by Caro Ramsay
‘Address?’
The blue talons tapped at the keyboard. ‘The address is 128 McInnes Street.’
‘That’s Lexy McAvoy’s address.’
The woman nodded. ‘Yeah, they live together. She’s in here a lot, her fringe needs a lot of maintenance.’ She smiled, being helpful now as everybody in the shop was listening, straining to hear over the noise of hairdryers and Pharrell Williams.
‘Did he seem local?’
‘Yeah, he’s a wee chatterbox. He spoke to anybody.’
Costello caught the inflection. ‘Anybody?’
‘Even the weirdoes, you know, them on the hill.’ She had lowered her voice. ‘All that business about her brother.’
‘From Inchgarten? Tony and errr …’
‘Daisy. Yeah,’ Blue Talons tutted and rolled her eyes. ‘You know what they’re like?’
Costello smiled knowingly. ‘Weirdoes, but nice with it.’ She folded the photo away but made no signs of leaving.
Blue Talons lowered her voice. ‘Well, you know the rumours?’
‘I’ve heard all sorts,’ smiled Costello, encouragingly.
‘You go there if you’re having trouble, you know …’
Costello nodded, having no idea where this was going.
‘I mean, it’s only rumours, but I heard they dance round the fire, naked in the moonlight, and drink some witches’ brew. They do something with a horny goat. Christ knows if it’s true but it works. Wee Freya and …’ She stopped laughing. ‘Then there was the business with the kids …’
‘Terrible. But thanks.’
Back out on the street, Costello ignored Batten, who was perusing the price list of the Hippy Chippy as she phoned Wyngate and asked him to do a missing person search for an Edward Taylor. There was already a shortlist of possibles on the computer, and it flashed up a match straight away. Edward Taylor lived less than two miles away. Wyngate offered to text her the postcode. ‘Reported missing by his mother.’
‘Should be interesting, then. Let Anderson know that we are on it, but are having some chips first. And can you do me a favour: find out what Tony Laphan’s dissertation was about? Did he have any interest in anything particular as a student?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I say so. And any wee girl called Freya, anything at all on the fringes of the case.’ She cut the call.
After a hurried tea and a roll on chips, Costello parked Vik’s Audi outside a modern four in a block in Bride Street, Alexandria. She nudged it into the space too far, forgetting about the spoiler, and heard the grating of metal on concrete.
‘Oops,’ said Batten.
‘What happened to my mum?’
‘She was murdered,’ Anderson said brutally. ‘We have your DNA on the database so there is no doubt she is your mother.’
Lexy flicked her fringe as if she was brushing Anderson’s answer away. It looked less ridiculous now.
‘She wasn’t that one who was set on fire, was she? Read about that on Facebook.’ Lexy seemed unmoved. ‘Can I have a cup of coffee? I don’t think I can go home. Now.’
Anderson opened the door and asked somebody to put the kettle on, then leaned against the wall, arms folded, and listened to her. She spoke like she was talking about the weather.
‘I haven’t seen Mum for a couple of years and it was fairly rubbish for the twenty years before that, so I’ll pass on the mourning, thanks.’ She rubbed at her nose with the palm of her hand, the cartilage making a clicking noise. ‘Once she lost her job, she lost the plot. Warren and I were all over the place, foster homes, two children’s homes. It was crap. Mum couldn’t cope with anything. Us. Life, whatever. She was a gypsy, being indoors killed her. Where was she?’
‘Here in Glasgow, in the old storage place. The Gray Dunn building?’
Lexy smiled at Anderson. ‘The old biscuit factory? That was where she worked.’ She fired her forefinger at him, pausing as the door opened and two mugs of coffee were handed in with a plate of ginger nuts.
‘They set fire to her, Lexy.’
Lexy sighed, tapping the teaspoon against the side of the mug more than was necessary. Anderson thought she looked very young all of a sudden. And vulnerable. ‘Easy target, so go figure.’
‘And Warren, where would he be?’
It was back, that little half smile, that tremor. She turned and looked at Anderson. ‘Why’s it all got to be about him?’
‘I was asking if you knew where he was so that we could tell him about his mother.’
‘He might have killed her. Did you think of that?’
