by Caro Ramsay
He had done the right thing; he had followed the Blonde when he saw her. He had phoned in and asked for help when it was unclear which way she was going to go, and the path might have taken her a way that he could not confidently follow. That was right. Only, she had just disappeared.
His colleagues had not said anything but he sensed their disappointment, and their frustration. He had held her in his sight and he had lost her. Their big lead was gone. It had reached the ears of the ACC and now they would have to close ranks, especially with Tania Kirkton missing.
How could he have messed it up so badly? But she had disappeared into thin air. As Costello had put it, he had ballsed it up totally – except he knew he hadn’t.
He sat and nursed his ego and his cup of tea, then had an idea.
Anderson stood at the wall, looking at Mulholland’s efforts at making sense of the case. David was still missing. So was Tania.
The Blonde had now moved centre stage, she was at the top of the board with a map of her last known movements. They had no idea who she was. They had no idea who Pauline Gee was either, but a trace of her IP address, the only one that related to the Facebook page, was registered to Athole House Secure Living Facility. The clustering of activity suggested that ‘Pauline’ had a job that allowed her access to the computer daily but only in small intervals. The pattern of a shift worker.
So tomorrow they were going to make a move on Paolo Girasole, ask him about the original fire and have a chat about the Vinicombe Street fire. Then ask him again who Blondie was. Tonight they were going to prepare the case for the interview. They wanted his DNA and they wanted some leverage on him. Was he the ‘Paul McEwan’ who had disappeared at nine years old on the night of the fire? Paul could be anywhere in the world by now, living a life without any criminality. He may have grown up into a man with a different life, keen to leave the tragedy of the Marchmont fire behind.
Or he might be three minutes away.
And ‘Paolo Girasole’ had appeared from nowhere. There was no record of somebody of that name working at the council and no record of him living at any Manchester Avenue address. If nothing else, he had some explaining to do.
It was the Blonde they really wanted to speak to. Costello had pointed out the oddity of a woman who didn’t change her hairstyle for years. Princess Anne was the only one she could think of. She thought if it was a wig, it was a very good one. Even if it was the same wig, it didn’t mean it was the same person.
One thing they had confirmed was that Pietro Girasole was dead and buried, lying in the Linn cemetery. So at least they knew where he was.
The phone went. Everybody looked at Anderson, knowing it would be Irene Kerr. They knew that time was running short. If it hadn’t already run out.
So they ignored it.
Sandra had relished the meal and the company, the music and the ambiance accompanied by the satisfaction of a plan coming together. Paolo had taken her to Café Russo. She had walked past the front door many times, not knowing that a beautiful little Italian restaurant existed upstairs, all checkered tablecloths and dripping candles in raffia-clad bottles. The lighting was very subtle.
Paolo had booked them for the pre-theatre timeslot, sort of implying that he had plans to take her somewhere else but didn’t say what or where.
He was lovely. Younger than her, obviously, but he had enough maturity to look after his mother, look after her because she was precious to him, through choice not obligation. Or were there darker reasons? She tried to find out exactly how old he was; he looked young. He could be young enough to be the Duchess’s grandchild. She tried a few gambits to try and figure out exactly how old he was. Her favourite one was ‘who was your favourite Dr Who?’ as inevitably, the answer would be the one that they had watched as a child. In the early days, when Dr Who actors stuck with the character for more than one series before Hollywood called. The answer might get her within a vague age bracket, but Paolo’s answer was typically theatrical. He liked them all. They all gave something to the part. She had to understand that they were not comparing like with like. He spoke about the special effects, the costumes and the standard of writing and how an actor can live the part so much more when good writing and imagination is not hemmed in by budgets.
‘So were you ever an actor?’ she asked, refusing another top up of Pinot Grigio but glad to see that he was swigging it down. She needed a clear head, to be in control.
‘I was never an actor although in some ways I consider myself the greatest actor the world has ever seen.’ He took a mouthful of the gnocchi and laughed. ‘I mean I go to the council every day and act like I enjoy my work. I talk to people I despise. I go to meetings as if I’m paying attention when my mind is really writing the next play or designing this or that. The art of the theatre is what I love in my head. So yes, I think I am the greatest actor the world has ever known.’ He was sincere, scarily sincere.
She thought about swimming in the blueness of his eyes. He stared back at her for what seemed a very long time, the intensity was palpable. She began to feel very nervous, like he could see inside her soul. She looked away.
Then he laughed. ‘You see what a good actor I am. You loved all that shit, didn’t you?’ He had a captivating laugh.
And she laughed too. Glad that she had been caught out. She took a large slug of wine, trying to rid herself of the feeling that she was back at school and everybody was laughing at her. She was wearing someone else’s coat. A hand-me-down. Second class. Second rate.
‘Are you having a good time?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I am, I really am.’ She raised her glass to him and they toasted each other. He excused himself and went to the loo. She watched him go up the stairs; a hunter watching its prey. He wasn’t a big man, rather insubstantial with thin, narrow shoulders. There was not a lot of power there.
