big front door struggled to look welcoming in the fog. Anderson pulled the Jazz up beside a BMW and an XK8. ‘And are you handling this, as SIO?’ he asked, as they approached the door.

Quinn looked up at him. The grandeur of the surroundings, the size and age of Strathearn, made the moment seem intimate, as if they were physically closer than they actually were. Anderson’s blond hair, with its faint trim of grey, was all over the place. His worn anorak was soaked at the shoulders. But she felt safe with him, totally safe. ‘Do you want me to act as SIO? I know you are, but …’

‘Please, no argument from me, ma’am.’ Anderson was relieved.

Quinn walked up the stone steps of the house and rang the bell. They heard it sound deep within.

‘Some place this, isn’t it?’ Anderson stepped back to look up. The house was imposing, built in a Scottish baronial version of the Italianate style a hundred and fifty years earlier. A rich man’s self-indulgence. ‘It took Iain Kennedy two years to restore the place; they’ve only recently finished. Must be worth a few million. How many bedrooms, would you say? Twelve?’

‘And the rest! Straighten your tie a bit, will you?’

‘You’ll be asking if I have a clean hanky in a minute.’ But he did as he was asked. He knew Quinn was right, and that she had every reason to be more annoyed than she actually was. He was here doing a DC’s job, but she was a DCI doing a DI’s job. It was that kind of case.

As he had said, Marita Kennedy was not just anybody.

Water.

Her face underwater.

She was free.

Weightless.

Cocooned from the world.

Not yet born.

She was a floating bubble, a drifting cloud.

The gentle nudge of the water caressed her. Her fingers opened, her hands rose to the surface, drifting like leaves. Then they sank once more.

She could see nothing but the map of veins on the backs of her eyelids, threads of red and gold, outlined in silver, as she too sank.

She could hear her lungs protest, a crackle deep and muffled under the water, the faint prickle in her throat as the air fought to escape, the pressure building, the need to breathe. She pursed her lips, holding it all back.

Her eyes closed tighter, sharp needles of pain in her head, her brain pounding with the lack of oxygen, her heart thudding faster and faster, louder and louder.

So this was what it was like.

Strange, that she had never thought about it before.

An efficient blonde wearing navy wool trousers and a matching twinset opened the door, confusing them for a moment until they remembered that in a house of this size there would be staff. She smiled, displaying perfect teeth. She did not seem at all unnerved; instead, she opened the door wider, tucking her short hair behind her ear and peering over their shoulders as if looking for a third person. She frowned slightly, and gestured to them to come in, then the smile flicked back on. She had not asked who they were, had not asked to see their ID, and she was definitely not surprised to see them.

As they walked past her Quinn noticed the blonde was older than she had first thought – more late thirties than the twenties suggested by her model slenderness and immaculate grooming. Quinn followed Anderson across the carpeted floor of the massive entrance hall. Despite being impressed by the highly ornate ceiling and the gleaming wood panelling, Anderson thought it felt like a film set, a director’s idea of what a grand Scottish house should look like. Everything was that little bit too perfect, not like a house that people actually lived in.

They halted at the bottom of the wooden staircase with its central run of thick Axminster. Another stairway ran down – to a garden-level floor, Anderson assumed. This house had once been famed for its beautiful gardens.

‘I’m DCI Quinn, and this is DI Anderson …’ Quinn said to the woman at last.

‘Good, glad you’re here.’ The woman smiled, not even glancing at the warrant card. ‘Iain will be with you in moment. We’ve been expecting you.’

‘How?’ asked Quinn, slightly wrong-footed.

‘The gate has a sensor, for security. Nobody can get in or out without us knowing. Just as well, as the cameras are picking up nothing in this fog.’

‘But how did you know it was us?’

‘Well, it’s not like this is the first time, is it?’

Quinn nodded slowly. ‘And you are … ?’

‘Diane Woodhall. I’m Marita’s PA.’

‘So you have CCTV in the grounds?’

‘Yes. Well, with people as important as Mr and Mrs Kennedy you can’t be too careful, can you? Both cars and pedestrians have to buzz to get in and out.’

‘We didn’t.’

