The Blood of Crows

by Caro Ramsay

  ‘The fiscal was satisfied. I think I have enough to do.’

  ‘And the solicitor will pursue it; better you get in first.’

  ‘And what do you want me to do? Hold a séance and ask him if he jumped, or was he pushed?’

  ‘No, just review the file and the fiscal’s case notes. It was very quick, they couldn’t have done a halfway decent job.’

  ‘You really want me to piss everybody off? I’m not exactly Mr Popular round here.’

  ‘So, you have nothing to lose really. Think of it as a small error by an overworked young fiscal. That’s how I might have phrased it, me being the tactful one.’ She gave him that look of total resolution.

  ‘Look, I’ll send Lambie out to have a word, before I agree to anything. When are you buggering off to Glen Fruin?’ he asked, hoping it would be soon.

  ‘I’ve to arrive there tomorrow night.’

  He took the stapler off her. ‘Would you like me to run you out there? I don’t imagine it’s an easy place to get to without a car.’

  She smiled. ‘Yeah, I’d like that. They said they’d send a car. But I’d rather go there with you. We could have a bit of a chinwag on the way and see what progress you have made with Carruthers. How long will it take? About forty minutes, something like that?’

  ‘Straight run to Duck Bay, then forever on a single-track road,’ he told her. ‘It’s right up the glen, halfway between Loch Lomond and Loch Long. But don’t worry, I have all evening.’

  ‘Good.’ She turned and looked at him directly.

  Anderson realized it was the first time he had noticed that familiar determination in her face.

  ‘Did I read in the paper that Helena Farrell McAlpine, or whatever she calls herself, is now engaged to that idiot with the ponytail? Gilfillan, her so-called business partner?’

  ‘I believe so,’ said Anderson guardedly, relishing the familiar feeling that he would gladly smack her in the face. Costello could annoy him in a way that even Brenda, after eighteen years of marriage, could never hope to aspire to.

  He expected her to pursue the matter with the bait of some seemingly innocent throwaway line, but all she said was, ‘Thanks for the offer of the lift. I’ll phone you later. And don’t bother to order the paperwork on Carruthers, I’ve already ordered the reports from the fiscal’s office and complete case notes from Central. I did it in your name, should be downstairs with you ASAP.’

  Anderson was aware of his fingers tightening to form a fist, but she was gone, sliding out of the door like a ghost late for a haunting.

  5.05 P.M.

  Skelpie Fairbairn had been out for exactly fourteen days, three hours and twelve minutes. He’d thought it was boring on the inside, but now, sitting on the wall, watching the cars go past, he was mega-bored. Being bored when there was nothing to do was one thing, but being bored when everybody around him was having fun, that really was being bored. He’d watched all his DVDs over and over, and there were no more where they’d come from. So he’d come out on to the street.

  It was hot, but he daren’t hang around in the park. He didn’t want somebody reporting him for looking at the young girls running around. Folk were paranoid nowadays; someone might challenge him, they might even call the cops. He’d every right to walk through the park, his lawyer had said, all the rights of a free man. But he hadn’t really. If they knew where to look for him, they could find him.

  His lawyer was sure the appeal would be successful. Then it would be time to move on, time to disappear back to the people who thought the way he thought. But with Biggart gone, he had to endure the wait until somebody contacted him with the codeword. And he was confident that they would. He pulled the copy of the Daily Record from his pocket and flicked through it. The centre spread was a full-colour picture of Alessandro Marchetti as he had been then, in 1996. Next to it, in a slightly overlapping box, was an artificially aged photograph of the way he might look now as a young man of twenty. There was only one mention of the babysitter, Tito Piacini.

  Fairbairn smiled and folded the paper, then stuck it back into his pocket. He pulled out his lighter and his pack of Marlboros, and flipped the lighter from the back of his hand, catching it and striking the flame simultaneously. That had taken practice to perfect. He crossed the road when the green man flashed, and began to walk.

  He had no real idea where he was going, but he was on his way.

