by Caro Ramsay
‘You give them your last penny,’ said Mulholland, knowing there was no stopping her. He planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘And I’ll buy the curry.’
Detective Sergeant Costello was sitting uncomfortably on the huge leather settee in Sarah McGuire’s cream and beige living room, her feet sinking into the deep-pile carpet. She sipped her tea, trying to ignore the strong perfume of the Earl Grey, Typhoo being her own preference. It was half past twelve, at the end of a fourteen-hour shift, and her headache was getting worse by the minute. Sarah, an intelligent, attractive woman in her mid-forties, was leaning forward slightly, listening intently, legs crossed at the ankles. She was wearing black mules and pristine woollen slacks – John Campbell’s daughter was the effortlessly groomed type. Beside her, her darker-haired, chubbier teenage daughter Karen, even though still dressed in the blue uniform that she had been wearing when the cop car picked her up from her private school, displayed the same faultless veneer as her mother. Sarah McGuire’s handshake had been firm and accompanied by the discreet rattle of good jewellery. Costello noticed the band of pale skin where until recently a wedding ring had been.
Costello pulled her short blonde hair tight behind her ears and sneaked a glance at her mobile – no message yet. She had been furious at Colin Anderson for pulling her off the Luca Scott enquiry and even more furious when she heard that Quinn had told him to do it. The minute Luca’s mum was capable of coherent thought she wanted to be there. The doctor had been firm to the point of obstructive, his patient was to remain under sedation until they could ascertain the nature of any injuries sustained during her fit. Costello’s argument, that the woman must have some idea where her son would go, was met with a sympathetic shrug and a closed door.
Costello looked out the window at the manicured garden, the electric gates. Luca Scott had nothing, he was little more than a street kid. The girl sitting opposite her on the settee, Karen McGuire, had everything. But money wouldn’t bring Granddad back.
‘Do you know what happened yet?’ Sarah toyed with the single strand of pearls at her throat, one mule swinging from her toe with an incessant rhythm that was getting on Costello’s nerves.
Costello noted that Sarah’s tone of voice was careful, not accusatory. PC Gail Irvine had already backed off to stand by the window; Costello knew she was on her own. She decided on finely edited honesty. ‘We’re still trying to piece it together. Did he have problems with his heart or anything?’
‘No, he had painkillers for his knee. He’d been on them for as long as I can remember,’ said Sarah, still pulling at her pearls.
‘And were they in some sort of daily dispenser?’
‘Yes, he had a dosset box so he would take them with his meals.’ Sarah nodded. ‘Oh, and a tablet to stop them affecting his stomach.’
‘So, Karen,’ Costello turned to Sarah’s daughter, who was now visibly calmer. ‘Did he seem his usual self when you saw him on Saturday? He wasn’t complaining of feeling ill?’
‘No. Well, he had the previous week, but just a headache. The tenants upstairs had been playing music all night and he’d run out of his headache tablets.’ She rubbed her eyes with her fists, suddenly childlike. ‘He asked for some more, Mum, remember?’
‘Yes. I bought him some more on Friday on the way home from tennis,’ Sarah put in. ‘Headeze they were, but he’d had them before. They didn’t upset his stomach or anything.’
‘So, he seemed his usual self?’ Costello moved to the edge of the settee, before it swallowed her.
‘He was going on about his Christmas dinner, how he wanted the sprouts cooked properly. And the weather. And he was reading the Radio Times, complaining that they were moving Top Gear.’ Karen recalled the memories in a single rush. ‘He was complaining about everything – The Great Escape being on again, the team Celtic have chosen…’
‘Him and every other Glaswegian bloke, eh? Did he live on his own?’
‘Since Mum died,’ said Sarah, a faint smile through the tears. ‘He was very independent – too independent at the wrong time, but what can you do?’
‘How often did you see him?’ Costello kept her voice friendly.
‘Oh, I’d hand in the shopping on Saturday lunch-time. On a Wednesday night we would go round and…’ The tears started again, ‘… play Scrabble.’
‘He always cheated,’ said Karen, folding her arms. ‘He’d put in words that nobody else knew.’
‘My dad used to do that as well,’ lied Costello, trying out a slight smile. ‘Well, either that or he couldn’t spell.’ She paused. ‘Mrs McGuire, I believe your husband is coming over?’
