1.45 a.m., Wednesday 10 February 2010
After dropping DCI Quinn and the Kennedys at the hospital, Anderson stayed in the Lexus in the car park, waiting for Browne to emerge from A & E, with the heater on full. He closed his eyes, letting them grow heavy, trying to think about Itsy lying out on the Moss and how she got there.
A sharp rap on the window made him jump. Browne’s bruised face smiled lopsidedly at him as she sank into the passenger seat.
‘How did you get on?’ he enquired.
‘No fracture, but it hurts to talk.’
‘Well, keep quiet then,’ said Anderson. He offered up a small prayer of thanks, and concentrated on driving through the car park in the fog.
But Browne started talking immediately, making it clear she was still on the case, and Anderson didn’t have the energy to argue.
They passed another two prangs on the five-minute drive up to Strathearn, though the roads were mostly devoid of moving traffic. They could have been on another planet. All the time he was aware of Browne’s eyes on him, and longed for Costello and her hopeless map reading, and that easy silence of a well-worn partnership.
The gates opened on their approach, the sensors picking up the presence of the car. The gatehouse was invisible, consumed by the fog; Anderson hardly saw his own frost-dusted Honda until he caught it in the powerful headlights of the Lexus. A rectangle of light fell on to the driveway as the door opened. Diane was waiting for them, her hand clasped tight around a mug of coffee.
‘Come in, do.’ She gave them both that smile again. Her gaze passed over Browne’s swollen face without comment. ‘How’s Itsy?’
‘All we know is that she’s in surgery – well, neurosurgery. There was a bleed in her brain. Her skull’s fractured.’ Then he added, ‘Among other injuries. DC Browne here would appreciate a wee look round Itsy’s room, in case she had a diary or something …’
‘That one?’ Diane snorted. ‘She can’t spell.’ She looked at Browne’s swollen, bruised face again then said dismissively, ‘Down there. Third door.’
And off Browne went.
Anderson cursed inwardly. He was very aware he was talking to a suspect, or – at least until they found out about the timing of the attack – a potential witness, and the fact that he was now on his own left him with a problem.
‘Shall I call the boys in from the gatehouse?’ Diane offered. ‘Bobby’s very upset, so he won’t be getting any sleep tonight, him being the way he is.’ She seemed keen to talk so Anderson decided to sit down and listen. He was shown to a comfy chair in a small cosy sitting room with a warm fire, and was offered fresh coffee from a percolator that sat gurgling in the tiny galley kitchen next door. And chocolate biscuits – Belgian chocolate biscuits. He took one, eyeing up the rest. The coffee would keep him awake, but it was good. And being wide awake might not be a bad thing. It was starting to look as though he was destined to spend the night at the station. Again.
‘Tell me about Itsy,’ he probed.
Diane sighed. ‘Itsy has the reading age of an eight-year-old if she’s lucky. Bobby is … odd. A strange boy. He never says much, so it’s easy to assume he’s a wee bit lacking, like Itsy. But it’s hard to tell. He’s … he and Itsy are very close …’ She shrugged.
Anderson noticed the immediate connection Diane made – Bobby and Itsy, Itsy and Bobby – and raised an eyebrow encouragingly. ‘He’s … ?’
‘Different.’ Diane dunked a chocolate biscuit in the coffee. ‘He talks to plants. He talks to birds. He’s a Partick Thistle fan. I suppose that might be a form of mental illness.’
‘You said “boy”. What age is he?’
‘Oh, late thirties maybe. I really have no idea.’ Suddenly Diane was bored with Bobby as a topic of conversation. She flicked over a dark chocolate biscuit to get to a milk chocolate one. ‘But what concerned us was the stalking.’
‘Itsy had a stalker?’
‘No, Mrs Kennedy. But I expect you’d know all about that.’
Anderson nodded.
‘And of course, she’s a very busy woman. Very few folk realize how hard she has to work.’
Anderson nodded again, letting her ramble on, knowing that sooner or later he would catch up.
‘She’s tremendously generous, taking on Tony with his heart, taking on Bobby with him being the way he is. Well, I suppose you would expect her to take on Itsy, with them being sisters …’
‘Take on … ?’
