“Better get off. I’m nearly there. See you.”
The grass and the sky were both so washed out that green and blue became the same colour. But there was old-fashioned warmth in the southern air – silage, cow-dung, rain and field smells, distilled together like a good malt.
He’d left a bit of a mess back in Glasgow – and wasn’t in the least sorry to be away from it all. No Lennon and no Whyte. At least, for once, he had his bosses on his side. Everyone from Crawford Robertson down was keen to get that cold-hearted Irish bastard behind bars. Even the Scottish Executive was desperate to put an end to the focus on youth and calls for belting, birching, jailing, death penalties – the Brammer/Caprice effect wouldn’t give them that much breathing space.
He slowed down, passing the petrol station he had to look out for. One of those old ones, like out of a film. Ancient pump, a shack, and a house. Next, The Malt Shovel…. Terrific looking pub, even in the rain, all hanging plant pots and an old-fashioned sign. Local beers. Might even stop on his way back. He turned left where Amy’s instructions told him. A road no bigger than a lane. Des and Veronica Kane were going to be some act. How did they manage to keep a kid so entirely apart from the system? And anyway, who accepts the hassle and expense of bringing up a nephew just to let his old dear get in touch with her inner angel?
Where did this sense of duty come from? Not from Rosa and certainly not Packy. Perhaps it had skipped a generation and jumped straight from Nonno to Maddy. This would be the third mother in as many months she had led into the mortuary, and she didn’t have to be there for any of them. She had little faith in how the police, with their quasi-military training, street-battle hardened, dealt with the grieving, especially women. Or maybe it was more selfish than that – Maddy Shannon brooding deep down what it was to be a mother.
Anne Kennedy had shown the pain more than Jackie Mullholland. The drugs work all right, for Jackie anyway. Cotton wool applied to the sore bit, a pillow inside your head. Still, Maddy would rather have a dose of whatever Belinda Laird was on. She was waiting in the street when Maddy arrived. A long, flowing, straight dress on. Not cheesecloth, or anything obviously hippy. A rather austere garment. And no jacket, despite the rain. Maddy thought the woman looked effortlessly elegant. More graceful in her movements, for sure, than either Anne or Jackie, as she followed Maddy and that morning’s duty doc down the cold echoing corridors. Belinda glided noiselessly along, Maddy’s heels beat the tiles like a workie’s mallet.
When they pulled back the sheet, the woman hardly flinched. There can’t be a more sickening sight in the entire world than seeing your own son killed, cut, frozen on a slab.
“Paolo.”
Then she did what only a very small proportion of parents do – she put her hand on the boy’s forehead. Some ask to go back to do just that, but very few find the strength to do it on first sight. Belinda kept her hand resting lightly on his brow, just above the snicked eyebrow. “Hello, Babe. How’re you?” Belief in the afterlife. It always made these situations bearable. People who had never before thought about an afterlife, or who utterly dismissed it, suddenly believed, for a moment at least.
Maddy and the duty doc backed off towards the door, giving Belinda a moment. Maddy inquired if a pathologist had been given access to Sy’s and Frances’s corpses yet. It took a few minutes on mobiles and pagers to determine that the perfect Deena Gajendra had come to inspect the body with a pathologist, and had decided that no further exploratory work needed done – Maddy’s statement of cause and circumstances of both deaths were acceptable. The paperwork should be back at the PF office this morning. Maddy walked back towards Belinda.
She was bending, kissing Paul’s head. Then she straightened, pulled the sheet back up over her son’s face. Then, smiling serenely, she turned to go. Some deep well of faith? Or heartless?
Coulter sat alone, an opportunity to look around the Kanes’ living room. Veronica and Des were outside in the hall. Even apart from the tone of their voices, the muffled sobs, he knew what the call was – affirmation that Belinda Laird had just positively identified Paul’s body. He heard the phone go down, and the middle-aged couple comforting each other before facing him again. Unlike Belinda, the Kanes had been given the full story before he got down here. Local Lancashire police had visited them last night with the news. So the phone call wasn’t a surprise – but it hardly softened the blow. Their grief was genuine, Veronica sobbing in gulps, Des trying to sound businesslike.
