by Caro Ramsay
‘I hope I didn’t upset her.’
Braithwaite shook his head. ‘It’d take more than you to upset her.’
Anderson caught a trace of resentment.
‘Oh you know Sally. She’s the real deal but she has no head for business. She fosters poorly kittens and kisses puppies, she’s bloody useless.’ The resentment rolled into affection, he shrugged as if to say, but what can you do?
‘And you?’
‘Well, I work at the hospital, do a couple of afternoons privately in my clinic at the Blue Neptune. It’s not a great job and it pays the bills. Have you ever met a woman happy with her appearance? No, so there will always be work for me.’
‘You’re a plastic surgeon?’
‘Well, I remove wrinkles and there’s not a lot of money in that but you come to a point in life when all you want is peace, quiet and enough. And we have enough. We had more than enough when we were young enough to enjoy it. And we enjoyed it.’ He smiled at Anderson including him in the memory. ‘I wasn’t surprised you ended up a cop.’
‘No? I think it surprised me.’
‘Oh you were always the level-headed one. The one warning us against being too loud and frightening the horses. Captain Sensible, that was Sally’s nickname for you.’
Anderson had forgotten that, his brain letting it go as a memory he didn’t want to retain. Was that what she had thought of him? Braithwaite stood back up and placed his hand on the side of the kettle. Then he leaned his back against the worktop. ‘I know why you are here.’
‘What do you know?’
‘Everything. I know Sally was assaulted, I know that happened. I remember the day very clearly. I know she got pregnant as a result and I know that she lost the baby. By that I mean she miscarried it. She was going to keep it and have it adopted as soon as it was born but nature took a different route.’
Anderson nodded. Sally had alluded to as much when he had asked why she had changed her mind about the campaign. It would have highlighted another tragic consequence of her attack and, maybe, made the child an object of media speculation. The loss of anonymity was a door that once opened, could never be closed.
Braithwaite reached round and unhooked two mugs off the bottom of the shelf, selected a jar of tea leaves and a jar of coffee, holding them both out for Anderson to choose.
‘Coffee please, splash of milk.’
Braithwaite set off, his bulk leaving the kitchen made the space seem bigger. He went through the arch and Colin heard the fridge freezer open and close, a chink of a milk jug and the room dimmed as he passed the dirty window on his return.
‘This is a splash of milk, straight from a cow.’ He sat down again, the chair creaked a little in protest. The cat left its plate of tuna, the milk now a more interesting prize.
‘When did you two get together officially?’ asked Anderson.
‘After I convinced her you weren’t her type. And after everything else. She had disappeared for a while, do you remember that?’
‘I think I was head down in my finals by then. But she said she went to India.’
‘Yes, meditating knee-deep in cow shit. Sacred cow shit, mind. We were never really together before that, more when she returned.’
‘Oh, I thought you two were an item all the way through?’
Braithwaite laughed. ‘No Colin, what you saw there was a young man struggling with his medical degree, head over heels in love with that beautiful English lit student. She was cleverer than me, wittier than me, more popular than me but I thought if I hung around long enough she might notice me. And ignore this blond dude that half the lassies fancied.’
‘God, I wish I had known.’
‘We never see ourselves as we are. Thank Christ. I’d get arrested for stalking nowadays. But then—’ Braithwaite’s voice dropped, he patted his knee for the cat to jump up – ‘then it was just love. And it has been that way ever since.’
SEVEN
Mulholland had sent Wyngate to explain to their boss why they were working on a case that should have been based at Govan. Wyngate’s basic vagueness could be useful, he’d refer Mahon onto Costello and so it would move up the food chain, leaving them alone to get on with it.
