by Caro Ramsay
‘I heard about your subterfuge, congratulations,’ said Mathilda McQueen.
Costello was at the door of the lab, frightened to go in in case she touched something she shouldn’t. ‘I never thought Mitchum would go for it, but our luck was in. He was really bored at a dinner party when I phoned him. If he had been enjoying himself he would have said no. I had a bet with Colin that it was Sally. He said it was Andrew. I owe him a curry. But we are doing a small re-enactment of Sholto’s abduction, with somebody of Andrew’s build, let’s see what wee Mrs Carstairs says. I can’t help thinking that she would have mentioned a big man, a large man, something like that if it was Braithwaite she saw. So it could have been Sally with an anorak on. Anyway,’ Costello stood aside and introduced the woman standing behind her, ‘this is Dali. I think she is the one you need to speak to.’
‘Hello.’ Mathilda lifted a computer disc and a stack of A4 papers an inch high. ‘The tech boys have copied these from the computer in here and in Sally’s office. I am sure it’s the files on the women, the surrogates and the intended parents. There are DNA records there as well, from a reputable clinic in London. There will be stored samples around here somewhere. And that business that passed as minor cosmetic surgery, more often than not was abortion. It’s all there. All in there behind the closed doors and the lovely pictures.’
‘We will throw the book at him,’ said Dali.
‘There’s a queue,’ said Costello.
Dali said thank you. ‘How many do you reckon? In all?’
Mathilda shook her head. ‘That’s over to you. But I think five, maybe six a year, in the most recent years.’
Dali opened her mouth, the closed it. ‘Can I take these?’
‘You can take copies. But feel free to have a look through them here.’
‘Gordon Wyngate is doing me a huge spreadsheet to keep track of it all. What a lovely young man he is, so helpful.’
‘You can have him if you want; he’s a bloody liability to us. Him and that cripple Mulholland,’ said Costello.
‘We will leave you to it. Can I have a word?’ Mathilda McQueen edged Costello towards a side room and closed the door. The worktops there were so spotlessly clean it looked like a showcase kitchen. ‘We have a bit of an issue, I need to talk to you first. The DNA on sample TZ395 is one we haven’t tracked down yet, but it is probably from one of the surrogate mothers. She will have donated a child. It’s close to the bottom of the list so I think it’s recent.’
‘Do you want me to track her? Dali might be better and—’
‘It’s more complicated than that. I know exactly who she is, but not her name.’
‘And?’ Costello was growing impatient. She knew scientists always had to be this way, check, check and double check, think about all the possibilities. Evidence didn’t ’fess up to them the way the guilty did to the police. And here was Mathilda thinking slowly, making sure that A would lead to B and never jump to Z the way it sometimes did in an interview room. The way it did the minute Andrew Braithwaite put pressure on Anderson’s oxygen tube.
‘Listen to this. Sally Logan was raped in 1992. We now think that she gave birth to a child and sold that child, a daughter. I think we have that on the recording.’
‘Yes.’
‘How old would that woman be now?’
Costello did a quick count. ‘Twenty-four, twenty-five?’
‘And if Sally was telling the truth, the father of that child was the rapist.’
‘Yes. Oh, you beauty …’ Costello could tell what was coming next.
‘This is where we get complicated. There is one batch of DNA here that matches Sally’s on the maternal match.’
‘You are kidding?’ Costello thought that through. ‘So you are suggesting that her own daughter comes back here, pregnant herself, and offers her baby to be sold, just as she was?’ She leaned on the worktop, thinking. ‘Maybe not so odd. Sally said she sold the girl to family friends. So if that child got pregnant all these years later and … well maybe her parents suggested the Braithwaites as an answer. Which means—’ she pointed her finger at Mathilda – ‘that in your hand we have the DNA of the rapist, that 24-year-old woman had the rapist for a dad. Please tell me that is what you are telling me.’
‘Well I ran it on the database.’
‘And you got a match.’
‘I did.’
