‘Hi, I was told you wanted another body so you weren’t on your own. Standing in the cold. Getting pissing wet.’
‘I asked for a constable,’ muttered Anderson.
‘Tough, you have me. I didn’t even get to finish my bacon roll, so this had better be good.’ Costello zipped up her bright red jacket and looked over at the woods, turning her back to the hole. ‘OK, so what are we doing? Scene of one of the most horrific murders in history over there and a hole in the ground here.’ She walked round the recovery vehicle that blocked the end of Altmore Road, feeling like a late arrival to a good party.
‘They will get the Range Rover back to the garage, then the street will be clear.’ Anderson followed her eye line, looking up the street: four houses on one side, the forest on the other.
‘I asked what are we doing here, not what are they doing here?’
‘Getting some background stuff. O’Hare and Darvel are dealing with some bones. Bones at the bottom of the hole.’
Costello gave him her slow head-turn. ‘Bones?’
‘Old bones probably. Walker is watching on the camera feed.’
‘From the dry warmth of the van. God, he has a tough job.’ She walked after Anderson, who was now striding on, up the middle of the deserted road, a man in charge.
‘Prof Darvel? The forensic archaeologist?’
‘Anthropologist, you were nearly right.’
‘Oh, she’s great. Remember her giving Mulholland a flask of coffee and a custard doughnut at that crime scene on Chancellor Street, four in the morning, minus ten?’
‘I wasn’t there.’
‘Lucky you,’ Costello continued. ‘Soaking wet, freezing cold, I thought Mulholland was going to ask her to marry him.’ She stopped walking. ‘I wonder if that was the start of it.’
‘Start of what?’
‘Start of Vik joining the human race. Do you know who he is seeing now? “Seeing”, as in a “staying overnight and sharing a toothbrush” kind of way?’
‘No. Who?’ Anderson was distracted.
‘Lucrezia Borgia,’ said Costello.
‘Good,’ said Anderson, standing stock still in the rain in the middle of the road, looking up at the big dark house at the top of the road. The dark, uninviting windows and the ivy-clad walls gave it the appearance of a living, breathing thing. If left to their own devices, the trees would swallow up that house, the forest devour it. The road they were standing on must have been the old driveway to the house, back in the day when the land and the wood were all owned by the same person. Anderson looked at the trees and turned away, feeling the panic rising. ‘Anything could happen in there and we’d never know.’ He looked from the woods to Costello. ‘This has been going on for five hours now. The water level in the hole must drop soon. The bones are being stranded and from the top they look human. The views from the camera confirm that. O’Hare is sending somebody to collect them once it is safe to go down the hole. Until there is a logical reason for those bones to be where they are, then we are in charge.’
Costello wondered in charge of what exactly. ‘So what do you want me to do? A house-to-house? A mis-per search?’ And did not add, And when does a DI and a DCI go on a house-to-house? Doing background stuff. In the pissing rain. And why is a DCI here anyway; if this was anybody’s job, it was hers. He should be confined to the office like Walker said he should be.
Anderson, his hand sheltering his eyes from the rain, suddenly turned round to face her, as if aware of her unspoken question. ‘I need to be here, to see this. I need to prove that I can still do the job. So we are going to do what we would usually do.’
She smiled at him, getting soaked, feeling the water run down the back of her neck. ‘Of course you can still do the bloody job.’
‘I’m touched you have such faith in me,’ he said, smiling. The skin round his eyes looked dry and reptilian. Those cold eyes used to crackle with fun and wit and intelligence. There was still something very, very wrong.
‘Not really. Any stupid git can do this job,’ Costello said, and strode onward.
‘Let’s start with number 10. Greene said that they didn’t come out to the sinkhole.’ Anderson started on his way over to the two-storey house, with badly painted window frames and grass two feet high in the front garden. Cheap IKEA blinds hung in the small windows. The date 1875 was carved from the gentle sandstone in an arc over the front door.
‘Weird street, isn’t it? Like a microcosm of the city. All this really old stuff becoming fashionable, boho chic and the dreadful middle classes bringing their coffee shops and couscous with them. The guy in the recovery vehicle said the shop that used to unlock mobile phones on the parade is now an organic grocer. The Chelsea tractors are alive and well and ploughing up the working classes. Ten years ago this street was full of folk whose grannies could walk round to babysit. It would have been lovely.’
‘Crap,’ said Costello. ‘Ten years ago this street was still reeling from the Melrose murders. People visited the woods to see where it all happened. Gyle’s defence counsel have even consulted psychics to see if the spirits of the dead will pop back and tell us all who did it.’