‘Itsy had to go into a home after the mother died. When she came out, she was quiet, obedient and without the sense she was born with. Well, she was here for two minutes and turned out to be as crafty as a box of monkeys. Not in a bad way, but it makes you wonder.’
Wonder what? ‘So what is Itsy’s problem?’ Anderson asked.
‘Oh, brain damage. Something like that.’ Diane gave a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘But it doesn’t stop her playing us all up. She tries my patience often enough, I can tell you.’
‘I know what you mean. My son is a handful,’ said Anderson encouragingly, remembering the old days when Peter really was a handful.
‘She’s always getting up to mischief, playing the fool, cartwheeling on the front lawn – it was Bobby that taught her how to do that. Well, it’s all right for a little girl, but not the kind of thing a grown woman in her thirties should be doing. And especially not Mrs Kennedy’s sister.’
‘Suppose not,’ said Anderson, rather liking the mental picture he had of a free-spirited Itsy annoying the disapproving Diane.
‘And then,’ Diane leaned a little too close, ‘all this running away nonsense. The boys just encouraged her, taking her birdwatching, teaching her how to do bird calls. And always doing things down in the greenhouse, the three of them.’
‘What kind of things?’ Anderson asked, faint alarm bells calling him from his reverie.
‘Oh, planting things for the kitchen, bringing things on from seed. Itsy likes to help, and Mrs Kennedy’s happy with that as it keeps her occupied. I say “help”, but really – wheelbarrow racing! You never heard anything like the shouting and laughing. It drives Mrs Kennedy mad, since they’re supposed to be working. I mean, there’s taking advantage and taking advantage, isn’t there?’
‘Bobby, Tony and Itsy?’ Anderson acted confused. ‘What age is Tony?’
‘Oh, he’s in his sixties, old enough to know better. You could talk to Bobby and Tony but you’d get bugger all sense out of them. They’re as daft as each other.’
It was beginning to dawn on Anderson that he could sit here all night, and get no more than opinionated chatter out of Diane. Half of him thought that if she kept perking nice coffee and maybe opened another packet of chocolate biscuits that might not be such a bad thing. But he had to get back out to the Moss, and the longer he left it, the longer before he could even think about getting some kip. So he heaved himself to his feet, and set about taking his leave. ‘Can I just confirm when you last saw Itsy?’ he asked, as if he’d only just thought about it.
Diane thought. ‘Oh, I suppose it might have been about five thirty; maybe a bit before. She was all dressed up in her warm coat, talking about going out. Down to the gatehouse to pester Tony and Bobby to take her to the Moss, no doubt.’
‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful,’ Anderson said. ‘I have to make a couple of calls. Can you ask DC Browne to join me in the car when she’s ready?’
‘Any time,’ Diane said flirtatiously.
Anderson let himself out and walked across the drive towards Quinn’s car, a mere outline in the fog. The icy cold in his lungs made him feel alive. And he could understand the sudden impulse to do a cartwheel; there was something oppressive about that house, something inhibitory. It might have grand plaster ceilings and nice carpets, but there was no soul to the place.
He zipped his anorak up to his neck and shivered slightly. He walked towards the car, thinking about the quickest way to drive the ten miles out to the Moss at this time of night – Clyde Tunnel, then the motorway? – and wondering how in heaven’s name Itsy would have got herself all the way out there. He pressed the button on Quinn’s car key, and paused. Was that an animal moving in the undergrowth, or a strange echo in the fog? He reached for the handle of the driver’s door, and jumped as another hand clamped over his.
Costello stopped DCI Quinn in the corridor and took her by the elbow away from the visitors’ room where Castiglia waited. ‘Do I really have to put up with him?’
‘Who?’
‘Harry bloody Castiglia.’
Quinn stood on tiptoe and viewed him through the glass panel. He had his back to them, doing something with his bag.
‘Is that him?’
He turned round and smiled his easy smile.
‘Well, I don’t think many folk would chuck him out of bed. Is he causing you problems?’
‘He’s not really causing me trouble at all. But Mulholland got in touch with the Chief and suggested that this might be a good case to cover and –’
‘Mulholland did?’ said Quinn, quietly. Too quietly.
‘I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if it had come from you.’
‘No, it certainly had not. I was told he was there, but that was all. I’ll sort DS Mulholland out later. But Mr Castiglia hasn’t caused you any problems yet?’
