4.30 p.m., Wednesday 10 February 2010
Quinn had a quick look at the lists on the wall. Wyngate’s attempt to trace everybody who had had the keys to Clarence Avenue was just a mass of phone numbers and left messages. But he was making a good job of collating the reports on the rape victims in other jurisdictions, and the search references were starting to appear, ticked, crossed or question-marked.
‘Right,’ Quinn started briskly. ‘I am going to be brief, so pay attention. Our investigation into the death of Stephen Whyte has thrown up a great many parallels to other investigations – some solved, some not – across Scotland.’ There was a brief flutter of approval but Quinn just grimaced; she had a lot to do and was impatient to get on with it. ‘First, note this: this briefing is going to continue as it was planned. There is more information to come on Donna McVeigh, so we’ll leave her till last.’ As if to emphasize her point, the fax chattered into life. ‘Meanwhile, we have a growing body of evidence that points to the same rapist, or at least the same MO, in some if not all of these other rape cases. We need to find the link. I would like to start with Corinne Hastings.’ She pointed to the last name on the wall. ‘Corinne was the victim of a rape and vicious assault, March 2003, in Dundee. She was twenty-eight, she was out running, a vehicle pulled in behind her. She was blindfolded, pushed to the ground and quote the cold muzzle of a gun unquote, was held to her head, and somebody tried to force her mouth open. She put up a fight and was struck on the head. She suffered a fractured skull, which required major surgery. But in comparison to the others she got off lightly, with no mouth injury; she did not lose consciousness and she struggled all the time. Her assailants hit her again, then they ran off, and she heard a vehicle pull away. She thought there were two sets of footsteps, and that she heard two doors close on the vehicle. I’ve requested the full file but it might take a while.’ Quinn avoided looking at Browne. ‘One thing she recalled was that the attacker spoke; he told her to keep still, bitch.’
Anderson automatically flicked to Emily’s points of interest listed on the board, the words … Stay still, bitch.
‘Corinne identified his accent as Geordie. A used Elastoplast was found at the scene. In November 2003, Edward Pfeffer was found dead in a disused part of the old sewage works in Dundee. He had been dead six months or more. He was from Tyneside, and had lived in Dundee for two years. His DNA matched that of the pus on the plaster. Anybody want to guess what his injuries were?’
‘Fracture of left parietal, superglued lips? Hard palate shattered?’ asked Costello.
Quinn nodded. ‘Wyngate has before and after pictures of Corinne for us. And one of Pfeffer. Familiarize yourself with her case, OK? She was a librarian at the time, but had also had a little success in publishing two kiddies’ books, about a squirrel with superpowers.’
Wyngate finally found the picture and placed it on the wall, using his elbow to hold it in position while he fumbled with a drawing pin. Corinne Hastings was a round-faced woman with short brown hair, and an expression of studious seriousness. She looked like a librarian.
‘All these victims, not surprisingly, suffered psychological trauma after being attacked, so let’s go through the files with a fine toothcomb, and prepare very definite questions to put to them. Remember, whatever part of the investigation you are scheduled to work on, you will report to DI Colin Anderson. He is the senior investigating officer. I want DS Costello to liaise with the Kennedy family and do all background checks there. And I want that timeline precise. So, since DC Browne and DS Costello still have no viable form of transport, Professor O’Hare has kindly agreed to drive them to Strathearn. Costello will pick up some clothes for Marita to wear for the televised appeal, and the Prof will then take her to Marita at the hospital. Where he works,’ Quinn added, her forehead wrinkling as though the thought had only just occurred to her. ‘Then when Littlewood is through here, he will join Browne at Strathearn, and they will interview the two gardeners Anthony Abbott and Robert McGurk. We are particularly interested in McGurk – he knows Itsy well, he’s young, strong and of limited mental ability. So Littlewood and Browne, do the initial interview, and ask for a voluntary DNA sample. But if you feel he could be a vulnerable suspect or that he doesn’t understand – then pull out and we’ll get a specialist in, OK? Now, I do not, repeat not, want any female officers wandering about in the fog on their own. Do you all understand that?’
There was a murmur of consent, edged with nervousness.