‘Yes, but the sensor on the gate told me you’d arrived, and we were expecting you.’

Quinn nodded understandingly again. They must have reported Itsy missing, but the report had got no further than Partick Central.

‘I presume you haven’t found her?’ Diane’s voice carried no hint of worry. ‘She really is a case and a half, that one. I think she sees getting out of here as a challenge. We should put one of those trackers on her – you know, the ones that fit around your ankle … Oh, here’s Mr Kennedy now. It’s the police, from Partick,’ she announced inaccurately.

Quinn took the initiative. ‘Good evening, Mr Kennedy. I’m DCI Quinn.’ Now that she was face to face with him, Quinn had to admit that she did recognize him immediately – one of those tall strong men, with chestnut hair tinged with grey, and an open friendly face. She had seen his picture many times in the gossip columns since his marriage to Marita. He must have been in his fifties by now, the same age as herself, she thought idly.

He shook her warmly by the hand. ‘I think our paths have crossed already, but I would be lying if I said I remembered. I tend to leave all that type of thing to Marita. I’ve a terrible memory for faces.’ He turned to Anderson, eyebrows raised enquiringly.

‘DI Anderson.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ Kennedy indicated the way downstairs. ‘Please come down to the living room; it’s a lot warmer down there.’ He turned to the PA. ‘Thanks, Diane. I’ll let you know the score.’ He led them down the stairs, the thick carpet runner on beautifully polished treads soft beneath their feet. ‘I really do appreciate you coming out so late on a night like this. I can’t fault the support we get from the local police, but I know we’re going to have to do something about Itsy.’

The stairs led down to a cheerful, comfortably furnished room with a welcoming fire. Kennedy gestured that they should take a seat on one of the opulent leather chesterfields. ‘We’ve been lenient with her,’ he went on. ‘She’s coming on so well and gaining her independence, but with that she has to learn responsibility for herself and that, I’m afraid, is a difficult lesson to teach. Maybe she’ll get a fright from this and take it on board. So, have you found her?’

‘So Itsy’s missing?’ Quinn asked blandly.

Iain Kennedy’s eyes darted from one to the other, taking in the fact that they were still standing, still official, as their senior rank filtered through to him. ‘This is about Itsy, isn’t it? Please don’t say something has happened to her.’

‘There’s no easy way to tell you this, Mr Kennedy. We are not from Partick Central Station, and we weren’t informed that you had made a missing person report. We are from Partickhill Station, and a woman answering Itsy’s description was found a little while ago at the Barochan Moss.’

‘The Moss? She got out to the Moss? That’s – what – ten miles?’ Kennedy’s concern was suddenly acute. ‘And … ?’

‘She’s … hurt. She’s at the Western now. I strongly suggest you and your wife come along with us.’

‘Right.’ The colour drained from Kennedy’s face. He took a deep breath, then another, as though he was having difficulty thinking. ‘My wife’s upstairs having a bath. They were all out looking for Itsy and Marita got so cold …’ At last logical thought seemed to be working its way through his panic. ‘I’m just thinking – DCI, DI? How badly hurt is she? We’re not talking about a sprained ankle, are we?’

Quinn nodded. ‘I’m afraid badly injured is what I mean. Professor Jack O’Hare asked us to come and speak to you. I think you know him.’

‘Jack?’ Kennedy said, distractedly. ‘Yes, he’s a good friend.’ Then he looked up, totally focused. ‘But he’s a pathologist. Why was he there?’ His hand went to his mouth. ‘Oh my God, please no …’

‘She’s alive, but it’s a long story and we would like to get you and your wife to the hospital.’

‘Right,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll call Marita and we’ll get on our way.’

Quinn nodded encouragingly.

Kennedy paused. ‘I’m sorry, I still don’t quite understand what’s happened …’

‘There was an incident and she has a serious head injury.’ Quinn’s tone was reassuring.

Kennedy misheard. ‘An accident?’ he repeated. ‘OK, OK. So we have to get to the hospital.’ But still he seemed incapable of action, and simply stayed there distracted, in shock.

Anderson glanced at Quinn, who gave a covert nod of the head in response, and handed him the keys of the Lexus. ‘We have a car waiting for you outside. If you want to bring your wife, tell her to wrap up warm.’ Anything to get Kennedy moving.

