9.50 p.m. Wednesday 10 February 2010
‘This is fog at its worst. Visibility must be down to twenty yards along here,’ Costello said, getting out of Castiglia’s E-type and pulling up the zip of her jacket. She was glad she had put on an extra layer of clothes.
Castiglia tipped the front seat forward and did some rummaging in the back, pulling out a heavier jacket from under a pile of car tools, and a bag with his digital camera. He handed her a surprisingly light tripod. ‘If I get lucky here tonight … sorry, I’ll rephrase that … if we find the bird, if I get a good shot, I’ll treat you to a pizza.’
‘Tonight? I can’t do tonight.’
Castiglia looked up sharply. ‘Why not? It’s not ten yet. Does Glasgow close early or something?’
‘I’m working later. Maybe some other time.’ She was pleased to see that he looked quite put out. She dug her hands deep into her pockets, and started to walk down the lane to the drystane dyke.
They climbed over the wall, Castiglia giving her a steadying hand. He gestured to her to keep silent as they walked across the Moss, down the slight slope to the copse. ‘We now have to keep quiet. Very quiet,’ he said, kneeling down and pulling her down with him. ‘Because we won’t see it in this fog; but we will hear it waddling around in the undergrowth. Then we’ll see if we can get close to it. A ghostly outline in the fog would make a great picture. As long as we don’t frighten it.’
‘I thought they were supposed to be scared of nothing.’
‘In their natural habitat, yeah. But this is Scotland. Bandit country.’ Harry’s face was very close to Costello’s. He turned and looked right into her eyes, his expression unreadable, and for a minute she thought he was going to kiss her. In that instant she forgot the cold that was nibbling at every part of her. But he pulled away, patted her on the head, and tugged her hat down a bit further. He stood up and walked on. ‘According to this morning’s report, it was down here somewhere, guzzling half a ton of raw fish.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Costello followed him; she tripped on a two-inch sapling stump and stumbled, her rucksack propelling her forward.
Harry stopped and put his arm out, cradling her elbow in his cupped hand as she wriggled her heel back into her boot. ‘Be careful. This is a new path, and it’s still a bit rough. So don’t break a bloody leg.’
She looked at the scatter of recently sawn-off stumps, most of them less than two inches in diameter, and involuntarily rubbed her face. If Itsy had been running, carefree, but clumsy, like a child, she might have tripped and fallen face first on one of those. Might have. It was feasible, just.
The path was like a black ribbon with a fine white border. Harry’s footsteps had crushed the glistening rime, so the dark grass showed through. She remembered the old dance books her granny had had, the black feet making slow-slow-quick-quick-slow patterns on the white page. Her own boots on the hard path left no such marks. Was that how he had done it? Itsy running around in her size-four boots, but her attacker keeping to the hard-packed path, leaving no discernible trace to be found after another couple of hours in the big freeze?
She heard Harry come up beside her, a gloved hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t think about it,’ he said quietly, misreading her silence. ‘Come on.’
The path widened, and he moved to let her walk alongside him, as if sensing her disquiet, thinking she was scared. They went carefully along the clearer, older path.
‘We’d better take care not to stumble into the crime scene – the tape must be around here somewhere,’ said Costello, glad to have something to say.
‘Why are they taking so long to clear the scene?’
‘This fog slows the whole thing down. You don’t realize the difference it makes, not being able to see what’s there.’
‘You were right; there’s the tape.’
They both stood stock-still, and she was aware of Harry leaning in towards her, aware of his breath warm on her neck. ‘Listen,’ she whispered. ‘I can hear something. I think it came from over there.’
Costello was aware that she was holding her breath. She was sure she could hear a large animal moving somewhere behind them. She shivered involuntarily.
‘Don’t worry, it’s only a cow,’ said Harry, taking the chance to put his arm around Costello’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze.
‘Oh no, it’s not,’ she whispered, gazing over his shoulder. ‘Just turn round, Harry. Very slowly.’
Harry turned very slowly indeed, his eyes unblinking.
Perched on a tussock, no more than twenty feet away, was the albatross, his snowy breast opaline and luminous in the hazy dark.
‘Look at the size of it!’ Costello was almost breathless with delight.
‘It must be a metre long. More. Jesus!’
