by Caro Ramsay
‘Do you want to analyse him?’ She pointed at Anderson, making swirling patterns with her forefinger at her temple, indicating some mental deficiency.
‘How are you doing, me old mucker?’ Professor Michael Batten thumped the DCI on the back.
‘Well I never …’
‘Mitchum is desperately trying to avert a media disaster, that’s all. I saw the press conference. That did not help. Got a feeling you were ambushed there, Colin.’
Wyngate placed a coffee in front of Batten, who sat down and adjusted the leather thong round his neck, eyeing up the report the DCI was supposed to be reading.
Costello looked at the silver eagle fastening at the top of his breastbone and the hat. ‘Are you having some kind of midlife crisis?’ she asked. She popped the top of a can of Diet Coke.
‘Aren’t we all?’ he answered. He fingered the photograph of Grace, caressing the bridge of her nose. He didn’t look at the post-mortem photograph, the dead were no good to him. ‘You getting anywhere with this?’ He continued without waiting for an answer, ‘The big issue is, so few people actually knew McAvoy and anybody who does has a vested interest or prejudiced opinion. Who is DI Sammy Winterston?’ He screwed his eyes up as he looked round. ‘Should I know her?’
‘She’s our link to the two cases and she was on the original investigating team into Grace’s … fatality,’ Costello said.
‘And they found there was no crime, fallen off a Rocking Stone? How eerily sacrificial can you get?’
‘Don’t you start, the fiscal said there was no crime,’ said Costello defensively.
Batten slid his jacket off his shoulders, getting ready for a long session. ‘The folk up at Inchgarten Lodge Park knew McAvoy before all this so you should go up there and interview them again from scratch, look behind what they say. He didn’t go from nice guy to child murder in a year – there will be a path, a progression. There always is. Were there any signs of cruelty or bullying? And I think we should look round the geography of the place. That will be in the budget – geographical profiling. I don’t know the loch and I don’t do water.’
‘That’ll be bloody useful,’ said Costello. ‘As in lace parachute.’
‘Oh, I will go, but I’ll stick to terra firma. I get sick on the Birkenhead ferry. Anything at Riverview?’
‘Bugger all. The forensic boys are already being told to pull out. Budget, Mitchum says, but really, who cares who killed McAvoy?’ explained Anderson.
‘And the geography of the farm?’
‘People know it: dog walkers, golfers, the yummy mummy jogging brigade.’ He folded his arms. ‘But the killing of Warren McAvoy was a well-planned operation.’
‘Maybe they had a year to prepare for it.’ Batten walked over to the board: McAvoy at one end, the three children at the other. Small pictures of the six parents.
‘They?’
‘Something about it suggests a team effort. Maybe all the parents getting together?’
‘Is that a joke?’
‘Where is Fergus McCardle?’ asked Batten.
‘Nobody knows.’
‘Exactly my point,’ Batten shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t think you’ll get much out of them. If they – any of them – are behind this then they are way ahead of our game plan, ahead by months. We need to go to where the whole thing started. Back to where Grace died, where McAvoy was last seen one year later. The horror at Riverview has its genesis back at the solstice in 2012.’
Anderson made a quick decision. ‘I agree. But I have an appointment at the mortuary. Mulholland, come with me. Costello, can you and Batten review everything we have and organize a trip to the island for Mick?’
‘Dry land for me.’ He snorted. ‘I want somebody else to risk getting wet.’
Costello smiled slyly and picked up her mobile, ‘I might know just the lady.’
Anderson had intended Mulholland to drive him to the mortuary but his sergeant seemed rather distracted, so he decided it might be safer to drive himself.
‘You got any ideas?’ Anderson asked as the car was swallowed by the cool air of the Clyde Tunnel.
‘About what?’
‘The case, Vik. A suspected child killer has been found with his arms pulled out. We are about to introduce a woman to the dead body of her brother. And you seem to be applying the same concentration as if you were filling out a parking ticket.’
There was no response.
‘What do we pay you for, Vik, exactly? You need to snap out of this.’