  5.40 P.M.

  Somehow Costello felt justified in spending money now that she was earning it again. She had got a taxi up to Sauchiehall Street, pleased with her day so far; she felt she was getting back into her life. The first thing she wanted was sunglasses, good sunglasses. She didn’t care how big and dark they were as long as they kept the sun away from her left eye, which was still very sensitive. She picked out a lightweight grey suit, and a few collarless white linen blouses, the sort of thing she imagined an architect’s assistant would wear. Then, in M&S, she went a bit mad and started to fling in all kinds of underwear and jewellery; it was such a long time since she had been out, she felt like a kid in a candy store. Afterwards, she went to ground in a corner of the in-store café and looked over her loot.

  What else might she need?

  She had a notebook, a good pen, she’d bought smart pyjamas, and a pair of black fleecy trousers and a jumper for kicking around in. After finishing her tea, she bought a frock – she didn’t possess one – and thought she might as well treat herself to some new black court shoes, just in case. Her credit card would be in intensive care but it needed a bit of a workout every now and again. She crossed the street as she came out of M&S, intending to go to the shoe shop on the corner, but she was irresistibly drawn to Waterstone’s four-storey bookshop. She went to the back of the shop where she knew there was a Scottish history section. She had a quick mooch through Mountaineering and Hillwalking, but there was nothing about Glen Fruin. She surmised neither the naval base nor the school would encourage random hillwalkers and the security difficulties they might bring. She found History. The Scots were very fond of the romantic idea of their own history, the glens running red with the spilled blood of noble clansmen defending their beloved homeland against the marauding English. But the battle of Glen Fruin was much more typical – two clans having a square go because one had killed and eaten some sheep belonging to the other. The book had a small chapter on Glen Fruin Academy, with photographs of the grand house sitting halfway up the hill, looking out across the river that snaked its way along the glen.

  Money, Costello thought. It took money to build a fine house like a castle with a spectacular view, and money to send your child to be educated there. She’d have to keep her gob – mouth, she corrected herself – firmly shut. She picked up a few more books, including one that had a full chapter on the naval base at the other end of the glen. Just looking at it sent shivers down her spine. With the beautiful mountains behind, the huge submarine basking in the loch looked like a James Bond film set, the evil lair of Dr Death. She wondered what that meant for the kids at the Academy. Then she realized it made perfect sense. The school being so isolated, and with massive security at the top end of the glen, helped reduce the risk of the billionaires’ brats being kidnapped.

  Near the till she saw a huge display of Little Boy Lost, piles of autographed copies, and the smug face of Simone Sangster smiling out at her. Costello accidentally knocked it flat on her way past.

  5.45 P.M.

  Mrs Carruthers had been trying to keep her sister in her flat, but Rene, complete with turquoise eye shadow and bobble hat, was determined to go out. They were both behind the front door when Lambie rang the bell, setting off a metallic screech of ‘For These Are My Mountains’.

  ‘Oh, that’s fine,’ Mary said, relieved at Lambie’s request for a quick word. She slipped her heavy black coat from her shoulders and placed it back on the coat stand in the hall, asking him if he was a friend of that nice wee lassie and having a good look at his warrant card.

  Lambie suppr
essed a smirk at Costello being described as such and took his own assessment of Mary Carruthers. She still had the look of a widow on the day after the funeral. She was a big woman, grey-haired, dressed in a long-sleeved jumper with a green pinafore over the top. She smiled at Lambie nervously; she had bad teeth and a slight growth of grey hair sprouting from her chin. She indicated that he should go through into the living room while she escaped to the sanctuary of the kitchen. Rene, the smaller sister, was hovering; Lambie said hello. She smiled back with manic enthusiasm, and Lambie judged her to be a good ten years older than her sister. She was carrying a photo frame around with her, tucked under her arm, against the folds of her cardigan, as if it was a precious thing. She scuttled off, following her sister into the kitchen.

  The living room was beige, the hall was beige, the whole flat was beige, unbelievably beige, and Lambie thanked God he was marrying a woman whose idea of interior decor ran no further than white emulsion.

