by Caro Ramsay
‘Pardon?’
‘The body, was it a sheep?’
‘No, human. Like I said, it was a scene from a Hitchcock film.’
‘Really?’
‘Hit and run, then eaten by birds. But why out on that road, and why wearing a suit?’ Anderson shrugged. ‘No ID, not a thing. But he did have money on him.’
‘Did you look?’
‘Wouldn’t you? The security guy at the school was a plod up at Maryhill in the past, so we had a wee mosey around. Called in the locals, who called in O’Hare. A uniform from Balloch and I nipped up to the road. Tyre tracks everywhere. The lab is getting on to it now.’
‘And we care because … ?’ asked Lambie.
Anderson was busy tearing the envelope open, ‘Because there’s something bloody weird going on up at Glen Fruin and I’m not happy that Costello is there, isolated.’ Anderson missed the look Lambie was giving him. ‘O’Hare thought the body had been run over, then the vehicle reversed and ran over it again. So, he called in the road incident guys. That was when I bowed out and came home.’
‘Nothing to do with us,’ repeated Lambie, wondering what his boss was thinking.
‘Howlett sent us here and sent her there. Think about it.’ Anderson read the single sheet of paper. ‘Well, listen to this. The body was kicked off the road a wee bit, and just left. And Matilda says it was a van, a Transit or some such from the tyre tracks. She’ll get back to us later with something more exact.’
‘Hundreds of Transits about, Colin,’ Lambie said warningly. ‘But you are right, it is some kind of recurring theme.’
‘And the only one they managed to trace had false plates.’ Anderson pointed at the Bridge Boy on the whiteboard. ‘That was this Transit van, and its front offside tyre has a cross-shaped insult on it. Distinctive and identifiable. Once she’s analysed the tracks in Glen Fruin, we’ll know for certain whether there’s a connection.’
‘It bothers me that the forensic services are putting us at the top of their priorities.’
‘Why does that bother you, DS Lambie?’
‘Because it feels like we are doing somebody’s dirty work for them. Howlett’s?’
Anderson ignored him. ‘What about Carruthers? Anything?’
‘Had a quick word with the priest. He said Carruthers was honest, devout, stable, didn’t smoke, gave up all alcohol more than thirty years ago.’ Lambie pulled a face. ‘I kind of feel he’s trying to tell me something, but the secrecy of the confessional and all that … even with Carruthers dead.’ Lambie paused for a minute. ‘There’s nothing big in the story.’
‘Apart from the fact the man died.’
‘The doc is the same – evidence that something had been troubling him recently. His GP notes say he stopped drinking, just like that –’ he snapped his fingers ‘– in early 1977. He’s been on sleeping tablets on and off since.’
‘So, what happened to him in 1977?’
‘Indeed. I need to speak to Mary without Rene being there. But she lives on the same landing, and any time somebody goes to Mary’s door, she’s out there like a demented troll. I asked the good Father if he thought Carruthers had killed himself, and he said no, not under any circumstances. He was too good a Catholic for that. He would have gone to the priest first. He always has in the past. But whatever was on his mind, it had been really troubling him over the last few weeks. Might have been the money?’
‘Well, I think the safety catch on the window could have been removed by A. N. Other, and I think somebody could have tipped Tommy Carruthers up and out the window. There are marks on his hip that I think support that theory. I’ll get the Prof to take a look at them. It wouldn’t be that hard, to fling someone out a window – ‘defenestrate’, I suppose the word is. You’d just need to get them out the room, maybe making a cup of tea. Then you remove the catch, get them over to the window. That’s not hard either – you just comment on the view of the Campsies, ask what this or that building is – then you just tip ’em up and out.’
‘And having done that, how would they get out of the Carruthers’ flat without being seen by the CCTV … ?’ Lambie said suddenly.
‘What would I do?’ mused Anderson.
‘Apart from throw yourself out the window?’
‘I’d buy a newspaper, a can of Coke, take my iPod or a good book, go in, kill Carruthers, then leave the flat and go up in the lift. Get out, head for the emergency stairwell. You’d be well warned if anybody was coming.’
