By half twelve they were sitting round a table in Where The Monkey Sleeps. DS Vik Mulholland had managed to join them, sneaking away in his lunch break, curious to hear the fate of his old boss. Professor Batten noticed, with the pleasure of seeing a well-known comedy routine, that it had taken less than five minutes before the sniping started between Costello and Mulholland. If he didn’t know better, he might think they were married. Costello looked solemn in her customary dark grey and moaning about her foot, Mulholland looking very sharp in a charcoal grey, moaning about his leg.
The chitchat was vacuous, merely marking time until Anderson walked in through the door and informed them of the board’s decision. They avoided talking about it, knowing their relief would be heartfelt if Anderson could return, not knowing the appropriate response if he could not.
Batten, for his part, had been glad that his recommendations were positive. Anything else would have seemed disloyal, yet he was still nagged by the fear that his friendship had overruled his professional judgement. He consoled himself with what he knew to be true. Colin needed normality back in his life and his normality was chasing killers. Offering him more atrocities to investigate might overload a mind that was still struggling to come to terms with the past, but his trusted team would be his anchor.
Batten had a look at his phone, a text message from the senior fiscal Archie Walker. Re Anderson. Any news? Batten texted back Nope. He had just pressed send when the door of the café opened. The silence dropped like a stone. They were all disappointed when the small dapper figure of the fiscal himself strolled in.
Batten held up his phone, an eyebrow raised. ‘You just texted me?’
‘Sorry I realized I was passing just after I had sent it. So no word yet?’
‘No,’ Costello flashed him a tense smile.
Batten had not seen either of them for a few months, but recognized that they had held each other’s gaze for a moment too long to be professional. None of his business. Walker’s home life was difficult, Costello’s private life was non-existent. As it was his intention to babysit – he corrected himself, to monitor – Anderson, and make sure that his decision-making was sound and that he had curbed his hypervigilance, it might well work to his advantage if Costello was close to the fiscal. Ideally, Batten wanted DI Costello in an active role and Anderson safe in the office, behind a desk. He smiled to himself as he watched Walker try to extricate Costello from the group, keen to have a private word with her. She blanked him, looking at the menu, commenting that they should wait before they ordered, wait to see if Anderson appeared and what his news was. Mulholland said that they might be better ordering now. It would be cheaper.
And he could really murder a bacon roll.
They were all keeping it light.
And then the door opened.
Again they all looked.
All conversation stopped mid-flow. The figure was outlined in the doorway; a tall, thin man, gaunt-faced, his suit jacket hanging off him loosely.
DCI Colin Anderson smiled, a worried smile that didn’t reach his sunken, red-rimmed eyes. The stressed lines on his face creased up.
‘Looks like I am back.’
There was a fair bit of backslapping and a small discordant chorus of ‘Congratulations’ as they rearranged the seating. Costello gave Anderson a hug.
‘Now, Colin, let’s have something to eat. I am bloody hungry and there is a case I want to get you up to speed on. Fine?’ Walker looked around at the rest of them, ‘Great. Now let’s order.’
‘And he’s paying,’ said Costello, pointing at the fiscal.
‘Actually,’ said Anderson, ‘I’ll pay.’
‘Oh, Christ, he really has been unwell!’ Costello leaned over to feel Anderson’s forehead with the back of her hand. They laughed, and this time it had a genuine ring to it, deep, relaxed and happy.
Batten watched the interplay closely. After the coffee and the rolls came, Walker and Anderson slid closer together and their conversation drifted to the flooding and the never-ending rain.
It was Costello who asked, ‘So what is the case? And is it for him? Or is it for us?’
Walker ripped a bite off his roll, and then dabbed the napkin round his lips. ‘You plural.’
‘Good,’ said Costello. ‘Please make it something good, my life is hell trying to stay awake during these performance meetings.’ She tackled a slice of elusive bacon with her tongue to prevent further escape. ‘So I get taken off that crap and put back on MIT with Colin?’
‘Not exactly.’ Walker put his own roll down, folded the paper napkin and dusted one hand against the other.
‘What do you mean “not exactly”?’
