by Caro Ramsay
Anderson had witnessed this before, the two minutes of genius McAlpine displayed between sobriety and being pissed. ‘But Elizabeth Jane was respectable. Very respectable.’
‘Wrong.’ McAlpine’s finger waved close to Anderson’s face. ‘The higher they are, the further they fall, morally. Get Costello talking about her; she knows how a woman’s mind works.’
‘She does have the advantage of being one,’ said Anderson with ultimate logic.
‘Just ask her.’ McAlpine fell quiet again. ‘Just ask her what goes on in the mind of a woman like that.’ The pub fell silent as well. ‘I had my first fatality here, you know, at Partickhill. That was the worst, the very worst. She was so beautiful …’ He looked deep into the middle distance.
Anderson felt one of McAlpine’s drunken soliloquies coming on and did his best to divert it. He wanted to go home. ‘Have a mouthful of coffee, it’ll make you feel better, and I’ll drive you home. You have a long chat with Helena and remind her what an absolute arse you are.’
McAlpine ignored him. ‘Young and beautiful – that’s not right, is it?’
‘No, it’s not right. Neither’s leaving your wife alone when she’s faced with a long night of worry about – ’
‘How many dead kids have you dealt with?’ asked McAlpine, his finger waving in Anderson’s face.
‘Too many,’ answered Anderson, with honesty.
‘How many?’
‘One. Only one. One is too many.’
‘Colin, I’m serious.’
‘So am I. How many times have I heard you say it: it’s worse if it’s female, worse if she’s young. Once you add pretty and blonde, you’re in severe trouble. And the guy you think’s done for some blonde doe-eyed orphan gets lynched before we even get him to the nick. You know that. But at the end of the day you always have to remember they’re all – ’
‘Someone’s daughter.’ McAlpine smiled drunkenly. ‘I’m glad I taught you something.’ He was palpating his face again, pushing his fingertips in hard. ‘She was lovely.’
‘So when was all this, then?’ asked Anderson. He had an eerie feeling, heard Helena’s words coming back to him. He lost somebody close. ‘You haven’t been at Partickhill for twenty years or so – is that why?’
McAlpine nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on something in the distance of his memory. ‘She had acid flung in her face.’ He held the palms of his hands before his own face, looking at them as if he had developed stigmata.
‘Who did?’
McAlpine’s eyes half focused themselves back on Anderson. ‘It was a case I was involved in once.’
‘That’s a very personal thing to do to someone, especially someone who’s pretty. It’s so – ’
‘She wasn’t pretty. She was beautiful.’
‘Yeah, but what does acid-throwing do? Rips your face off, changes your identity, in some ways it removes you from being a person.’
‘Oh, piss off with your psychobabble. They were using her as bait to lure out the boyfriend. It worked; the minute she got that in her face, he tried to get over here. They must have had some way of keeping in touch, and when he didn’t hear from her, he was over. Must be terrible, to be so alone.’
‘Sounds a bit heavy,’ said Anderson, vaguely wondering why, in all the years he and McAlpine had known each other, this was the first he’d heard of this particular case.
Suddenly McAlpine leaned forward in his seat. ‘She was eight months pregnant.’
‘That’s nasty,’ said Anderson gently, the thought hitting him in the stomach. No wonder the Boss hadn’t forgotten. ‘That’s really nasty.’
‘I got a bollocking for getting too involved.’
‘And then got fast-tracked?’
‘I got traded off. Should have hung around and made it difficult for them.’
Anderson drained his already-empty glass, hoping the Boss would see it as a precursor to leaving, going home and getting some kip.
But McAlpine didn’t move. ‘It took her weeks to die.’ He drew a forefinger across each wrist. ‘Her decision. All those weeks, I’d been talking to a face, a personality, covered in blood and bandages and stuff. She had such, such …’ He stared at the carpet for a long time. ‘… life about her. You see, Colin, after she was gone, I saw a photograph of her. Sitting on a beach, she was, without a care in the world. You have a picture in your mind of somebody and then – pow! – there she was. Beautiful.’
