by Caro Ramsay
She got out of the car, checking she had her binoculars and pulling the phone from its charger. It was bitterly cold, even in the sunshine. Pulling her fleece up round her neck and flattening the hood of her duffel, she walked down the lane towards the sea, which sparkled from a dull grey through a myriad of colours to dazzling white, where the wind kissed it into white horses. She shivered.
There was a small white cottage halfway down the lane, Shiprids Cottage written in black italics on the whitewashed wall. Was that an old Scots word for sheep? Shepherds? Something like that. Everything in sight had been whitewashed.
She rang the doorbell.
Nobody answered.
She tried again.
Nothing.
Shit. There was no evidence of another house down here. She was debating with herself whether to go down to the beach or to walk back up to the car, when her phone rang. She knew before she answered it that the decision had been made for her.
‘Costello, you stupid cow! Where are you?’
‘I can hardly hear you – the signal’s bad.’ She looked up at the hills behind her, the sea in front: no chance. ‘What?’
She heard ‘stupid cow’ but she was too happy to be upset. ‘Just wait, sir. I’ve traced Sean’s old friend, from the Good Shepherd. I’ve made the connection …’
‘… found … McTiernan?’
‘McTiernan … Well, not really, but …’
‘… arse back … here … crackle crackle crackle. Now!’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Costello … now!’ McAlpine would talk to her like that, but Anderson? That meant trouble. She put her finger in her other ear, turning her body this way and that; a few words came over crystal clear – ’I mean it, keep away from him’ – before the buzzing started again. She felt a cold handclasp over her heart, a deep shiver that went through to bone. It was a lot colder than she had thought.
‘You have no idea where McTiernan is?’ Anderson asked. The air in O’Keefe’s office was getting very stale, and he waved his hand in front of his face.
‘No, I really don’t. I know his address is a bedsit near here, but that’s it,’ Mulholland replied.
‘How long’s Costello been away? An hour or so? Where was the house? It was in that report. Christ, she told me right after she spoke to the estate agent.’ Anderson pinched his fingers over the bridge of his nose. ‘There’s only one road that follows the coastline, isn’t there?’
Mulholland nodded. ‘Yeah, the Heads of Ayr Road.’
‘Get a car down from Ayr,’ Anderson snapped. ‘If he follows type, as Batten would say, he’ll head to his “mother”. Tell them they’re looking for a white Corolla parked near a remote house. Get to it.’
While Mulholland dialled, Anderson tried to get hold of Costello. But every time, the mobile was dead. Wherever she is, she’s out of range … down beside the water. Tell them that.’ He put his phone down and started to fiddle with the binoculars on the windowsill.
‘Sorted!’ Mulholland snapped his phone shut. ‘You a birdwatcher too?’
‘Feathered or two-legged?’ said Anderson.
‘Either.’
‘Neither. I’m an expert on Postman Pat and Edie McCreadie from Balamory.’ He looked out of the window again, his finger tapping the telephone on O’Keefe’s desk. ‘If this line is busy, does it stop anybody else ringing through?’
‘No.’
Anderson was holding his mobile in his palm, willing it to ring. It stayed silent, its green light ridiculing him.
‘Where’s the Boss?’ Mulholland inquired.
‘McAlpine? He was going to visit Helena and then have a good sleep, I hope.’
‘Leask goes birdwatching up at Ballachulish,’ said Mulholland, flicking through a pile of magazines with Leask written on the front cover.
‘He has family there as well. Bloody sight closer than Stornoway.’
‘Was that true, about Stornoway Airport not allowing landings on a Sunday?’
Anderson nodded. ‘Yeah, they’re a funny lot. Where’s that team? Where’s Burns? He should be here by now.’
‘Do you want me to run this over to forensics?’ Mulholland held up the evidence bag, desperate to get out of the dusty, smelly office.
‘No, no, I’ve phoned it in, and somebody’s coming to get it. I want a search team and I need you here. We need to wait.’ The office seemed darker, more oppressive. A delivery had come in, and a pallet of dried soup was stacked on the floor, along with litre bottles of detergent and floor cleaner. Boxes upon boxes of what looked like man-sized tissues were stacked to desk height. Mulholland’s curiosity got the better of him.
‘Gloves,’ he reported to Anderson. ‘Latex gloves.’
‘Eh?’
‘Latex gloves? No fingerprints?’
‘No fingerprints because he doesn’t touch anything that would retain them, Mulholland; don’t get carried away.’ Anderson bit his teeth into his lips. ‘Phone, you fuckers!’
Her day ruined, Costello walked back up the lane slowly, past the patch of burned grass where the car had crashed and gone up in flames. There were bits of glass everywhere – small cubes of windscreen sparkled on the ground like diamonds of dew – and fragments of blue metal. It was the same colour as the Beamer’s paintwork. She could see a pattern of something here … She was starting to sound like Batten.
She climbed the fence to look down at the bay, a last look before the lane climbed to the height of the main road and she lost sight of the beach altogether. It was a strange place, mystical even. It was blowing a gale down on the shore, yet there was no wind here. A dull grey cloak of cloud had fallen over Ailsa Craig, and it looked as though another storm was on the way.
