by Caro Ramsay
Shackled and stuck in a corner of somewhere with a concrete floor.
Somebody was having a laugh.
He could hear birdsong – well, inner city birdsong – pigeons and crows. But no footfall, no chatter, no ringtone of a mobile. Some industrial site somewhere? His watch was gone; he had no idea how many hours had passed. He was hungry but not hugely so. Not much time had passed, surely. He did feel dopey, though.
What the fuck was going on?
Somebody was playing out a joke that had gone way too far. Or were they?
Lyn would not be expecting him. She might question it if he didn’t phone home the next morning after pulling an all-nighter but it wouldn’t give her cause for alarm. And Destiny would think he had changed his mind.
Then he realized that he had no real clear memory of what had happened. Or when. He could recall driving away from the office, but where was he going?
This was more than a joke, more than mugging. This was somebody he had really pissed off taking their revenge. God, that could be a long list. He had been heading up a major incident team for the last two years, but for eight years before that, he had worked closely with the organized crime unit. And ruffled a few feathers.
He shuffled against the wall and tried to sit up, tried to make himself comfy. He saw a litre bottle of water, with the top on it. A large straw had been pushed through a bored hole in the plastic top. He could reach it, if he dipped his head. He manoeuvred his legs so he could catch the top of the straw with his tongue, curling it until he caught it with his lips. As he drank he noticed the weird metallic taste in his mouth. Was that because the water was stale or because it was drugged? He was too thirsty to care. He drank long to quench his thirst, before resting back against the wall.
Then he tried to think about who might have put him here and what to say to get out of it. No need to panic yet.
So he thought.
The flat in McInnes Street in Balloch was one of four in a block, three of the gardens well tended. The fourth was a jungle. Anderson could guess which one was Alexis – Lexy to her drinking pals – McAvoy’s.
It was ten past ten but the young woman who opened the door was still wiping sleep from her face. After a glance at their warrant cards, she shuffled back down the short corridor. A rolling tattoo that said something about death and roses floated from the bottom of her hairline and narrowed down the back of her neck to slide under her zebra-print onesie. Lexy looked older than her thirty-three years, maybe because she was still half asleep. She had three piercings along one eyebrow and a small bloodied mark on the side of her nose where another had been removed. She stopped outside a freshly painted white door and smiled, friendly enough as she flicked a hairsprayed pelmet of fringe – black then blonde then black again – from her face. Only a slight tremor in her fingers hinted at the nervousness underneath. Anderson knew she had been on both sides of the law. A previous history of reset – receiving stolen goods and selling them on round the pubs – but nothing much and nothing recent. She didn’t believe in paid employment.
‘You have found him, then?’
They could have been returning a lost dog.
Anderson sat down on the Ikea settee as Lexy closed the cover on a brand-new iPad Air, and moved it on to the coffee table, next to a copy of the Sun. McAvoy was the front page news. Costello gave it a good look as she shifted a pile of celebrity magazines on to the arm of the seat and sat down. On the window ledge the remains of a cigarette burned in an ashtray, smoke still swirling.
‘Yes, not in the best of circumstances, Lexy.’
‘So somebody got to him? Poor sod.’
‘In a very nasty way.’
Lexy sat down next to Anderson, knees folded underneath her, stripy feet under a cushion.
‘He was found in a field, out near Erskine.’
‘Across the water?’ Lexy shrugged.
‘Yes. You were not close to your brother?’
Lexy pouted a little, looking for the trap. ‘Not seen him for ages, have I? Nobody has.’
‘We will need you to come down to identify the body.’
‘Fine. How do I get there? Do I get expenses?’
‘We’ll send a car for you, don’t worry. When was the last time you heard from him?’
‘Ages ago, must be nearly two years.’ She rubbed her upper arm, comforting herself. Not comfortable with that particular untruth anyway. ‘Hardly seen him since that night at the restaurant.’
‘The night Grace Wilson was killed?’
