Lies of the Land

by Chris Dolan

  “Why aren’t they at school?” Once a policeman…

  Nairne laughed. “If they weren’t here they’d be oot keying your car or burgling your hoose. Davie’s good wi’ weans like these. Doubt if we’ll find a Donald Ban MacCrimmon among them though, eh?”

  Presumably a legendary piper, so no. By the squawking going on next door they were more likely to find the next world champion vuvuzela player.

  Coulter showed Nairne the photograph – now printed up – of the toxic waste oozing through its lead and cement casing. Before the judge could ask the inspector made the point that there was no way – as yet – to test the picture’s authenticity. He brought him up to scratch on the university students.

  “But you don’t recognise this photograph, sir?”

  Nairne stared at it sadly. “Indeed I do not, Inspector.”

  “So it wasn’t in the evidence you were given?”

  “No.”

  “And if it were…?”

  “And its authenticity proven, this one snap on its own would have been enough to ensure a trial.”

  “Yet the protestors insist it and many more like it, all of them properly dated and sourced, were included in the evidence they prepared with JCG Miller.”

  “Well it never reached me.”

  “How do we account for that?”

  Nairne handed him back the photograph. “That’s your department, Inspector Coulter. And I hope and pray you get to the bottom of it. For, not only would evidence like that have ensured a full trial, it would still now. Get me the provenance and I’ll make damn sure this goes to court.” He got up and walked to the door. “Nothing pains me more than Scots law – for which in general I have great respect – letting the people down.”

  The two men made their farewells and Nairne went back to his now manic kids. Coulter left thinking that, after five years of pursuing them, poor Maddy will be taken off the Petrus case, just when there’s a chance of nailing it.

  Detective sergeants Russell and Dalgarno were discussing the latest developments, without the hindrance of their boss being about.

  “Nobody’s got a proper alibi.” Russell had spent the morning up at the Boyds’, Cathy Maguire’s, and Belvedere. “Morag and Kenny are alibiing each other. Just like they did for Tom Hughes.”

  “But they’re accounted for for the times of Miller’s murder and Crichton’s fall. And when the bullet was left below his window.”

  “They said their wean – what’s his name?”

  “Jason.”

  “—Jason was fine in hospital overnight alone. He’s getting used to it. So they went home at the back of nine, had an early night, and got up for work at 7.30 as usual. I believe them.”

  “What about Cathy?”

  “Nobody can vouch for her ever. She was at,” and here he shook his head knowingly, “the Scottish Women’s Environmental group meeting at Maryhill Community Centre till ten o’clock. I checked – she was there all right, shouting the odds and rousing the rabble. She got a lift home with a sister in arms – I’ve checked that too. But she lives on her own, so only she knows if she never went back out the house again until noon today.”

  “And do you believe her?”

  “The woman’s a pain in the arse and her heid’s full of mince, but yes. She gave me a hard time and about three different lectures, but I didn’t get the idea that she was lying.”

  “And Joe Harkins was in here all night.” Amy pinched her eyes. “We know that Harkins knows Kenny Boyd. Could he be the name he’s not giving us?”

  “I think the name he’s not giving us is Mrs Miller or Mrs Crichton. Which one? Take your pick. They’re both mental.”

  “But why would either of them kill Tom Hughes?”

  “Money, power. For screwing up their conservatory. Miller would bash your head in for a new designer handbag. And Crichton, she’s clinically bananas, she’d stab you for looking at her funny.”

  “Clare Crichton was at the hospital when Maddy Shannon’s bullet was posted.”

  “So long as you believe that Alison Morrison didn’t sleep for four hours during her shift. She always looks pretty fresh to me.”

  “And why would Mrs Miller post a bullet through the PF’s door?”

  “Maybe she’s got some sense after all.” Russell laughed, brightening up. “You can take it from me, she’ll be nowhere near this case again. In fact,” he dropped his voice, conspiratorially, “she might not be near any case again.”

