by Caro Ramsay
‘They all get together, big party on the lawn, parents come along to take their children away. It usually rains.’
The brunette’s very short dress rucked up under her shoulder bag and up over her bottom. She turned to tug it down and stumbled on her high heels, falling into the arms of the tall blonde. They giggled, their carefree happiness echoing across the glen.
‘Do you think they’re on something?’ Costello asked. ‘Something chemical and illegal? Is that why I am here? Or am I here to be an independent witness to the deterioration of Drew Elphinstone’s personality?’
‘Either, but as to the drugs, I do think they are on something. I think it’s coke, but I’ve never caught them on it, never found any proof.’
‘And you can’t go round just making accusations, can you?’
‘Well, I have tried, but my hands are tied somewhat,’ said Pettigrew easily. ‘They’re off somewhere, those three.’
Costello noted the change of tack, and went along with it. ‘I wonder where. Let’s find out. Where’s your car?’
‘Parked behind the school, as it is normally. Why?’
‘I think we should follow them. Would they know your car?’’
‘What do you have in mind, DS Costello?’
‘A little bit of undercover work, Mr Pettigrew.’
‘Fine with me.’ He started to walk slowly back behind the school. ‘I presume you have carte blanche to do as you wish here?’
‘I was sent to do a job, and I intend to do it.’
‘Come on, then. Get in my car, and hide low in the seat. It’ll look like I’m going home. The minute we get to the gatehouse, we’ll change to the wife’s. We need to stay well back from them until we get to the main road. The high road here is far too straight; they’ll see if we follow too close.’
‘Tell you what, I’ll call the local nick, see if they can sit a car on the slip road and let us know when they come out and if they go north or south. Then we can follow them at a distance.’
‘If you want to phone, you’ll have to wait till we get up to the gatehouse. There’s no mobile phone signal down here.’
‘So, why are we waiting?’
8.10 P.M.
‘Gaynor? My name is Mick Batten. I’m a criminal psychologist. I’d like to talk to you about your son.’
‘Oh,’ was all she said.
‘How is he doing? Richard?’
‘He’s holding his own but the drugs are causing more problems with the little bit of functioning liver he still has. They say he’s definitely going to need a transplant.’ She bit her lip, trying to hold back tears.
‘He’s comfortable for the moment. But you need something to eat, and some fresh air.’ He held up a brown paper bag from the deli and wafted it under her nose. ‘I got some salad sandwiches, and we can pick up some coffee on the way out.’
She was nearly swayed but her eyes darted back along the corridor. ‘I don’t think I should …’
‘They have your mobile number. You’ll be two minutes away – less, if we just go out and sit on the wall. You could be here for hours yet and you need to keep your strength up. Think what you would say to one of your own patients. You’re going to have to be the strong one to help him get better.’
They walked down the stairs and queued for their coffee in silence, as though whatever they were going to talk about could wait until they were settled. Then they went out to the car park.
‘You’re not from these parts,’ she said, jumping up like a child to sit on the wall. ‘Liverpool? Somewhere down there?’
‘Yes, I don’t think it’s an accent you ever lose.’ He handed her a sandwich, still cold from the cooler in the deli, wrapped in a beige paper napkin stained to dark brown by the virgin olive oil.
She took a huge bite immediately. ‘Thank you for this. I must give you some money. I never realized how hungry I was.’
‘Munch away.’ Batten lifted the plastic lid off his coffee cup and blew on the white froth.
‘You said you’re a criminal psychologist. I don’t quite see how that fits in.’
Batten related roughly what he knew about Richard. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes. He wants to go to university and study Law, I think. I was hoping he would do Medicine. Law depends so much on them getting a traineeship, and those are very scarce on the ground these days. I just don’t want him to waste five years of his life.’
‘And what about the last few months? Do you know what he’s been doing?’
She pulled a little shred of lettuce from the corner of her mouth, gaining some time to think, and Batten knew he had her. She was definitely hiding something.
