by Caro Ramsay
Five minutes later Mulholland was being his charming self to the receptionist in Wrights Insurance, showing his warrant card and explaining that they would like to view the security footage. She steadfastly refused to look at Wyngate’s disfiguring skin pigmentation and when she did, her smile got stuck on her face for a couple of moments.
The security man, Kinnear, however was ex job. He knew Mahon vaguely, having got drunk with him on more than a few occasions, which they were learning was the way that most people got to know Mahon. But Kinnear was good; he took them up for a coffee and rolled through the security tapes with them. If Wyngate had been impressed at what they had at Central, it was nothing compared to what the insurance company had.
Mulholland reeled off the time they were looking for, 11.27 a.m., and Kinnear added ten minutes onto the front, then some Jaffa cakes appeared. All this comfy office, good coffee and Jaffa cakes. Who needed a pension?
‘You know, it’s always been rumoured there’s a way into Grahamston from here,’ said Kinnear, ‘if you think of the way the city was built, you know on top of the old city, then this area around Inkerman Street is the western border of the old city. There’s supposed to be roads and shops and all sorts down there.’
‘But is any of that fact? Grahamston is just a myth,’ said Mulholland.
Kinnear smiled. ‘It appears on Victorian maps, nothing before that, as if they had just made up the idea to amuse themselves, but they might, just might, have been mapping something that had been secret up to that point. It’s a wide enough rumour so some of it has to be true. And there’s history here of folk disappearing.’
‘Really.’
‘A hundred years ago, I mean. The Old Edwardian is called old for a reason. It has a long history so maybe it does have something to do with where your lady has gone. There she is.’
They watched her as she came down the lane, long legs, big hair. As the camera swung away, and back, she vanished.
‘Can we see the bit in between?’
‘No, the camera does a sweep. It’s a finite space down there. We watch the two ends of the lane, there’s nowhere in between for people to go, they can’t …’
‘Can’t what? Appear and disappear?’ Mulholland was watching the tape. ‘The same thing happens with Miss Bluecoat.’ He said this just as she walked into the film as the camera swung left. She was not there when it swung right again.
Then Kinnear pulled out a scrolled-up map, an architect’s drawing of the area, showing the position of the camera, the lane and the distance of the Old Edwardian, the Blue Neptune and Wrights Insurance. ‘There are a lot of pub cellars under the lane. There’s an underground car park on the far side. These basements have basements and there’s rumours of underground tunnels going through to Central Station and Grahamston. We have had a bit of bother with urban explorers trying to get down there.’
‘We?’ asked Mulholland for clarification.
‘Sorry, the police. But as for access from the lane? There are a couple of doors on this building but the insurance insists they are welded closed and have metal shutters, I can vouch for them myself. But, in this part of town, there are stories – very old stories, mind you – of doors being fixed so they open from the inside, letting muggers come out of nowhere. But they have been welded shut years ago.’
‘Black Donalds?’ muttered Wyngate.
‘Pardon?’
‘The Victorians called them Black Donalds, those doors. So folk can appear from the dark and mug you? Did you not pay attention in school?’ said Wyngate and scoffed another Jaffa cake.
They scrolled back, watching the different angles, following Miss Bluecoat as she walked straight down the lane, pausing slightly for some reason, checking that she had something in her pocket, or checking her phone. And then she was gone. They let the film roll on for a few minutes, nobody appeared. They set it to go forwards every five minutes. Twenty minutes later they saw a woman walk up, her baby in a buggy, long coat, almost jogging in her loose trousers. They watched in fascinated silence as she drove the buggy into the alcove, then reappeared with her baby in her arms and stepped forward again, presumably to go up in the lift.
Back out on the lane they stood exactly where both girls were last seen, one at 11.27, one at 11.45 a.m. They both stared at the blank wall, looking at the cobbles under their feet. Any metal slab that might indicate a way down. Mulholland had a bad feeling that Wyngate was thinking about the Grahamston option as a serious contender.