He gathered himself together, and picked up a cordless phone. ‘Diane? They’ve found Itsy. Can you call Tony and Bobby and tell them to go back to the gatehouse? Yes, she’s in the hospital, a bit of an accident … Of course, I’ll let you know as soon as I can.’ Then he jumped up, muttering to himself as if rehearsing his lines. ‘I’ll go and tell my wife.’

She raised herself up through the water, letting the water run from her face, feeling her hair clamp to the back of her neck. She looked at her reflection through the fog of steam, and lifted one foot from the water, admiring her beautifully manicured toes, red varnish peeping through the bubbles that slid slowly down her slender instep. She slid down, stretching her foot to reach the mirrored tiles at the end of the bath, swiping her big toe back and forth, back and forth, until her face came clear, with its perfect features and arched eyebrows, framed by wet, dark red hair. She blinked, and a droplet of water ran down her cheek from her eye. She wiped it away and sank back into the foam.

She lay there, under the water, listening to the echo of her own heartbeat, letting her mind drift, a fog falling on her brain. Then, through the water, she heard the deep echo of a door closing.

She raised herself out of the foamy water, listening. But minutes passed, and there was no more to hear. She submersed herself again, in stillness, in silence, water closing over her face, swirling into her ears.

She felt rather than heard the hurried footsteps of her husband coming up the stairs.

Quinn cast her eyes around the room they had been left to wait in. ‘No expense spared here,’ she observed. The split-level floor was solid wood. The wall opposite the fireplace was covered with generously swagged curtains, presumably drawn across a series of patio doors that opened on to a terrace and the garden. ‘Imagine having all this to yourself.’

‘How the other half live, eh? There’d be some view of the gardens out that window if we could see it. I remember there’s a lake – well, a boating pond – out there somewhere; at least, there was in the old days. The park was sort of unofficially open to the public back then.’ Anderson was prowling the room, taking in the papers neatly arranged in a wicker basket, the baby grand on a raised platform, the six-foot-square coffee table laden with bowls filled with crackers, almonds and something covered in chocolate. Above the fireplace hung a silver-framed black and white photograph of Marita, which dominated the room. She was smiling coquettishly over her bare shoulder, and the famous hair was a black snake winding down her milk-white back. It was a beautiful yet unattractive picture, more suited for a magazine advert for French perfume than a living room. Anderson studied it, transfixed.

Quinn prodded him gently, and indicated the sideboard and its display of photographs: Marita Simm, as she was then, being crowned Miss Caledonia in 1990; then ‘Marita’, as she decided to be known, posing with endless celebrities, footballers, singers and a few Anderson recognized as actors from the soaps. Mrs Iain Kennedy gracing exclusive charity events alongside the great and the good. ‘Look at that one,’ said Quinn, pointing to the only one of the sisters together.

Anderson glanced over his shoulder, checking that Kennedy was not about. Then he lifted the picture up. ‘This was taken recently; this place has only been refurbed in the last two years. Say Marita was eighteen, nineteen, when she won Miss Caledonia – she’d be nearly forty by now. But she doesn’t look it. Was Itsy the younger one?’

‘So I’ve read in the papers, but you can’t believe everything you read,’ said Quinn dryly. ‘I bet Marita’s been having Botox to look more like her wee sister. She certainly can’t grow older; her PR consultant wouldn’t allow it.’

Anderson looked closely at the photograph, moving it slightly to take the glare from the glass. Two almost-identical faces, heart-shaped, snub-nosed, titian hair – but one was a closed book, the other an open one. Marita was like a polished diamond, elegant, calm, self-conscious. Itsy glowed with mischief, her smile one of genuine happiness. Anderson could see the attraction of her liveliness and warmth. ‘I heard, read, that the sister is a bit …’ Anderson tapped a finger to his temple. ‘But do we know how bad she is?’

‘I only know what I read in a magazine while I was waiting for a root canal treatment. The article was all about Marita being so lovely and how she was spending her fortune looking after her special needs sister.’

‘Nice of her,’ said Anderson with sincerity. ‘It can’t be easy.’

