by Caro Ramsay
She made up her mind, did an about turn and ten minutes later she was knocking on the door of a beautiful three-story house on Kirklee Terrace. There was a clatter of footsteps, a rush of somebody coming down the stairs and then a shout of ‘Dad, it’s only David’.
‘Oh no, it’s not,’ Costello said, then the door opened. ‘Hi Claire, I need to speak to your dad right now.’
Colin was sitting in the kitchen, scrolling through a file on his laptop, a strong coffee beside him.
‘Is this a social call?’ he asked. ‘Oh, of course not, it’s Friday the thirteenth. My unlucky day. Do you want a cuppa?’
‘Are you having one, another one?’
‘No. I am going out for a meal tonight, with the Braithwaites no less.’
‘That’s great.’
‘You are not invited.’
‘But the timing is great. Now listen. Andrew Braithwaite. What does he do for a living?’
‘He’s a plastic surgeon, isn’t he?’
‘Nearly. He does Botox and fillers and stuff at the Blue Neptune for all the perfumed purple Pilates people, but that wasn’t what he did when he specialized.’
‘Don’t tell me, he was a bloody obstetrician. Well, fuck me.’
‘Well, no thanks but listen there’s more. We need to be careful, Valerie Abernethy is involved in this in some way. Edinburgh fiscal and Archie’s godchild. And somebody that knows her, knows about James Chisholm and the fact we were looking for that other pay-as-you-go. And that phone has not left Glasgow, even when Valerie was at her desk in Edinburgh and talking to me from her mobile in Glasgow. Clever, eh?’
‘I am totally lost.’
‘Good. We have to make a move, the clock is ticking if Miss Bluecoat is involved in this. Does Sally still have the hots for you?’
‘What kind of question is that?’
‘Just that I have a plan. I fancy you as bait. Well, she’ll fancy you as bait. It’s Friday the thirteenth, what could go wrong.’
Claire walked into the kitchen as he was about to call her and ask her if she wanted a cup of tea. And he needed to explain to her what was going to happen tonight, so she knew and she wouldn’t worry.
‘Tell me, is this another date, Dad?’
That was before he had even opened his mouth. Had she clocked the first wearing of a good shirt Brenda had bought him last Christmas? ‘No, this is work.’
His daughter, her long hair gleaming, her face carefully made-up looked older than she had looked at the beginning of the week. She pulled a strand of hair slowly through her lips, a gesture that made her look a little like a porn star. ‘Then why are you wearing your good clobber? Is she nice?’
‘Like I said, it’s work.’
‘Really.’ She now twiddled with the entwined lock of hair, absentmindedly, her eyes watching him carefully. ‘Nothing to do with why you didn’t come home the other night.’
‘Maybe. It’s work.’ It wasn’t like Claire to question him like this. There was something behind that intense stare. ‘Have you spoken to your mum? She could hardly speak to me on the phone yesterday. Or the day before.’
Claire looked away, then dropped the lock of hair and started to examine her nails. ‘She texted me this morning.’
‘And …’ Anderson pulled two mugs out, glad to have his back to her. This conversation was going to get difficult. And she was avoiding the question as much as he was avoiding eye contact.
‘Have you and her had a fight?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Nothing like what?’
‘You know, how you have had … you know … girlfriends apart from Mum.’
From that affirmation of his infidelity, he snatched at the only moral high ground he had. ‘One girlfriend.’ How could he have called her that? ‘Helena. You liked her.’
‘Dad, I thought she was great. I really miss her. I think I might miss her all my life.’
Join the club, thought Anderson, saying nothing.
‘How would you feel if Mum found somebody else?’
He was glad he was still looking away, unscrewing the top of the tea caddy. He hoped his voice would not betray him as he replied, ‘Why, has she?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. And do you like him?’
‘Yes. David and I went out for a curry with him last week.’
David and I?
‘He was great. Peter really likes him. He’s cool.’
Peter?
‘We had to invite the stupid boy obviously after we got him off his Xbox. We went to Pizza Express. Rodge and Peter got on really well, we couldn’t get Peter to shut up.’
