Sunday 23 August 2015
She collapsed again, hitting her face on the carpet. This was bloody embarrassing.
She looked into the darkness of her own eyelids, more relaxed this time. Through the feathered gap of her own eyelashes, she saw the black fur dashing into her vision then turning on its own length and disappearing back into the shadows.
It made noises with its feet, noises that were suddenly loud, scurrying. Its keen beady eyes flashing, claws rattling on the wall, squeaking. Then there was another, then another.
She was having a nightmare, a nightmare of rats. So she tried to wake up.
But she couldn’t.
Now, she couldn’t tell what was real and what was not. She thought she was young but now she was old. She thought she was calling out for help but she had been asleep. She thought she was sober but she wasn’t so sure about that one. And now she was lying on the floor, on a carpet and she could see rats.
She had thought she was safe; maybe not so sure about that one either.
Jock Aird dislodged his large golfing umbrella from the stand behind his front door and clipped Betty on to her lead. Then he left Altmore House by the back door. He had not used the front door since the late Eighties but he couldn’t recall why. In the back porch, a ramshackle half-glass half-wood construction, he pulled on his old boots. He thought about his wellies, but he kept them for going through the wood, through the long grass, and they were leaking despite him doing yet another repair. He must have got really soaked the last time he was out; they were still wet now. He was planning to walk up to Partickhill; it would take about an hour. More if he walked round the botanics, but he would enjoy it. He might be old but he was very fit.
And he planned on staying that way.
He slipped on his Barbour, and set off out into the torrential rain.
He was wet and sweating heavily by the time he got to the reception of the police station. The door was closed as usual, so he pressed the buzzer and waited, making use of his time by shaking the excess rain from his umbrella. He climbed the two stairs carefully, and opened the door as the buzzer sounded. Another door opened, the glass shutter slid to one side and a friendly young desk sergeant looked out at him.
‘Hi sir, how can I help you?’
Aird told the dog to sit. She didn’t. He swept his long grey fringe over a high, intelligent forehead; faded blue eyes looked directly at the desk sergeant.
The desk sergeant didn’t dare to tell him to tie the dog up outside in case he got a lecture about young people today. Aird looked the sort.
‘Hello, you are?’ he asked imperiously.
The young cop decided to humour the coffin dodger. ‘PC Kevin McColl, I’m on the desk today.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘So how can I help you?’ McColl pulled a note pad close to him, ready to look interested. It would be a neighbour watching The X Factor before nine at night with the sound up too loud, or next door parking their car outside his house, spoiling the view out of his front window. Or somebody feeding the pigeons. Yes, some little old lady next door feeding the pigeons. He looked the type who would want to bring back the death penalty for that.
When he spoke, the voice was strong, with a rather querulous tone that was used to having a good argument and winning. ‘I’d like to talk to whoever is in charge of the incident at Altmore Road.’
‘Oh, the sinkhole?’ McColl pulled the pad closer.
‘And the rest of it, I want to speak to whoever is in charge.’
‘And your name is?’
‘Jock Aird. I have lived in the street all my life. I know what is causing all the problems. It’s the water.’ He shook an annoying droplet from his hair.
‘You don’t say.’ McColl pushed the pad away again. ‘If you leave me your name and number, I’ll pass it on, and I’m sure they will get back to you.’
Aird continued to flick his hair around, and then flick the raindrops from the shoulder cape of his coat. ‘I have taken the time and trouble to walk down here, in this terrible weather, because I have information that I believe will be of some interest, and I think it would be both polite and useful if somebody listened to me.’
‘I am listening to you,’ smiled McColl, pen in hand, wondering how rude he was going to have to be to get rid of the old bugger.
‘Let me make myself clear; if somebody in charge listened to me,’ clarified Aird.
‘I’m in charge of the desk.’
‘And you write with a biro. On a chain, so I don’t think they trust you with a pen, so I am hardly going to trust you with my important information. So can you please get somebody in charge to come down and speak to me?’ To prove a point, Betty sat down and sighed.
