Singing to the Dead

by Caro Ramsay

  A seven-year-old boy called Luca Scott had disappeared thirty-six hours ago. The boy had more or less lived on the streets and it wouldn’t be the first time he had done a runner. The family, such as it was, belonged to that inner-city underclass which was of no fixed abode but always seemed able to afford the latest mobile phone and a bad-tempered pit bull. Quinn sighed. She’d hoped to have rather more than this for the briefing update.

  The next file was forty pages thick, a document circulated to all Strathclyde stations. Rock legend Rogan O’Neill was flying back into Glasgow airport, and a brief itinerary of his castle-hunting plans was attached, plus details of the Hogmanay concert which had been rumoured but was now definite in the light of the Pakistan earthquake appeal. Nothing like a good disaster to jump-start a flagging career. There was page after page about the security involved, with special notes for Partickhill Station. No special budget or manpower, Quinn noted, just more work. Why did they not go to the old divisional HQ at Partick rather than this tiny station, built to fill a gap in the tenements where the Luftwaffe didn’t miss? Partick Station was big enough and modern enough; it had the staff and resources. So, why had this landed at Partickhill? In fact, why had she been landed at Partickhill? All because some aging rock star was staying at the Hilton round the corner, with – rumour said – the compulsory blonde model girlfriend, or at least the latest in a long line of blonde model girlfriends. Quinn looked at the press photo of him. The years of Californian sunshine and Botox had not been kind; O’Neill was verging on the ridiculous. The memo gave his age as ‘early fifties’. Quinn did a quick calculation – by that reckoning she was still in her late thirties. If he could take a decade off his age then so could she. Quinn lifted the lid of her make-up bag, and looked in the mirror, pulling at the folds of skin under her eyes. Maybe not.

  She opened a few more bits and bobs, determined to make her way to the bottom of her in-tray before the briefing – she wouldn’t put it past this lot to leave something really important right at the bottom, then ask her about it. The usual pile of memos, her expenses form (last month’s)… She pulled out a piece of stiff white card: Alan McAlpine, 1960–2006. His picture on the front of the funeral Order of Service looked back at her, a relaxed and handsome man with melting eyes and a smile that was more intriguing than friendly.

  Eight weeks before, only eight weeks. Her predecessor, DCI Alan McAlpine had died a hero, and since then Quinn had sensed quiet smiles of support between DI Anderson and DS Costello, had witnessed the pinched words and understanding silences.

  Before Quinn arrived, Partickhill had been their perfect enclave. DCI McAlpine in his mid forties. Colin Anderson, his favoured inspector, a few years behind and Costello a few years younger again. Their careers had flourished in McAlpine’s wake but, with McAlpine gone, Anderson had been severely tested and he had stood firm. Very firm. And tight-lipped. Quinn knew there was a lot to the story of DCI Alan McAlpine – more than she would ever be told. As their boss, she was on the outside. As a woman, she preferred to remember McAlpine the way he was; handsome, complicated, vulnerable. She looked into his eyes again, those brown almond-shaped eyes, remembering the quiet hiss of the crematorium curtains closing, the subdued whirr of the coffin sliding into darkness. It could have been yesterday. She looked at the photograph for a minute longer, pleasant memories stirring, and stuck it at the bottom of the pile.

  She jumped as the shrill ring of the phone reprimanded her.

  ‘DS Costello here.’ Female, clipped, abrupt, only just this side of insolence.

  ‘Yes, DS Costello.’ Quinn spoke with pointed politeness.

  ‘Any news on Luca Scott, ma’am?’

  ‘Am I not supposed to be asking you that?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been trying to get access to his mum at the hospital, but no joy. There’s something else, ma’am – a Miss Cotter of Havelock Street… that’s near where…’

  ‘Yes, I know…’

  ‘Well, she’s reported that her neighbour came home last night without her son and he’s not in the flat this morning. The mum is too drunk to remember where she’s left him. I checked on the database and it’s not the first time this boy, Troy McEwen, has been reported missing either, so in light of Luca Scott…’ Quinn heard Costello flick over a page of her notebook, ‘… both seven years old, living within half a mile of each…’

  ‘Send me up anything you have.’ Quinn pulled Luca Scott’s file from the small stack on her desk. ‘And get DI Anderson back here, as soon as.’ She hung up. She shut her eyes for a moment, willing the two little boys not to be connected. Not two missing children, just before Christmas, not for her first case with this team – McAlpine’s team.

