by Caro Ramsay
Costello tried subtly to ask about his physical wellbeing and the teacher politely ducked the question. Then told her to speak to the PE teacher, Gareth Lamb. Ignoring her disgust of teenage boy sweat, the stench of hockey stick handles and rubber mats, Costello found herself in the PE department. Bad memories flooded back. She hated Gareth Lamb long before he walked out of the boys’ locker room. Like most of her old PE teachers, this guy had an obesity issue.
‘Yeah, that boy suffered bruises, odd cuts. Nothing too much. I tried to get him to talk about it but he would never engage. I know what the boy had been through and he was receiving counselling, so I presumed the abuse would come up in those sessions. They are trained more than we are for that sort of thing.’
‘Surely there must have been times when he was not fit enough to do PE?’ she asked.
But Lamb shook his head. ‘Can’t say that. He was always keen.’
She then drove out to speak to Isobel.
But Isobel was not for letting her in. Costello stood on her steps looking at the screw holes still empty where the former owners’ nameplate had been. Isobel was still wearing her beige cardigan, even though it was a stifling day.
To Costello, Isobel looked like a closed witness. She had knowledge that she was not prepared to give them. No wonder, all victims of domestic abuse lived in a spiral of silence.
‘So Isobel, the relationship between the four of you? It’s not as simple as it seems. It’s more than two couples who were friends, two couples with kids the same age. Kids that were very much wanted.’
Isobel Dewar looked at Costello as though she wanted to kill her. Costello waited for her to deny everything.
Then Costello said, ‘It’s never easy, Isobel, but you will have to tell the truth sooner or later. It was your son that died. We understand your anger.’
‘My son …’ Isobel took her hands out from behind the door to adjust the cuff of her cardigan.
‘And who did that to your hand, Isobel?’
‘I burned it on the iron.’
‘Did you? Are you and Jimmy both accident prone? Was Robbie?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You know, Isobel, I was very touched at the way you and Eoin hold hands, the way you support each other. But it’s not that, is it? You sleep in separate beds. You are scared of him, aren’t you?’
Isobel’s eyes opened wide, an ugly deep breath. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘You’re not doing him any favours. How did you burn your hand, Isobel?’ Costello asked, her voice gentle.
Isobel shook her head in wry amusement, then spoke as though she was talking to a child, slowly, each syllable clear and spelled out. ‘I burned it on the iron. It’s the end of term and I have work to do. Goodbye.’
‘See you tomorrow night, then,’ said Costello. She put a copy of the paper, with its headline of ‘Carnage’, on Isobel’s hall floor just before the door closed on her.
Saturday, 21 June
The Longest Day
Daisy was sitting at the water’s edge on the Rocking Stone, her podgy fingers combing her hair. Mr Peppercorn was lying at her feet, after his usual ‘somebody’s coming’ barking session. Daisy looked younger and slightly frightened. The big world had come crashing in on their idyllic home.
‘Hello, Daisy,’ said Anderson, casually dressed in jeans and fleece.
‘Here for the big event, are you?’
‘Indeed. Sorry business, but it has to be done.’
‘If you say so.’ She got up as if to walk away, slipping her Crocs on to her bare feet.
‘We need to ask you something. What was Warren doing the night Grace was killed? We know he was not at Sammy McSingh’s.’
She looked at Anderson suspiciously.
‘Why did he not come forward?’
‘I don’t know. He wasn’t here.’
‘Have a guess.’ He smiled at her, inviting a confidence.
‘Flying.’ Again she tried to walk away, this time prevented by Anderson’s stretched out hand.
‘Flying?’
‘Flying. A little drink, a little smoke and he’d go flying. Like the witches used to.’ She looked up to the hills, her face a picture of sad wistfulness. ‘Good days, the best of days.’
Anderson recalled Elvie’s warning about driving when he was feeling so chilled. And Elvie did not joke. ‘Daisy, did you drug me the other day? In the gingerbread?’
‘No, I gave you a herbal tea. It’s relaxing. You were very stressed.’
‘I was drinking coffee.’