‘Whit ar youse up tae? And can ah have some?’
Wyngate smiled at the man shuffling along, plain brown paper wrapped round his can.
Mulholland tried to pull him away. ‘He’s pissed. Leave him.’
‘You live down here?’
‘Me?’ The guy looked astounded. He wasn’t as old as they first thought. ‘Nae, but they gie me a dig oot to piss off. Tae posh, tae git me oot eer.’
Mulholland looked at Wyngate.
‘He means they gave him money to go away,’ Wyngate translated.
‘And were you down here yesterday …?’
‘Maybees? You looking fur her?’
‘Who?’ asked Mulholland.
‘The bird, Alice. They are all fuckin’ Alice.’
‘Alice?’
‘Aye, ahm telling yeh, she was like there wan minute and then like she wisnae there at ah … like she just disappeared through a hole in the ground.’
‘And how much had you had to drink at that point, Mr …?’
‘Schwarzenegger.’
‘Mr Schwarzenegger, Arnold?’
‘Nae Billy. Billy Schwarzenegger, Arnie’s ma brother.’
‘Indeed. So, Alice?’
‘She went through a hole in the wall, like Alice doon the ferret hole.’
‘He’s a waster, come on.’ Mulholland was keen to get away.
‘And how was she, Alice?’
‘Fucking knackered.’
‘Why?’
‘Fucking oot tae here?’ He pushed his can in front of his body, indicating pregnancy.
‘Precise waster though,’ agreed Mulholland.
‘Through a hole though? Or down a hole?’ asked Wyngate.
Their happy informer looked confused. The confusion vanished at the sight of a crisp new tenner. ‘Through. Sideways. Like this …’ He shimmied to the side with the skill of a show dancer.
‘Just like the other one. The whore.’
‘The whore?’
‘Aye her wi the stupit hair.’ He belched loudly and held a single dirty finger up to his lips. ‘They’ve gone.’ He looked around him, eyes flitting from side to side. ‘To Grahamstoon. And Ah’ll tell you whit?’
‘What?’
‘They never come back from there. No, not ever.’ He put a grubby hand out for another tenner.
Mulholland pulled Wyngate away. ‘That’s shite.’
‘Where’s Grahamston?’ asked Wyngate.
‘The auld city, unner yer feets.’ He looked round to check. ‘Awe the way doon frae there tae here.’ He pointed the toe of his battered trainers. ‘Aye right here.’
Wyngate got excited. ‘Surely that’s the answer.’
‘One problem.’ This time Mulholland pulled him away.
‘Yeah.’
‘Like I said, Grahamston doesn’t exist.’
NINE
The man with the crew cut and the bad scar down the side of his cheek looked like a Bond villain. He was pleasant enough as he led Costello up the carpeted stairs, deep-pile, claret red, immaculate. The pile going in opposite ways on each tread. On the walls of the stairway were framed photographs of trucks, departmental heads, two chief constables, all to showcase the legitimate part of the business. She might be a hard-nosed little cow up to her waxed armpits in organized crime, but Libby Hamilton appeared to have friends in high places.
Libby was one of the most powerful women in Scotland. She’d give the love child of Nicola Sturgeon and Angela Merkel a good run for their money. Ther
e was the size of her desk, the two male heavies doubling as secretaries, both with battle-scarred, angry faces sitting outside, even the female at the front desk looked as though she could go a few rounds with Henry Cooper.
And Libby was good. It was easy to take over a business with a little bit of carrot if you could back it up with a lot of stick. Refusal to be bought out for a reasonable fee resulted in something being burned down and then worth nothing. After that, any offer was likely to be accepted. Costello had no idea how the organized crime unit felt about it, there was no doubt the family were running huge amounts of drugs around the country. But she felt it in her bones, rather than knew, that Libby was more useful to the control of illegal substances, than legitimate forces of law and order. Remove her family from the equation and there would be a vacuum, that the Russians, or the Chinese would fill. As far as she knew, there had never been any real attempt to remove Libby’s family from power. Those that tried were found floating in the Clyde, if they were found at all. Nobody knew how many more were helping to hold up concrete pillars or had provided some sustenance for pigs.