‘Yes, you mentioned it,’ said Anderson, wondering how the passing years had edited the memories. ‘What about the baby?’
‘Yeah, I still think of her. She’d be what, twenty-two? A couple of years older than I was when it all happened.’ McAlpine suddenly stopped talking, started rubbing the top of his glass with the palm of his hand. ‘The same age? I must be old now.’ He squinted, remembering something. ‘You see … you see, Colin.’ He sounded very drunk now. ‘She wasn’t a Lynzi or an Arlene or a Brenda. Anna wasn’t two-faced; what you saw was what you got. What was in front of you, that was it. You ever known a woman like that?’
Deep in Anderson’s brain, something clicked. ‘That must have been about the time you lost your mother.’
‘And Robbie.’ McAlpine stared into his empty glass. Anderson was about to ask him if he was OK when he said, ‘You don’t forget it. You never forget any of it.’ He shook his head. ‘What a fucking year that was. Never so glad to hear the bells as I was that Hogmanay.’
Burns came over, moving to the side to let the man in the next booth slide out, and stood waiting to be allowed to interrupt. ‘Is your mobile off, sir? The station is trying to get you.’
‘It’s this new bloody thing.’
As soon as he pressed the switch, the screen flashed green, telling him to call back. For a while he listened to the voice at the other end, mouthing Mulholland to Anderson. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah … OK, right – Phoenix Refuge … yeah, I know it. What are they … Elizabeth Jane’s mobile? And the number is the Phoenix? Anybody in particular? Father O’Keefe? And any connection to Arlene? You beauty!’ He snapped the phone shut. ‘Both Elizabeth Jane and Arlene had the Phoenix Refuge number in their mobiles. Do you know where the place is?’
‘Up on the Circus. And you, sir, are pissed. Leave it till morning, eh?’
‘Why?’
‘Sobriety is the best policy when interviewing men of the cloth.’
Tuesday, 3 October
Costello sat down at the back of the canteen with the files on Sean James McTiernan. It was only nine o’clock in the morning but she had been in the station since six. There was no point in staying at home; her mind was too active for sleep. But so far her morning had been productive. She had sweet-talked the central records office, getting the files before breakfast, and was looking forward to a good read and a fried-egg sandwich while the canteen was quiet.
It was a still point in the investigation for her. Yesterday’s feeling of euphoria had gone. The real goodies were going elsewhere this morning. Other officers were being detailed to go here, there and everywhere.
Davy Nicholson had been easy to track down but seemed reluctant to phone back. His voice, with its slightly effeminate tone, on the answering machine had reminded her of an old Kelvinside queen. It brought back a few unpleasant memories, and she had put down the phone feeling dirty.
If Nicholson wasn’t as old as the hills, Costello thought, he would be a fit for Christopher Robin. Maybe McAlpine wasn’t a million miles away either. Or Anderson with his narky wife. Or, if she thought about it long enough, almost any man she knew. Bloody profilers.
Right, Mr McTiernan, she said to herself, pulling a face, let’s see what you have to say. She lifted a mugshot from the file: a handsome young man, with a hollow face, blond hair and flat, perfectly square teeth. There was a touch of the James Deans about him. He appeared to be approachable, friendly. Just like Christopher Robin.
She flicked through to the court papers, found a request for a social inquiry report from the Social
Work Department. ‘Oh, yeah?’ She searched through the papers, forward and back again, eventually finding it: a photocopy on fine yellowed paper. McTiernan had been brought up in the Good Shepherd Orphanage. She smiled to herself; she drove past it every day on her way to work, but in ten years of working the area she had never met anyone who had been there. And here he was, Mr McTiernan. Abandoned as a baby, aged four months. Mindful of Batten’s words about mothers and unhappy relationships, she scanned the typing, looking for details about Sean’s mother. She herself didn’t put too much credence in that theory, since her own mother had been drunk most of her childhood; she had never been abusive, she had just never been sober. Costello couldn’t remember ever blaming her dad for leaving; she couldn’t remember her dad at all. Life was what you made it. We all have choices. And Costello smiled to herself; was that why McAlpine had singled her out for this? Looking for the choices McTiernan had made.
