Absolution

by Caro Ramsay

He paused, giving her a strange look, as though he thought her not quite sane. ‘I’ll be in touch with my parole officer, and I’ll be back up in Glasgow to get my stitches out.’ He waved the bandaged hand at her. ‘OK? Nice of you to be so concerned.’

  He was some yards away from the car now. Or was he letting her think she was free to go?

  She stepped closer to the car, McTiernan watching her all the while. She pressed the button on the key fob. Nothing happened. She tried again, nothing happened. The lock had jammed again. She cursed the AA man under her breath, feeling sick with tension, expecting a blow on the head or the cold grip of chloroform at her throat at any moment.

  Keeping her voice light, she asked, ‘That dog down there – is it called Gelert?’ McTiernan smiled but did not answer.

  She clicked the key fob and heard the central locking spring open.

  Then lock again.

  The sound made him turn. She pulled her left hand into a flattened claw, fingers drawn back to her palm, knuckles ready for the windpipe, while angling the sharp end of her ignition key in her right hand, ready to go for the centre of his eye.

  If she could bring him down, get to the car and slam the central locking shut, she might have a chance.

  Lynzi, Elizabeth Jane and Arlene had probably thought they had a chance as well. Or had the chloroform blocked everything out before they even had a moment to realize they were doomed?

  Anderson checked the clock on the wall, comparing it with his own watch. Apart from the fact that it said Thursday rather than Friday, the time was right – five fifteen.

  ‘Would you sit in a bathful of cold porridge for charity?’ asked Mulholland.

  ‘Would I bollocks.’

  Mulholland stopped picking imaginary fluff from his jacket sleeve and picked up another birdwatching magazine. He was not a man who could hide his boredom; he could hear the search team ripping the Phoenix apart, and for a brief moment he wished he was back in uniform. Exciting things were going on in the building, and here he was babysitting his boss in case two phones rang at the same time. ‘There’s a picture here of O’Keefe doing exactly that.’

  ‘He’s Irish – what do you expect?’ Anderson turned to the wall, studying the photographs with faint interest. The one of O’Keefe looking slightly foolish in the bath of porridge was labelled Priest Gets His Oats. There was a group of six men, none of whom he recognized, in trainers and running tops, false breasts dangling precariously, miniskirts rucked up over their shorts, hanging round each other’s necks in exhaustion.

  ‘Do you know how common blue tits are in this part of the world?’ said Mulholland, agitated, flicking through the magazine.

  ‘If that’s a preamble to something smutty, forget it. Leeza will have your balls.’

  They both jumped when Anderson’s phone went.

  There was a brief exchange of words, most of the talking coming from the other end of the phone. Anderson shot a look at Mulholland. ‘Oh, great,’ he said into his mobile with weary sarcasm. ‘Look, just get them to send a squad car from Ayr, down to Culzean … and take the Heads of Ayr Road.’ He swallowed hard as he flicked the phone shut.

  ‘Costello?’

  ‘She could be in trouble. That was Wyngate, tracking down McTiernan’s money.’ He turned on Mulholland. ‘McTiernan came into a little money when he was eighteen but nowhere near enough to buy a Wendy house, never mind a house on the coast. So what’s Costello playing at?’

  ‘I’m sure DS Costello can look after herself,’ Mulholland ventured. He sounded more confident than he felt.

  Anderson looked at his watch again and started pacing as far as the little office would allow, muttering under his breath and looking at the photographs on the wall without seeing them. ‘There’s nothing else I can do, is there?’

  ‘Not really, sir.’

  When McAlpine woke up, the house at Kirklee felt like a mausoleum: no sign of life, no sense of family, no sense of home. It was chilled, the way only an empty house can be. He had staggered into bed sometime in the last twenty hours but had no idea when. He had woken up in the spare bedroom, feeling as if he had not slept at all. Horrific nightmares had tortured him in his sleep: Robbie rising from the water, Anna and Robbie kissing, laughing and cheering in the waves. Anna her face grey and dead, dark gaping holes where her eyes used to be. He heard himself call to Anna, calling to her that he was drowning. She had turned away. Nobody heard his screams. He woke up as the water closed over his head.