Mulholland made a small growling noise, but kept looking out the window. The car became suddenly bright as it emerged from the tunnel.
‘Seriously, I can’t have any passengers on this one. We are under intense scrutiny here. Look at all the media camped outside the station. You need to focus more. It’s no good telling me that Sammy didn’t push the Dewars; you didn’t either. The husband’s alibi is the wife, for God’s sake! You don’t know them; she does. She was being good cop but you sat back and looked at your fingernails. So if you don’t buck up your ideas or sort out what’s wrong then you are off the case.’
‘It’s personal.’
‘Personal gets left at the door.’ Anderson stopped at the lights on Drumoyne Road. It was the long way round but he wanted to give Mulholland the chance to talk. ‘I know that you had to sell your flat and that you owe a shitload of money, but you have a good job. You have a roof over your head until you save up for a new deposit. Some would say you are sitting pretty, your mum making you big dinners every night …’ Anderson left the sentence hanging.
‘How did you know that Brenda was the one?’
‘What one?’
‘THE one. How did you know that she was the one you wanted to spend the rest of your life with? But then, even if you thought that then, you don’t think it now. Otherwise you wouldn’t be messing about with …’
Anderson rammed the car into gear, although the lights were still at red. ‘I’d think very carefully before you finish that sentence.’
‘You are one of the most level-headed people I know and even you have a double life, so what is the point of it all?’
‘You and Mick should get together, swap your midlife crises and back copies of GQ.’
But Mulholland was dead serious. ‘It’s all shit.’
‘Are we talking about Sonja?’
‘I think so.’
‘If it wasn’t money it would be a woman; it usually is.’
‘Two women. Sonja and my mother. My mother is very keen for Sonja and me to get together and produce lots of babies. Mum’s now talking about moving out to give us the flat.’
‘Lucky boy.’
‘I was hoping that my penurious state would buy me some time.’
‘Not such a lucky boy, then. If you have to think about buying time then something’s wrong. Might be the right girl but wrong time. Have you spoken to Sonja about it?’
‘I never get to speak to Sonja. Every time she comes to the flat Mum’s there. When Sonja goes out I seem to be at work. I see more of Costello than I do of my girlfriend.’
‘That would depress anybody.’ The atmosphere lightened a little as Anderson pulled away from the lights. ‘You can’t live the life your mum wants you to live, not at your age.’
‘My mother is Russian,’ Mulholland said blankly, as if Soviet misery was an inherited condition. ‘Maybe I should rent a flat. But that will eat into the deposit and I’ll never be free of her. If I don’t get away I’ll end up looking after her as she gets dementia and starts to dribble. I’ll be the bachelor who stays at home, putting his mum’s teeth in a jar.’
A brief image of Bella’s slippers crossed Anderson’s mind. ‘You’re too fond of designer suits to think about getting them covered in baby sick. There are some things you have to give up, you know. Beige carpets, a full night’s sleep, nice clothes, your mental health. Everything comes round to this small person that screams at the top of its voice for no reason whatsoever. I think
Brenda and I never spoke to each properly for about five years; it was all nappies and being tired. What do you and Sonja have in common, exactly?’
Mulholland make a soft humming noise. ‘We like nice clothes, we spend money.’
Anderson snorted.
‘What about your situation?’ asked Mulholland, half interested, half making a point.
Anderson indicated to turn right, waiting for the traffic to clear. ‘It’s weird but very calm. All that stuff about women wanting to talk everything through is bollocks. It’s a conversational no-go area. Costello has a theory that both women love Claire so they don’t want her to ever feel conflicted. Wisdom of Solomon. There might be something in that.’ He swung the car into a reserved space at the new mortuary. ‘We need to soft-pedal. Lexy lies as easily as she breathes. It will be interesting to see if she recognizes what’s left of her brother. The brother she’s not set eyes on for years although he lives in the same flat, seemingly.’
‘Wish I had a flat like that; I’d never have to look at my mother.’
Costello hung up the phone on O’Hare and looked at the notes scrawled in front of her. It was half past six; she could ignore his request for some video footage and go home. Or stay and watch the shit fly.