‘I want Mulholland to liaise on Marita’s TV appeal, since he is the most experienced among us at media manipulation – apart from Marita Kennedy herself, that is. In addition to Costello and Browne working on Itsy Simm’s case, I want DS Mulholland and DS Lambie to work on the McVeigh-Corbett-Whyte angle; something might connect to Emily’s case. Wyngate is gathering the files on the victims on Lambie’s list. They will all appear on the wall, so please familiarize yourself with them. Then hopefully by nine tomorrow morning we will have found an area of common ground between the victims, because there has to be one. Their job? Their hobby? Their age? Their education? We’re still waiting for some evidence from all three recent crime scenes, so watch the board for that. We need to know who talked to Stephen Whyte and Donna McVeigh in the twenty-four hours before they died, so that is where we start.’
‘Donna’s phone is missing. It’ll take time to obtain the records,’ said Anderson. ‘We’ve asked for a trace on numbers that called her number. It’ll doubtless go back to a pay-as-you-go cheapie. Any news on Whyte’s mobile?’
‘His mum had a mobile phone which a niece took. Archie has asked for it back, so once we get hold of the SIM card, it’ll be straight to the IT guys,’ said Costello.
‘So we might get a trace if Moira Whyte stayed in touch with her son and phoned somebody here to tell them he was coming back. Don’t hold your breath, though. As Lambie rightly said, this man is intelligent. So, DS Mulholland, find out who Donna had been talking to, and what about – particularly the media. You can do that and the appeal, can’t you?’ Without waiting for his agreement, she continued, ‘Costello, what news from the Prof?’
‘Basically, he confirmed what we know about the injuries.’ She pulled out her notebook and repeated what O’Hare had said. ‘But the inconsistency is Itsy herself. She simply can’t have struck her head on the stone as the evidence suggests, and ended up injured the way she was.’
‘So, if she was attacked, was she attacked in error, by somebody thinking she was her sister? Right! Let’s have the results of the investigations into Marita’s Stalking Hell up on the board in ten minutes.’ Quinn looked at her watch. ‘Dr Mick Batten is arriving from Edinburgh by train any time now. As you may remember, despite the appalling Kim Thompson business, he has an excellent record with this division. So the more information we can give him tomorrow, the more ammunition he will have and the better armed we will be. I want you to give him all the support you can.’
Quinn sighed with exasperation, and continued. ‘It’s beginning to look as if we are indeed touching the tip of a much bigger case. We might have a few more victims that fit the MO. And a few others will be dropped. However, we are not trying to clear up every unsolved rape that has occurred in Scotland over the last ten years – do I make myself clear?’
‘Oh, and who’s going to decide?’ scoffed Mulholland. ‘We’ve hardly started any investigation at all. Any categorization of the crimes must be pure conjecture at this stage. We’re going to need a bigger team. And an expert who knows what he’s talking about.’
‘Don’t worry, DS Mulholland, we have an expert. We have Mick Batten. Like I said, if you can give him enough evidence, he will support your theory. And if you can’t, he won’t. I will remind you, if you need reminding, that we have a vicious killer, or killers, on the loose, so any personal agenda goes out the window – or you can walk out now. Do you understand?’ Although her eyes panned around the room they settled on Lambie, who nodded briefly, then on Mulholland, who looked through Quinn as though she wasn’t there. ‘And if anybody doubts that …’ she held up a fax, ‘… here’s a brief report from O’Hare. Donna McVeigh, née Campbell, aged twenty-eight, had been dead for seventy-two hours at least. The side of the head is almost completely crushed. Lips sealed with superglue, and tearing and bruising around the area as if she’d been trying to scream, which indicates that it was done pre-mortem. There was also a savage rape, while she was alive and while she was struggling. It also looks as though somebody tried to ram something hard down her throat, something oily and dirty, before the superglueing. The Prof’s asked for a rush on the swab analysis of the roof of the mouth.’ Quinn then reached for three separate faxes. ‘Donna was last seen by her husband on Saturday night, about half seven or eight, when she walked out of their home in Greenock and got a cab to Paisley. The hubby, as far as we know, is in the clear. His opinion is that she was with “some bloody ex-boyfriend”.’
‘Whyte?’ asked Costello.
‘According to this report, he doesn’t think so. He knew Whyte and says if it had been him, Donna would have said. And anyway Whyte was dead by the time Donna was getting phone calls from the vague stranger on her missing mobile. Donna lives in Greenock, so we’ve got K Division tracking down the cab driver and looking at some CCTV in Paisley. The crime scene guys also, strangely enough, found a white feather at the scene.’