It was all there: the official past of Sean James McTiernan. An unsuccessful reunion at the age of four, another at eight. All attempts to adopt Sean had been unsuccessful. He was an institutionalized child but mixed well within the school. She translated the educational psychologist’s report: a bright child but not academic. She turned to the back. He had left school, worked for a local firm of joiners, done his apprenticeship; he was good, popular … So why did they say he was institutionalized? Why had he not been fostered and adopted? She flicked back but could see no further references. She began to feel a little uncomfortable, like a voyeur on his life, not a feeling she was used to. There was no history of criminal activity. His boss, Hugh White of White’s the Joiners, had even offered to stand bail for him when he was charged, and had taken him on again after his early parole. He was a popular young man. It said it again. Popular. Sociable. There was no further mention of his mother. Costello made a note to track down the staff at the home; they would remember him, their killer pupil. But the picture forming in her imagination didn’t fit.
She opened the flap at the back where the photographs were held in a protective plastic envelope. Still uncreased, they had not been looked at often. There were numerous views of the locus of Malkie Steele’s murder, his body a bulky amorphous lump in a dark alleyway. He was lying, curled like a child, trying to protect himself from McTiernan’s feet. She ran her hand along the inside of the envelope. There were a few scraps of paper, a petrol receipt and a scribbled phone number. She pulled out a small white card, turning it over carefully, revealing a much older picture, black and white, four children on a beach, three standing, arms round each other, a sand castle to the left, a single flag flying. She recognized the middle one as Sean, aged nine, maybe ten, fair hair flopping over his face, stick legs hanging from shorts that were too big for him. Her eye was drawn to the girl sitting to one side, younger by two or three years. She was one of the most beautiful children Costello had ever seen. Long blonde hair danced in the wind, her eyes were wide and innocent, yet there was something about the curve of her cheek and the acutely bowed but unsmiling lips that was slightly dangerous, enchanting even. And Sean’s gaze was focused on her with utter devotion.
‘Nice reading material,’ said Mulholland, pulling up a chair and glancing at Steele’s photograph. ‘Nearly as nice as that.’ A copy of Tuesday’s Daily Record flew across the table. Arlene’s battered face stared back at her.
‘Oh, no!’
‘The Boss will go nuts. Where is he anyway? Can he come out of his coffin in daylight hours?’
Costello didn’t answer, but she watched as Mulholland broke a Wagon Wheel in half over a napkin, wiping his fingers before starting to eat. She pointedly folded the newspaper and shoved it back to him. ‘Did O’Hare say something about a footprint from the shoe that did this?’
‘Somebody said yesterday: nothing unless we can get hold of the shoe to get blood from and match it. Her face was too badly mangled.’
‘You enjoying that?’ Costello pointed at the Wagon Wheel.
‘Yes.’ He wiped his fingers again before picking up the photograph. ‘What’s that?’
‘Malkie Steele’s face.’
‘The guy McTiernan walloped? He made a good job of it.’
‘Apart from all that blood, look at the left side of the face: it’s lower than the right. He stood on it and jumped. Oh, no, he didn’t … it says here in this report, both McTiernan and Steele were upright at the time, which fits in with McTiernan’s story that he was walking away and lashed out. I suppose that might be second nature to somebody who studied martial arts.’ She picked up another photograph, narrowing her eyes for a better look. ‘Look, the eyeball is missing. Is that it over there in the corner?’
Mulholland looked away. ‘You are one sick woman, Costello.’
What rage, though, for one human being to do that to another.’ Costello passed him another napkin.
‘Steele looks really fat in this one, nine months gone.’
‘Bleeding from the liver. The Boss said McTiernan kicked him and it exploded.’
‘Never heard of that happening before.’ Mulholland was turning the picture in his hands, looking at it this way and that. ‘Anderson has just phoned. We’re going out to that Phoenix place.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now.’
‘The Phoenix? The refuge?’
‘Indeed.’
‘What are you going there for?’
‘Major breakthrough. Haven’t you heard?’
‘I heard a bit.’
