Absolution

by Caro Ramsay

  ‘You checking out Terry Gilfillan?’

  ‘That’s not funny, Costello, not funny at all. Get back to me, and only me.’

  ‘Touchy!’

  Anderson glared at her and walked away.

  ‘Colin?’ She trotted after him, catching him before he entered the swing doors of the station. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s the way you talk about her sometimes.’

  ‘You should have seen the state of her last night – this morning, I mean – after she was attacked,’ Anderson said, his voice breaking. ‘And Alan could hardly bring himself to comfort her. I don’t get it.’

  ‘Other people’s marriages, Colin – don’t get involved,’ Costello advised. ‘Come on, before Wyngate starts lip-reading through the glass.’

  ‘I asked you this morning, where have you been? If I asked you again now, would I get a sensible reply?’ asked Anderson. ‘You do look better now.’

  ‘Had a bath and a sleep. Well, I tried to. Had a word with Helena on the phone. She seems OK.’ McAlpine was sitting at the dining table, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, looking like death slightly warmed over. His eyes were red and swollen, his nose and cheek grazed and pitted with dried blood. A copy of the Daily Record lay open, his own picture staring back at him. They were marking off a calendar, one set of crossed bones for every day the killer remained at large.

  ‘Bloody tabloids!’ he muttered.

  ‘Could be worse.’ Anderson dumped in front of him a mug of coffee so strong the spoon almost stood up in it unaided. McAlpine ignored it, so Anderson lifted it up and slammed it back down again, accompanied by two dihydrocodeine.

  ‘I went for a walk, tried to clear my head.’

  ‘A walk on water, was it?’

  ‘In it, more like.’

  ‘And that’s what I have to tell DCI Quinn?’

  ‘I’ll tell her myself. Any further forward with the attack on Helena?’

  ‘Quinn has been talking to her. I think the new DCI knows we are all too pally to look on it objectively. And she does have Helena’s safety right at the front of her mind.’

  ‘You mean she suspects it might be one of us?’

  ‘You were stinking of drink that night. Helena couldn’t smell anything off Christopher Robin. And don’t look at me like that, it’s not me you have to convince; while Quinn is talking to Helena, I think we’re taking our eye off the ball. Batten has been right so far. He thinks somebody already in the field went for Helena on your behalf, so to speak, but it could just as easily have been at Brenda on my behalf. You happen to have the high-profile wife.’

  ‘Yeah.’ McAlpine was contemplating the coffee steaming in front of him, tumbling the tablets between thumb and forefinger, gathering the effort to wash them down. ‘I’ll come in to work.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’ Anderson took a deep breath. ‘This attack on Helena means you have a personal interest now. You know you’re off the case.’ Anderson sighed and hung his head in his hands, wishing he smoked. This would seem like a good time to start.

  ‘Is Quinn definitely taking over? The whole thing? She can’t take this case, bossy wee shitbag. She’d put a match to the Phoenix as soon as look at it. You’re going to need people like Leeza to help crack O’Keefe; he’s a very tough cookie, that one. And I don’t think Quinn’s the man for that.’ McAlpine swirled the tablets down with a mouthful of coffee.

  ‘She’s not a man at all.’

  ‘More balls than you and me put together, though, eh?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be difficult.’

  By the time Costello got back to her flat it was half past five, and she was so groggy she had to look at the paper put through her door to confirm it was still Wednesday. She had been on her feet for thirty-two hours: crime scene to briefing, briefing to central records, central records to station, station to headquarters, headquarters to Paisley, Paisley to Arlene’s flat, then a brief phone call to Arlene’s mother, which caught the woman in a brief moment of sobriety. The only thing Costello gained out of that was a tasty titbit about Arlene and a priest, and the distinct feeling that Arlene’s mum was so sectarian she would not have been happy about her daughter being friendly with any clergyman who was not a Roman Catholic priest.

  In the shower Costello tumbled the relationships of all three girls with O’Keefe and Leask around in her head. After thirty minutes she emerged, much cleaner but no further forward.