Daisy looked out across the water, biting her lip. ‘We were happy. It’s all over now.’
‘We are a murder squad, Daisy. I don’t give a shite what you smoke.’
‘I put something herbal in your coffee, nothing illegal. I could see your pulse in your temple, you needed to calm down. And before you ask, I never drugged the children. Neither would Warren. But he could go away for days, lying down, talking to the trees, mellow as anything. Sometimes, we fly. A wee bit of herb here and there, no harm done, consenting adults.’
Anderson thought of the warm fire burning in the summer heat. ‘A wee bit of Mary Jayne. So do you all partake?’
‘We all did a lot of things, DCI Anderson.’ There was something in her tone but her attention had gone. She was looking up the loch with some concern.
That would be a huge deal for Isobel, if it got out. Instant dismissal from her job. How trapped had Isobel felt here? He looked up at the hills, the colours had changed again. He was thinking about another question when something stroked his cheek, like the caress of warm fingers.
‘Did you feel that?’ asked Daisy. Her face was calm now, resolved. She looked like a different person.
‘Feel what?’ Costello asked, joining them from the bonfire, and sitting down. Even Mr Peppercorn was looking out over the water, ears pricked, searching for a presence only he could sense. The air was warm but Anderson felt a chill down the back of his neck.
‘The tears of angels. Oh, yes, this water will cry before the moon comes up. The loch will give up its dead tonight.’ Daisy looked at the sky. ‘You can feel it in the air – the rain is coming.’
Costello pulled a face, got up and walked away, but Anderson was transfixed. The water was unnaturally still, incredibly clear. Then, in front of his eyes, it started to dimple as if being spotted by fine rain. Anderson held the palm of his hands out, looking up, expecting to feel raindrops. The sky was clear.
Daisy placed a tiny spray of green leaves in his outstretched palm … ‘For good luck, DCI Anderson.’ Mr Peppercorn, sensing some distress, stuck his wet nose into Daisy’s hand, for a lick of comfort. ‘You have kids, don’t you, Mr Anderson?’
Colin felt a little wary answering. ‘Yes, I have two. I’ve been very lucky.’
‘Yes, you are. You are very lucky indeed. Remember that. You’re blessed. It is the angels who are talking to you.’
‘Is that good news?’ he asked in all seriousness.
‘It means they are going to return one or take one.’
‘One what?’
‘Take a life or give up a body? Who knows? It’s outwith your hands.’
Brenda got in the car, ready to drive off for her night out. She had replayed that conversation in her mind as she drove along the motorway. Helena had called her, thinking she was having a normal Saturday night at home, but this was her special night out with the new friends at work, her first one in … God knows how many years. So she didn’t want Claire back, and Colin had left a message saying he would be held up at work. So Helena could babysit Claire, or the other way round if Helena was poorly again. Gallbladder trouble, she reckoned.
Funny how that circle of life had come round, another click on the cog. Her friends, not that she had many, thought she was crazy for not leaving her husband. Then crazy for allowing him to come back. Then crazy for allowing Claire to work with Helena.
They didn’t know
how hard it had been lying in their bed alone, without him, not knowing where he was. He had never lied to her. If she had asked she would have been told, but she never had. Life was something that was happening to her now. Gone were the days when her husband lived in a bedsit and she sat alone at home watching Jeremy Kyle.
His leaving was the spur to get up and get on with it. She’d got a job, got herself a life. Turned back into the girl he had met at university, the girl he had fallen in love with. The girl who had been allowed to tag along with the cool students to an outside performance of Much Ado About Nothing, only because her friend had fancied one of Colin’s friends. On the coach going home she was left alone in a double seat, her friend having deserted her. Colin, carrying a bottle of beer, had climbed on the bus and slumped into the seat beside her. Tall, blond, handsome Colin Anderson. A bit of a catch. He had chosen her above all the prettier girls. Twenty-three years later they were still together. With only one small blip called Helena McAlpine.