They both stood perfectly still, regarding the bird. The bird looked back at them from his grassy plinth with regal disdain. The downturn of his black eyebrows gave him a stern expression, as if he had been watching them for some while, and had not approved.
‘Don’t you think you should take a picture or something? You are supposed to be a photographer,’ Costello whispered, holding on to the tripod tightly, terrified she would drop it.
Castiglia gently pressed her to her knees, his hand on her shoulder. He sank as well, resting one elbow on his knee as he lined up shot after shot with speed and accuracy. The camera softly whirred; the noise seemed deafening in the silence. Costello watched the bird intently, just as it watched her, but after a few seconds a swirl of fog blew across the Moss, and when it cleared the bird was gone.
‘Did it fly away?’ Costello asked, sounding like a disappointed child.
‘Numpty. It needs a high place and a strong wind for that. It would just have waddled off. Not dignified at all.’
‘I can’t believe we actually saw it.’
‘Well, I’ve proof we did,’ Castiglia said. Then he smiled and whispered, ‘I knew you were a lucky charm.’
He turned to face her, looking deeply into her eyes for what seemed like an eternity. She could see small flakes of grey hair in his stubble, the tiniest of lines starting to gather at the corner of his eyes. At the corner of his nose a broad but faint scar drifted into the stubble, an imperfection that made him a little more human.
His eyes narrowed, as if sensitive that she might have noticed the blemish. From the corner of her eye she saw his arm reach for the tripod, and she instinctively pulled back.
He smiled and tipped the end of her nose with his gloved finger before plonking the tripod in her lap. ‘Once a cop, always a cop. Never quite off your guard, are you?’ He fired off another couple of shots. ‘Race you back to the car.’
Quick as a flash she tipped the tripod back on to his knee, got on her feet and was off.
He didn’t stand a chance.
‘Who is it?’ asked Anderson, opening the door of the cupboard-like room Batten had claimed as his own and peering out.
‘Let me in,’ said Costello. She came in and put a frozen cold hand down the back of Batten’s neck, but he didn’t even move. ‘Welcome to sunny Glasgow, Mick.’
‘Wish it was in better circumstances,’ replied Batten. ‘You well, Costello?’
‘Fine, thanks. Just broken the Winter Olympics 100-metre record.’ She noticed that Mick’s hair was a little thinner, the ponytail a little limper, than when she had last seen him, but the face was the same. Only his eyes were … more nervous, somehow. ‘Guess what we saw – Ally. Like, this close.’ She held up a hand in front of her face. ‘Harry got some great shots of him.’
‘Hope that was all he got,’ Anderson muttered.
Costello peered closely at him. ‘You have lipstick on your face.’ Instinctively he put his fingers up to wipe it. ‘Ha, got you! You were seeing Helena, weren’t you? I knew it.’
‘The penalty for strangling a colleague isn’t so bad when you plead provocation, DI Anderson. I’ll be a witness,’ said Batten, his eyes not leaving the screen. His arms were folded in front of him, fists locked.
The silent video screen showed a woman’s face, tears running down her cheeks. Periodically she would wipe a tear with a paper handkerchief. She would blow her nose, look attentive, nod, then start talking again.
Anderson closed the door behind Costello, and placed his hand gently on Batten’s shoulder. The psychologist still did not react; his eyes never strayed. Then he reached out to press Rewind, and the face yanked and jerked, then stilled, the mouth moving, the tears flowing, as the victim silently began her story again.
Batten pressed Pause, then sat up and removed his headphones. ‘Have you two seen this?’ he asked.
‘Only now.’
‘It’s the interview tape of a woman called Lucy McCallum. Wyngate dug it up for me.’
‘She was on Lambie’s list. She’s the chemistry graduate.’
‘A real achiever,’ Batten agreed.
Anderson’s brain decided it was refusing to work without a promise of sustenance. ‘We need to phone the order in for the curry now, so it’ll be ready when we get to O’Hare’s.’ His stomach rumbled at the thought of some decent food. Decent hot food.
Batten looked up, preoccupied. ‘Chicken korma for me, rice, whatever. I want you to watch this first. I mean, watch it and pay attention. Lucy McCallum is on both Lambie’s list and Mulholland’s, and she fits all the MO criteria. This was recorded two days after she was raped, on …’
‘Seventh of November 2008, in Edinburgh,’ said Anderson. ‘She seems remarkably focused.’