‘Not really, I suppose. In fact, he’s been quite nice so far. Brought me a cup of tea. I just don’t like the thought of being watched all the time.’
‘Give it an hour, you’ll forget he’s there. Just remember that he’s very good at his job, and has a reputation for – to use an old-fashioned word – integrity. I’ve seen the stuff he’s done; it’s hard but it’s honest. He’ll want to show it as it is. The cold lens of the camera can’t lie, can it? He will show us in a good light and that could put an end to all kinds of gossip about our station and our wee unit. I don’t like the idea any more than you do, but better to have him in the boat pissing out than out the boat pissing in. So you do your job and let him do his. The only thing I’m wound up about is Marita Kennedy and the sort of media attention she’ll attract. I can see us trying to keep a lid on this while she organizes photo opportunities all over the place.’
‘How is she – Marita?’
‘Devastated, apparently. Though to be honest, I think Iain is more upset than she is. He seems to be the responsible one of the two. Itsy Bitsy, they call her, innocent, cute and not very bright. Losing her must be like losing a puppy. She’s still in surgery, and I don’t think it’s going well.’
‘Do we have any more of the story?’
‘Anderson’s with Browne, doing Strathearn House now. Seems they noticed Itsy was missing at about six last night. They all thought she was somewhere else – well, it’s a big place. But it’s a long time for someone like Itsy to be AWOL.’
‘But how did she get out to the Barochan Moss? It’s ten miles.’
‘That’s what I’d like to know. I told Anderson to take Browne back to the station – well, she’ll be full of painkillers and minus a car anyway – and go back to the Moss once he was through at Strathearn. He’ll see if they’ve come up with any signs of rape. I’m just worried Mulholland will snaffle evidence that I want to have the first bite of.’
‘I couldn’t see any tearing, blood or semen on her clothes, if that’s any help. But the head and mouth injuries – is there a connection to Emily? Are Itsy’s injuries consistent with Emily’s, with Stephen’s?’
‘Costello, that really opens a new avenue of investigation. Possibly some fine upstanding citizen did to Stephen what Stephen himself did to Emily. But if Emily Corbett’s attacker is still out there and has just attacked Itsy, where does Whyte come into it then?’
‘Ah,’ Costello said quietly. ‘The original team put a lot of faith in Emily’s statement. They were sure, but they just couldn’t prove it. What if they were wrong? We have to consider that.’
‘We’ll consider it tomorrow morning.’ Quinn rubbed at her eyes. ‘Anyway, Mulholland has been down at Barochan all night so that should freeze his ardour a bit. Was he OK with you? Just remember, he wants a transfer back to Glasgow, so he may be one good collar away from being your boss.’
Costello pulled a face. ‘That’ll be the day the Devil ice-skates to work.’
‘Just make my final year a bit easier, Costello. This is a difficult case, and I have enough shit from above without getting it from you as well. Be nice to Mr Castiglia. Shouldn’t be that difficult; after all, he’s very easy on the eye, isn’t he?’
Anderson should have been getting more than a little pissed off driving around in the fog in the small hours of the morning. But he had to admit he wasn’t. Cruising on the M8, heading west, he was almost happy. Compared to lying in the freezing shithole that was his bedsit, or climbing between cold sheets at Brenda’s house, Quinn’s Lexus was sheer luxury.
On the way back to the station, Browne had commented how austere Itsy’s room had seemed – no posters, no pictures, no mess. Nothing that was ‘of Itsy’, was how she had put it.
‘What, nothing?’ prompted Anderson. ‘Nothing personal?’
‘One photograph of the Kennedys on their wedding day, one drawing book, and a bird book. Her clothes were all … functional. No pretty dresses.’
Anderson smiled. No pretty dresses. He would have missed that. He asked Browne to write it up, and she nodded.
Now he was driving out to the Barochan Moss – his foot down, full fog lights on – and the big engine ate up the darkness. He messed about with Quinn’s multi-change CD player, and stopped at a Beach Boys track, the Light Album. It was totally incongruous with the weather outside but it suited his lightening mood. He was beginning to warm up.