‘Yeah, so he didn’t kill her. And he didn’t kill those boys neither. No matter what that wee shit said. So you’d better find who did for him.’ She got up to get the cigarette then sat back down, ignoring them both for a moment, giving herself time. She shook her head, the blonde and black pelmet fringe jiggling back and forth.
‘Do you have any idea where your brother has been?’ asked Anderson.
‘Nope.’
‘No idea at all?’
‘Ask those weirdoes up at the lodges.’ She turned her head. ‘What’s your name again?’
‘Colin Anderson.’
‘Well, Colin Anderson.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’ve not seen him for nearly two years and I keep getting hassle. So stop it.’
‘Can I have a glass of water?’ asked Costello, wafting imaginary smoke from the front of her face.
‘Whatever.’
‘Is the kitchen through here?’
‘Aye.’
Costello slipped across the small hall, opened a few kitchen cupboards. Empty. Her nose sensed recently smoked cannabis. She found a small glass and took her time cleaning it under the tap. The kettle was full, two cups sat in front of it. Two cups.
There was a cork board on the wall, stuff stuck to it higgledy-piggledy. An invite to a thirtieth birthday party, a coupon for forty pence off her next jar of Nescafé. An appointment card for somebody called Shinaid at Curl Up And Dye. A well-thumbed takeaway menu from some gourmet palace called Sammy McSingh’s. There were items marked, enough for two: mixed pakora, pathia and dansak, both lamb with side orders of boiled rice and chips. She sipped the water, it was warmish. She hadn’t let the tap run long enough. There was a strip of photo booth pictures, Lexy and another woman with similar piercings, her chin sitting on top of Lexy’s head, pulling faces. She swivelled it on its tack and looked at the other photographs underneath. Costello ran her fingertip over the board looking for any other wee snapshots, then her nail hit the corner of a tarot card. The Devil.
Despite the water, her mouth went dry. She put the glass down and pulled gloves from her pocket, then gently unpinned the card from the board and slid it into an evidence bag.
She slipped back into the hall. Lexy was jabbering on about her human rights, every sentence starting with ‘See me’. Anderson wasn’t talking at all. Costello looked into the bedroom, a tribute to B&Q design, all new, even the carpet. Money had been spent in here recently. On the bedside table was a framed photograph, taken at a funfair somewhere, a pier in the background, grey on grey at the point of the horizon. Blackpool maybe? Lexy had her arms round a smiling young man. His face was covered partly by a swathe of windblown dark hair. As a moment of emotion caught for eternity, it was a great picture. Bugger all use to identify the bloke, though. Was it her brother, Warren? Same smile? Same teeth? She lifted the frame and tilted it to the light; the glass was smeared over the man’s face. Why would Lexy kiss this photograph?
‘Have you received anything strange in the post recently?’ she asked Lexy as she walked back into the living room, dangling the bag with the tarot card in front of Anderson, who then looked at Lexy. ‘Like this?’
‘Aye, I thought it was somebody from the bingo having a laugh.’ But her face searched Costello’s looking for reassurance and found none. ‘Why, what is it?’
Lexy looked from one to the other, frowning.
‘Do people generally know that you are Warren McAvoy’s sister?’
‘Half-sister,
yeah. But we hardly knew each other.’
‘You look quite close in this picture you have in your bedroom. Sorry, I couldn’t help notice it as I walked past,’ she lied as she held out the photo frame.
Lexy looked past Costello, out of the window, thinking about something she didn’t want to think about. ‘And?’
‘You look close, that’s all.’
‘Aye.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s my brother, family and all that.’
‘Can we borrow that picture?’
‘No!’
‘You’ll get it back.’
‘It’s the last pic of me and my brother; I’d rather it stayed here.’ Lexy turned towards Anderson.
‘But you can’t object to me copying it?’
Lexy nodded reluctantly as Costello got out her mobile. ‘So is that you finished?’
‘Well, we will take the card from you if you can sign that wee label there. You’ll get it back.’
‘Don’t want it back. I know nothing about it.’
