by Caro Ramsay
Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Caro Ramsay
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
A Selection of Recent Titles by Caro Ramsay
The Anderson and Costello series
ABSOLUTION
SINGING TO THE DEAD
DARK WATER
THE BLOOD OF CROWS
THE NIGHT HUNTER *
TEARS OF ANGELS *
RAT RUN *
STANDING STILL *
* available from Severn House
STANDING STILL
An Anderson and Costello Mystery
Caro Ramsay
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2017 by Caro Ramsay.
The right of Caro Ramsay to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8697-2 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-806-4 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-870-4 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
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Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
PROLOGUE
24 December 1989
They had been aware of the scent of wood smoke as they strolled home from midnight Mass, gloved hand in gloved hand. Rosemary was sticking out her tongue to catch the falling snowflakes, while Ronnie, full of mulled wine and Christmas cheer, sang an inappropriate version of ‘While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks’.
The explosion made them jump.
Rosemary reacted first, jogging round the corner into Marchmont Terrace to see the flames. She ran up the neatly slabbed path to the blistering front door of the burning house as Ronnie went in search of a phone.
She was only halfway along the path when the heat hit her, like the power of a blast from an open oven door. She paused to pull her scarf up round her mouth to protect her from the choking air; jerking her hood closer to her head and ramming her hands deep into her gloves. She stretched through the searing heat in front of her, painfully aware of the biting chill of the night air behind her. Her hand approached the blackening glass panel of the front door, its handle tantalizingly close.
She reached out.
Beyond the glass she recognized the flash of a limb, a dark face through the shadows and patterns of swirling grey clouds. An open mouth, shockingly pink amongst the smoke, appeared then vanished, leaving a bloodied smear of skin on the blackening pane. But Rosemary had seen the torture in the face, the desperation for breath, for life. She turned her own face away from the heat, and stretched out her hand to reach the handle. She tried, standing tense while the heat bit at her ankles, melting her shoes onto her toes. She felt her lips burn and eyebrows singe.
They were two people separated by a few feet, one in the snow, one in the flames. Their eyes met. As Rosemary braved another step forward, she saw the figure crumple into the flames. Above the cracking and crashing from the belly of the inferno, she heard a cry.
Then she was knocked sideways, pushed onto the front lawn and its carpet of melting snow. A yellow firefighter’s glove reached past her to the door handle. She watched, willing them to reach. They did. She willed the handle to turn. It did not.
Rosemary was pulled back down the path. She heard the axe smash the glass and the answering roar of the flames, as if the inferno itself had been wounded. The rush of heat punched Rosemary forward. The flames, thriving on their gift of fresh oxygen, flew skywards, hissing and spitting, now at war with the water jet from the hose.
Rosemary turned and looked. The body had surrendered to the flames, merely a small black shadow behind the glass. She heard the hiss and click of the breathing apparatus as two firefighters walked slowly into the inferno, bulky automatons that then returned, half-carrying, half-dragging their prize past her to their colleagues, the oxygen, the stretcher, ice-cold sanctuary. And life.
Rosemary jumped as an oxygen mask covered her face. She had been unaware of how laboured her breathing had become, how blackened her face was, how burned her clothes were. Her husband slipped a blanket round her shoulder, his hand caressed her back.
She looked up to see the woman dancing on the first-floor windowsill, still wearing the black dress that she had probably bought for her Christmas Eve dinner party; the beautiful, expensive dress now being ripped apart by the frantic hands of the screaming woman as fabric melted onto her skin. The torn ends floated out in the wind, black flags in the orange flames against the glittering silent night. Her face was ugly; features twisted with fear, lipstick smeared, pale skin blackened by smoke. One tenacious hand held on to the sandstone bricks, steadying herself against the force of the flames that streamed out the window behind her and curled round her legs.
Rosemary watched in macabre fascination as the woman composed herself, then relaxed. For an instant she was beautiful, her dark hair caught the snow and she smiled. Then slowly, imperceptibly, she took a step forward. She hung for a moment in the night sky, a dark angel in the circling smoke, and then she joined the snowflakes falling through the air.
Falling.
Falling.
ONE
Sunday 5 June 2016
It had taken Stephen Pickering about a minute to decide he didn’t like his Christmas present from Jackie, a tiny fur ball of West Highland terrier. As he opened the puppy cage on Christmas morning and lifted little Murray up, the puppy had shown his disdain for his new owner by peeing on him.
Three weeks later, to add insult to injury, Stephen opened the credit card statement and realized that the £800 had come off the joint account. Seemingly, he had agreed to get the dog. He just didn’t remember. And while it was Stephen who walked Murray, fed Murray and cleared up Murray’s mess in a multitude of little, coloured plastic bags, the dog saved his adoring eyes for Jackie.