‘Same as Whyte?’ asked Costello.
‘The feathers are a common finding so I’ve asked for them to be examined by an ornithologist at the Natural History Museum, but that might take some time. And can somebody check whether feathers were mentioned at any of the other scenes – and if so, whether they match those at the Whyte and Campbell scenes? We have various combinations of gun, superglue, and a penetrating injury to the roof of the mouth. But it seems certain that somebody did not want us to know whatever it was Donna had to say. So we seem to be on the right track. I thank you for your attention.’
‘Can I go now, ma’am, for the teas?’ said Browne. ‘I need to eat before I can take my next set of painkillers, and it has been some time. And Professor O’Hare …’ She looked at the clock.
Quinn glanced at her watch. ‘As long as you’re quick. But be careful out there. Don’t fall over anything.’
Browne went out, clicking her tongue at Nesbitt, who trotted out behind her.
Quinn closed the door of her office, not asking Castiglia to sit down. ‘It’s been brought to my attention that your assistant, Ronald Gillespie, has a rather chequered past.’
Castiglia narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘I’d hardly call it that.’
‘I gather he’s been involved in rather dubious photographic activities. Under-age nude girls, to be exact.’
‘Where did you get that nugget from?’ Castiglia casually leaned against the door; he seemed vaguely amused. ‘Oh, yeah, Ernie English. He’s a right old woman.’
‘He sends his regards to you too,’ Quinn said sardonically.
‘Ronnie was set up.’
‘But you being so hot on ethics, surely his association with you could be rather damaging to your career if it got out?’
‘There’s no if it got out about it; it’s never been kept in.’ Harry Castiglia gave a smile that almost melted Quinn’s heart. Almost. ‘It’s no secret. He was set up by the girl’s father. The girl asked Ronnie to take some photographs of her, they went into the woods to shoot them, and she gradually took off more and more clothes. Maybe a more experienced photographer would have said: Enough. I’ve seen the shots and I’d have said she was well over twenty. Turns out she was fifteen.’ Castiglia pulled a wry face. ‘Her dad pretended to go berserk and demanded money from Ronnie, who contacted me for advice. I told him to call the cops in; that sort of thing can ruin your career. Anyway, the father soon backed off. If Ronnie had pursued him, the man would have been facing charges.’
‘So it was the dad’s idea all along?’
‘Of course. The cops had a word with them, end of story. But it left Ronnie a bit bitter. And wary. He was young at the time, and he’s worked with me on a few projects in Scotland. We met about five years ago when he was doing a feature on classic cars. We’ve both had old Jaguars ever since.’
‘I can do without the All Our Yesterdays,’ said Quinn.
‘If he was in any way unreliable, I’d know. But please check him out, check me out as well,’ he offered. ‘Ronnie keeps well away from that kind of work now. Ask around if you don’t believe me. He does landscapes and factories, industrial stuff. Any portrait work, there’s always another person present. You even have some of his pictures on the wall out there. That flat with the attic conversion – that was one of his.’ He leaned forward, and Quinn recognized the lawyer’s trick of drawing in a jury. ‘Look, I don’t expect you to trust me. I’m going out on my own with Costello tonight, but I cleared it with you first so you’d know where we were going and why.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s fine. But Ronnie Gillespie – you say he photographed the loft conversion on Clarence Avenue?’
‘Yes, for some design magazine. He mentioned it when I said I was coming up to Glasgow to do this commission.’
Quinn nodded, her analytical mind digesting the information. They were waiting for a call back from Towerhill Magazines. ‘OK, Mr Castiglia, I think we understand each other. I think you can be trusted with DS Costello. But I doubt she will be taking her clothes off out on the Moss tonight; it’s too bloody cold.’
She let a smile linger on her lips as Harry Castiglia slipped out the door, leaving a waft of good aftershave in her office.
Donald Corbett was a small dapper man who believed in getting straight to the point. ‘I asked to see DCI Quinn. Where is she?’ he demanded.
Quinn herself was nowhere to be found, and Anderson had no idea what she had wanted to say – and no idea what Corbett was to know and not to know. While he was inwardly cursing the man for appearing unannounced and Quinn for buggering off, his face showed nothing but professional concern.
