by Caro Ramsay
‘I do have my own lodge, don’t I?’ he said, pulling himself away from the bridge, their footfall hollow on the wood.
‘Not exactly,’ and with that Costello swung her bag over her shoulders and walked away.
They heard a dog barking in the distance.
‘So the dog would have barked in the night,’ said Mulholland to himself.
He watched her go. Hating her and her existence. Now he had to stay at this bloody Lodge Park. Nobody was going to buy their shitty story. All that was happening was the holiday camp was short of money and they were taking advantage of having another two guests. Waste of time. Waste of money.
But he had forty-eight hours at the loch, in the sunshine. Life could be worse. He would be away from the rest of them, away from Costello, away from Sonja. Elvie McCulloch was a wordless mutant.
Yes, it could be worse.
He left the bridge and started to walk down the path, into the deep cover of the trees, sounds of wildlife everywhere. He stuck his iPod and Gogo Street in his ear so he didn’t have to listen. Elvie would be out most of the time; Costello had said that and it rang true. She would be running and swimming; Vik could please himself.
He planned to sit down with a paperback thriller and stopwatch and scrutinize all the comings and goings. Of the owners; Tony and Daisy Laphan, and anybody else who was hanging about. They had given him a good video camera; it was maybe not such a mad idea after all.
He sighed as he followed the narrow path towards the water, feeling the warmth of the sun relaxing his shoulders. Suddenly he was right at the water’s edge with the loch glistening in front of him, crystal clear. It twinkled in the sunshine, triangles of shimmering light dancing across the water. He stood for a good few minutes listening to Gogo Street singing about the uncrossable mile, it was fitting. He was going to walk away but the weight of his rucksack held him back slightly, like a hand resting on his shoulder. Then he saw Costello standing slightly higher, on the grassy part of the beach. So he sat down on a large jutting rock and waited.
Costello ran the binoculars over the water again. Some idiot was swimming, a strong swimmer who was obviously insane. And obviously Elvie. That water would be freezing one inch below the surface. There had been another drowning that morning, a man dipping into a reservoir to cool down. Costello watched the slow, effortless stroke, the regular breathing. Elvie was a fair distance away, but clearly visible.
She stopped suddenly, a flash of flesh in the water as she flicked over. Costello watched carefully, thinking Elvie might have cramp and get into trouble. But Elvie bobbed up again a few feet further on, swimming back the way she came. Just lengths in the water. Costello continued to watch, mesmerised by the elbows turning over with a perfect rhythm. Then the elbows stopped, a black-haired head popped up, a glance at a watch on the wrist then a casual breaststroke to the shore, where she walked out of the water, strong legs climbing the rocks on to the sandy shore.
Costello continued to watch as Elvie bent down to pick up a towel and began drying her hair. She looked from the lithe, muscular figure of Elvie to Mulholland in his designer Wayfarers, Hollister T-shirt and Armani jeans. How much would it cost to bug the single lodge she had booked for them both?
She jumped at a tap on her shoulder, the scent of patchouli oil in the air.
‘She puts on a good show, doesn’t she?’
‘Makes me tired watching her. Have you had a fruitful time, Mick?’
The psychologist’s face was grave. ‘We need to get back to the station, now. If you look over my left shoulder, do you see somebody?’
‘No.’
Mick shuffled round a wee bit. ‘Now? Small guy, faded blue T-shirt, sitting on the hill up there, binoculars.’
‘Oh yeah, I see. Is he that Tony bloke?’
‘Maybe, we need to get going.’
‘Yeah, come on. I’m driving Vik’s car so we might not survive.’
‘You can always—’
His voice was cut off by a scream coming from the water. They both stood still, watching Elvie get up and run.
Bernie woke up, still in his cold, dark place. The concrete walls seemed to be closing in on him. He got the impression that it was daylight somewhere, just a warmth about the air. It made the stench of his shit and urine much worse. He would have been sick, but he had nothing to be sick with. His water bottle was empty, mouth and eyes were dry. His tongue felt like an old slipper. His mum used to say that.
