6.30 a.m., Thursday 11 February 2010
Iain Kennedy had made a decision to sleep in the guest room, not wanting to remember the last time he and Itsy had been in his room. He hadn’t slept well; he had had twisted dreams about Itsy and Marita. The sisters had morphed into each other, so that Marita – or was it Itsy? – had smiled and kissed him, and Itsy – or was it Marita? – had spat at him like a cat. He rubbed his gritty eyes; his subconscious wasn’t telling him anything he couldn’t have worked out for himself.
He had stayed late at the hospital, drained by his visit to the police station. He and Marita had agreed that one of them should stay, and the other should go home and get some sleep. Yet Wee Tony had found out that the minute he’d left, Marita had swanned off to be photographed again.
He was going back to the hospital now, and would take the tattered little Snoopy dog with him. Wee Tony had gone down there early, combining his visit with his morning constitutional for his heart. Marita would already be having coffee and a chat with the photographer while she was getting her hair done. He understood now, all too well, that she was getting her own photo shoot out of the way early so she could appear to turn up at the hospital at 8 a.m., ready to run the gauntlet of the waiting media with smiling and heartfelt thanks for their concern, despite her own personal tragedy.
The crowd of journalists never moved from the gate at Strathearn; they were outside in their cars, drinking takeaway coffee in the freezing cold, but they obviously thought it worth their time. He wondered who had fed them that idea.
The fog still hugged the ground, as it had since Itsy had been attacked. What he could see of the lawn was perfect apart from gouges where Itsy and Bobby had overturned the wheelbarrow. Wee Tony had replaced the divots and put down grass seed, but nothing had grown yet.
Tony and Bobby had come over to the house in the wee small hours. They had shared a silent pot of tea with Iain, and a few rounds of toast that had stuck in his throat. Bobby had just sat in the corner like a big miserable kid, knowing that the others were under strain but unable to say anything to help. Bobby had formed a strong fraternal attachment to Itsy, so that she and Tony were in a sense the family he had never had. It was hard to know exactly what he felt, as he scarcely spoke. His emotion had nowhere to go.
If Marita was being photographed, Iain suddenly realized, and he was here, that meant Itsy was on her own. He felt tears prickle behind his eyelids, and a shudder of grief passed through him. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Itsy.
He sighed and reached for the car keys.
Gordon Wyngate took a deep breath and knocked on Quinn’s door. He never knew how the DCI was going to take bad news; she had been known to shoot the messenger. In fact, the whole team were behaving very strangely this morning; quiet, secretive, no banter, no teasing. Something was going on and he was happy he knew nothing about it.
‘Yes!’ Quinn growled.
Wyngate entered, his speech ready. ‘I thought you might want to know this before we go into the main room, ma’am – Harry and Ronnie are out there. We’ve got further instructions from HQ about allowing them greater access …’
Quinn groaned.
‘And Towerhill Magazines in London got back to me. They …’
‘… subcontracted the job through the journalist to a local photographer, Ronnie Gillespie. Yes, I know.’
‘Yes, but we know the team from the magazine had keys off Mr Bannon, ma’am. Ronnie might have had an opportunity to get them copied.’
‘Ronnie Gillespie’s on my To Do list for you today, Wyngate. Look into his background. Where has he been? Girlfriends? Family? I know he has no convictions on record but sniff about. And keep it to yourself for now.’ She stood up and smoothed her navy-blue skirt down. ‘Right, come on.’
Wyngate followed her out into the main incident room. It wasn’t his imagination – the entire squad almost stood to attention politely and waited for her to speak.
‘Right, first things first. We are treating the case of Ishbel Simm as an attack, though whether it ultimately proves to be one, we shall have to wait and see. The samples taken from her in the ambulance have been tested and we’re waiting on the results, which should be in any minute.’ Quinn ticked them off on her fingers. ‘Also the blood on the scarf that Costello took from under Itsy’s head. The scarf has also proved positive for semen and we are waiting on the DNA profile of that. It’s not Kennedy’s – we know that from an initial comparison – but whose it is, we do not know. The pre-op swabs taken from Itsy’s mouth wound apparently contain some fibrous substance, which is away for further analysis. Nail scrapings are mostly soil, and skin cells from her brother-in-law. The blood and hair on the stone are hers. We are waiting for the analysis of the wool fibres also found on the stone. The DNA test results from Donna McVeigh’s fingernail scrapings will be back later today if we’re lucky. Tomorrow for sure. The lab is checking for signs of Silicolube or anything similar.’
Quinn dropped her notes and folded her arms. ‘Second thing: we’re having trouble with the press up at Strathearn.’ Her brisk manner had changed swiftly to cold fury. ‘And they’ve been up at Kelvin Avenue, at the Corbetts’ house. Emily’s father is not pleased, to say the least. Turns out somebody claiming to be a police officer went there, and they were followed by a lady or gentleman of the press. So the media are now camped out there in force. I am having to eat so much humble pie with Donald Corbett I’ll need liposuction, and I also have his friends in high places to appease, the Chief Constable for one. When Mr Corbett has calmed down, I will approach him to find out who it was who went to his house. And they will have drawn their last breath.’ Quinn glared at them all.