‘I don’t know what he was doing, but it must have been something really important for them to do that to him.’ She started to cry, and he handed her a clean paper napkin.
‘Well, he’ll get a liver transplant, the rest will heal in time, and he’ll go back to a relatively normal life,’ Batten said, and started on his sandwich while carefully watching her reaction.
The tears started in earnest. ‘I thought I’d be able to give him part of my liver. But I can’t, it seems. I had rheumatic fever as a kid, had to have two heart valves replaced.’
‘Does that exclude you?’
She nodded, and half laughed bitterly. ‘But I didn’t think for a minute that it would. And me a doctor!’
‘Well, I’m a psychologist and the machinations of the human brain never cease to amaze me. People believe what they want to believe. So, what about Richard’s father?’ he asked, then softened the question. ‘He’d be the next port of call.’
She lifted her coffee to her mouth but did not answer.
Batten pressed on gently. ‘I am eternally interested in why people do things. For instance, I am interested why your son took a year out to work in an old folks’ home. Just a wee piece of mental gymnastics, but where there is a trail I will follow.’ He watched her become more uncomfortable. ‘He worked in the home where Archie O’Donnell senior is resident. Gangster. He was friendly with Billy Biggart. Gangster. He knew Melinda. Gangster’s wife. One move on from Auld Archie took me to his son.’
At that point, Gaynor looked up. ‘Please, don’t.’
‘And sure enough, Richard has been visiting Archie O’Donnell junior in Barlinnie, every fortnight. He’s there in the visitor’s log. Richard Spence, law student.’
Gaynor looked as though she had been punched in the stomach. ‘Oh my God. So, he found out. He knew.’
‘Knew what, Gaynor?’ asked Batten gently. ‘You see how important it is now. Is Archie O’Donnell the father of your son?’
8.20 P.M.
Lambie pulled into the car park of the block of flats where Mary Carruthers lived, and had a good look around. There were no free spaces in the car park itself, so he did a three-point turn back out on to the street. Then he parked and checked his mobile phone. Jennifer had called.
More wedding stuff, no doubt.
His answering call went straight to voicemail. He said, ‘Whatever it is, don’t spend any money on it yet!’ Then his voice grew serious. ‘Look, honey, I’m going to be late, I got held up. Just got a wee job to do, and I’ll be home –’ he glanced at the dashboard clock ‘– about eleven or so. Don’t wait up, but I’ve not eaten yet. Can you leave the dinner out? Bye, see you soon.’
He snapped the phone shut and got out of the car. The air was still warm but the night would soon be darkening. He put on his jacket and locked the car. With a professional eye he looked around the concourse as he pressed the security entry pad. He clocked the area at the far side of the garages, noting a couple of teenagers hanging about and another three making their way across the car park, hands to ears, all talking on their mobiles. Some old guy with a stick was painfully shuffling across the grass round the concourse. And a younger bloke was standing beside a Honda Civic, his hand in his pocket, one toe tapping the front tyre. Rene’s crackly voice came through. She had already pressed the entry butt
on without waiting for Lambie to say who he was. He would have to have a word with her about that.
He opened the door and went in, watching the flashing numbers as the nearest lift came down to ground level. Just as the lift doors closed, he glanced back quickly through the glass front door. The five teenagers had met up and set off together, mobiles still in hand. The old guy seemed hardly to have moved at all. And the guy with the Honda Civic had obviously lost interest in the tyre and had lit a cigarette. He was looking around as though he was waiting for something.
9.05 P.M.
Saskia had obviously been a rally driver in a former life. It took her about nine minutes to get out of the glen and only twenty-seven to get to the Glasgow city boundary on Great Western Road before being caught in traffic, which slowed her down a bit. By that time, Costello was thinking about applying for a sick bag.
‘Well, well, well,’ she said, as they slowed down outside the Highland Glen Hotel. The Mini convertible was parked in the car park. ‘This was the place Janet Appleby was sent when Biggart’s flat went on fire, I’m sure of it. Just keep driving; we can double back.’