‘Oh I am so loving this. Wait until I tell Anderson.’ Costello almost clapped. ‘And working the other way round, if I am following the DNA right. The baby is missing, maybe because it wasn’t worth taking, because it had a faulty chromosome. I am guessing at that. All the others match up but not TZ395 so that sample is—’
‘Little Moses.’
‘That’s all I can think of.’
‘You can check that with the hospital later, but we are sure about his Y chromosome?’
‘He’s on our database, you have a name? You beauty, you absolute beauty. Please tell me he’s alive and fit for prosecution.’
Mathilda’s face paled.
Costello breathed out. ‘No? Oh Christ, was it Andrew Braithwaite’s baby all along? That was why she couldn’t abort it? I wonder if Andrew knew. Shit,’ said Costello. ‘Shit. Shit. Still, Dali needs all this so get it to Gordon and his glorious spreadsheet. We have to return Baby Sholto to his mum and dad.’
‘No, Costello.’ Mathilda put her hand out and held onto Costello’s elbow. She didn’t let go.
The journey to Balcarres Road was in silence, they had so much to say to each other but this wasn’t the time. Now was the time for Archie to tell Abby about her sister. Valerie was barely alive when she had reached the hospital, and after all the work that had been done on her, it remained a question of time. The ruse of oxygen deprivation they had used for Colin Anderson was true for Valerie Abernethy. The ligature had been round her neck for a long time and they had no idea yet how much brain damage had occurred.
There was nothing else they could do, just wait.
Archie had phoned Costello and cried like a baby. She had been his god-daughter that was all he had said and had asked Costello to go with him to tell her sister.
Costello had offered to run him over to Edinburgh first, her flat, pick up some things she might need, things she may recognize. Archie said Valerie had a cat who she adored. He’d like to bring it back and make sure it was OK.
Costello understood that, the simplest of things can make sense of madness.
And she had walked in the flat with a sense of wonder at the size and the light, the minimalism, and the white floors, and walked into the estate agent who was selling it. Valerie had told him she was going away. Sure enough, there were a few items packed, but only a few.
Costello spotted the small ebony vase on the tall table, and the photograph sitting behind it. The woman she had seen with Archie, her arms round another much younger woman with fair hair. Then a darker woman, with a closer resemblance to Valerie, close enough to be sisters. In between, dark-eyed and spikey-haired, was Malcolm.
She pointed. ‘Who is that?’
Archie snuffled, the way people do after a bout of tears. ‘Abigail. Val’s sister. Those are her kids. Mary-Jane and Malcolm.’
‘Come on, she needs to be told,’ Costello had reminded him, her mind chasing connections that she could not make connect. She kept totally quiet about her own agenda, what Archie didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.
Costello pulled her car up outside the big house. It looked cold in the daylight, the grass too neat, the pebbles on the drive raked into lines. Costello could tell Archie was impressed.
They walked up the path at the front past the monkey puzzle tree, Archie taking the lead, telling Costello that she was to be quiet and speak when she was spoken to. ‘We are here to inform Abigail Haggerty of her sister’s condition. And that is the only reason why we are here,’ he snapped, as if he had sensed she had an ulterior motive.
She snapped back, ‘Look you, if I find any evidence of criminalit
y towards a child, I will do my job. If you decide to turn a blind eye, that is your call. Mr Walker, you were at the meeting with Dali.’
He continued to walk ahead of her, ramming his hands deep into his coat pockets, his little legs striding out. Hitler used to walk like that.
He knocked on the front door, an authoritative rat tat tat tat. If it was possible for a knock to sound aggressive rather than sympathetic, this was it. Nobody answered. He knocked again, staring at the door willing somebody to respond. Costello sidestepped onto the front lawn, neatly edged and bordered with white stones. The neatness was at odds with the harsh voice that had shouted from the gap in the door, when was that? Three nights ago? She took a few steps back, craning her neck to get a better view.
‘What are you doing? You can’t go looking in people’s windows.’ Archie looked at her then slapped his side as though calling a disobedient dog to heel.