‘Not bad for publicity either,’ replied Quinn acidly. ‘But the sister looks normal, as you can see from that photo.’

‘I’d say she’s really pretty. But the more I look at it, the more I wonder about this case,’ he said. ‘Marita could easily have been the intended victim.’

‘Or it could be a random attack, some loony hiding in the bushes,’ said Quinn, not even convincing herself.

Anderson looked up sharply. ‘Out on the Moss? I don’t think so.’

‘That bloody albatross means there are all sorts wandering around out there. So Ishbel Simm is officially the victim of a random attack, DI Anderson,’ said Quinn, her tone hard and insistent. ‘Please.’

Anderson nodded and carefully put the picture back.

‘Are you up for driving my car?’

‘Of course, ma’am.’

‘Good. I can’t drive through this fog and earwig on their conversation. And I do want to earwig; we have to know how she got out there.’

Quinn and Anderson locked eyes grimly at the sound of a shriek from upstairs.

The hospital was quiet, eerily quiet. Costello took up residence in an empty examination room, where a single white fluorescent tube hummed quietly to itself. Itsy’s belongings had been roughly stuffed into a green plastic bag, the space for her name filled in with just the four letters, as though nobody knew what her real name was. Yet the patient number had been scribbled in, in black marker pen, her admission date and time, and a note that the contents were contaminated with bodily fluids.

O’Hare had been a star, walking swiftly alongside Itsy’s trolley, through the swing doors that banged noisily behind him, talking to the doctors using technical terms, so the trolley had hardly halted to take on more bells and whistles. Then came a succession of ever more important-sounding doctors, each looking as though he had a lower golf handicap than the last.

Costello pulled on a pair of latex gloves and covered the examination couch with paper roll to catch anything that fell. She unpacked the bag, starting with the Ugg boots – original, expensive. She flipped them over; the soles were unmarked, with no scarring or cuts that might differentiate a print. The beige suede was not yet ringed with rainwater, so they were clearly very new – or a Christmas present hardly worn, perhaps. Marita would know where Itsy had got them from. She looked at the socks, Tigger socks that felt as though they had had the life washed out of them. Such thin socks, on a night like this. On her own feet she had a thinner pair then a thick woolly pair, yet her feet had still been like ice cubes by the time she’d walked from the car to the copse. Itsy’s feet would have been frozen out there.

There was an incongruity too about Itsy’s clothes. The silky top, peach in this light, and now sliced up the front, had a Chanel label, but the duffel jacket was from Primark. And the cardigan was cashmere. Under those Itsy had been wearing a washed-out T-shirt, also now sliced and sodden with blood, and an old thermal vest that was bobbling under the arms. Was Itsy in the habit of stealing or borrowing her sister’s clothes? The tinfoil blanket was in there as well, but Costello didn’t open it. She looked carefully at the big sensible Sloggi pants, but found no blood, no sign of tearing or violent removal. Then she found what at first she thought was a hanky, and opened it out – a tiny pair of knickers. La Perla, silk, the kind of knickers you wore knowing they would be taken off soon, the kind you would want a man to remove with his teeth. Two pairs of knickers? Why? Costello thought for a moment, looking at the expensive silk. A secret life? One for ‘public’ view, one for her? Or him? More likely just another theft from her sister who ‘had it all’.

She checked them quickly; there was some staining, but no blood. So no rape?

Costello folded them carefully. Had Itsy – nice innocent little Itsy – gone out to meet somebody? She was, after all, an attractive woman. And then there was the scarf, the expensive red scarf, folded with care like a pad or a pillow under the victim’s head. Arranged with love? Remorse? Costello spread it carefully. The bloodstains had cleanly defined edges, and the pattern was repeated several times, where the blood had soaked through the folded layers. So had it been put in place while she was bleeding? One for the forensic boys. Costello cast her eyes over the padded trousers, checking back and front. No sign of scraping or tearing. The only damage had been done by O’Hare and his scissors. Costello suddenly remembered what it was that had been nagging at the back of her mind. She had been looking down at Itsy, or Marita as they thought she was then, thinking there seemed to be something odd, as if her clothes – specifically, her padded trousers – had been disturbed, but O’Hare had said or done something that had distracted her. She made a mental note to check the official crime scene photographs. In fact, she’d phone Bob MacKellar shortly, and make sure they were there for the briefing tomorrow. Had somebody grabbed Itsy, pulled at her trousers? Had a potential rapist been disturbed? Had Itsy struggled too hard, earning her a blow to the head so severe that her brain was bleeding? Nothing about this makes sense, Costello muttered under her breath.

