by Caro Ramsay
‘So Jimmy got away, barely, and raised the alarm. Sometime between then and the local cops going out – a space of an hour – McAvoy must have got off the island. By the time we got there the rain was horrific.’ Winterston looked as though she was about to say something else but changed her mind.
‘Theory?’ asked Anderson.
Winterston said, ‘I might have said, the rain was summoned. Have you ever been to Inchgarten Lodge Park?’
‘No, but we are planning to go now.’
‘You seen Deliverance? Might be worth it.’
Mitchum had left; Wyngate had sat down. They all started eating the shortbread.
‘Bernie nearly gave himself a heart attack trying to find McAvoy,’ said Sammy, texting. ‘He’ll be cross he’s missing this.’
‘Be assured, we are on the same team here, Sammy,’ said Costello, nibbling a shortbread triangle, hand cupped underneath to catch the crumbs.
‘Heads will roll, though,’ said Mulholland, examining his fingernails.
‘He’s not answering his phone. He’s not at the station. Lyn hasn’t heard from him either.’ Sammy shrugged her shoulders as if to say, you know how it goes.
‘Did you ever meet Warren McAvoy?’ asked Costello. ‘What did you think? Without the benefit of hindsight.’
The others looked at Sammy, interested in her answer. ‘I’ve only set eyes on him once. He’s an insignificant wee ned.’ Sammy shrugged. ‘But the Laphans liked him. If anyone was hiding him, it would be them. They both thought Warren was innocent.’ She stopped abruptly.
‘And?’ urged Costello.
‘They are weird; something’s going on up there.’ She looked away.
‘Like what? Witchcraft? Devil worship? Quilt making?’ Costello suggested.
‘I’m deadly serious. There was something I couldn’t put my finger on. Tony is deep; his sister Daisy is mystical. Warren was weird. Bernie thought that we were getting nothing out of them and had toyed with the idea of going undercover.’ She looked at Walker. ‘But that was vetoed.’
‘And what happened to McAvoy last night was not spontaneous. So if we are thinking that they were harbouring McAvoy and somebody found out, who moves beautifully into the frame?’ Walker was thinking out loud.
‘The parents?’ suggested Costello quietly.
Walker nodded. ‘And you realize how gently we are going to have to progress from here. The police did not do their job so they had to do it for them.’
Sammy put her hand up, palm up. ‘Look, I know these people. Ruth has been shattered by the death of her son. Her life has fallen apart, she’s lost her marriage, her home, her income. Her ex, Fergus, survived cancer but is drinking himself to death over Callum.’ She broke off to explain further, ‘The dads were in business together, Dewar McCardle. Then Fergus started drinking and Eoin bought Fergus out to give Ruth some money and stop Fergus running the business into the ground.’
‘What kind of business was it?’ asked Anderson.
‘Computer supplies, printing, that kind of thing. The latest reports say that Fergus is now in a drying out clinic. Ruth’s medicated up to her eyes and wittering on about God. Eoin has just escaped bankruptcy. Isobel has gone back to teaching full time to keep money coming in. At the time of the murders they were both four-bedroomed detached with a four by four type of family, but … Well, things are different now. Ruth is in a housing association block in Mosspark.’
‘My old stomping ground,’ said Costello. ‘But we get what you’re saying; they’ve gone from Waitrose to Lidl.’
‘But I can’t see any of them doing anything barbaric to anybody.’
‘Losing a child can change a person. How about Grace’s parents?’
‘Abroad. California, I think. There’s a contact address in the file. But remember, Grace’s death was considered an accident at the time.’ She ran her fingers through her dark, glossy hair, the wishing well charm on her bracelet tinkling. ‘Or was there a crime and we missed it?’
‘And McAvoy has his alibi,’ Costello murmured.
‘I see your problem. It goes in circles,’ Anderson said. ‘But we need to break that circle. What was the report from this morning’s scene?’
Mulholland didn’t respond until Anderson poked him in the ribs. ‘Here’s the initial one.’
‘Let’s see it then.’