‘But who are we talking about? I need to ask Mrs Carruthers if …’ Lambie was interrupted by a noise like a wounded wolf howling across the tundra. There was a crash of furniture, more howling, and footsteps came pounding towards their door. Wyngate was nearest; he hurtled towards the door and met the woman face on, his momentum pushing her back into the other room.
Anderson and Lambie were both on their feet. The howling wasn’t aggressive. It was painful, anguished.
‘Let me see him, let me see him!’
Wyngate backed in through the door. Beyond him, Anderson could see a woman sobbing in the arms of a male uniform.
‘You might want to deal with this, guv.’
‘I doubt that,’ Anderson said quietly. Beyond the swing doors, a few people were hanging around, drawn by the commotion. The distressed woman was in her fifties, with unnaturally dark auburn hair, and was wearing a badly fitting black summer dress. She looked as though she carried the pain of the world with her. Then Anderson noticed she was wearing blue fluffy slippers.
‘I’ll take her through,’ he said firmly.
‘I wouldn’t advise it, sir,’ said the uniform. ‘She might be better having a seat in here.’ Then he spoke directly to the woman, pulling her hands from his neck like a mother with a clinging child. ‘Now, you sit over here and DCI Anderson will come and talk to you.’ As she sat down, he said in a side whisper, ‘I’ll call the medics. Just don’t let her see any of those photographs, sir.’
The woman jumped to her feet, mascara and tears running down her face. ‘Let me see him!’
‘OK, OK, but calm down, will you? Just calm down.’ Anderson tried his best to get her to sit down again.
‘Don’t tell me to calm down!’ she screamed in his face. ‘Just tell me where he is!’ She thrust a copy of the Daily Record at Anderson. ‘Tell me where my boy is!’
10.10 A.M.
Costello had some toast and tea for breakfast, sitting in the small kitchen with the front door open to let the sunshine slant across the wooden floor. After throwing up, she had ventured out for her first real sight of Glen Fruin. The banks of Munros on either side had looked lilac in the distance, their peaks still shrouded by morning mist. But now the sun had burned off the haze to reveal the glen in all its verdant glory, with the river winding its lazy way from east to west. She went out and sat on the front step, in her new pyjamas, a cup of tea held firmly in both hands, closed her eyes and held her face up to the sun. There was a complete absence of any sound of so-called civilization, only birdsong and the lowing of cattle further up the glen.
She felt the warmth relaxing her face, but she was aware too of tightness in her shoulders, tension in the back of her neck. That meant there was a nagging worry somewhere. She didn’t think it was finding the body last night; she had merely been a witness to that. And it wasn’t Pettigrew, who had been efficient and understanding, delivering her to her accommodation with a merciful lack of fuss. No, her problem was that she was back at work, and she didn’t know if she could cope.
She showered, dressed in her suit and heels, and thought about what to carry, what she was supposed to be doing. Empty hands looked ridiculous, so she slipped her handbag over her shoulder and picked up the envelope Howlett had given her. With that under her arm she set off to explore.
On her way to the main house she walked along a small bricked path, coming across a snake of schoolchildren who were walking in pairs, making their way down to the river. All were dressed in perfectly matching b
lue tartan uniform, and all had wellies on their feet. They chatted quietly to each other, nodding or saying a polite hello to Costello as they passed by. She watched them all go – in her school they would have legged it to the bike sheds as soon as the teacher’s back was turned.
Smiling to herself, she went on her way. The main house was slightly lower than the stable block, and the badly tarmacked road wound round to the front of the house where it opened on to a vast forecourt covered in fine gravel so deep any normal car was in danger of being bogged down. Two statues stood either side of a flight of stone steps that led down to a formal garden with beautifully manicured lawns. One she recognized as the standard likeness of Robert the Bruce. The other she guessed, from the sandstone swathe of plaid and the huge claymore, would be Sir Humphrey Colquhoun, a man who’d seen a bit of bloodshed in his time, fruitlessly defending Glen Fruin from the vengeful McGregors. His staring eyes seemed fixed on a diagonal line of sprinklers lying idle across the lawn. The smell of freshly mown grass still hung in the air. Two boys, even younger than those going to the river, were photographing some flowers close up; one held the camera while the other made careful notes. She could imagine the future botanist filling his page with details, his tongue held between his teeth in concentration. Costello leaned on the balustrade to watch them for a few minutes, then she started to gaze at the view over towards the bank of green velvet on the south side of the glen. From somewhere behind her came a clattering of dishes from the distant school kitchen.