‘When did you notice she was missing?’ Quinn asked, twisting round in the passenger seat to talk to the Kennedys, who were sitting in the back. She noticed that Anderson was going the long way round. Good man – he was giving her another few minutes in the car with them, just in case they later tried to get their story straight. But Quinn was not going to give them that time. Marita had come downstairs in hysterics, but had calmed down quickly; it was Iain Kennedy who was badly shaken. Now Quinn was itching to separate them but couldn’t think of a good reason.

Marita sniffed, and dabbed her nose with a spotless white handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry, all this is so much of a shock,’ she said. ‘Itsy was being a pest earlier – wasn’t she? – about being taken to see that albatross out at the Moss. I kept telling her that we weren’t allowed, in case it took fright, but Itsy could go on and on, you know, like a child.’

‘Our gardener, Wee Tony –’ started Kennedy.

‘Wee Tony?’ Quinn asked.

‘Abbott, Tony Abbott, but everybody calls him Wee Tony. He was out looking for her when you came. They’d taken Itsy down to the Moss to look for the bird once or twice before. But tonight they told her it was too foggy.’

‘They?’

‘Tony and Bobby – Bobby McGurk. He’s the … well, I don’t know what you would call him.’

‘He does the heavy work in the garden for Tony,’ Marita put in. ‘He has learning difficulties.’

‘No, he doesn’t, darling.’ Kennedy’s voice had a reproachful edge.

‘Well, he’s not exactly Einstein, is he? Just muscles. And more muscles. But the three of them are as thick as thieves. What actually happened to Itsy? Do you know yet?’

Quinn noted how long it had taken Marita to ask the question. She was glad when Iain Kennedy answered it, talking words of comfort rather than fact.

‘They don’t know yet. She could have fallen and injured her head; it might be one of those head injuries that starts bleeding and they lose consciousness. Jack O’Hare was there, and you know how good he is, so please don’t worry, darling. We’ll know more once we get to the hospital.’ Iain hugged his wife, but the gesture was stilted, wooden. He looked up, noticing the route they were taking. ‘Where are you going? It’s much quicker to go straight down Hyndland Road from here.’

‘Yes, but the fog is causing trouble at the junction,’ Anderson replied smoothly. ‘I’ve checked with Traffic; they’ve had three prangs there tonight. Trust me, we’re a lot quicker going this way.’

Anderson had the kind of honest face you would believe no matter what he said.

Quinn could have hugged him. ‘Could you put a time on any of it?’ she asked. ‘Any kind of timescale will help.’

Marita shook her head, and tendrils of wet hair escaped from under her hat and hung like rat-tails. ‘I noticed she wasn’t around at about six, I think. I spoke to Iain and then I asked Diane to go and find her. I was worried that she’d persuaded Tony to take her out to the Moss after all. But Diane rang to say Tony and Bobby were at home in the gatehouse and that Itsy had been there but left. I never gave it a minute’s thought; I presumed she was on her way back to the house. That would have been – oh, about quarter past. Anyway, I had a lot to do upstairs. Then later, maybe half past seven, I spoke to you again, darling, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, and we realized she wasn’t with either of us. I thought she might not have the sense to come in out of the cold,’ Kennedy explained.

‘So I rang Diane again, and Tony, to get them to track her down. Tony said he’d go down to the pond; she was always going down there to look for those bloody night-thing birds …’

‘Nightjars,’ Iain said quietly. ‘Tony phoned me after about half an hour, when he got back to the gatehouse. That was when I phoned the station, Partick Central.’

‘And I went out with Bobby to look, but Tony stayed in because he’d got cold. He has a bad heart.’

‘And how long were you out for?’