Helena flicked through the mail she had picked up at the gallery without any real interest. The usual bills, enquiries, insurance going up, a few things that needed to be signed that she could not do by email. She slumped down on her stool, inhaling suddenly when she saw the black envelope. She felt its thickness, then realized that there were two slightly stuck together. She separated them, her fingers feeling clumsy. She opened hers and turned the black card over slowly. The Wheel of Fortune. She almost laughed, like they could do anything to scare her now. Then she looked at the second card. It was addressed to Claire.
That did scare her.
She sat down on her stool, trying to think. Brenda had said something about going out. She wasn’t happy leaving Claire in the house alone, and she couldn’t keep her here, not after what happened last time. Colin had said he’d be down at the loch, so she’d deliver Claire to him. He was doing background checks or something. She’d hang about with Claire until he had finished, they could rendezvous at Rowardennan. He’d be pleased to see them both.
She rubbed her temples, trying to think clearly. These cards were a threat, Claire needed to be with her dad. But she knew that she herself also wanted to see Colin. There was no eternity for them now, it was all numbered, all a countdown. Each moment to be savoured, there would be so few.
The small bonfire was lit, Tony taking a lot of time in fanning the flames and blowing air through the bottom of the pile of twigs and branches.
‘Could never get the hang of that,’ said Anderson. ‘I failed the arson badge at the scouts.’
‘Bloody scouts. All boys and toggles,’ Costello mumbled.
‘Woggles,’ corrected Anderson. ‘So, you know what you are doing?’
‘I am standing here, observing. Vik is filming from the lodge steps with Walker. And Elvie is a free agent. Back-up will be in place at the field once all our guests have arrived. Secondary back-up is on the far side. In both cases arrival time to this spot is less than one minute.’
Anderson and Costello then stayed at the water’s edge, observing. Eoin arrived with Isobel, hand in hand, his fingers entwined round hers, controlling her. A female police officer arrived with the diminutive figure of Ruth following her. The female cop was carrying a bag with a teddy’s head sticking out. Eoin saw Ruth and immediately opened his arms. A genuinely affectionate greeting, a word spoken in her ear, in private. Isobel gave Ruth a functional hug, then Eoin lifted Ruth over the tree logs that acted as seats round the bonfire. Ruth took the teddy and kept it close as she sat down.
Archie Walker was in the shadows of the chalet. He had been told to watch Eoin. Vik was sitting on the steps of Eigg, with a video camera. Elvie was nowhere to be seen.
Anderson kept looking down the path, to the curve at Roonbay, waiting to see if Fergus would make it. Eventually there was a buzz of movement as one of the female officers got a message down her radio. Then she set off with purpose, meeting two colleagues who were helping a very frail-looking Fergus.
Anderson took the chance to leave the waterside and join Costello. ‘God, he made it. That is determination,’ he said in admiration, watching as Eoin greeted his friend before helping him to sit on a log.
Tony put more wood on the fire; Daisy appeared from between the chalets carrying something that looked like a casserole.
Costello gave herself a running commentary. ‘So Isobel is on her own. Ruth has her son’s bear. Daisy doing as Daisy does. Tony drifts around. Fergus and Eoin are chatting. They are waiting for the drink to come. It’s like a bloody picnic.’
‘Very good of you, to take me all the way out there.’
‘No problem,’ said Helena, concentrating on driving up Great Western Road. The light was failing. Her neck hurt, her back hurt. There was a persistent dull ache behind her left eye. The inevitability of what was going on in her body was ever present. But she had not been ready for the small increments it would take, bit by bit, bite by bite. How long did she have left driving? Her eyes seemed to take time to tell her brain about the distance between her and the car in front. Yet although her eyes were so tired, her ears seemed to have become super sensitive. She could hear the noise of the engine like an orchestra of internal combustion; every component, every instrument. She shook her head, trying to wake her brain up. It didn’t work so she slowed down.