‘You can when a minor phones a police officer for help,’ she said, vaguely. ‘The TV isn’t on.’ She stepped forward into the bright white bed of stones, noting the precise row of green plants, all folded over and fixed by red wire ties, nestling into themselves against the first frost that may be with them any day now.
She leaned forward, stretching up on her toes, not caring about the indents her feet were making in the small white stones. She pressed her ear to the glass, and heard the rhythmic thud of a bass booming from inside the house.
‘There is someone in there, or at least there is music in there, but I doubt it’s so loud they can’t hear the front door. Give it a good bash.’
She stepped back on to the front steps and swung on the handrail, ready to go round the side.
‘Costello, you shouldn’t be harassing these people, they are not suspects. I am here to inform them of …’ Then he remembered why he was really here, and the news he was going to break and he fell silent. ‘My god-child.’
He turned around but Costello had gone.
Costello had walked round the back, looking in the kitchen window, the glass panel of the back door that opened into a utility room. She held her hands up to the glass, cupping her fingers to get a better look inside, her breathing making white clouds on the clear surface. There was no sign of life.
She moved round to the next one, aware that Archie was moving in behind her.
‘What is it, Costello?’
‘I am not happy about this.’ She dashed to the next window, she could only see the upper reaches of the hall from her lower viewpoint. She looked round the garden and saw the small green food bin. She pulled it over and stood on it, raising herself up on the sill, lifting her weight on her stretched arms.
‘What do you see?’
‘I thought you were only interested in telling Abigail about Valerie.’
‘But what do you see?’
‘It’s a very tidy house, look at the garden, at the flower bed, all squeaky clean, it’s obvious the person who works here is a psychopath. Bit like you, as neat as a band box until one wheel falls off the bus and it all goes to pot.’
He ignored her but provided her with a steadying hand as she clambered up further.
‘Excuse me!’ said a rather cross voice over the fence, loud but the screechiness lessened its volume. ‘Excuse me, can I help you?’
‘Great, another bloody neighbour,’ muttered Costello as she half climbed, half fell down. ‘Police, we are the police.’ She began digging in her pocket for her warrant card.
‘Can you prove that?’ the talking head asked, but a little more politely, probably had clocked the small dapper man with the steel grey hair. He looked as though he would panic if he had a broken nail. ‘Oh, I mean, do you have a card or something? This is a neighbourhood watch area,’ she laughed a little, a coy giggling little laugh for a woman on the wrong side of fifty. ‘They always say to ask for some ID.’
‘Yes, of course. Here it is.’
Costello jogged across the back path and on the grass, up to the hedge. Archie watched her, thinking how competent she looked in her dark suit, the small flat-soled boots, the bulky anorak, her flat blonde hair and the small pinched face. ‘There you go.’ She waved it at the woman’s face, too close for her to see it. ‘Have you heard or seen anything odd around here, last night or this morning?’
‘What do you mean by odd?’
Costello stood up on a low wall that ran the length of the bottom hedge. ‘We have concerns about the boy.’
‘Do we?’ asked Archie, not too quietly, not caring if the woman heard. That was not why they were here. All he got in response was a withering glance from both women.
‘Ignore my junior. Did you hear anything?’ Costello jerked her head towards the house. ‘You know, in there?’
‘It was bad last night, worse than ever. We have called the police but nobody does anything.’
‘Common complaint. When did it stop?’
‘About one this morning. I can’t sleep, you know, when they start arguing, it’s upsetting. When both kids were there, it was really awful, but the girl has left home now so that’s not so bad.’
‘Are these the children?’ Costello showed her the photograph she had lifted from Valerie’s flat, still in its frame.
‘Yes, that’s Abby, Mary-Jane and Malcolm. I don’t know the other lady.’
Costello slipped the photo back into her jacket. ‘And the noise stopped …?’
‘Around one a.m. Something like that.’
‘Stopped?’
‘All fell silent.’
‘Just like that?’ Costello snapped her fingers.
