The Blood of Crows

by Caro Ramsay

  ‘This would be a bloody sight easier if we had a bigger board to put all these up on. How are we supposed to see anything, passing pictures back and forth like this?’

  ‘Stick it on the wall. Not our fault if the board isn’t big enough, just move Smoutie and Co down a bit. Fiona has a theory …’ Vik went on to read out her theory about the flashover, word for word. ‘So, the arsonist who set the fire might have stood and watched. I don’t think O’Hare is going to contradict anything Fiona says, you know.’

  ‘Might confirm some bindings, though. Biggart was a strange beast sexually; the rumour was he would do anything to anything. So, if he was into a bit of bondage, maybe that’s how they were able to control him. The minute the Prof notices anything to confirm that theory he’ll be on the blower.’

  Vik looked from one photograph to the next. ‘So, have we got any pictures of the part of the room that wasn’t burned? The bit by the door?’

  ‘There’s a wee hallway just inside the front door …’ Lambie muttered, as he pawed through the brown envelopes. ‘Here. Don’t think they found anything, though.’

  Mulholland looked through them, then looked again. ‘Who lived here?’ he asked, pointing on the plan to the flat opposite Biggart’s, the one that looked on to the little garden at the back. ‘J. Appleby?’

  ‘That’s right. And the one we found Biggart in and the one next to it are listed as –’ Lambie flicked through a file ‘– second accommodation, council tax paid by a rental company, Red Eagle Properties. Who never answer their phone.’

  Mulholland muttered absentmindedly, ‘So, Biggart didn’t actually live here?’

  ‘Not technically. He lives – lived – with his loving wife in the Mearns. One of those gated developments. Marriage for appearance’s sake only. Like I said, he was a man of strange sexual proclivities – the stranger the better.’

  ‘Do you know them? The family, I mean, not the sexual proclivities?’

  ‘Melinda Biggart is scary, a bit like one of those dogs that let you in a house then growl when you try to leave. In Paisley we had our run-ins with Mr Biggart. Always well protected, never got his own hands dirty. Devious but not bright. Always a bit of a mystery how he got so far.’

  ‘But ripe for somebody taking their revenge. It has that kind of feel about it, doesn’t it, burning?’ Mulholland began looking through the crime scene shots in his turn. ‘And how would you describe a good night in, David? If you weren’t hell-bent on committing matrimony?’ Mulholland put the photograph of Biggart’s front room flat on the desk and tapped it with his finger. ‘Here we have a melted TV with a screen only a tad smaller than the cinema that used to be there, squashed beer cans, two big sofas, one burned, one half-burned. A stack of DVDs by the door. A … what’s that?’

  ‘I think that’s the remains of a gaming console, and the remains of some games as well.’

  ‘And next door, a huge bed. Bet that wasn’t used for sleeping. And fuck all in the kitchen apart from beer. It’s a bad boys’ paradise, isn’t it? A place to play out all kinds of sexual fetishes. Men, women, boys, girls, young, old, anything in between – as you say, Biggart was rumoured to have a wide range of sexual tastes, only a few of them legal.’

  ‘I think we should chat to the neighbour, J. Appleby, about any other comings and goings. Order the CCTV footage for two hours before the fire started and an hour after it was put out. Get footage from Anniesland train station as well. The embankment is adjacent to the Apollo flats. You never know where it might lead us.’

  Mulholland lowered his voice. ‘But surely it’s already been checked.’

  ‘It would appear not. Not checked, not requested.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t think the initial investigation got that far. Don’t think they tried that hard.’

  ‘And why should we?’

  ‘Because while it’s nice to think some kindly avenging angel killed Biggart to rid the world of a piece of scum, it’s more likely that anyone who ever knocks off an evil bastard will be a bigger, more evil bastard. I don’t find that a comforting thought. Do you?’ Lambie went back to his chocolate muffin.

  Half an hour later, his stomach rumbling for lack of lunch, Mulholland had a sheet full of scribbles. Five of the six flats on the ground floor of the converted cinema were owned by Red Eagle Properties of 266 West Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow – registered at Companies House as being owned by PSM Ltd. The sixth was owned by Ms Janet Appleby.