He had the biggest blue eyes she had ever seen, large pale blue moons, just like those of the Duchess. But diluted, washed out as if he had been crying for a whole lifetime. He had a small nose on his handsome face. That was a sign of moral weakness. She hoped.
She saw him come out the toilet, pause at the top of the stairs and look round for her, smiling when their eyes met. A nice, open smile.
She knew he would pay the bill. She knew he would ask her if she had enjoyed the night. She would say she had. She knew he would suggest going for a walk, head off for somewhere quiet he had in mind. And she would let him think it was his idea.
SIX
Friday 10th June
Anderson hadn’t even sat down at his desk before his phone rang. It was the ACC. He was curt and to the point.
‘I’m not sure if it is a blackmail demand but James Kirkton has had a letter through his door during the night, telling him to show up on Elean Street, at the corner where the garage is; the wee antique mall?’
‘Yes I know it, all back alleys and footpaths. That’s difficult.’ His respect for Blondie was growing.
‘We can think that through. The letter has the middle name of Kirkton’s wife which is something very few people know; Priscilla,’ he added. ‘And that is some kind of proof that whoever wrote the letter, might have had Tania sitting in front of him. Kirkton wants nothing done.’
‘So why did he contact you then?’ snapped Anderson.
‘I suppose he’s conflicted. The note says don’t tell the police and he was telling me as a friend so that if we got wind of it, he wanted nothing done. But that’s not his call and he damn well knows that. Which is why he phoned me in the first place. I think a low-key presence following Kirkton might be of use but you need to get your skates on. The note was put through his door by hand overnight and he has to be there this evening. I don’t need to tell you the importance of this, Anderson. He has been an irritating thorn in our side all year but this could silence him forever. If you know what I mean. You will have all my support, whatever you need.’
‘And what if David is in there? We can’t have a low-key, fast-act
ion response team. We either do or we don’t. Ask Batten and see what he says?’
‘Do that. And I know what Batten will say.’
‘Talk her round? She’s angry, emotional and hurting.’
‘So that’s just your thing, you and your emotional IQ. And, you know Paolo Girasole doesn’t have a driving licence or a car. So Blondie is the driver. Stick him on the back burner for now.’
It was a not-so-subtle command from a superior officer. Anderson wondered who had told Mitchum that, but had neglected to tell him. Mulholland. It would be Mulholland.
‘Kirkton will be your way in. And use your intelligence, Anderson. This is a woman who can be talked round, maybe a killer, or a killer’s accomplice. No big stuff. Whoever she is, she wants you to know about it. She, or her accomplice, told Amy to tell you, so there is some connection there. We don’t know if David and Tania are there. We need to do as she wants. For now. You want Costello with you? I’d rather you kept her out of it.’
‘Blondie needs to separate her victims from the pack. I trust Costello to stick to me. She’s my defence.’
Mitchum was quiet for a long time, mulling this over. Then agreed and hung up.
In the station, Anderson called a meeting for a full briefing at ten a.m. The case was subject to a media blackout. The DCI listened as Costello gave them the details of the Elean Street rendezvous. Her meeting with the fire officer who had attended the Marchmont Terrace was history now. He could tell by the way she was talking that she was going through the motions, her mind was already running through the various outcomes of that evening. Even the worst.
Batten was sitting at the back, working out a strategy of what to say and how to talk Blondie down. He did point out that they didn’t know who had actually written the letter, what part they were playing. But his advice was the same. Blondie was angry about something, and she wanted them to listen and empathize. No matter what she said. They were going on the principle that the letter writer was Blondie, a female arsonist with some connection, probably a childhood connection, to the Vinicombe Street Theatre. She was making dolls of people. If they died in that process, so be it. She needed help. But she was very, very angry about something.
And they had to diffuse that by talking. Any show of force would make her worse. And – the big and, – she was not stupid.
Costello was now talking about the fire at Marchmont Terrace as the logistic guys from West End Central made their electronic plans in the room next door. She pointed to the photographs on the board. Barry McEwan had burned to death trying to get out the back. His wife Diane was found in the upstairs toilet, untouched by flames, having succumbed to smoke inhalation. Alice Patricia Kilpatrick, Deke’s wife, was the only victim of the Marchmont Terrace with a definitive time of death as she had survived the flames, the damage to her lungs, the fall and the collision with the Victorian birdbath that shattered her spleen. She had survived the fracture to her skull on landing only to die two weeks later of a chest infection. Her husband Derek Kilpatrick had survived his injuries but was left partially sighted, disabled and disfigured. His own opinion was that his life was not worth saving as it was not worth living. He had been staying at the Athole care home for the last twenty years, under an antidepressant and analgesic regime of medication.
The fire had been started by a candle placed under a coat rack, deliberately according to the chief fire officer at the time. ‘And somewhere in that, in all that tragedy,’ said Costello, ‘is the reason why Blondie is so angry.’ She then pointed to the DNA coding on the wall. ‘That DNA links the two scenes.’
‘So it must be Paolo.’
‘Or Deke.’
‘It’s male, that’s all we know for sure.’
‘Well, it’s not Blondie then. Which gets us nowhere.’
