Absolution

by Absolution (epub)

  He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t fit.’

  ‘I’ve seen the pictures of Steele’s body. McTiernan mashed it to a pulp.’

  ‘Steele was an animal.’

  ‘Did you ever find a history between McTiernan and Steele? Any connection?’

  ‘My dear, McTiernan confessed. We didn’t look for a reason why.’

  ‘But you didn’t accept it, did you?’ She stated it as fact.

  Nicholson’s mouth moved on the side of his cup, his thick feminine lips incongruous with his thin face. ‘No, we didn’t accept it. But you can’t find what ain’t there. Malkie liked little boys. He was a predator, a paedophile. Sean was a good-looking wee boy; maybe there was no more to it than that.’

  ‘But you didn’t accept it?’ Costello persevered.

  ‘He confessed the minute he walked in the door,’ Nicholson said, with some irritation. ‘Look, I’ll tell you what happened that night, as far as I remember it. McTiernan is a shrewd young man, very shrewd indeed.’ Costello felt as though she was back at school. ‘He served four years – ’

  ‘Three years and six months,’ corrected Costello to show she was on top of things.

  ‘Instead of life. For an assault like that, he could have gone down for life, recommended twenty. But he engineered it. It looked like culp. hom, if he was unlucky. If he was lucky, he’d get off on a plea of self-defence. And he can’t be tried again. Small price to pay to get rid of somebody.’

  ‘So there must have been some history between them? A reason to get rid of him?’ Costello’s mind was leaping forward now.

  ‘Nothing that we could find. No connection to anybody, not anybody who was – anybody. There was a lot of stuff that didn’t make sense. Not then. Not now.’

  ‘For instance?’ Costello persisted.

  ‘First thing is that Steele was a hitman for Arthur Laing, a really nasty piece of work. You won’t remember, too young, but in those days Glasgow hadn’t yet moved out the hands of gangs and into the drug war. The crime wasn’t nice, but at least it was logical, no drug-crazed nutters winding the police up.’

  Costello held her tongue. She’d never given any credence to the view that the streets were safer when the Krays were alive, but she knew that was exactly where the conversation was going. ‘So what did they do, Laing’s lot? The usual? Protection? Prostitution? Robbery with menaces?’

  ‘And a touch of high-level reset, stolen stuff from abroad mostly. And it was lucrative; the European Union was making international crime easier. Ask any of the Customs and Excise boys. The situation was starting to get out of control, so they set up a special squad with the Inland Revenue to try to get him. Losing Steele hit Laing hard, really hard. And it caused a vacuum that we could take advantage of. Did take advantage of. But McTiernan? Entrapment, hen. That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Costello encouragingly.

  ‘Malkie was purporting to be a football scout. Sean, from all accounts, was not happy about meeting him, not happy at all.’ His eyes drifted to the Test Match. ‘He put a chisel through his hand the day he and Steele were supposed to meet, so he could engineer a rearrangement of time and place. Steele was not going to be suspicious of a wee guy like Sean. He walked up that lane like a lamb to the slaughter, and good riddance. And Sean had prepared for it all. He’d been down at his local skip that morning dumping a whole lot of rubbish, with his hand full of stitches, I may add. He emptied his flat, and when the flat was broken into, he didn’t report it. He was in the process of buying a house and then pulled out the minute he’d killed Steele. I don’t believe for a minute he ever swallowed the football-scout story.’ Nicholson swung in his seat. ‘McTiernan was not stupid. He planned Steele’s killing, I’m sure of it. We all thought he planned to do a runner. He’d even bought hair dye to disguise himself,’ Nicholson snorted. ‘Then he changed his mind.’

  ‘Where was this flat?’ She knew from the files but decided to check his memory.

  ‘In Ayr, Petrie Street in Ayr.’ Nicholson was right about that. ‘He’d lived there for about a year.’

  ‘On his own?’

  ‘So he said.’ His attention was back on the Test Match again.

  ‘And the house? The house he was thinking about buying?’ Costello was scribbling. They were beyond the contents of the file now.

  ‘A big house, right on the coast, below Culzean Castle.’

