Absolution

by Caro Ramsay

  ‘Oh – meaning they could be the same person? I’m going to paraphrase myself.’ He said, with genuine distaste, ‘I’m glad I do my job. And I’ll leave you to yours. I will pray for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said lightly. ‘I need all the help I can get.’

  ‘Just one more thing,’ said Mulholland. ‘Do you know where we can find Sean McTiernan? Is he around?’

  Leask visibly relaxed at the question. Costello wondered how much strain he had been under while he was talking; lying was stressful. ‘No, I thought he would have been in today. He hasn’t been seen since yesterday, not that he is obliged, of course. His social worker has been on the phone to Leeza.’ The phone went again, and Costello raised her hand to say goodbye and half dragged Mulholland into the hall.

  ‘Right, you hang about here. O’Keefe will be arriving in a minute.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Outside to phone the station, I’ll be back in a mo. Keep an eye on Leask and don’t let him out of your sight. I’ve a couple of phone calls to make about Messrs McTiernan and Leask.’

  ‘Leask? Why him?’

  ‘You don’t think I believed all that twaddle about his brother, do you?’

  After five minutes of pacing up and down the hall, the dust irritating his sinuses, Mulholland felt his mobile vibrate.

  ‘It’s me. My battery’s low. McTiernan’s done a runner, cleaned out his bedsit, the lot. I think I know where he is. Stay put, Anderson’s on his way. Tell him to expect a call from – ’ The phone cut off.

  ‘No bloody option but to stay put, have I? Silly cow.’

  It was just gone two o’clock when Costello pulled the car into the lay-by at the Electric Brae and took a sip of her bottled water, enjoying the silence. The weather was clear, bright and sunny, but the wind bit with a grip that foretold winter round the corner. Ailsa Craig sat like a tea cosy in a sea of watercolour blue. Ireland lay low behind, sleepy and indistinct.

  She remembered this road as a child, and its strange phenomenon: a parked car runs uphill if the handbrake is slipped. People who knew about such things said it was all to do with the lie of the land, an optical illusion. Costello preferred the theory of the Electric Brae, a strange force that pulled cars against the force of gravity. She turned off the engine and gently slipped the handbrake off, and the Toyota, imperceptibly at first, began to roll up the hill. As it gained speed, Costello pressed her foot on the brake. She smiled to herself: physical proof that the world was just that little bit crazy.

  She put on the handbrake and got out the OS map. The estate agent at Mauchline had been very helpful. Mr Laidlaw had made her a cup of Earl Grey and explained that he could say nothing about who had bought the two houses. But he could say plenty about who had not. He had pointed out the location of the two cheap rundown cottages and had let slip that he’d had to drive to Ayr to get the purchaser to sign, because she wouldn’t leave her flat.

  Costello looked down at the bay. This was where the cottages, and the answers, should be. If she wanted to hide from the world, she couldn’t think of a more beautiful place than this.

  She pulled the car out on to the road and went along to the next lay-by, which had a lane running off it down to the shore. She looked at the map again. This was the closest the headland road got to the shore, though it was still a good half-mile from the beach. She drove on, slowing to look at a stall selling watercolour pictures of the castle and the sea beyond. She was searching for another lane closer to the beach, looking for a house close to the water, out of sight of the road.

  To her left, Culzean Castle shone burnished gold in the strange light, the hills behind purple, fading to lavender. It was so beautiful, she wanted to fill her eyes with the rich colours. Scotland was a country coloured with an autumn palette. She noticed the castle drifting on the skyline; the road was swinging inland. She had gone too far.

  She did a U-turn on a long straight stretch and headed back the way she had come. She looked again at the stall she had passed on the way out. Profitable in the summer, she thought: this scenery was so picturesque, so near the castle. Yet it was October now and freezing cold. How profitable could it be?

  No tax. No VAT. And, she supposed, a wee backhander to the tourist coaches that ploughed up and down this road. It would be on the itinerary for every McKay’s Tour doing the West Coast.

  She indicated and pulled in. They would know how many houses were on the beach: from the look of it, they had painted the place often enough. A woman was sitting behind the table on a folding chair, reading the People’s Friend, a knitted bunnet pulled over her head and a tartan rug wrapped round her legs. Behind the range of watercolours on the table was a red tartan flask. She would need it.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ said the woman, looking up from her story, her eyes framed by steel-rimmed glasses, the bristles on her mole twitching.