  While there was nothing odd in one company owning a range of flats in a new development to rent out, the odd thing was that none of them had actually been rented out. Reduced council tax was being paid on them, but gas and electricity were being used. The only genuine inhabitant on the ground floor was Janet Appleby, who had been temporarily relocated to the incongruously named Highland Glen Hotel, up a lane near the Botanic Gardens. Vik looked at his watch. He phoned the hotel reception and was put through to the room. A sleepy voice answered. He apologized for disturbing her, and said who he was.

  Silence on the other end of the phone. Then, ‘Sorry, I was asleep. What is it you want? Is it about the fire?’ She sounded young.

  ‘I’d appreciate five minutes of your time.’ He heard her yawn, imagined her lying under hotel sheets, the curtains closed tight against the rage of the sun outside. ‘Just five minutes,’ he said again.

  She explained sleepily that she was long-haul cabin crew, she had just woken up, her body clock was all over the place. What time was it? What day was it? What country was it? ‘Look, I’m almost too tired to think. And I’m about to fly out again tomorrow.’

  ‘Can I ask you a few questions now?’

  ‘Phone me back in half an hour, once I’ve had a coffee. Then you might get a sensible answer.’

  3.30 P.M.

  The funeral mass of Thomas Eoin Carruthers had gone well and the mourners had retired to a private room of a small pub just off Maryhill Road for a cold refreshment and a warm sandwich. There was a sense of relief in the air – it was over, and now old pals could catch up, say what a nice service it was while taking care not to mention the deceased at all.

  Costello was leaning on the wall, studying the grime on the window, when she saw DCI Niven MacKellar look around for somebody in particular to talk to, a plateful of sandwiches in one hand, a small cup of coffee in the other. ‘Well, well, well, DS Costello, how are you?’

  Costello studied his face, looking for any subtext, but decided she was just being paranoid. He was genuinely asking after her health. ‘I’m keeping much better.’ Then she added. ‘Thank you, Niven. I thought I saw you at the chapel.’

  ‘I presume you worked with Tommy at some point?’ MacKellar nodded in response to his own question. ‘I wouldn’t have said he was the type.’

  ‘Type?’

  ‘Suicidal type.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you ever really know anybody.’ It came out more philosophical than she had meant, and MacKellar gave her a look.

  He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. ‘Are they allowed to have a mass if Tommy committed suicide?’

  ‘Doesn’t really matter these days. Suicide is still a sin but it’s been recategorized as a sin that you were too ill to realize you were committing, so you can still be given a mass.’

  MacKellar regarded a triangular cheese sandwich, stuffing it into his mouth sideways. ‘Same as divorce? Doesn’t count if you weren’t married in church?’ He turned his back slightly to the grieving crowd, so his mouth was very close to Costello’s ear. ‘Why do I keep hearing rumours that it might not have been suicide? Is that just talk? The fiscal was convinced but …’

  ‘But?’

  MacKellar took a step back, and looked his colleague up and down. She looked businesslike but distant. He had worked alongside DS Costello before. She was one of the scruffy but committed-to-the-cause brigade, not the designer-suited-and-booted career type. But there was that hungry look in her eyes. Ready to get yourself back to work, th
ought MacKellar. ‘I suppose folk have difficulty in accepting it, especially as he was a cop,’ he said. ‘But the fiscal was satisfied, and that’s good enough for me.’

  A pause hung in the air between them. At the far end of the room, a woman in her early sixties, her black handbag hanging on her arm, was making her way to the top table.

  ‘Poor woman,’ said Costello as the woman in question had a chair pulled out for her, and another cup of tea was poured. ‘Happily married for nearly forty years, then he jumps out a window and she had no idea that he was going to do it? I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘But you said it yourself – you never know what goes on in anybody else’s head, do you?’ MacKellar rammed a salmon paste sandwich into his mouth this time. ‘Though I think my wife always knows exactly what goes on in my head,’ he said, trying for levity.

  ‘If you stare at all women’s tits the way you’re staring at that waitress’s, I’ve no doubt she does.’ Costello turned round, her eyes passing over the mourners.