Now McColl was the subject of disapproving looks from both man and beast.
‘Are you sure? It might take some time. You might be better to phone in, it can be quicker.’
‘I have already phoned in twice; now I want to talk to somebody in charge.’
‘Well, if you have already phoned in and left your information, then we would have got back to you if the intelligence, the information, was of high relevance. Once it slips from priority, then it can take a little longer. That’s how we work; that’s how things get done.’
‘Well, that relies on you knowing the significance of what you are being told. And I’m sure even you, PC McColl, can see the flaw in that argument.’
‘But it is about a sinkhole,’ asked McColl, getting rattled now.
‘It’s historic information; it’s our history that makes us what we are today. How well do you know the rivers in Glasgow?’ he asked.
‘The Clyde, the Kelvin, I used to fish.’
‘Do you know the Molendinar, Glasgow’s underground river? And there are three rivers in the hills above Hardgate: the Humphrey, the Cochno and the Dorcha. And do you know what’s strange about the Dorcha?’
‘No, but I am about to find out,’ said McColl.
‘You can’t see it.’
‘Good! Look, I’ll get the phone and see if there is anybody available,’ he smiled at the old man standing in front of him, with the damp dog, stinking out the reception office.
‘I think you should find out who is available, not if. I am very old, I can’t hang around for ever. Chop chop.’
McColl closed the glass and lifted the phone.
Costello was sitting at the back of the investigation room, drawing out the plan of Altmore Road on a bit of A4 paper and double-checking who was where at the time of the murders in 1992. The houses then were numbered evenly from 2 to 14, now it was 2 to 12 as the Steeles’ house is 12 and 14 knocked together. The Melroses and Gyles lived in 2A and 2B respectively. That building was now knocked into one, and was home to the Dirk-Huntleys, their goat and a sinkhole. The Broadfoots were at number 4, and they seemed to have purchased it from the estate of Phyllis Carlisle who had been there for sixty years. So, no lead to follow up there. Miss McMutrie junior and her family had disappeared off to Spain, their house – number 6 – had been empty for months. And had been empty at the time of the Melrose murder, according to the electoral roll. The Lawson house – number 8 – had been rented out for eight years before they bought it, the previous owner having died, another elderly woman. Lynda McMutrie was in 10 on her own. Then there were the Steeles at what is now number 12, who should be back from their weekend in Oslo tomorrow morning. That property too had been unoccupied at the time of the Melrose murders.
A new set of crime-scene photographs of that Thursday 27 August 1992 was being sifted by Mulholland and his selection was being placed on the wall. It was unlikely, the initial investigation concluded, that a stranger had killed the family. So that left the very inhabitants of Altmore Road or somebody that Sue Melrose had gone out to meet. Except Gyle, and maybe Aird, the residents had all been cleared from any involvement in the case. And the original investigation had pulled apart Sue’s private life, as had Gyle’s defence team, and both had found nothing other than what she appeared to be: a slightly lonely woman in her house with two young children. She had moved from the trendy, vibrant west end of Glasgow, with its Guardian reading, coffee-house culture, to Altmore Road, only seven miles away, but culturally she might as well have been living on the moon.
Costello had the Google map open on her computer, trying to drop the wee yellow figure into the street, but he wouldn’t go. He dangled in mid-air, his legs swinging like a condemned man on the gallows. She was not going to wait for the DNA to come through; they couldn’t afford the time. This was Anderson’s big comeback case; he couldn’t be allowed to fail. She wasn’t being altruistic. If he failed it would be a stain on all of them. If he was seen to be struggling, which he was, then she would shine if she brought the case home with good investigative logic. If he rose to the challenge, then her contribution to the case would also be acknowledged. In reality, he seemed to have his mind set on Gyle’s guilt, and he was probably right. The one thing she could not afford was Anderson being blinkered by that. So she was keeping an eye on him, keeping her own notes.
