Standing Still

by Caro Ramsay

  ‘Hungry?’ she offered.

  ‘A hard-nosed wee cow.’

  ‘Still taller than you,’ Costello retorted smoothly, getting out the car, walking across the pavement to the warm, worn steps.

  ‘Athole House. Retirement home for stars of stage and screen,’ she read off the highly polished brass plate, subtly placed on the wrought iron railing at the bottom of the steps and she recalled some station gossip about Pippa Walker being an actress in her younger days, but as she had never got her Equity card she was limited to speaking three words or nodding twice or whatever the bloody rules were. Costello wished there were such rules for interviewing suspects. ‘At least the sign is at the bottom of the steps, saves you the bother of climbing up to read it. I wonder if any of them die on the ascent. A bit like carving steps on the north face of the Eiger.’

  ‘There’s a lift at the back.’

  ‘So they don’t have to bring the bodies down the stairs.’ She looked up at the corner windows over four stories above them. Bevelled, arched, they looked right out over the gardens. High over the city. ‘What a great view to have as you go slowly gaga and have no retentive memory to appreciate it. Enjoy the scenery as you fill up your incontinence pads and ring bells that nobody ever answers so you are left to rot and decay in some old stinking armchair, the TV left on, sound blaring and the same episode of Deal or No Deal playing over and over again. Noel Edmonds wearing a shirt with some God awful pattern on it and the smell of boiled cabbage creeping under the bolted security door. Boiled cabbage, death, urine and Noel Edmonds. I’m off to Switzerland.’

  ‘Oh, you are so cynical.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to say any of that out loud.’ She sounded genuinely contrite. ‘But that was the way it was when my mum went into a home. That was local authority, of course, not a posh place like this. In here, they probably watch the Antiques Roadshow. Probably see their own kids flogging off the family silver to spend the dosh on gin.’

  ‘Please stop talking.’ Archie leaned over and pushed the bell, it resonated deep and loud in the hall behind.

  ‘You rang, milord,’ said Costello in mock seriousness. ‘Do you think a butler will open it, a Hammer Horror butler with parchment yellow skin, red-rimmed eyes and a dead man stare? Or do you think it will be opened by—’

  ‘Your mum must have been young, when she went into care?’ Archie interrupted, knowing the question would halt her babbling.

  Costello looked the other way. Archie had to strain to hear her. ‘Quite young, I suppose. Younger than I am now. She had totally fried her brain with alcohol. She didn’t know the day of the week. She kept thinking she was Bonnie. Or Clyde, depending on her mood, and that ranged from psychotic to dangerous.’ She bent down to look through the letterbox, removing herself from Archie’s gaze, uncomfortable with the conversation. He knew about her family, of course. The whole team at Partickhill Major Investigation did. But knowing about it was one thing. Talking about it was another. Costello suspected her family might be behind the subtle but definitely sideways shift to the proposed cold case unit. She was only too aware that there were folk about who could, and would, use her family against her. In the modern Police Scotland, it wasn’t enough to get the job done; they had to be squeaky clean as well. Politically clean. No mavericks in the force, they all put their pens down and went home at 5 p.m., shoes neatly polished, all ‘i’s dotted. It was all down to that bloody James Kirkton, the new police czar. And it was rumoured that Kirkton was the best pal and golfing buddy of ACC Mitchum. Kirkton had been on Walker’s case, constantly interfering in his running of the Fiscal Service and Police Scotland. Every complaint made by every low life piece of shite had now to be investigated to the hilt. Costello was sick to the back teeth explaining that sometimes people had an agenda for complaining; like being guilty. But they were all conscious that Partickhill and West Central were coming under special scrutiny. Like a bad smell that everybody was aware of but nobody knew exactly what was causing it. They weren’t paranoid. They knew something was rotten.

  The door opened, silently, catching Costello by surprise. A slim middle-aged woman, with crimson thread lips set to disapproval, stood like a custodian in her navy blue uniform, white apron and a starched hat. Costello, who hadn’t seen a hat like that since she had the flu and watched the entire ‘Carry On’ box set, smirked. The badge said Matron Nicholson.

  Matron?

  Matron Nicholson gave her a look that was as soft as slate and half as empathetic.