She stayed. O’Hare was not a happy man. If he was right, there would be quite a few unhappy men around. She searched for the video files on the computer and found Batten was already viewing the film of Warren McAvoy on the beach with the children. She recognized it as the same footage Ruth had on her phone. PN332/WMCA 101. She sent the link to O’Hare at the mortuary. Then she sat and watched it again herself.
O’Hare’s initial report was that the deceased seemed to have enough painkillers and tranquillisers in him to stun a hyperactive elephant. Why beat someone’s face to a pulp when they could feel no pain? Extreme, personal anger towards the victim, or to make him unrecognisable. She paused the screen on a face-on picture, very close to the image used for the manhunt. McAvoy. His left hand was in view, held out at an angle like he was asking the children to be quiet for a minute. She tried to gauge the look in his eyes: annoyance? A quick flash of anger caught forever on film. There was no glint of gold or silver on his finger but she thought the man lying on the ground might have worn a ring at some time. The man on the screen had slightly discoloured teeth; the man on O’Hare’s table had squinty but reasonably white teeth. McAvoy was so skinny he could dodge raindrops; a year on he was slim but well-muscled.
She tapped the desk in front of her, staring into McAvoy’s face. New teeth? Married? New haircut, brand-new haircut. Most people slipped out of society to disappear. McAvoy had done the opposite. He had slipped in.
And somebody had helped him.
A rich American father walking on to the scene like some personal bank? How far had this American bloke looked into his son’s background?
Costello couldn’t see Lexy going out of her way to mention that Warren, her potential cash cow, was a suspected child killer. She got up and drew a red line under the word suspected on the board. Warren had never been convicted; they must not get carried away by the rhetoric.
‘Hi Alexis, thank you for coming along.’ Anderson nodded at the young po-faced family liaison officer while Lexy flicked the hairsprayed pelmet of zebra fringe from her face. The fringe seemed more prominent than it had been yesterday. She was dressed in studded jeans and a skimpy pink T-shirt that rode up over her tanned midriff. She looked relaxed enough but that slight tremor in her fingers was still there. Anderson wondered if it was a tell of grief. Or of deceit.
‘So what do I have to do?’ asked Lexy, still fiddling with her hair.
‘I’m Amanda,’ the liaison officer introduced herself, ‘and I’m sure we agree that Lexy doesn’t have to do anything.’ Amanda smiled at Anderson. She looked about twelve, wholesome and humourless. Anderson wanted to smack her in the face repeatedly while explaining the rules about life in the big world, where young children die at the hands of evil men and they shouldn’t get away with it.
‘We would like you to tell us if you recognize the face we are about to show you,’ he said gently, addressing Lexy directly.
Amanda opened her mouth to soft-foot Lexy again but Anderson got in first. ‘We would like you to stand here and look at that window. When you are ready the curtain will open. You tell us if you recognize the person behind the curtain. And tell us their name if you do. That’s all. If you feel you can’t go through with it, at any time, say so.’
‘At any time, Lexy, say no.’ Amanda again.
‘No, I’m fine.’ Lexy shrugged, her hair bounced. ‘Go ahead. It’s just that I haven’t seen him for … well, carry on.’ A brief swipe of fingers through that fringe.
That’ll be deceit rather than grief, then, thought Anderson, his mind recalling the bedside photo. ‘OK. You are aware he died a violent death, he has injuries. So be prepared.’
Mulholland turned his back as he always did at this moment. Anderson braced himself. He felt Amanda do the same. You could never predict the reaction. A gentle nod, a small utterance, hysterics, collapse. Sometimes, just sometimes, absolutely nothing. He had Lexy down as a functional nodder and studied her face intently as the curtain slid back. There was nothing but a slight recoil, her eyes opened wide. An imperceptible shake of the head, as if not understanding. It was a common enough reaction – difficult to know what it meant to be dead. They were not coming back. Gone forever.