It was far from ideal but the drugs on the street were cleaner than they used to be.
And there was a lot to be said for knowing the enemy.
Mr Scarface opened the door to the office and stood to one side, the cloud of his pungent scent drifted and dispersed to be replaced by another, more vomit-inducing stink.
The top of the huge oak desk was like any other company director’s, monitor, keyboard, mobile phone neatly beside a gold pen, the landline telephone resting on a stand. But the woman in the corner was unrecognizable from the suited and booted young successful woman about town, which had been Costello’s last impression of Libby. This was a fleece-wearing, hair scraped back, exhausted human being, holding another smaller human being by the ankles while she scraped away at its bottom with a cloth.
‘Bugger,’ she said, turning to see Costello. ‘Oh hello, can you hand me one of those wee wipes?’
‘Aye.’
Libby took the fresh wipe, having to hand Costello the one smeared with foul smelling brown lumps. But she did it with a guilty smile. ‘Sorry, there’s a bin and a sink over there. I never have enough hands for this. I mean, how are you supposed to manage?’
Costello opened the tab on the plastic bag lying next to the bin and added the latest offering to what seemed a large collection. She taped it back up.
‘Congratulations, I hadn’t heard.’ Costello took a large squirt of Molten Brown’s hand cream and had a good rub in, it gave her nose something else to concentrate on.
‘My baby was born in better circumstances than I was.’
‘Yes, I remember. I was there. One of my first crime scenes.’
‘Your first murder scene.’
‘Yes, it was,’ Costello said.
‘I heard later that you got into trouble for holding her hand, my mum’s hand.’
‘I probably did. Terrible what happened to her.’
‘But I survived, thanks to you.’
‘Thanks to the surgeons at the hospital,’ she corrected.
The small person seemed intent on escaping before Libby could secure another nappy on it. Once she had, she set it free on the floor, the chubby baby rolled over, got up on all fours and started lumbering around the carpet like a drunk, overweight puppy.
‘Do you think that’s bad for him?’ Libby asked. ‘I mean I work on the principle that it builds a healthy immune system, you know, exposing himself to anything that happens to be stuck on that carpet.’ She sat behind the desk, cleaning her hands with sanitizer, twice, then caught Costello’s eye. ‘What do you want?’
Now it came to it, Costello didn’t know how to start; it was the baby who was putting her off.
‘If I wanted you dead in a canal, Costello, you would be but I acknowledge we have history so you get a bit of leeway. If you want somebody dead in a canal, just let me know.’ Libby smiled as she pressed the button. Then Mr Scarface came in. ‘Could you take that out and put it down the waste chute. God help any dosser asleep at the bottom of it.’
She waited until the door was closed. ‘He stinks. I pay him enough money so he can buy very expensive aftershave, shame he also bought a bucket to put it on with.’ She sat back in her seat a little, looking like any tired mother of a tot. Then looked directly at Costello.
‘I was just wondering if you knew of any activity, any paedophile activity, that’s picked up recently in the area and—’
‘No. I wouldn’t allow it. Next question.’
‘It’s extreme. I am concerned that very young children, babies, are being abducted.’
‘Abducted? Or sold.’ Libby swung round in her seat a little.
Costello noticed the lack of surprise. ‘I am not sure.’
‘If it was peado issues, in this city I would know. And there isn’t. Not in the way you mean. Those bastards watch videos, but those were not filmed here. Have you spoken to O’Hare, your pathologist friend?’
‘Why?’
‘You should.’
Costello was acutely aware of the small one making his ungainly way around her feet. She was also becoming cognisant that Libby knew more about the situation than she did.
‘People think that the city is safe with all the surveillance present in the corners of the city where the lost and vulnerable gather. They stop thinking about it but it’s business as usual, it’s easy to pick on the vulnerable. In the past they were taken into the shadows and abused, now they are taken out of view and abused. Nobody is more at risk than a pregnant runaway or a prostitute. They can be persuaded to see their baby as a way out.’