She reasoned that, as O’Hare had a few bones from a single left foot, she had better get on with that rather than talk with Colin, who was content to whinge on about Jennifer Lawson, what a good mother she was, the state of dampness in that house and what on earth was her bloody husband thinking. Costello was more interested in the fact that somebody had chopped up a young woman and put her in the ground. She wondered if there was a borehole or a culvert near the end of the driveway. The Dirk-Dastardlys had only moved in four years before. They had purchased the property five years ago and set about taking out the conversion that had divided up the old single house and turning the huge corner plot of land beyond into a smallholding. At any point, a body could have been put somewhere in a drain, and now it had been dislodged by the recent downpour. She had requested Wyngate to compile a list of all missing women in Scotland over ten and under fifty who had gone missing in the period from 1995–2005. She had no idea if the parameters were any use, but she had to start somewhere. When not pinning things on the wall and fighting with Mulholland, Wyngate was doing a fine job on the database trawl. Lorna Gyle had become Laura Reid when she’d been adopted, and that was as far as she had got. He was working through a list of follow-up addresses.
Joining the photographs of Gyle and the foot bones was the crime-scene photograph of Sue lying in Altmore Wood, ‘the sunflower picture’, as it had become known.
Costello needed a stiff cup of tea. The kettle had been set to boil in the wee kitchen for the last ten minutes, and then she realized that Anderson had unplugged it. She was there when the door opened to reveal ACC Mitchum and Archie Walker. Mitchum was in uniform, hidden under his raincoat, which he was sliding from his shoulder and shaking dry all over their nice lino floor. Walker’s jacket was a chiaroscuro of damp and dry.
Five minutes later they were all seated around the table. ACC Mitchum had a large file in front of him, a small electronic device sitting on top of that. Walker was thin-lipped and serious, Wyngate was sitting at the adjacent table, at his beloved computer, ready to come up with any data they might ask for. Mulholland was sitting still, rubbing his ankle. Costello thought he was going to start moaning about how he could tell it was raining because his fracture site was starting to play up. He had turned into an old man overnight. She wondered if it was the influence of the humourless Miss McCulloch; something had certainly knocked the most annoying character traits off him.
Anderson was sitting at the top of the table, his hands clasped in front of him. Knuckles white, fingers grasped tightly together. It was not warm in the room, the heating being off as it was supposedly summer, but distinct streams of sweat were working their way down his forehead. Costello, being in situ, had been forced to make the tea and open up the digestives. They had all said thank you, except Walker, who had taken the mug from her hand without any acknowledgement, because he was explaining to ACC Mitchum about the photographs on the wall and where they were taken. It was a useless way to move the situation forward, but it served to concentrate their minds as to why they were here.
The ACC’s face was grim. ‘We don’t want any embarrassing situations. Gyle is guilty of these murders. We don’t want any aspect of that verdict being brought into question, no smart lawyers seeing it as an excuse to start an appeal process.’
Anderson nodded, ‘Indeed.’
‘Do you have any forensics back on this foot? I’m hearing all kinds of rumours that I don’t like.’
‘Nothing definite yet. An athletic young woman. O’Hare thinks the bones have been protected from the environment – kept wrapped up, maybe. The cut is clean and sharp, made with a blade. Time since their death? Maybe ten years or so, judging by appearance. Confirmation will be another couple of days yet.’
‘So there were two killers working in the same street?’
‘Or somebody just used Altmore Road as a deposition site,’ said Mulholland.
‘How are we doing on missing persons? Don’t answer that: it is a huge undertaking, I know.’
‘Six matches, two of them have turned up safe and well and nobody thought to tell us. Of the four,’ he placed four colour prints on the table, ‘Elaine O’Shaunessy, Pauline Rigby, Pamela Squire and Tamara McMaster. All under forty, between five feet two and five feet five. Tamara was the only one who could be described as a dancer. Of the pole variety. She has a criminal record as long as the wall of Dubrovnik. Wyngate and I are doing the groundwork. Better to wait now until we get the DNA.’
The ACC nodded, then continued, determined to make his point. ‘Andrew Gyle, everybody is agreed, is not a multiple killer.’
