by Caro Ramsay
The car drew to a halt and Anderson realized with a shock that he was outside his own house.
‘Here you are, safe and sound, as promised,’ said Libby. ‘Thank you for your time, DCI Anderson.’
The large man got out and opened the rear door, and Anderson got out too. He leaned down to talk through the open window.
‘Thanks for the information about the girls, Libby. But promise me you’ll be careful. There’ll always be someone who thinks they can mess with you and get away with it.’
‘Well, they’ll learn better, won’t they?’
Anderson started up his own driveway, and heard Nesbitt barking behind the door.
Libby was right – anyone who messed with her would come off worse. ‘Even you, you daft wee bugger,’ he said to the dog.
Tuesday
6 July 2010
11.00 A.M.
Anderson drove to the very top of the glen, pulled the car over and killed the engine. He got out and leaned against the door, gazing out over the beauty of Glen Fruin lying at his feet, and thought about those closest to him. Lambie was gone. Costello was ready to take on the world – although Pettigrew had proved that all you need do to make her do as she was told was point a gun at her. Helena had texted to say she had broken up with Gilfillan and was going to buy out his share of her gallery. And Brenda wanted to take his kids to the other side of the world.
He just wanted some peace and quiet.
He was way above the highest treeline here, where the grass was short and boulders and rocks littered the landscape. He could hear the munching of sheep somewhere below him, and a slight wind was whistling in his ears and through his sweatshirt. Despite the sun, he was chilled. They were back to normal Scottish weather, that chill in the air that was always there.
There had been a meeting, of course – a complete debrief, supposedly. Question after question. Then Anderson had been taken into a smaller room with some thick-necked men, men in dark suits with bland faces, who did not introduce themselves. Special Branch, he presumed. He had seen the pile of files and computer disks, all tracing the police career of Eric Moffat. They had placed in front of him photograph EC 2218. Twelve men playing a round of golf at a charity tournament in Turnberry, in 1993. Moffat and Howlett were there for the police. Morosov was standing smiling at the back, the respectable businessman. It was being mooted as their first contact. Anderson had been questioned about Moffat’s colleagues, and about his cases, especially those with ‘lost’ evidence or unsafe convictions. They were leaving no stone unturned. He had signed some very important-looking papers and had been glad to walk away.
He had been given a few days off. He was going to use those days to think about his future. And he was going to use the important-looking papers to justify his decision. No matter how good a shot Pettigrew was, and no matter how confident they were that they could keep their colleagues safe, it was Anderson himself who had been at the business end of Moffat’s knife. The way he saw it, he had been nearly killed by his boss’s inability to trust him with the bigger picture. All he’d had to work with was smoke and mirrors. He was a cop, not a bloody spy.
The only bright spot in the last few hours had been the highlight of the early part of the meeting – Mulholland turning up holding a small ice pack wrapped in a hanky over his nose, armed with a picture of Biggart at the fair. Fairbairn was only the pick-up, he postulated. He had taken the kid to the edge of the trees and passed her to Biggart before walking back to the pub. It fitted the timeline, and it explained why Biggart and his lawyer were so helpful to Fairbairn, keeping him sweet. Until the lawyer had been called in for a wee chat with Wee Archie O’Donnell.
Mulholland had been very polite to Anderson, and very careful to avoid Costello. That was a story he was going to get to the bottom of.
The biggest Russian gang operating in Scotland had been broken. Pulling apart the white Transit van had uncovered a veritable archive of some of the biggest hits in the last five years – a mobile killing ground for Pinky and Perky. Pavel Sergeievich Morosov was dead, and Saskia had been sent back to her mother. Strathclyde police were now in possession of intelligence concerning the flow of red heroin and the new form of Rohypnol, R2, into the country. Mulholland had proved very useful in helping to translate the decoded text, and plans were no doubt being made to intercept and control the situation.