  ‘Your letterbox is very clean,’ said Costello with a hint of dangerous cheerfulness.

  ‘So it should be,’ answered Matron Nicholson, adjusting the white badge, in case Costello had missed it. Then she turned her attention to the small, immaculately dressed man on the step, taking in his neatly ironed Fred Perry top, the chinos with a blade for a crease. The change in her expression was instant, her voice suddenly welcoming. ‘Mr Walker, do come in. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, fine. Thank you. And yourself?’

  ‘Oh busy. I do believe your wife is up in the day room.’ The matron softened her small lips into a reluctant smile but her dark eyes stayed as hard as ebony. ‘Visiting is a little inconvenient at the moment, we are still clearing after breakfast.’

  Costello glanced at her watch. It was half ten.

  ‘I am dropping these clothes off, labelled as requested.’ Archie lifted the bag.

  ‘Oh well, we could do you a coffee? Do you want one sent up for you and your … friend? You could take Pippa to her room?’ The matron gestured to Costello, looking past the bad scar on her forehead to the good suit, the neat blouse and sensed something official.

  Archie tried to interject but was a millisecond too slow.

  ‘Oh, no thanks. I can see you are busy. We’ll nip up and say hello to Pippa but we have to go straight to the mortuary for a post-mortem. Interesting one, the body had been lying in a bath for eight weeks before it was found.’

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible,’ said the matron, a hand going up to her throat, a gut reaction to the horror.

  ‘Yeah, poor soul, settling in for a soak and shrugged off her mortal coil. All alone. She had no friends, so nobody even noticed she was missing, until the smell got too strong, of course, then the neighbours called in Rentokil. Eight weeks. Terrible to have no friends to notice.’ Costello allowed her face to fall into wistful reflection. ‘She was a retired matron, I think.’

  Another flicker of a smile. ‘Well, I will leave you to it. Please sign the book on your way out.’ The matron scribbled on the leatherbound book that rested on the highly polished table behind her, glanced at her fob watch and noted the time. As she looked up she caught a close glimpse of the arrangement of roses, looking rather bedraggled in their vase. ‘They need a good water.’

  ‘Can’t get the staff these days,’ empathized Costello, and took the heavily carpeted stairs two at a time.

  DCI Colin Anderson looked at the picture of Paige Riley lying in its thin file, missing for a week now and wondered why they bothered. They didn’t have a chance of identifying her with this photograph; it was years out of date, and the years involved were those when the features changed the most. She looked like a kid in this, she might look like Cara Delevingne now. But he doubted it. She’d be heroin thin, with bad skin, worse teeth and some chronic infection festering in her lungs. Nobody had noticed her go missing except for a woman who put a pound in her plastic cup every morning outside Hillhead Station. Nobody was waiting for her to come back. It had been seven years since somebody cared enough to take a photograph, and from the deadness behind those eyes, it was a fair time before that since somebody had made her smile.

  For now, the case of Paige Riley was open but inactive. Left standing still until something came up and that might take so long she might drift into the thicker file on Anderson’s desk; the proposed cases for review for a new cold case initiative, CCAT He was being touted as the cold case assessment coordinator, CACC.


  Unfortunate initials, he thought.

  He had a quick flick through the cases. All the likely suspects were there, a few unlikely. Some that nobody would ever prove and two that nobody in their right mind would touch with a bargepole. The words ‘poison’ and ‘chalice’ crossed his mind. He swore loudly. Another wee nudge that a career was now cruising in two directions: sideways and nowhere.

  Did he care?

  Not as much as he should have.

  Maybe it was for the best. He felt like a cat running out of lives. The idea of sitting behind a desk and finishing at five p.m. was starting to appeal.

  DCI Colin Anderson was now a very rich man. He had been the sole beneficiary of Helena McAlpine’s will, give or take a few grand here and there.

  Life was a lot easier. Everything was easier. Everybody had room to breathe and blossom. Colin and his wife Brenda were living apart. Anderson and his daughter Claire at the townhouse on the terrace while Brenda and Peter had chosen to remain at the family home on the south side. Ten minutes apart in quiet traffic. And, proving that family dynamics and women in general were a mystery to him, they were more of a family now than they had ever been. They might not be living as man and wife, but their friendship had strengthened. They could now laugh together.

