by Caro Ramsay
‘I could find out if he owned a white Volvo at that time,’ offered Mulholland.
‘He certainly refers to it as “the Volvo”.’ Batten tapped his fingers on the diary.
‘But later, when he realized that was the night the boy was taken, surely he would have come forward? He was a cop, after all.’
‘Yes, but a cop who never made it past constable. He was a cautious man, a good man, Carruthers. Good men have the habit of seeing the best in others. I bet he thought of Moffat as a good mate until Moffat turfed him out the window. Think of the magnitude of the can of worms he’d be opening if he said anything. As it was, he could just tell himself he had done nothing wrong, but had helped to save Moffat’s son from some unspecified grisly fate. Somebody else’s son suffered the grisly fate instead. Look, Vik, say Colin Anderson asked you a similar favour, for the sake of young Peter? You’d do it.’
‘Would I hell!’
‘Oh, I think you would. But then imagine Costello telling you that you shouldn’t. You’d argue with her, and end up talking yourself into it, just as she intended all along. Which I’d bet is how MacFadyean manipulated Moffat and Carruthers into doing what he wanted. A very clever man.’
‘So, you’re saying MacFadyean was really in charge, not Moffat? That Wullie manipulated Moffat and Carruthers into kidnap and murder?’ Mulholland frowned disbelievingly.
‘Not directly. I’d bet he worked gradually on Moffat, manipulated him into doing it by suggesting it would break the Glasgow families. We’re talking about 1996, remember. The Russians were moving in. Moffat would want to be their main man, the big cop. And it would suit Wullie to let him think he was. Carruthers, the more moral man, was merely used as a decoy. Who knows what else Wullie had planned? Carruthers knew nothing. And bear in mind that he had reason to be grateful to Moffat, who looked after his men after the incident on the hill. And after twenty years that gratitude would have simmered down into firm friendship. A cautious man, a moral man – there was quite a hold over him. Look at the length of time it lasted.’
‘But why would a guy like Moffat be scared of Carruthers, after so many years?’
‘Scared of the diary, more like. And having killed Carruthers and been unable to find the incriminating diary in the time he had, I think he sent our Soviet friends Pinky and Perky after it – and after anybody who might have read it.’
‘You mean, they killed David Lambie for nothing? What was the point, once Moffat was dead?’
‘Pinky didn’t know Moffat and Perky had been shot, did he? There was a media blackout.’ Batten leaned back and put his feet up on the table. ‘Killing the captain doesn’t mean the army won’t fight on.’ He picked up the picture of Alessandro. ‘He’s a tribute to the success of game theory, the poor kid. He was a sacrifice. He was killed to start a war.’
8.00 P.M.
By eight in the evening the change in the air was perceptible. It was still cloyingly hot, but clouds were gathering in the far distance, the birds had fallen silent, and the midges were moving up from the river. It was going to start pouring before the end of the evening, and it didn’t look as though the heat was going to let up first. People began to wander indoors.
Costello was standing on her own, scanning the crowd from the balustrade, voraciously munching tiny salad sandwiches. She was looking along the treeline, looking as deep into the forest as she could. Drew was out there somewhere, and she was getting worried about him – at the end of the day, he was just a troubled kid. Every so often she would catch Pettigrew’s eye, and a sideways shake of the head indicated he hadn’t seen the boy either.
Every time she saw Rhona, she was biting Libby’s ears about something. Costello had tried to have a word with the girl, just a casual hello in passing, but all she got was a look that suggested Costello had gone over to the dark side and was no longer to be trusted. Costello could understand that. Libby was out of her depth here, and she was doing exactly what Costello would do – retreat to the sidelines and think catty thoughts about people.
Costello didn’t know what Anderson was thinking, and she normally did. Lambie’s passing, and the manner of it, had remained largely undiscussed. There was a tacit agreement that to talk about it would mean taking their eyes off the ball. There would be time for that later, in the pub, once this case had been closed and the man known as the Puppeteer was caught.