At that point, Matilda McQueen nearly opened her mouth but Batten had nudged her to be quiet. In simple terms, they told her over a pizza later, Special Branch now had the DVDs and knew the route they’d travelled. So, once they’d cracked the code, they would pick up where Morosov and Rosie had left off, and see how far up the chain of command they could get. The two sites for making the films – the flats and the hotel – were being watched. Morosov’s company, PSM, was trading as usual, but being monitored every minute of the day.
There was now a vacuum at the top of the tree, and Special Branch knew it wouldn’t be long until somebody tried to fill it. And came up against the O’Donnells and the McGregors on their home turf. Rosie, the cog it all rotated round, had died because MacFadyean had died – and he had died because some journalist had decided to write a book and had set the whole house of cards slowly tumbling. Carruthers had become edgy, flicking back through his diaries, thinking about how Graham Hunter had died, about the night little Alessandro had been taken and his own possible part in events. It had been the money Carruthers was concerned about. Moffat had sweetened him, and maybe others too, with a payout once it was obvious the wee boy wasn’t coming back. Anderson could imagine that preying on Carruthers’ conscience, and MacFadyean smiling at the irony of it.
Then along came Simone Sangster to stir the hornets’ nest.
It was the why Anderson couldn’t understand. Was it seeing his control slip, after all those years of silence, that had prompted Moffat to murder his erstwhile colleagues? Anderson still couldn’t imagine the hold the incident had on them. Were they bound by the horror of it? Or by the subconscious fear that what happened to Purcie might happen to them? Or was it simply the discovery that the waterways and shafts in the glen were to be recommissioned? Perhaps Batten was right. Once a psychopath, always a psychopath. Anderson remembered the way Moffat’s old crew had greeted him. The man had had charm, had kept their loyalty. Any cop that popular must be a psycho, he decided.
His phone rang. It was O’Hare.
‘Hello, Prof. How much sleep have you had?’
‘About the same as you, I should imagine,’ the pathologist said grumpily. ‘But I knew you wouldn’t have been home to bed yet. It’s not the sort of thing you go home and sleep soundly after. Anyway, I thought you’d like to be told that the markings on the bullet that killed Howlett match those on the bullet that killed Purcie on the Campsie Fells thirty-five years ago. Matilda’s comparison microscope proved that both bullets were fired from Wullie MacFadyean’s Lee–Enfield.’
Anderson sighed thoughtfully. ‘So, do we think Moffat put Purcie out on the far right flank of the search line, so he would walk straight into MacFadyean’s sights?’
‘It looks like it. We’ll never know exactly why. But Moffat probably knew that Purcie had come to realize that Hunter’s death hadn’t happened the way Moffat said it had, and that keeping silent served no purpose.’
After the Prof’s call, Anderson sat in the heather and cogitated for a while. Rosie and Wullie had been Morosov’s right-hand men. Rosie’s laptop, slowly being decoded, was revealing a horrific catalogue of crimes. Details of children targeted for trafficking. Details of flights for drug drops. Details of who was to die, and how. Yet it was apparent that Rosie had no idea who their real enemies were, and how close they were. Even when Richie burned Billy Biggart to death, she didn’t understand that he was an infiltrator, with access to all the Russians’ operations. Pinky and Perky had had some suspicion, and had attempted to beat information out of the boy, then dispose of him. Yet no matter how they tortured him, he had kept quiet abou
t Libby.
Costello was right that Libby had played the moral card, and Anderson couldn’t help letting it colour his thoughts about her. Libby had known she would have to solve the Marchetti mystery to allow the families’ history to settle before the new generation could rebuild their empire. So, she and her mysterious ‘help’ had searched all those tunnels in a race against time before they were recommissioned. They had found the tiny skeleton, but had left the evidence untouched, so forensics would prove once and for all who was at the bottom of it. Then they had quite literally sat Costello down face to face with that evidence.