He had got bitterly cold talking to that wee guy in the drive at Strathearn. Once he had overcome the initial fright that had nearly stopped his heart, Anderson realized who the small grey-haired man must be. Wee Tony had on an old overcoat, a woollen hat pulled down over his ears, and underneath the old lined face of a man who has lived a few lives, none of them easy, and strange grey eyes that sparkled with a streetwise intelligence. There was something disturbing about the way the hard little fingers in their woolly gloves had clamped over his, something even more sinister about the way he had been waiting outside in the dark, in the cover of the fog and the shadow of the trees. Anderson’s cop’s instinct told him that this was a man who had learned to stay hidden.
It had been an unsettling exchange, and Anderson had not been in control of it. He had felt himself questioned, interrogated even, about Itsy – how she was, who was there, did they need anything? The small man had paced up and down the length of the car like a caged animal as Anderson tried to engage him in normal conversation, but to no avail. Then he’d nodded goodbye, and disappeared into the darkness. Anderson had felt himself summarily dismissed. By Wee Tony.
But as he got into the car to wait for Browne, he had been struck by one thing. Behind that apparent aggression, the man was scared, very scared. Scared of what? As Anderson drove along listening to the Beach Boys, another thought struck him – Wee Tony was the only one so far who felt strongly enough about what had been done to Itsy to get really angry.
Fifteen minutes later, he was pulling up outside the tape placed across the entrance to the lane that ran alongside the dyke at the Moss. There was a van and a police car parked at the tape, and he could see the dim lights of another two vehicles too far down the lane for him to identify them.
He sat for a moment or two, taking in the silence and the raw natural beauty of the place. Remote. Out here, Itsy could have screamed and screamed, and nobody would have heard a thing.
Usually, he reminded himself.
But the Moss was not usual at the moment. With an albatross on the loose, with sightseers trying to get at him and protection teams trying to stop them, the place was unusually frequented. Birdwatchers were out in their dozens, and all sorts of photographers. Sealing off the roads did no good; they tramped across the fields instead.
Itsy had wanted to come out here; the bird was the reason she had wanted to come. So was she followed? Did the person who brought her here attack her? Or had somebody stumbled across her and attacked her? Anderson got out of the car. He marched briskly down the lane, sure now of the direction of the common path of access, and climbed up and over the dyke.
He nodded a hello to the two SOCOs and made his way over to DS Mulholland who was talking to a tall man with a cap on. Another K Division cop? But the body language was wrong. Mulholland was being … Anderson’s mind searched for the right word through the tiredness that enveloped his brain. He had known Vik Mulholland for a long time and this behaviour was unusual. He was preening, showing off to his guest. The tall stranger had a large padded bag hanging on his shoulder. Anderson’s brain clicked into gear, and he tried not to smirk as he approached.
‘DS Mulholland,’ he said in greeting.
‘Oh, Anderson,’ replied Mulholland.
‘You’ll be DI Anderson,’ said the man in the cap, stressing the rank. Their eyes met in a split-second acknowledgement.
Anderson noticed the jacket with multi-pockets, the notebook, the good padded gloves, the standard police-issue map of the Moss. ‘And you’ll be Harry Castiglia?’
‘I wish I was. I have half his income and a third of his talent. I’m Ronnie Gillespie, his assistant.’ He pulled his cap from his head, spiking his brown hair, and Anderson was struck by how young Gillespie looked; his jowls still appeared to hold some puppy fat, or maybe too many late-night takeaways.
‘Mr Castiglia has already been down here. He’s gone up to the hospital now to see what’s happening up there,’ said Mulholland, as if he had just spoken to God.
‘I’m just scouting about. It’s some sight down here, isn’t it?’ Gillespie looked up to the sky, his breath billowing in the night air. ‘It could be the end of the world, any planet in the universe.’ Then he said to Anderson, ‘You know the Kennedys have already given Harry permission to shadow you fully in their part of this investigation? But for now, I’d like permission, you being SIO, to do some shooting here. Harry’s given me a good briefing – I’m to shoot the SOCOs doing their job. Are you OK with that?’
‘Fine. I’m sure DS Mulholland will give you all the assistance he can. Has he been helpful so far?’
‘If I can be of help, or if you or Mr Castiglia need anything at all, day or night, please call me,’ said Mulholland, who looked as though he was not only going to invite the photographers for a drink but was willing to climb into bed with them. ‘Here’s my card.’
