by Helen Fields
‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ Callanach replied, avoiding the questions and walking in.
It was obvious that no one had been inside since Cordelia’s death. All the lights were off and it was colder than a populated office would have been. The space was about as standard as could be. There were several desks in rows in the front area, with a larger office separated by glass at the rear end. To one side there were toilets and a small kitchen area with a sink, a cabinet for crockery, cutlery and cleaning essentials, and a fridge. At the far side was a conference room.
Callanach pulled on a pair of gloves and took out his phone, photographing each section of the office, being careful not to move anything. He went into Cordelia’s private office, moving her chair out of the way with his foot and opening the drawers of her desk. The contents were carefully arranged. Not obsessively so, but her ink-pen box was positioned next to a pot of ink and sat on blotting paper. Mrs Muir had liked everything just so. There was no rubbish around, nor crumpled papers or loose receipts. Another drawer contained a file entitled sponsorship queries, the next had stationery supplies, and the bottom one held letters and to-do lists. That was where the bottle of pills had been found, right at the back lodged behind the paperwork.
On the top of her desk, family photos were neatly framed and arranged. Odds and ends were in a desk-tidy. Selina was right. This wasn’t a woman likely to have emptied loose pills into her handbag. Her life was orderly and clean. There wasn’t a speck of dust in sight. Callanach had the uncomfortable sense that he was still missing something. Cordelia’s daughter had never believed her mother would take diet pills. MIT’s investigations had revealed nothing except admiration for the deceased. She was regularly invited to speak at charity events and widely liked. Cordelia had no known enemies, although he knew from experience that anyone could attract unwanted attention. The issue, if a crime had been committed against her, was how.
He opened the fridge, photographed the contents, then inspected each item individually. In the door were cartons of milk, one opened, two unopened. On the shelves were plastic tubs with varying degrees of food remaining inside. Two were blank, and of the remaining six, two were labelled Cordelia’s. Callanach took them out, pulled evidence bags from his pockets, filled in the time, date and place of seizure for the log and sealed the tubs inside. As an afterthought, he took out all the remaining tubs and put each one in an evidence bag.
‘Sir?’ a voice said from behind him. ‘Do you need me to do that?’ DC Tripp asked.
‘Get gloves on. I’m looking for a source of contamination with DNP. All food and drink to be seized. All drawers and cabinets to be checked for pills,’ he said. ‘We’ll need to return clean items to the owners. The staff are already getting frustrated about the lack of communication. The last thing we need is them moaning to the press because we haven’t returned the mug their boyfriend bought them.’
‘How will we identify the people whose belongings we’re removing?’ Tripp asked.
‘There are personnel files in Mrs Muir’s office. Go through them, get the name of each person on payroll here. Speak to the lady outside for details of any cleaners. If someone planted those pills in her drawer, they had to have access to her desk,’ Callanach said.
‘I don’t understand the motive, sir,’ Tripp said.
‘It could be a disgruntled employee. It could be racially motivated. Could even be someone on the payroll of a foreign government who didn’t appreciate Mrs Muir’s charitable work in their country. There were no fingerprints on the bottle of pills. If you think about all the people who must have handled the packaging, including Mrs Muir, that’s rather unlikely, isn’t it?’
‘Almost impossible,’ Tripp agreed.
‘Someone wiped the bottle. They were careful about it, which means they had a motive to do so. I can’t think of one single reason why Cordelia Muir might have done that herself.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Bradley was waiting at the Café Nom de Plume. He’d arranged to meet Christian there, walking a tightrope between innocence and deceit, and treading it heavily. Sean was full of scripts, rehearsals and the new fabulous people in his life, exciting opportunities so blinding he had hardly noticed Bradley’s distractedness. It was Brad who was struggling to fake it. At night he closed his eyes and saw Christian’s face. In the mornings he walked to work past the door of the Nom de Plume and imagined seeing his new friend’s face at the window seat that had become ‘their table’. Lately he had taken to wondering how it might feel to be the first man Christian ever kissed, which was why the fact that Christian was late, very late, stung. Bradley was finishing his coffee and preparing to return to work when the door finally opened.
Christian looked different. His hair was flopping over his face, his skin had lost its usual lustre, his slow smile absent. He lowered himself into the chair next to Bradley and shook his head.
‘I’m sorry. I hate keeping you waiting.’ He said it so quietly Bradley had to lean in to hear.
‘What happened?’ Bradley asked.
‘My fiancée left,’ Christian said. ‘The last few weeks have been rough. Two people I know have lost loved ones. I asked my partner to be patient, to share me, let me be where people needed me most. But she couldn’t. Then I told her about you.’
Bradley pulled his chair closer to Christian’s. ‘Has she gone for good?’ he asked.
Christian nodded, putting his head in his hands, elbows resting on the table. Bradley slid a tentative hand across the back of Christian’s shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles, trying to concentrate on what his friend needed from him.
‘Am I going to make you late back to work?’ Christian asked. ‘It’s just that my girlfriend was so upset, and I was trying to leave it on good terms. I know it’s the right thing for both of us that she’s gone, but I didn’t want it to end like this. Do you believe in curses, Brad? Do you think your past can follow you?’