  Costello felt a tingle of adrenalin. ‘These are lovely.’

  The woman nodded, totally off guard.

  DS Costello held up her warrant card. ‘I’m looking for Sean McTiernan.’

  ‘Aye.’ The woman was good. The beady little eyes looked unfriendly behind the glasses, a keen intellect calculating how much to tell, and the only sign of unease a slight shuffle of the fingers over the tartan blanket. ‘I’ve had a few women looking for him in my time. Usually younger than you, though.’

  Costello made a note to get her done for unlawful trading. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He missed his meeting with his social worker, and he hasn’t been seen at his bedsit,’ said Costello casually.

  ‘I knew where he was staying in Glasgow, but if he’s not there, he’s not there.’

  Costello could not argue with that logic. ‘You saw him in the Ashton Café, last week?’ The narrow face looked blank. ‘A coffee shop in Glasgow, Saturday midday?’

  ‘Oh, aye, weak tea, uncomfy seats.’

  ‘And you have no idea where he is?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Do you know where Trude is?’

  There was a hesitation. More than that, a look of slight panic. Pain? ‘I’ve no idea where she is. I’ve not seen her for years.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. Goodbye now.’ The old woman opened up her magazine again. It was as effective as slamming a door in Costello’s face. She walked back to her car. A silver BMW, one of those with the quartered wheel-trim, had driven past but was now reversing, as if curious to have a look. Maybe McAlpine should buy Helena one of those, to make up for ruining hers. She got into her Corolla and drove off, unaware of the look the two men in business suits gave her as she accelerated away.

  Mulholland was getting pissed off with waiting. He had been told to wait, and that Anderson was on his way. His instructions were not to speak to O’Keefe alone.

  The Irishman had come in, carrying some carrot cake and a takeaway cappuccino. He’d waved the paper cup at Mulholland.

  ‘Oh, if I’d known we were to be having company I would’ve brought another.’ The familiar keys had jangled as O’Keefe balanced the cake on top of the cup and opened the door.

  Mulholland had been tempted to follow him in, have a crack at him on his own, but his career meant more to him than that. He murmured to O’Keefe that he would look around if that was OK, and disappeared down the hall. O’Keefe didn’t answer, already drawn into the room by a ringing phone. Mulholland turned back and listened at the door long enough to know it was a call about a client; he recognized the name of a local GP, spoken informally, as though O’Keefe knew him well. He wandered off towards the laundry, a small room panelled in chipboard and dwarfed by a huge yellow industrial washing machine, and stinking of damp wool and disinfectant. There was a rack of clothes, unsellable stuff from the charity shop, dead men’s clothes. He wondered if Lynzi had brought any of them in. Probably. The smell in here was affecting his sinuses even more. He opened a small door into the yard, his
shoes crunching on broken glass, and looked up at the newly fitted glass of the window, still imprinted with puttied fingers. The trestle and the saw were still lying there: the repair had been recent. A can of Coke, ring-pull up, stood on top of the sandstone wall. He looked into the plastic toolbox. The tools were not new, but they were kept the way Mulholland’s dad had kept his tools, the saw blades wrapped in hessian to protect the teeth. He stepped over the toolbox, the top still propped open, and noticed SMcT etched on the lid and then scribbled over repeatedly with ink. He bent down, raking around with the tip of his pen. His eyes rested on the knife, long and strong, beautifully polished. And he blessed his Russian mother, who never used to let him out of the front door without a pristine white handkerchief in his top pocket.

  Anderson found the front door of the Phoenix lying on the snib. He opened it cautiously, entering into the darkness and the familiar smell of dust and polish. He paused, then gestured to Wyngate to stay with the car. O’Keefe’s door was open, and Anderson observed him for a moment: the priest looked calm and relaxed. He seemed totally untroubled, happy even, biting into his carrot cake with gusto, his hand cupped underneath to catch the crumbs.

  Anderson rattled a knuckle on the side of the door. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘Not at all.’ The priest was expansive. ‘Have a seat.’

  ‘I just wanted a word about Arlene,’ Anderson said. ‘How well did you know her?’