Gillespie placed the card carefully in a wallet, then he tactfully walked a few yards away, leaving Anderson slightly more free to talk.
‘Any progress, on the case I mean? How are the boys doing?’
‘The SOCOs have gathered some stones from the discovery site. One of them is stained; it might be blood. There’s a remote chance that might explain the head injury, but not the injury to her face. That was made with something narrower, longer.’
Anderson recalled Quinn’s words about the dangers of speculation as he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Gillespie was very obviously not listening, not eavesdropping. Maybe Quinn was right about Castiglia and his assistant having a good reputation. But then it was in Castiglia’s own interest to gain trust, for his team to become part of their team. ‘What else do you have?’ he asked quietly.
‘There are signs of a struggle, somebody thrashing around. There are marks on the frost of somebody moving at speed from over here; but over there, where she was found …’ Mulholland gestured to the bottom of the field, ‘… the twigs and bark and brashings from when they cleared this bit mean you can’t make out any footprints at all. Otherwise, the strange thing is that apart from the very distinctive boot prints of the guy who found her, there appears to be only one set of prints, alongside the path over there. They go back and forth as if someone was walking up and down. They’re all the same size, about a four. We’re checking whether they match Itsy’s Ugg boots.’
‘Anything else … ?’
‘The bloodstained stone we found – it was sitting in a small hollow with no frost underneath. Which suggests it had been there for some time. And probably had not been moved.’
‘So she struck it rather than it struck her? Meaning she fell? Well, bag up anything else that might be useful.’ And Anderson walked back up the path, chewing over this new information while wondering how long he could hold on to Quinn’s car.
Castiglia sat down opposite Costello, screwing a lens on to a camera body. ‘Was that DCI Quinn? She has a great face. Forceful. She’ll photograph well.’
‘You’d know.’ Costello sipped her tea; it was lukewarm. ‘There’s a cop on our team who was X-rayed earlier, busted nose; you should take a snap of her too, before the bruising dies down,’ she said sarcastically.
‘Oh, I shall. She sounds like the sort of thing I want – police in the firing line. I’m focusing on the crime and the real people involved. This case – My nightmare terror, my personal anguish. Marita tells her harrowing story. Think how many magazines will pay good money for that crap.’
‘I suppose we all have a living to earn. But of course, you are squeaky clean.’
The returning smile was more than flirtatious. ‘I promise I have never sold any pictures of anyone in a compromising situation. Not sold – just used them for blackmail. Much more profitable.’ He winked. ‘Seriously, though, I’m too talented to sink to the depths of the tabloids.’
‘Are you always this modest?’ asked Costello, smiling despite herself.
‘I don’t have much to be modest about,’ he said, without smiling. ‘I don’t find life difficult. I certainly don’t find women difficult.’
‘No, I bet you don’t,’ she said dryly. He was probably right. Did that make him an honest realist or a big-headed bastard? He couldn’t have got through life without being told he was gorgeous by every woman he met. But his charm would not work on her, no chance. She moved slightly along the seat in an effort to create some distance. ‘I’m thinking of going for a refill. Do you want a coffee?’
‘Thank you. Yes – white, no sugar.’ He handed over some loose change, and she took it carefully, making sure their hands did not touch. He smiled up at her. ‘I reckon we’re going to get through this without killing each other,’ he said. ‘Could you just sit down for a minute?’
‘I thought you wanted a coffee,’ she said but she sat down, as he messed about in his bag.
‘I want to set this up. How long have you been on duty for?’ He waved something in the air, a secondary light source.
‘A long time. But if you’re going to go flashing about the hospital, I really don’t think Marita would want to be pictured without her hair done and her full face on.’
‘Not my kind of market,’ he grinned, as the flash went off. ‘I get much better money for real stuff.’
‘Real stuff ?’
‘Just testing.’ The camera flashed again, then he leaned his arm along the back of the chair, one leg crossed over the other, black denim stretching tight over his long thigh, a casual flick of his black hair away from his eyes. ‘You can delete that if you want.’ He handed her the camera. ‘But I’d like to use it – it’s good.’