‘If it is known that you are Warren’s sister, it might be better to take care, until we get this sorted out. Don’t talk to the press, keep your door closed, don’t answer the phone unless you recognize the number display. Here’s my card. Put it somewhere safe and don’t lose it.’
She tucked it in the pocket of her onesie.
‘Don’t open your door, don’t let anybody in. Put the number of the local station in your phone. They know who you are; they’ll get somebody here quickly if you need them.’
Lexy suddenly looked very young, her eyes wide as she stared at them through her fringe. She drew her knees up to her chin. ‘Why?’
Costello sat down on the chair, thinking about the young man in the field, lifeless eyes staring at the sky, the tarot card lying in the plastic sleeve. ‘Maybe you need to hear it all, Lexy.’
Amy Lee pulled open the can of soda and slugged back a good mouthful. Grandpappy didn’t like her drinking it, but he was a grumpy old git so what did he know? She needed a good grade for this project but he wasn’t making it easy for her. He had been snappy and more useless than usual when she had asked him about his background. Not the Canada bit of his background but his ‘ethnicity’, as the teacher called it. Calgary had two hundred ethnicities and the most common one was Scots. That was when she knew what her project would be on. A twenty-minute presentation entitled, ‘So this is what I am’. As she had moved house nine times in her fourteen years, she had no real roots. She knew what she was. Lonely.
Britney was going to do hers on ‘the cellist’. It was suitably highbrow for the school favourite at Revelstoke, BC. She was all music and classics and putting her artistic soul into stuff, practice and the loneliness of the long distance cellist. Amy Lee had told her to write that. She smirked and took another mouthful of soda, feeling rather superior. Britney wasn’t learning any piece of music that Amy Lee couldn’t hum while standing on one leg.
No, Amy Lee was taking the project more literally – this is who I am – this is my DNA. Her ‘dad’ was from Vancouver and an arse, so there was no way she was going down that road. But from what Grandpappy said there could be a few candidates for her ‘dad’, and Amy Lee thought the guy from Vancouver was way too stupid. End of. Then Mom had walked out and forgotten to come back. Then Grandpappy had moved them from Vancouver to Thompson, Manitoba then Ramsay, then Banff, then Saskatoon then Revelstoke, BC. Amy Lee didn’t know if her mom knew where she lived nowadays. She had tried to write to her, but Grandpappy said there was no point.
So she had grandparents as parents and she was lucky. The oldies had gone back home to Scotland for his birthday last year, leaving her to stay with Britney. He’d taken his new phone, so he had a huge chunk of photos she could use if she could find it.
What was it with calling it back home anyway? Silly old goat hadn’t lived there for eighty years and still called it home. Maybe that’s why he found it difficult to be at home anywhere else.
So far she had found out that Grandpappy was born a ‘Colquhoun’; Amy Lee was Amy Lee Cohoon, which made her life a whole bunch easier. The Colquhouns had a kilt and owned bits of Scotland including some islands and a piece of water, and had fought beside the king. Or against the king. Or something.
She made a note to find out. She didn’t think Grandpappy was going to help. Immigrants could be sensitive, her teacher had said. She put a note about that too: people could be sensitive about where they came from. She made another note in her wee spidery writing, sensitive about why they had to leave.
Gran, who was Grandpappy’s third wife, was a French Canadian, which some Canadians liked to call themselves no matter how many generations of Canadian were in there before the French bit. Mom told her once that ‘Vancouver Dad’ was Scottish on his mom’s side too and that’s why he drank so much. So that made Amy Lee fifty percent Scottish, twenty-five percent French and twenty-five percent Canadian – and that last bit was a whole bunch of mongrels.
She was going to do her project, look into the family background of Grandpappy and find out if he was related to Mel Gibson or William Wallace or whoever.
She typed out: This is what I am.