‘We looked all round the pond, and up the far path. I can’t remember how long for. But I got chilled through, and I got one of those terrible cold headaches so I had a lie-down and then a bath. All I remember is being so cold.’

‘What about your security cameras, Mr Kennedy?’ Quinn asked.

‘I doubt they’ll tell you anything. You’re welcome to look but we had the engineer out yesterday to see if he could make the cameras work better in the fog, and he said he couldn’t,’ Iain explained. ‘The sensors on the gate are fine, though.’ Kennedy’s gloved hand rubbed his wife’s arm, giving more comfort to him than her. ‘But I’d already phoned the police. She might have got out of the door and then past the gate. It’s supposed to be security locked but she’s a determined wee –’ He stopped talking as the car swung into the hospital car park.

Quinn got out and opened the door for Marita, then leaned back in to speak to Anderson once the Kennedys were out of earshot.

‘I’ll stay with them. For now, I want you to find Browne – she’ll still be here getting her faced looked at – and go back to Strathearn. You get that housekeeper woman’s story – off the record for now, as we don’t want to alienate these people – and I’d like Browne to have a look round Itsy’s room, see if there’s any reason why she was out on the Moss at that time of night. When you’ve done that, bring Browne back to the station, and persuade her to go home if you can. Then take my car back out to the Moss. We’ll work out how to reunite you and your own car in the morning.’

Anderson looked at the clock, his heart sinking. ‘Back out to the Moss? Tonight?’

‘’Fraid so. I want you to keep an eye on Mulholland for me. I don’t entirely trust him to pass on all that he should. And ask the team if they’ve found any signs of rape. Or blood. A weapon. Anything. If you feel they’ve covered everything of good evidential value, then they can withdraw until tomorrow, but that is your decision not theirs.’

‘What do you expect them to find? The proverbial blunt instrument?’

‘And some footprints would be good. Something uncontaminated. We have two attacks, two head wounds, two mouth wounds. One victim in High Dependency and the other in the morgue. And all the time I’m thinking about Itsy, in my mind’s eye I’m seeing Emily.’

Anderson had the car door closed on him before he could argue.

In the hospital waiting room Costello flicked through a magazine until she came to what her mother would have called the society page. Some footballer was standing with his arm round the Page Three floozy he had left his wife for. Two newsreaders and a pop star at a hospital benefit were holding on to some poorly children, whose small faces were etched with smiles while doubtless wishing they were back in their beds. She recognized a shot of Iain Kennedy and Marita at some charity fund-raising ball. Costello peered closely at the snub-nosed, cat-eyed face. Any more Botox and Marita Kennedy wouldn’t be able to smile without using a crane. How a woman like that got a man like Iain Kennedy to leave his wife and set up home together was one thing. How she did it without being pilloried by the press was way beyond Costello. Of course, the ‘tragic secret’ – that the apparently blessed Marita had a brain-damaged sister – was out, ‘accidentally’ brought to light during a TV telethon for charity. The cynic in Costello knew it was ideal timing; the tabloids were ready to turn Marita into a home-wrecking bitch when up popped a career-saving, pretty-faced younger sister with special needs and public opinion swung back in favour of Marita. And now, with her sister lying in surgery, a tragedy in the true sense, Marita was undoubtedly going to wring every drop of pathos out of the situation. Costello turned the page to the light; just what did Marita have that had netted her fame, fortune and a series of husbands? And this one a millionaire several times over?

And what did she – Costello – have? Her idea of a good time was a night curled up on her sofa with P. D. James and a caramel log. She turned over the page, and there was a montage of colourful pictures of Helena McAlpine. One photo of her in some Moroccan souk choosing reams of dyed silk, short slightly spiked hair tucked under a headband. She’d had her glorious auburn mane cut after losing her husband and had never grown it back. The bigger picture was of her with a bearded man at a charity ball, wearing a long dress made from the silk she had brought back. Now there was a good-looking woman, Costello had to admit. Helena had aged since DCI McAlpine’s death more than three years ago, and had been operated on for cancer which was now in remission. But her face was chiselled, beautiful, marked by her strength of character, sculpted by her life. Costello didn’t need to read the caption, knowing it would say the renowned artist Helena Farrell and her business partner … And there would be the inevitable speculation about a romantic relationship between Helena Farrell and Terry Gilfillan. She wondered if Anderson had seen it. She hadn’t heard him talk about the old Boss’s wife for a while, but she knew he was still keen on her.