  They were good – Anderson and Costello – McAlpine’s hand-picked little squad, a tough team to crack. But the king was dead, long live the queen. Long live the Quinn – she allowed herself a little smile. DI Colin Anderson was the one she had to break. The tall fair-haired intelligent one, who thought before he spoke, each action considered. She had expected some resentment from him that she’d taken over from McAlpine, but there was nothing. Well, not exactly nothing – more of an indefinable something, as if he were merely going through the motions, like a clever pupil with a slightly dense teacher. Quinn had been hoping he would blow, say what he had to say and get it over with, but so far, nothing. Anderson was respected by the whole squad; he would accept the hand he was dealt and get on with it. But Costello wore her resentment of Quinn like a badge of honour. No way she could get between those two.

  But Mulholland, the good-looking fast-track boy, was anybody’s slave for promotion. He hadn’t been at Partickhill long enough to be bonded to the other two. She had heard nothing but excellent things about DC Mulholland from Divisional HQ. Maybe dangling the carrot of promotion was the way to cut the Partickhill pack.

  Quinn smiled – they were McAlpine’s hand-picked team no longer.

  They were hers.

  Annoyed, she saw the picture of the old DCI looking up at her with some reproach; he had worked his way back up to the top of the pile, just as he had in life. Bastard, she muttered to herself, picking up the Order of Service and wondering where to put it. The bin seemed disrespectful, and in any case someone might find it there.

  She knew she was not the only one who had succumbed to McAlpine’s charms more than once in the last twenty years, not by a long chalk. She spun her leather seat round, away from prying eyes, and stroked his picture against her cheek before feeding him slowly into the shredder.

  She sat for a moment, watching him go. Then she stood up.

  Five to twelve. In-tray empty, desk tidy, lipstick in place – she was ready.

  2

  The mouths of the tartan-clad observers swelled into perfect pink Os as Squidgy McMidge broke the ranks of the massed pipe marching band, picked up Callum the Caber and prepared to fling him in the great Scottish tradition, scraping his front two legs into the ground like a bull ready to charge.

  Squidgy tottered and teetered, his eyes scrunched into walnuts, as he began his run-up. As the midge’s six little legs gained speed, they whirled like Formula One wheels, first in mid-air and getting nowhere then, as they made contact with the ground, he hurtled along and punted the Caber high into the air.

  As Callum upended, so did Squidgy.

  Completely airborne, Squidgy McMidge posed in a vast expanse of cloudless powder-blue sky. A fat little insect with a cheeky grin, six legs akimbo, his wings as useless as a neatly folded parachute, he drifted and ran out of pages.

  Eve Calloway eased her body weight to the back of her wheelchair and smiled. She was pleased. It worked – Squidgy worked. On each page of a series of little notebooks shoplifted from the local supermarket was a simple drawing, almost identical to the ones before and after, but as she ran her thumb down the free edge and flicked them Squidgy McMidge, with his evil beady little eyes and his dangerous grin, came alive. Squidgy McMidge, the new face of Andy’s Appeal for the victim
s of the earthquake in Pakistan. But the midge needed a little more colour. Maybe a little purple kilt… She ran her thumb a second time across the ends of the pages, and as Squidgy took the run-up again and tossed Callum the Caber high in the air, the faces in the crowd left the page in a series of hurried lines.

  Eve rubbed the tension from her eyes and glanced at the clock. Midday. She had been drawing for over an hour, losing herself in giving life to her cartoon. Squidgy was a difficult child, demanding his life on the page. She picked up the furry purple midge, a prototype for a kiddie’s soft toy, and looked into his beady little eyes. He looked happy – well, as happy as he ever looked.

  Eve arched her back; she was sore, and her bum was numb. She needed sugar. She reached forward and made an assault on a family bag of Maltesers. Stuffing her mouth full of chocolate, she caressed the midge gently with the fleshy part of her thumb, saying goodbye for the moment, and sighed. The vinyl cover of the chair squeaked beneath her weight as she pressed the remote control, turning up the sound as the TV returned to the news coverage.