  Brenda had not wanted to move. Colin was not all that sure he had asked her. But they had more quality time, going out, the four of them for a meal had become a weekly occurrence – as it can when money is no object. Peter had been working hard at his National Fives and didn’t want to change school. Claire had spent the last few months before the summer break at a private school with extra tuition to help her through the coursework that she had missed. She had not liked the school, had not fitted in, but it was the quickest route for her to achieve her dream and attend Glasgow School of Art.

  Nesbit, the arthritic Staffie, floated between the two addresses, getting fed at both and exercised at neither. Which suited him just fine.

  Colin had never been a particularly solitary person, maybe because he had never had much opportunity. But at the terrace he could lie down with a good book in peace, save the occasional rumble of traffic along the Great Western Road or the sudden sound bite from the TV as Claire opened the door of her bedroom and slipped up to the studio on the top floor. But the big advantage of the house on the terrace was never having to leave the room just to get some thinking space.

  His brain had been calmed and charmed by the tranquillity of the big white house. It had absorbed them. Now they could all live with the drama of his life, but be no part of it. And he felt that he owed his family that.

  Life was good.

  Moving over to the window, he looked down at the small throng of journalists and photographers, feeling some relief that he would never be promoted into Mitchum’s job. Poor sod, forced to be nice to fork-tongued scum like Kirkton.

  He saw some movement in the crowd, a young woman snaking her way through them. Devoid of handbag, and phone, looking a little dishevelled. Two minutes later he heard the discordant ringing of phones downstairs, immediately followed by his own phone, and the rattle of DC Wyngate in the incident room next door scraping his chair back, footsteps coming to his own office door. Maybe not such a quiet day after all.

  Philippa Walker was reading a book. She was sitting comfortably in a wing-armed easy chair in the corner of the day room, under a faded framed photograph of some aged Scottish actress in a tartan hat meeting the Queen. Pippa had her head down, legs crossed at the knee. A paperback sat on the blue flowered skirt that covered her lap. It was a Maeve Binchy book, a bit tattered showing it had been well read, well enjoyed. And it was upside down.

  Costello crept into the room, the deep pile cream carpet silencing her footfall. She was impressed by the decor; the lush gold and marble, clean and fresh, no hint of boiled cabbage or stale urine. She stood in the middle, smiling vaguely at each of the six residents and hoping to God that none of them would react. Archie was struggling, hanging back at the door – too scared to come in. In case that made it real.

  ‘Why don’t you put her stuff up in her bedroom,’ Costello said, pointing to the bag of unidentifiable, but properly labelled contents. He didn’t need to be asked twice, he was off. His feet hitting the heavy carpet on the stairs, the old wood underneath squeaking and creaking with every step.

  ‘Hello Pippa,’ Costello said, inclining her head to catch the older lady’s eyeline.

  Pippa seemed totally unaware. Of who Costello was. Or if she was there. Then she raised her head, smiled her lovely smile and went back to the book balanced on her knees. Her fingers drifted up to the long single strand of pearls hanging from her neck. This was her thing, her obsession, her ‘tell’ when stressed. It was distressing to think that Pippa had enough awareness to know that there was something very wrong with her and the few functioning neurones that remained took solace with the familiar; her beads. She played with them, rattled them, jiggled them constantly. That was bad enough but Pippa looked so … normal. Her short blonde hair was neatly cut, she had a healthy pink blush in her cheeks and a lively sparkle in her blue eyes. There were no clues; no signposts to the horrific disease that had robbed her of herself.

  Costello felt awkward, aware of the silent scrutiny of the others in the room, even the long-haired black and white cat was giving her the once over. She strolled over to the window to admire the view. The single pane of old glass let a refreshing draft of air through the room. The view of the gardens below was chocolate box pretty. She thought again of the obscene amount of money it must have cost to build this house here on the top of the hill. Was it worth it, just to look down on everybody else? She looked up at the sky, her cheek to the glass of the cold window pane. No sign of the heavy rains that had caused millions of pounds worth of damage earlier in the year. The good weather was holding for the parade. Down in the West End, the participants would be applying glitter and tuning instruments, having last-minute rehearsals, climbing onto coaches before strolling up towards the Botanic Gardens. Partickhill Station was taking on the role of community liaison for the event and West End Central was overseeing the security. The terrorist threat was omnipresent when crowds of people gathered. She hoped they had a quiet day.