Batten turned off the light and pressed Rewind again, then Play. A sallow-skinned woman with well-cut short dark hair started talking. She was upset but she was also angry. She was dressed in some kind of tracksuit with a towel wrapped around her neck, probably just after examination by the doctor. The film was from the rape suite.
‘She was a chemistry graduate, and a rising star in the Territorial Army. She’d recently run up Ben Nevis, beating a whole lot of men to the top. One super-fit young woman. Like Corinne Hastings, she was out running when she was attacked.’
They watched one face, listened to two voices.
The off-screen voice asked, ‘And what happened then?’
‘I can’t really remember clearly; all I remember was my back on the gravel and thinking that my knee was sore.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t see anything. I was blindfolded, with terrible pressure on my eyes, as if he was trying to force my eyeballs out the back of my head. And then I felt him sit on top of me.’ A handkerchief was handed to her from off-camera. ‘I could hardly breathe. I felt something … something small and hard … poking at the side of my head. Then I heard a noise, right in my ear.’ She tapped the side of her head with a tanned forefinger.
‘You heard a gun being cocked?’
Lucy McCallum shook her head tearfully. ‘I heard a noise, but it wasn’t a gun. And then he …’
Batten pressed Pause, Rewind and Play.
The tanned forefinger rose to the side of Lucy’s head. I heard a noise, but it wasn’t a gun. And then he … Pause. The screen froze, a tear about to fall from the victim’s eye.
Batten stood up and walked behind Costello, his hand on her shoulder.
Costello’s eyes were fixed on the screen, fixed on that frozen tear. Then she heard a faint click right behind her head and she jumped out of her seat. ‘Jesus fucking Christ! What was that?’
Batten turned the light on. ‘My cigarette lighter.’ He showed her his old silver lighter, flicked it open and clicked the ignition. ‘What we hear depends very much on what we expect to hear.’
She was glaring at Batten over her right shoulder. Anderson saw him move his left hand behind her, there was another click, and she jumped again.
‘And what was that?’ Batten demanded.
‘No, an empty stapler.’ Batten sat on the desk in front of them and picked up the headphones. ‘Have you ever heard a gun being cocked, DS Costello? In real life, I mean, not in the movies.’
‘Not that I can recall.’
‘I can’t say that I have either. I’ve heard plenty of knives go through Kevlar, though,’ said Anderson, feeling he ought to contribute to the conversation. ‘Less than two per cent of the Scottish police service are firearms-trained. We’ve no need to be; it’s you bloody English who go about shooting people.’
‘That’s ’cause you lot are so pissed you can’t shoot straight and you have to chib them instead,’ said Batten. ‘Yet listen to how Lucy confidently corrects the interviewer and moves on, very matter-of-fact.’
‘The interviewer should have asked what she did think it was,’ Costello said. ‘If she was in the TA, she’d have had some degree of weapons training. She’d know what a gun sounds like.’
‘She’s certainly totally dismissive of the suggestion that it was a gun she heard,’ Batten agreed.
‘But Emily said that she had a gun held to her head. Right from the start she said that.’
‘And Emily is an intelligent young woman. Her brain told her: I am in danger, something cold and round and metal is being pressed to my temple, therefore the noise I hear is a gun being cocked. She’s probably never actually heard that noise in her life but her brain made the connection for her. So we need to identify which of the victims said there was a gun, and whether it was subconsciously suggested to them. Some of them were interviewed formally by DS Lambie, after their initial interview. I want the three of us to go through all the transcripts, and all the tapes. All of them – not just the formal sanitized statements. If anything, we pay more attention to the early ones before they have time to think. I suggest that we’ll find very few of the victims actually said they’d had a gun at their heads, until they were more or less told, in the form of an indirect question, that they had. I think we’d be better concentrating on the blindfold; that’s a constant in the files Wyngate has found for me so far.’
He scrolled the tape back … pressure on my eyes, as if he was trying to force my eyeballs out the back of my head … Then I heard a noise, right in my ear.
You heard a gun being cocked?
‘I want to know exactly what was said, by every one of them. Lucy McCallum’s statement is the most consistent. She doesn’t change it the way some of the others do. We need to apply to L & B to speak to her. I’ll try and pull some strings.’