She looked around again with her binoculars, as though she was checking out some security. She found Saskia, her sunglasses now pushed up on to her white headband. Her dad was talking to the man who had got out of the helicopter with him. They were looking, not back at the school or up to the hills – to which everybody’s eyes were drawn when not looking up at the encroaching clouds – but up at the forest, as if searching for a way in.
Something prickled at the back of Costello’s neck. Saskia laughed, throwing her head back, and said something to her father, who was dismissive in his answer. He smacked at his own arm, smacked it again, then rolled up the sleeve of his shirt to examine the damage. The midges were getting to him. Costello smiled, enjoying the Russian’s discomfort. She had smeared her wrists and neck with citronella to keep the critters at bay, and she’d bet Libby had disappeared somewhere to have a sneaky fag for the same purpose.
Morosov peered closely at his forearm, as if it might be bleeding. Costello looked through her binoculars as he pulled the cuff up further. Three black lines came into view, then one red, and another … another … another … Costello took a step back, and lowered the binoculars.
For an instant, she felt her heart stop. Then she took a deep breath and regained control. ‘By their deeds, ye shall know them,’ she muttered. She tried to turn up the resolution on the binoculars but lost focus instead. By the time she had the correct adjustment, Morosov had gone.
She looked around to find Anderson, only to see him walking hurriedly away up to the higher ground to take a phone call. She almost went after him. Then she looked over at Pettigrew, but he was already looking enquiringly at her, alerted by the way she had moved. She tilted her head towards the Russian. Pettigrew shrugged, and set off down the garden. She started down the steps, the word ‘puppeteer’ going round and round in her head. She tried not to draw attention to herself as she zig-zagged over to Pettigrew.
Morosov and his associate were deep in conversation, striding purposefully towards the edge of the trees.
Pettigrew was moving off in pursuit. Out of the corner of his mouth he asked, ‘What’s eating you, apart from the midges?’
Almost running to keep up with him, she said breathlessly, ‘Morosov. He has loads of those tattoos, the Russian ones.’
‘Assorted bird life?’ Pettigrew pulled back some low branches as they went into the wood. ‘Of course he would; he’s a Russian, from Ekaterinberg.’
‘But so many? Black crows, red eagles – the full set?’ panted Costello, indicating the size of them on her own arm even though Pettigrew had his back to her.
Pettigrew stopped against a tree. ‘Houston, we have a problem,’ he said, and his fingers crept down to his waistband. ‘He and his mate came through here, looking like they knew where they were going – which they shouldn’t, if they’re who they say they are. OK, army rules from here on in. I’m in charge, DS Costello. You speak only when spoken to, you do as you are told, you stay close to me, you do not argue and you don’t get fucking kidnapped.’ All the time his eyes were focused deep in the trees. ‘Where did Anderson go?’
‘He’s away … phoning somebody.’ Costello paused, suspecting it was Helena he was phoning.
‘They’re over there, moving away from us at speed. Two o’clock.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Costello, who could hear nothing but the noise of the garden party behind them, and see nothing but the shadows of the trees.
‘What did I say about not talking?’ As he went ahead of her, she couldn’t help but notice the precise cut of his jacket, which looked smart without being close-fitt
ing. She knew he had a gun.
They moved through the trees, crossing a path every now and again. Occasionally she caught the chit-chat of voices ahead, and Pettigrew would slow, put one finger up, stopping her, then they would move off again. He signalled, tapping his eye, holding up two fingers. But all Costello wanted to know was where they were going, and who he thought the Russians were going to meet.
Suddenly, he stopped and signalled to her to be quiet. The Russians seemed to be discussing something, and one of them was not happy. Moving slowly, almost imperceptibly, Pettigrew pulled himself back into the trees, his hand on his right hip. The Russians continued to argue for a minute, then took off again almost at a run along a gap in the trees, before cutting sideways off the path. Pettigrew waited until they were well out of sight and walked up to where they had disappeared down a narrow disused path that seemed to go deep into the forest.
