by Caro Ramsay
‘I don’t follow,’ said Lambie, intrigued. ‘Surely over the years somebody has come forward? Somebody must have said something.’
‘It’s the sheer silence, the lack of concrete evidence that suggests it was one of them. Only gang families like that can make people look the other way for such a long period of time. But nobody admits anything. Nobody … total silence. If somebody had a shred of solid evidence, it would be out by now.’
‘So, nobody has ever really known who was behind the abduction of the boy? But whoever it was, they had the organizational skills to take a kid – that was a whole new ball game.’
‘It was a cool hard snatch. In and out,’ Anderson observed. ‘There’d be problems keeping the child and the babysitter in a safe place, and you could argue that only an organized crime family had the means to do that. But then again, they’d certainly never done anything like it before, either lot. They were a bunch of thugs, yes, but they had brains. The bit that doesn’t fit is that neither the boy nor the babysitter were returned. And, despite what Simone Sangster says, no ransom was ever asked for. Either family would have fulfilled their part of the bargain, if a bargain had been made. Because it was business. If they’d taken the money and not returned the child, there’d be no point in doing it again, would there?’
‘So, what age is Archie O’Donnell now? Is he still alive?’
‘He’d be an old man, if so.’
‘I’d really like to know what they’re up to now, in 2010. Those who are left.’
‘Eric Moffat might know. He was at the sharp end of the police investigation into the families for five years – the years that saw their decline.’
‘I think he was even shot at by Archie O’Donnell once,’ said Lambie with some delight. ‘But don’t start him on that story, or you’ll never get away.’
4.20 P.M.
Anderson was trying to resist the temptation to make the Marchetti case active. He could only justify it if there was a stronger link than Moffat being in charge. But, as much as he liked Dino and felt desperately sorry for Maria, he couldn’t do it. As soon as the Bridge Boy’s DNA came back, and the findings had been communicated to the Marchettis, that would be that.
The report on Melinda Biggart’s finances had come in and been sent off to the fraud squad accountants. They’d had money, those two – it seemed crime did pay – but the initial consensus view was that Mrs Biggart was hiding nothing from her husband. Well, nothing financial, at any rate.
‘Can I talk to you a minute?’ said a familiar voice, and he looked up to see Helena McAlpine standing in front of his desk. She gave a little sideways glance around the lecture theatre. ‘In private?’
Anderson stood up. ‘Those were the days, when I had an office of my own. Or I could borrow my boss’s.’
‘Indeed, those were the days.’ She said it cheerily enough, but did not move.
Anderson dearly wished she would. But there she was, still with that same smile, and that same scent of Penhaligon’s Bluebell – mingled with the aroma of turps or brush cleaner, or whatever it was. And his heart sank. That was the thing about Helena McAlpine – the world around her seemed to change, but she herself stayed the same. Today she was wearing stonewashed jeans and a blue-and-white striped T-shirt. She had not tanned in the summer sun; her freckles had just joined up a little more.
‘We could go out to the canteen,’ he offered.
‘I don’t think so,’ she replied. But still she did not move.
‘You got your car?’
‘It’s across the road.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
4.30 P.M.
It was a hot afternoon with close airless weather. The wind was stuck elsewhere in the glen; Costello felt the sweat run down the back of her neck, and the skin of her face was moist. The midges were gathering in bundles, sensing that the temperature was ready to drop as the evening approached. Costello sat on the wall at the balustrade, her stomach full with salmon and boiled new potatoes followed by cheesecake. And tea in a cup with a saucer. Howlett had been right, the food here was lovely. She was pretending she was working, listening to the noises around her – gentle noises caught in the summer air. Some pupils were playing tennis, the hollow thump, thump of the ball hitting the dry grass. They scored badly. A fun game. Their friends lay on the low banks of grass that surrounded the courts.
More extracurricular art seemed to be going on on the upper lawn. Sketch books out, pencils and pastels scattered at their feet, young talented hands doing lazy sketches. It was idyllic, listening to the noises of people interacting, but not getting involved. She realized how lonely she had been in the flat. She had enjoyed casual chit-chat over lunch about the difficulty of moving kids from class to class, the problems of the old school – which Costello took to mean the original building – and the new school with its classrooms and technical block built into the side of the hill on the north-east side of the old house. Costello’s flat was further to the south. She knew they were subtly complaining about the set-up to her, in her position as somebody who was going to report back on how to make it all better.
She watched the Three Graces strolling together. They went over to sit on the stone bench where several boys gathered at their feet in some kind of subtle migration of the beautiful people.
She had sat there for a while, enjoying the sights and sounds, when she saw the little plump girl Elizabeth walk across the lower path, well away from everybody else. She was not walking quickly but there was something about the way she moved that pricked Costello’s interest. ‘Furtive’ was the word that floated into her mind. And the way she was dressed – the trousers, the long cardigan, the flat shoes. Dressed to be out, not to enjoy the summer afternoon. Costello had been told to watch for anything that sparked her interest, and … she had had her interest sparked.