‘Well, that’s the price you pay for being McAlpine’s blue-eyed girl.’
Green-eyed, she thought. ‘Oh, piss off,’ she snorted. ‘What’s happening?’
Mulholland took a long slow drink of his mineral water, his eyes twinkling at Costello, who was getting more irritated by the minute. ‘Shall I piss off? Or shall I tell you?’
‘Just tell me,’ she spat through gritted teeth.
‘Elizabeth Jane’s minister … the Reverend Shand …’
‘Is on the committee of the Phoenix?’
‘And the Phoenix number is the only place she dialled on that mobile phone. The Phoenix office, to be exact, which would take you through to O’Keefe. Father Thomas O’Keefe.’
‘The Tom her dad mentioned? And Leask said he was a colleague …’
‘He’s in charge of the day-to-day running of the place. Arlene was on a literacy programme, organized –’
‘By the Phoenix.’
‘Even started reading the Bible, apparently. Good girl, you should become a detective.’ He screwed the top back on his mineral water, as if he had done a hard day’s work.
‘Not really, it was spadework by me and Wingnut that got us there, DC Mulholland. And Lynzi? Anything except Leask living across from her man?’
‘No, nothing yet. But a load of religious do-gooders is just what this case needs, which is why we’re doing background reports on them all, one by one. So let the boys get on with the big stuff. How are you doing with Seanie-boy? If the DCI has McTiernan in his sights, he should bring him in,’ said Mulholland.
‘It’s all circumstantial and convenient timing. We’ll bring him in when we’re sure.’
‘I think the pressure is getting to the DCI. He’s disintegrating quicker than a chocolate chip pan.’ He got up and pushed his chair in, the feet screeching against the tiled floor. ‘You connect Sean to the Phoenix, then pick him up; that’s what I would do.’
‘If I was you, DC Mulholland, I would phone the charity shop Lynzi worked in. I would ask them what they do with their unsellable clothes. The local refuge for the homeless seems like a good bet, the Phoenix probably.’ She could have earned the Brownie points herself, but it was more satisfying to smack Mulholland in the mouth with it.
He walked away, probably mentally kicking himself for not coming up with that first. Costello smiled and picked up her mobile, thinking of the geography of the area. A charity like the Phoenix got a lot of publicity; they would be sponsored by a local company. White’s was the biggest local joinery comp
any. Directory inquiries gave her the number. Their secretary was most helpful. Yes, the company did all the refurb at the Phoenix when it opened three years ago, but it wasn’t sponsorship, it had been lottery-funded. And yes, they still had the maintenance contract. She seemed quite happy to talk away.
‘Could you tell me if Sean McTiernan has been up at the Phoenix recently?’ Costello held her breath. The voice at the other end paused, and Costello thought she was going to refuse to answer.
‘Aye, he’s getting his hand back in, after – well, after being away … He’s spent quite a lot of time there – dry rot in the toilets.’
‘Good, good,’ said Costello encouragingly. ‘There must be a lot to do. It’s quite an old building, isn’t it?’
The voice on the phone softened. ‘Like the Forth Road Bridge.’
‘Do you do the new flats at Fortrose Street?’
‘We do all the work for their factors,’ responded the voice, a little guarded now. ‘Is there a problem? Can I ask the nature of your inquiry?’
‘I’m DS Costello, Partickhill CID,’ said Costello in her most girlie voice, hoping the receptionist would not connect the address with the murder. ‘Just some background …’
‘Oh, about the skylight at that house? Where the girl was murdered? It had been giving trouble for ages.’
Manna from heaven. ‘And who did you send on that one?’
‘It was … oh, let me see …’ Costello heard the clicking of efficient fingers over a keyboard. ‘Billy Evans went.’
Damn.
‘But he couldn’t get access. So someone else went back two days later.’ Another tap-tap-tap. ‘Sean McTiernan.’
The voice that answered the phone sounded young and strong.
‘Hello,’ Costello began. ‘Can I speak to Alice Drummond please?’
The voice hesitated. ‘Who’s calling?’
Costello put a smile into her voice. ‘I’m DS Costello from Partickhill Station.’