Six months and two chewed carpets later, man and dog were fully engaged in a silent war of attrition. At the moment Murray was holding the most disputed territory: the marital bed.
And that was where Murray had been when Stephen got home from The Curler’s Rest at one o’clock in the morning of the 5th of June. The dog had leapt out of bed, yapping loudly enough to waken the neighbours, again. So Stephen had dragge
d him out for a walk.
The walk was always the same route. It had been deathly quiet in the small hours of the morning, but now, at the back of ten, Stephen could hear the thud thud of the parade preparations. Despite being two streets away from Byre’s Road and the buffering effect of the four-story buildings on either side, the noise still jarred his hangover. The whole West End would be jumping soon and he intended to be jumping along with the best of them, all he needed was – he looked at Murray strutting along with his own sense of self-importance, tail in the air – the hair of the dog.
Stephen had been planning to take Jackie to watch the parade, then a nice boozy lunch out in the sunshine somewhere, maybe take in some open air jazz, watch the world go by, a snooze in the park and a Vindaloo from the Wee Curry Shop to round off the evening.
Jackie had put the mockers on that the minute Murray pulled his sad face. Oh what about wee Murray, we can’t leave him in the house all day. Stephen’s solution that they could lock him in the shed had not been well received.
So man and man’s best friend walked along in silence, tenements high to the left and right, the sun painting patchwork patterns on the concrete of the lane. Murray pulled on his lead, swaying from side to side as if his nose was scanning for underground treasure.
They walked round the dog-leg halfway down Athole Lane, meandering back to Saltoun Street. Home for a cup of strong black coffee, get Jackie out her bed and … Murray stopped, nose twitching. Then he started to bark. Not his usual ‘yap yap’ that accompanied the inane jumping around and running in circles. This was a solid bark from somewhere deep inside; a warning. The dog gave Stephen a quick look then fixed his eyes on an old tea chest sitting neatly against the bright white plaster of the new build. Stephen had passed this way at one o’clock that morning. Had he been so drunk he had missed it? No, Murray would have reacted at the time.
Stephen pulled the lead in tight and approached the box, looking up and down the lane, thinking that somebody must have left it there to be picked up. It didn’t look damaged. It had been placed there, neatly in line with the wall, but not at a particular garage or garden door. The top was nailed down. He ran his fingertips over the nails, banged in any old way. Murray kept back, lead at full stretch. His lips pulled over his sharp little teeth and a pyramid of erect hair erupting over his shoulders.
Stephen felt a little apprehensive. It was quiet down here in the lane, in the shadows, among the trees. And cold despite the early morning sun. He placed a hand on the rough corner of the chest and nudged it; too heavy to budge. He slid four fingers under the first panel and snapped it open. Crouching down, he could see red padded lining. Then the smell hit him. Like his own bathroom after a heavy night. Stephen knelt beside it, his nose in the crook of his elbow and peered in to the dark interior, catching sight of a single curl of blonde hair. He smiled. Somebody was asleep in there. Typical West End Festival prank, some poor bugger had gotten drunk and his mates had nailed him in a box and he had shat himself. He pulled off the other two slats of wood, then placed his hand on the shoulder of the curled up man, giving him a little shove to waken him. There was something odd about the way his hand pushed the shoulder way too far with the grating noise of a car tyre on gravel. And it was cold. The fabric of the black jumper was so very cold it felt damp to the palm of his hand.
Stephen Pickering took a step backwards. Then he did what he always did when he had no idea what to do. He phoned Jackie.
Partickhill Station was gearing up for a busy day. The first day of the West End Festival, the day of the big parade. Twenty-four hours of madness when the cops turned a blind eye to offences against public order. Within reason.
ACC Mitchum trotted down the stairs at Partickhill, all Brillo pad hair and shiny buttons. He took a sharp left into the toilet, hoping to stop the persistent stream of consciousness spouting from the mouth of the local MSP, James Kirkton. Mitchum’s hopes were in vain.
He needed to wash his hands. There was something about being locked in a small room with any politician that made Mitchum feel unclean. He had first noticed it when he worked in Vice; a need to empty his bladder, to scrub under his nails, to stand under a shower so hot it was nearly scalding. It was the fear that bullshit might be contagious.
The meeting with Kirkton had consumed an hour of his life that he wasn’t going to get back. All the politician’s promises reinforced the ACC’s long held belief that it was different words but the same crap. No difference what party was in charge. Mitchum’s view on policing remained sensible, effective, but never worthy of the sound bite. Most crime was caused by poverty. Work on the poverty, and crime figures improve. But those views never got an airing. It was easier to blame the unemployed. Or immigrants. Or unemployed immigrants.