She looked at the small image on the back of the camera. She had to agree, it was a terrible picture of her, Costello, but her pose said it all. She looked like a middle-aged woman with bags under her eyes, tiredness seeping from every pore, wearing worn boots and trousers, sitting on a hard plastic chair on cold lino. The fluorescent overhead light made everything look hard and harsh. The only soft-looking thing was the bag full of bloodstained clothing that her curled ankle held protectively under the seat.
Harry was talking, long fingers circling in the air. ‘I know it’s a bad picture of you – you’re much prettier and fresher faced – but this is filtered in a gentle grey, which makes it look impersonal. It gives you a hard edge.’
‘Cheers,’ said Costello, sarcastically.
Castiglia talked on as if he didn’t care what she thought, his enthusiasm for his job carrying his conversation. ‘What I wanted was to freeze one split second in time that says everything about your dedication, your passion for the job. And behind you, there’s the clock on the wall. Look at the time. Nearly half past two. It speaks for itself.’
‘It’s good.’
‘Do you want a copy? I’ll drop one in to the station. It’s not the big posh station at Dumbarton Road, is it? It’s the wee scruffy one in Hyndland Road?’
Their eyes met, and she saw something conspiratorial at the corner of his lazy smile. ‘I’ll go and get us a hot drink, eh?’
It was half past three when Anderson parked the Lexus in his driveway. Brenda and the children would be asleep. He kicked off his shoes before going into the living room and picking up Claire’s report card and two opened envelopes: one bank statement and the other a final demand, no doubt. He then padded up the stairs in damp socks, heart and legs weary with the day and night that had been. But the approaching morning would be just as difficult. He needed to talk to Quinn before the morning briefing. O’Hare wanted a word with the investigation squad re his update from the surgical team, and Quinn had forwarded the text to Anderson. The tone of the text was be cautious – something needed to be explained about Itsy Simm’s injuries. Anderson knew in his bones it was bound to throw up more questions than answers. Just like the footprints and the blood-covered stone at the Moss.
He stepped on to the upper landing, and silently opened Peter’s bedroom door. Peter’s bed was empty. Winnie-the-Pooh lay spreadeagled on the pillow, with only Peggy Steggy Saurus for company. Everybody else had joined Peter in the insidious drift from his own room to Brenda’s. Anderson didn’t have to look to know that his son would be in bed with his wife, thin arms coiled around his head to fend off unseen demons. He sighed, and flopped down fully dressed on his son’s bed, his feet hanging over the end. He looked at the model 1926 Gypsy Moth hanging from the ceiling. It had taken him bloody ages to build it, with Peter getting the glue everywhere but where it was supposed to be, and trying to stick the propeller on the wing – like the plane that took them to Benidorm on holiday – rather than the nose. All that seemed so distant now.
He watched the plane undulate in the gentle draught, thinking. He picked up Peggy Steggy Saurus and held it to his nose, hoping it would smell of Penhaligon’s Bluebell, the scent of Helena. It had held the scent of her the day she had given it to Peter, but not now of course. Not after all those washes, the dip in the sea at Largs, and even going head first down the toilet if memory served him right.
He switched on the Thunderbirds bedside light and read through Claire’s report card. He’d spent the few days he had off at Christmas decorating Claire’s room, changing it from girlie pink to a very grown-up magnolia, which was now covered in posters of the latest pop sensation. Her school uniform would be neatly hung up on a hanger on the wardrobe door, the hair straighteners she had got for Christmas would be on her dressing table, Barbie in a box under her bed. Quite the little lady now. No longer a messy, mouthy, lanky girl with skinned knees. She was growing up.
He folded up the report card, and remembered suddenly how concerned Browne had been after looking through Itsy’s room. ‘It was a pokey wee cupboard of a room,’ she’d said. ‘It had no personality about it. Nobody’d made it nice for her.’
He thought about Itsy, who loved the garden and living things, being kept in a ‘pokey wee cupboard’, shut away from the sun. He recalled the deep, deep concern in Wee Tony’s voice. Real concern, compared with Kennedy’s quiet panic and Marita’s initial hysteria that had quickly settled to pragmatism, as most women’s did.
Anderson switched off Peter’s bedside light. He breathed hard into Peggy Steggy Saurus’s thick velvet neck, trying vainly to summon the bluebells. God, he was tired.