‘But the others were scared shitless, confused,’ argued Costello. ‘And DS Lambie is not an inexperienced officer. Could he not have been clarifying what the victims said? It’s not easy getting a clear statement from a victim in shock.’
Anderson stepped in, recalling how many times he had wanted a victim to say something only to be disappointed. ‘Listen to him, Costello. These women were misled. And so were we. Lambie might have his own reasons for doing this. He has some personal agenda to do with Emily, and we can’t blame him for that. That’s why we’re sitting talking about this in a bloody cupboard.’
‘But that stuff they found in Emily’s mouth and Whyte’s – Silico-something – is that not used on guns?’ asked Costello.
‘Not exclusively. Wheels, motorbikes, anything that might seize up. Sure, it’s an avenue to follow. But why the blindfold? Why the pressure on the eyes? And what is making that noise? There are important pieces missing in this puzzle.’ Batten’s eyes were fixed on the photograph of Lucy’s face. ‘These attacks are planned, highly organized, and daring. And another thing …’ he leaned back, ‘… we’ve all known each other for some years now, you and I. But say I suggested to Colin that we go on a raping spree – how long would it take for enough trust to build up between us before I could even ask that question? Months? Years? Which says to me that there is a close connection between the two attackers. They work as a team.’
‘OK, so there has to be time for a degree of trust to build up between these guys. Or these people. I suppose one could be female. So how many victims are we talking about, Mick?’
‘I think nine. The names on Lambie’s original list. We’ve added Shelly Lewis and Shannon McCullough; both raped, outdoors, skull fracture, vehicle involved, et cetera.’ Batten waved his hand as though he was reciting a shopping list. ‘Shelly did sustain a penetrating injury to the mouth, Shannon got off lightly with smashed teeth and soft tissue damage. Three of Mulholland’s list don’t fit. The important components of the MO are missing, so I’m discounting any victims who were picked up in a bar, raped indoors or were drunk. But the final number of victims could be more than nine, could be fewer. We need to go through them again. And look again at the databases outwith Strathclyde.’ He sighed. ‘Who knows how many more are out there, Colin.’
‘And Itsy’s not one of them?’
‘No, and I don’t think she ever was. She doesn’t fit, she never did. Everything leading up to the attack is wrong – the location, the pick-up … She’s wrong as a victim; she’s not an achiever. Far too easy a target. It’s all wrong.’ Batten rubbed his eyes. ‘But tomorrow we’re going to interview Adrian Wood. He’s on a life tariff, so maybe we could use that to negotiate with him. If he shows remorse, helps us out, we might suggest his life tariff could be cut. It won’t be, of course, as he did brutally rape and injure Iris Everitt. But by the time I’m finished we’ll have him for the attack on Abigail McGee as well.’ He got up stiffly. ‘Did someone mention a curry?’ He yawned. ‘Talk’s good, but food’s better.’
Costello did not move. ‘I know I’m being thick, but just backtrack a moment. Why the pressure on the eyes?’
‘Their eyes were covered, and then they felt pressure. Intense pressure,’ Batten replied.
‘But why?’ Costello pressed her palms to her own eyes.
‘I’ve no idea.’ As he walked behind her, he snapped his fingers right in her ear, and she jumped.
‘Bastard,’ she snarled.
O’Hare was sitting at home, thinking about Abbott, the Kennedys’ gardener who he had seen at the Western. Where had he seen that face before? But he couldn’t quite place it. Tony Abbott. Anthony Abbott. The name meant nothing that he could remember. But it would come to him if he left it long enough.
He looked around his living room, ready for the invasion. He had put out a tray of cutlery, put the oven on low, and looked out some dishes that were dusty from lack of use. When was the last time he had had guests? It was far too long ago, and he was looking forward to having all his colleagues round.
He went into the living room, put on the flame gas fire, plumped up the cushions on the big chesterfields, and moved everything of value off the big oak coffee table. He tidied his professional magazines, making sure nothing gory was visible that might upset a sensitive stomach – although where Quinn, Anderson, Batten and Costello were concerned, the word sensitive didn’t come immediately to mind.
He poured himself a finger of malt. Then he sat down in front of the fire in his big chair, the one he usually fell asleep in, and thought some more about Tony Abbott and Iain, the warm greeting, the mutual concern for Itsy. And, fleetingly, he thought of Sarah Kennedy. It was a long time since they had spoken – how was she coping with all this?