He was honing his investigative skill on the phone records of Roberta and James Chisholm, and deciding that James might have some questions to answer. And now he had a copy of the film from the drone, he had it all to himself. The drone had been ordered by Wrights Insurance which was the building on the south side of Sevastopol Lane. He had his phone open at Google maps, just to keep his references right. Wright’s had wanted a survey of their own roof and as the drone swung out, it caught a bird’s-eye view of the lane and the edge of the Old Edwardian, which was the building at the start of Sevastopol Lane on the north side. The drone gave them great quality images, all digital. He moved his seat, so that his sore leg rested more easily. He could be here for some time, as although the image itself was clear, it jiggled about, making it difficult to see exactly what was being looked at. At the start it was concrete, puddles, bits of pipe and patches of different roof coverings, felt slates, tiles and the odd casing for ventilation units. The roof then started to move from side to side, a little at first as if gaining momentum for a sweep, then growing in its parameters. The film was soundtracked by the monotonous birr of the drone’s motor. It started moving in straight lines, sensing its way round the perimeter of the building and moving steadily so he could easily make out the elegant carvings on the balustrades. That would be the Old Edwardian. But only occasionally did it move far enough over the edge to see anything on the street below or the lane. After a few minutes of floating around the sides of the square, flaring in overshoot at each corner, it started the same manoeuvre but this time a slightly wider swing before it started a right-angled discourse at a lower altitude, getting close-ups of the outside edge. Then a roof garden flashed into sight and the drone jumped and jerked out the way, as if it had got a fright. Its operator had obviously realized how close it had come to crashing.
Mulholland leaned closer in, but the drone was going up Crimea Street, then turning down, making its way down Inkerman Street and then turned up the lane, reversing the route the two women had taken. He concentrated, waiting for the drone to do its survey, catching a teasing glimpse of Miss Bluecoat now and again. Then she came into view, not moving, standing very close to the brick wall, leaning on it. The drone bumped slightly, caught by a gust of wind, Mulholland waited, willing the drone to return to its bird’s-eye view. When it did, he pulled his seat in for a closer look and dragged the curser back, replaying the last few seconds. It was definitely her, tucked close into the wall, as if she was getting her breath. The drone moved out slightly, then the wall came back into view.
She was gone.
Anderson found himself talking about his kids for the second time that day. Braithwaite might have got Sally but he, Colin Anderson, Captain Sensible, had ended up with a family, his son and his daughter and nobody could change that.
Braithwaite had invited him through to the living room, a cosy room down the narrow stone-floored passageway, past the extension of the old porch where the air was humid and musty. Green moss snaked and flowered its way up the windows. Somebody, Sally maybe, had thought about putting a curtain pole above the window and then given up, leaving the pole lying against the lower slope of the roof, where it looked totally at home, as if it was giving some support to the ceiling.
Anderson stepped over it, realizing that Braithwaite was talking about the mess the place was in and this bit needed this and that bit needed that. He was talking technically about damp proof courses, dry rot and how much it was all going to cost and Anderson found himself sympathizing, then he realized he could buy the whole place lock, stock and barrel. This room was small cosy, the air felt dry compared to other parts of the house. A low beam in the middle meant both men had to duck their heads as they carried their mugs of coffee towards the wood-burning stove, Anderson knew that thi
s was where Braithwaite must have been when he heard the car; it felt warm and lived in. He settled himself into one of the seats at the fire as Braithwaite knelt down and opened the stove door, the flames immediately coming alive. He added two logs of wood from a very neat stack beside the fire and closed the door over and the flames died a little. Braithwaite looked as though he was preparing for a long sit in.
They had reminisced long into the night, first with coffee, then with whisky. Braithwaite becoming more open as the drink took hold. Anderson remembered to text Claire and say he was out late, maybe out all night.
Sally had changed when she came back and some steak and salad appeared. There was wine. On the outside Sally was the same, but there was something more human, flawed. Not just the sparkly life and soul of the party Sally, but a more vulnerable one. They were both very easy company.
Anderson could see that what Braithwaite had said was true. He had stopped ‘fancying her’. They became true friends. Then lovers. Then they married.