Bradley put his hand back on his coffee mug, hoping Sean wouldn’t call as he often did about that time. He slid his hand into his pocket and turned down the ringtone volume. Christian needed him right now.
‘I think we’re more aware of events that remind us of our past,’ Bradley said. ‘If it’s something bad that we haven’t come to terms with, then perhaps we expect the past to repeat itself.’
Christian crept one hand slowly along the table, reaching out for Bradley’s fingers, grasping them in his shaking palm. ‘I mess everything up in my own life but I’m good at finding people who need me. I’m good at being a friend, I think. I see people in pain and most of the time I can help. It’s as if I help other people as a way of coming to terms with my issues. Does that make sense?’
‘A lot,’ Bradley said, wanting to understand, hesitant to interrupt Christian while he was opening up.
‘When I told her about you, she asked if I’d been thinking about you as more than just as a friend. I wanted to reassure her. I believe in being faithful, emotionally and physically, but I couldn’t lie to her anymore,’ Christian said.
Bradley flushed. ‘What answer did you give her?’ he asked.
‘I told her I wanted to get to know you better. I didn’t need to say anything more than that. She knew all the ways I meant it,’ Chris replied. ‘I hope you don’t mind. You and I have been spending so much time together. These few minutes at lunchtime have been the only moments of peace for me. I’ve been propping up Mina and Randall, then going home to … it’s been draining. It seems so presumptuous now. Can you forgive me?’ ‘As if there was anything to forgive,’ Bradley said. ‘If it helps, I’ve been thinking about you, too. I don’t want there to be any pressure between us, though. I like being around you, just talking. I’ve felt, I don’t know, listened to for the first time in a while.’
‘Maybe I could come over to yours one evening this week?’ Christian asked. ‘Do you think it’s time we moved on from sharing coffee and work stories?’ He smiled and Bradley felt a surge of a
drenalin usually reserved for first kisses and running from bullies.
‘Perhaps not my place,’ Bradley said. ‘Things are complicated. I could come to yours?’
‘Too soon. A lot of her stuff is still there and I’ll see her face every time I turn around for a few months yet.’
‘Of course, how insensitive of me,’ Bradley said.
‘Let’s find a quiet bar and go for a drink then. Neutral territory. I’ll text you when and where. Say next Friday?’ Christian asked.
‘That sounds good.’ Brad smiled.
‘You’d better go. I called in sick today but your boss will be expecting you back.’ He reached his arms out to Bradley for a hug, holding him close. Bradley was aware of the warmth of Christian’s body and the flatness of his stomach. He made himself remember Sean’s smile, his humour and gentleness. The attempted diversion didn’t last long.
Once Bradley had left, Christian took out his phone and called Randall. He knew the family had been busy organising Cordelia’s funeral but he’d expected Randall to have been in touch. He was worried that he was internalising his grief. That was a disaster.
‘Chris, hold on. I’ll go upstairs,’ Randall said. Christian could hear him running, then the sound of breathlessness before he began to talk again. ‘Thanks for phoning. I wanted to call you but I was worried I might annoy you. I don’t want you to think I’m a pain.’
‘That’s the last thing I would ever think,’ Christian said. ‘I won’t ask how you are. I know the answer to that already. I just phoned to see if there was anything I could do for you.’
‘I don’t think so. My sister won’t let me out of her sight. The police are still investigating. It’s like they want to find something,’ Randall said.
‘They’re just doing their job,’ Christian said. ‘It’ll calm down. When I lost my mother, I surrounded myself with her. I got out every photo I could, her personal possessions, clothes, everything. I sort of made myself a nest. It helped. Sometimes you have to give in to grief, embrace it. My friend went to see her sister’s body. It hurt, but I think it’s helping her to move on.’
‘Maybe when they let me out of the house we could go somewhere, listen to some music or whatever,’ Randall said.
‘Yeah, of course. Just keep in touch, all right? No one gets through this stuff alone. I’ve got to go, lots to do at home, but I’ll keep my phone on.’
‘Thanks, Chris. It’s good having you there.’ Randall ended the call.
* * *
Since Cordelia’s death, the Muir family home had taken on the atmosphere of a grand library, filled with a heavy, hushed air. Randall wandered through to his mother’s rooms. She had the largest bedroom with a dressing area, a bathroom and a study. He hadn’t been into her bedroom since she’d died. It felt as if she could see him. He tried to sit on the bed but the pillow retained a dip where her head usually lay. Instead he went to her dressing table, opened the top drawer and reached his hand in slowly. Her jewellery was in there, each piece in its original box, nothing out of place. At the back though, something rattled roughly. He pulled the drawer open as far as it would go, leaning down to look inside. Carefully he pulled out the object rammed right to the back. It was pasta, old and beginning to crumble, but still on the string in a line just as it had been when he’d given it to her so proudly, what, twelve years ago? He remembered making it in his reception year at school. Each pasta tube had been coloured with crayon scribbles, now too faded to make out the shades, but the red wool he’d used as a string hadn’t snapped with the passing years. It was extraordinary that she’d kept it so long without him knowing. He put the necklace into his pocket, closed the drawer, reopened it to take out her favourite pair of earrings, and closed it again.