  Amy Dalgarno decided not to ask him why. In general she believed that old boy networks, school ties, winks and nudges at the nineteenth hole, were the domain of conspiracy theorists – but Russell made her question that conviction. “So you’re ruling Kenny Boyd out?”

  “I’m not ruling anybody out, Amy. Any one of these people, or a mix of them all, could be up to their necks in this. I’ve said all along, this is pass the pistol – a different nutjob every time.”

  Amy nodded acquiescing. But she remembered fine it was Coulter and she who developed that theory, not DS Russell.

  Maddy took Binnie at his word. She’d sent a few emails, briefed Izzy and Manda on a dozen or so of the cases on her books – claims, suits, indictments, complaints that she’d allowed to languish since the morning Miller had been shot. Izzy was too nice to comment, and Manda in no position to, given that her backlog was worse. She just sighed when she saw Giffnock Golf Club. There were other, bigger actions, that she’d give to Dan. She’d looked for him, but he’d been in with Binnie. No doubt where the real truth was being discussed. How do you solve a problem like Maddalena? How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand? Well, maybe not the second bit. How do you get shot of her forever, more like. Dan would defend her – but only to a point. We’ve all got mortgages. And institutions, careers, bring out the sleekit schemer in everyone. This particular career – plea adjusting, manipulating juries, pandering to counsel, skirting over inconvenient facts – makes you a freaking expert.

  Her plan was to sneak off, unnoticed. She emailed to her home PC every file she could find connected in any way with Petrus or the Miller killings. Not that she intended to do anything, get any more involved. No, this would be me time. Go the gym, long lies, read books. She’d bought all four Elena Ferrante books and had never found time to get further than chapter one, book one. Same with the first of the Louise Welsh trilogy. She might, in a few days, look at those files, but purely as an academic exercise. If she did notice something new, or make a connection, she’d pass it on to Coulter. Other than that, stay away from work, keep out of everyone’s way, Mum and Dad’s – especially Dad’s. Speak to Louis, and try to get clear in her own head what she wanted to happen between them.

  It turned out her colleagues had other plans. By the time she was ready to go, the entire night had been planned out for her. Bite to eat at La Lanterna, then to Lauries Bar where Manda had confirmed there was a ceilidh on tonight, finish up as ever in the Vicky. It felt like a farewell celebration. Maybe it was.

  Being still only the back of four, she decided to go home, shower and change. She thought she’d walk it, the day turning out bright. A furious speed-walk home helped keep the demons at bay. But, again, the world had other plans for her. Illegally parked outside the COPFS door on Ballater Street was a fat grey SUV, electric engine whispering. The passenger window slid down, and Clare Crichton leaned over from the driver’s seat.

  “Can I give you a lift?”

  What the hell. She was off the case, on holiday. She climbed in and said flatly, “Lorraine Gardens” like it was a pre-booked taxi. Mrs Crichton said nothing as she manoeuvred out and set off towards Glasgow Bridge. Maddy reckoned it was up to Crichton to start the conversation. But the woman remained resolutely shtum. It was as if she’d forgotten that Maddy was there. Her behaviour was that of a woman alone in the private space of her car, every now and then singing to herself under her breath. Or was she talking to herself? The traffic was heavy so the journey west took a long time. Maddy stared
out her window, thinking that Clare would eventually tell her what was on her mind. And if she didn’t, Maddy genuinely didn’t care. They whirred along the north bank of the Clyde, the hybrid engine almost soundless, seagulls wheeling over the glinting water outside. Maddy relaxed into a dreamy, sleepy state. Along the Expressway, the giant glass façade of the Transport Museum reflecting the river like a mirror. The trees on Kelvin Way still skeletal and leafless but standing in pools of crocuses, the odd early daffodil blinking sleepily. Only at University Avenue did Crichton break her silence.

  “What’s the best way?”

  Maddy nodded to indicate straight on and put her right arm out. Clare knew what she meant.

  When, finally, they were turning into her street, Clare stopped the car at the first available space. Left the engine running – Maddy wondered if it was charging – and leant over to pick up a plastic shopping bag on the back seat.