‘Do you think he did?’
‘No idea. Mum’s had a long affair with the bottle. But that’s how she was, she liked to drink … out there she could drink, out there she had to.’ Lexy looked up, listening to the sounds of the city. ‘Anything, Basso, Tarps, raw alcohol. Foot flat on the self-destruct pedal. It wasn’t going to happen to me so I left them both to it.’
‘Hard to live with,’ agreed Anderson.
‘Well, she left so we didn’t have to live with it. I had already moved out.’
‘Then Geno came along.’
‘Yeah, Geno.’ But Lexy’s mind was elsewhere. She picked up a biscuit and bit at it. ‘I hate soft ginger nuts, don’t you?’
‘I dunk mine.’ Anderson watched her carefully. ‘We know Warren got off the island.’
She looked up. Her voice was wavering as she said, ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘So he is out and about. Three children have died. Your mother has died. The man in the field, tortured, killed.’ He picked up his coffee, instant but a good instant. He leaned against the wall again.
She nibbled at the ginger nut but didn’t seem able to swallow it.
He let her panic.
The front door was opened by a young woman in a fluffy dressing gown, with damp hair and chubby tear-stained cheeks. She had a line of white dribble down her left shoulder. Baby vomit. She looked from one to the other curiously, then something clicked. Her eyes closed, her head fell forward.
‘Mrs Taylor?’ said Costello, reaching out an arm in case she fell.
An older woman appeared, dark haired with old-fashioned glasses at the end of her nose. She grasped the younger one by the shoulders and guided her back inside.
‘Yes,’ the older woman said, ‘we are both Mrs Taylor. Have you found Eddie?’
Costello heard Batten take a step down behind her. ‘Can we come in for a moment? Might be better.’
The young woman turned and buried her face in the older woman’s shoulder. Mrs Taylor senior looked Costello straight in the eye; she gestured with her head that they should go through but she was not happy about it.
One minute later, they knew that life would not be the same again. Alison had lost her husband, Wilma had lost her son. Alison had collapsed on to the settee in hysterics, across her mother-in-law’s knees. Wilma was calmly stroking her daughter-in-law’s hair, beyond tears.
‘How old is the baby?’ asked Batten.
‘Nine months, a boy. Teddy, after his dad.’
‘Just the one child?’
‘Yes, not been married two years yet.’ Wilma continued to pat Alison’s head. ‘So how did you find him?’ The question was directed at Costello.
She looked at Alison, wondering if she was listening. ‘We can’t reveal exact details, but a man of his description has been found fatally wounded in a field …’ Her voice tapered off, suddenly aware of the tiny living room, clean, ironing done, clothes piled up on the back of an easy chair. A baby chair took up most of the available floor space.
Wilma watched her. ‘Alison hasn’t slept a night since Teddy was born. It’s been even worse since Eddie failed to come home.’
‘Do you think she’s up to answering a few questions?’
Wilma shook her head.
‘So, Wilma, do you recall Eddie meeting anybody new or if he was worried about something?’
‘Not that I am aware of. But I don’t know if he would have t
old me anyway. I’m his mum, after all.’
At that point the baby started howling from upstairs, bringing Alison back from wherever grief and exhaustion had taken her. Wilma went to get the baby, Costello and Batten were left looking at the heaving mess on the settee.
‘Was he with somebody else?’ Alison asked, eyes rimmed red, the skin at the corner of her mouth cracked and angry; she looked like a broken puppet. ‘I think he was shagging around.’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘You never think that it’s going to happen to you. He went to work, left a message he’d be late. He was going to see his gran. I don’t think I remember the last time I saw him, the last words he said to me.’ She dissolved into a pool of sweat and tears and snot.
The volume of howling increased as Wilma came down the stairs holding the ball of bright pink bawling flesh, which she handed to Batten. Silence descended. ‘I’m putting the kettle on.’
Alison spoke, her voice suddenly clear and steady. ‘It was on Facebook. Eddie wasn’t the guy found at the farm, was he?’
‘We are still making a few enquiries. Can you tell me Eddie’s granny’s name?’
‘Betty? Elizabeth Taylor,’ said Wilma as she came through from the kitchen. The screaming resumed with operatic proportions as she prised the baby out of Batten’s hands.