Through the assault of the whisky and wine on his senses, the warmth of the log fire and the chill of the old armchair he was sitting on, Anderson couldn’t tell if that was true. Was his own memory so different? He had thought Sally and Andrew were an item in their final year. If he’d known they weren’t, he might have made a move. Well, he had made a move, hadn’t he?
How much had Sally remembered?
How much had Sally told Andrew?
Andrew waited until Sally had gone out to feed ‘the animals’, before he asked, ‘So why are you here? Something about a new campaign? You could have phoned, no need to come all the way out.’
Anderson remembered that Braithwaite was bright. He looked like a big cuddly bear, slow and lumbering, but he was sharp, sharp like a shark. So Anderson found himself telling Andrew about his colleague who was trying to track down a woman who went missing in the side street that runs up the side of the Blue Neptune. And vanished into thin air. How could that happen?
Braithwaite didn’t seem to think the question odd but said that Sally was very particular about who goes in that lift, there was a good camera. Braithwaite told him to get Sally to show him the footage, it might help if it caught any of the lane in its field of vision.
‘You don’t know her, by any chance?’ Anderson pulled out his phone and found the email with the update and he showed the picture of Orla Sheridan to Braithwaite. ‘We were lucky that there was a drone going overhead and we can see her quite clearly. One minute she was there and the next minute she wasn’t. And there was another woman, very pregnant.’
Braithwaite looked at the phone. And handed it back. ‘The pregnant woman might be something to do with Sally, she runs prenatal classes, but not this girl. I haven’t seen it in the papers?’
‘No, we are keeping it quiet, one of those cases that she may or may not be missing. And if she is it will be our fault or that of Social Services. Not her’s though.’
‘No, never theirs. I lamped a drug addict last week. He had a four-inch stab wound in his abdomen, was going to walk out of A and E.’
‘What, to die in the car park?’
‘Yeah. If he had made it as far as the car park, I’m past giving a shit about that but three nurses got hurt trying to restrain him. He hit two of them and the third one injured her back slipping on the blood.’ Braithwaite pulled an amused face, his eyes crinkling reminding Anderson how charming he was at uni. Not conventionally handsome but there was something about him that women admired, chiselled cheekbones, a nose slightly too large, a big gregarious smile. He would grow more handsome with every year that passed, his grey hair would look distinguished. Anderson just looked old, his forehead ever growing up to chase a receding hairline.
The smile was benign. He snuggled down in the chair. ‘So just how curious were you to know what Sally had become. “Professionally”?’ The question was asked with a raised eyebrow. ‘Or personally.’
Costello sat lower in the driver’s seat of her Fiat, her hands round the cup of tea she had bought at MacDonald’s, and listened to the slow strains of Nina Simone on her CD player. She was worried. Her head felt like she had spent all day in a tumble dryer, tossing about ideas that came out in more of a jumble than before. It was well after eleven and she knew how far away sleep was.
She had Wyngate and Mulholland on one side, and McCaffrey on the other. Moving around her like a couple of giant planets were Anderson and Dali, pulling her into their orbit, not quite letting her do what she wanted to do. In the end, Dali, she was sure it was Dali, had offered to take them all out for a curry. It would be much easier to get them all round the table in a quiet office and decide on a course of definitive action. She had tried to call Anderson at various times that day. At first he wasn’t answering but then he had turned his mobile off. On the day he was going out to see a woman he used to have feelings for. She could read him like a book, a Mills and Boon, a bad Mills and Boon. She had found herself talking to Dali, aware she wanted to keep something back, not knowing why she didn’t quite trust her. But they had gone back to Dali’s chaotic office, papers everywhere where the phones never stopped. And Dali had said that was a quiet day.
They talked about children, vulnerable children, and she found herself talking about Malcolm without mentioning his name, that disconnect, the feeling that the child was excluded from the family that was supposed to be caring for him. Dali had nodded, that was when they should take action, there was no point in waiting until the abuse got physical, by then the psychological damage had already been done. Physical scars heal, psychological ones don’t.