It was remarkably deserted out here; there must be lots of people around but every single one of them seemed to be hidden away in a classroom somewhere. She heard laughter, a female voice made a comment, and her ears caught the louder response. Costello couldn’t see anybody, but the voice had come from below her, as if people were sitting against the wall. She walked along nonchalantly, her face turned towards the house, seemingly studying the intricate heraldic carving over the main entrance, with the Colquhouns’ motto ‘Si je puis’ wound round the antlers of a stag. She trailed her fingertips along the balustrade, and hoped she looked perfectly normal, perfectly casual.
Just as she drew level with the main door of the school she heard the laughter again, and there was a flurry of movement below. A group of senior pupils were breaking up; some came up the stone steps towards her and another three girls set off across the lawn, their pace slow and measured as if they had all the time in the world. Even in school uniform, Costello thought, those three came from Planet Beautiful. She thought of giraffes in the Serengeti, models on the catwalk – these were women who existed to be looked at. They were almost a cliché – the leggy blonde, the brunette beauty, the milky-skinned redhead – like three perfect gemstones in a single setting, each showing the others to best advantage.
As they walked off, the tall blonde turned and raised a hand in greeting to Costello, as if she had known she was there all along.
10.30 A.M.
‘I’m really sorry about this,’ Dino Marchetti kept saying, sweating profusely and mopping his forehead with a damp handkerchief.
‘Not totally your fault. The desk at Partick should never have told you we were here.’
‘But it’s that bloody book that’s stirred it all up for her. We tried to take out a court injunction against it being published, you know.’
‘And they refused. Yes, I did know,’ Anderson said mildly. They were sitting in the sun outside the Western Infirmary. Dino needed a smoke.
‘The lawyers said we’d do better to find something libellous and sue, but Maria’s in a terrible state – well, as you’ve seen.’
‘It would be nice to think that the book might help in some way, provoke a bit of a response from the public,’ Anderson tried. ‘It might move the case on. It’s never officially been closed, you know. Sorry, I’m just trying to find something positive in all this.’
Dino shrugged. ‘It’s been fourteen years. I’ve tried to move on but every time a body is found she thinks it’s him.’ He took a deep draw on his cigarette. ‘It’s so hard for her. She’s on a lot of medication.’
Anderson recognized that Dino needed to talk, and decided to let him.
‘I really thought Maria was beginning to accept it, until those lassies were found, two in Austria and one in America. Somebody’d kept them locked up for years and years, but they all came back. So every time a lad in his teens or twenties turns up unidentified, she’s convinced it must be him. That’s bad enough, but then something like this appears in the newspaper.’
Anderson still kept quiet. Both Marchettis were slim, dark-haired and fine featured, like the boy. He could understand why the mother would feel that flare of hope.
‘The worst thing is not knowing what happened, or why. Everyone thinks if you’re Italian, you’re in the Mafia, but we weren’t like that. We just ran a restaurant and an Italian deli. If someone had asked for money, I could understand that, and we’d have paid it, whatever they wanted. If some crazy person had stolen him and killed him, even that, you could see a reason for it. And we would have a body, something to bury. But this …’ Dino spread his hands and shrugged. ‘Nothing. Not a word. No trace of our son. Who could be so cruel?’ He mopped the back of his neck. ‘Has anybody identified this other boy yet?’
‘Not yet, unfortunately.’
‘You know, she won’t calm down until they do.’
‘We’re going to do a DNA test. That will tell us –’
‘That he’s not our son!’ Dino glared almost accusingly at Anderson.
‘I don’t doubt for a minute that this boy is not Alessandro. I’m sorry. But I think your wife needs proof. And a DNA test will provide that.’