Mitchum closed the toilet door behind him and turned on the tap.
Kirkton followed him in. ‘So what about this DCI Anderson? Is he still working at this station?’ he asked, standing behind Mitchum, fixing his tie in the mirror before turning sideways to check his outline in his new suit. A run of the third finger through his long, floppy fringe. God, the man was vain.
Mitchum answered in the affirmative and walked over to the urinal.
‘And do you think there should be some limit, some agreed protocol on what is acceptable behaviour in the private life of a detective serving at that rank. I mean, considering the scrutiny of social media these days.’
This had been accompanied by the smile of the great white. As Mitchum emptied his bladder, Kirkton then went on to question why a DCI was living at one of Glasgow’s most expensive addresses, although if he knew that, then he also knew damn well why.
‘Sir?’ The toilet door opened a couple of inches.
Mitchum zipped up and turned round.
‘The press office is on the phone and they want you to switch your mobile back on. The photographers are outside. The children have arrived.’ PC Graham saw Kirkton and quickly closed the door.
Mitchum went back to the sink and ran the hot tap until the water steamed up the mirror, obliterating Kirkton. He was proving as impossible to brush off as dandruff. James Kirkton. Klingon Kirkton as he was known in Police Scotland circles. He was here to soak up the media coverage of the West End Festival parade, allowing himself little speeches here and there about his campaign for the Safer Society. Nobody would take any notice, they had all heard it a hundred times before. And Kirkton never said anything once that he could say twice, and nothing that had not been penned by his speechwriter. Kirkton was the worst kind of media whore, a man who really would put allegations into the mouth of alligators.
It had always been Mitchum’s policy to pay polite attention to what any politician said before disregarding every single word. So far it had proved effective as they all wanted to be seen to be doing something about ‘this’, then they would move office and suddenly become an expert in ‘that’. But this petty point scoring about private lives seemed a new low. And Mitchum couldn’t really see the point, until he recalled Kirkton having a rant in the press about the ever increasing numbers of cold case initiatives, maintaining it was not an effective use of police resources, given the current statistics.
Of course, DCI Colin Anderson was hotly tipped to head CCAT, the Cold Case Assessment Team. The success of the Partickhill Major Investigation Team as a small functioning unit made it ideal for a new initiative. But what the hell did the private life of Colin Anderson have to do with this overdressed prat?
Mitchum dried his hands again, the noisy blast of hot air drowning out the hot air coming from Kirkton. He left the toilet, his companion following him so close that he felt the politician’s breath on the back of his neck. The narrative ploughed the usual furrow; law and order, family values. Kirkton saw himself as a self-appointed Police Service czar, making an impact on his Safer Society ticket. It should be a Safer Society for today, not yesterday. If anybody had a good case for review, they could get a lawyer.
ACC Mitchum didn’t trust him
an inch. Even the Police Scotland PR would have stopped the Safer Society initiative, if only for the unfortunate initials. But Klingon Kirkton had one huge talent. He was an expert at multitasking; he could walk and talk shite at the same time.
As Mitchum placed his hand on the internal keypad of the station door, Kirkton started up again. ‘And what was the exact nature of the relationship between DCI Colin Anderson and Helena McAlpine? I mean, was their relationship acceptable in the police service these days?’
‘That kind of relationship was almost compulsory at one time,’ muttered Mitchum with a hint of nostalgia in his voice, as he keyed in his code. Thinking back to the good old days before ball breakers like Costello came along. That reminded him, he needed to phone Archie Walker and see how Pippa was doing. She’d been in the care home for a fortnight now. A wife with dementia and now being pally with DI Costello? That man made life hard for himself. ‘As you know,’ Mitchum said over his shoulder, ‘Helena McAlpine is dead. Has been for well over a year now, and Colin is still married, so the simple answer to the question is that it’s none of our business. Anderson’s daughter and Helena McAlpine, Helena Farrell as you might know her, were very close.’ Mitchum held the door open for the politician to follow.
‘The artist, yes I know. I have some of her work.’ Kirkton straightened his jacket one last time in preparation for the cameras. ‘Not really my thing but the investment potential is huge. Now that she’s passed away.’ He smiled to the waiting press, going down the stairs slowly. Like a minor royal.
The door swung closed on Mitchum’s face and the politician was blissfully silenced. Mitchum could no longer catch the words but he could see Kirkton’s mouth opening and closing. The ACC thought fondly of Johnny McConnell, a vomit-covered drunken flasher, with BO so bad it peeled the paint off the cell walls. McConnell was a piece of walking bacteria, but infinitely more amiable company than this piece of tactless political shit.