‘Yes, you did, sir, but we didn’t know in advance that you were coming. I am the most senior investigating officer available, so can I be of help?’
‘You know who I am; you know what I am.’
It was not a question, it was a statement, so Anderson nodded, willing Quinn to walk in through the door. ‘Indeed I know, sir. But this is just an unofficial chat,’ said Anderson soothingly. ‘Boss’s office, no tape. Coffee?’
He ushered Corbett through to Quinn’s office, where the walls immediately seemed to shrink round them, such was the force of Corbett’s personality.
‘It will be official if I want to make it official,’ Corbett said, hitching his immaculate trouser legs over his knees to avoid them bagging as he sat down. ‘You know how badly the previous investigation was …’
‘Misjudged?’ offered Anderson. ‘Mr Corbett, you’re a distinguished lawyer. You know as well as I do that any criminal lawyer straight out of uni would have got the case thrown out. I understand that the horror of the attack on your daughter demanded results, but there was simply no hard physical evidence.’
Corbett said aggressively, ‘You have no idea, no idea at all, how that has affected my family.’
Anderson sat down in Quinn’s chair, weary. He sensed Corbett sizing him up, the suit with the bagged elbows, the loose tie, the red-rimmed eyes. He knew he looked as if he had not eaten or slept for a week.
‘You’re right, sir, there’s no way I can know.’ He picked up Quinn’s fountain pen, ‘But I do have a daughter, only a few years younger now than Emily was then. Investigating brutality to young women is part of my job.’
Corbett obviously decided that anger would get him nowhere. But his tone was still fairly crisp. ‘I’m a busy man –’
‘I know, sir, so am I,’ Anderson said appeasingly, and placed the pen back on the desk, as if creating a small barrier between them. ‘The reason I’d like this chat to be off the record will become clear. I think we both want a speedy resolution to this.’
Corbett placed his folded overcoat carefully over the arm of the chair, the collar falling almost to the floor. A small tumbleweed of Nesbitt’s hair, rolling slightly in the draught that wafted under the door, drifted towards the soft cashmere as if drawn by a magnet.
‘Agreed, K Division didn’t cover themselves in glory the first time …’ said Anderson.
‘You don’t need to tell me that,’ Corbett spat.
‘… so we think a new team, a smaller close-knit team, will get better results. We are used to working that way.’
‘DI Colin Anderson?’ Corbett fired the question suddenly.
‘Yes.’
‘You worked with Alan McAlpine?’
‘I did, for many years.’
‘I felt DCI Yorke was too … soft, for want of a better word. It takes a bastard to catch one. McAlpine was a bastard. And a good detective. Fond of his malt.’
Anderson smiled wryly. ‘All three statements are correct. But I don’t think you need worry about DCI Quinn not being equal to it. She’ll fight tooth and nail to get the bastard that attacked Emily. As I said, we are a small team, we all know what the others get up to. We don’t go tripping over each other. But let’s say we are confident that finding Stephen Whyte’s body means a big break, and leave it at that. We will need to talk to Emily. And maybe your other daughter – what’s her name?’
‘Jenny, Jennifer.’
‘And what does she do?’
‘She looks after Emily,’ said Corbett. ‘Emily’s condition has deteriorated over the years, so if the whole thing is to be stirred up yet again I want her kept out of it as much as possible. Jennifer too. I need to protect both my daughters.’
‘But you agree that we can chat to Emily?’
‘If you think it will help, of course you can.’ A sad smile crossed Corbett’s face. ‘Chat isn’t the word. You say you have a daughter – please, just treat mine as you would wish yours to be treated.’
‘Of course, we’ll keep it brief, take it at her pace.’ Anderson picked up Quinn’s pen again. ‘Just one thing, Mr Corbett? You usually work in London during the week, and fly home every weekend? Where were you the weekend of 30th January?’
Corbett said, ‘I was here in Glasgow. But if you do find the man who murdered that bastard, tell him I’d like to take him out for a drink.’
Browne pulled back the curtain of the hall at Strathearn a little and looked out into the fog. ‘I’m not going out there on my own. It’s getting darker than the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat.’
‘John Littlewood will be here in a minute,’ Costello said impatiently.