The house was the only new one in the area. Spacious, clean, expensive. Desmond Kane was a successful enough businessman. The contents were more old-fashioned – brocade suite, chunky furniture, local artwork rustically framed stacked in a pile in the middle of the hall. The whole ground floor was in the midst of being given a repaint job. That always made Coulter’s suspicions rise – guiltily now, listening to the Kanes’ anguish. Veronica finally came in and looked at him plaintively.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He wished he’d timed his visit for a little later. Fresh grief sometimes opens a witness up – more often it closes them down completely.
“It’s our fault.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t.”
“We should have let people know.”
Des returned as she spoke, and Coulter detected the subtlest of warnings he gave his wife. An almost imperceptible lowering of an eyebrow, a momentary stare. Then again, the man had just heard positive proof that the lad he’d raised as a son for the last three years was dead. “We mustn’t blame ourselves too much after the event, Nicky.”
Before the phone rang, they had been explaining why they hadn’t told anyone that Paul was missing. Paul wasn’t legally theirs. They’d always been very aware of it. Equally, they loved him as much – more – than any parents could a real son. Belinda would never have made much of a mother, and they were the only ones who could raise the child properly. But they’d lived in fear of Paul being taken from them. Either by some unnamed, mysterious Government body, or by Belinda suddenly changing her mind.
So when Paul went out for a walk one Saturday and left a note saying he’d be back in a few weeks, they did nothing officially. They phoned locals and friends, searched the places he liked to go, and had tried to get in touch with Belinda. All they knew was that she was in the Dundee area.
“But she moves so often!” Veronica had said, trying not to show too much disapproval.
Her telephone numbers were always changing. Normally, it was Belinda who kept in touch with them. “To be fair on her. She checked regularly on Paul,” Des looked to Veronica for agreement.
“We received a call from Paul himself,” Des turned to Coulter. “Three or four days after he’d left. He said he was with his mum. That he was fine and he’d be home as soon as he could. He sounded fine, cheerful even.” For the past three months, they’d been trusting the boy who they insisted was sensible and capable. They sat next to each other on the sofa. Some couples are divided by grief, others brought closer. At least at first.
“But he was underage.” Coulter kept his voice level.
Des Kane nodded. “He was older than his years. He’d lived quite a life. Drugs and hippies in Scotland. His dad drinking and wasting away in Manchester. Then putting up with two old codgers like us.” They managed a smile for one another.
“The papers down here, they must have reported… events in Glasgow. Did you never think, wonder if…”
“Yes,” said Des, quickly. “Eventually. It wasn’t that big a story here. Middle pages. Just another killing in Glasgow. But the minute you see something like that, you can’t help but imagine…’
“You can’t help it, can you? Every time you hear of an accident, or see an ambulance,” Veronica said, and burst into tears. Coulter wouldn’t have guessed she was of Italian background. She’d presumably gone grey – Nicky, as her husband called her, was fifty-three – and had dyed her hair light brown. She was rounded, homely, but not in a Mediterranean way. Des put his hand on her arm.
“You just hope it’s someone else’s son.” Des stared past Coulter, horrified by his own words. “The descriptions were all wrong. Paul was no skinhead—”
“He left here with hair down to his collar. Lovely dark curls.”
“I wanted him to get it cut. He wanted it longer, not shorn off. And the shaved eyebrow – that’s not like Paul at all.”
“He phoned you. Didn’t you dial 1471?”
Des sighed. “We tried it. Number withheld. Can you do that deliberately, or does it happen with all mobiles? I’m afraid we’re a bit out of touch with the technology.”
Des had told Coulter that he was a senior manager at Tesco’s supermarkets, regional head of their cafes and instore consumption. You’d have thought a job like that would keep you up to date. But Coulter himself was a senior policeman and couldn’t figure out predictive texting. “What did Paul make of his mother’s lifestyle?”