  She put some bread in the toaster straight out of the freezer. But the cheese, two weeks past its sell-by date and mouldy, ended up in the flip-top. She forgot all about her toasted cheese and put the kettle on instead.

  The answering machine winked at her, over and over. She knew it was the records office, and she didn’t want to hear what it was going to tell her, not on an empty stomach anyway.

  She settled down in her favourite chair, feet up on the footstool, a cup of tea, two slices of warm bread and a packet of broken HobNobs to hand. She flicked the remote control for her Bang and Olufsen stereo, and let Julie London take the edge off the silence as she called some lady a tramp. Peace, perfect peace.

  After a few minutes the constant winking of the answering machine started to play on her conscience. She pressed ‘Play’ for the first message, noted the number and called back. The call took all of two minutes. A Robert McAlpine from Skelmorlie had been killed while in the service of HM Customs and Excise. The cutter HMS Alba had engaged a yacht called Fluisteraar. Fluisteraar had been holed, her crew had gone overboard, and James Weir and Robert McAlpine had jumped in to their rescue. Nobody knew exactly what happened in the darkness, noise and confusion. Weir had been pulled from the water immediately, and a Dutchman’s body had been retrieved by the Alba within the hour. They had to wait three days for Robert McAlpine to be washed up at Bowling on the Clyde estuary. The PM showed his skull had been smashed between the two hulls. Death might have been instantaneous, but there had been water in his lungs. No matter how, he had died in the course of duty. Both he and Weir had received the Queen’s Commendation for Bravery. Reports that Fluisteraar was smuggling had turned out to be groundless.

  Costello’s head began to thump. She read her notes again: Dutch. Another coincidence?

  In direct answer to her next question, she learned that Robert McAlpine had been the twenty-year-old son of Annabel McAlpine, née Wallace, and Alan McAlpine. One sibling – Costello knew already – another boy, Alan, called after his dad.

  She hung up, just as Julie London was interrupted by a sudden rush of wind at the French windows, and felt the spaghetti of confusion in her head start to unravel. She had no answers. But she was starting to make sense of the questions. The blow of losing a much admired brother like that – no wonder McAlpine drove himself so hard. But for Anderson’s purposes she could dismiss the contents of the call – Robert McAlpine was a dead-end in the truest sense of the word. Anderson had been right to check it out, but an accident was an accident.

  She listened to the second message, glad that the girl on the switchboard at McKillop’s, the estate agents in Mauchline, was not the brightest. What she learned half confirmed what Davy Nicholson had told her and taught her a great deal more. Sean McTiernan had indeed come very close to buying a house called Keeper’s Cottage, at Culzean. To Costello, Culzean was a castle, not a place, but that was something she could check out at her leisure. But at the last moment Sean had backed out of the sale with no explanation. ‘Mr Laidlaw’, whoever he might be, remembered the purchase, because both properties at the location had been on the market for so long, and Shiprids and Keeper’s had been snapped up at the same time. And by a woman Mr Laidlaw considered far too old to be living in such a remote place. Costello’s eyes narrowed. Far too old? The old dear with the mole? So McTiernan was still as snug as a bug in the bedsit his social worker had got for him. Mrs Mole might be on the coast. But who was in the other house? And where was Trude? Costello made a mental note to speak to Mr Laidlaw.

  Her instinct was right
. She knew she was on to something – she had no idea what – knew she had the start and finish of something, but no clue as to the bit in the middle. She closed her eyes, nibbling the HobNobs from the edge and working her way round, a habit she had had since childhood, when such treasures had to last her a long time. She wondered what had happened to the dog. The wind slammed into the glass again; another burst like that and the window would be in.

  She sat motionless for about an hour, then dragged herself to her feet. One day – one day, please God – she was going to be able to come home and just fall into bed. She looked at her watch. Half eight, but as soon as she thought about catching some shut-eye, her brain woke up. She reached for the phone.

  In answer to her question, Wyngate said, ‘Batten’s in the Boss’s office having a private chat with DI Anderson. He’s almost asleep on his feet. The whole squad’s coming in. Having the Boss’s wife attacked like that – well, it makes it very personal indeed.’