‘Why can’t we two go?’
‘Look, all you have to do is walk out there, have a chat and come back. We need two cops there, because it’s an interview. But I have to go with O’Hare back to the hospital with clothes for Marita for this bloody appeal. And Littlewood needs to run you back. Gillian, you’ll be fine.’
‘Just don’t get lost,’ said O’Hare. ‘The greenhouse is way over beyond the pond. So take the path from the drive, and bear right. Go down the left side, you’ll end up in the pond, which is unfenced and deep. It’s lethal in any weather and twice as bad in this fog. So just take the right-hand path and stay on it.’
‘Stay right and I’ll be right,’ Browne muttered as a mantra.
The ever-present Diane had heard the buzz from the entry system at the gate and had already opened the door for them when they arrived. Costello had phoned ahead to explain that the black Shogun belonged to the pathologist and that they needed to pick up a list of clothing for Marita to wear for her televised appeal.
‘How is Marita?’ she asked, looking past Costello at Browne’s bruised face but not commenting, her dazzling smile firmly in place.
‘She’s bearing up,’ said Costello. ‘And Itsy seems to be holding her own for the moment,’ she added, although Diane hadn’t asked. There was obviously another question on Diane’s lips but Costello forestalled her. ‘Do you have any videos or DVDs made of the family together, something to give us an idea of them?’
Diane’s eyes flitted to Browne, who was content to look out the window, watching for Littlewood, but her smile did not waver. ‘Of course, please come down here.’ Costello followed her down the corridor to what looked like an office, a nice office but a workplace all the same. A coffee percolator in the adjoining kitchen was hissing slightly and Costello, a confirmed tea drinker, immediately felt sick. There was a range of Marita videos here – her fitness DVD, her TV appearances. Diane ran her finger along the shelf, almost a caress. ‘Take anything you think might be helpful.’ That smile again.
Diane saw her eyeing another three or four in an untidy pile on the bottom shelf. ‘Oh, those are Itsy’s. Filmed here.’
‘Just what we need. I’ll give you a receipt.’ Diane looked nonplussed but before she could argue Costello was on her way back down the hall, the DVDs in her bag. ‘Have you any idea where we’d find Anthony Abbott? Robert McGurk?’
Diane shrugged. ‘They could be anywhere. I’d try the greenhouse first.’
‘We will. Do you have Marita’s clothes ready?’
‘Oh yes, all laid out ready to pack. I know she was hoping to come home and get ready here, but I think she’s having a shower at the hospital.’ She shook her head as if there were just too many things to do in the day and went upstairs, leaving Costello and O’Hare to join Browne back at her vigil by the window.
‘It’s OK,’ said Costello, sarcastically. ‘We don’t really want to have a seat or a nice hot cup of tea while we wait. What does she actually do, that woman?’
‘Anything her employer requires. I’d imagine Marita is fairly high-maintenance,’ said O’Hare caustically.
‘So Marita pays another woman to get her car its MOT?’ Costello said in mock wonderment.
‘I admit, if I could afford it,’ said the pathologist wistfully, ‘I’d quite like to have women running around after me.’
His comment was met by a glare stonier than the accompanying silence.
The buzzer sounded. Costello looked out to see Littlewood, pacing up and down on the cobbled yard outside. She thumbed the green button, the door slid open, and Browne walked out into the fog. Both cops immediately turned up their collars against the biting cold as they faded from view. Costello noticed Littlewood’s arm on Browne’s elbow, correcting her as she attempted to head in the wrong direction across the drive.
‘I hope Rebecca knows what she’s doing, sending John out on a night like this,’ said O’Hare. ‘He doesn’t look well.’
‘That’s a medic’s opinion. But he nearly smiled when he knew he was getting out again. The frustration of sitting back and watching us girls doing it because he can’t is worse for him than his angina,’ said Costello, looking up at the huge staircase, trying – and failing – to imagine herself sweeping down it in a swanky frock.
‘Look at this. I remember Iain talking about it at the Rotary.’ O’Hare was looking at a display arranged on a length of board covered in green felt and mounted on the wall of the corridor which led to a side wing. It was a chronological collage of local social history, photocopied documents and newspaper cuttings, and dozens of old photographs, some of them sepia-tinted, going right back to the nineteenth century. ‘It’s for the Open Doors day and the visual art festival.’