‘You should be a cop; you could make a career of it,’ Pettigrew muttered, not used to having a back-seat driver. He did a U-turn and parked the Rover neatly on the opposite side of the road with a full view of the front doors and the foyer of the hotel.
‘Strange place to come,’ Costello observed. ‘Looks more like the kind of place that has bridge evenings, register office weddings and funerals of people who weren’t that popular. What attraction does it have for these girls?’
‘It’s small and controllable. I bet they can drink and get a bedroom and nobody really cares. Just some lassies from outside the city having –’
‘Sex? Drugs?’ offered Costello.
‘Whatever. Uh oh, what’s going on now?’
They both instinctively ducked down in their seats a little as the revolving door began to spin, and the three girls came out again. The brunette, Keren, was on her mobile, the other two chatting nineteen to the dozen. A taxi appeared from nowhere, they got in and it pulled away.
‘Oh, so they leave the car here, phone a taxi and now they’re on their way to Glasgow to get pissed or smacked or fucked.’
Pettigrew nodded, fired the engine, then pulled sharp left into the car park ready to pull out again and follow the taxi.
But Costello’s hand stopped him mid-reverse. ‘Hold on. How many coincidences can we have in one day?’ She nodded ahead. ‘A Russian and a white Transit van in the same place at the same time?’
9.06 P.M.
‘Come in, Mr Lambie.’
‘Is that the lad from the Co-op bakery?’
Mary met his eyes. ‘She’s not had her medication yet,’ she said wearily. She held the door open, and stood back to let him in.
‘How are you, Rene?’ he said to the small figure standing at the end of the hall. She seemed slightly uneasy on her feet, so he offered her an arm, in an exaggeratedly gallant gesture.
She grasped his elbow. ‘Oh, getting by, son, getting by. Now, you know you said something about the diary – well, we found it. Me and Mary, we found it. The missing one. Was that the one you wanted?’
Lambie’s heart started to beat a bit faster in anticipation. ‘1977. Yes, that was the one.’
‘1977?’ she said vaguely. ‘Cannae remember. Do you want a scone?’
‘Well, my fiancée has my dinner in the oven. I’ve not been home yet, and it’s awful late.’ His eyes were drifting to the neatly stacked red and blue diaries on the sideboard. ‘So, you found the missing diary?’ he asked brightly, before the onslaught of scones began.
‘Yes, under the bed,’ said Mary quietly. She didn’t look at Lambie, keeping her eyes down. ‘Why would he keep that one under the bed, and not the others?’
Lambie asked, ‘Mary, had he been looking at the diary before he died? Did he seem protective of it?’
Mary shook her head. ‘I said before, he was being perfectly normal …’ She was going to add something, then stopped herself.
‘Are you sure you’re not wanting a scone?’ piped in Rene.
‘No, thanks.’ Lambie turned to Mary. ‘What is it?’ he probed gently.
‘I was thinking about that writer, Simone Sangster. He stopped writing the diary the day she came here. It ends on the 3rd of October 2008. Not a word since then. That was not normal.’ The words were being drawn from her.
‘Sticking your diary under your mattress is not normal, Mary!’ Rene shuffled down the corridor and stopped at the toilet door. ‘Did he think it was for the tooth fairy to read?’
‘Between the mattress and the base, you mean?’ Lambie asked. A quiet nod from Mary confirmed it. ‘Like he was hiding it from somebody? Did he ever say anything to you about it?’
Again, there was a nervous shake of the head.
However, Rene wasn’t so tactful. ‘But he had been reading the diary. I saw him. He might have hidden it, maybe – hidden it from that man in the lift, the man who was here. Was he the man from the Co-op?’
Lambie smiled reassuringly. ‘I’ll just take it away and have a look at it, shall I? I’ll make sure it’s all OK, and then I’ll bring it back to you.’
‘It’s 1977,’ said Rene, handing it over. ‘That was the year of the Jubilee, all those bloody flags.’
But Lambie had noticed Mary’s hand tighten slightly. She didn’t quite look up, but she clearly did not want to give that diary away.