  “This is for you,” she said, handing it over.

  “Why me?”

  “Have to give it to someone.”

  “Mrs Crichton. We’ve barely ever met. Why would you think that you should give me anything?”

  “Bill liked you.” Maddy noticed the past tense.

  “I’m not sure he still does.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t like you. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t dislike you. I don’t like or dislike anyone. I thought I liked Bill … anyway, none of this matters.” She lifted the bag up. “Maybe this doesn’t either. I don’t care. But I have to give it someone. And I have no intention of going anywhere near a police station.”

  Maddy took the bag from her, and opened it. Inside was a brown manila folder.

  “Will you come in for a coffee, Clare?”

  The woman thought for a moment, tapping on the steering wheel. Then made up her mind and turned the engine off.

  Three quarters of an hour later, evidence markers from one to four at her doorway and in the hall, Maddy stood next to Clare Crichton in the kitchen, while DI Coulter and DS Dalgarno poured over the single sheet of paper that had been inside the folder.

  “Is Bill a cyclist, Clare?” On the top quarter of the page was a little printout map.

  “No.”

  “A runner?”

  “Bill took no exercise whatsoever.” Again, that past tense.

  “Where did you find it, Mrs Crichton?” Coulter asked.

  “You really shouldn’t send male officers round to look for something, Inspector. Men can’t find anything. It was under the rug in the basement.”

  “And you knew it was there?”

  “And that you were looking for a file or something? Yes.”

  “Then why didn’t you hand it over before?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because the law demands it, ma’am. Because people are being killed. Because you have possibly just perjured yourself.”

  He might as well have been reading her out the football scores for all Clare Crichton reacted.

  “It looks to me,” Amy distracted Coulter from his furious stare, “like a Map My Ride route. A free app, easy to download. It records your cycle or running routes. It can also calculate your distance, times, etc. Normally they’re bigger than this. On a smaller scale showing the hills, miles, etc. This is very close up.”

  They both poured over it. White lines that could be streets, but only one or two of them. “The blue line is the recorded route,” Amy said. “Looks like no distance at all. We’re talking yards here, not miles.” The street names were not marked.

  “The blue seems to go off-road. Into … what?”

  “Green normally means fields, countryside.”

  “Do you have any idea where this is, Mrs Crichton?”

  The woman shrugged. Coulter looked back at the map. “Just empty ground?”

  “Like Belvedere?” Maddy said and Coulter nodded, thinking the same thing.

  “Is it?” he asked Crichton.

  “No idea.”

  “A couple of years old,” said Dalgarno. “Before they started building on the site?”

  “Clare,” Coulter softened his tone – the stern cop routine was having no effect on her whatever. “Do you have any idea why Bill might have kept this?”

  She took a moment to answer. “I saw him looking at it one day. He said it was his insurance policy.”

  “Insurance policy? Can you think what he might have meant?”

  She shook her head. “I was more taken with the word ‘my’, Inspector. ‘My insurance policy.’ That’s what he said. Not ‘ours’.”

  “And he put it inside a folder marked Abbott. Work-related then.” Coulter turned to Maddy. “If our Costello connection is right… Some kind of insurance policy for him and Julian Miller, do you think?”

  “Or,” Maddy suggested, “against Julian Miller?”

  Clare nodded. “Could be. He never trusted Miller. He always dreamed, talked, about getting away from him. Said he was dangerous.”

  “So something he could use against him? When the time was right.”

  “Or when he felt he had to,” Dalgarno was still trying to work it out. “To protect himself?”

  “Or damn Miller.”

  “I’d have supported him in damning that bastard,” Clare became animated for the first time since she’d picked Maddy up. “But if he was protecting anyone it wasn’t me. It was him and Marion.” Then she laughed, a manic note to it. “Maybe not even her. My insurance policy he said. In the end of the day, my darling husband only looked out for himself.” She stepped away from them. “Didn’t get him far, did it? Just screwed up all our lives.”