‘But it’s a legitimate line of enquiry for a member of the team,’ said Mulholland. ‘And our information and actions should be treated in confidence. Privileged information should be kept from those who might abuse it. Like a photographer, for instance.’ He glanced pointedly at Gillespie and Castiglia.
‘I’ve been nowhere near that house,’ said Harry, standing like a dark prince in the corner of the room, casually leaning on a pile of his equipment. ‘I asked for permission, it was refused, and I left it at that. If I pursued it, I’d be prosecuted. There are laws about that sort of thing.’
‘Well, Mr Castiglia,’ said Quinn, ‘I’ve found you rather more respectful and ethical than some of the officers working on this case. But it’s your living, so you have to be squeaky clean. And if you stepped out of line, I’d have your balls. But I do draw a line over Itsy Simm. Iain Kennedy can put up with all the media nonsense that’s encouraged by his wife, but if anyone infringes Itsy’s privacy, then I will step in. So if you hear of anything, let me know asap.’
‘We might suggest to Iain that he keeps a low profile, comes and goes in a friend’s car, not his big BMW,’ volunteered Anderson.
‘Or he could use the back way,’ said Browne. ‘Well, it’s a bit of a trek round the pond and down the overgrown track at the far side, and he’d get his car scratched to pieces, but it’d be better than being papped every time he goes in and out …’ She became aware that Anderson, Costello and Quinn were all staring at her, and faltered into silence.
Batten dropped his forehead on to the desk.
‘You stupid cow,’ said Mulholland.
‘Shut up, Vik,’ snapped Anderson. He turned to DC Browne and spoke very slowly. ‘Gillian, are you telling us that a vehicle can actually go in and out from Strathearn without using the front gate?’
‘Yes. You can only see the back gate from the greenhouse and even then there’s another old dilapidated greenhouse and a whole lot of trees in the way. Why?’
‘Why did you not tell us this before?’
‘Nobody asked me.’
‘Who was with you when you found that out?’ Quinn demanded crisply.
‘Well, nobody. I went up there with …’ She pointed hesitantly at John Littlewood.
‘First I’ve heard of this,’ he said, shrugging.
‘We shouldn’t have such an inexperienced officer on a squad like this,’ Mulholland objected. ‘She could be jeopardizing the whole case, for Christ’s sake. She’s a fucking liability!’
Costello jumped to her feet. ‘And you aren’t? Just be quiet, will you!’
Mulholland was red in the face with rage. ‘You going to make me shut up? You and whose fucking army?’
They eyeballed each other. Harry moved to intervene and was stopped by Anderson’s outstretched arm.
‘I don’t need a fucking army!’ Costello hissed. ‘My knee in the happy sacks and you’ll be singing soprano, pal.’
Mulholland took a step back. Browne started to cry.
Quinn had had enough. ‘Right. It’s my fault for not clarifying the purpose of all the officers detailed to work at the back of the house. Not just Browne. Not just her.’
‘Don’t let Vik get to you; he’s being an arse,’ Costello told Browne. ‘He’s not usually as bad as that, though.’ In the shelter of Quinn’s office, Costello put her arm around the tearful junior officer.
‘I think he’s under a lot of pressure,’ said Browne. ‘He tries so hard to do the right thing, but he just makes himself unpopular.’
Anderson mimed to Costello to zip it. ‘If he was the one who went up to Kelvin Avenue, Quinn will have his guts,’ Anderson said. ‘You OK now, Gillian?’
Browne sniffled, and nodded. A mug of hot coffee from Hazbeanz was making her feel better. ‘There’s another thing – my mum isn’t keen to have the kids after school today, so I really need to get home by three.’
‘You’ve put the hours in, no reason why you shouldn’t get away,’ Anderson said. ‘In fact, I should check in sometime today too; no doubt some hopeful young boy is after my daughter.’
‘But I did enjoy last night. I’m glad I stayed,’ said Browne, giving Anderson a beaming smile, which made her look a little less like a sleep-deprived panda.
Anderson saw Costello smirk. ‘Well, I had a blissful four hours’ sleep with a belly full of biryani and good malt, and an earful of Mick’s snoring,’ he said. ‘And if it’s any consolation, the road map doesn’t show the back way out from Strathearn. We might have clicked otherwise. We’ve sent a squad car to do a recce.’ He walked over to the much-written-on board. ‘The timeline’s a bit blown apart now that we know Itsy could have been driven away from Strathearn that night. Anybody in the house – Marita, Iain and Diane – would all notice the BMW or the Jag was gone, or the old Merc, but probably not the wee white van. There’s no point in doing a forensic overhaul, because Itsy was in it all the time. And they’d already been down at the Moss in it, so no point in checking the tyres for soil.’
‘But Abbott was there, in the greenhouse. He would have seen.’
Anderson shook his head. ‘Not necessarily; he was at the gatehouse, then out looking for Itsy. He wouldn’t notice the van wasn’t there unless he went to get it.’