Anderson had been told there would be no public enquiry, that the security risk was too high. It wasn’t his decision, so he wasn’t going to think about it. He wasn’t going to think about how much Howlett actually knew about Morosov right at the start, and yet had been content to let the team take all the risks in order to track down the nuts and bolts of the operation. Howlett had known about Moffat. Following Moffat’s electronic footprint would have led him eventually to Morosov, and that might have sparked the memory of that game of golf. What happened then was open to conjecture.
Did Morosov, with his veneer of total respectability, send his daughter to this country in order to forge the link to the recently recruited MacFadyeans? It sounded a lot of trouble – until he recalled that five million pounds was at stake. It was a good investment. And the only day Howlett could guarantee that Morosov would be in the country was his daughter’s leaving day. Anderson wondered what had forced Howlett’s hand. Saskia’s leaving day? The recommissioning of the shaft? Or his fatal prognosis?
On reflection, it might after all be better to leave it to somebody younger – someone like Libby. Let Special Branch monitor the movement of small aircraft dropping suspicious-looking packages on the east coast. The Strathclyde police service would sit in their offices, only venturing out to arrest shoplifters.
And what was he going to do?
He had no idea.
His mind turned to happier things. Mary had moved to a rented flat in the city and from all accounts was slowly getting her life back together. She was visiting her sister daily at the hospital, where Rene was being assessed at the memory clinic. Without her, they might never have got Moffat – he simply never saw an old dear who was practically gaga as a threat.
He turned round at a hard clapping sound behind him. Two crows were joined on a rocky outcrop by a third. They all looked at him, tilting their heads slightly. Studying him.
Then a fourth cawed loudly and settled, regarding him, its beak open as if half smiling.
Four wee craws.
They all four seemed happy, coming home to roost.
12.10 P.M.
Anderson turned off the engine of the Jazz outside his house, and sat for a few minutes listening to it ticking as it cooled. The side gate was closed, which meant Nesbitt at least was in the garden. He opened the window to get some fresh air, scenting the heavy peaty smell of a rain-soaked garden.
It all signalled a new beginning. The horror of the last week was over. Everything, from here on in, would be a decision made by somebody else.
Except for that one decision he had to make himself. He lifted his mobile from its cradle and rang Helena.
She sounded tired, but pleased to hear from him. ‘Sorry, I’ve had a bit of a sleepless night. How are you?’
‘I’m OK, considering. There’s a lot going on, and it’s all a bit up in the air …’
He ran out of words. ‘You’ve got lots of opera CDs, haven’t you?’ he asked, awkwardly.
‘Loads,’ she answered. ‘Why – have you suddenly been seized with a passion for Wagner or Puccini?’
‘There’s something I really need to listen to,’ he said. ‘I thought you might know it.’
She didn’t ask any searching questions. ‘Tell me.’
‘It’s by Dvořák.’ He pronounced it as he’d seen it written.
‘Dvorzhak.’ She yawned.
Somehow, he didn’t mind being corrected – not by Helena.
‘Which one?’
‘Rusalka,’ he said.
He heard a slight smile in her voice as she said sleepily, ‘Yes, I’ve got it. Do you want to borrow it? Or would you like to come round and listen to it here?’
‘Why don’t we meet for a coffee, and you can tell me the plot.’
‘It’s not that complicated.’
‘It’s always complicated,’ he said. And by the following silence, he knew she had got the subtle message.
‘OK, let’s meet for a coffee, then.’ And she rang off.
Anderson closed the window and saw through the gate that Nesbitt was wagging his tail, watching. He picked up the ‘Discover Australia’ travel brochure that was lying on the passenger seat – a vague idea of the holiday budget had already formed in his mind.
He had never thought about surfing. But there was a first time for everything.
Epilogue
MONDAY, 12 JULY 2010
It was five past midnight as the young woman walked up the path. Her straight black skirt stopped at the knee, and the peplum of the tailored jacket swished from side to side as she moved. Her bare legs were salon tanned, and above her red stilettos a small silver anklet glistened as it caught the moonlight. She walked purposefully, with conviction. A small leather handbag bounced slightly on her hip, her jet-black hair was cropped smartly.