Sarah nodded. ‘Tom? Yes. We’re separated now, but he always got on great with Dad. They’d have a pint together on a Thursday – the Clutha Bar. Dad always had a whisky chaser; it would last him all night.’
‘He had a load of old pals,’ said Karen. ‘And they’d sit around the bar and talk about the war. Granddad’s got lots of books about it; he’s lent me some for my modern history project.’ Karen indicated a pile of books, lying on their sides in the bookcase. Costello tilted her head to read the titles, but she only recognized one.
‘Karen has her prelims just after Christmas. It’s a very important time,’ Sarah confided, as her hand reached out and covered her daughter’s. ‘We’ve invested a lot in her education.’
‘Of course,’ Costello agreed, before asking, ‘This might be a strange question, but was it usual for him to have a chip pan on at breakfast time?’
It was Karen who answered. ‘Yes, he liked a chip buttie, with brown sauce. It had to be HP,’ she said with a hint of scorn. ‘He would have got up late, especially if the folk upstairs had kept him awake.’
‘Mrs McGuire,’ said Costello, concentrating hard. The heat in the room was making her eyes pound, she could feel her lids dropping, and she wanted to take her jacket off but couldn’t because of the stain on her jumper. ‘It’s just possible, and I emphasize just possible, that he had a heart attack and collapsed. He was definitely unconscious when the fire took hold.’
Sarah latched on immediately. ‘So, he didn’t suffer.’
‘No, he didn’t suffer at all,’ said Costello, hoping it was true.
Sarah nodded, as if finding a little comfort in that. ‘I don’t understand. He saw his GP only last week. He said he was fine,’ she added lamely.
‘Can you give us the name of his doctor? And his dentist?’ asked Costello, glad to see Irvine was scribbling down the details. ‘We’ll need to do a postmortem to find out what exactly happened.’
Sarah’s mouth opened but she did not speak. She glanced at her daughter.
‘Maybe we could discuss this at another time?’ Costello offered.
‘No, no. It’s fine. I thought you only… I wasn’t expecting it.’ Sarah shuffled slightly on the settee, smoothing down the legs of her trousers. ‘The doctor told him he was fine,’ she said again vaguely. ‘But you say you still need to do a…’
‘To establish a precise cause of death. But there’s no sign of foul play – that was the first thing we checked.’ Costello could sense her sight starting to drift. ‘Do you have a recent photograph of him? It’s always useful.’
‘Help yourself.’ Sarah indicated the array of pictures on the sideboard.
‘I’ll make sure you get it back,’ said Gail Irvine, stepping away from the window and choosing one.
‘I’ve just remembered – I didn’t see him on Saturday. I dropped Karen off with his shopping, because I had a call to make from the car to rearrange a tennis match…’ Her voice broke, suddenly guilty.
Costello let the silence drift, then when she spoke her voice was firm. ‘Did your father have a cardigan? A Fair Isle cardigan, blue with a white pattern round the neck?’ She patted the collar of her own jacket.
Karen thought for a moment, white teeth biting into cherry-red lips.
‘Wee silver buttons with the Scottish lion on them?’ prompted Costello.
It was Sarah w
ho answered. ‘Yes, he’s had that cardigan since Karen was a baby. He had new ones in the cupboard, presents.’ She tutted. ‘But he would never wear them. Why do you ask?’
Costello shrugged vaguely, glad that she had not seen the body, glad that no memory of it could show on her face, glad she wouldn’t have to take out the silver button in its sterile little bag and ask: Do you recognize this? She knew Sarah was looking at the gap on the sideboard where the photograph of her dad had been.
‘I can come down and identify him, if that would help.’
‘I don’t think there’d be any need. It’s not something we do a lot nowadays – visual ID is a bit old-fashioned.’
‘I would like to see him.’
‘Better not,’ said Costello, as quietly as she could, shuffling right to the edge of the settee as a precursor to getting up and leaving.
‘Oh…’ It took Sarah a moment to absorb what Costello had actually meant. Then she sat up briskly. ‘What about the flat?’ she asked.
‘The flat?’
‘Yes, Dad’s flat and the three above. How badly were they damaged?’