Costello made their goodbyes. The noise made any decent conversation impossible. She closed the door behind her, only partially cutting off the baby’s screaming.
‘Jesus!’
‘There’s a whole PhD going on in there. I have damaged my eardrums.’
‘Tough. I’m going to text Anderson and make his day.’
‘OK, Lexy.’ He put the photograph from her own flat down in front of her. Lexy looked around, arms folded, her eyes wary. ‘Cut the crap now. We know that this is not Warren. So who is he? Whoever killed your mother, killed this man, and might have Bernie Webster.’
‘Saves him from Sammy, I suppose,’ but her humour fell flat.
Anderson made a mental note but let it go. ‘If he dies and you could have stopped it, I will make your life a living hell.’
Lexy drained the mug and placed it on the table, none too gently. ‘It’s Eddie; he’s my kind of boyfriend. Kind of.’
‘Yes, we know; Costello has been round to tell his wife that their wee baby is going to grow up without a father.’
Lexy bit the corner of her lip.
‘We are getting a warrant to search your flat right now. We’d make less mess if you told us what we might find.’
She ticked the items off on her grubby fingers. ‘Eddie’s wedding ring, his driver’s licence in the bedside cabinet. All Warren’s ID was fake, bought it for twenty quid. It was kind of proof for Geno. But he never asked for it.’ Her eyes welled up. ‘Kept thinking that Eddie might come back, until I saw him lying in the morgue.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Saturday night. We went out for a curry, down to Sammy McSingh’s.’
Anderson kept his voice light. ‘That’s where you were the night Grace died?’
Lexy was biting her lip again.
Anderson waited and waited.
‘Yeah, the food is good, get bevvied, cheap taxi back.’
‘Have you seen your brother at all in the last twelve months?’
‘No.’
Anderson dropped his head into his hands; he suddenly felt very tired, very hot. ‘So, to clarify. You were with Eddie the night Grace was killed. Not Warren?’
Again she went quiet, then said, ‘Yes.’ Her eyes fell to the photograph of her lover lying in the grass, eyes open, staring at the sky. ‘Sorry.’
‘One more question. Did anybody come to see you or try to speak to you after the news about Warren broke?’
‘Like who?’
‘Anyone.’
‘I dunno. That Karen came up to the front door; a few others knocked and went away.’ She rubbed at her eyes with the palms of her hands. ‘Oh, and somebody walked up the path then changed their mind.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They went away.’
‘They?’
‘Two of them, came out a white van. I thought they were from the council so I didn’t answer. I owe my council tax. They walked right round the house.’
‘Would you recognize them?’
‘I only saw them from above – I was upstairs. Two men, dark hair, that’s all. Why?’
By half past six, Vik was hobbling back down to the water’s edge where he had fallen: the Rocking Stone at the Roonbay. It took him ten minutes of limping to get there, his thigh muscles aching as he held his bad ankle up. He wasn’t sure if the crutches were helping him or hindering him.
Then he sat on the stone, making sure his weight didn’t move it before clumsily dropping the crutches beside him where they clattered against the stones like giant chop sticks. He stuck his bad leg out. He would worry about getting back up again when the time came.
He pulled his fleece off; the sun was dying but it was still warm and he was sweating. Or maybe that was the pain.
He looked across the water, so brightly silvered it hurt his eyes. He should have brought his shades with him. He tried to stand up then sank back down again, the throbbing pain in his ankle winding itself up to warp factor ten.
He cursed quietly under his breath, his eyes returning to the water and to the little island lying seemingly close enough to touch. All he had to do was reach out.
Getting his bearing, recalling the photographs on the board. He was sitting on the rock where Grace had fallen to her death. He twisted, looking behind him to the right, to Inchgarten Bay and the bonfire, looking at the lie of the land. He turned back to his left, towards the path that led through the woods to the car park. Behind him were the lodges. The bay curved into a few trees on an outcrop, growing bushes and brush, then the bigger sweep at Inchgarten Bay. Grace was only four. Could she have crawled out of her bed, through the door of the lodge then skirted down to the water? Was she climbing the rock, watching the adults having their fun, their bonfire and eating burnt sausages? She would have wanted to see all that, like a kid staying up for their first Hogmanay. Chasing a magic that was always elusive.