Wyngate sat down in Anderson’s office. Batten sat beside him, asking him if he was comfortable. Wyngate said no, his toothache was still bothering him. He was keen, he wanted it to be shown that he had not lost Blondie, that she had vanished into thin air. And if he needed hypnosis to prove that, then so be it. He was so sure, he wanted it on tape.
Batten began by asking Wyngate if he was relaxing now, calling him Gordon, repeating a few phrases over and over.
Wyngate closed his eyes, his breathing slowed down, his shoulders dropped a little. Batten asked him to lift his finger. Wyngate’s hands were placed on top of his own knees, like he was ready for a hard question at an interview and wanted to keep his hands from betraying any nervousness.
His finger rose but Wyngate’s eyes remained closed. Batten talked him through it one more time saying the same words in a deep calm voice. The phone rang outside. Costello moved to tell them to silence it but Batten held up his hand. There was no point. Wyngate relaxed, his conscious could be aware of all the noise in Christendom but it was the subconscious that Batten was talking to.
Batten asked him for a few points of reference. Wyngate knew where he was and he knew what day it was. Costello commented that that in itself was a first.
Batten asked if Wyngate recalled what had happened the day before.
‘Many things, the usual things. Sam had been sick that morning. He eats his food too quickly.’ Wyngate spoke about his wife cleaning the mess up. It had been all over the baby’s face. She had taken cloths and wiped him, then Wyngate wiped his face with an imaginary cloth, then nodded. That was the end of it.
Anderson looked at Costello and shrugged, no idea what was going on here.
‘So you went to the dentist? Where did you go?’
‘Walter Armstrong, Byres Road.’
‘And did you see anybody you recognized?’
‘The Blonde.’
‘And what was she wearing?’
‘Lilac coat, black shoes.’
‘Was she carrying anything?’
‘A black bag, like an overnight bag thing. Big handbag.’ His hands indicated the size of the bag. His subconscious had noticed it.
‘And what did you do when you saw her?’
‘I followed her.’
‘And where did she go?’
‘Up Athole Lane. Where Mr Hollister was found.’ Wyngate got quite animated, his breathing quickened, his feet started twitching as if he was running. ‘I phoned Mulholland. I didn’t know where she might go at the other end. Left or right or straight on. I might not get there in time.’
‘Why might you not get there?’
‘I didn’t want to follow her too closely as she would see me, so I held back. I stayed out of sight.’ His hands waved at his side. ‘There was a skip here so I stood behind that and pretended I was on my phone, then I stood in a doorway. The lane turns left then right. She walked round the corner and by the time I got there, she was gone. She was not there.’ It was said calmly but definitely.
‘Where did she go?’ asked Batten.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You didn’t see where she went?’
‘I did not.’
‘What did you do?’
He started moving his right hand, knuckles tight trying to get a door handle open. ‘I am opening the garden doors, to get access. She must have gone into a garden. But there was only one unlocked. But the lassie who was not Shona did not hear her door open or shut. The close door is locked so the Blonde did not go through her close.’
‘And you believe her?’
‘I do.’
‘Why did you call her “the woman who was not Shona”?’
‘The man said that she was called Shona. But she was not.’
‘What man?’
‘Richard Hodge.’
‘OK, where was she when you first saw the woman who is not Shona?’
‘In her house on her phone, she saw me out the window.’
‘Did she come out to get you?’
‘Yes,’ Wyngate said straight away. ‘Yes, but I had to wait until she went out the door of her flat, then came to the back door of the close, then out to me.’
‘And
what did you do?’
‘I waited.’
‘For how long?’
‘This long.’ He paused. ‘About that length of time.’
‘And who else did you speak to?’
‘No one.’
‘Let’s go back to the man called Richard Hodge.’
‘He’s behind the red door. He heard me try the handle, he came out to see what I was doing.’
‘Was he in the house?’
‘He was gardening.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He was dirty, holding secateurs.’
Batten leaned forward, checking that the machine was recording. ‘When you were talking to him, was his close door open or shut?’
‘Shut.’
‘And you are at the bottom of the garden? How far is it to the door at the back of the close?’
‘About thirty metres. They have very long back gardens.’
Everybody in the room knew that they did.
‘And who is Richard?’
‘He lived there.’
‘Do you know that?’
‘No, I do not. That was what he said.’
‘How was he breathing?’
‘He was out of breath.’
‘And the back door of the close was shut?’ he repeated.
‘Yes.’
‘Can you describe Richard?’
‘Shiny face,’ came the reply. Then Wyngate started to talk. ‘He had short dark hair, slicked back against his head and dirt on his cheek.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Twenties maybe thirties, maybe older. Edinburgh accent.’
‘Eye colour?’
‘Brown eyes.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘I did not.’
‘Had you seen him before?’
A pause. ‘I had not.’
They looked at each other.
Batten leaned in.
‘Did you recognize him?’
Wyngate’s eyelids flickered. The question created conflict.
‘He said …’
‘Yes?’
‘He said, “And you can pass it on to James Kirkton. We like to police ourselves.”’
The room fell quiet.