  ‘Good God, that’s ex-DCI Moffat back from Oz!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The one who looks as though he’s interrogating the priest.’

  As if he had heard, the tall, tanned grey-haired man looked up and raised his cup, signalling a hello across the crowded room. MacKellar nodded back.

  Costello felt herself react. Eric Moffat … not a name, or a face, she would forget. It provoked a strong memory of cold and car exhaust fumes. Of course, Moffat had been Tommy’s boss, they had worked together for years. It was Moffat who had told her to leave the dying woman alone, leave her lying on the concrete floor of a cold multi-storey – a bad place to die.

  She turned away from the unpleasant memories to see a small woman in a bobble hat slip a salt cellar into her handbag. An elderly priest politely but firmly retrieved it and placed it back on the table.

  ‘The family klepto,’ muttered MacKellar with some amusement, as they watched the priest guide the old woman away and Moffat carefully sidestepped into the crowd at the buffet.

  ‘He must know her, he’s avoiding her.’ Costello raised her glass, indicating Moffat then the bobble-hatted woman.

  ‘Everybody’s avoiding her; that’s Rene, the demented sister-in-law. I remember Tommy telling me a few stories about her. God, she must be in her eighties now. Well, well, well. DCI Moffat – he’s a blast from the past. I suppose he and Tommy had a long working career together. Talking of ex-DCIs, have you heard from Rebecca?’

  ‘DCI Quinn? No.’

  ‘She’s on holiday in Bali, lucky sod.’

  Costello didn’t know what she was supposed to reply so simply commented that the weather was probably better here. Then she asked pointedly, ‘Any sign of Colin Anderson being made up to DCI yet?’

  ‘I wouldn’t hold my breath, Costello. It’s unfortunate, but this Fairbairn business is going to hit him hard.’ MacKellar was talking like a spy at a secret assignation – quietly, out of the corner of his mouth. He was glancing across the room, saying silent hellos to various men who he obviously did not want to speak to. ‘I mean, his track record with McAlpine was exemplary but this Fairbairn enquiry will prove that one “filing error” –’ he made quote marks with his forefingers ‘– stopped the jury hearing support for his alibi.’

  ‘Not much of an alibi,’ retorted Costello. ‘And neither Anderson nor McAlpine would have withheld evidence.’

  ‘I know you are a loyal cop, Costello, but if there is a hint that McAlpine withheld it, Anderson will be tainted by association. If Anderson did it himself, then he deserves all he gets.’

  Costello glared at him.

  ‘I’m sorry, he’s a good cop and if truth be told I feel a bit sorry for him. But he’s my inspector and he will not be promoted until all this is over and done with. I have two other DIs who don’t have an enquiry hanging over them. So, if a DCI post comes up, it’s not going Anderson’s way. Not until it’s all over and he’s cleared.’

  ‘Eighteen months to wait for the appeal? No wonder Brenda wants him to emigrate. He’s one of the best cops I’ve ever worked with and that’s what they do to him.’ She saw MacKellar watch the buxom waitress go past. ‘And he doesn’t chase skirt like the rest of you.’

  ‘You don’t believe the rumours are true, then – about him and Helena McAlpine?’

  ‘They are not. What about the bright-eyed boy DS Mulholland? Is he still a DC?’

  ‘Oh yes, get back soon enough and you’ll still be his boss.’ MacKellar took a sip of coffee. ‘Can you keep a secret, Costello?’

  ‘I’ve nobody to tell it to.’

  ‘There’s a rumour that ACC Howlett has been asked by Special Branch to form a taskforce. Two hundred strong, plus.’

  ‘Anti-terrorism?’

  MacKellar shook his head. ‘Operation LOCUST. Organized crime. With Biggart gone there’s a vacuum, and we should be moving on it now. But what’s happening? I’ve been hauled in for performance assessments. Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘How would I hear? But have they decided who they want to head up this taskforce? It’d be the chance of a lifetime, for the right person.’

  ‘I think a few names have been mentioned.’

  ‘Is one of them standing right beside me?’

  ‘Indeed. I think Anderson was being considered, but not now with the Fairbairn fiasco.’