‘Are you sure you’re OK with me looking at this, Mary? It’ll stay confidential.’
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Rene was wittering on about the Queen Mother and her teeth. As she was speaking, Lambie let the diary fall open between his thumb and forefinger. The pages were full of dense handwriting – neat, tidy, all in blue or black biro. Mary was staring blankly at the wall. He could feel her just wishing he would go. He sat tight and tilted the diary so that it opened at the beginning of the year. It fell open easily, too easily. The handwriting at the start of January was slightly shaky, as if unsure of itself. Then he realized that there were pages missing – most of January, from the look of it – pulled out right at the bindings. He flicked forward, catching a few words – God knows … God help us … His eyes scanned down. I know he’s dead … and I’m sure we killed him …
Mary seemed entranced by the wallpaper, but she was aware the minute Lambie raised his eyes from the page, as if she had been waiting for his question.
‘Is this all there is? No loose pages anywhere else?’
She shook her head. ‘It was like that when I found it.’
‘Have you read it, Mary?’
‘Why? Whit is it? A good story?’ chirped Rene.
Mary shook her head again, imperceptibly. ‘It was a private thing, for him.’
‘And it really is OK for me to take it?’
She nodded, ignoring Rene’s wittering. ‘In fact, I’ll be glad if you can get all the diaries picked up. I want them out this house. I just want you to find the man who killed Tommy.’
9.35 P.M.
Lambie thought about taking the diary back to the station, but the boss had said he could take it home – and he didn’t think ACC Howlett was going to start accusing him of ripping out the missing pages. Better to go home, have something nice to eat with Jen, then sit and read the diary at his leisure.
Why did Carruthers hide a diary that had been written twenty years earlier? There was probably enough still in there to fill in the back story.
In the lift, he had another look. On the title page the handwriting was good, a perfect hand. It simply said the Gaelic name Seana Bhraigh – the mountain, Lambie supposed – then the date, the 1st of January 1977, and two words: Bloody cold. Then that gap, until the end of January. The names Hunter and Purcie jumped out at him. Faddy was MacFadyean, obviously. Hunter was the one who had fallen off a mountain – or had he? – and Purcie had died later from a bullet in the head
. Both reports were being tracked down.
He tucked the diary under his arm, and walked towards his car. Despite having told her to go to bed, he hoped that Jennifer would still be waiting up for him. After looking after her sister Emily for so many years, Jennifer relished the simple domesticity of sitting down with a meal on a tray and a glass of wine, feet up in front of the television. So did he.
He fished the car keys out from his trouser pocket, turning slightly on hearing a noise behind him, expecting somebody to ask him for a light or for some spare change. The first thing he felt was a punch in the back, then a quick blow to the front. He looked the man in the face, but felt no recognition. He saw a hand reach for the diary, vaguely registered the tiny stub where the little finger should have been. Then he felt himself being lowered into the gutter between the car and the kerb, and felt the toe of a shoe nudge him, tipping his outflung arm into the shadow of the car.
As if he was a piece of dog dirt, he thought.
9.40 P.M.
‘Batten called,’ Anderson said.
‘Hang on, I can’t hear you.’ Costello gazed around at the plague of Black Watch tartan that darkened the walls and floor of the lobby of the Highland Glen Hotel. A mangy stag’s head glared down at her glassily. She pushed through the revolving door again and out into the car park, where Pettigrew was apparently enjoying a contemplative smoke, leaning against the bonnet of his car. ‘Go on.’
‘Mick managed to persuade Gaynor Spence to come clean about Richard’s father,’ Anderson told her. ‘One Archibald O’Donnell. Wee Archie.’
‘No wonder she wasn’t so keen to tell you.’
‘But the boy needs a new bit of liver. Blood runs thicker than water. And there’s more. Mick played a hunch, and suggested I phone the Bar-L and pull rank to get some urgent information from the visitors’ log. And he was right. Richard Spence, law student, has been visiting Archie every two weeks for a while now.’