“Paul was more like us – even Belinda admitted that,” said Nicky. “He was always happy to see his mum, and he got on all right with the people around her. I mean, they wouldn’t harm a fly, these types. But he was happy to get back to real life.”
Coulter took a sip of the cold coffee Veronica had made for him nearly an hour ago. “You started redecorating after Paul left?”
“No,” said Des, a little defensive. “What makes you say that?”
“To welcome him home?”
Kane shook his head. “Paul was giving me a hand.”
“You just recently moved in?”
Des gave a resigned little laugh. “Poor Paul. From the moment he came to us, we never quite managed to settle. We thought a house in the country would be good, so we bought one quickly – over in Odsbaston – but it was all wrong—”
“Damp,” Veronica explained.
“The next year we bought again, over in Merston. We were only there – what, Nicky? six months?”
“Seven.”
“Bigger this time, but needing too much work done to it.”
“Then we found this place.”
No wonder Paul Pacchini couldn’t be traced – three surnames, and five changes of addresses in as many years.
“We gave it a lick of paint when we first moved in.”
“Just a coat of white, to brighten up the horrible greys and browns the last people had.”
“We were just starting to do it up properly, when Paul went off.”
“Paul was never registered at any school – because you never settled long enough?”
“No. We never had any intention of sending him to school.” Veronica was adamant.
“It meant that Paul disappeared from most state bureaucracy.” Coulter met her gaze. “Tell me more about this home-schooling. I’ve heard of it, but never really understood it.”
“Oh it’s wonderful!” Veronica cheered up for a moment, then remembered.
“So you taught Paul yourselves?”
“Some of the time,” Des said. “Nicky used to be a maths teacher, and I’ve got both French and German, amongst other skills. University of Life.”
“It wouldn’t work with every child,” said Veronica. “Paul was a self-starter. Loved books and encyclopedias. Up in Scotland he wasn’t reaching his potential in the school system.”
“So how does it work exactly?”
“It’s a very well developed and highly respected movement.” Des got up and went to the door: “I’ll show you the course books.”
Veronica tried to get up too, but the weight of her grief wouldn’t let her up out of her seat.
The texts and emails from Louis had suddenly and firmly stopped. The last one was over a week ago. Nothing in it had suggested a change, a retreat. He had just gone shtum.
Nonno was in some strange land between life and death. Alive to the touch, but just about dead to the eye. His breathing was so light. Was his mind active? Could he hear them – the mournful little crowd around his bed – or was he lost in some dream world of his own? Maybe he was eleven again, in another country. Another world.
“No shame in kneeling, if only out of respect.” Monsignor Connolly spoke to Maddy like she were a wayward school-girl. There were several reasons why she didn’t want to get down on her knees. One, her skirt and shoes weren’t ideal for it. She had mixed gin and wine last night, talking manically about everything and nothing to Dan, so that standing took quite enough effort. Mostly, though, it felt too grovelling, humiliating. Nonno wouldn’t have knelt. Mama was on her knees looking up at her, offended. Auntie Gina and her daughter Francesca were down there too – they had both arrived today from London. Maddy had no inclination to join their little band of holy willies. She remained at the foot of the bed. The only other person on his feet was the old priest, opening up his little vials and glowering at her. She tried to think of some cheekily acceptable riposte – the kind of chummy defiance her Nonno was so good at, but the only replies she could think of to a demand to get down on her knees were lewd. Not quite what the situation called for. She hung her head piously, and to avoid Connolly’s stare.
“Draw the curtains, love,” Rosa asked.