  ‘Has DCI Quinn put in an appearance?’ Costello wanted to know.

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  She rang off and ran the receiver across her lips a few times, deep in thought. Sleep? Who was she kidding?

  It was five minutes to nine at night when Costello entered the main incident room, which was fetid and stuffy after a day’s hard labour. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed louder than ever as she walked up to Anderson and whispered in his ear, quickly summarizing the conversation with the records office and adding a few words about the estate agent. Anderson did not look up. ‘So we’ve no evidence that Sean had money to buy a house. And nobody was responsible for Robbie’s death,’ he said half to himself. ‘Pure accident; it’s happened twice since that I know of, something to do with suction of water between two boats – ’

  ‘There was another fatality that same night.’ She realized even as she said it. ‘A Dutchman.’

  Anderson frowned and leaned across to say something, but was interrupted.

  ‘You two finished?’ asked Batten. He was sitting in McAlpine’s office, feet up on the desk, a pile of pictures on his knee. Today’s T-shirt said ‘I started at the bottom and worked my way down’. A small set of stairs disappeared into the top of his jeans.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Costello cheerily. ‘Would you pinch the Boss’s grave so quick?’

  ‘Sorry, Costello,’ said Batten, smiling but staying in McAlpine’s seat. ‘I was getting a better view of that lot.’ He indicated the rest of the squad, meandering round the room outside. ‘Look,’ he said urgently to them both, ‘if DCI Quinn takes over, she gets the credit for all McAlpine’s work, and we all know what this case has cost him – his sobriety, his reputation, and, if we’re not careful, his marriage and his career.’

  ‘Nice of you to be so concerned,’ said Costello sarcastically. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by any of them how easily Batten was taking over.

  ‘So if the original team cracks it, it’s best all round. You get my drift?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Costello said non-committally. ‘But we’d have to wind it up fast.’

  ‘So, how would you say it was going, DS Costello?’ Anderson asked, in an uncharacteristically formal manner.

  ‘Like swimming the Channel through treacle. With one hand behind your back and cramp in the other.’

  Mulholland came in. ‘Is this a private party or am I allowed to join you?’ He pulled a chair away from the wall and sat down.

  ‘DS Costello was about to give us a run-down on her own investigations,’ Anderson said, slightly turning his own chair towards her, so that Batten was almost imperceptibly distanced from the three of them.

  ‘Can’t we get on with looking for Christopher Robin?’ asked Mulholland.

  ‘We are,’ answered Batten coldly. ‘Can you call in Irvine, get her to take notes and get it typed up for the rest of them? And don’t turn your back like that. I’m a psychologist, I feel threatened when you do that.’

  Costello ignored him and deliberately perched herself on the corner of his desk. ‘What I’d like to do is tell you all a story, and see what you think. Once upon a time, in the Good Shepherd Orphanage, there were two little orphans called Sean and Trude. They were inseparable, so much so that they contrived to be sent back from foster homes again and again so as not to be parted, and once they grew up the inevitable happened. But they couldn’t stay in the orphanage for ever. Sean left and trained as a joiner. Trude left when she was sixteen – that was six years ago – and has never been seen since, except for, we think, one trip to a lawyer when she came of age. Also, when she was eighteen, Sean turned himself in for killing Malkie Steele down Whistler’s Lane, claiming self-defence, and served a bit over three years. Shortly before the killing, he backed out of the purchase of a house out at Culzean. He also bought a dog – an expensive pedigree husky – which was never seen again. Since he’s been out, he’s worked at White’s the Joiners, which is where he worked before he went down; they were pleased to take him back. They sent him to Fortrose Street to work on a skylight, and he’s been to the Phoenix. And he’s been living in a wee bedsit at Gardner Street. On the night of Sunday, the 1st of October, into Monday, the 2nd, he was again seen up Whistler’s Lane, having apparently had sex there with a black-haired Goth in a long dark cloak. An odd place to choose, you might think. And Arlene – witnesses place Sean and Arlene together twice, don’t forget – was found dead there not long after. Malkie Steele had been kicked so hard one of his eyes was dislodged and his liver fatally damaged, mashed to a pulp – we know that from the PM. And Arlene Haggerty’s face was damaged, but not in the same way, admittedly. But damage to the face is … well … extremely personal, no matter how it’s done.’