Dali asked about Sholto’s parents and whether that child had been an intrinsic part of the Chisholm family. Costello told her about the two numbers on James Chisholm’s phone. One number had been called consistently, and that person had called back.
A woman, Angelika Kauscher.
Dali had just pulled a face that said bloody typical. Angelika had been upset, asking if Sholto had been found. Costello had smooth-talked her into admitting that she was James Chisholm’s lover. She was Polish, working here as a waitress. She sounded very young, talking about James with filial reverence. And young enough to be scared into honesty when talking to a British police officer. According to Angelika, James and Roberta had been having some problems. James had been flashing his money about, his wife didn’t understand him and all that crap. Angelika was surprised that Sholto had come along. James had not been happy about the pregnancy, he felt that he was now trapped financially. Costello said that Angelika might need to come in and make a statement to that effect but she would try and keep her out of it, as long as she said nothing to James.
‘And the other number?’ asked Dali.
Costello shook her head. ‘That phone is on and it’s in Glasgow – that’s all we know.’
‘When will you confront Chisholm?’
‘When I need to, but I think it’s all part of a bigger picture.’
‘Why do women fall for that crap?’ Dali then laughed. ‘Christ knows, I did. My husband had two lovers on the go at one time and I still had no idea. No wonder he was too knackered to cut the grass.’
They had laughed. Costello told her about Archie without mentioning any names. Dali had said she wished she’d agreed to her mother’s suggestion of an arranged marriage. Then the bad choices would have been somebody else’s fault. Then Costello had drunk a cup of tea and picked the social worker’s brain for the appeal for Sholto.
She had agreed with Costello’s thoughts to be careful, just keep the focus on Moses. That was safest. She had then handed Costello her personal number. ‘Call me if you need help, it needs careful handling. I know good people.’
The psychologist had advised against the parents doing a media appeal for the return of Sholto. There was a delicate line to walk. She had been advised against using strong-arm tactics, if the abductor hadn’t responded to his face then should she ramp it up by showing the mother’s distress over Sholto being taken? What
if that scared who ever had him into harming him, or disposing of him? But maybe they could show more of little Moses, but that might provoke righteous headlines writ large on the moral high ground, how vulnerable is a five-week-old Down’s syndrome baby? That was right up there with blonde orphans and golden retriever puppies. If they were going to do it, it had to be mother to mother. Moses was doing well at hospital but missing his mum, there had to be lots of reassurance, nothing threatening. While the real message was ‘please make yourself known to the authorities so we can get the babies the right way round’.
Costello couldn’t see it working. Emotional intelligence told her that the swap had been a case of a woman wanting a healthy baby, but the mechanics of the incident told her differently. There was a cold, hard, planned logic about this. Without her knowledge Roberta Chisholm had been stalked like prey, and had her young removed from her. A flash of some David Attenborough footage of lionesses and baby wildebeest crossed her mind. She had shuddered then and she shuddered again now, sitting in her own car. There was something feral about this, something very basic. Roberta’s husband had been having an affair, those long nights he was out, he had not been working late. Then there was the matter of that other number, the mystery number that had much shorter phone calls. At least they weren’t to Poland.
She had sipped tea while Dali picked her own brains about Orla. And where was Polly? The same place as Sholto? Costello had shown her the still of Orla, immediately recognizable, and then Miss Bluecoat, about to have a baby, had also disappeared into thin air. Dali had not known her, or she said she didn’t.
Costello was a trained interrogator, she saw the flash in Dali’s eyes as soon as she mentioned Sevastopol. When asked Dali had admitted she knew it was off Inkerman Street but denied that she had ever been there. And Dali then had moved the conversation on to the subject of the best curry houses in Glasgow and would the rest of her team like to come out and try one.
And now here she was sitting outside Malcolm’s house, in her car, sipping another cup of tea, this time from McDonalds.