  She glanced at her watch. Ten thirty-five. All was calm and peaceful in the gardens. Green, lush, disturbed only by birdsong and the mildest of winds. The residents of Athole House, deep in their post-breakfast slumber. The cat purred softly.

  Somebody growled behind her. She looked round, checking each resident in turn but nobody had moved. All were stalk still. Silent. Only the clickety click of pearl upon pearl. They could have been playing statues with her. If she turned round again, they would have swapped seats and returned to stone.

  But no, Pippa was back in her own world with her pearls and Maeve Binchy upside down. On one side of the marble fireplace, a thin old man sat curled in a high-backed easy chair. His red tartan shirt matched the dried flowers arranged in the hearth. Costello caught herself staring at the scarred, puckered face with raw burned skin. The red shirt was pulled tight up to his neck, the sleeves well down over his wrists, a white glove on either hand. One eye, the right, darted round the day room like a crow’s searching for a day old lamb. His vision was trying to settle on Costello. The left eye was a creased narrow slit, devoid of sight. As he saw Costello his head slumped slightly, his hands falling into his lap as one swollen foot escaped from its tartan slipper to rest on the carpet. She suspected he had adjusted his posture to get a better look at her.

  The fat man on the other side of the fireplace coughed. A drinker, from the look of his ruddy complexion. They were like two ugly bookends. Or the couple that lived in the weather house, close without ever being together. One fat, one thin. She vaguely recognized the fat one. Take off five stone, forty years and stick him in a shiny suit with shoulder pads and he might be that comedian her granny had liked on the TV. Chic somebody? His wit had seemed unscripted, a surprise to his straight man.
Or was that part of the act? Now he looked like he’d have trouble telling the time, never mind a joke. If this was what old age did for you, you could keep it. Chic and Chas. The Cheeky Chappies.

  Behind the door, in the opposite corner, two old ladies born of seaside postcards were snoozing rhythmically; one fat-bellied with a red jumper and a round, steroid-swollen face that inclined at an angle giving her the appearance of a Christmas card Robin. The other was thin and frail, her legs so narrow at the ankles, they looked like they would snap. A canary of a woman, her fingers pecking at her yellow blanket in her sleep. They were both happy in their snoozing where they had chosen to see out their final days. But how they could sleep through the rattling of Pippa’s pearls was anybody’s guess. Probably had their hearing aids turned off.

  Costello looked at her watch again, ten thirty-eight. The constant but irregular noise was getting on her nerves. God knew how Archie had put up with it. She could hear the background hum of a fan somewhere, buzzing on and off, no doubt helping the drafty window to circulate the air; old people and their bad digestion and public private habits. They would be better opening the window, but it was the old sash type and they were one floor up. Some health and safety boffin had no doubt drawn up a risk assessment in triplicate and nailed the window shut. Costello could imagine herself tying the curtains together to form a rope ladder and make her escape. The poor buggers must get desperate in here.

  Costello turned round, tucking her blouse into her navy blue trousers, adjusting her handbag over her shoulder, flattening down the collar of her jacket and wishing that bloody Archie would reappear. She had come out for a Sunday brunch and to see the parade, her stomach was starting to protest loudly. She paced once up, once down, then moved towards the woman who sat in the bay of the other window, far back, as far away from the others as if any little solitude she could get was precious to her. The woman certainly smelled differently from the others, of expensive perfume, lightly worn. Costello thought she recognized the scent. Fracas? That was a hundred pounds a throw. The styled ebony hair was dyed, her make-up was immaculate and highlighted the contours of a face that must have been beautiful once, but even now, was striking in its presence. Her jewellery was minimal but genuine, quality. She looked a formidable character. This might be the Duchess Archie had mentioned once. She reminded Costello of some grand old dame of the theatre. One with her best days behind her but clinging onto the memories the best she could.