  Left alone, Lambie took his chance to have a look at the window. It was about six feet wide and four feet high. The old safety catch had been replaced with a brand-new one. He ran his fingers over the newly painted wood, feeling the gouges. Somebody had been in a hurry to remove the old catch. The sill was at the level of his hip, so it wouldn’t have been exactly easy to climb out. But it would have been very easy just to upend somebody and turf them out. And it would have been quick. Nobody had seen anything, Carruthers had not cried out, and the sole eyewitness said they’d only looked up to see the open window after the body hit the ground. Lambie regarded the width, and imagined a man in his sixties trying to climb out of the window and then pausing to compose himself before the final jump. He’d have to place his hands on the frame, there would be handprints on the gloss paint. And no such fingerprints had been found.

  Lambie had been to a few suicide scenes – and a few that had been considered suicide before being ruled as unfortunate accidents – but this didn’t seem right at all.

  He heard the doorbell, the tuneless chime again, followed by the soft shuffle of shoes on the thick carpet and Rene chattering about there being somebody at the door without going to open it. For something to do, he picked up a photograph that stood on a pile of red and blue notebooks – diaries, he supposed – on the sideboard. It looked like Mary and Thomas on their wedding day. More photos – Mary and Rene on the beach in Benidorm, a much-younger Tommy on the top of a mountain – were littered across the top of the piano.

  The bride, forty years on, appeared carrying a tray laden with cups and scones. Her eyes darted from him to the door. ‘Oh, I need to get that. Can you pull out the stool from under the piano? You can just close the top down.’

  Lambie replaced the picture, and closed the top of the piano stool, but not before he had noticed the older, battered diaries piled in the wooden well of it. Somebody was having a clear-out.

  ‘It’ll be Father McCabe; mustn’t keep him waiting. Do you think you can do anything about the money? Can you find out where it came from?’

  Lambie knew he had seen enough to warrant a close look at the file, so he got to his feet. ‘I’ll have a wee look around for you, but don’t you worry. I’ll leave you and the Father to it.’

  6.30 P.M.

  The girl from IT had been good, better than good. She had enhanced a shot taken from the CCTV camera at the railway embankment next to the Apollo flats. The face that stared back at Anderson from the high-spec version could be both James’s ‘pretty’ young man and Janet’s ‘cute guy’. With his slightly curly shoulder-length hair, his big brown eyes, he could easily be termed a hottie. ‘Wyngate, get on the phone to the security guy on the gate at Thorndene Park. Email him that image of the boy’s face, and ask him if he recognizes him, and if he has a name. Then tell him to delete it and say nothing to anybody. His number’s in the file. Mulholland, do the same with Janet. Text it, email it, just get it to her no matter where she is on the face of the planet.’

  Anderson placed that picture upright on his desk and looked at the scene photograph of the Bridge Boy, pinned on the evidence board. Behind all the swelling and blood it could have been anybody – Lord Lucan, even – but for that telltale tear in the cartilage of his ear where his earring had been. Dr Redman had called back from the hospital saying that, to his totally untutored eye, the ear in the photograph was a ‘probable’ match for the ear on the boy but he couldn’t be pushed to a ‘positive’. Anderson had asked if it was OK to put somebody on duty to protect the boy. Somebody had already tried to take him out once, and would probably try again. He asked if a photographer could go in now, and take a picture of the boy’s face. Then they could superimpose it on the CCTV image and tinker with it to see if there was a match between the bone structure.

  Redman had snorted.

  ‘It’s a technique used for juries,’ Anderson explained. ‘They don’t like looking at the battered faces of little old ladies, so the photographers retard the image to before the assault, airbrush out the swelling, bleeding and broken teeth, then put them in again using nice clean graphics. It sanitizes the violence.’

  ‘But to do that you do need some bones in the face unbroken.’ And Redman had rung off, leaving Anderson staring at the phone.

  Lambie came in, talking on his mobile about getting measured for a kilt. Anderson glared at him. Lambie caught the look and said a quick goodbye.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Jennifer’s worried that I’m putting on too much weight.’

  ‘You are. How did you get on?’