‘That would put an end to Legal Aid,’ muttered Anderson.
‘The result of it all on this mortal plane is that house prices plummeted. And there is increasing talk of getting rid of the wood, developing the area to be rid of the memory. Building a whole load of luxury flats. You can see how much they’d be worth. Twenty minutes from the airport, twenty minutes from the town centre. Yet so isolated, so secluded.’
‘Changing the street name would remove the association with the murders.’
‘Doesn’t make the property developers a lot of money though, does it?’ She punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘You didn’t associate it, did you?’
So she had noticed. ‘Not at first. How could I have forgotten that?’ Anderson turned and looked at the wood on the far side of the road. That little connection had been lost. It was not at the front of his mind the way it should be.
‘Been off your work too long, you’ve started thinking like a normal person. Come on.’ Costello walked up the path. ‘I wonder how many kids in this street go to the local school now. Tojo and Squiffy definitely don’t. Big posh school for them.’
‘Tabitha and Sorrell,’ corrected Anderson, a brief look at his watch. Claire would be at school now.
‘Whatever.’ She knocked on the badly painted door, flaking and swollen from the onslaught of rain. As she waited, she looked round at the front garden, an overgrown patchwork of water and rainfall. It was sodden wet like everywhere else. ‘Is this rain ever going to stop?’
‘Wet weather warnings are out for the West of Scotland. Floods, be prepared and all that.’
‘So that will be a no then.’ She knocked again.
No answer. She leaned over, balancing on the top of the step to look in the window. ‘There’s a book on the arm of the chair; looks like they have gone out, except nobody saw them. They might have pulled an all-nighter and are still snoring it off.’
They were turning away when the front door of number 8 opened. A small woman stood behind, wrapped in a stained housecoat that had been white once. Dark brown hair, unbrushed and messy, was piled on top of her head, dark creases circled her eyes. She leaned against the open door, as if too tired to hold herself up.
‘Did we interrupt you?’ They held up their warrant cards as they walked down the weedy path of number 10 and then up the cracked slabs of number 8.
She looked at them, her big brown eyes opened even further. She glanced down the street to where the fire appliance was now reversing to let the recovery vehicle out. ‘Is it about that?’ she asked, jerking her head towards the commotion at the bottom of the road.
‘In a manner of speaking, please can we come in?’
Costello looked at the sky. ‘Yeah, it’s pissing wet out here.’
Jennifer opened the door wider, ashamed of the smell, of the state of the house. She grasped the collar of her housecoat closed, and pulled the belt tighter, then kicked the baby’s pram and harness out from behind the door. Costello noticed that she was bare legged but wore outdoor leather slip-on shoes. They entered the living room, a dim room with dark brown walls. The cream-coloured wallpaper on the fireplace wall was stained with damp circles and fungus ferns. The décor was much older than this young woman, the dubious taste of the previous owners, no doubt. The house had an appearance of one where nothing fitted, nothing matched and nobody cared.
Two small children were asleep in the middle of the floor in front of an electric fire, one bar sending an orange glow over their restful faces. The slight heat it generated highlighted how cold and damp the air was. It might not be drier outside, but it was warmer. Anderson stepped over to the baby, folded up in a Pooh Bear duvet. He noticed tiny marks on his face.
‘They have been asleep for about two minutes,’ the woman said, wary of the policeman so near her child. She was wondering what plain-clothes officers were doing here. There had been a few uniformed ones at the bottom of the road, but she thought plain clothes were more like detectives, serious stuff. Maybe somebody got hurt, one of the double-barrelleds from number 2. The man was looking closely at Gordy, inspecting him. She bit her lip. Her kids were well cared for, although they might not look it.
‘You look like you have your hands full. I didn’t catch your name?’
‘Jennifer. Jennifer Lawson.’ Had she done something wrong? Had anything happened to Douglas?
‘What age are they?’ He was rubbing his little finger along Gordy’s cheek now; her baby woke with a good-humoured giggle. It was more than he ever did to her.
Jennifer looked from one to the other. The blond man was happy to kneel on her dirty carpet, leaning over the baby, having a peering competition. The female officer with the sharp face stayed in the corner, arms folded, watching her. She knew that’s what cops did. One asked the questions as the other one watched for telltale signs of deceit, but would the cop mistake deceit for the simple inability to think straight after three sleepless nights?
‘How old?’
‘Six months and two. Two and a bit.’
The blond man stood up. He smiled at her, pretending to be charming. She hadn’t caught their names, but she had seen enough episodes of Taggart to know that they weren’t normal police, and it would be normal police who attended sinkholes. This lot were definitely here about something else.