‘This is recent.’ He pointed at the broken end of a twig. ‘And these have been broken, these ones bent, over the last few days.’ He spoke in a low voice, avoiding the harsh sibilants of a whisper. ‘Somebody has been coming along here a lot recently.’
‘Who?’
‘Did I tell you you could speak?’
8.30 P.M.
Anderson felt a tap on the shoulder. It was Howlett, looking more shrunken than ever inside a good linen suit he obviously hadn’t worn since he became ill.
The ACC gazed over the assembled company, then up at the sky, as if willing it to rain. ‘I was just wondering where DS Costello had got to.’
‘She was here a minute ago.’ Anderson looked around. ‘But I don’t see her, and I don’t see Pettigrew, so I presume they’re together somewhere. Why are you here, if you don’t mind me asking?’
Howlett almost growled. ‘I want to look that bastard in the eye. That’s all. One look and I’ll know if it’s him.’
‘I’m not sure if I want it to be Morosov or not.’ Anderson glanced at his phone. ‘But I’d be a lot happier if there was a decent phone signal here.’
‘Grand place, isn’t it? A bit run-down now, but still a fine building.’ He glanced down at the phone in the palm of his hand, with a subtle movement. ‘Have you been down to the river at all, Colin?’
‘Are you joking? Not with these midges!’
But there was more than the spoken question there. ‘It would be nice to go for a walk, though, don’t you think?’ There was more than a mere suggestion of a stroll.
‘I think the weather’s going to break,’ Anderson observed.
‘And I think you’re right. But there are much worse things in this world than getting wet.’ Yet Howlett didn’t seem keen to move. He was looking at the sky, watching the rain clouds roll over the hills from the north. It was going to get nasty.
The crowd was mostly indoors or under the cover of the gazebos which had been erected. But guests were still chatting, and the champagne was still flowing.
‘We’ll go for that walk in a little while,’ said Howlett. ‘Humour me, I am not a well man.’
‘I kind of gathered that.’ There was no point in polite denials.
‘I’m about to retire soon,’ the ACC sighed. ‘I don’t know which I shall retire from first – life or the job – but I will soon be elsewhere.’ He looked down at his phone again.
Anderson noticed a slight nod; something had pleased him.
‘I thought I’d better leave a mark, achieve something before I go.’
8.40 P.M.
The air was heavy, like warm water. Costello was covered in sweat, and dead midges were stuck to her skin. They had been walking for thirty minutes, making slow progress through dense trees, and her face was smarting where twigs had scratched her.
And she was nervous.
Pettigrew had changed. He was wary, almost apprehensive. He had no idea where they were, she thought – the path seemed to go in circles. They were moving forward silently now, their feet making no sound on the carpet of pine needles. She really wanted to know where she was; she wanted to know a lot of things. She knew they must be skirting round the far edge of the Forestry Commission land, and she tried to visualize the map, trying to judge how far they had actually come. The old forest must start again soon.
Pettigrew stopped, checking more broken ends of twigs at shoulder height, and the pine needles that had been freshly disturbed. Then they moved on, tracking the way the Russians had gone, into the old forest. The cover was less dense here but it was shadowy, so she couldn’t see where she was putting her feet. Twice she stumbled, and Pettigrew signalled to her to be quiet. Ten minutes into the old forest, she was starting to be scared – scared of the thought of the Russian mafia up ahead, and of the idea that whoever had covered her with a blanket and bundled her down a hole was still out there, was watching her now.
But if she looked around, all she could see were the ever-present crows.
Pettigrew stopped behind a big elm tree, and she pulled herself in behind him. He poked his head out cautiously for a few seconds, then indicated that she too should look but say nothing.
She wiped the sweat from her eyes and looked, letting her vision adjust to the twilight. Down the slope a little grey fairy-tale cottage lay in a bowl-shaped hollow, totally encircled by trees. She could see no road in or out, and certainly the track that they had just come along was not in long-term use.