‘Are you still here? I thought you’d gone home,’ said Browne, slinging her bag on to the bare freezing floor tiles of the female staff toilet at Partickhill.
‘I was at the hospital, waiting for Itsy’s clothes to be picked up and taken to Forensics.’ Costello peered at herself in the toilet mirror. ‘Where have you been? Did they not send you home?’
‘Well, yes, but my car has no spare tyre.’ She looked out at the fog, and shivered. ‘So I’m not legal to drive. With my luck, I’d get a puncture.’
‘What about that?’ Costello pointed to Browne’s face.
‘Oh, it’s fine. I had it X-rayed. Then I went to Strathearn with DI Anderson …’
‘Why were you at Strathearn?’ demanded Costello, immediately jealous.
‘I’d to look round Itsy’s room, then do a report. But I don’t know what to say. It was like a child’s room. Everything’s thrown together, and she’s got no nice clothes, just horrible dowdy stuff. And there was no diary, no calendar to say she was going anywhere.’ Browne stared forlornly at the mirror, patting the red swelling under her right eye that was threatening to close it completely. ‘I don’t think she likes her sister much.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘There’s a wedding photo of Marita and Mr Kennedy, and Itsy’s stuck a little photo of herself in the frame. It looks like she’s sticking her tongue out at Marita.’
‘Good for her!’
‘She’s got this drawing pad,’ Browne went on. ‘On the back she’s written Iain’s name over and over, in big letters all coloured in, like my daughter does.’
‘But not Marita’s name?’
‘Not once. You know, she’s done loads of lovely bird drawings. There are dozens of them in her drawing book, all labelled, but I think it’s someone else’s writing. She’s really talented.’
‘Well, put that in your report,’ Costello said. ‘But that room – it doesn’t sound like a room for a well-loved sister, more like a kid that nobody’s bothered about.’
‘The only thing was her wee Snoopy dog. It was really scruffy, as though she’d had it for years. But it was real; it was something of hers. Otherwise it was all cheap and … impersonal, somehow. Not quite the story we read about in the magazines, is it?’
‘Indeed. And that house is a bloody palace. Where do you live, Browne?’
‘Jordanhill. The poor part of Jordanhill.’
‘My car’s failed its MOT, you’ve got no spare,’ said Costello, rooting around in her rucksack, remembering the casual way Castiglia had swung it from his shoulder. ‘So tell you what, I’ll shout you a taxi.’
‘But the kids are at my mum’s, in Balloch.’
‘There’s a briefing first thing tomorrow, so I think the kids will be staying in Balloch.’ Costello swore with exasperation and rummaged further. ‘Welcome to a murder squad.’ Costello pulled a face. ‘Shit!’
‘Have you lost something?’
‘My flat keys. I thought they were in my rucksack … and I bet they fell out my bag somewhere on the Moss.’ She tapped her fingers on the top of the flap, thinking. ‘My neighbours have a spare set but they’re about a hundred and ten years old. There’s no way I can get them out their bed at this time in the morning.’
‘Well, my mum will have my kids for another twelve hours, so you can kip on my sofa. You do the transport and I’ll do the B & B. Deal?’
‘Deal.’
Browne slumped on to the floor and sat in silence, staring straight ahead of her, exhaustion hitting home. Costello slid down the wall to join her, her phone open, scrolling through for a cab number. Once she’d ordered a car, they sat for a couple of minutes, their silence accompanied only by the ticking clock. Costello became aware that Browne was breathing unsteadily. She was crying.
‘What’s up? Your first time on a case like this, it can be tough, you know, Gillian. Nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘It’s not just that.’ Browne sniffed loudly. ‘It’s the weather, that fog. I hate it; I feel I’m being watched, followed. It’s really starting to spook me.’
‘Just your mind playing tricks on you,’ said Costello, nipping into a cubicle and coming out with a few sheets of toilet roll. ‘Here, blow on that, as my mum used to say. And if you’re going to cry a lot, you should transfer back to Partick. The rumour is they have soft toilet roll up there.’ She smiled at Browne, then looked out at the yellow fog which seemed to be eating up the street lamp, devouring it. She knew exactly what Browne was feeling, that sensation of unseen eyes, watching.
She was feeling it too.