He opened a file with a map of the farm and the surrounding fields, already dotted with crosses and stickers. ‘Scene of crime think the car was parked there on the grassy verge. The killer, who had four feet and wore shoe covers, walked along the tarmac, only leaving it to climb the gate. O’Hare has confirmed that McAvoy’s body temp puts his death at three in the morning, roughly. The farmer was out at midnight and saw nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Uniform says nobody has been reported hanging around,’ added Walker. ‘But people do drive up and down that lane to get to the motorway. As well as dog walkers.’
‘Four feet?’ asked Sammy, confused.
‘Well, it looks like two people jumped the fence from the landing pattern; impact marks suggest they are within average range of weight and height but one lighter than the other. And both McAvoy’s hair and shoes show he was dragged at one point. But still only one set of footmarks came out.’
‘So the killer walks in with a drugged McAvoy who is walking under his own steam at first, then dragged. Then he loses consciousness and they do the rope bit and attach the horses. Does that fit?’ asked Sammy.
‘It fits.’ Anderson smiled at her.
‘Only if the killer was capable of controlling two horses,’ said Costello. ‘That suggests two people, but there was only one set of footsteps out, so for now we’ll say the other sprouted wings and flew out – leave that to the SOCOs. What else, Vik?’
Mulholland flicked the two pages back and forth. ‘Tox screen will be ages. There are traces of hessian sacking on the fence. We could try and trace that but don’t hold your breath.’ He pushed the file away.
Costello glanced at Anderson. Mulholland was going through the motions, but only just. So it was Costello who continued. ‘The vet confirmed cigarette burn marks on the back end of the two horses that had been in the field. And O’Hare has a friend who has a friend who confirmed the knot is used by sailors and climbers, blood knot. The rope was a common nylon one, easily available on the net and brand new, so no forensics on that. Wyngate here is trying to trace that and the tarot cards.’
‘Waste of time,’ muttered Mulholland.
Sammy ignored him, ‘What do you think the card might mean? Is O’Hare next?’
‘He has no connection with the case – the cases – at all, but he is taking precautions. How many tarot cards are there anyway?’ Anderson asked.
‘Twenty-two Major ones, I think,’ Wyngate said. ‘So it looks like we might be busy.’
Vik Mulholland’s dinner had been waiting in the oven: steak with peppercorn sauce, sweet potato and broccoli. His mum had prepared it for him and left a beer in the fridge, and a note saying that she had gone to a concert and not to wait up. Like she was the child and he was the parent. He scooped the dinner into a poly bag, stuck it in the bin under a Waitrose carrier bag and poured the beer down the sink. He watched as it swirled and bubbled down the plughole, where it met a blockage and stalled, gurgling away to itself. Like his career, he thought. Quietly going nowhere.
He scribbled ‘Ta’ under her note and went off to have a cold shower. It made him feel alive, one of the few things that did. He lay naked on his bed in his mum’s spare room for a while, at peace in the darkness, listening to the sound of the traffic outside. He phoned Sonja’s mobile, got her voicemail, so he left a message asking her to give him a call when she got in. He wondered what the others were doing, right in the thick of this McAvoy case. He would be sidelined with old Bella and her tea roses. Yip, his career was going nowhere. His life was going nowhere. At his age he hadn’t thought he would be back living with his mother. Not his decision. No
t his choice. It was the credit crunch. His penthouse had to be sold before they repossessed it and the gut-crunching figure of the negative equity. Sonja was now running up debt on his credit card. He wondered where she might be at this time of night. Probably at a night club doing some promotional work.
At eleven p.m. he phoned her again and left another voicemail, phone me back whenever you can. He was going to add, no matter how late but thought that might sound a bit desperate. After that he slid into his cold bed and drifted off into a light and fitful sleep where he dreamed he was out at a nightclub, dancing with Sonja. Her arms were lovingly folded round his neck, her face nuzzling into the side of his neck. He could feel her warm vodka breath on his skin, wafting under his collar. She held on to him, tightly, drunkenly, then the grip changed and alarm bells were going off. He tried to pull away from her and he realized it was not Sonja he was dancing with, it was Bella. She was laughing; her flames started licking his body. He heard the ringing of the fire engine and he felt relief that they were on their way, then fear that they were never getting any closer. Then he realized it was his phone.