  Maddy felt she had washed her hands of the matter as she entered La Lanterna. She’d also texted her dad, promising to meet him tomorrow, now that she had time on her hands. And just to maintain the cosmic balance she’d spoken to her mum for five minutes – making no mention of Packie. Finally she’d sent Louis a Facebook message promising to spend virtual time with him too over the next few days. Sort this out one way or the other. Now she felt satisfied. Her life was in chaos, but she’d done everything she could reasonably be expected to do to keep things from crashing completely.

  The meal was civilised. Dan had begun by reassuring her that everything was okay with Binnie. Take a week or so, and with luck the police will make some headway with the inquiry. Soon everything would be back to normal.

  “I’ve always been a bit allergic to normal,” Maddy said.

  “Tell us about it!” Manda topped up all their glasses.

  “Now I want nothing more. Nine to five, telly in the evening. Might even take up golf at the weekends.”

  “Oh I’d pay good money to see that,” said Dan.

  “Can’t be as ridiculous as you in your cycling gear. But you’re right. No, I’ll start running regularly.”

  “So tonight you can eat and drink and be merry.” Ironic, coming from Izzy who looked as if she ate only a spinach leaf a day and was known to do two hours of Bikram yoga before work. She seemed to be enjoying the wine as much as any of them tonight.

  The only thing that was bothering Maddy was Clare Crichton. When she’d gone off to shower, Coulter was still grilling the woman. Why had she suddenly decided to hand over the map? Clare had just shrugged again. Despite her play of indifference Maddy had detected something resolved, settled about her. By the time Maddy had got dressed, all three of them had left. Probably Coulter had shouted to tell her, but she’d been in the shower, or drying her hair. Had Coulter noticed Clare’s state of mind?

  As they were leaving the restaurant she gave him a call.

  “You suggesting she might do something stupid?” she could hear the digging going on around him.

  “That’s a terrible euphemism – ‘something stupid’. Sounds like putting your top on the wrong way round, or leaving a tap running. Not topping yourself. I don’t know.”

  “It occurred to me too. And I did the only thing I could think of. I’ve kept her in for further questioning. Which w
ill give us tonight, tops.”

  “Unless you arrest her for perjury.”

  “We may have to. Though it’s the last thing she needs. Even if we do, we can’t keep her locked up until she’s tried. I’ve instructed the station to try and convince her into seeing a counsellor, or bringing her family down from Inverness.”

  Maddy needn’t have worried. He was a good and wise man, Alan Coulter. Even with a woman who had unnecessarily held up his investigation, cost him a fortune, and who quite possibly could have saved a man from being shot, had she come forward earlier.

  “Get your dancing shoes on,” Dan called back to her. “Heel to the floor, do-si-do, and wheech your partner round and round…”

  As she followed her friends to the ceilidh bar, about three miles north four burly young officers had their jackets off, were sweating already despite the cold evening, and covered in mud. It was guesswork really, where Coulter and Dalgarno had got them digging. The sergeant had done some work on the image at the station while Coulter had been getting the team together and keeping Crichton in for questioning. She had managed, by comparing it to similar cycling and running maps, and increasing the scale of Bill’s, to get some notion of scale. She couldn’t be sure but it looked like footsteps rather than yards. Looking at the distance between the starting point of the blue line and the road behind it, it was almost certainly at the main entrance and about fifteen steps north, close to the site periphery. The surveyor who operated the theodolite for Fulton’s was useful. She had a better eye for maps and she confirmed that the land around there would never be built on, but be the end of a garden. If Bill Crichton had ever wanted to dig back up whatever he had buried it would make sense not to have it under tons of concrete and brick.

  But having no idea what they were looking for – even if it was the missing file, what was it encased in? Finding a thin folder in anything up to twenty square feet of muddy surface area was the proverbial needle in a haystack. The officers drafted in for digging were far from enthusiastic, clearly unconvinced that it was worth getting wet, mucky and knackered for.