She looked down, watching the figure walk to the bridge over the stream. Was there a subtle look behind to check that nobody was following her? There was a definite pulling of her hand from her trouser pocket, a flick of the wrist and a quickening of the stroll that was not be as relaxed as it seemed. Costello slid from her place and went slowly down the stone stairs, turning round to look at the house every now and again, impressed by its grandeur as a newcomer should be. But she was subtly watching the figure dressed in black.
Costello paused at the bridge, searching for the path where the girl had gone. The path followed the stream running down to the river. The path and the stream twisted in and out of the old forest to reappear further down the glen – which also meant they twisted in and out of sight, Costello realized. Elizabeth had gone into the older forest which, Costello presumed, was out of bounds – if anything was out of bounds in this place. But she felt like she was trailing a suspect, and she had always been good at that.
Keeping well back, she entered the subdued light of the old oak forest, staying close to the trunks of the massive trees. The air was cool in here, light dappled on the path, highlighting the clouds of buzzing and whirring insects. She walked on, catching glimpses of the girl in front of her each time the path straightened out for a few yards. She kept well behind, pausing only when the main path went to the left up the hill and towards the Forestry Commission land with its regiments of pine trees. Elizabeth had chosen a much smaller, less defined path that seemed to run down towards the river. Costello could hear the water – louder, gently rolling, as if there was a waterfall nearby. The small path had overhanging branches, which meant she had to protect her face, and she wondered how often people passed this way. But Elizabeth knew where was going, confidently climbing over a fence that had the top wire bent for easier access. There was a sign in faded paint, warning politely that they were now leaving school premises and giving a list of warnings about what might happen to them in the big bad world outside.
Costello followed her over the fence, still keeping her distance, then moved on and trailed her for a good five minutes. She kept looking at her watch i
n case she was losing her sense of direction in the middle of the trees, thinking back to Hansel and Gretel. There was the sound of a waterfall – not a big one but a gentle ongoing rumble of slow water. Here it may not rain for years and yet the river would still flow, the water draining down from springs high in the hills. She paused, instinct telling her that Elizabeth had stopped. The girl was crossing the river on some stepping stones, arms out for balance, heading for a slight clearing on the far side. Costello hid behind the trunk of a large tree, its bark rough to the skin of her hands and face as she leaned her face against it. She was soaked with sweat as she got her breath back and watched.
Then Elizabeth seemed to look around her, waiting or watching for something. Her dealer? Was this what Howlett had been talking about? The girl turned to look back in Costello’s direction. She withdrew, her back to the tree and waited. Nothing. She looked out again; Elizabeth had moved along the path a few feet and was kicking something with her shoes – some dead pulled grass covering a small hole that had been dug in the ground. She muttered something as she kicked the grass away. It sounded like ‘fucking maddie’ or ‘fucking saddoe’.
She seemed infuriated by this, and raised her voice, calling out with her face turned away from Costello so she only heard the end of the word … the ‘ewe’.
Was she calling for Drew? The fucking maddie?
Elizabeth spun round, calling again. Then she screamed and stumbled back. Costello stepped out on to the path to see the girl rolling on the ground, holding her ankle. Elizabeth was in agony.
Costello ran towards her, nimbly jumping over the stepping stones, getting her toes wet. ‘God, what happened to you?’
The girl looked up in surprise – mild surprise, she had expected somebody but not Costello. ‘I fell down that fuckin’ hole, didn’t ah, went right over on ma ankle.’
Costello was now close enough to see the black-lined eyes and the pockmarked skin that was almost white with make-up. On the ground the girl looked like a bad clown. She knelt down to look; a spike of wood had gone through the girl’s trouser leg and the sock and had broken the surface of her skin badly, in a dot-dot-dash-dash pattern. Even as Costello watched, it started to bleed.
‘Where did you spring from?’ asked Elizabeth, recovering her Glen Fruin accent.
‘I was exploring that wee path. I thought you had gone up the other way – sorry if I frightened you.’ She leaned over to help the girl up.
Did she imagine that Elizabeth looked into the forest, worried that whoever she was expecting might appear? Drew? Her dealer? Was she expecting to score? And just for herself?
Then Costello looked behind her to the two perfect holes cut into the earth, the second one filled with pieces of cut wood, sharpened to spikes and stuck into the earth to remain upright. ‘Bloody hell! What on earth is that – a trap of some kind?’
‘Bugger if I know, but I fell right into it.’
‘But that first one was badly disguised – so you walked round it, almost forcing you to step right into this one.’ She knelt down. ‘This one was well disguised and –’ Her attention was caught by a movement in the trees, somebody in black, darting from the cover of one tree to another. ‘Did you see that?’
‘Who?’
Who?
Elizabeth sounded scared, and just for a minute Costello realized how young she was. ‘Nothing, just the shadows playing tricks on my eyes … Let’s get you up, the damage seems to be only skin deep. Hop to that tree and see if you can stand on that ankle.’
As she gave Elizabeth some support, the young girl swore. Costello was aware of the constant rumble of the water; she was able to talk to her companion at close quarters but it would be hard to hear anybody creeping around. She looked back at the two small pits, each a perfect rectangle, and noticed the way they were lined up. She looked around her – at the trees and the dark, deep forest.