He reached for it in the darkness and swiped to accept the call.
‘Hi, Sonja,’ he said, opening his eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the pitch darkness.
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ said the voice, ‘not Sonja. Costello. Can you make Partickhill Station tomorrow, eight a.m.? Before you go off to see Bella’s daughter?’
After Costello had rung off, he lay back on the pillow, checking his phone for any messages that he had missed; there weren’t any. He had a nastily cheery thought of the trouble there would be if Sammy Winterston and Costello clashed. She hated it when there was another woman on the team, especially the same rank, and most especially if the newcomer got on with Anderson.
Mulholland gave it forty-eight hours.
Tuesday, 17 June
DCI Colin Anderson sat at the breakfast table, absent-mindedly fiddling with Nesbit’s ears.
His daughter Claire held up a piece of toast. ‘This looks like Jesus.’
‘Eat it anyway,’ said Brenda, filling the teapot from the kettle.
‘It looks so like him.’
‘It’s a piece of toast,’ said Peter, trying to read a text message under the table. Without looking, Colin reached over and took the phone off him.
Brenda held the lid of the teapot as she filled her husband’s cup. She glanced over her daughter’s shoulder at the toast.
‘Look – eyes, hair, beard, mouth.’ Claire peered at it through dark-rimmed eyes and three coats of mascara as her forefinger moved deftly over the features. ‘He’s a bit cross-eyed, I admit, but it is Jesus just the same.’
Colin was about to ask why she painted her fingernails black but decided this was not the time or the place.
‘Well, you are the artist,’ Brenda answered diplomatically. ‘You can either eat it or exhibit it. Either way you are going to school.’ She sat down, pulling the jacket of her business suit round her, feeling her heels click on the tiled floor. It still felt good, unreal somehow.
‘I’ll photograph it, then eat it.’ Claire’s phone came out, a few swipes, a dry click. Then she smoothed the marmalade into all the corners of the bread, like paint from a palette knife.
Brenda sipped her tea listening to her children chatter. Somebody was a knob for wearing Converse trainers, and somebody else was a knob for not wearing them. Somebody had an Xbox something and somebody didn’t.
‘Somebody else,’ Peter said carefully, ‘had mean and horrible parents who refused to buy him an iPad and he therefore was technically a deprived kid and could turn to a life of crime.’
Colin ignored him.
Brenda gave him one of her looks. He was getting so like his dad, blue eyes, dark blond hair. He was small for a thirteen-year-old, still to grow into his features.
‘He had been doing modern history; they like to turn out socialists …’ said Peter, smiling through his fringe. ‘And it’s a well-known fact that socialists need iPads.’
‘A socialist would think more about fighting the evil of the corporations and use a pencil,’ muttered Colin, slipping Nesbit the crust of his toast.
‘You could lower yourself to use the laptop,’ offered Brenda.
‘You are the worst parents in the world,’ moaned Peter.
Brenda raised her eyes and nodded at the clock.
Her husband looked at his watch. ‘Christ!’
‘Told you so,’ said Claire, pointing to the half munched toast.
‘I’ll be leaving in three minutes. Those that want a lift may join me.’
Peter rammed his toast into his mouth; Claire climbed off the chair with the elegant gangliness of a young giraffe. Brenda stood up to fill the dishwasher. She looked at the Daily Record: a familiar picture of Warren McAvoy took up the whole front page. On the worktop was the pile of mail: the gas bill, a black envelope addressed to Colin and an offer to buy really expensive wine at a merely expensive price.
‘Christ, they didn’t mess about.’ Anderson turned away from the picture.
‘Well, if you get held up, I’ll pick Claire up,’ said Brenda, flicking some invisible crumbs from her skirt on to the floor for Nesbit so she couldn’t see her husband’s face.
‘But she’ll be at Helena’s,’ he said warily.