Lexy glanced at Anderson. He tried to read her expression but it was gone before it could register. She looked back towards the window, to the face staring up. The dark brown hair framing a scarred and swollen face, fractured nose, lips cracked. She walked one pace forward and placed her hand on the glass. Her mouth open, a small sliver of drool spilling from her bottom lip, her eyes welled up. The mouth hung open a little further.
‘Oh my God,’ she whispered. ‘My God. My God. My God.’
‘Lexy? Do you recognize that man?’ Anderson asked softly.
She said nothing; the shock had rendered her speechless. Her eyes darted from Amanda, to Anderson then back to the face behind the glass.
‘Is that your brother, Warren?’
She opened her eyes wide and quickly nodded, her fringe bouncing. Her voice when it came was clean and clear. ‘That’s my brother.’ She turned back, one last look, one last slow breath, her lips moving as if asking herself a question. The tears fell freely now.
‘Thanks, Lexy, I know that wasn’t easy. We’ll be in touch. Thank you for your time.’ Anderson nodded to Amanda to take her away.
They waited until the swing doors had closed.
‘She got a fright, poor girl. Elvie McCulloch said they had reunited recently. Maybe she didn’t want to say so; it must be tough to have a child killer for a brother.’ Vik sniffed. ‘So what now?’
‘Let her stew, I think. Maybe seeing him dead on a slab might change her mind and she’ll tell us where he has been for the last year. Where did they get that fucking Amanda from? An advert in the People’s Friend?’ He looked at his watch. It was nearly seven. Then he heard the inner door opening. O’Hare popped his head out and checked the room to ensure they were alone.
‘Can I have a word? Now.’ O’Hare was curt, not like him.
Mulholland and Anderson exchanged looks as they followed him through the door and down a corridor with that aroma of vinegar and bleach that was unmistakably mortuary.
The professor opened one door after another, the air equaliser hissing every so often and each room getting more clinical. Then he opened another door into an office and sat down behind the desk. Before Anderson and Mulholland had taken a seat, he threw two photographs at them.
‘What am I looking at? A photo of a tooth? And a finger?’ asked Anderson.
‘And a haircut.’ He handed over another two photographs.
‘Yip, Warren McAvoy,’ agreed Anderson.
‘Slim, male, in his late twenties. Five feet nine, dark-haired, brown eyed and
no distinguishing marks that we know about. His arms are on the table with him but they are not attached to him. Costello suspected he normally wore a wedding ring. But he was not wearing one when he died. It’s a habit of single women to check the indentations on the third finger, left hand of men. Seemingly.’
‘OK. He must have got married, then. Something we should chase up – it gives him somewhere to hide,’ suggested Mulholland. ‘That explains the ring. The expensive haircut is explained by the fact we know he has come into money.’
O’Hare regarded the two detectives, a look of vague amusement flicking over his grey, lined face. ‘And he must have shelled out for a very expensive veneer on his right upper canine. And good dental hygiene, which is clever for someone who doesn’t have a dentist. The veneer you can buy if, as you say, you have come into a bit of money. But dental hygiene? You can neither buy nor backdate. This is a guy who has always looked after his teeth. Always.’
Anderson felt his heart begin to sink.
‘Look, why are we even talking about this? His sister has identified him,’ protested Mulholland.
O’Hare seemed in a better mood now. Smiling his quiet, superior smile, he placed a sheet of paper in front of Anderson, pointing with his pen at the familiar genetic bar code pattern. ‘DNA profile of deceased person here, DNA profile of Alexis McAvoy there. They are no relation at all.’
‘But they had the same mother, different fathers?’ asked Anderson.
‘Oh, I am sure Warren McAvoy and Alexis McAvoy have the same mother and different fathers. But that is bugger all to do with that poor sod lying out there. He is not Warren McAvoy.’
The evening was pleasant and warm as Anderson walked up to the station from the car park, listening to the rumble of the traffic, thinking it would be nice to go home and lie in silence on top of his bed with the window open and enjoy the warm evening air while contemplating the end of his career.
As he turned the corner he was stopped by an outstretched forearm.
‘Hi, Costello, have you taken up hanging around on street corners now?’
‘I’d get paid more.’