Rodge?
Peter, his wee blond rascal who had turned into a sloth, couldn’t say two words to his dad on the phone but apparently could chatter away to his mum’s bloody boyfriend. He wanted to ask why Brenda had not mentioned it herself, but that was unfair on Claire.
‘Are you going out tonight, Dad?’ she repeated.
‘Yes I am.
‘So can Dave come round? Does he need to spend the night or are you coming home?’
‘You can do what you want,’ he said, knowing that she would anyway.
‘Can I get a Chinese on the credit card?’
At least she still asked permission. ‘Yes.’
‘Can we have wine?’
‘No, you can have a can of beer each and that’s all.’
‘Why? Why can’t I have some wine? You are going out to enjoy yourself, why can’t I?’
It was too much, what he called the ‘Me Me Me’ generation of teenagers. He pulled the copy of the Daily Record off the worktop and skimmed it across towards her. It landed, right in front of her, a long-distance picture that was hazy in detail, of a body being pulled from water. Indistinct, but it was still easy to make out a human form, probably female. The hair hung down, long and black, just like Claire’s. She was naked, lifeless. It was a stark picture.
‘This is what I am doing tonight. I am working on that.’ He couldn’t keep his anger from his voice. ‘If you think I am out enjoying myself then you need to sit down and have a wee chat with yourself.’
‘Dad?’
But he had walked out, up to the ensuite in his room where he locked the door and took the small coil of wires out from their plastic bag. He clipped the tiny microphone under his shirt collar, another one was fitted to the side of his watch, the transmitter attached on the inside of his waistband, the discreet tiny button where he could easily switch it on, which he would do as soon as he entered the Blue Neptune. Not knowing exactly what he was walking into but comforted that Wyngate would be six floors above him, able to hear every word.
Gordon Wyngate sat on top of the roof having a sip of coffee from his flask. His hard hat protecting his head from the slight drizzle as he watched the cobbled lane between the Blue Neptune and the Wrights Insurance building. The small cameras were hanging off the roof on the opposite side of the lane on the roof of the Wrights Insurance Company. There was a similar camera, this time a standard CCTV, focussed on the entrance and exit at the car park on Brown Street, and another on the small private car park that the Braithwaites used. The cameras were giving him a live feed onto a split screen and they had all entrances and exits covered. His earpiece put him in constant contact with Vik Mulholland. Once everybody was in their final position, they would be in a van at the end of the lane, near the door to the yoga studio. For now he had turned it low, fed up with the childlike bickering between Mulholland and Costello. He had enough of that at home. And he was sure, if anything happened, it would happen soon.
It was when Anderson was talking over dinner to the Braithwaites that things might get interesting. He knew two fiscals had been busy pulling legal strings. They had no real evidence and this was the only way they saw to get any. Costello had been raving about the health and safety Nazis, offering to sign any disclaimer – on Anderson’s behalf.
A few folk had wandered up and down the lane going in both dire
ctions, a white transit had almost driven right into the bollard, then was trying to reverse out. Wyngate had turned up the volume on Mulholland’s feed to hear his response. ‘Absolute plonker.’
‘I think that is our van. For later,’ he heard Costello say, she was breathing hard, walking quickly, they were on the move at last.
‘Who the hell is driving that?’
‘No idea.’
‘Bob Noakes,’ volunteered Wyngate.
‘Plonker.’
‘Oh, this is nice,’ said Wyngate, down his mouthpiece. ‘Another car followed him, they are both now trying to get out the lane. They don’t know about the bollard or they can’t see it. Nice car but blind driver.’
‘What kind of car?’
‘A really fancy Porsche with an engine that could power a hurricane bomber from the sound of it.’
‘Nice motor,’ he heard Mulholland say, envious.
The Porsche reversed slightly away from the bollard and then took a right, circling round looking for another way in.
‘OK, it’s having a good look. It’s not going away.’
‘Or maybe he is lost?’
‘She, I caught her driving past the car park.’