She could have been any successful young woman going about her business.
But she was Elizabeth McGregor, and she was in control.
She strode across the lawn, ignoring the Keep Off signs, up to the front door of the St Boswell’s Care Home. She had told the driver to keep the car at the front entrance, engine running; she would only be a minute.
Auld Archie O’Donnell was in his wheelchair, his handmade shoes resting on the footplate, cardigan folded and ready. He had been waiting. Her intense brown eyes met his, pale blue like a cornflower faded by the sun. She could see in them the respect due from an O’Donnell to a McGregor.
‘How is he? My boy?’ The old man’s voice was a growl.
‘He’s going to be fine. They let his dad help him, your son. All will be well.’
‘So, all is well? Like I said to Richie-boy, nothing wrong in sleeping with the enemy, as long as you stay wide awake.’ The words were quietly spoken but had the strength of certainty about them. The old man’s bottom lip quivered a little, and he gave a slight nod of the head, as if assuring himself that all he had hoped for had come to pass. ‘Well done, hen. You’re a credit to those McGregor bastards.’
She smiled at him while he pulled his collar closed a little, as if he wanted to look smart. She wondered just how handsome he had been in his day. Too handsome, no doubt. She could still see a young Richie in there somewhere, half a century ago. She pushed him out of the door and down the path to the waiting Jag. This was exactly what Richie had promised his grandfather, on the very first day he had come to work in the care home.
The driver got out of the car to open the door for him. The boot was open ready to take the chair.
‘This is Mr Pettigrew, our chauffeur for the evening,’ she said.
She looked away as the two men embraced slightly, the way old friends do, holding on to each other for a wee bit too long as Pettigrew assisted Auld Archie into the car.
‘Don’t take me home yet. Give me a wee drive around ma city.’ Archie’s voice was strong from the back.
‘Our city,’ corrected Libby.
Author’s Note
The Blood of Crows is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used entirely fictitiously.
Acknowledgements
A good book is always a team effort. I’d like to thank everybody on my ‘team’, especially all at Gregory and Co. and at Penguin for being so supportive throughout the process. The Stephanies deserve a special mention for their endless patience. Also big thanks t
o everybody at work – who allow me to skive out of clinics and get on with the writing. As usual, special mentions for Annette, Liz and Karen who take up the slack. Special thanks this time to my esteemed colleague Vadim Kolganov who has tried, with no success whatsoever, to teach me the basics of the Russian language. It all ended up sounding like a Monty Python sketch.
A wee thank you for ‘Wee John’ and his expertise on all military matters, which were discussed at length over a good curry. And a big thank you to ‘Big John’ and the other members of the mighty JWG for their weekly ‘no holds barred’ edits. Much gratitude to R. Kerr and J. Manson, the legal beagles, for keeping me right on all issues of disclosure and Scots law, and to Dr John Clark for his expertise on forensic pathology.
And of course, a big thanks to the home team: the parents, Emily and Pi, and to Alan for the endless supply of black coffee and Pringles.
Caro
He just wanted a decent book to read ...
Not too much to ask, is it? It was in 1935 when Allen Lane, Managing Director of Bodley Head Publishers, stood on a platform at Exeter railway station looking for something good to read on his journey back to London. His choice was limited to popular magazines and poor-quality paperbacks – the same choice faced every day by the vast majority of readers, few of whom could afford hardbacks. Lane’s disappointment and subsequent anger at the range of books generally available led him to found a company – and change the world.
We believed in the existence in this country of a vast reading public for intelligent books at a low price, and staked everything on it’
Sir Allen Lane, 1902–1970, founder of Penguin Books
The quality paperback had arrived – and not just in bookshops. Lane was adamant that his Penguins should appear in chain stores and tobacconists, and should cost no more than a packet of cigarettes.