  ‘Not well at all.’ The priest shrugged, licking crumbs from his fingertips. ‘A pathetic girl, really. I went to see her mother after she died.’ He pulled a face. ‘An alcoholic, poor woman. A terrible life.’

  ‘We all have our crosses to bear.’

  ‘And Christ knows, Arlene had hers.’

  Anderson was looking past O’Keefe at the photographs – happy times, people having fun – on the wall behind him.

  ‘We think that the answer to all this may lie within these walls,’ said Anderson quietly.

  ‘I gathered as much. I find the thought unsettling.’ O’Keefe ran his hands through his hair. ‘Please, you know you have the run of the place.’

  ‘We appreciate that, and nobody doubts the sincerity of anybody who works here, but you cannot guarantee who’ll walk in that door. If the devil himself came in, you wouldn’t know.’

  O’Keefe looked at Mulholland as he walked in, the younger detective tipping the wink to Anderson. If O’Keefe noticed the signal, he didn’t respond, and continued to talk to Anderson.

  ‘You know, you always think that you know right from wrong. I always thought that my faith would bring me through anything. But this is awful. For the first time, I feel I want to pack it all in and just walk away.’

  It seemed to Mulholland a much more human reaction than Leask’s – or maybe Thomas O’Keefe was just a better actor. ‘And how do you feel about that?’

  ‘How would you feel? Look at this place. Empty. Years of hard work down the drain. People should be here waiting to be fed, but there’s nobody. We won’t recover from this.’ He bit on his bent forefinger, looking out of the window for a minute. ‘The word is out. Six years I’ve been painstakingly building up goodwill. And it’s gone. I was officiating at a funeral yesterday, and there was more talk about the murders than about the deceased.’

  ‘How did you know Elizabeth Jane?’ asked Anderson gently.

  ‘I’m not sure I did. I didn’t recognize any of the pictures you showed me. But who knows, maybe my memory is worse than I thought. A poor excuse for the living slipping through your fingers. I’m told I spoke to Lynzi, but if so I never knew her name. A few women would come in and sort out old clothes; I used to just say hello and leave them to it. I did know Arlene, but no better than I’d know a hundred other people that walk in here.’

  ‘You never spoke to Elizabeth Jane on the phone?’

  ‘Not that she identified herself, no. But that phone rings all the time, so I might have. And if I’d known it was her, I would have had a few things to say to her.’

  Mulholland noticed how O’Keefe strove to distance himself from the victims, never making a definite statement that could be disproved.

  ‘You never met her parents?’

  ‘No. Why would I?’

  ‘Do you know this girl?’ Mulholland asked gently, handing over two pictures of Arlene.

  ‘That’s Arlene Haggerty? I spoke to her mum, like I said.’

  ‘Do you remember seeing her looking like that – with that hair colour, to be specific?’

  O’Keefe glanced at the dark-haired version. ‘No,’ he said with no hesitation. ‘She was always blonde when I knew her.’

  ‘Do you know Helena Farrell?’

  ‘Runs that posh art gallery? Wife of the Detective Chief Inspector, the dark-haired guy? I know who you mean, and Leask told me what happened to her. How is she?’

  ‘Comfortable,’ Anderson answered with easy vagueness.

  ‘I don’t think she was ever down here, was she? I don’t think I ever met her.’ O’Keefe’s phone rang again, and he picked it up. ‘Sure, fine, yes, I’ll have a word. Can I have a few minutes?’ he said to them, covering the mouthpiece with the palm of his hand. Then back to the phone, ‘I’m really sorry to hear that. How is she coping?’

  Anderson whispered as he got up, ‘Just one quick question – have you seen Sean McTiernan?’

  O’Keefe shook his head and pointed to his own hand. At Anderson’s shrug he asked the caller to hold on ‘while I close the door’.

  ‘I haven’t seen Sean today,’ said O’Keefe, his hand clasped over the phone. ‘He had to go to get his hand stitched yesterday. He left in some hurry.’

  ‘He left his tool kit here,’ said Mulholland, patting the knife in his jacket pocket. ‘It’s out the back.’

  ‘Leeza said the wound was bad, and Mr White, the boss, came to get the van to take him to the Western. I have to get on,’ O’Keefe said pointedly.

  Anderson felt his mobile vibrate against his leg and cursed inwardly. ‘Bye for now.’ He left the room and stood in the corridor, his face pale and carefully expressionless.

