by Caro Ramsay
‘I don’t need to.’
‘And the fiscal was there. Not accusing him of any wrongdoing, are you?’ She continued before he could answer, ‘And logically, being an artist, she had a very good likeness in her head of what this abductor looked like.’
Kirkton seemed to wince again at that. ‘I have a daughter same age as Claire and I don’t think I would like her to be involved in any way at all.’
‘Well, I think Claire sees it as a young man a couple of years older than her getting abducted and she was the main witness. I think she considers it her civic duty to help. But I think you are right, she probably does have a good sense of civic duty. Gets it from her dad. What does Tania get from you?’
‘And what do you get from your father, DI Costello?’
He regretted saying it. As soon as the words left his lips he wished he hadn’t spoken.
Costello leaned forward and looked at him, closely. And, as many people do, he pulled away slightly. The grey eyes, a light, light grey gave Costello an alien like appearance when viewed very close up, cold, clinical, inhuman. Qualities her voice had also. ‘I know you have looked into my past, my family, Mr Kirkton.’ She overemphasized his surname. ‘You know exactly what my brother was. You really might not want to know how I think. I am very good at thinking like a killer. And I am going to find David Kerr alive. No matter what it takes. No matter who gets in my way.’
Kirkton smiled slightly, and sighed.
She felt she had made some mistake, her brain moved on to her next conclusion. ‘Then we are going to move to Cold Case and review every one of those cases on the initiative. Every single one.’
That hit home. He stared right back at her, trying to keep his eyes steady. ‘Well, good luck with that then.’
He left, leaving the door of the investigation room swinging back and forth.
The doorbell went, the deep tone rang long and clear down the hall of the house on the terrace. Nesbit pricked his ears up, sensed a friend and trotted down the hall towards the stained glass front door. Anderson opened it, surprised to find O’Hare standing there.
‘Hi, come in.’
‘I come bearing gifts,’ said O’Hare, waggling a good bottle of Scotch in his hand.
‘Not for me, thanks, but you are welcome.’
They walked through into the small sitting room, the log fire was on, although the night was warm. It was obvious that Anderson had been sitting by the fire, reading.
‘Good God, man, you will be in your slippers before me. What are you reading?’
‘I am trying to read On Liberty. Every time I think I understand it, I am interrupted by work.’
‘Sorry,’ said O’Hare, devoid of apology. ‘I read that book once, in a previous life.’ O’Hare settled himself into his seat. Took the glass that Anderson proffered and helped himself to a tot out of the Glenfiddich.
‘This has always been a lovely house.’
‘It has.’
‘It feels comfortable now, so tranquil.’ The air in the house was cool and still.
‘Well, because of it, Kirkton is gunning for you, living here. He thinks that it is immoral. He’s a tosser.’
‘And he’s putting Claire in the news which is something she could do without.’ Anderson sat down, adjusted the air flow through the flames and leaned back. ‘So is this a social call. Or are you going to tell me about the sad demise of Pietro Girasole?’
‘Well no, you are getting that in an official email tomorrow. I want to talk to you off the record, run something past you, something so bizarre – so far off the scale …’
‘OK, go on, I am listening.’
‘I was looking at the joints on Mr Hollister, the way the body was bent over and dislocated, folded up into a lined box, like he was a human doll.’
‘Well he was. But Amy was abducted by aliens, whereas Alistair and David both seem to have been involved with a blonde with good dress sense.’
‘If you are thinking about aliens then it’s just as well you keep off the drink. But there are broken joints, butchery. I’ve had a good chat to the orthopaedic chap who looked at Amy’s knee. Somebody tried to bend it backwards. I think somebody was disarticulating these bodies. There were no cuts on the skin of Mr Hollister, Alistair or Amy. I agree with you about an injection being given, to make the body compliant in some way. Some form of extreme muscle relaxant. Like you get before you are operated on, if you have no general. So Blondie knows medicine, she can get her hand on drugs. And here somebody, some person, was breaking the joints to get more movement than the natural anatomy of the joint would allow.’