Strange how she floated into his thoughts, hadn’t seen her for a few months, a year … was it more than a year? Lyn went to see her every week … but couldn’t recall the last time he …
He closed his eyes against the dense darkness. It clawed at his eyelids, at his skin. He had no idea where he was, and that was what bothered him. He had been involved in murder investigations for over twenty-five years. How often had he walked witnesses through the experience? Teased little details from them that they didn’t realize they knew? He now tried it on himself. He came up with bugger all. He had driven into the lane, got out the car and some mugger hiding behind the dumpster had hit him over the back of the head. They had stolen his jacket, his wallet. He was lying in a gutter cushioned by dumpster overspill … and that was as far as he had got. So why was he not still there? Why was he here in some kind of garage with concrete walls, concrete floor, and no windows? He was held with chains that fastened his wrists in front of him, a connecting chain to his ankles. Once his eyes had got used to the darkness, and had regained focus from the concussion, he found he could make out a few shapes.
He had been drugged. Maybe they had put something in the water. As time had passed, the water had run dry and his mind had cleared.
He tried to concentrate. He could hear traffic outside, which sometimes got louder as a single car came close then passed, moving slowly as if going to park. He heard a few bangs and scrapes, in close succession, then back to the traffic. It did strike him that they had not taped his mouth, which they would have if there was anybody about to hear him scream.
‘Will he be all right?’ asked Costello as Vik lay on the ground, very pale and very shivery.
‘I think he has broken his fibula,’ said Elvie.
‘I don’t think he’s very good with pain. How did he manage to fall over nothing?’ Costello was stifling a laugh.
Batten pulled her to one side. ‘Well, he wouldn’t be the first one to fall off the Rocking Stone, would he?’
‘No, not at all.’ Her voice suddenly serious.
‘I think I need to tell you something,’ said Batten, watching Vik wince. ‘If that chap we saw was Anthony Laphan, then he used to be a doctor – older, greyer, but definitely him. He passed me as he went up the hill.’
Costello nodded. ‘Sorry, means nothing.’
‘Get Wyngate on to it. He killed a child. Not intentionally, medically, but how many child killers do you get round a bonfire at Loch Lomond? You need to look into that.’
Costello spoke briskly to Wyngate on her mobile as her eyes drifted past Batten, but the man had disappeared. ‘And how old was the child?’
‘Four or five.’
‘Christ.’ Costello repeated that to Wyngate, hearing his fingers clatter on the keyboard, and added, with Batten’s prompting, the information about the pale green vest that Elvie had brought from the island. ‘Great, bye,’ and she cut the call. ‘Same age as Grace. And he still can’t find Fergus McCardle at any university, even on enrolling day.’ She was quiet for a few moments. There was the singing of the birds, and the slap of the waves.
‘You are sure that’s him?’
‘Positive. We’d better get Vik to hospital.
Costello walked behind them as Elvie and Mick got the stricken Mulholland to his feet and half carried, half frog-marched him back to the car. The ten-minute walk took over half an hour. If Mick was right, Tony Laphan had not flagged up in the original investigation. Why?
Once in the clearing, Vik was deposited in the back sea
t of the car as Costello’s phone went. ‘Hi, Col?’ She sat on the bonnet of the car and listened.
‘I’ll be brief. Thea Delany. Killed by an overdose of antibiotic administered by an overworked junior doctor called Anthony Laphan. It was big news at the time, late nineties. Medical mismanagement. Thea’s senior consultant suggested putting the drug in spinally, which Tony did. Without reducing the volume. Thea died a few hours later. It was all very sad, but the prof in question was quoted as saying Tony hadn’t checked what he said, while saying off the record that the kid was going to die anyway. So he became the villain of the piece as the overworked junior quietly had a nervous breakdown. He was an exemplary young doctor. Career ruined. The case changed the way notes are recorded, the way case discussions and the decisions made are finalized. But a very promising career was in tatters and a child died. The senior consultant was a bit too keen to get to the golf club rather than hang around and supervise his juniors. Wyngate has dug up a lot of stuff, which Bernie either missed or dismissed. Extra sad as Thea was a much treasured child, the result of years and thousands of pounds of fertility treatment. Thea’s parents bore no ill will to Laphan; they even took up his offer of a holiday at the campsite. What the hell is that terrible noise?’