Costello climbed up on the second-highest spar of the fence, hitching her leg round it to steady herself, and pulled out her binoculars. She could see a fair way along the waterline from here, not much of the beach, but she could see as far as the cliffs and then up to the castle. She scanned the binoculars back and forth; she could not see any other buildings anywhere.
To her, it was the obvious answer. This place had a hold on Sean McTiernan. So if the old biddy had one cottage, who had the other? Was that what the estate agent had not said? Keeper’s … What secrets was it keeping?
That shiver ran through her again, as though someone had walked over her grave.
She dropped her binoculars. Looking again without them, she saw a movement at the water’s edge. Blond, the colour of driftwood, it seemed to roll and undulate in the water, a piece of wood caught in a riptide. Then it moved quickly. Costello put the glasses up again: a dog, wolf-like, was playing with the breaking waves, wet legs comically scrawny compared to the huge fluffy body. Costello always said the only thing she knew about dogs was that the end with the teeth was dangerous, but she knew a husky when she saw one. Gelert. Who had never been dumped.
She reached upward on her wooden perch but could see no further.
She clicked her tongue in irritation. She couldn’t walk down there and risk coming face to face with Sean. She checked the map again. It clearly showed the other cottage, almost on the beach, further along, but she couldn’t see it. She tried to get her bearings, turning the map so it matched the orientation of the land. She faced inland, with Ailsa Craig behind her, the castle on her right. The other cottage was closer to the sea, almost underneath the castle. She sighed. She had found the old biddy, and she had found Gelert. She would get back and tell Anderson, force him to listen.
She took one last look, scanning the beach through her binoculars, envious of whoever had the peace and beauty of this place to enjoy.
‘What do you think? It’s starting to get dark,’ said Mulholland.
‘Don’t know, I’m still thinking. Wait to see what forensics say about that knife. They’ll make it a priority. Burns should be here any minute with the stuff from O’Hare about the knife that was used on Arlene. Somewhere we should get a match. How long has it been since I phon
ed Costello?’
‘About ten minutes. She’ll be all right, she’s not daft. Is it just the pictures Burns is bringing over?’
‘A blueprint for the blade and some dimensions.’ He pursed his lips. ‘As for Costello not being daft, I’ll reserve judgement on that.’
Anderson opened the shutters at the window, but the dank mustiness of the place persisted. Darkness was falling fast. It was the end of the seventh day. He wished somebody would open a window in this place every now and again. He put his fingertip against the window, drawing in the grime.
Leeza came in. ‘Are you going to go, or hang around, or what?’ She dangled a key in her hand. ‘I’ll need to lock the door.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll wait. We’ll make sure nothing goes missing.’
Not the answer she wanted.
Mulholland found he could not stop looking at her face. After clearing up from tea, she had applied some lipstick, but must have been interrupted because the colour had missed her mouth at one corner, giving the appearance of a permanent leer. The ring that dangled from her eyebrow had infected the skin underneath it. With that, and her damp dungarees, she looked like a perverted rag doll. However, she was trying to be nice. Somehow Mulholland found that even more unnerving.
‘Do you want another coffee, tea, anything?’
‘No, thanks, we’re fine. We would prefer it if you hung around, though, just in case.’
She looked troubled. ‘In case of what?’
‘Just in case.’
‘Not much choice, have I?’
‘Not really. We’ll try not to be long.’
She considered for a minute. ‘I’ll take some of those magazines through to the kitchen. There’s loads of them there, if you’re bored,’ she said sarcastically to Mulholland. ‘No Playboy, I’m afraid.’
Costello walked back up the lane, thoughts rattling through her head. She turned on to the road at the top of the lane, her eyes down as she put her binoculars into their little plastic case. She put the case back into her jacket pocket. Her fingers were numb; she hadn’t realized how cold she was. Eventually she felt the key fob in the deep recesses of her pocket.
She was walking quickly to the car now, anxious to get back to the Phoenix to find out what the boys, particularly Anderson, knew about McTiernan. So near and yet so far.
She walked into the lay-by, pulling her chin deep behind the cowl of her fleece, breathing through the warmth of the material. It was much windier up here. She didn’t look up till she saw the feet, the white trainers. Standing there, leaning casually against the door of the white Toyota, hands in pockets, face raised towards the cool autumn sun, was Sean McTiernan.
Anderson looked at his watch. ‘How’s the search going?’ he asked Mulholland anxiously.
‘Carefully. We’ve no idea what drugs may be stashed in this place. The team’s called for full HIV protection, and you know how slow that makes things. Wyngate’s in charge. He’s taken the kitchen knives for testing. And he said, to give them their due, that Leask, O’Keefe and Leeza have given us carte blanche.’
‘Which means we could have nothing to find.’
‘Or, if we do, they don’t know about it.’
Anderson walked over to the wall, looking at the photographs, listening to the footsteps of the search team outside. ‘It’s McTiernan; I can taste it. Costello could get sucked in, just like Elizabeth and Lynzi.’
‘It wasn’t you who sent her. It was McAlpine,’ pointed out Mulholland. ‘And she’s not some stupid bint, she’s a serving police officer.’