Grandma had said that Grandpappy had been called Robert Colquhoun when he was born, and that Amy Lee should leave it there. So Amy Lee wasn’t going to tell them what she was doing until it was done. She had logged on to a few websites and put out a few requests for help. Amy Lee had always known the name of the boat: the Caledonia. Grandpappy had an old postcard of the majestic-looking steam ship on his bedside table. There was a circle round one of the portholes. She had asked about it once. On the net, she had found that it sailed out of Greenock. That was a place to start.
She needed a bit of help, a few wee enquiries about how and where to find out where Robert Colquhoun had been born. The Colquhouns hung about a place called Loch Lomond. She could pick up the trail from there. One reply had come back from a company ‘Parnell Fox Investigations’ that traced missing people in Scotland. She had no money, of course, but all she needed was for them to tell her how to go about it. She Googled them and found a murder case around the same Scottish loch in 2013. She took that as an omen. Scotland was tiny. How many bits of water could there be? She scrolled down the names, saw one called McCulloch.
Elvie McCulloch? That sounded kinda trendy and kinda Scottish, so Amy Lee opened her email and started typing, quietly. It was two o’clock in the morning; she was scared she might wake Grandpappy up.
Anderson walked out to the Golf, dodging the reporters with a hard ‘no comment’. Costello walked with her head down, seeing Karen Jones out the corner of her eye. The journalist had her habitual cigarette hanging out the corner of her mouth, sucking on it like it was her life blood, dressed in denim from top to toe, skinny jeans. She jumped up when she saw Costello and came bristling over.
‘So what can you tell us?’
‘You should know better, Karen.’
‘We will be asking Lexy for her story. My editor’s given me an open cheque for this one. You might want to get your side in first. Lexy’ll put the boot in.’
Costello had to sidestep to get round her. ‘Any well-respected journalist would wait for the press conference.’
Jones ignored the slur. ‘So where has McAvoy been for the last year? Who’s been hiding him? Was this an act of vigilantes? Do you …’
It was on the tip of Costello’s tongue to tell her where to go but instead she smiled and accidentally bumped into her so that Jones was forced to step backwards into the gutter. Where she belonged. ‘Oh, sorry,’ Costello said, now free to open the passenger door.
Anderson drove out, watching the group of journalists swarming up the path to the front door of Lexy’s flat.
Costello phoned the local station and asked them to get round to Lexy’s to disperse the media and make sure that they didn’t get to Lexy, and pretend to be doing it for her benefit. Then she cut the call.
‘She won’t thank you for that if they’re
going to wag pound signs in her face. My life with my child killer brother.’
‘The child killer brother that I hardly know but I have his picture beside my bed? Is anything that comes out her mouth true?’
‘No.’
‘They don’t sound alike, brother and sister. Well, half-brother and sister.’
‘They’re both involved in criminality, as Archie Walker would say.’
‘Criminals aren’t the problem. It’s the crime,’ Costello mimicked Walker perfectly.
‘Did he say that?’
‘Might have been the other way round, I wasn’t listening,’ she said pulling the tarot card in its plastic sleeve out from under her jacket. She was examining it, thinking about her dinner, when her mobile rang. She glanced at the caller display. ‘Blast from the past,’ she said to Anderson, accepting the call. ‘Elvie? What can I do you for?’
‘Do you want to put me on speakerphone?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because I want Anderson to hear this.’
Costello looked round, while turning on the loudspeaker on her phone. ‘Why? Where are you?’
‘Behind you.’
Costello said to Anderson, ‘She’s in the car behind us.’
‘Yes,’ said Anderson. ‘I heard. Why?’
‘What are you doing, Miss McCulloch? Not following us around looking for business, are you?’
‘I was here before you.’ Simple statement of fact.
‘So how did you know where Lexy lived? And why were you there?’
‘It’s my job.’
‘No, your job is a student of medicine; you should be cutting up dead bodies and healing the sick.’ Costello looked at Anderson. Elvie McCulloch, sister of the murdered Sophie McCulloch. All the time that Sophie was missing, Anderson’s major investigation team had been sympathetic but unable to commit to looking for her officially. Sophie was a grown woman; she could disappear if she wanted to. Tragically, they had all been wrong.