  A UN spokesperson was talking about the threat of hypothermia hanging over the victims of the earthquake. ‘The death toll is rising every hour, and will rise with every further hour that passes,’ she declaimed. ‘Many of these deaths are preventable, but there’s a desperate need for blankets, tents and warm clothes –’ Eve picked up the remote ready to kill the sound, but paused. ‘Eight-year-old Andy Ibrahim, who flew from Glasgow to stay with his cousins two days ago, is known to be among the survivors…’ A news agency photograph of a traumatized child tied up in a filthy blanket appeared on the screen. ‘… his grandparents are still listed as missing. His friends in Scotland have set up an appeal in his name to help all those affected by this terrible human tragedy. If you want to help, donations can be –’

  Eve zapped the sound impatiently. ‘Ah, bless them; it fairly brings it home, Squidgy, doesn’t it? One minute the wee guy is on the terraces watching Rangers getting gubbed, the next he’s under a pile of rubble with his dead granny. There but for the grace, et cetera.’ Squidgy’s piercing black pinhead of an eye watched as Eve stared into the middle distance, whispering to him. ‘And while our hearts bleed for them, Squidgy, we can’t deny it has propelled us into the big time. You were in the right place at the right time.’

  Squidgy remained silent in the belief that his genius would have taken him to the top anyway.

  ‘You’ll be worth a bloody fortune if we play our cards right – one hundred thousand Squidgy McMidge car aerial decorations are hitting the shops tomorrow, at a quid a time… A quid a midge… and if you want to fork out a fiver, you can have a Squash-a-Squidgy.’

  Squidgy’s eye caught her own, demanding an explanation.

  ‘It’s a soft midge that you throw at the wall and it squeals with demonic laughter.’ She tossed a Malteser in the air, catching it expertly in her mouth.

  Unimpressed, Squidgy remained silent.

  ‘And by the time Madam Tightarse has finished her interview at Radio Scotland, you might be heading up the entire appeal.’

  Squidgy showed his total lack of appreciation by falling off the table, and bouncing silently on the carpet. Eve sighed, wondering whether to pick him up with her grabber, or leave him lying there with his purple legs in the air until Lynne-the-Tightarse came home. She turned back to the TV, her attention pricked by a face she knew. And there he was, Rogan O’Neill, flying into Glasgow with his perfect smile, with his perfect girlfriend and their perfect life. She grabbed the remote to turn up the sound, and the slow seductive strains of the opening bars of ‘Tambourine Girl’ underscored the emotional tableau as Rogan kissed his super-young bimbo supermodel before kneeling down to kiss the tarmac of the runway.

  ‘Arse!’ muttered Eve, leaning forward in her seat slightly, listening intently as Jackie Bird’s voice-over announced, ‘… Rogan O’Neill is donating all the profits from his New Year concert at Hampden Park to Andy’s Appeal. And, twenty years after it was first recorded…’ she paused for dramatic effect, ‘… the re-release of “Tambourine Girl” is storming up the charts and is hotly tipped to be the Christmas Number One. So, go out and buy your copy now. It’s all for a good cause.’ The CD cover appeared on the screen, with the image of his girlfriend Lauren McCrae, lying in a tambourine. Eve pointed the remote at the screen, pressed Off with her podgy thumb, and watched Rogan fade to black. For a minute she was quiet. She stared out the window at the ever-falling rain, her pretty face frozen in thought.

  ‘Bastard,’ she said quietly.

  3

  Vik Mulholland was sitting on one of the bench seats outside Marks and Spencer’s, absent-mindedly forcing his fingers into his leather gloves, watching the kids on the carousel in the middle of the Sauchie-hall Street precinct. Frances was late, she always was. A quick check up and down the street, but he couldn’t see her through the Christmas crowds. Vik went back to looking at the carousel; each of the animals had a collar of tinsel and a Squidgy McMidge stuck on an ear or an antler.

  He took a small tube of lip salve from his pocket, removed his gloves and dabbed his lips slightly, twisted the tube closed and replaced his gloves. He checked the street again. Still no sign of her.