  ‘That’s the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘Yeah, too big for one person, and no place for a young man on his own, miles from the nearest pub.’ Nicholson shook his head. ‘Bought a puppy one day and apparently dumped it three days later. Nice. Expensive it was, one of those husky things.’ The lips were working their way round the rim of the cup.

  ‘Where did the money come from? To buy the house?’

  ‘I told you, he never bought the house. He thought about it and pulled out. Listen, hen, Malkie Steele was an evil bastard, better dead. Young McTiernan did us all a favour. You think we were going to waste police time looking any further than we had to?’

  Costello decided on a different tack. ‘Did you ever meet a girl called Trude?’

  ‘She never visited him when he was being held, or in court, or in prison. He was an attractive boy, he had plenty of women coming and going. But none of them was this Trude.’ Costello smiled her granny-sweet smile, willing him to talk. ‘I saw him in jail, two months after he’d been sent down, and he was already changing, for the worse. I do remember him asking how my wife was, though.’ Costello followed the line of Nicholson’s gaze to a photograph of him and his wife, golfing. ‘But she’d died the previous month. The week I finally got my retirement, can you believe it? They’d kept me hanging on all that time and what for? Another three quid on my pension.’ He was bitter.

  ‘Did Sean know your wife, then?’

  ‘He knew she was ill and asked after her,’ he remembered. ‘Which is more than some of my colleagues did.’ He scratched his head. ‘He said to me – and I remember his exact words – If you could have done something, anything, to save her, would you? I answered that I would, of course I would. He just shrugged and walked out.’

  ‘And what was that supposed to mean?’ asked Costello, jotting it down in her own shorthand.

  ‘I suggest you ask him when you meet him, hen.’

  Back at the station, Costello reached for the Clyde Coast Yellow Pages and turned to ‘Dog Breeders’. She embarked on a long series of calls, each one starting the same way: ‘I’d just like to ask – do you by any chance breed huskies?’

  McAlpine woke from his nightmare, sweating, his face damp with tears. He had been crying in his sleep. In sleep he’d been back among the lightning, the rain, the shattered glass and… then that image, of somebody – her – pulling him free…

  Since his conversation in the pub with Anderson he had known that Anna’s ghost was waking and stretching, reaching out to him. Every time he went into that murder room, he felt he was being sucked into a tunnel and that at the end of it was Anna, waiting.

  He opened his eyes, looking at the ceiling, then closed them again, seeing two little boys running through a field, the younger one stumbling as he tried to keep up, the bigger boy stopping, holding out his hand, helping.

  McAlpine opened his eyes. The pain of the loss of his brother suddenly stabbed as sharply as it had twenty-two years ago. He stroked the swelling over his jaw, more to comfort himself than to ease any pain. He turned to try and sleep, letting his mind drift, back to Anna… Anna, who could give him comfort…

  But sleep wouldn’t come. He got up from the sofa and went upstairs to the en suite, where it was warm. He washed his face in hot soapy water and took a good slug at the Glenfiddich he kept hidden under some old towels at the bottom of the linen cupboard. That dream had really disturbed him. Standing there, looking in the mirror, eyes focused on his bruises, he could not get the image of the monkey creature squatting on the bonnet of the car out of his mind. It wasn’t the crash or
the flames or the glass, the little taste of death, that was getting to him. The cloak… he could remember as far as the black cloak… but, no matter how hard he pushed, his memory went no further. He could not see the face beyond Anna’s, the curve of her cheek as the lightning fell on it, the lightness of her eyes.

  He picked up a towel and held it to his face; it was soft and warm. He closed his eyes, and he could see her, always her, with her blonde halo, on the beach, a shy smile playing on those beautiful lips, her hair more curled than it had been. It suited her.

  ‘There’s clean stuff in the wardrobe.’ Helena walked in, rubbing sleep from her eyes. ‘Sorry, I did mean to wake you.’

  He tried to shake the confusion from his head. ‘I’ve been asleep for two hours. And on a Tuesday afternoon too. Oh, God, my head hurts.’

  ‘You haven’t seen the papers today?’

  ‘No, somebody else been murdered while I was asleep?’

  Helena smiled wryly. ‘Only my reputation.’

  ‘A lost cause, then?’

  ‘I hope it doesn’t cause you any hassle. Terry put his foot in it more than once in an article yesterday. I would sue except his sister is my best friend and an advocate,’ she giggled. ‘Some people.’