He sipped away, trying to relax, but a small doubt at the back of his mind began to gnaw. Wee Tony – he knew that face, maybe as part of a case in the distant past … He sent his brain rifling through his mental filing cabinet; it might take him a while, but he would reach it, it was there. How long ago had it been … ?
He jerked awake as his front doorbell went. He got up and opened the door; it was Quinn, wrapped up in her big cashmere coat, carrying her laptop and a huge briefcase.
‘You look knackered, Rebecca,’ he said jovially.
‘Thanks.’ She handed him her briefcase. ‘Is this for me?’ She lifted the malt from his hand. ‘I need it.’
It has been a difficult night. The fog is bad and the little fish was here, there and everywhere. I now know why she has achieved so much in her little pond. She swims hard, she works hard. She played bodyguard to Marita and I lost her for a couple of hours. I sat outside the station, reading the newspapers that now lie scattered on the floor of the van; the very public private hell that Marita is going through, speculation over the identity of the body hanging in Clarence Avenue, that terrible picture of the poor girl that was raped on millennium night. Back when it all started.
And now we are full circle.
I saw her return, emerging from the fog as she walked up the lane that runs down the side of the station, looking cold but happy. I wondered where she had been. I waited; surely she must go home soon. But when she emerges from the station again, she’s with Anderson and a thin man who seems to have a scarf or a ponytail. He wears a homburg. The three of them walk down the lane into the fog, quickly, purposefully, and I conclude that they are still ‘at work’.
I drive to the top of Hyndland Road and pick them up again in the maze of narrow one-way streets behind the station. They are easy to follow; I can almost predict their path. After a ten-minute walk they turn into the long driveway of a big conversion. Posh, moneyed. I park on the corner and watch through the fog, waiting for a glare of light to tell me the door has been opened. I see them disappear into the warmth.
For the moment, Prudenza, my little fish, is in safe hands and I can rest easy.
O’Hare’s flat was a quarter-villa conversion deep in the West End, at the front of a house with a huge sweeping drive that at one time would have been only a slightly poorer relation to Strathearn. The big front room had been the library in the house’s previous incarnation, and with its old parquet floor and huge oak table it still looked like a library, much as Costello had expected. But the rest of the furniture in the high-ceilinged living room showed all the signs of having been chosen for emotional reasons on the break-up of a family home. O’Hare, such a practical man, did not live in a practical home, and Costello liked him for it. She would bet her bottom dollar that the radio was welded to Radio Four. Photographs filled the mantelpiece. Centre stage was a formal wedding photograph, of a young dark-haired Jack O’Hare with a young woman in her bridal veil, standing on the steps at Glasgow University chapel. Costello knew Mrs O’Hare had been a successful lawyer, but couldn’t recall ever meeting her.
There were pictures of a daughter too – a daughter who was never mentioned. Her life seemed to have ended with a family photograph taken when she was about fifteen. Costello estimated they would have been the same age if she had lived. Then she wondered why she assumed the girl was deceased. The case was getting to her; O’Hare’s daughter was more likely to be a very efficient GP in somewhere cosy like Chipping Sodbury.
Costello leaned back on the settee, staring up at the cornice, feeling tiredness seep into her. Quinn was doing something bossy and clattery in the kitchen, and Anderson was sinking into a big chair as though he was thinking of taking root in it. Both he and his shirt looked as though they needed a good ironing.
‘So how did you get on out there in the ghostly fog with Heathcliff?’ O’Hare enquired.
‘He’s quite a nice bloke really. And we saw Ally.’
O’Hare raised a quizzical eyebrow, and for a moment looked not unlike the albatross himself.
Anderson could feel himself drifting off. Tiredness was taking over, and he felt himself sink deeper into the leather chair, glad of its age and the comfort of its worn seat, relishing the heat from the fire and the warmth of the twelve-year-old malt in his veins.
O’Hare had offered his flat for a meeting, and the offer had evolved into a bed for the night. Anderson couldn’t refuse. He had no desire to go back to his igloo of a bedsit.
The offer had then been extended to Batten, who had not yet found his hotel and, sitting on the arm of the sofa, in quiet conversation with Costello, looked as though he had no intention of doing so. Anderson wondered how Costello was going to get home. Then he realized his glass was getting a refill. O’Hare patted him on the shoulder, an acknowledgement that he was too exhausted to stand up.