Oh well, the Maritas and Helenas of the world got the Kennedys and the McAlpines. She and Anderson would have to be content with a good book and amply proportioned female cops who couldn’t park.

Costello jumped as a door slammed outside in the corridor, and heard running feet. A drama was kicking off elsewhere in the hospital. She squeezed her feet against the green plastic sack that was stowed under her seat, bulky with Itsy’s clothes. She had the eight samples O’Hare had managed to get from Itsy in the ambulance – vaginal, three fingernail scrapes, head and mouth wounds, injuries to lips and cheek – all safe in sealed sterile plastic bags and bottles, ready for Forensics to work their magic. How much use they were going to be, she had no idea, but the chain of evidence was complete, and anything they had could be produced in court. She had done her job. Itsy wasn’t dead, but she’d be as sterile as the operating theatre by now; there would be no second bite at this cherry. She squeezed the bag a little harder.

She looked at her watch and wondered if she had a cat in hell’s chance of getting a cup of tea. But Quinn had told her to sit tight, and Quinn would have her reasons. The admitting doctor and the neurosurgeon had not been hopeful; in fact, they were amazed Itsy was alive at all. Severely injured, with massive blood loss, in a ground temperature below freezing and dropping … Costello shivered at the thought.

She tried to turn her mind to her job. They needed to know the nature of the injury to Itsy’s mouth. How did it compare with Stephen Whyte’s? With Emily’s? Were they all three connected somehow, maybe as people rather than victims? Or perhaps the connection was with Marita rather than Itsy? Where, and who, had Marita Kennedy been ten years ago, the year Emily Corbett was raped? Hosting that stupid TV show where talented pets did stunts like breaking wind to the theme tune of Coronation Street? That was something they needed to look into, but Costello was far too tired to think about it just now. She wondered if there had been any progress down at the Moss. She felt for her mobile and found it in the pocket of her anorak, at the same time realizing she had left her rucksack somewhere. She didn’t remember having it in the ambulance. She must have forgotten it as she helped carry Itsy’s stretcher up to the road. She knew she’d had it when she left Anderson’s car – or had she? Her flat keys were in it. She swore out loud.

She phoned the station. To her surprise Wyngate answered.

‘You still there?’ she asked.

‘All hands to the deck.’

‘Good. Look, Wingnut, I need to get in touch with somebody at the Barochan Moss. Mulholland would do.’

‘Aye, I’ve his number right here,’ Wyngate said, and gave it to Costello with uncharacteristic efficiency.

‘Costello, I’ve no idea where your bloody rucksack is,’ Mulholland snarled when he answered. Clearly his designer cashmere was losing the battle with the freezing fog. ‘No one’s mentioned picking it up. Anyway, why is the victim at the Western? She should have been taken to the Royal Alexandra at Paisley; that’s K Division’s patch.’

‘Because O’Hare said so,’ said Costello, feigning the innocence of the slightly stupid.

‘And does the world do what O’Hare says? Is he God? Don’t think we won’t take the matter further. Anyway, that photojournalist, Harry Castiglia, is on his way over to you.’

‘Who?’

‘You’ll find out.’ Costello could hear the smirk in Mulholland’s voice as he continued. ‘He’s recording your work for the mission statement of the new service. God knows why Partickhill was chosen but the ACC was keen.’

‘He’ll need permission,’ Costello snapped.

‘The Kennedys are friends of the ACC, so it’ll all be arranged. The ink won’t be dry on the deal with OK! Magazine for exclusive rights to the funeral of Marita’s sister. She looks good in black.’ He paused as though he was taking a drink of something, probably a mouthful of nice hot tea from some hapless subordinate’s flask.

‘He’ll still have to get past me, though.’

‘Costello, do you want to be a sergeant all your life? You’re going to have to play the game on this one. Marita Kennedy will waste no opportunity to get her picture in the paper and Harry Castiglia is the man to do it – and with taste and respect.’