She registered the feeling that they were being watched, something dark moving in the trees alongside them.
Something to report.
‘Come on, let’s get back. Just lean on my arm.’
The girl did so, holding tighter than was necessary.
‘So, why were you down here? It was a bit of a trek.’
‘Why were you?’ came the easy reply.
5.00 P.M.
When he first got into the Beamer, balancing coffee in a tray, Anderson tried to press the switch to roll down the window.
‘Well, you can do that if you want,’ said Helena dryly, turning down an opera aria on the CD. ‘Or we could put the air con on.’
He laughed. ‘I’ve been demoted to a Jazz, remember?’
‘I know. Bad days.’
Anderson took a sip of coffee, and felt himself relaxing as a cool refreshing draught came through the air-conditioning vent. ‘So, what do you want?’
Her fingers curled round the steering wheel. ‘Colin, I need to know the truth. About Alan. Was he bent?’
Anderson’s head jerked round. ‘Alan? Bent? No! He was a good copper; he was DCI at – what – thirty-eight? Alan never did a bent thing in his entire career! Or do you think Fairbairn was innocent? Because he wasn’t, he was guilty. Some lawyer’s making a play of the new disclosure law, that’s all. And no, again, Alan was not bent.’
‘And you would know.’
‘Yes, I would,’ he answered without hesitating. ‘OK, I don’t have proof, but I don’t need any. Full stop.’
‘Not a single doubt in your mind?’
‘Not an iota. Alan was too much of an upfront in-your-face little shite to be taking any backhanders. He might go to bed with the bad guys but he’d tell everybody about it. Not orthodox, but not illegal.’
Helena bit her lip and nodded. ‘It’s just, with this Fairbairn business, people have started talking. Denise said –’
‘She would. She’s another criminal lawyer, and a man-hater.’
‘She happens to be my best friend.’
‘If she was your best friend, she wouldn’t be talking shite about your late husband.’
‘I guess not,’ Helena said quietly.
‘The fact that she’s Terry Gilfillan’s sister might have something to do with it.’
Anderson watched her face. There was no reaction to Gilfillan’s name, no hasty, ‘Oh, I meant to tell you, we’re getting married.’ He wondered what it would be like to go out to dinner with Helena, properly. He lifted his coffee to his mouth, thinking about how to phrase an invitation, to make it sound casual …
‘There’s something else,’ Helena said after a while.
‘Yes?’ He was grateful that she had interrupted. Better that than hear her say no.
‘I think somebody is watching me. I’m not imagining it.’
‘I’m sure you aren’t.’
‘I think it’s Fairbairn. I’ve seen him three times now, on the grass up at the terrace, and in the street outside the gallery. But it was when I saw him yesterday, outside the gallery again, that I realized he wasn’t just somebody out in the street having a fag; he was following me. He does this little trick, flipping the lighter before he lights up – I remember Alan trying to do it.’ She spanned her fingers, palm down, jerked her hand palm up then closed her fingers. ‘And it dawned on me who it was. It is him.’
‘OK, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Apart from the fact that Alan arrested him – you’re sure there’s nothing else?’
‘If there was, I would tell you.’
‘So, it might just be coincidence. Even if it isn’t, I can look after myself.’
‘And can I ask you – did Alan ever have a working relationship with either Archie O’Donnell or any of the McGregors?’
Helena ran her fingers through her hair, checking it in the rear-view mirror. Then she looked directly at Anderson, the significance of his question sinking in. She was offended. ‘He wasn’t on the take from them or anybody else. I’m surprised you have to ask that.’
‘It’s not what I meant.
Top cops, organized crime. There’s often a subtle relationship. That’s all.’ He realized his hand had slid on top of hers. He removed it.
‘It’s a long time ago, Colin. I know Alan thought William McGregor was as tricksy as a box of monkeys. He did meet Archie O’Donnell a few times. This is Glasgow and I’m not naive enough to think there wasn’t a sectarian side to that.’
‘O’Donnell would talk to a Catholic cop if he wanted to talk to a cop at all,’ agreed Anderson.
‘And I think there was a degree of mutual respect, if that’s what you mean.’
Anderson nodded and sighed. It was bloody hot in the car. ‘Talking of Terry …’ He turned to Helena.
‘Which we weren’t.’
‘You never told me you were engaged.’ By some miracle his voice sounded quite normal, even congratulatory.
Helena levelled the rear-view mirror with her fingertip. ‘I’m not sure that I am.’
Anderson couldn’t help feeling as if a knife had been stuck in his stomach.
She smiled at him. ‘I remember Terry asking me to marry him, but I do not remember giving him an answer. I certainly didn’t say yes. Where does this come from?’
‘I just heard a rumour.’
‘And you were annoyed that I hadn’t told you?’ She smiled that rather mocking smile. ‘That’s rather touching.’
‘But none of my business.’
‘No, it’s not really, is it?’ She placed her hand on the back of his. ‘But there’s something that is. You were the next most senior investigating officer in Fairbairn’s case, weren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how long do you think it’ll take Fairbairn to figure out that the girl who comes to the gallery to show me her pictures is your daughter?’