  Mulholland followed Anderson from O’Keefe’s office and stood in the draught of fresh air coming through the front door. He silently acknowledged Anderson’s turned back, a need for discretion while the Boss was on the phone. Mulholland made a point of not listening and watched Wyngate look aimlessly at the cars parked on the circus. He stood leaning against the wall, his arms folded, thinking: in the file, in Costello’s handwriting, was a note about Sean putting a chisel through his hand. And they said at the meeting that he’d used that trick before, so it was another convenient accident to rearrange the timing of events to suit himself. Mulholland listened for a moment, but Anderson was still on the phone. He felt the knife in his pocket as his own little treasure, not wanting even to mention it while there was a chance of being overheard. He thought about the photograph of O’Keefe, benign, charming and affable. In the midst of all this murder, the priest’s only genuine concern seemed to be for the future of the Phoenix. An ego out of control?

  Anderson snapped his phone shut. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes!’ His fist punched the air. ‘That was O’Hare. The blade had a broken tip, and it twisted when it contacted bone. We have a fair idea of length, so now we have a distinctive blade we can identify. He’s sent some pictures to the station, and I’ve asked Burns to bring them over here.’

  ‘Why? Why don’t we go back there?’

  ‘I’m not leaving. If that knife’s anywhere, it’s here. Where’s Costello?’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘McTiernan’s done a runner, and Costello’s gone after him. Don’t get on to me about it, she was out the door before I could stop her.’

  ‘Oh, shit!’

  ‘And if you’re looking for something like this, it was in McTiernan’s toolbox.’ Mulholland looked behind him to ensure they were alone and took the knife from his pocket, still wrapped in the handkerchief. He held it up to the light. ‘It’s covere
d with something dry and flaky. It used to be liquid. Look, it ran down the handle.’ He held it against the skin on the back of his hand. ‘It looks like blood, recent blood.’

  ‘Evidence bag, Mulholland. Fuck! Where did you say Costello was?’

  ‘She’s gone after McTiernan,’ said Mulholland.

  ‘But where? And who with? You’re here, I’m here, Burns is on his way over here and Wyngate’s outside. So who’s with her?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘You let her go on her own?’

  ‘I don’t see how I could’ve stopped her. You know how she is; once she gets an idea, she’s off and – ’

  O’Keefe opened his door apologetically. ‘Look, I have to leave, I’m needed at the Western – last rites, you know.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Do you mind if we send somebody with you? He’ll be discreet; but it’s for your own protection, really.’

  O’Keefe muttered under his breath, and Mulholland thought he heard a few swear words he never thought would leave a priest’s lips. They followed O’Keefe back into his room as he grabbed a black zipped bag from under his desk and hoisted it on to his shoulder. ‘I’ll be in the red 2CV out the front,’ he said tersely.

  Anderson followed him back through the door and got hold of the nearest uniform, instructing him in a voice so low neither O’Keefe nor Mulholland could hear.

  ‘Right, where were we?’ Anderson sat on O’Keefe’s desk, picked up his mobile, thought a moment, then put it back down again. ‘I’ll get back to the knife in a minute. Where did Costello say she was going?’ he demanded again.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What d’you mean, you don’t know?’

  ‘She said she had an idea.’

  ‘Fuck. The stupid cow.’ He stuffed his mobile in his pocket. ‘I’m going to get a team in here. This has been going on too long.’

  ‘Don’t we need a warrant?’

  ‘You heard O’Keefe – we have his full cooperation.’

  ‘I’m not sure he meant it.’

  ‘Neither am I, but who gives a toss?’

  Costello drove back down the Heads of Ayr Road and parked in the lay-by near the first lane she had seen. She had been right; she had found the old dear with the mole. Sean was near by; this was the place. She was looking for a small cottage with a big dog. She thought about going back to Ayr and requesting assistance, but the cottage was still half a mile away. She could get down there and not even be seen. She saw a gap in the hedge and tyre marks in the field beyond, and wondered if this was where the Boss had crashed the Beamer. It was certainly along this stretch of road somewhere; the same geography that made the bay so attractive was exactly why it made such an accident black spot … and indeed why the new inland road had been built. If this was the aftermath of his accident, he had been lucky.