There was the noise of birds screeching. A door slammed, then Morosov and the other man came running out of the house, and hurried away through the trees at the far side.
Pettigrew swore. ‘They’re heading up to the high road.’ He looked up along the line of the hills, trying to get his bearings. ‘I confess I’m a bit lost. Should have brought a compass.’
‘How can you be lost?’ Costello argued.
‘Happens to the best of us.’
Now Costello was convinced he was lying. He really knew exactly where he was – he was just unsure about what to do next.
Then Pettigrew pulled out a small gun. ‘Just insurance. Three safety catches, all of them on.’
She nodded, and followed him down the slope towards the cottage, noticing that the darkness was nothing to do with the time of night.
There were black clouds rolling in.
9.00 P.M.
Ella looked out of the window, listening to the thunder crash above the garden of the nursing home, waiting for the lightning. ‘So, how’s the old bugger tonight?’
‘Grumpy as ever.’ Agnes walked over to the window to join her, a mug of Horlicks clasped in her hands. ‘He had a visitor today. I’m not sure it cheered him up at all.’
‘Who was it? Do you know?’
‘No idea. A Mr Pettigrew he called himself. Not a relation, probably a lawyer. Though he didn’t look like a lawyer. He was a fit wee man, whistled a lot. Might be an old gangster pal of his.’ Ella sat down and turned over a couple of pages of the Daily Record. ‘As long as the auld bugger doesn’t take a contract out on us. He’s enough of an evil-tempered old scrote to do that.’ She continued scanning the paper, taking crisps from a packet one by one and using her fingers like tweezers. ‘Phew – you just can’t get your breath in this heat, can you?’
Agnes sipped her Horlicks. ‘It’ll break soon, then it’ll be peeing down. And then you’ll be moaning.’ The night sky was grey and louring, and there was thunder in the air – she could sense it. She heard a distant roll, far away.
She walked out of the staff room, taking her Horlicks with her, and went along to the reception area. On the patio, outside the French windows, she stood and looked to the north of the city. Something that may or may not have been a flash was there and gone before she could register it. More thunder came growling across the sky. The storm was moving this way. She closed her eyes and felt the first kiss of rain on her face, then bigger drops coming down – spit, spit, spit. The weather had broken, at last! Lightning flashed, electrifying the whole garden in a blaze of silver, and she counted. Then another grumble, rolling down from th
e hills above Loch Lomond, clapped deafeningly, and the heavens opened with a vengeance.
‘My God,’ she said out loud. ‘Just listen to that!’
‘That,’ said a voice behind her, growling along with the thunder, ‘is the sound of the end of days.’
9.20 P.M.
As the door swung open, Costello recognized the smell. She had encountered it often enough. Somewhere in here was a body, a dead body in a state of rank decomposition.
Suddenly a squawking black demon shot out of the dark, and she yelped and ducked. Then she straightened up, her heart hammering, to see the crow glide into the trees. Was it her imagination, or was – something – dangling from its beak? She stood in the doorway, her face turned to the open air, and took a few deep breaths, waiting for the panic to die down. Whatever she would find in there, it was going to be bad.
In the dim front room, she could see a bed, with something covered with a sheet.
Pettigrew was still outside, checking round the back. Costello let her eyes adjust to the gloom, and saw a small computer desk on wheels, a laptop with an extension cable, and several stacks of boxes. Carefully, she flipped a lid open with the point of a pen; the box was full of computer disks, new, unused. Another box with a commercial printer’s label was full of cards.
She turned back towards the bed, holding her breath, feeling for the sheet, and pulled gently. A cloud of flies swarmed up out of the dark into her face, and she screamed.
Pettigrew slammed in through the door, gun in hand. ‘What the fuck … ?’
Hands clamped over her mouth, unable to breathe or speak, Costello nodded at the bed. Lying on it was the huge mass of a dead woman, crawling with maggots. The bed was stained with faeces, and the stench in the small room was unbearable. For a long moment, all Costello could hear over her own pounding heart was the flies dashing themselves frantically against the closed windows.