The neighbour looked worried now. ‘Yes, just like that.’
‘Or did you hear a door slam or a car drive off?’
‘Well, yes, it was his car. I saw it leave, we sleep at the front,’ she said by way of explanation.
‘And have you heard or seen anybody this morning?’
‘No. No. I don’t think so, I have been out but no I haven’t seen anybody. Nobody at all.’
‘And the car that left, how many people were inside it? Could you see?’
‘No, sorry it was too dark. Everything is OK, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll get to the bottom of it.’ She turned to Archie and said, very loudly, ‘Walker? Could you go and see if there is a car in the garage?’ And then to the neighbour, she asked, ‘Did they have one car or two?’
‘Oh, just the one. A Volvo, I think. Abigail doesn’t drive.’
‘Thanks.’ Costello turned her back, trying to think why a GP wouldn’t drive, and jumped off the wall. She went up to the back door and gave it a good push while turning the handle. She wasn’t surprised to feel it swing slowly under her hand. She let it open, releasing the vapours of Persil and floor cleaner. It looked a very clean utility room.
‘There’s no car in the garage, is there?’ she shouted to Archie.
‘No. What are you doing?’
‘Police work, it’s what we do.’ She let the door close slightly, cutting off the sight line of the neighbour. She heard Archie’s breathing as he approached the steps. He stuck his head in the gap of the open door.
‘Come out of there, we have no permission.’
‘Do you smell that?’
‘What?’
‘That.’ She crinkled her nose, reaching into her pocket for the spare set of gloves and the shoe covers she always carried. She slipped them on.
‘What smell, Costello?’ She could hear the tremor in Archie’s voice.
‘That smell, bleach or something. Somebody has taken the time and care to tidy up.’
‘It’s a utility room, Costello, that’s what people do.’
‘You stay there, don’t move, get your phone out. Do not walk in here.’
She walked across the white tiles of the utility room floor, through the kitchen and turned back into the hall. She could see the glass on the white PVC front door, a small side table sporting a landline, a few books and a rather weather-beaten cheese plant. She looked at
the magnolia wallpaper going up the stairs. She could make out the marks more clearly, much more clearly than she had from the window. The usual bumps of family life. She stood on the corner listening to the music on repeat. It was the same song, recognizable, ‘The Clapping Song’ floating down from somewhere upstairs.
She called out hello, knowing that nobody was going to answer. She called to the front and then to the back, still nothing. She stayed still, trying to sense where the smell was coming from. She looked closer at the wall, placing her plastic-coated feet carefully, checking where her weight was going, no creaking. She was sure the house was empty though, they had made enough of a noise outside to alert anybody.
And the music, the door. The fact that the back door had been left open. The house had been staged. Or was she wanting to see things that were not there? Too many horrors in the last few days. Was every baby she saw now a commodity, every child a potential Kissel case? Did she want Abigail to be involved with ‘criminality’, to use one of Archie’s stock phrases? If he knew the family so well, if they were so precious, why was he not in here making sure that Valerie’s sister was OK, surely he knew her equally as well. Yet he was standing outside on the step like a naughty child, too wary to come back into the room.
Maybe that was it, maybe it was all about Archie.
The mark on the wall had been wiped with a very wet cloth, the staining spread as it was being cleaned. She knew that pattern, the mark of it like a faded comet. Somebody with blood on their shoulder had come down the stairs, then realized they had left a mark on the wall and come back to clean it off. She pressed her gloved fingertip to it. Round the outside, it came away dry but the centre was still wet.
Down the stairs.
They had a stain on their shoulders, enough to be easily transferable as they came down the stairs. But who? And whose blood?
She got her phone out. Ready. She stepped back down two stairs to the bottom hall. He, she was sure it was he, had been moving at speed, getting closer to the wall, heading for the door now on her immediate right. She opened that door, into the living room; perfect. The dining area beyond. The kitchen was the same. She looked at the sink, seeing a pattern of dark stained drops that may or may not have been paper from the blood being cleaned. That could wait.