‘It’s a case that is not a case.’ Walker pre-empted their questions. ‘I, we, are waiting for some info back from Pitt Street, but there is something I want looked into – for reasons that might not be obvious at the moment – and, as you lot are devoid of any real working brief, I have suggested that we, as a team, investigate it.’
‘A team that includes a fiscal?’ asked Batten.
‘Why?’
‘Probably thinks we can’t cope,’ said Costello, the words out her mouth before she could stop them. There was a resounding silence.
Then Anderson said, his voice slightly shaky, ‘Well, I am not convinced that I can cope, so any help is good for me.’ He raised a cup to toast them. ‘But why should you be dragged away from your nice dry office, Archie? It’s us who report to you, not vice versa.’
‘My office might be involved,’ said the fiscal, ‘at a later stage, but I want to be in the loop from the start. This will be it.’ Walker’s phone went and he slid out from the booth to answer it.
They watched him pull various faces as he took the call, none of them disagreeable. ‘No, I don’t think he’ll have an issue with that. I was going to suggest it. We have a car here, yes?’ A few impatient nods, ‘What now?’ He flicked a look at his watch. ‘Yes, OK, I think it might be more prudent for us to have two sets of wet-weather gear.’ Another nod, a look back at his colleagues sitting round the table. ‘Oh right, that will be great. Yip, bye.’ He slid back into the seat. ‘From here on in, DCI Anderson, you are behind a desk until you find your feet. Except for the next couple of hours, as we are now going to look at something of interest.’
‘That’s sensible, Colin. Ease you back into the saddle,’ said Batten. ‘And Costello can do all the running about.’ He raised an eyebrow to the DI with comic exaggeration.
‘Same old, same old,’ she shrugged.
Batten watched Anderson bite his lip, just before he remembered to laugh. He caught the watchful glance of his friend’s blue eyes. He didn’t quite trust them. Or himself. Not yet, not now.
‘So what has happened that’s so interesting a fiscal is going to get off his bureaucratic backside and look at a crime scene?’ Costello stirred her tea, knocking the teaspoon off the side of the cup with every rotation. Knowing it irritated Walker, so was worth doing.
‘DI Costello, you can follow us once you go back and put in a request for all documentation on the Melrose case. Just the written stuff – no evidential material. Yet.’
‘The Melrose case?’ asked Costello, confirming that she had heard right. ‘The one from the early Nineties?’
‘Indeed. Vik? We want you as the DS on the team, but we need clearance and it is not through yet.’ Walker glanced at his watch, lifting up the immaculate cuff of his shirtsleeve.
‘So I am not on the case?’
‘Not yet. And so far, it is not a case. And I hope it does not become one.’
Batten noticed that Costello didn’t look like moving. Anderson, on the other hand, the most senior person present, had stood up, ready to follow Walker’s lead.
‘So if it is not a case, then what is it?’ asked Costello.
Walker thought for a moment, then said slowly, ‘It’s a hole in the ground and we want somebody to look into it.’
Archie Walker, the chief fiscal of Glasgow, was sitting in his spotless Merc, out of the rain. As soon as Anderson pulled up behind, the fiscal got out of the car and, springing the boot open, he lifted out a Barbour coat and a pair of green Hunter wellies. He indicated to Anderson that he should join him, and pulled out another pair of boots.
Anderson stayed in his own car, gauging his feelings. Nervous? Sick? Wary? All of the above. There was a film reel of something else playing in the back of his head, something hard to ignore. A soundtrack of darkness and fire and flames, the crack of burning wood in his ears, the taste of charred flesh on his lips.
Full sensory flashbacks.
This was not real.
The rain battering on the windscreen was real. He concentrated on that. There was nothing dangerous lying in wait. There was nobody out there.
This was a test.
He realized he had closed his eyes. When he opened them, the rain was still falling. Walker was still there, one foot up on the rear bumper. It was his first day back in the job.
This was it.
This was now.
He got out of the car, pulling his collar up round his neck. The rain that rattled so hard against his face caused a hard, consistent drumming on the shoulders of his jacket.
Midsummer. Glasgow.
Walker handed him a pair of wellies, saying that he presumed Anderson wouldn’t have his own with him. Nobody had expected him to be operational on his first day, but this needed a gentle and experienced hand.