‘When scruffs like me get to mooch round posh houses?’
‘Houses of historical interest, Costello. I know there was a piece in the paper a while back; Iain was asking for old pictures of the place. I think Hillhead Library donated a few.’ He pulled his glasses from their case and peered more closely.
Costello strolled down the display, whistling ‘Yesterday’ under her breath.
‘Good God,’ said O’Hare over her shoulder. ‘There’s the old hospital; that’s going back a bit.’ He bent over for a closer look. ‘No traffic. Those were the days. There’s another huge photo of the Western down here. Look here, Costello, recognize that?’ He pointed to a black and white picture of a magnificent sandstone tenement. ‘Hyndland Road, before it was bombed. That is where you work.’ He stabbed at the picture with a short, very clean fingernail.
‘Really? Wouldn’t have recognized it.’
O’Hare moved along the display, curiously interested. But Costello was bored, wanting to get up to the hospital with Marita’s stuff. She looked at her watch; Batten would be arriving any minute and she had questions for him. Plus there was the prospect of her evening stroll through the fog on the Moss with Harry Castiglia. She looked out the window. O’Hare’s car was shrouded in fog. She shivered; she was getting as nervous as Browne. She knew that what Quinn had said about the women not going out alone was only for Browne’s benefit, but Costello did feel as if somebody was out there. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind, wondering if she had time to get home and grab a shower before the jaunt out to the Moss. But how could she get home in the fog with no car? Shit, she’d meant to phone the garage about the MOT, but it would be closed by now. Oh well, she’d just have to fling herself on the mercy of the oh-so-charming Mr Castiglia. She turned to the next set of pictures. Marita and Iain were standing on the steps at the front of the house, Diane in her navy-blue twinset a few steps down. A wheelbarrow was parked in front of an old man, his face shaded by a hat, and a tall young man stood at his side. They had borrowed a wolfhound from somewhere to complete the picture. Costello looked more closely at the younger man – Bobby? Powerfully built, but a blank face, totally blank. Itsy was nowhere to be seen. Costello’s eyes moved to the window of the great drawing room; the curtain was pulled back slightly, and she hoped she could imagine a wee face peeping out.
The next set of pictures looked like Polaroid shots from the seventies. One caught her eye: a man, and a woman in shorts and a T-shirt, standing next to a pond.
Costello pulled it from its drawing pin, ripping the corner.
The woman held in her hand a small broken fishing rod, and a jam jar half filled with dirty water. Behind the figures were trees and more trees, a park perhaps. Off to one side was an old boathouse crumbling into the water. The couple were not standing together but slightly apart, as if awkward with each other. Between them, resting on the man’s hip, was a kid, not yet a year old, her face turned away from the camera in a tantrum refusal to cooperate. The breeze had brushed the child’s blonde wispy hair across the face of the man who held her. She was dressed up for her outing in a blue sailor suit, and the white hat that belonged to it was bobbing in the water at their feet. The shadow of the photographer was cast in the water, as if he was standing in the shallows.
Costello peered at the little floating hat, trying to make out … Was it a sewn-on badge from the safari park at Blair Drummond? Had it been a dolphin, a fish, the little fish? She struggled to remember. She looked again at the woman’s face. She would know her anywhere.
‘What have you got there?’ O’Hare put his glasses on and took the picture from her. ‘Good Lord, that’s the pond out there. I used to come and mess around here as a kid, you know; the public were allowed in then.’
‘So that was taken here?’
‘If you go out there you can still see where that boathouse used to be. Did you never come here as a kid? In my day we treated it as a public park; it was our pond.’
Costello felt something crawl over her skin, a chilly memory that numbed her brain. ‘Seemingly I did come here.’ She pointed at the figure in the little sailor suit. ‘That’s me. Don’t remember that suit but I remember the hat, funnily enough.’ She looked at the photograph for a minute longer, looking at the three blurred faces. Then she put the photograph down and turned away abruptly. ‘How long is that bloody Diane going to be? How long can it take to stick a few clothes in a bag? And tell me another thing, Prof. Why did she ask after Marita when we came in? It’s poor Itsy who’s in –’
‘Shhh, I can hear her coming down the stairs now.’ O’Hare unzipped his anorak and put the photograph carefully in his wallet.