  ‘Goes with the territory. I’ll survive.’

  Her voice was suddenly full of comfort. ‘You know that stuff you left behind? I put it all on the piano. Those photographs and your brother’s award?’

  ‘Yes.’ The response was sharp.

  ‘You left them in your pocket, and they nearly got put in the wash. If they’re that important to you, you should be more careful.’ He looked at her, his eyes hard, so she tried a different tack. ‘If you want, I’ll get the commendation framed, then you can hang it in the hall.’

  McAlpine shook his head.

  ‘Anyway, I’m going to have a shower now. Then I’ll get back to the gallery, see what they’ve managed to get done without me. You going back to work?’ She stood up, opened the linen cupboard and pulled out three fresh fluffy white towels. ‘Look at you, Alan. You’re a mess,’ she added quietly.

  ‘I’m snowed under with this case, you know that.’

  ‘Yes, I do know. Try to get something to eat before you go back to work. There’s some soup in the fridge.’

  He lifted his hand, caressing her cheek with the back of his fingers. Seeing blonde hair rather than auburn, a younger, more beautiful face.

  ‘You will come to the exhibition, won’t you?’ Helena went on. ‘You can walk around insulting everybody’s work and saying, very loudly, that a five-year-old could do better.’ The phone echoed its way up the stairs. ‘I bet you that’s the station.’

  He leaned forward to kiss her. The phone was insistent.

  He left.

  ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’

  Costello shook her head infinitesimally at Anderson before gently closing the door. Neither had ever seen McAlpine so angry.

  On his desk was a copy of that day’s Evening Gazette, folded open, showing the gossip snippet that somehow merited two column-filling photographs; one showed McAlpine, face battered and bruised, looking very drunk, which was ironic, because he had been sober when it was taken. The other showed Helena in profile, her hair up, wearing what looked like diamond earrings, with a man, also in profile, hovering by her left shoulder. Costello had already read the original piece in the quality broadsheet, Terry Gilfillan’s preview of Glasgow’s art scene for October, the main topic being Helena’s exhibition. It was the picture they had used that had caught Costello’s attention. Helena laughing, her head inclined towards Gilfillan… suggesting an intimacy that wasn’t there. And from that seed this snide little item had grown. She knew there was no truth in it. But she did wonder what Gilfillan was thinking, to allow them to use that photograph. Under the headline ‘Hanging Out’ half a dozen lines invited readers to judge for themselves whether the long hours DCI McAlpine was putting in on the Crucifixion Killer case had driven him to hit the bottle, and his gorgeous wife – ‘owner of the swanky Gallery Cynae’ – into the arms of her ‘good friend and business associate, Glasgow art dealer Terence Gilfillan’.

  ‘Fucking journalists! I’d like to take every single copy of this paper and stick it up – ’

  ‘Alternatively, you could phone Helena right away,’ Anderson ventured. ‘The press will be – ’

  ‘Get out.’

  Anderson took a deep breath. ‘I think you should let her know that – ’

  ‘Out!’

  ‘It’s half four, and you’ve a press conference to go to… sir?

  ‘Out!’

  Anderson squeezed a breath through clenched teeth and left McAlpine’s office, shutting the door with precision, showing just how much he would like to slam it.

  Costello watched him go, his concern for the Boss’s wife duly noted.

  McAlpine slammed himself into the seat so hard the wheels bounced with the recoil. He seemed to be muttering every single swear word he knew, and a few Costello didn’t. She stood her ground, leaning back on the low filing cabinet, waiting for his rage to pass.

  Through the glass screen she could see Anderson, gesturing that the press were queuing up outside and they needed a decision fast. It was up to her to bring the Boss round.

  ‘Fuckin’ media! Fuckin’ sharks!’

  ‘Yes, but the bite these sharks want is a soundbite. Something that’ll sound good on the telly.’

  ‘Fucking vultures!’ he muttered.

  Anderson was gesturing wildly now. The gentlemen of the press were not happy.

  ‘Boss, you were just lucky they didn’t do this before.’