‘I could have stopped her, though. And I didn’t.’ The door opened tentatively.
‘Do you mind if I just pick up some stuff? We seem to be under siege.’ Leeza came in, followed by a female officer who retreated to wait outside when she saw Anderson there. Mulholland thought Leeza’s hair looked less spiky than it had previously. In fact, Leeza herself seemed less spiky, and he saw vulnerability in the way her eyes flickered from side to side. She was uneasy at the police invading a space she clearly thought of as hers. Or maybe she was glad of their presence with the shadows of Leask and O’Keefe hanging in the air. He smiled at her offering reassurance and got a tight-lipped smile back.
She settled down at her desk and began to rifle through the same papers that Leask had, muttering nervously, ‘We paid this; we’ve definitely paid this, so why are they sending us a reminder?’ She looked at the calendar, which was stuck at September, and walked across the room to change it. ‘Are you any closer to finding anything?’ she asked, her voice catching a little.
‘Not yet. These things move slowly.’ Anderson sat casually on the two-drawer filing cabinet, emphasizing that he was in control. ‘How well do you know Sean McTiernan?’
‘McTiernan? I know he’s done time. And I know what for,’ Leeza replied, carefully folding over the next page of the calendar, a Canadian seal popping its head through an ice hole.
‘Has he ever mentioned any family? Anybody he was close to?’
‘You mean, he’s disappeared and do I know where he is?’
‘Top of the class.’
‘No, I don’t know. And I don’t know him well.’ She added, with some bitterness, ‘You could talk to him all day and not know him any better. He only tells you what he wants to. And I suppose, in his circumstances, I would be the same.’
‘Do you like him?’
‘What kind of question is that? If you’re asking do I ever feel threatened by him, the answer is no.’ She tilted her head, biting her lower lip, and for a brief moment she almost looked attractive. ‘He’s self-assured, easy in the company of women. Like a happily married man.’ She stood up. ‘Believe me, I know a happily married man when I see one.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, they’re a rare species.’ She made a point of looking at Anderson’s wedding ring on her way out. ‘McTiernan wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘Sounds like our man, then,’ Mulholland muttered to himself.
‘Well, hello, DS Costello.’
‘Hello, Mr McTiernan.’ She kept her voice calm.
‘What brings you down here? It’s a bit off your patch.’
‘They’re going to start looking for you.’ She looked him straight in the eyes, eyes she remembered as being blue, kind and friendly, and felt a tightness in her stomach when she realized they were now neither so kind nor so friendly. Her fingers crawling round the phone in her pocket, she cursed herself for not calling for back-up.
Sean folded his arms over his chest, letting the good arm take the weight of the sore one. The white bandage was already filthy. Costello wondered if the accident had been a pretext to hide teethmarks or scratches, or some other injury. It wouldn’t be the first time he had damaged himself with a tool for a good reason. McTiernan didn’t move from the car. He was looking at his feet, as if thinking deeply about something.
Costello’s fingers closed round the key fob, her thumb finding the button. She could unlock the car from here, but then what? She tried to read his body language, his facial expression, any threat in his eyes. There was something there, but she couldn’t identify what.
‘Anything you wanted to know, you could have asked me yesterday. Saved yourself a long drive. How did you find me?’ His words were curt.
‘Power of deduction.’ She shrugged her shoulders, attempting a smile. ‘And an estate agent who was a sucker for a warrant card and a nice smile.’
He turned slightly to face her, leaning on the driver’s door. There was no way she could get past him to get in. She felt her stomach sink. He wasn’t stupid; he knew what he was doing.
Costello moved from foot to foot as though her feet were cold, even as she felt the sweat pouring down her back. Key fob in right hand, mobile phone in left hand, neither of any use. She had gone past shock; she knew that. It was him or her.
She tried to take deep breaths so as not to let him see her tension, but she could feel her heart thumping against her rib cage. She h
ad been trained for this sort of situation, but her mind had gone blank.
‘You left your bedsit. What about the conditions of your parole? You have to go back, you know that,’ she said, her voice steadier than she’d thought it would be. ‘I was the one who knew where you were. As you notice, I’m here on my own.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve got to radio in soon, though.’
‘So you say.’
‘Sean. Look, you served your time, don’t mess it up now.’ She took a step nearer to him, trying to draw him away from the car door, some courage coming from adrenalin. She stared at his feet, innocent-looking in white trainers, and saw images of Malkie Steele, kicked to death, lying in a puddle of his own blood, pale shards of fractured cheekbone serrating the skin. She lifted her hand to her face, feeling the soft flesh of her own cheek.
McTiernan’s body tensed as though he was going to move away from the car, but he took a packet of Silk Cut from the back pocket of his jeans with his good hand and drew out a cigarette. She watched his long, strong fingers caress its length and place it delicately between his lips. His eyes never left her face. He lit it, waving the match in the air until the flame was extinguished. He settled back against the car door, his eyes steely cold.
Suddenly he moved, firing his cigarette to the ground and moving away from the car. Costello instinctively moved back, her finger through the loop of her key fob, keys in the palm of her hand. She could jab at his eye and then …