‘Well, I’ll pick her up from there, then. And remember I’m going out on Saturday night. Don’t want to, but I feel I have to. Work’s night out.’
‘Nice of them to invite you.’ Colin patted her shoulder, an extra squeeze, before walking out the kitchen to call on the kids.
Brenda heard the front door opening and closing, then opening again as somebody came back for something forgotten. Then it banged shut. Then the noise of the car engine, then quiet. She was doing an audit at a company on the south side today so she had another twenty minutes. She leaned against the dishwasher and looked over the mess on the table, the full washing basket, the calendar on the wall pockmarked with stickers for dental appointments and school project deadlines.
Family life.
Going back to work had not been easy but it had given her a sense of purpose, and a sense of perspective. OK, so her husband was in love with another woman. Men had done worse. Brenda was biding her time. Colin might have moved out temporarily, but now he was back. And he had never moved in with Helena. Over the last two years there had been a subtle shift in that power balance. She was the one with everything; she had everything Helena McAlpine wanted. She had the husband and the family. Helena could have wrecked the Anderson family, but never had. And Brenda was now trying to … Well, she had no idea what she was trying to do – keep an even keel? Helena had always taken a huge interest in Claire; they could spend hours talking about things that Brenda’s accounting brain had no concept of. Helena was helping Claire put her portfolio together with a view to going to Glasgow Art School. Brenda didn’t like it, but she had learned to accept it. The main thing was that Claire should never feel pressure to make choices. She could afford to be magnanimous. She had everything, including her health. She stopped feeling quite so smug. There were some things money couldn’t buy.
Elvie McCulloch opened up the computer and stared at the headlines on the BBC webpage. A picture of Warren McAvoy filled the screen. Murdered in a field, less than twelve miles away. Exact details were being withheld by the police until further investigations had been carried out. She looked closer at a smaller picture of the crime scene, trying to distinguish the distant figures in the photographs. White van, a queue of cars around a field, a group of people standing, a tent being erected. There was a blonde head that might have been DI Costello and a taller one, darker blond, that might have been DCI Anderson.
The dead body was believed to be Warren McAvoy.
Geno DiMarco had been right to be concerned about his newly found son.
She leaned back, tapping her forefinger against her lips, thinking. Last night she had found Alexis McAvoy’
s address in the file, the half-sister of the suspected triple child killer whose face stared back at her from the computer screen.
She looked at the picture clipped to the file on Geno DiMarco and studied the background. Over his shoulder there was an oak panelled surround and she could make out the lower parts of framed pictures on the wall: one of the sea, the other showing a cuff of a military uniform, the third a hand holding a bouquet. Her mind filled in the blanks: seascape oil painting, military portrait, wedding picture. There was another single framed something sitting on his desk, but angled away so all she could see was the back of it.
She had spent the small hours of the morning Googling Geno. It all made sense when she found out that Geno had lost his wife to leukaemia. Then he had set about looking for his long-lost girlfriend. Elvie could see the implied insult in that, like only checking the spare once you get a puncture.
She would do what she had been asked, but first she would get the story from the half-sister, Alexis, known as Lexy. She had been the contact between McAvoy and Geno, so why was she being quiet now? Because she had lost her brother and was grieving? Lexy was facing the same choice as Elvie, to tell Geno or not to tell Geno. It looked like she had made the same decision.
Bernie woke up with the mother of all hangovers. A jumbo jet of wailing banshees was trying to take off in his head. His mouth felt like gravel, he had diamonds sewn to the back of his eyelids. Every bone in his body hurt.
And it was dark.
It wasn’t cold but he felt cold.
He was lying on concrete. Solid cold concrete. He tried to get up but couldn’t move one leg away from the other. He thought he might have had a stroke. His right leg wouldn’t leave his left, no matter how much he pulled it. He stared at it stupidly. Then noticed the inside part of his trouser leg, rucked up by something – the tie that bound his ankles.
This was bloody daft.
He pulled himself on to his backside, aware that his hands were not similarly bound but they were not exactly free either. They were fixed to something round his waist. And that was connected to his ankle tie by a long chain. He was shackled.