  He looked at his watch, the Cartier that had been his lucky charm for twenty-two years. Now its stern square face was telling him that it was half five, and that if he got a move on, he could make it to the gallery for the exhibition. He could show Helena some support; he could stand at the back and be proud of his talented and clever wife.

  He undressed and stepped into the shower, turning up the power so hard it was painful to stand under it, before noticing something odd about the shelf under the window.

  Spaces.

  And, casually, near her bottle of bluebell perfume, sat her wedding ring. On top of it rested her engagement ring, its blue diamond reflected in the glass. So Helena had taken some of her toiletries, because they were important to her. And left the rings behind. He picked up the diamond, stroking the single stone against his lips. She had asked him to do that single thing, to take some of her belongings to the hospital, and he had forgotten. The ring suddenly felt cold in his hand. Maybe she’d taken them off only because her fingers were blistered … But she had gone.

  Had gone to stay with Denise Gilfillan.

  Gone to protection of sisterhood.

  He spent an age shaving, taking care round the cuts. He dressed carefully, choosing his good suit and a tie that went with the shirt. He even walked over to the mirror, holding both up to his chest, to check the colours. He went downstairs and poured out a Glenlivet, then went into the kitchen and poured it down the sink. He switched on the kettle instead.

  Anderson was still looking around abstractedly, his eyes skimming the collage of photographs on the wall. ‘That’s some amount of money this place gets gifted,’ he said, looking at a formal photograph of a giant-size cheque, made out to the Phoenix Trust, being handed over. There was a series of photographs of Scouts and Boys’ Brigade activities. The last two pictures showed one perfect triangle of logs, and another not so perfect. Anderson looked a bit closer, tracing the outline of the fence round the grass with his finger. The lower flats of the building behind were clearly visible.

  ‘Vik? Get Leeza in here.’

  Mulholland opened the door and shouted down the hall.

  ‘It stinks out there; they have the floorboards up.’ Mulholland wiped imaginary grime from his face, remembering why he was glad after all to be out of uniform. He resumed his reading of the magazine. ‘Some interesting stuff in here,’ he said flicking through. ‘Nobody’s drawn bras on these tits.’

  ‘Oh, piss off, Vik.’ Anderson’s finger was pointing to one of the photographs. ‘Do you think that’s Victoria Gardens?’

  ‘Looks like Victoria Gardens. But have a swatch at that.’ Mulholland put the magazine right in front of Anderson’s nose and watched the face of his senior officer as he scanned the line drawings. How to bait a trap, the trapped mink and a third captioned Anaesthetized Mink.

  ‘What do you think that means?’

  ‘Well, sir, what do you know that can knock something out in a confined space? Look at the picture: they put the whole trap in a bin bag, pour something in and hold the neck of the bag until – ’

  ‘It stops struggling. And you gain a controllable victim. Costello said that’s why he uses the chloroform.’ Mulholland flicked the magazine over to show Leask’s name written in the top corner.

  ‘The name means nothing; it’s been kicking around here for weeks. But if that’s the source of the chloroform? Find out what that anaesthetic is – oh, just get a move on.’ Anderson pulled out his mobile phone. ‘Go out to my car, plug that in, pho
ne the RSPB, the guy who wrote that article, anybody you can think of. Find out what they use … exactly. If it’s chloroform, use your initiative and backtrack. Find out if it’s registered, regulated, whatever.’

  ‘And who has it where?’

  ‘Yeah, in particular the Ayrshire coast. McTiernan keeps nipping down there for something.’

  Mulholland went out of the door so fast he nearly knocked over Leeza coming in.

  ‘Yes?’ she snapped.

  ‘Where is that?’ Anderson asked, indicating the photographs of the log piles.

  ‘Victoria Gardens. A tree came down in the storm, and we had a sponsored log-clearing, the Scouts versus the Boys’ Brigade. It raised a few bob. Who’s interested? Do you know your lot are ripping the toilets out?’

  ‘Yeah, we’re looking for illegal substances.’ He sniffed; her hair smelled faintly of good dope. ‘Was there a key to Victoria Gardens kept here?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Was there?’ He let his anger show in his voice.

  ‘Probably!’ she shouted back. ‘The gardens are locked, aren’t they?’

  ‘Who would have them, the keys? Think, it’s important.’