He closed his eyes. The chatter eased off, until there was silence apart from the gentle purr of the gas fire, the deep tick of a clock somewhere else in the flat, and the noise of Quinn stacking plates in the kitchen. Anderson was vaguely aware of a car pulling up outside.
O’Hare drew back the curtain and looked out the window. A squad car was turning before driving off, and a female figure was walking up his path. He looked up the street; he knew every car out there, except the wee white van sitting on the nearest corner, the flume from the exhaust pipe showing the engine was running. O’Hare let the curtain close and went to open the front door.
Anderson heard him say a rather formal hello to somebody he knew less well than the rest of them, and Gillian Browne walked in. She shot a look at Costello, a panicked indication that she had no idea what was going on.
‘Have a seat, Gillian,’ said Costello. ‘We’re waiting for the DCI to serve us our dinner. Have you two met?’ She indicated Batten.
‘Yes, we spent a hour in the station earlier; Mick gave me and Wyngate a shopping list of files and photocopies, all to be done without DS Lambie or DS Mulholland seeing anything.’
‘And did you?’ asked Batten.
‘Of course. And I’ve got it all with me. DS Mulholland’s far too wrapped up in his computer to pay any attention to what I’m up to. Sometimes it pays to be daft.’
‘Not harmed your career, has it, Costello?’ said Anderson, his eyes half closed.
Quinn appeared, wearing a pinny over her designer suit and carrying a tray loaded with popadoms, spiced onions, pakoras, samosas and multi-coloured sauces.
Costello noticed that Browne was hovering, still in her anorak, uncertain whether to stay or go.
‘Sit down, join in,’ said O’Hare.
‘Oh, I thought this was for the team only. I was just going to deliver the stuff …’
‘You’re part of the team,’ said O’Hare. ‘So sit.’
For a few moments, friendly chaos reigned as they filled their plates, passing spoons back and forth, ripping naan bread apart and dropping rice on the carpet.
‘Can I say something intelligent?’ asked Costello.
‘That’ll be a first.’
‘Seriously, down at the Moss, I noticed that footprints on the path leave almost no trace. Everything just freezes over again. But they show up, and stay showed up, on the frosty grass. I think the guy kept right to the path – he didn’t cut across, he didn’t run around. So I think those boot prints are Itsy’s, all of them.’
‘And there’s another place where prints don’t show up so well,’ said Anderson thoughtfully. ‘That newly cleared area close to the copse, with the wee stumps. The frost doesn’t lie so well on all the twigs and bark and stuff.’
‘I’ll get the lab boys on to that tomorrow, see if they can test in similar conditions. Just to see if it’s possible another person could have been there and left no obvious prints. Right, Dr Batten, what do you have for us?’ Quinn opened the proceedings.
Batten waved a bit of chicken around on the end of his fork. Browne hastily handed him a paper napkin. ‘Thanks. Overview – an unsolved case I’m working on, the rape of Abigail McGee. The L & B think that a night porter called Adrian Wood is responsible. He’s in Saughton for another very similar rape. Both attacks have the same MO, the noise like a gun, the blindfold, the mouth wound, the head wound. In academic circles you can let it be known that you have a special interest in certain psychiatric conditions, and the psychologist in charge of Adrian Wood suggested I might like to have a word with him.’ Batten paused to shovel down a few mouthfuls. ‘The minute he was caught, a sequence of rapes in Edinburgh, with our signature MO, stopped. Now, let’s move to Dundee. Tayside’s turf …’ Batten speared another piece of chicken, caught it between his teeth, and munched as he reached down beside the sofa and hoisted up his battered old leather satchel. He pulled out four photographs.
Browne was sitting on the very edge of her chair, as if she knew what was coming.
‘Four names, but let’s concentrate on the one you know: Corinne Hastings.’
‘The squirrel-book lady?’
‘The very same, aged twenty-eight.’ He threw a quick glance of acknowledgement to Browne and passed around Corinne’s photograph. ‘We also have Linda Michie, Lisa Arbuckle and Margaret Bowman, all raped between October 2002 and January 2003.’ Those three names are on Lambie’s and also Mulholland’s list. We know that a taxi driver called Edward Pfeffer, who raped Corinne Hastings in March 2003, was found dead much later that year. By which time that particular cluster had stopped. So basically, we have a series of clusters of attacks, in different areas of Scotland. They stop for a while, for – as far as I can ascertain – as little as seven months. But it could be anything up to two years before they start again, somewhere else. This pattern is repeated four times over a ten-year period.’