Batten agreed. ‘One incident, one kill. Nothing led up to it, nothing since. If O’Hare is right, then he was inside at the time of the other murder, so somebody else must have done that.’
Or the other person did them all, Costello thought.
‘So, DCI Anderson, you are in control of the investigation – now might be a good time to call your team to heel and get them to behave. We want no dubiety about the Gyle murders, nothing at all. Find out who that foot belongs to and leave it there. Understand me, Gyle killed Sue Melrose and her kids. End of. Clear?’ Mitchum’s gaze fixed on Anderson.
‘Perfectly,’ said Anderson, but Walker caught Costello’s eye and held her gaze.
‘And keep it from the press. Where are you now?’
‘As Wyngate said, we are waiting for O’Hare’s report, and he needs the rain to go off so they can investigate the hole for the rest of the bones and where they came from. Three residents of Altmore Road are proving elusive. Costello and Batten are going to talk to Andrew Gyle.’
ACC Mitchum looked around. ‘Good thinking, getting Costello to go. If he has a problem with women, she will provoke it.’
Walker smirked and nodded discreetly.
‘Wyngate is tracking down Steven Melrose. He has been at the Findhorn community and is now at some Carron commune. And I am interviewing David Griffin.’
‘You seem to be spending a fair bit of time on the Melrose case,’ said Mitchum, ‘when I thought I had just said not to.’
‘Making sure there is nothing exculpatory for Gyle – you know what Rossi can be like,’ said Walker. ‘You recall Griffin?’
‘Oh Davy, yes I do. Good man Davy. Drives an old Morris Minor. Beautiful car. Pass on my regards to him. It was a loss to the force when he didn’t make it back.’ Mitchum seemed to look at Anderson before standing up and walking out. They watched the door close behind him; it seemed to take a very long time.
‘He always had a soft spot for Griffin, I think he knew his dad or something,’ explained Walker. ‘So we run the two investigations side by side. I am not having the fiscal’s office accused of not doing our duty properly. We look at Andrew Gyle’s conviction. OK?’
‘Were you listening to what Mitchum just said?’ asked Anderson.
‘Yes, but it’s not him who has Rossi on the phone, asking questions. The door is already open, we have to be transparent here. There is the investigation and then there is the law.’ Walker looked Anderson straight in the eye. ‘Colin? Have you looked at that file? Have you seen how little was done in that investigation? They got Gyle at the scene and Levern got complacent. I don’t blame them, but it doesn’t mean that it’s right.’
‘If you investigate it further, then all you will do is put the tin lid on it, I am sure,’ said Batten.
‘Are you aware that anything you uncover needs to be shown to the defence? His lawyer is going to lap this up – do you really want that?’ argued Anderson.
‘Colin? You need to; if this goes tits up they have you as a fall guy. You need to reinvestigate, and if it does stand you need to say so. Mitchum was not here to see how you were feeling.’ The words spat from Costello’s mouth, her finger pointed at her boss’s face.
Then Walker’s quiet voice cut through the tension. ‘In fact it has to be shown to the fiscal’s office and we will make the decision as to who sees what.’
‘It is our duty to investigate,’ said Batten, adding, ‘he had a daughter you know. That wee five-year-old grew up thinking that her dad took an axe to those two wee boys.’
‘But he did do that awful thing,’ argued Anderson. Mulholland nodded vigorously.
‘But what if he didn’t? I am saying that the events of that night had a lot of terrible consequences. That woman is now twenty-eight, and still thinking that her dad did that,’ said Costello.
‘She got a bloody fortune for writing that book. Bit of a bummer if you prove her dad’s now innocent,’ Batten smiled, but nobody laughed.
‘But then she would get even more dosh for the revised version. And his version. Probably get a film deal out of it. He can do chat shows. She’ll be on Celebrity Big Brother,’ Mulholland mused.
Batten pointed to the photograph of the small bones. ‘Alternatively, you can ignore Gyle’s guilt or innocence. And find that killer.’