  ‘I’m feeling more uneasy about it. I want to look through the files for pictures of the window frame at the time.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I didn’t really have a chat with Mary and her sister, as the priest arrived just after I did and I made myself scarce.’ He shrugged slightly. ‘It looks like Tommy kept diaries going back years. So, if he was a man who recorded every innermost thought then that is the place to look. I’ll chip away at getting a glance at them.’

  Anderson handed Lambie the blown-up picture of the Bridge Boy. Lambie took it just as Wyngate, still on the phone, gave them a thumbs-up. The security man had recognized him right away.

  ‘Get a full description if you can. Well spoken, he said. But any idea of height? Anything he said in conversation?’

  Wyngate looked flustered, so Lambie took the phone from him. ‘Hello, James? DS Lambie here. We met earlier …’

  Anderson scribbled him a note to ask about a white Transit van, then left him to it. He walked over to the wall and moved Melinda Biggart’s name from the bottom of the list to the top.

  Anderson was wondering who to send round to interview Melinda, and wished Costello was back on the squad. Neither was a woman easily intimidated. Better to apply to the sheriff for a warrant and do a search of all the Biggarts’ bank records, then question her about the boy. First thing was to find out who he was, where he came from, and how he was involved. Maybe Melinda was indeed thinking about taking over her husband’s empire. Anderson wouldn’t put it past the woman to hire a young lover to take out her husband.

  So, if the boy had been set up to take out Biggart, had he left a trail of some kind? Had some Mr X, on a mission to find out who had killed Biggart, been surprised it was a young boy and ordered him tortured to find out who was behind it? Anderson went back to his desk and sat down and thought about the boy’s injuries. Nobody could have stayed silent under such torture; even the strongest would have succumbed eventually. He himself wouldn’t have lasted two minutes, and the boy on the bridge had lasted longer than that. Much, much longer. Maybe he had held out to the very end, after all.

  He swung round in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. ‘Have we got the CCTV from the bridge yet? I did ask …’ His eyes scanned the room.

  ‘Er, what do you think I’ve been working on for the last two hours?’ asked Wyngate, trying not to sound aggrieved.

  ‘Sorry, Wyngate. You got anything?’

  Wyngate pressed Print. ‘B
est so far is this.’

  Mulholland, who was nearest the printer, pulled out the sheet of A4 and looked closely at it before handing it to Anderson. The angle made it impossible to see much – the van door, and a male passenger in a white T-shirt and dark glasses, his forearm leaning on the window, the impression of a tight bracelet round his left wrist. There was no clear view of the driver.

  ‘What time was this? Four in the morning? I know the nights are light but they don’t need bloody sunglasses! Trace it up and down the street, will you, Wyngate, see if you can see the plate?’

  Wyngate rolled his eyes.

  ‘Sorry, of course you’ve already checked that. Sorry,’ Anderson said again.

  ‘Janet said something about one of Biggart’s visitors having a scarred eye – “a funny eye, with a white bit across the iris, as though he’d damaged it”. That might explain the shades,’ said Mulholland. ‘And that he had a tattoo there, on his left wrist.’

  Lambie hung up the phone, and it immediately rang again. ‘Yes, James’s description matches that picture, and he nearly pissed himself laughing when I asked about a white Transit van – ten a penny.’ Then he said very politely into the phone, ‘DS Lambie, how can I help you?’ He pulled a face, and handed the phone to Anderson.

  ‘Yes,’ Anderson said. Then he looked at the clock and again said, ‘Yes.’ He smoothed down his tie, as though whoever was on the phone was important. ‘Pitt Street? Yes, I can make Pitt Street if that suits you. Tomorrow at half eight then, sir.’ He put the phone down. ‘Bloody hell! That was ACC Howlett.’

  ‘Bloody hell, indeed,’ Lambie agreed. ‘Does he want to see you about Fairbairn?’

  Anderson shook his head nervously but said, ‘I doubt it. Do you think lightning ever strikes twice?’

  ‘Might be your promotion. What about this LOCUST thing? That’s Howlett’s initiative, isn’t it?’ said Lambie, allowing the upward inflection to ask a question.