‘Baby brokering?’ Costello’s brain was already joining the dots, knowing that Libby never gave a straight answer to anything.
‘I am not saying anything.’ Libby licked her thin red lips. ‘That’s not so difficult. I spend my life dealing with people who wouldn’t blink an eye at that and worse. You do too. But see how my office is nicer, I get paid more.’ She smiled at her son. ‘Why not let women sell children that do not exist because nobody knows they have been born. Travelling families have been doing it for years.’
Costello had heard that before. ‘In this Big Brother society? Nobody knows that these kids are born?’ Then she thought about Paige Riley. Nobody close to her had even noticed that she had gone missing.
‘Nobody. Where there is a will to do something, it can be done. Anybody involved in criminality knows that. It’s all doable. More doable because unimaginative cops never think it could be done. It actually makes it easier, all that hidden in plain sight. Just think what they did back in the old days. Pregnant women left town to have a child, then came back minus the kid. Easy if nobody knows about the pregnancy in the first place.’ She reached down and pulled open a drawer, then slid out a photograph. ‘Do you know that girl?’
Costello looked at the picture; a girl, sitting on a railing somewhere, smiling, early twenties. ‘She was a drama student, well, actress.’
‘As opposed to a hostess?’
They exchanged a smile that went nowhere.
‘And have you seen this, yesterday’s paper?’ Libby licked her forefinger and flicked over a few pages. ‘Look at this girl here.’ she showed Costello the article. ‘Sex worker, another one found dead beside a skip in a back alley out in Anderston.’
‘Yes, I heard about it. But I am working out in Domestic Abuse now not in Major Incident so it passed me by.’ Costello guessed she knew what was coming.
‘She went up there with a punter and whatever transaction passed between them ended with him grabbing her head and battering it against the edge of a skip. She died later in hospital.’
‘I know.’
‘For what? The forty quid she had in her hand for five minutes? She was left dying, collapsing slowly in her own piss and shit, his spunk still running out the side of her mouth. If she had been able to phone somebody, she would be alive. But he had stamped on her phone.�
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‘You should be a cop, Libby, come and join us on the domestic violence unit.’
‘Prevention is better than cure, you know that.’
‘Are you saying you are out there looking after prostitutes? Libby, really, did you have some kind-hearted vigilantes out there, watching her?’
‘Not to … not on my watch.’
She had been about to say ‘not to one of my girls’ then confirmed it by adding, ‘This however was one of my girls.’ She pointed to the girl on the railing. ‘She was a resting actress, worked as a hostess in one of my clubs.’
Costello quoted, ‘And anything that happens beyond that introduction was a deal brokered between the two of them and a totally private matter. Kind of standard phrase for people who are little more than pimps.’
‘Indeed.’ She looked at the picture again. ‘She was murdered last year.’
Costello looked at the picture again, trying for recognition and failed. Even without a name, the face should have meant something. Was she so disconnected, so focussed at domestic abuse that she was missing a bigger picture.
‘These might help you more.’ And Libby handed her a thick file of photographs, glossy 12 by 10s, from the coding on the bottom, the date and time stamp the police logo at the top, these were obviously the scene of crime photographs.
‘How did you get your hands on these?’
‘Never mind, just look.’
‘Libby, it’s a criminal offence for you to have these. Do they have a leak at the MIT?’
‘Oh, stop it,’ she laughed, incredulous at Costello’s innocence. ‘Everybody has a price, Costello, even you.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do.’ She pulled the photographs back. ‘You won’t report this, you will ruin an honest young man’s career.’
Costello remembered the pictures on the wall as she came up the stairs. Maybe she was not the only one who’d sat here and asked for help.
‘My jungle, my rules,’ she said, tapping the picture, ‘and this is not acceptable. She had just had a baby, you know, there was no sign of it. Anywhere.’
‘A missing baby.’