Dino sighed. ‘You know we moved out the flat the day Alessandro was taken; we never went back.’
‘What can you tell me about the babysitter?’
‘Tito?’ Dino did not appear surprised by the question. ‘He was a good boy, we thought. No dad, ever, and his mum had died. Too fond of the drinking. And she was a little …’ He tapped his temple, adding a slight twisting movement. So, the mother had been a screwball as well as a drunk. ‘He started working in our kitchen at weekends when he was fourteen. Like I say, a good boy, played with little Alessandro in the shop. It was the first time he’d actually babysat him, just sitting in, watching TV. Maria and I were out at a charity dinner. We got home to find our son missing, Tito missing. There was blood everywhere but none of it matched the samples they took from Maria and me. The blood was not from our son.’ Dino crossed himself, and Anderson wondered how many times he had been through that story. ‘Is there any chance you might reopen the case?’
‘As I said, it was never closed. But I need a reason to reactivate it.’
Dino Marchetti placed a hand on Anderson’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. ‘Please do it – if not for me, then for her. Just to let her sleep at night.’
‘Can I ask you, and I have no reason for asking you, but were you happy with the way Eric Moffat conducted the investigation?’
Dino looked surprised. ‘I have nothing to compare it to. At the time yes, I was happy.’ The shrug of his shoulder was very Latin. ‘But with this book, I don’t know what to think.’
‘Do you recall a cop called Carruthers from that time? I know it was a long time ago.’
‘Oh, I remember them all, Mr Anderson. Every single one. But no, there was no Carruthers.’
11.00 A.M.
Costello turned at the sound of hurried feet on the gravel. A thickset woman with wire-wool hair was running towards her, arm outstretched as if getting ready to pass a baton. ‘Hello, hello,’ she trilled. ‘I’m Rhona McMillan. I’m the Registrar here.’
Costello immediately wanted to smack her.
‘And I bet I know who you are!’ The woman pointed at her, excited as a kid in a chocolate factory. She hushed her voice. ‘You’re DS Costello. From the police!’ she added with relish.
‘That’s right,’ said Costello, slightly wrong-f
ooted. She started to walk along by the balustrade, forcing Rhona to walk beside her. Three men in suits were coming out through the front door of the school, and Costello wanted a private conversation.
‘And I for one am very glad you’re here,’ Rhona hurried on. ‘I mean, of course it’s all very hush-hush, but we all know. I just hope you can do something about it.’
‘I’ll do the best I can,’ Costello replied sweetly, having no idea what the woman was blethering on about but feeling intrigued.
‘Well, I hope you got some sleep last night after that terrible news.’ Rhona looked over her shoulder nervously. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to do with us.’
‘Any reason why it might be?’
‘Oh no, I’m just being silly. Anyway, have you had your breakfast?’ Rhona glanced at her watch. ‘Mr Ellis – he’s the Warden – wants to see you at twelve. He knows far more about it all than I do.’ She was one of those women who ask a question without expecting an answer. Probably nobody ever really listened to her.
‘I’ve eaten, thank you. Can you tell me who they are – the three girls walking over the lawn?’ Costello asked with her back towards them.
But Rhona stuck her head out, as unsubtle as an elephant. ‘Oh, Saskia, Keren and Victoria. They’re very beautiful, aren’t they? Funny how they gravitate towards each other. They’ll be leaving Glen Fruin this week for good.’ Rhona sighed. ‘It’s always sad when they go.’
‘Surely it’s good to get out and take on the world,’ Costello said. ‘I was desperate to leave school.’
Rhona threw her a look as if to say, ‘Well, you would be, wouldn’t you?’ But she said, ‘Saskia is going on to study in Italy. She’s actually Russian, well – half Russian, half Dutch. The Dutch being the Saskia, the Russian being the Morosova.’ She looked skyward, thinking. ‘Yes, that’s the right way round. She’s been here for four years now, perfecting her English, doing some more highers. Victoria is going back to the good old US of A and … oh, I’m not sure where Keren calls home. Dubai at the moment. She’s Irish, one of the Cork O’Learys.’