  Leeza’s hand went to her throat, trying for total recall. ‘I really don’t know. Either George or Tom, one of the young ones – they organized it.’

  Anderson swore loudly. ‘So an extra set could have been cut, the originals handed back.’ If they had picked that up after Lynzi’s body had been found there, the investigation would have been over. ‘Are these pictures in any particular order?’

  Leeza’s voice quavered a little. ‘No. That’s the Jewish Women’s Circle with Rabbi Shaffer. That’s – ’

  There was a knock at the door, and Burns’s huge frame appeared. He was carrying an envelope; there was a note pinned to it with his thumb. ‘Thank God. Do you mind, Leeza? This could be confidential,’ said Anderson. Leeza closed the door behind her. ‘No sign of Costello out there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shit.’ Anderson emptied the envelope on to the desk.

  ‘O’Hare said you were to look at that, and Quinn said you’ve to phone this number ASAP.’ He handed over the note. Anderson glanced at it and frowned slightly, not recognizing the code.

  ‘Where is that, now?’

  ‘Stornoway, same code as my Auntie Dolina. It’s the number of the manse. Costello’s already phoned the minister, but Quinn says it’s important you speak to him.’

  Anderson relegated the number to his breast pocket and concentrated on the contents of the envelope, now splayed on the desk. ‘Right,’ he said, glancing at the pictures; if he had not known better he would have said they showed pieces of badly damaged concrete. It was Arlene’s spine.

  Somebody had drawn a circle round the crescent-shaped notch on the front of the bone. The next showed the same picture blown up, the image grainier. Again the indent had been circled, with an arrow going clockwise.

  ‘So what does that mean?’ Burns asked.

  ‘It means the knife was twisted when it went in,’ said Anderson.

  ‘Was that what O’Hare said on the phone?’ asked Burns, his broad finger outlining the waisted vertebrae.

  ‘I’m sure that’s what he said.’

  Burns shifted from one foot to the other.

  ‘If you have something to add, please do,’ said Anderson. Burns was not the brightest, but he was eminently sensible.

  ‘It could be, sir, that the knife was twisted on the way out rather than the way in.’

  ‘Does that make a difference?’ asked Anderson.

  Burns gestured cutting open his own stomach, causing Anderson a shudder of recognition. ‘The sort of knife you’d use for that, there’s a gutter that runs up the middle of the blade, to act as a channel to let the blood out; otherwise the knife can get stuck. Suction … you need to twist the knife to break the grip of suction.’

  Anderson was feeling sick. He handed Burns a piece of paper from Leask’s desk. ‘Draw it. Draw it life-size. O’Hare says we’re looking for something one inch plus wide, seven inches long, with a two-millimetre slice off the top, a sawtooth blade.’ He watched as Burns’s big hands moved quickly over the paper.

  ‘Bowie knives, bayonets, they’re all made the same way, with a blood channel,’ Burns said. ‘What were those measurements again? And you want it sawtoothed …’ He smiled.

  Anderson immediately pointed to Sean’s knife, lying in state on Mulholland’s white handkerchief. ‘This is longer than seven inches,’ he said. ‘And thinner.’ He shook his head. ‘We’ll still send it up. I don’t trust these measurements. What do you think?’ he asked Burns. ‘I remember you saying, about the sharpness of a knife that could almost cut through a leather belt …’

  Burns ran his eyes over the knife. ‘It’s sharp, right enough.’ He felt the tip with his thumb, careful to touch it only through the handkerchief. ‘And it’s a wee bit damaged, look, here at the end, as though it’s been used as a lever, maybe to open paint tins. But I don’t see this being the weapon, sir. It’s not strong enough. Too long, not enough weight.’

  ‘And I don’t see Christopher Robin leaving a bloodstained weapon lying around.’

  Mulholland came back in, rattling the door against the jamb. ‘Surely the fact that it’s bloodstained is the point,’ he said breathlessly, pointing at the evidence bag containing the tiny dark red flakes.

  ‘I was saying Christopher Robin would be too clever to leave it lying around. So the blood is McTiernan’s, probably. He did cut himself. Burns, will you take that straight up to forensics? A uniform was supposed to come, but we can’t wait any longer. The sooner we find out the better. Somebody’s either perfectly innocent or being very clever. But before you go – were you brought up on a farm?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ answered Burns.