  McAlpine turned on her, counting points on his fingertips. ‘One, I’ve got three unsolved murders and not a single lead on the biggest fucking psycho since Bible John. Two, my team have worked for a solid week with mostly unpaid overtime.’

  ‘I have noticed that one,’ said Costello with feeling.

  McAlpine was already on to point three. ‘And I’ve dislocated my fucking shoulder.’

  Costello stayed calm. ‘Boss, they strapped your shoulder up just fine. And I’ve paracetamol in my bag if you – ’

  ‘Fuck your bloody paracetamol! We have the ACC as well as his entire office – most of Pitt Street, in fact – the First Minister, and a room full of irate, sober journalists, if that’s not an oxymoron – ’

  ‘No doubt. So why not just make a written statement, dish out the usual platitudes… and maybe send Mulholland with the media liaison officer to the press conference? He looks the part, nice smile, big ego, big suit. Your face would frighten children at the moment, sir,’ she said, smiling encouragingly.

  McAlpine jumped to his feet, suddenly back to his old self. Costello retracted herself as far into the wall as she could. ‘I have a bloody murder inquiry to run, so I am not – fucking – going?

  ‘So, that’s a no, then.’

  ‘That’s a no.’ He sat back down again. Costello caught Anderson’s eye through the glass, jerking her head in Mulholland’s direction, mouthing the words ‘conference room’. Anderson cottoned on and walked away, shaking his head, practising a few swear words of his own.

  McAlpine had switched off one argument and turned on to another. ‘How did you get on with finding out about McTiernan?’ He tipped the dregs of yesterday’s coffee out of his mug. ‘Put some coffee in that, will you?’

  Costello flicked the switch on the kettle behind her. The kettle started to bubble; he must have had it boiled before all this started.

  ‘McTiernan did his apprenticeship with White’s.’

  ‘The joiners?’

  ‘Hugh White offered to put up bail when he was arrested, and they’ve given him his job back.’

  ‘Really?’ He was rubbing the bruises on his face again.

  ‘White’s do the maintenance at the Phoenix,’ Costello continued. ‘And Sean was sent to fix a leaking skylight at Elizabeth Jane Fulton’s address. So we have him potentially connected to
two of the three victims. And if he works at the Phoenix…

  We might find a connection with Lynzi. But so far only one of those connections is certain. The waitress Littlewood spoke to at the Ashton Café was pretty sure he left with Arlene. Eyewitnesses place both of them later at the disco, the beat coppers saw him running down the street, and…’

  She suddenly thought about the other girl, the girl he was up the lane with, petite and pretty. She bit her lip. Take away the black hair…

  ‘And what?’

  Costello backtracked. ‘Arlene might have pissed off McTiernan in the disco. But, sir, I’m wondering if it’s all just one coincidence too many.’

  There was a knock at the door. DC Irvine stood there, too nervous to come in. ‘Somebody to see you, sir.’ She read the name from a piece of paper. ‘A Reverend Leask.’

  ‘Good!’ He stood up, picking up the file from his desk. ‘I’m going to see Leask for a civilized chat, get his version of the goings-on at the Phoenix, find out whether somebody’s telling porkies about Tom and Elizabeth Jane. Next time you’re there, see what you can get out of Leeza about O’Keefe and Co. and we’ll compare notes. You can tell the bosses at HQ to go to hell, or refer them to… whoever. After that you can reinterview Arlene’s friend from Clatty Pat’s. I notice nobody’s got around to that yet.’

  ‘Tracey? We have it arranged for tomorrow. The thing is, sir, we’re run off our feet, and it’s a second interview. It went on the back burner,’ she added lamely.

  Well, arrange it for today, then. Just get some decent answers out of her. And focus on Sean. He’s ticking all Batten’s boxes.’

  All except the box marked ‘Religion’, Costello thought.

  They had put Leask in Interview Room 4B. He sat quietly, dressed in an old anorak, head bowed, clasping and unclasping his hands between his knees, deep in thought. He looked exhausted. There was a greenish tinge around his blue eyes, a yellowness to his lips; the tone of his skin did not take tiredness well.

  ‘How are you doing, George?’ McAlpine put out his hand and was greeted by a febrile handshake.

  ‘Not so good. Sorry to disturb you at work, though I didn’t honestly think you would be here. It’s nearly six, after all.’