‘So you’re saying that, despite the fact that some rapists are accounted for, the rapes continue, showing that distinctive MO?’ asked O’Hare.
‘Which is why this is all such a mess.’ Batten took a huge bite of pakora, and continued, ‘I need to put all this through my computer programme and I need two of you sitting there opening old files and answering my questions.’
‘Count me in,’ said Browne.
‘Me too,’ said Costello.
‘You can have Littlewood,’ snapped Quinn.
‘And please be clear that Donna McVeigh wasn’t killed as an escalation of the rape sequence. I think she was killed as part of the “keep quiet” sequence of Pfeffer and Whyte. Which is why she got the superglue. And if I am right, we should also anticipate that somebody left their DNA under her nails. So should we expect to be handed another rapist that the Other Man, the intelligence, is finished with?’ Batten sat forward, elbows on knees, and flicked the catch on his retractable pen, the mechanism snicking loudly in the silence. ‘If I am right, the DNA of the next guy we find dead will match that under Donna’s fingernails.’
‘The DNA may be back tomorrow, or more likely Friday. I expect he’s very alive and very dangerous,’ said Quinn, dismissing the theory. She licked some sauce from her finger. ‘If you say there’s a pattern of clustering, does that mean there’s a definite link between all the other victims? There has to be something that we haven’t found yet.’
‘These women are intelligent, educated, they have good jobs, they’re under thirty. Achievers, if you like. I believe they were all chosen. Lain in wait for, so to speak,’ said Batten quietly. ‘But the important thing is that we shouldn’t think just in terms of looking for the rapist. What we need is the intelligence behind the rapist.’
‘The second man,’ Browne interrupted. ‘So Emily was right all along.’
Batten nodded. ‘I think that the rapist is expendable,’ he went on. ‘Once he’s past his sell-by date, he’s killed. There may be other murders of young men over the past ten years that can be explained by that. Of course, if he’s lucky, he’s hauled into custody before he can be killed, and I’d say that’s the only reason why Adrian Wood is alive. So does the intelligence find a new partner, and start to “groom” him, as we would say?’ Batten took a drink of water. ‘There’s something else that’s been confusing the picture – the gun. I don’t think it is a gun.’ And he told them about his theory, watching Quinn’s face go white as he voiced his doubts.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she said quietly. ‘The Chief is really going to love this.’
‘Can I just go back a stage?’ O’Hare asked. ‘Looking at it diagnostically, are you saying that in each cluster, only the last victim retains some evidence of the identity of the rapist? But that there is never, ever, any physical evidence that might lead to the identity of the intelligence?’
Batten nodded again. ‘That’s my working theory. Basically, there’s an intelligent one telling a stupid one what to do.’
‘So might the intelligent one be sexually incapable, and using the other as a surrogate rapist? Then once he’s finished using him, he leaves a trace of evidence that points to him and kills him? Or do you think that the rapist is killed as punishment for accidentally providing some evidence to link victim and assailants?’
‘I don’t know, at the moment,’ Batten said, looking slightly shell-shocked. ‘Both those scenarios have certain traits that are consistent with a narcissist. But at the moment that’s a step too far. Once I speak to Adrian Wood, I’ll be on firmer ground tackling the other victims face to face. Tomorrow we’ll start examining the clusters, taking the last victim of each cluster and running them through my computer.’
There was a murmur of assent.
‘OK, I have a question,’ said Quinn. ‘DS Lambie. Why is he not here? What do you think he’s up to?’
Batten said, ‘He troubles me. He’s always been after the person who attacked Emily – he makes no secret of it. He was in the original enquiry team. He could have struck up some kind of relationship with Whyte’s mother over the years. He might have known Whyte was coming back.’
‘But Mum would have to keep quiet about that. In that family, I mean,’ Costello observed.
The room was silent.
Batten then said, ‘Lambie is a small cog in a large machine that was getting nowhere. So maybe he took the law into his own hands. Wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘I was rather hoping you’d shoot that down in flames,’ Quinn said. ‘I don’t wholly trust Lambie. Neither did DCI Yorke. Do you think he killed Whyte? Really?’