  Anderson was pacing again. ‘So disembowelling, gutting animals – is that the kind of thing only a farmer would know: a farmer, a gamekeeper, a soldier?’

  ‘Somebody like that, sir. Don’t suppose it’s common knowledge.’ Burns sketched quickly, annotating the drawing.

  ‘So answer me one question, yes or no. A Glasgow-born-and-bred joiner, interested in football and running – would he instinctively know how to do it? Yes or no.’

  ‘Instinctively? No.’

  ‘That’s all I wanted.’ Anderson was thinking about a connection with what Burns had said. Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, he remembered seeing a bookcase, full of books, reference books, well worn and tattered, but he couldn’t quite focus on where it had been. There was a pattern here, a pattern of country life, someone used to handling a knife, used to being at one with nature, but set on righting the wrongs of mankind in the worst way possible. What had McAlpine said – the smell of morality …

  ‘Sir, I managed to – ’ Mulholland started, but he was interrupted by the outer door opening and closing, the sounds of chatter.

  The door of the office burst open and Costello came in. ‘Present for duty, sir!’

  Even though she was red-cheeked and trying to be cheery, Anderson could tell she had had a fright. His relief turned to anger. ‘You, Costello, are on a charge.’

  ‘Of what?’ she asked.

  ‘Being a stupid bitch. Where have you been?’ He slumped in the seat.

  ‘I know where Sean is,’ Costello beamed.

  ‘Don’t ever, ever go off like that again.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘We found his knife, Costello. It’s being checked,’ Anderson whispered. ‘Bloodstained,’ he added for effect, trying to ram her fright home. It was a lesson she had to learn; she might not survive a second time. Giving her no time to answer, he went on, ‘They had the keys here for Victoria Gardens all along.’

  Costello’s eyes widened.

  Anderson walked over to look at the photographs on the wall, feeling sure the answers were there. He recognized a few old players from Rangers and Celtic in the line-up, a few from Partick Thi
stle, a couple of local radio DJs and a Glaswegian who once came second in the Song for Europe competition. Both the football teams were listed, name by name, with date and venue, their moment of glory captured for ever.

  ‘What you’ve got there is a diagrammatic reconstruction of the knife we might be looking for,’ he told Costello. ‘Burns here recognized it.’

  ‘Do you two mind if I get a word in edgeways?’

  ‘Sorry, Vik, did you get through?’

  ‘More than got through.’ A slight smile played around his lips. ‘The mink of Ayr are few and far between. Mink create a big problem with the ground-nesting birds in Ballachulish, though.’

  Costello froze, looking from one detective to the other. A slight smile passed from Mulholland to Anderson and the DI said sweetly, ‘We’ll ask Quinn to apply for a warrant to search Leask’s place. I’m just in the mood to see those beautiful floorboards pulled apart.’ Anderson looked at his watch and plucked the phone number from his breast pocket. ‘And on we go – getting closer and closer to Christopher Robin.’

  It was getting on for eight o’clock when McAlpine parked his car in Bath Street, as close to the gallery as he could get. It boded well for the success of the show, the opening night being this busy. In the light of current events, Helena had rearranged things; she had been standing in the middle of the gallery, pointing, while Denise and Terry and the staff ran round her. Business first – Alan knew that aspect of her personality well. Maybe they weren’t so unalike after all. Her gamble had paid off, and the place was crowded, just the atmosphere was different. As he walked past, instead of the gentle swirl of jazz punctuated by bubbles of conversation and laughter, he heard the lament of a lone piper above the subdued buzz of chatter, the chinking of glasses, but no frivolity. The exhibition had certainly got plenty of publicity – nothing like a good murder attempt for getting the parasites of the press involved.

  The girl on the door handed him a catalogue and said hello. He resolved again to behave himself, to be all sweetness and light, no matter what. Glasgow’s finest had turned up in force; from the steps he could see some honoured guests from Holyrood and the Provost of Glasgow having a serious chat over some champagne. Girls, all dressed formally in black suits, all with their hair gelled back, steered their way through the throng with trays of glasses filled with champagne, orange juice and mineral water. He picked up some champagne, put it back and then, feeling naked without a glass in his hand, picked up a mineral water.