‘OK, redeem yourself, Browne,’ Costello said. ‘Phone him right now, and ask if he noticed anything different about the van next time he used it – seat position, fuel gauge, anything. Oh, and find out whether Bobby can drive.’ Costello turned to Anderson. ‘What’s this Bobby like?’
‘From all reports, he’s rough and a bit scary. He scared the crap out of Browne. Why?’
‘Just something Marita said; she called him a “hunk of rough”.’ Costello thought for a moment.
‘We know Itsy had consensual sex with Kennedy a few hours before she was attacked,’ Anderson continued. ‘But if it wasn’t Iain’s semen on Itsy’s scarf – Marita’s scarf, to be exact – it takes us back to asking whether there was a sexual predator hanging around. We need that DNA!’
‘We’ll have to get on without it for now. What’s Mick Batten doing out there?’ asked Costello.
‘Oh, the nerds are in their element. Batten and Wyngate are moving things around on the board and thinking.’
‘What the fuck did you think you were doing?’
They heard a table crashing over, the sound of a fist connecting and somebody falling heavily to the floor. Anderson rushed out of the office, Browne and Costello hard on his heels. Quinn and Batten arrived only seconds behind them.
Lambie had Mulholland by the neck. He cracked his head soundly against the wall, and held him there by the throat. Then he drew his fist back and rammed it into Mulholland’s stomach and Mulholland doubled over. ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing?’ Lambie screamed again.
Anderson and Littlewood were on Lambie like a shot. Although only a small man, he shook them off, his face red with fury.
‘Lambie!’ shouted Quinn at the top of her voice. ‘You will stop this now!’
Anderson then got an elbow in the ribs and he doubled up.
Browne shrieked, and scrambled backwards to avoid the melee. She banged into the desk, and Nesbitt, brutally woken from his peaceful slumber, jumped up and tugged his lead free as the leg of the desk left the ground for a second. The little brown Staffie squared up to Lambie, snarling at him, teeth on display, his hackles up and his one ear back. He meant business.
Everybody fell silent.
‘Good boy,’ said Anderson soothingly, standing well back in case the dog decided to have a go at him. But Nesbitt just snorted and went back to his bed under the desk, circled twice and lay down.
‘Right,’ said Quinn, taking a deep breath and smoothing down her jacket. ‘DS Lambie, I’d like to see you in my office. DI Anderson, can you join us please? DS Littlewood, please make sure DS Mulholland is OK; take him to hospital if necessary. DC Browne, can you clean the place up? DS Costello will help you. And someone buy that dog a steak for his tea.’ Quinn strode back to her office, risking a sidelong glance at Batten.
Both of them were wondering exactly the same thing – just what was the extent of Lambie’s emotional involvement in the case?
Lambie was not asked to sit down. He stood in front of Quinn’s desk, chewing at the corner of his mouth, his face redder than ever.
Quinn slid into her chair and put some files to one side, giving herself time to think. Anderson leaned against the filing cabinet.
‘This is unofficial at the moment, DS Lambie. You have an excellent service record and I can only presume that something has happened which has upset you greatly. I want to hear your side of the story. No crap, please. My life is quite complicated enough.’ The phone rang. Quinn closed her eyes in frustration. ‘And is probably about to get worse.’ She lifted the phone. ‘Yes, sir.’ She then held the phone from her ear as whoever was at the other end screamed at her. After a minute she said, ‘Yes, I have been made aware of the situation … No, he is outside; DS Mulholland is outside my office right now and I’m interviewing his colleague to ascertain the precise facts. Yes, indeed, sir.’ She put the phone down and let out a long sigh.
‘That was the ACC Crime. We are in deep trouble. Let me guess, DS Lambie. You found out that it was DS Mulholland who went to see Emily Corbett last night. Her father is flying back up from London tonight and wants us all dead by the time he gets here. His best friend in the world is the ACC. And the case is to be handed over to Partick Central.’
Lambie ruffled slightly.
‘What are you so upset about, Lambie?’
‘I’m just a conscientious officer doing my job,’ he said. ‘That family shouldn’t suffer any more harassment.’
‘I’ll try and calm Corbett down, don’t worry,’ said Quinn.
Anderson knew his boss was in trouble. ‘I’ll go up to their house, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’ve time before Mick and I go to Saughton. If we explain to the other daughter how close we are to solving the case and drawing a line under it, she’ll understand. I’ll tell her Vik is an overenthusiastic wanker. It’ll be OK. Ma’am, if the phone rings, don’t answer it. They can’t sack you if they can’t find you.’
Quinn sighed. ‘Thanks, Colin. But you, Lambie? Explain yourself.’
Lambie hesitated. ‘I don’t think the Corbetts should have been disturbed.’
‘Neither do I. It was in contravention of my express orders.’
‘Ma’am, I’d no idea he was going to go charging off to the Corbetts’ house, or I’d have stopped him.’
‘And within five minutes, the press had turned up mob-handed. I’d given my word they wouldn’t.’ Quinn rubbed her face with the palms of her hands. ‘I’m sorry, David,’ she said. ‘Truly sorry.’
‘About what?’
‘About stopping you after only two punches. If I’d known, I’d have let you get a few more in.’