‘Do you live alone?’ the small female asked, her eyes wandering over the clothes rack, strewn with Babygros, a pair of her jeans, a couple of T-shirts. There was more on the top of the radiator. The laundry all said single mother not coping with young children. Her narrow eyes clocked the pile of dirty clothes at the door and the sofa so full of junk that nobody could sit down. She had ignored the boys totally. She pulled her wet, short hair behind her ears, making her face look skeletal, and revealing a lightning-shaped scar above one eyebrow while she flashed Jennifer a quick half-smile. She reminded Jennifer of a P6 teacher she had hated.
‘Am I in any trouble?’
‘Not at all. Do you mind if we sit down?’
Oh no, they meant to stay. ‘Why?’
‘We’ve been standing out there for ages,’ lied Anderson. ‘And you needed to get out the street? Are you OK?’
And they expected her to believe that? ‘They told me to stay in. I couldn’t come out with the boys, could I? I have been trying to get them to sleep all night – just as they go over, all that screeching starts at the bottom of the road. Why are you here?’ she asked again, but pointed to the sofa. ‘Either end, don’t sit in the middle, he’s peed on that.’ She swivelled her fingertip at the small pool in the dip of the leather sofa cushion.
‘You trying to potty-train him?’
‘Yeah – not very well, though. He prefers to pee on the sofa.’
‘So how long have you lived here?’ asked Anderson.
‘Two years … seems like a life sentence.’
‘Have a seat, Jennifer, we need to ask you a few background questions.’
‘Why? It’s just a hole in the road,’ said Jennifer, staying where she was.
‘I asked the same question,’ said Costello, looking out the window.
‘We were told to make sure that everybody was accounted for. You’d think we didn’t have enough to do,’ he lied, beaming Jennifer a smile, a shrug of the shoulders. Bosses? What can you do?
Jennifer slid on to the arm of the chair, pulling her housecoat around her, tighter. ‘OK. What do you want to know?’
‘Do you stay here on your own, with the kids?’
‘No, my husband lives here, Douglas Lawson.’
‘Is he here at the moment?’
Jennifer was about to answer when Gordy started coughing. She went to the child, kneeling down beside him, loosening off the Babygro button at his neck. ‘He’s at work.’
Costello made a face; this was like pulling teeth.
‘He’s always at work,’ continued Jennifer, rubbing the baby’s tummy as it coughed and wheezed, legs kicking in the air. ‘We have a flat in Edinburgh, he stays there a lot during the week.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s a banker, an investment banker. Some folk would call him a criminal.’ She smiled at her little joke.
‘How old are you, Jennifer?’
‘Twenty-two. Has something happened to Douglas?’ Panic spread across her face for a moment, giving her face a flush of youth.
‘No, nothing. It does leave you with a lot to do, though. Do you have any support round here?’
‘No, I manage,’ she pulled herself straight. ‘So how can I help you?’
‘Not much, if you have only been here a year,’ said Costello, noting how Jennifer’s eyes flicked out the window to the wood beyond. Something connected. ‘Do you know your neighbours well?’
Jennifer shook her head.
‘Not any of them? Surely you have wee chats over the garden fence while hanging out the washing? A hello while you bring the shopping in from the car?’
But Jennifer shook her head with a wry smile. ‘No, but the street has its own Peeping Tom. The old guy from Altmore House, Castle Grayskull more like. Never peeps at me, though.’
Costello made a note. ‘But neighbours? Friends?’
‘No, they go to work. They go out in the morning, they come back at night. I was thinking this morning, when the woman from number twelve – Laura? – went out running with her poodle. I did wave at her but she didn’t see me.’
‘But you lived here when the wee guy was born. Didn’t they come around and say hello or bring you presents? When my oldest was born, the house turned into some kind of café.’
Costello, still at the door, folded her arms and sighed.
Jennifer shook her head.
‘How old is Douglas?’ Costello indicated the photograph on the mantelpiece, ‘Is that him?’
‘Yes. He’s thirty-four. He’s very busy at work.’
‘Did you know anything about the area – you know, before you bought it?’ Costello asked, looking at the mould on the wall.
‘Oh yes,’ her face relaxed. ‘I knew about the murders across the road. And because of that we got the house under the market value. Douglas knew about that and he was right, because with the new development going on over the hill, this land is going to be really valuable. They need the access road. I mean a thirty-five – maybe forty per cent – mark-up. So this is the investment and the real house is the Edinburgh flat. It’s a really nice flat.’ Her rapid flow of words made it sound as though she had said this a lot, if only to herself.