‘So they could be folded up and put in the box, as you said.’
‘But maybe not. Maybe he was put in the box because he had died while having his joints dislocated. He had bled. But had he fulfilled his purpose? Why are they drugged?’
‘Because the perp is a woman?’
‘She got a wheelchair for David, didn’t she? And Amy’s thyroid issues meant she metabolized the drug differently. Blondie tries with Jeffries but he is so drunk that the injection makes him incapable of movement, he falls and cracks his skull.’
‘He was so pissed he thought the injection was a jab from a bramble.’ Anderson was thinking hard. ‘And Mr Hollister?’
‘It all went to plan until he choked on his own vomit. Which suggests that Blondie is not that skilled at medicine. You don’t paralyse muscle then let the airway get blocked. When he died, she had to find somebody else. She’s working to a timetable. The clock is ticking for her, and Colin, we need to find David. I am very fearful for what he might be going through.’
‘So who is Blondie?’
‘Somebody with pharmaceutical knowledge rather than medical? A chemist or a pharmacist but not a doctor, not a nurse. But think of the physicality of the injuries? She is breaking these people; breaking them and making them pliable and bendy. I was looking at the death of Pietro in Ashton Lane in 1999. He was a woodworker, odd in one so young, long term use of wood on his hands, hard hands like a carpenter who had been doing the job for thirty years. So the Girasole boy who died, the theatre that burned down. Wooden puppets? Was the Girasole boy a puppet maker? All it says is he worked in the family business. I have no idea what she is up to, but,’ he grimaced as if he could not believe what he was about to say, ‘is she making human dolls? Human puppets?’
Anderson patted Nesbit on the head, looking into the deep brown eyes for a long, long time. ‘Can I have a drink of that whisky now? I think I need it.’
FIVE
Thursday 9 June
Sandra was ready to leave. It had been a busy morning and her feet were aching. The home was full of warm, heavy air that induced lethargy. But she couldn’t find her car keys. They were not on the hook where they were supposed to be left when someone borrowed them to move the vehicle, and that suited her usually. Then she was told by Lisa that ‘her boyfriend’ was upstairs. So she smoothed out her hair and checked her breath. She went up to Tosca, as if she was going to say goodbye to the Duchess.
He didn’t seem annoyed by her interruption, if anything he was rather pleased.
‘So sorry, I was going to say goodbye.’
‘You would have a hard job leaving,’ laughed Paolo. ‘You left your car keys on the dressing table over there.’
That was a big mistake. She had left them here. ‘Oh thank you. I think I am losing the plot at the moment.’ But she didn’t leave, the Duchess seemed happy to see her although she felt that she had walked in on something. Their politeness was covering up their uneasiness at nearly being caught. But that might be her own interpretation.
‘Nice hair, I meant to say yesterday. It suits you. Being blonde,’ he said, looking at her, as if he knew. ‘Suits your brown eyes.’
Sandra felt her stomach jump, she was nineteen again. ‘How is she doing?’
He didn’t let Sandra wait for an answer, guiding her to the corner of the room.
‘Can I ask you a delicate que
stion?’
‘Oh.’ Sandra bit her lip and opened her big brown eyes wide.
‘Have you been going through the Duchess’s clothes?’ He didn’t seem angry.
‘I was looking at them, yes,’ she answered honestly, ‘it’s that they are so beautiful, so well crafted. How do they get like that, I mean, where do you buy them?’
‘Not all of them are bought. In the old days she used to get all her clothes made for her. The blue dress, the one she likes to wear, the Sunday dress? I have taken that dress apart and made a pattern from it so I can make more in the same style as she loses weight, as she gets a little …’ He was about to say stooped.
‘Frail?’ suggested Sandra.
‘Yes. She would not be happy unless she looked her best. What do you wear when you go out on the town? Out with your friends?’
She let the question pass, having no answer. ‘How did you learn to do all that make-up stuff, sewing? You really are very good at it.’