  He watched a man in a fine woollen Crombie kneel at the feet of his overexcited little daughter and fiddle with her red wellington boots with their border of yellow flowers. The fair-haired girl then kicked up her heels, admiring the red flashing lights that ran in sequence down the sides. Mulholland was impressed; he might get a pair of those for his wee cousin. The man lifted his daughter on to a fearsome-looking pink bird and stood back, ready to line up a photograph, as the carousel took off again. The festive mood was spoiled somewhat by the music – ‘Tulips from Amsterdam’.

  Mulholland sighed, his breath billowing as he watched the large pink bird sail past, the little girl giggling with delight, the lights on her red wellingtons flashing as she stuck her legs out.

  Still no Frances; she was twenty minutes late. It puzzled him that he wasn’t put off by her tardiness. But soon she would appear, strolling along Sauchie-hall Street, ignoring the looks of admiration from passing men, and Vik would feel a thrill that she was there, for him.

  He leaned back, letting a few falling raindrops kiss his face, recalling the first time he’d set eyes on her, standing on the pavement with her arms round a small boy. There had been a mild RTA – an old Jag had slid in the sleet and rear-ended a Honda – and the drivers were having a bit of a set-to. Vik Mulholland had never been known to intervene if off duty but when he saw the long-haired beauty protecting the child like some dark guardian angel, he was hooked. Once he had made sure both drivers were unhurt he was surprised to find that she hadn’t been in either car. She had looked up at him, the swathe of dark hair falling to one side, and he was lost for words. She was so beautiful.

  But he’d regained enough sense to ask her name.

  ‘Coia,’ she said. ‘Frances Coia.’ Her voice was low, slightly husky. She had the most amazing eyes, huge and brown, her irises flecked in gold, yet her skin was ivory, like porcelain. She was older than she had appeared at first sight. He asked her to repeat her address, even though he’d got it the first time, just to hear her voice again. Beaumont Place was a small cul-de-sac of once-splendid but worn apartments, just round the corner from the station.

  Then of course, having seen her once, he had spotted her again the very next day, going into the Oxfam bookshop in Byres Road. He abandoned the Beamer and sneaked up on her as she lost herself in a battered copy of the Oor Wullie annual, one of his own childhood favourites.

  He’d said hello, she’d looked right through him. He had ploughed on regardless, telling her that the wee boy in the Honda was fine and that the mother wanted to pass on her gratitude.

  Then she had smiled, and he had asked her to join him for a coffee outside Peckham’s. They had ended up sharing carrot cake. And then a bed in the Grosvenor.

  And now his heart
was in freefall.

  He sensed her slip on to the seat beside him; he caught a waft of her patchouli oil. He opened his eyes, looking at her profile as she gazed up at the heavy sky. He watched a tear of rainwater meander slowly down the arc of her cheek. She winced slightly, opened a bottle of mineral water and swallowed a tablet.

  ‘Is your face still sore?’ he asked, resting his hand on her shoulder.

  Eyes closed, she nodded almost imperceptibly. She never complained.

  ‘See that wee lassie with the lights on her wellies?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Frances, but she didn’t look.

  ‘What’s she riding? A pelican or a half-cooked turkey?’ he asked as the pink bird flew past, its tinsel scarf flowing behind.

  She answered without opening her eyes. ‘It’s a flamingo.’

  He squeezed her shoulder gently, and she smiled.

  ‘You know, Frankie…?’

  ‘Don’t call me Frankie,’ she whispered. ‘It’s Fran.’

  ‘Fran, I’m about to say something to you that I have never said to another woman.’

  She arched a perfect eyebrow.

  ‘Let’s go to Marks and buy a nice curry.’

  But Frances wasn’t listening. She was looking at Santa pushing a garish tinfoil-clad wheelie bin with sodden earthquake appeal posters on its sides and reindeer dancing round a makeshift Squidgy McMidge holding a golden trumpet, a red balloon issuing from his mouth saying: Gie’s yer cash!

  ‘Look at that – DEATH TOLL 76,000 AND RISING – It even has that boy’s picture on it, that wee Andy, out there with no shelter…’

  ‘One specific face to tug on your heartstrings, Fran, that’s all it is,’ Mulholland added.

  But Frances seemed not to hear him; she was busy scrabbling coins from her purse, her eyes welling up as they settled on the picture of Andy Ibrahim.