‘Nothing really, it’s only Vik. We’re heading to the hospital, the Vale. Don’t worry, he fell off the Rocking Stone and broke his leg. Made of chocolate.’
‘What?’
‘Yup. He fell off the same stone that Grace did.’
She heard Anderson move round at the other end of the phone.
‘How long do you think you’re going to be there?’
‘Well, Dr Crippen and Florence here say that’s he’s fractured his fibby something; it will need a plaster but no op. A couple of hours should do it. I have Mick with me; he has a theory about how Warren got off the island. And Elvie found a bit of clothing. It’s good stuff. What do you want me to do? Chase up Tony?’
Anderson was silent for a moment. ‘Not yet. I presume Vik will want to go home now?’
‘No, I think he wants to get back to Inchgarten. His mum lives four flights up, remember. The lodge here is on the flat.’ She started to whisper. ‘I think Vik would be better being involved. It could really work in our favour. And Mick wants Wyngate to source the original interview material of Eoin and Jimmy Dewar.’
‘Anything else he wants? Jam on it? My arse in a pie?’
‘You should be glad that your team are so dedicated, working with broken limbs and while being bitten alive by midges.’
‘So while Vik is in the Vale, you go to the local nick. I am going to email them with the photo of Mr Field. Take it round as many of the hairdressers in Balloch as you can. Try and get a name. Bernie’s surveillance team never clocked Lexy and Mr Field together, so that, and the wedding band, suggest a covert relationship. If they were avoiding being seen in the area, that might suggest the wife lives nearby and they didn’t want to risk running into her.’
‘You’d know, being the expert on having affairs,’ muttered Costello.
‘Young guy, trendy haircut, done in the last week, O’Hare reckons.’
‘And this is Lexy’s friend? Mr Field?’
‘I think so, and we have found Bernie’s car in Asda car park, Govan.’ Anderson paused. ‘And no sign of Bernie. No signs of violence either. Just be careful, you’re on Bernie’s patch now, don’t antagonise people. What is that awful noise?’
‘Vik screaming again. Nothing to do with his leg, he’s screaming ’cause I’m sitting on the bonnet of his car.’
Anderson looked at the wall. There was now a manhunt out for DCI Bernard Wilson Webster, supervised by uniform at Partick. Bernie’s handsome, sweaty face was on the board now. Suspect? Victim? It was difficult to know. His wife and his colleagues had no knowledge of him receiving a tarot card, but it was hardly the kind of thing that would crop up in casual conversation.
He was now wondering what column Warren McAvoy belonged in.
He wiped a space clean with the cloth and wrote ‘Michael Anthony Laphan AKA Tony’ above it. He reached over and found the CD he was looking for – the pictures of the search of the island on Sunday, 23rd June 2013, the day after the boys went missing. He had scanned through these before, but he looked again. Photographs of a crime scene that were not any scene in particular. He clicked on and on. Mostly around the sites where the bodies of the two boys had lain a few hours before. Anderson noted Sammy and Bernie standing on the periphery, standing very close. Another with them laughing. It couldn’t be all doom and gloom at a crime scene, but laughter like that in front of the crime scene photographer was not best practice – not when the press were after your balls. He clicked on … Sammy and Bernie, Bernie and Sammy. Eyes locked, some looking at the crime scene, some laughing with each other. Bernie dressed in a light suit, shirt and tie with his trousers tucked into wellies. Sammy with some kind of hillwalking boots on, a dark suit, plain jacket and a pale green collarless top underneath. He clicked on through the day, following the path of the photographer on Snooky Bay where Callum died. Then on the Scoob round the folly, more photographs from the site of Robbie’s death on the other side. The photographs were timed at three p.m.; the bay at Inchgarten was in the distance. The photographer had taken a few shots to get the distance and the lie of the land, the Narrows – and the beach. Another of Sammy and Bernie, his hand on her elbow. Not walking on uneven ground. Not moving at a pace. He switched to a piece of video, a panning shot showing the island closest to the bay. And the rocks. The edge had caught Bernie and Sammy high on the grassy dunes, his hand still on her elbow. Both standing still. Anderson thought how many times he had touched Costello’s elbow and in what circumstances. To guide her. To warn her. To shut her up when she was heading towards Karen Jones. He had grabbed O’Hare by the elbow at the Boden Boo when he had stumbled.