The wardrobe housed aspects of her he had less love for. The suits, the crisp work shirts, the tailoring that had removed her from him to an office and a world with which he had been unable to compete. Those long days when he had wanted her to do puzzles with him, or bake cakes, when she had endless piles of paperwork, showing love to so many who weren’t him. He hadn’t understood then. It seemed easier now with her gone. Pride had swelled, pushing anger out of its way. He longed to take back the harsh words he’d said, the declarations of her love he hadn’t returned. Not that his lack of response had in any way diminished her insistence on telling him. Every morning as he’d left for school, mantra-like, she would tell him she loved him as he left the house. And every morning, all he’d replied was a variation on the theme of see you later.
He took the one thing of hers that he had always loved to see her in, not that he would ever have admitted it to her face. His mother’s dressing-gown was towelling, tea rose pink, and soft from countless washes. He pushed his face into it, smelling soap, perfume and – he knew he was imagining this – books. That was what he’d been missing. Her favourite books. In her study, he took down Pride and Prejudice, To Kill a Mocking Bird and The Scarlet Letter. It wasn’t enough. It didn’t adequately sum up the depth of her. He added The Help and The Great Gatsby, using her dressing-gown like a sack and taking them back to his own bedroom.
A nest, that was what Christian had suggested he build. This wasn’t enough for that. Not even close. He went back to his mother’s bedroom and pulled the duvet off her bed, grabbing her pillows as an afterthought. Another trip. From the bathroom cabinet he took her favourite perfume, the lipstick that she wore every day, her hand cream. Back to her study to take the cushion from her reading chair. He went through the drawers of her desk, taking photos, letters, a diary. In his room he arranged them, using her duvet as a base, scattering pillows and cushions around himself, spreading out his treasures, spraying perfume into the air, rubbing the hand cream into his own palms as he arranged photos like charms to keep away the darkness of her loss. He pulled Cordelia’s dressing-gown over himself, clutched her diary and settled down to read. Christian had been right. This was the closest Randall had been to his mother for longer than he could remember. It was like soaking her up. If he closed his eyes and drowned out the world, perhaps he could believe she was right there with him. Perhaps then the pain would go away.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ava handed in her mobile phone and keys at the desk of HMP Glenochil, signing in and waiting while her identity badge was checked. Dylan McGill – Ramon Trescoe’s former partner in crime – had agreed to see her. McGill had no idea why Ava wanted to talk, of course, but that was the thing about serving a long sentence. Any break from the norm was as good as a holiday. Any movement out of your cell was like a month-long cruise when your normal day consisted of a twenty-two hour lock in. The approach had been made through formal channels. Ava might have been investigating Begbie’s death under the radar but she was on the clock for Louis Jones. She’d even got McGill’s former solicitors’ details from the court record and notified them that she intended to visit their client. McGill, however, had declined the offer of a lawyer to accompany him. Presumably he thought the visit would be more fun without legal advice. That was fine with Ava. No independent record of their conversation gave her greater flexibility.
She was body-checked before walking through to a visitation room where she contemplated the sense or otherwise of her actions as McGill was brought from his cell. There would be a guard outside the door within easy screaming distance, not that it would help if McGill had secreted a shiv up his sleeve, but his business partner was out in the real world with access to women, alcohol and deep-fried food. McGill would want to join Ramon Trescoe as soon as he possibly could. Knifing a police officer hardly seemed like a smart move for a man who wanted a change of address that desperately. Not that Ava intended to allow McGill’s relationship with Ramon Trescoe to remain as trusting as it had been for the previous few decades. It was amazing how the slightest hint that a co-conspirator had talked to the police could undo a lifetime of friendship, and information flowed through prisons like money through a gambler’s hands. It wouldn’t take much for Ramon to
get entirely the wrong end of the stick about the little chat she was about to have with McGill, and she had a few cards to play that would ensure he fell foul of the suspicion of having ratted on his best mate. Of course, if Ramon Trescoe had nothing to hide, he would have no reason to worry about Ava’s visit to his business partner.
Dylan McGill was shorter than she’d expected from the description in his file, and a shadow of the man she’d seen in various photographs. Incarceration had physically shrunk him, not that she felt a shred of sympathy. McGill and Trescoe had been violent thugs when they were convicted, and they remained the same men now. He looked Ava up and down as the guard sat him in a chair and indicated to Ava where he would be should she need assistance.
‘A Detective Chief Inspector coming to visit. You look like my first wife. She turned out to be a right bitch,’ McGill said. ‘Do you have any smokes?’
‘I don’t, and you know I’m not allowed to pass you anything, so let’s drop the preliminaries. Do you remember a man called Louis Jones?’ she asked.
He sniffed. ‘The thing is, I’ve met a lot of people in here over the years. Can’t remember all their names. Better with faces myself.’
‘All right,’ Ava said, pulling out a photo of Jones. ‘Here you are then. You might remember him better as Louis the Wrench.’
McGill picked up the photo and took a long look at it. ‘Nope, still nothing coming back to me. Why are you asking?’