He smiled at her, his Paul Newman eyes creased up. ‘Growing up in the theatre, I had very good training. The best. I can make anybody look like anybody else. It’s more about having the knack of seeing what you see, seeing what the person has that you can make stand out. When you are on stage, people don’t see a face. They see an expression, a reaction, and that is what registers with them. It’s all about using the face to communicate.’
‘Oh,’ she said. Noticing that he was closing the make-up bag, ready to go and she did not want him to go. She was hit by a sudden impulse to keep him there. She walked towards the door and stood there in what she hoped was a laid-back fashion, as if it was the kind of thing she did all the time; hang about and lean against walls. ‘Is it what you do now?’
‘No, now I have the most boring job the world has ever seen. I work at the council and I sit all day and bang numbers into a computer for so long that it makes my brain ache, but you, you have a great job surrounded by this life and this wealth of experience.’
She stared at him not really believing him. He was a doctor, a lawyer, not somebody who worked in the council. Was he having her on?
He seemed to read her mind.
‘A job is a job. The money I get does not reflect what use I am to society. Look at what you do, you’re really valued by people, Sandra. You are so valued. What could be better than that?’ He placed a hand on her shoulder.
Surrounded by bed pans and incontinence pads, thought Sandra. Paolo had a point. And some folk who worked in the council get paid mega bucks. ‘Not all our guests are as lovely as your mother,’ she said.
‘The Duchess,’ corrected Paolo, something that he did automatically. ‘Please, come and sit.’
She sat on the stool in front of the mirror, trying not to pull a face different to her own. He pulled her hair back and adjusted the neck of her jumper slightly, making a collar round her throat so he could see the outline of her face, her jawline and the curve of her cheekbones.
He then took out a lipstick. ‘I bought this for you. It will match your complexion, and your new blonde hair. You don’t make the best of yourself, Sandra. You don’t realize that you have cheekbones that could knock people out.’
‘Would you do my face, you know, if I paid you? Like you do with your … with the Duchess?’
He looked at her, his head to one side, then looked at his watch. ‘Let me think about that.’
He was embarrassed. He did not want to say no and now he was desperate to get away from her. He looked over at the door.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not something I’ve had the chance of before.’ At least that was true.
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ He was apologetic. ‘I was just thinking that my flexi will nearly be up. I need to get back to work.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I had better not keep you.’
The moment was gone, he picked up his jacket and slid one arm in, then the other. He lifted the satchel he always wore over his shoulder and the laundry canvas bag, then he walked to the door. Sandra’s heart was breaking as she opened the door for him, wondering if he thought she was acting strangely; out of the ordinary now that she knew he was ordinary. He paused as he was about to go through the door, and put the canvas bag down. He stood in front of her and pulled her collar back, both hands, firm but gentle against the side of her head, fingering the strands of hair from her face.
‘Sandra?’
He had never said her name before. Not like that.
‘Yes?’
‘Why don’t we meet later tonight?’
‘OK,’ she whispered.
‘Then I shall come back tonight.’
She thought about the princess in the book, her arched eyebrows and porcelain skin. Rapunzel. ‘And you can make me beautiful?’
He placed his lips lightly on her forehead. ‘It’s not such a hard task, Sandra.’
Anderson was trying to have a fruitful morning in his office. He knew they were getting close.
Wyngate had looked into the past of the Girasole family; not so extraordinary, theatre people. The Girasoles of the Vinicombe Street Children’s Theatre. He thought back to the windows he had seen, colourful and magical scenes of goblins and elves, draped in dark red curtains. There was skill, a theatrical skill of showmanship. And of misdirection.
They were a normal family who had lost a son and the aging mother was now in a care home, an expensive care home that showed how just how financially successful the family business had been.
He had spent some of the previous night with Alistair Jeffries. It had not been pleasant. No police officer enjoyed questioning another police officer, but Jeffries had been the victim of an attempted abduction. And there was the small matter of some missing files from the 1999 fire. Not an unusual occurrence, but too much of a coincidence.