Maddy drew the bed curtain, encapsulating them in a tiny, too intimate space. The shamefulness of death. The deep, unsettling smells of the priest’s oils made the air heavy. “Mensa, albo lintea strata…” The Latin sounded clandestine. A secret rite. Maddy couldn’t stand it. She had been impulsive all day, working like a Trojan but taking time out to bring her team back expensive sushi before getting fractious with them all, insisting they work harder, faster. She’d called in unannounced, and fruitlessly, to Division A on her way home – Coulter hadn’t got back from Pennyvale yet, and Russell had no time for her. Standing still while an old man mumbled voodoo was beyond the pale. She searched behind her with her hands, trying to find the curtain join. Reached behind her back, until she found the parting in the curtain. She’d do a disappearing act…
But she fumbled it. Tugged too tight on the curtain. Then she went over on one flare heel, pulling further on the curtain and rail. The whole contraption wobbled perilously. Mama glanced angrily. Gina and Francesca looked mortified. Connolly had a glower of such epic intensity that Maddy almost added insult to injury and burst out laughing. She managed to steady herself, recover a modicum of dignity and get out, leaving the droning and knee-shuffling behind her. “Pelvicula cum saltem sex globulis…”
Every city in the western hemisphere’s the same, probably – in the grip of a collective compulsion to wear ridiculous clothes and shamble, waddle or plod the public highway. A more elegant age would keep the jogging urge private, like going to the bathroom.
Maddy sat in the taxi, feeling vague and tired. Conditions tonight must be perfect, bringing the joggers out in swarms. Not too warm, not too cold, not raining. Mid July, so they were either getting ready for exposing themselves on foreign beaches, or had just come back, disgusted with themselves. The ones who were thin and lean and genuinely fast, would always be thin, lean and fast. The fat, slow, and slovenly, likewise. But still they all took to the streets. They ran shamelessly past fancy bars and posh restaurants in Sauchiehall Street. Up hills and between cars. They used headphones and iPods to cut themselves off from the normal, sensible world. From her cab window she saw them tumble out of side-streets and dive up back alleys. Those same people would never walk along dark back streets, but put on a pair of shorts or a jogging bra, and all judgement dies. She saw them canter up towards Kelvingrove. Not even the memory of dead bodies dulled their mad appetite.
Does Louis jog? She can’t imagine it. No bulging thighs or six-pack. Then again, he was healthy and vigorous enough, so who knows? Maybe he’s exercising some other part of his anatomy. Not his texting or emailing finger. She got out the taxi at Byres Road. Speed-walk uphill to Lorraine Gardens – that’s as much as she was going to concede to this fitness mania. Past the lit-up Church of Scotland, glowing prettily and ghostly.
He came at her like some avenging Angel of the Healthy, punishing her
lack of fitness. The full kit – highly coloured Lycra, trainers that looked like something astronauts might wear for space-walking – and a thin scarf around his face. Purist who didn’t want to breathe in exhaust fumes unfiltered. He came to a sudden halt right in front of her, doing this little dance, hopping from side to side, not letting her past. A score of reactions collided in her head, jamming her into neutral. Fight versus flight, a sudden and shameful desire to cry, another, just as strong, to burst out laughing at the multi-coloured, scarfed, dancing man. The result was she just stood there, bewildered. The jogger raised his hand to her mouth level – a warning that she was not to make a noise.
“I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry. Please believe me.”
Sorry for what? For what he was about to do? She felt a chill in her bowels. He didn’t look dangerous. Thin, balding, poky eyes. But then the real crazies could be the most inoffensive-looking; dull, charming to their mammies and shop assistants.
“They came to my house. I’ve nothing to do with those murders.” He was pleading, but there was an edge to his voice that quelled the urge in her to kick him between the legs and have done with it. Also, she recognised him. Trying to remember from where stopped her taking any action.
“Get out of my way.” She was surprised at the authority in her own voice. It came from some general sense of outrage.
“They’re determined to get me. Blame me.”
“Who are?”
“I’m not going to let it happen.”
Maddy took a step back, and he took one forward. Whyte. She didn’t know why she made the connection, but it was Martin Whyte. All she’d ever seen of him was a single photograph. Did the idiot think a scarf up to his nose would really hide him? Or did he want her to recognise him?
“Tell them to search them!” Then he garbled something that she couldn’t hear. He was looking from side to side, still jogging on the spot. Maddy’s pulse was thumping in her ears. She thought he said something about an exhibition, and a stick. She must have heard wrong.
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