Browne and Costello both stopped eating.
‘No! David’s a … nice bloke,’ Costello muttered, then said defiantly, ‘How did he get the keys to Clarence Avenue?’
‘Not difficult, Costello. He’s a cop; he’d know how to think like a con man. He’d send somebody round for a viewing, then later send them back for the keys, just to nip round for ten minutes to measure something. Bannon has loads of properties on his hands with the credit crunch – he probably wouldn’t remember, even if we asked him. So Lambie could take the keys and copy them.’
‘But once we found Stephen Whyte hanging he should have been happy. Emily’s rapist was dead, honour should have been satisfied.’
‘But he isn’t satisfied, is he?’ said Batten.
Quinn suggested, ‘No, he’s now on our squad, keeping an eye on us, waiting for us to get close to the real killer.’
‘Lambie has a highly personal agenda,’ Batten said. ‘He thinks he has a personal involvement that he does not in fact have. Or not one we know about.’
‘Wyngate is digging, but all he’s discovered is that Lambie was a junior officer who worked on Emily’s case, that’s all,’ said Quinn.
‘Tell Wyngate to keep digging. Lambie needs to be seen as the incessant pursuer of the truth. He needs to be seen as the great hero – they will appreciate me, they will!’ Batten stabbed the air with his fork.
‘Or the right-minded citizen removing scum like Whyte from the face of the planet?’ agreed Anderson.
‘You have been wrong before, Dr Batten,’ warned O’Hare quietly.
‘But just in case I’m not wrong this time, I think Lambie should be watched. Just watched, nothing else.’
‘You’re saying we should spy on a colleague?’ Anderson looked at Quinn.
‘For the sake of the integrity of this investigation, I agree,’ Quinn said. ‘Leave it with me.’
‘And where does wee Itsy come into all this?’ asked Costello.
‘Into all this?’ Batten leaned back in his chair. ‘Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere.’ He released the nib of his ballpoint. Click …
Costello stepped on the pedal of the bin and tipped in a plate full of leftovers. She then gently kicked the door behind her closed. ‘It’s a terrible thought, that it might be one of us that killed Whyte, isn’t it?’
‘Actually,’ O’Hare said, ‘no. I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often. And I confess I’ve no compunction at all about feeling that justice has been done.’
Costello stacked the plates up on the worktop, noting it was a man’s kitchen. Tidy. Functional. Nothing homely. ‘Prof?’ she asked. ‘Could Itsy have been brain-damaged as a child by being suffocated or held under water for a period of time? Could that account for the way she is?’
‘Oh yes,’ said O’Hare, his brain too hazy for lengthy thought.
‘And this “intelligence” – could that be a woman, do you think?’
O’Hare turned off the tap and slipped some plates into the sink to soak. ‘Could a woman have done that – stood by and watched somebody else commit such violence? Yes. Could a woman commit that amount of violence if the victim was subdued? Yes.’
‘Could a woman have attacked Itsy?’
‘Didn’t Mick just say that they weren’t connected?’
‘Oh, forget what he said,’ Costello said tetchily.
She was leaning against the worktop, a dishcloth over her shoulder, and O’Hare thought she looked totally shattered.
‘Could a woman have attacked Itsy?’ she repeated.
‘I don’t see why not,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I have a theory. Which falls at the first hurdle if nobody can get out of Strathearn in a car without being seen.’
‘Not much of a theory then. Because you can’t get out of Strathearn without being seen. Or at least recorded in some way.’
‘The entry system that monitors everything that goes in and out – can it be turned off?’
‘I would imagine it would record the fact that it had been turned off. And probably by whom. I bet you’d need to put in a code of some sort. There’s a computerized keypad, in the hall I think, which controls the gate. You will have checked that.’
Costello pulled the dishcloth from her shoulder and wiped the worktop with it. ‘Hmmmm. We do know no vehicle got in or out those gates.’
‘Well, that answers your question then. Your theory is rubbish.’ He was too tired to have this conversation any more.
‘Shit,’ Costello muttered. ‘Prof, wouldn’t it be easier if you put all those dishes into that dishwasher?’
‘Never found out how to use it. That’s women’s work.’