Was there a link?
Jeffries had thought about answering, then told Anderson to go ahead and review everything in the cold case file. It had all been fully investigated in early 2000. Pietro Girasole had been found dead, and nobody had any idea how he got up Lillybank Lane.
So Anderson left him with the picture of Pietro, dead on a slab. His aquiline profile was one Jeffries should have been very familiar with.
As good as his word, back at the station, they were reviewing the 1999 tape. Jeffries was right. There was no sign of Pietro coming out of any of the nightclubs or pubs along that way. Nothing. He had just turned up dead in the lane. It had been a clear night with a full bright moon, easy to see, except that a young man in blue jeans and a white, short-sleeved T-shirt was hardly unique. Too hardy in his youth to feel the cold. Or too drunk. Or had some of his clothes been taken?
The only areas being monitored were the university and Byres Road in those days and there were experimental cameras around the Ashton Lane area, luckily for them. At that time there was a parliamentary report about the efficiency of CCTV in deterring or solving crime, so much of the tape from that time was kept. Almost every movement of the millennium celebration in the area around Byres Road was caught on film and stored safely, hour upon hour of it.
At the time the film had been watched frame by frame, looking for Pietro Girasole to appear somewhere and meet his murderer. And he had not. All the same, Anderson was not downhearted. Obviously something had been missed. It was an overnight case at New Year. The major investigation team from 2000 were not incompetents from the dark ages; they had been a good, reliable squad; cops he had known personally. The advantage that Anderson’s team had was that he knew about Blondie. They knew who they were looking for. He also told the ten-man team who were viewing the footage that they were looking for a woman acting strangely. A blonde in a nice frock with a neat bob. And a young man in blue jeans. ‘Keep an eye out for her, that’s all.’ The images they had of her were all up on the wall.
‘How do you know she has a neat bob?’ asked one, a neat-boned Asian woman.
‘I doubt she has changed her style in the last twenty years.
Or she has returned to it now. She’s revisiting it all; lock, stock and barrel. Haircut included.’
They were working away. Anderson was flicking over the written reports as they emptied the boxes, everything sealed in plastic bags, everything tagged and labelled, the complexity of the evidential chain shown by thirty or more signatures.
‘There is one thing that makes me think that we are barking up the wrong tree. They never found Pietro Girasole on the tapes did they? He was found dead the next morning, which technically was the next year, but nobody saw him and his murderer together. So why are we looking for her?’ Wyngate contemplated. ‘We can’t even find him.’
‘Let’s ask her when we find her. And if we see her on the tape, we might see him. She’s easier to spot. Nobody saw Amy with anybody, nobody saw Alistair Jeffries with anybody,’ Anderson pointed out.
Wyngate asked, ‘So are we looking for a woman? Or a man?’
‘One or the other, Gordon.’
‘Just that Batten said arsonists were male. But we are looking for Blondie, yes …?’
‘And her male accomplice, Wyngate.’
Anderson was watching the film thinking about something else Batten had once said about the difference between actors and impersonators. The impersonator takes the actions of another upon themselves, and they merge. But the original is still there, perfectly visible. A good actor becomes that other person.
Anderson went into the sanctity of his own office to read the contents of O’Hare’s email. The old pathologist seemed obsessed with Pietro’s fingers. They were the anomaly. What did he actually do for a living? The analysis of the skin swabs had revealed lotion on his skin and something that resembled make-up remover. O’Hare had highlighted this to see later. Anderson looked at the pictures of the face on the CD, easing his fingers apart on the screen to magnify the image, then looked deeply at the eyelashes, the base of the eyelashes, then at the mouth, around the mouth, the outline of the lips, nothing there. The body was smooth of hair. He had a thin, lithe build and it was not unusual for men who go to the gym to get a chest wax, a buttock wax. What was it they called it? A back, crack and sack? Anderson juddered at the thought and moved on. Pietro had smooth legs. Smooth feet. He had been epilated. The pathologist at the time had placed a question mark there. Because he was gay?