‘For a hole in the ground?’ Anderson fished, prising the shoe off one foot with the toe of the other, his hand on the rim of the boot to help him balance. He caught sight of the wood to his right: ominous dark trees, growling at him, bending and leaning in the wind, effortlessly brushing off the rain that weighed everything down.
There could be anything in there.
‘You OK Colin?’
Walker’s voice floated over, but he could not take his eyes off the waving treetops. Then he realized he was fixed like a statue standing on one leg. ‘Yeah, I’m OK,’ he replied, holding on to the top of his boot, caressing it, taking deep, regular breaths and thinking it through logically. He knew the techniques to deal with this. Be logical. He turned to face the road, feeling the rain on his face, which was real, and trying to block out the smell of burning wood and the taste of acrid smoke which were not real.
The monster was not here.
Helena wasn’t here. She had lain in a pool of blood under a bright moonlit sky. Claire wasn’t in there, hiding behind a tree, terrified out of her mind. She was going back to school.
He gave a slow count to twenty. And breathed deep while he made a show of struggling with his boot.
‘You OK?’ asked Walker again.
‘Yip, it’s been a long time since I had to put wellies on.’
Walker paused for a moment to reflect, rainwater coursing down his face. ‘Anyway, how are you feeling? Now that you are out and about?’
‘I’m fine.’ Anderson was keen to move on. ‘So what are we doing here? Up in the Kilpatricks, for a sinkhole? A DCI for a sinkhole? Do you think I can’t cope with anything more complicated?’ he joked, zipping up his anorak, which looked four sizes too big for him.
‘Did you use the postcode to get here? You might not have noticed that up there is Altmore Road. Over there is Altmore Wood. You didn’t flinch when I mentioned the Melrose case.’
‘I did,’ Anderson lied, a little chill running through him. He felt sick. ‘But didn’t want to—’
‘We all should feel revulsion in times like these,’ Walker said, kindly, ‘but come on, we are going up there. We need a quiet word with Jim Mitchell, hopefully where nobody else will notice us. And somewhere out of this bloody rain.’
‘So all this rain has caused the sinkhole. Why the fuss?’
Walker smiled and banged the boot shut and set off at a brisk pace, head down, his short legs striding out past a media van, and a few soaked photographers.
They showed their ID to a constable, who was guarding a tape while hiding under a borrowed umbrella. Walker still taking the lead as they walked up the slight hill towards Altmore Road itself. Bored, the constable watched them go past. The insignificant, impeccably dressed man with his hat over his salt and pepper hair and, behind him, taller, in an ill-fitting suit and thin rain jacket, walking as if he was wearing somebody else’s boots, was DCI Colin Anderson. So the rumours were true. He pulled out his mobile – this was news.
Walker had not noticed. ‘Nobody knows you are here, Anderson, and I want it to stay that way.’
‘If I am such a liability, then why did you ask me?’
‘Don’t be touchy, you are the best man for the job. Simple as that.’
DCI Anderson stood in the rain, watching the scene in Altmore Road, deep in thought. He was slow on the uptake these days. Even if he recognized the nuance, it took a wee while for his conscious mind to bring the bigger picture into focus. Connections took their time. Words first uttered, floated past him. He was learning to reach out and catch them, revisit the meaning and the association of what was being said. Ideas forming and reforming.
Altmore Wood.
He had recognized the words ‘The Melrose case’ when he had heard them, but it was only Costello’s response that flagged up that this should mean something.
Altmore Road. Altmore Wood. Where Andrew Gyle had murdered Susan Melrose and her two children.
‘That’s right. Two boys,’ said Walker, shocking Anderson with the realization that he had spoken out loud. ‘Two wee boys killed—’
‘By an axe,’ added Anderson, feeling his stomach evolve into a gripping, tortuous pit. He had made that association quickly enough. Or his unconscious mind had.
Walker stopped in his tracks. ‘Sorry, but that was the kind of fact I didn’t think you'd want to ruminate on.’
‘I am either back on the job or not. Can’t cherry-pick.’