‘Surely Marita’ll just tell him to bugger off. For Christ’s sake, Vik …’

‘DS Mulholland to you.’

Costello ground her teeth. ‘Well, DS Mulholland, have a look for my bag while you’re doing media liaison and clearing up our crime scene, will you?’ She snapped the phone shut.

The door opened, and Costello looked up expecting Quinn or Anderson, but she didn’t recognize this guy at all. And there was no way she would have forgotten him if she’d ever set eyes on him before – over six feet tall, longish black hair swept back, a sprinkling of designer stubble and a padded bag over his shoulder. And in his hand, a cup of tea.

‘Hello?’ he said, smiling almost nervously, and hovering in the doorway.

‘The night Reception is down there; I think the main one is closed,’ she said, staring at the steam rising from the tea. She felt her stomach churn.

He made no move to leave; if anything, he opened the door further. ‘I’m looking for a DS Costello … would that be you?’ His voice was from south-east England, polite.

‘I think you know that it is me.’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Who sent you? And is that tea mine?’ Instinctively she shuffled the sack with Itsy’s clothes closer to her feet, like an overprotective bag lady on the last bus home.

‘I was told it was a good way to make friends with the natives.’ He walked into the room, holding his hand out for her to shake. ‘I’m Harry, Harry Castiglia,’ he said. ‘I’ve been all over the place tonight. Good to get a seat. I thought you might be in need of some refreshment. And I was going past the machine anyway.’

‘And?’ She shook his hand but didn’t stand up, then took the proffered cup and had a sip. Perfect, black with no sugar, just perfect. She said nothing.

‘I’m the photographer.’

‘So I gather, but this is not the time or the place. There’s been a serious incident and the family haven’t yet been –’

But he was paying no attention. He swung her rucksack off his shoulder. ‘I think this is yours too.’

‘Oh, thanks. I thought I’d left it down there, but Mulholland said –’

‘DS Designer Cashmere? He could almost turn me gay, that one. Almost.’ He had opened his own bag and was pulling out the body of a camera. ‘It was he who tipped off the ACC about this case. I think he thought I was going to follow him around photographing his pretty face and do a feature on him. However, he got the picture … if you pardon the pun.’

‘You must have been really on the ball, getting there so quickly. Or are you one of those ambulance chasers?’

If Castiglia was offended he showed no sign. ‘Our brief is to follow the work of the Strathclyde Police Service, showing you in your new light for the new decade. Ostensibly it’s for the visual arts exhibition in the summer but actually they want a huge PR success – Strathclyde on a big case. However, so far we’ve covered nothing but drug deaths, alcohol deaths and a few suicides. I was over in Govan earlier tonight and it’s all a bit samey. But this has real human appeal and it’ll show a good murder squad at work. Value-for-money policing.’

Costello glanced at her watch, demonstrating her disbelief.

‘I bet I was called out before you, for the picturesque location if nothing else. Remember you have to think like a PR expert, not a cop.’ He looked through the viewfinder of the camera.

‘Why you?’

‘I was born here so I suppose the powers that be think I’ll understand the natives. But I grew up in London, still live there. Nowhere else to be in my line of work.’

The camera swung in her direction. She reached out and placed her hand on his arm. ‘Didn’t you hear me? You can’t start taking photographs in here.’

‘Yeah, I heard. But don’t worry. I know la Marita. However, my remit is to photograph you lot as you go about the case. No need to mention what you’re actually working on. Anyway, it’s you I’m interested in.’ For a moment his eyes held Costello’s and she felt a frisson down her spine. This guy had charm and he knew how to use it. He carried himself as if he came from the world of the McAlpines and the Kennedys, not the world of the Costellos and the Andersons. But she could look. And dream.

‘However, you do have to agree,’ he said, a shy smile crinkling his eyes.

‘Well, I don’t, so bugger off. But thanks for the tea.’ She crossed her legs in a gesture of dismissal, then turned her head at a noise in the corridor. Footsteps, and a flash of reddish hair seen through the glass door panel. ‘Excuse me a mo. Don’t go anywhere, and don’t touch anything,’ she said to Castiglia. ‘Or photograph it.’