‘You get her number,’ asked Mulholland. ‘She’s my kind of woman.’
Wyngate read out the reg, VA2661, easily picked out on the still camera.
‘A big car and a pulse and you are anybody’s,’ an unidentified disembodied voice sounded from somewhere. Wyngate could hear a snort of laughter. He was enjoying himself, this was what he missed. The inane chatter, the build-up of tension, the uncertainty of how the night’s events would unfold. The sense that Anderson was walking into the lion’s den and …
‘She’s female, and of child-bearing age so I’ll look her up,’ Mulholland said.
Wyngate smiled, stretched his legs out from his vantage point. He had enjoyed his shift on the roof. Glasgow looked very different from here. People never looked up, it wasn’t the natural way of humans. He had read that in a book once, the contour of the eye socket and the prominence of the eyebrow made it very difficult to look upwards. Then he thought about the young women walking around down there with huge eyebrows plastered and thickened with all kinds of pencil and glue. He was wondering what he would do if his daughter, all of a few months old, turned out like that. He thought his life was simple with two sons, but now he realized all the difficulties involved in bringing up a girl.
Then his earpiece crackled into life.
‘Wingnut? She’s only a friggin fiscal.’
‘Yes we know. Let her be, just keep an eye on her,’ Costello snapped down her mouthpiece. ‘It’s Valerie Abernethy. She’s a friend of Archie.’
She told him about Janet Gibson’s post-mortem. ‘I have asked O’Hare to formally review it. Valerie had steamrollered, maybe even intimidated, that wee Welsh pathologist to … well … not being as thorough as she might have wanted to be. The deceased had given birth to a baby we can’t locate.’
‘Or she, as a fiscal, has obtained it as evidence, building it up as a case and didn’t want any arsehole detective jumping on it. Maybe there was a connection with the Glasgow fiscal’s office that might prejudice something?’ argued Mulholland.
‘Possible, in which case it serves her right for not sharing with us. We do need to make sure she’s not getting herself into something she can’t get out of.’
‘That girl, Janet, had her last meal right here at the Admiral restaurant in the Blue Neptune, food she didn’t live long enough to digest. Devon Crab, Tofu and Seaweed. It’s expensive. Few restaurants in Glasgow stock it. It didn’t take me long to find one that did. Why do you think we are here? With Valerie driving round trying to find a place to park, so she doesn’t know about the metal bollard. Well, that proves whatever happens, it’s going to happen here. We are going to have a good look round, you got that Wyngate?’
‘Yip. Be careful.’
‘If we are going in there then we need to get dressed up.’
‘We are not, so we don’t. I have my baton with me.’
Mulholland realized she was serious and tried to ignore the frisson that ran through him. ‘What is going on in there? Exactly?’
‘I haven’t a bloody clue but Colin and I have a plan.’
‘Good.’
Silence.
‘Are you going to tell me?’
‘Nope.’
‘If anybody sees us, what are we supposed to be doing? This is Friday night.’
‘Just don’t look like a cop for God’s sake, shouldn’t be an issue for you with your bad attitude and brittle bones.’
He thought it was the nicest thing she had ever said to him. ‘Well you don’t need to dress up either, as you look like a bad-tempered good-time girl.’
They doubled back from the car, moving quickly through the crowds, not talking, at times they didn’t even look as if they were together. The town was busy, they walked on. Costello hoping that in their loose clothes, they simply looked like a couple who were looking around a city centre. They crossed at Central Station, taking the same route that Orla had taken. Crossing the road, nipping across Brown Street and through the bollard, then up Sevastopol Lane. The wind got up, rustling the old crisp packets and sent an empty 7-Up can rattling over the cobbles.
Costello checked the utility belt that was under her loose jacket, making sure it was secure, then she double-checked it. They were on the trail of Orla and Miss Bluecoat.
‘The Rockpool? Is that place clean?’
‘I’ve checked with the drug squad and they do not have it on their radar,’ Mulholland said. ‘I’ve been there and it’s a smart place, they don’t even allow designer drugs in the door. You are more likely to run into the Lord Advocate than a footballer.’