He found it difficult to believe it was an accident. Somebody must have enticed her down here, helped her on to the rock. Then what? Pushed her so she fell on a spike? That was rubbish.
He let the pain in his leg subside. It was not ideal here but it was better than being locked in the office with Costello and her unsubtle probing into his private life. She had said the budget hadn’t allowed her to book them a lodge each. She was a bloody liar but then Elvie was surprisingly nice, a good listener, not fussy like his mum. She had that cool kindness that good doctors should cultivate. She had examined the strapping, set him up on the settee with the remote control and a pile of cushions. She had gone out and not returned.
He checked his mobile, one bar of signal. Still no message from Sonja. She was probably getting ready to go out somewhere. He stuck it back in his pocket. And sighed, content. Aware that the depression that had been sitting hard on his shoulders was burning off in the late summer sun. Talking to Elvie had awoken something in him, talking man to ‘man’, about a job without the constraints of Police Scotland. No politics, nobody watching their back, just a free flow of ideas – the way they did in the pub, in the old days. Passion for the job, passion to catch the bastard who had killed three kids. They were both after Warren McAvoy. Elvie had told him Batten’s theory about how he had got off the island. How had the original search team missed that?
‘Hi,’ a figure blotted out the sun, a shadow fell over him.
‘So how is the invalid feeling now? I heard what happened. I’m Tony.’ A small, thin man extended a hand down to Vik, a firm handshake. Mr Peppercorn was standing beside him, wagging his tail, ears perked up like Vik might be of use as a toilet.
‘You OK with the dog?’
‘Is h
e yours?’
‘When he wants to be.’ He moved round to sit on the stone next to Vik, who shuffled along a little, leaving only inches between him and the dark, deep water. The gentle breeze lifted his fringe to reveal a receding hairline. He was older than he appeared, late forties maybe. Vik could smell garlic and curry powder. ‘How is your mobility?’
‘Rubbish, I keep tripping over the crutches,’ he said, thinking about his own vulnerability.
‘Might be better using just the one, easier to get used to. Spiral fracture?’
Vik nodded.
‘Painful but not nasty.’ He looked out over the water, eyes creased at the corner, looking for something or thinking about something. ‘Why are you here? Another cop. I can tell by the haircut.’
‘I am. Elvie isn’t. She’s a friend of Warren’s family.’
‘He doesn’t have any family. We don’t count that waster of a sister or her arse of a boyfriend. Why all this cloak and dagger stuff? Do you not trust us or something?’
‘Just trying to get to the bottom of it.’ He found himself adding, ‘Nobody was supposed to notice I was a cop.’
‘No skin off my nose, you can crawl about on your bum pretending to be Beyoncé if you want. Daisy and I don’t care.’ He grimaced as if suffering some physical pain. ‘What Bernie and his girlie struggled with was the concept that we all want this resolved. We really do. I knew Warren well, had known him for years. Lovely young man. Odd but lovely. A quiet man, drifted about, in the shadows.’
‘His mother has been killed.’ Mulholland looked round, conscious of the fact he was on his own, and that he couldn’t get away. Then he saw a movement from further up the beach. Elvie doing some stretches, but watching. He was touched. ‘Do you know that the body we found was not Warren?’
‘I gathered. Another cock-up. So where is he?’
‘We don’t know.’ Vik watched Tony, but the other man’s face was turned towards the evening sun. He thought he may as well get some information. ‘Did Grace die here?’
‘Right here.’ Tony nodded without taking his eyes off the water. Mr Peppercorn jumped up on the stone and sat beside him. Tony placed an arm round the dog’s neck, his fingers ruffling the thick speckled coat. The dog panted, his long tongue hanging out the side of his mouth like a slice of spam. ‘That was a dreadful night. I told them not to remove the stake. But they did, Adam did. She haemorrhaged. It would have been fatal anyway, but you try anything in those circumstances. I remember the boy screaming, Wendy going to pieces, Adam’s hands covered in blood. Warren had nothing to do with that; he wasn’t even here that night.’