‘But you and the kids stay here, so this is the proper home, and it should be warmer than this, Jennifer.’
‘I know, but the boiler is a pain in the bum. There’s no point in fixing it, though, not when the house is going to get pulled down.’
‘Will they get planning permission for that?’ Costello asked, her voice doubtful.
‘Why – have you heard anything?’ Jennifer wondered why they were asking her, ‘I heard it was all going through.’
‘The sinkhole might put a stop to it.’
‘Oh God, don’t say that I am going to be stuck here.’ Her deflation was almost comical.
‘It would be a lovely house if it was done up. Look what the Dirk-Huntleys have done with theirs,’ said Anderson.
‘A lot of money and a lot of work.’
Gordy started coughing again.
‘I gave up and bought brand new,’ said Costello, joining in the useless chitchat as Anderson made no sign of leaving.
‘The Edinburgh flat is a new build. I’ve only been at it twice.’
Gordy started to splutter, going red in the face, his body writhing, back arching. Jennifer leaned forward to pick him up. She dug around in her housecoat pocket for a tissue and began to dab him round his nostrils and his streaming eyes. A hand presented her with another tissue; it was Anderson, now kneeling beside her. The coughing went on and on. Gordy started to go blue.
‘Jennifer, have you had him to the doctor?’
‘I was going to go today, but I need the double pram to get down to the bus stop and it is a long walk down to the parade. Then the sinkhole happened and I sort of lost track of time.’ She hung her head and shook some sense into her fuzzy brain. ‘Are you going to tell social services?’
‘No. Don’t you have a car Jennifer? You need one to live here; there’s nothing close by.’
She shook her head again.
Costello smirked as she asked, ‘I bet your husband does a big mileage?’
‘Yes, and he needs a good car, he needs to go to Edinburgh.’
Costello mouthed the word wanker in the direction of Douglas’s photograph, a handsome, Beckham-esque, metrosexual face.
The coughing continued.
‘There are trains to Edinburgh, I believe,’ said Costello, but her sarcasm was lost in Jennifer’s submissive shrug. ‘You need a car.’
‘Jennifer, I don’t like the marks on him, we need to get him checked out. Do you want to have a shower?’
‘There’s no water, now …’ said Jennifer, her voice weak by the onslaught of life that was blowing in her face.
‘Oh, so … and you wouldn’t think about going to a neighbour?’
‘Like I said, I don’t know any of them. I might try the tap again; it turned off. Maybe all the water is in the sinkhole. The pipes were making noises earlier.’
Anderson lifted Gordy up from the floor.
‘Be careful, he will pee on you.’
‘He’s had two kids, he’s used to it,’ said Costello, making herself comfy, leaning on the window ledge. It was nice to be out and about, however bizarre the day was turning out.
Jennifer trundled into the kitchen, turned on the tap, which gurgled and spluttered. She hoped they would get bored and go away if she hid in here for long enough. She could hear them talk on the other side of the door that refused to close. Muttering, talking about her and her sick children and her terrible house with its awful smell. The tap suddenly spurted into life; a fountain of ice-cold water hit her arm. She tried to turn it off but the tap handle turned, and turned, and then came off in her hand. The water spouted like a geyser. She stepped back; there was water running all over the floor, a small wave pushing over the cracked lino, creating a pattern of rivers and islands, carrying dirt and grime with it.
Then the man appeared in the doorway, still holding Gordy in his arms.
She must have cried out loud or sworn as his first question was, ‘What’s wrong?’
She started to cry, so he handed her the baby, then asked her where there was a hammer or a set of pliers.
‘Under the stairs, I think; there’s a tool box there but I don’t know what’s in it,’ she sobbed.
She stood aside as the tall policeman got to work, his strong hands gripping the pliers on the broken tap, those same hands then tapping it gently with the hammer. He reminded Jennifer of her dad. He swore a few times, muttering something about the pressure being too high.
‘It wasn’t like that before,’ Jennifer sniffed, ‘it was only a trickle.’
Anderson looked up at the ceiling, then to the mildew in the far corner of the floor.
The coughing started again. Costello was now standing in the doorway, looking at the baby. ‘Jennifer, I think you really need to get the wee chap to the hospital – he is going blue round the mouth.’
‘Yes, God, what am I doing, I need to get ready and get the pram out, I need to … but I can’t get a taxi. They won’t get through.’
‘Jennifer, we are the police, we can get the boys to blue-light it, so go and get dressed.’
She looked at them. ‘What?’
‘Just go and get dressed, bring down stuff for the kids.’
She nodded and walked upstairs, her shoes leaving wet footprints on the dusty carpet.