Sammy turned to look at the camera. Something was different about her – hair pulled by twigs, flushed, her jacket buttoned right up. Right up. On a hot summer day? He closed in, then flicked back to the pictures at the start of the day. He printed out both and asked Sammy to come in to see him. Sometimes he hated his job.
‘Hi, sit down.’
She sat smiling, legs crossed, slowly, she was a little nervous. Anderson didn’t say anything. Sometimes it was better not to. You learned more that way. He put both the pictures in front of her. She looked from one to the other, a bright ball of embarrassment blooming in each cheek as Anderson used the tip of his pen to point to the vest top, then the lack of it.
‘Oh,’ was the only word through her lips.
‘Oh, indeed. I have a problem, Sammy. DI Costello is coming back here with a top she describes as a light green vest top. When Warren was last seen he was wearing a green coloured T-shirt from an army surplus shop. Two things that can be described in a similar way but are quite different. What am I going to say to the forensics lab when it comes back with your name as a DNA match? Or can you spare me the expense?’
‘It’s mine.’ She didn’t expand further, just kept her eyes on the photograph. ‘We were searching the island, over on the far side. I took my jacket off and tied it round my waist, and then my top got ripped, right down the front.’
‘And you left it at the crime scene?’
‘I took it off; it was covered in all sorts of bugs. Then put my jacket back on. I’m not sure where I was when I noticed I had dropped my top. It was disgusting that day, really hot. The rain had been torrential, it was a quagmire.’ She shrugged, looking at him but not right in the eye. She fiddled with her bracelet, making that bloody Tinkerbell noise.
He tapped the desk with his pen. ‘For your own safety, I don’t want you leaving this station. Can you look out the interviews that feature Eoin Dewar? All of them. In order. And the file on Michael Laphan and the Delany family. You’ll find the connection easily enough.’ He added, ‘Batten is a busy man.’
‘Of course,’ she said lightly, but it didn’t seem ne
ws to her.
‘And tell me, have Eoin, Isobel or Ruth phoned in to see how we are progressing?’
‘No,’ she answered. ‘There’s no word on Bernie yet, is there?’
‘No more word, just the car, sorry. You’ll be the first to know when there is.’
The internal phone rang, allowing Sammy to get to her feet and leave.
‘Hi, it’s Bobby on the front desk. The lovely Lexy McAvoy has come back in – she doesn’t want to go home.’
‘Good, stick her in the interview room.’ He put the phone down. It was nice when a plan came together. He fancied another wee chat with Lexy. Without Sammy being present.
After dragging a bald man round various hairdressers with names like Hair Rods, Gold E Locks and the Dome Domain, Costello eventually struck lucky in a monochrome salon called Curl Up And Dye where Pharrell Williams was being happy. None of the staff were.
Costello recognized the name of the salon and asked for the badly spelled Shinaid. She turned out to be a teenager, blonde, her hair stripped of all colour, and she nodded at the picture of the man with Lexy – her image having been removed – stating that ‘he was one of ours’.
An older woman, with blue talons for nails, immediately stopped her blow-drying and came over. ‘Who wants to know?’
Costello flashed her warrant card. ‘We want to know if you cut this man’s hair; it would have been last week sometime,’ she said, recalling O’Hare’s words about a very recent haircut.
‘I’m not sure that we can tell you that information.’
‘Oh, I assure you that you can. And will. He’s dead and all confidentiality died with him.’ She slid another photograph over the top of the one that had been part of Lexy’s, showing the battered, dead face of Mr Field. She tilted it so only the older woman saw it, then slid the ‘Lexy’ picture back over it.
‘Oh my God. Eddie, Eddie Taylor. I cut his hair myself.’