  ‘And he has no experience in organized crime. His wife wants them to emigrate. And that taskforce could run for years, so it’ll be a long game. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Niven. If it was up to me, I’d put you in charge.’

  ‘Cheers, Costello.’

  ‘You’d do less damage there,’ she said sweetly, thinking about her own meeting with ACC Howlett.

  Oh yes, she could keep a secret.

  7.30 P.M.

  Anderson was sitting in his garden, showered, fed and sipping a beer. He let the cool evening breeze play on his face, enjoying the sun. He had been on the go for twenty-four hours, and it had been a busy day. He was glad of the time to reflect, think things through and address the niggle in his mind that he was missing something important. Everything Professor O’Hare had said depressed him, and by the time he got back to the station and the desk that wasn’t really his, it was littered with pages from the daily papers. The press had gone to town on the Cameron ‘Skelpie’ Fairbairn story. Some bright spark had circled Anderson’s own name on page 5. He was aware of eyes watching him, waiting for a reaction. He gave the story a cursory glance, noting with some pleasure that from the look of the photograph, Skelpie had had a tough time inside. His face was lined, the jowls sagged a little. He looked like a man approaching fifty rather than under forty. Anderson folded the paper and put it in the bin. He didn’t have to read it, he knew it all already. He had wondered then if Costello had seen it and that was why she had tried to call.

  By the time it was four o’clock he was pissed off and tired, in a foul mood and ready to take on DCI MacKellar, only to find he was still at Tommy Carruthers’ funeral. When MacKellar did return, he was in a solicitous mood.

  The meeting in his office was almost pleasant. MacKellar assured him he had considered Anderson’s objection about the reassignment of the ‘River Girl’ case. The DCI’s argument was cohesive, and it was convincing – Anderson knew he had to think about the bigger picture. Now, looking back, MacKellar was probably right; not only did the Biggart case deserve just as much investigation as any other, it had to be seen to be that way. It was a massive PR exercise. This was a police force that treated all crime the same, no matter the identity of the victim. ‘With the Fairbairn case in the papers …’ MacKellar didn’t need to finish the sentence. The Strathclyde force was going to have to appear whiter than white.

  Anderson felt the evening sun warm his tense shoulders as he recalled the strange turn the conversation had then taken. MacKellar had asked him about LOCUST. As if a jobbing detective like Anderson would know about such high-level initiat
ives. Or was MacKellar letting Anderson know that he, being a lowly DI, was out of the loop?

  Office politics.

  But the cold water of the Clyde, the burned-out stench of Biggart’s flat and the release of Cameron Fairbairn seemed a million miles away as Anderson sipped his beer, feeling a little more at peace. All day he had been in the car, at a mortuary or in an office, and this was the only fresh air and peace and quiet he was going to get. Well, it was reasonably quiet. Lorna next door had tried to have a chat over the garden fence, her conversation quickly turning to house prices and did he really think it was a good time to sell? He presumed Brenda had been canvassing some opinions without telling him. As long as that was all she was doing. Then Terry Lomax over the back decided to mow his lawn with his old-fashioned mechanical lawn mower, which purred on the push and growled on the pull.

  Anderson now had a glass of cold beer in his hand, a warm dog at his feet and a belly full of spagaroni Bolognese that he and the kids had cooked up together, only realizing halfway through that they’d run out of the right kind of pasta.

  He had enjoyed making a mess in the kitchen with the kids, being a dad, having some family time. He knew Brenda had been going out somewhere but had forgotten where, and for the moment he didn’t care. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the chair, practically asleep.

  Five million pounds. The black dots on the ceiling of the empty flat. The face of the River Girl. MacKellar’s words: ‘But why don’t you leave all your paperwork on the River Girl with me, plus any notes you made while talking to the Prof?’ He had then added, ‘Even if what he said was off the record.’

  Anderson’s silent response was, ‘Over my dead body.’

  11.50 P.M.

  The hall of St Boswell’s Care Home stank of Brussels sprouts and pine air freshener. It was going on for midnight, and the home was quiet except for a radio playing gangsta rap somewhere down the corridor and the irregular cacophony of snoring from the bedrooms.