‘So they have good security, and if, as you say, the Lord Advocate is a member I’m sure they will have no problem letting us view the footage, whether they want us to or not. We might see who Orla talked to, who she left with. Or where Miss Bluecoat went.’ They walked on a little, falling silent as two women went passed, talking about a meal they had eaten in the Blue Neptune. The single mention of garlic bread had Costello’s mouth watering. ‘I want to know who killed her like that, cruel. Nasty. O’Hare found a single blade wound up through her ribs, to her shoulder blade. It went right through her heart.’
They walked on in silence again. Costello’s phone went. Not recognizing the number she rejected the call. She was busy.
‘What about the marks on her leg? Any leads there?’
She pulled out her phone. ‘That is the image stamped on her thigh, can you make it out?’
He stopped and looked at her phone. ‘CG then something?
‘I think O’Hare recognized it straight away. It’s the old Glasgow Corporation, the old city council. She was lying on an old stank or manhole cover, a drain, something like that. For some period of time after she died.’
‘A drain cover in a city the size of Glasgow? We got lucky with the suitcase, we will not get that lucky with the drain cover.’
‘You didn’t get lucky. You were clever, and we will be clever about this as well. She came here, we know she did. She was dead before she went in that water. Maybe she was killed here, she would have bled out, a lot. Don’t underestimate this.’ She stopped again. ‘So they were standing here and then they disappeared. Just this old yard, do they pull this fence apart? What did the drunk guy say? Went “down” the way?’ She looked under her feet, cobbles, nothing else.
‘No, he said they went sideways. He was definite about that.’
‘One thing we have learned on this case is not to accept anything at face value. If you were standing here, thinking about getting pregnant women in and out that building and never being seen, I would purposefully set up that CCTV to show what I would want everyone to see – that they did not go in the lift and get up that way.’
Mulholland creased his eyes, his nose wrinkled like he was sniffing for a clue. ‘
So, are we not liking the perfumed Pilates people?’
‘No, I don’t think we do. I was looking at their website. At the entrance at the parking place they have for prams and buggies. They do a lot of pregnancy Pilates and baby massage. How easy would it be to get a picture of a healthy baby, their blanket, their pram and go and buy a duplicate set?’ She tapped the ground with her foot. The metal grid clinked and clunked against its concrete frame. ‘After looking at the amount of stuff Mothercare shift I think they should be reported to the monopolies commission. They had those specific items on special offer. If we have to go through that list we will, but somehow I don’t think we have to.’ She stepped back looking through the fence that surrounded the yard, then closely at the hinges of the gates, the hinges that attached to the wall. ‘You do this side, I’ll do that side.’ She looked back along the solid wall at the side of the Blue Neptune and then the Old Edwardian building standing resolutely on the corner, thinking that Orla came down the lane from the direction of the train station. The first thirty, forty feet were the red sandstone Old Edwardian with its corner location. There were two old doors embedded in the wall, painted over, one with a metal grid, the other simply recessed. They both looked old and clearly hadn’t been opened for years.
There had been a nasty murder of a prostitute down here many years ago, the place had been a no-go area then. It had been earmarked for development. What had happened to that? Why had the distal part of the block been demolished to allow the building of this super smart complex of high-end restaurants and offices while the lower end was kept like this? She stood back again, and looked up, in the darkness she could make out the top of the building bathed in dim lights of the city, it was ornate and beautiful stonework that could only be dreamed of nowadays.
‘Hey, Costello, come and see this.’ Mulholland was crouching down, looking at the wall at ground level. ‘Look at that. Is that a lever?’
‘A foot pedal?’
‘I think it’s one of those old cons, a Black Donald. Wyngate know about them. Some lassie comes up here with a punter, about to give him a blow job and then the girl sticks her foot, that door opens and two big guys come out of nowhere to relieve him of any cash, anything of value. Means nothing here and now, in daylight sobriety, but at three in the morning when you are pissed out your head, well what are you going to tell the police? Somebody came out a wall and robbed me and then went back in again.’