She concentrated on her lane position, flinching when the lights of the oncoming cars flashed in her eyes. She wondered if Claire sensed anything, but the girl was fiddling with the CD, humming along. Helena was concerned that the card had come to the gallery. How could that happen? It was tucked in the back of her jeans pocket, burning a hole. The Wheel of Fortune. She had Googled it. A load of crap about turning points, the poor becoming rich, the rich becoming poor, the living becoming the dead. But whoever was sending the cards knew where she worked. Where Claire worked. Somebody had made the connection between her and Colin. She wasn’t taking the chance of what else they might know. What they might do. So she would deliver Claire to her dad.
She drove, not talking as Claire began to translate the sat-nav as they neared the road that would take them to Inchgarten Lodge Park. Fifty minutes door to door.
‘The sat-nav says we have to go up here. Can that be right?’ asked Claire.
‘Yip, I think that is where we go. The postcode is for the lodge park and that is a bit further round.’
‘Dad said they had to go the last bit on foot.’
Helena indicated, pretending to scratch her face. But wiped away a tear. The car was suddenly full of peat-scented air, wood smoke, faint petrol and something else. Something that provoked a memory of Alan coming in the door at three in the morning, straight to the drinks cabinet. Her subconscious grabbed a flashback of him sitting at the breakfast bar, a black coffee and overflowing ashtray beside him. She could see the tiredness in his eyes, the creases in his suit, thirty-three hours on duty, and the smell of sweat. Home for a drink and a shower before he was off again. How could she know that? The number of hours, something so specific? Why was she counting at the time? There must have been a reason. A missing person. A picture floated through her mind. A waitress. She had been so young. She had been dead by the time Alan found her. She had been one of his failures. And something that was not to be shared with her.
Did Anderson talk about such things? With Brenda? Another little stab.
‘I think you might have missed the turn there,’ said Claire.
She hadn’t even seen it. Her mind was elsewhere. She blinked hard and tried to concentrate.
Back in the investigation room, Wyngate and Batten were researching the folly. It was a fake castle wall that effectively cut the island into two. It was recorded, probably erroneously, that two brothers had built it in Victorian times. The folly on the south-west and the cliffs on the north-east effectively halved the island equally, one half for each brother. They were still discussing the stupidity of folk who had too much money when O’Hare walked in.
‘I want to talk to Anderson.’<
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‘He’s not here, he’s at Inchgarten for the big showdown.’
‘Shit.’ He looked at Batten. ‘Or maybe that is a good thing.’ He sat on a chair, handed Batten two files and made himself at home. ‘I want to run something past you. The medical history of the boys.’
‘I’ve been through that, all three boys suffered abuse. The abuse is clustered temporally around the time Warren McAvoy had access to them.’
O’Hare nodded. ‘I picked that up. The McCardle boy fractured his arm.’
‘Fell out a tree.’
‘The knee that needed a brace.’
‘Fell over a tree root when not looking where he was running. They all have an excuse.’
‘Yes, and Robbie is the same.’
‘And so is Jimmy.’
‘Is he?’ asked O’Hare. ‘Look at these. Jo had noted the anomaly at the post, but in the light of Jimmy’s testimony she interpreted it wrongly.’ He put the photographs of Jimmy taken by his dad in front of Batten. ‘These were sustained running from Warren, that’s all. Warren didn’t ever get close enough to Jimmy to hit him, to cause any head injury, did he?’
‘No.’
‘OK,’ said O’Hare, warming to his subject. ‘A year ago Robbie was four feet four, Callum was four feet one. Warren was …’
They both looked at Wyngate, ‘Five feet nine. We already know that Warren couldn’t get through the folly wall, that’s what we’re doing here.’
The pathologist shook his head. ‘This is something else, bear with me.’
Wyngate and Batten exchanged looks as O’Hare took out a tape measure and held it against the desk. He then piled up some books and placed Wyngate’s own copy of The Scottish Police Officer upright on top.
‘Right,’ he said to Batten. ‘Pretend you have a rock in your hand and you are going to hit that book in the middle. But stand up to do it.’
Batten did so, his arm at waist height, like he was hitting a volley from the baseline.
‘OK. So now hit it without thinking about it. Just hit it.’ Batten’s arms went up and over.
‘Exactly. We tried it back at the lab. As soon as we induce a height difference, it’s easier to hit the object on top.’