  Costello realized she was subconsciously painting the sequence of events to look as bad as it could for Sean, in the half-hope that one or both men would demolish the pattern. ‘His mother abandoned him when he was young, and there’s no family that we can find. But he’s in touch with the woman who was the cleaner at the Good Shepherd. There’s evidence that he was looking for a house for her to buy, but I’ve not got to the bottom of that yet.’

  ‘He’s not having an affair with the old dear with the mole, is he?’ Mulholland asked facetiously.

  ‘No,’ Batten said seriously. ‘But she’s a substitute mother figure. And don’t read too much into the damage of the face. Go on, Costello.’

  ‘He’s good with his hands –’

  ‘And sharp objects,’ Anderson muttered.

  ‘According to DI Nicholson, he’s strong-minded enough to injure himself with a chisel if need be,’ said Costello. ‘That’s how he changed the time of his meeting with Malkie Steele. Steele was supposed to watch him playing footie, but Sean injured himself and re-engineered the meeting … to a private place on the doorstep of his childhood haunts.’

  Nobody said anything for a minute or two. Batten rubbed his chin, fingertips rasping on day-old stubble. ‘Any sign that McTiernan was paid for the hit on Malkie? That would be the only trace of a contract killing.’

  ‘None that we can find,’ said Costello. ‘But the timing of his house hunting is suspicious.’

  ‘But no payment was ever made.’

  ‘We haven’t found any,’ Costello repeated.

  ‘Or if he’s hidden it,’ Batten went on, ‘he’s hidden it well, waiting until he’s off parole, then he’s home and dry.’ He sat back again in the chair. ‘The black-haired Goth – we think she’s Trude, do we?’

  ‘Except that Trude has white-blonde hair. But it’s possible. Trouble is, no one’s seen her either,’ said Anderson.

  ‘Because she does not want to be seen. Nothing changes a woman’s appearance more than changing her hair colour.’

  ‘True, true,’ Batten said, ‘but in the meantime, back to basics. We trendy psychologists would say follow Arlene. She’s the different one. The other two were comparatively gentle murders – yes, I know, I know – I mean that there was a formality about them, a carefulness
, he still exerts a degree of self-control. But Arlene – Christopher Robin was angry with her, her personally. Look at the damage to her face. Why?’

  Mulholland said, ‘McAlpine saw an echo of McTiernan and Malkie when he saw that damage. We don’t know what McTiernan evolved into, but we do know what he evolved from. You’ve seen the social worker’s report … what his childhood was like. We know for a fact that Arlene met him, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Of them all, he fits the profile,’ Batten put in quietly.

  ‘Apart from the fact he’s too young,’ countered Costello. ‘And has no faith to speak of. And if we’re going the religious-nutter route, Arlene’s mother used the word ‘friendly’ when talking about the priest and her daughter. I think if Arlene had meant O’Keefe she would have used his name. But she might have been referring to Leask, and not wanting to tell her mother he was a Protestant. If I wanted to wrap a naive clergyman round my finger, he’d be the easiest.’

  ‘If she wanted to keep a tasty priest to herself, O’Keefe would be the easiest. Good Catholic or not, women are attracted by men like that.’

  ‘Sean might not have a motive, but he is the bastard son of a Catholic mother,’ Mulholland persisted.

  ‘It’s only a profile, not a road map, but you’ve made your point.’

  ‘There might be a connection through White’s the Joiners to the two other girls,’ Costello said. ‘One phone call from Sean to them, being charming and asking to come round to look at the job, would be all it would take.’

  ‘I just feel he’s too young …’ Anderson said.

  ‘But very mature,’ Costello insisted.

  ‘Indeed. All roads go in circles, eh?’ said Batten. ‘So we go back to Arlene – anything else about her that might have caused a spark, any change?’