A man in high-vis waterproofs strode down the tarmac towards them. Anderson could see the fire appliance parked across the road. A flatbed recovery vehicle with a Range Rover on board reversed with much shouting and waving.
There were a lot of people standing around getting very wet.
‘Jim, this is DCI Anderson.’
‘A DCI, so what the f … Oh yeah, the history of the place. I never thought of that. Do you think there is a connection?’
‘Can we have a look?’ asked Walker, ignoring the question.
‘Right over there. We don’t know how secure the edges are, so please harness up before you cross that line. Two guys have found something interesting down there to look at already.’
An older man, the name Greene on his jacket, climbed out of a van with two harnesses, like those that abseilers and climbers would use. He held one out to Anderson, one to Walker, then Greene helped them into the various loops and straps.
Walker talked to Anderson all the time. ‘Your team has garnered an excellent reputation for this kind of case.’
‘What kind of case?’
‘Well, this sinkhole needs investigating in the light of what happened in the woods over there in 1992. Don’t forget that Andrew Gyle has always protested his innocence. We need to investigate this sinkhole and we need this investigation to be transparent. If it’s another nail in Gyle’s coffin then so be it, but if it in any way lends weight to an argument that he might be innocent, then we need to know everything there is to know about it. His defence team have exhausted every appeal and every case-review process they can. It has been twenty-odd years, but it is still in the public eye and somebody is bankrolling Gyle’s …’ he searched for the word.
‘Delusions?’ offered Anderson.
‘“Cause”, I was going to say. But you might be more accurate. His supporters will get very agitated as soon as they hear about this. So tread carefully.’
‘Tread carefully on what?’
‘On this bloody concrete would be my first suggestion. Can we have a look now?’ Walker tested his harness.
‘You can. Then you can view the film from the safety of the van.’
‘The film?’ asked Anderson.
‘It’ll all become clear.’ Walker turned to Greene, ‘Somebody was stuck down the hole?’
‘Dirk-Huntley? He’s away to hospital, shoulder injury. He was jumping around so much, yelling to his lawyer, he nearly caused another bloody sinkhole. The value of his house has fallen through the floor, if you pardon the pun.’
Walker turned away from the rain, talking quietly to Anderson. ‘The Dirk-Huntleys now live in the house that both the Gyles and Melroses lived in. The two cottages have been knocked into one. The sinkhole is in the garden of the house both murderer and victim lived in.’
‘OK, so I can see why that is important.’ Anderson looked around, not seeing it at all, not trusting himself.
‘The Range Rover got badly crunched. And somebody got bitten by the dog when it was pulled out the hole. The guy it bit nearly chucked the bugger back down.’
Anderson walked slowly towards the giant cauldron in the tarmac. The terrible sucking and slavering from the water below sounded like a dragon trying to get out. He was aware of the tall man dressed in head-to-toe high-vis waterproofs. The figure next to him was much smaller and slightly rounder, a female also dressed in full-length waterproofs.
Familiarity nibbled at the back of Anderson’s mind. Jack O’Hare, the forensic pathologist, turned round and said, ‘Hello, DCI Anderson, nice to have you back. You remember Olive?’
Anderson didn’t, but nodded and hoped the confusion did not show on his face.
‘Olive Darvel, the anthropologist from the university,’ added O’Hare helpfully.
Anderson recognized her but still had no idea where from. Deep breaths. ‘So what do you have for me?’
‘Look down there.’
Anderson looked down into the angry, bubbling water. The sinkhole was about twenty, thirty feet wide, if not more. The jagged edges of the concrete crust jutted out, the earth underneath still being eaten away by the water. Two pipes were clearly visible, a few rocks, layers of colour variations in formation underneath.
‘Is it getting worse?’ asked Anderson.
‘We are not hanging around to see. Look down there, if you watch you will see … see there, that there.’ O’Hare pointed. ‘Right there.’
Anderson saw a flash of white, there and gone, coming back into view a few feet further on, then sliding under to disappear. At first he thought it was some fish, caught in the shallows, darting out and in the water before he could see them. ‘What are they?’ He leaned forward a little to see better. O’Hare put out a restraining hand.
‘Bones.’