Bloody hell, your dad’s just burned to death, Costello thought, but said, ‘That’ll all be in the Fire Master’s report.’ Then she added, ‘If you can wait till then.’
Outside in the rain, Frances stood looking at the Virgin Megastore, its windows covered with posters for Rogan O’Neill’s re-release of ‘Tambourine Girl’. The posters showed his Canadian supermodel girlfriend, all blonde hair and endless suntanned legs, coiled inside a tambourine as if she were swinging in a hammock. Vik went over to Frances and put his arm round her.
‘I bet you didn’t know the original cover for that was designed by a graduate of Glasgow Art School,’ he said, wondering whether those were tears or raindrops on her face. ‘Must be worth a bloody fortune now. And did you know…’ he paused for effect, ‘… that nobody knows who the girl is who actually says that husky goodnight at the end of the record?’
‘That’s because only the really sad listen to it right to the very end,’ she said quietly, a slow tear falling on her cheek. ‘It was explained at the time as a mistake in the master tape but the mystery did the sales no harm. Who was the poor little tambourine girl? That’s what they all wanted to know. It made his career, that song.’
‘I just want to know what the bloody song is about, that’s all.’ He glanced at his watch. Work was calling. ‘I’d better get a move on.’
But Frances was staring at the blonde model, coiled in her tambourine. ‘Nice, isn’t she?’
‘If you like that kind of thing. But I’ll make do with you.’ He kissed her cheek, tasting the salt of her tear. ‘Come on. Where are you going? I could drop you.’
‘Just up to the Western. I have an appointment for my face.’
‘Your face looks fine to me.’
Her good mood had passed. ‘I’ll catch the bus and walk the last bit, get some fresh air.’ Her eyes narrowed as she looked into the dreich damp of Sauchiehall Street. It was miserable. It was catching.
‘Well, if you want to die of hypothermia, go ahead. But I’ll take the grub and bring it round after work.’
They both had their hands on the handles of the bags, standing face to face. He hesitated, thinking about kissing her, but contented himself with looking into her brown eyes with their little gold flecks, her face framed by a black pashmina.
She blinked slowly, a last raindrop fell from her long lashes on to her cheek, then she smiled. ‘I’ll manage,’ she said, tugging the bags towards her.
As he hugged her goodbye she looked over his shoulder catching her own reflection in the shop window; the scarf round her head, her tall thin figure clothed completely in an ankle-length black woollen coat, made her look like an image of a medieval saint. Beyond her reflection, two tinselled Bang & Olufsen widescreen TVs were silently chattering away: the Scottish news headlines, footage of rescue teams scrabbling over rubble in Pakistan, a factory conveyor belt dense with jostling Squidgy McMidges, a school picture of Luca Scott, and then a shot of the Joozy Jackpot amusement arcade. She pulled free from Vik and walked up to the window for a closer look but the screen was already back at the studio. The polished lips of the redhead reading the news moved with animation. Her ginger eyebrows were raised in a pleasant arc, not frowning with professional sincerity. Good news then. Both screens changed to a picture of clouds and more clouds, the dark rain-filled clouds of a Scottish winter. A subscript announced that Rory McLaughlin was reporting from Glasgow Airport.
Frances screwed her eyes up slightly as a plane shimmered through the clouds and disappeared, only to reappear closer, much bigger.
The image switched to a crowd of young fans and some not so young. The badges, the scarves, the T-shirts and the hats all said one thing – ROGUE. Somebody’s granny in a wheelchair was wearing an ‘I love Rogan’ badge; she held it up and kissed it for the cameras. Then the picture moved quickly to the plane door opening, and there he was, Rogan O’Neill, standing at the top of the steps in black leather. He lifted his sunglasses, waving, lips to his fingertips, kissing the air of his homeland. Then he turned to smile at the beautiful blonde woman, who followed him down the steps. Lastly he knelt down to kiss the tarmac.
Frances placed the palm of her hand flat on the window – separated from him by a pane of glass and twenty years.
Never really separated at all.
‘Look at that bloody rain,’ Costello said, peering out through the glass panes of Sarah McGuire’s front door. ‘And it’s cold enough for snow.’ She tightened her jacket round her in readiness for a quick dash to the car. ‘Gail, you hang on till the husband gets here. Find out how the land lies.’ Costello looked at a wedding photograph of Sarah’s parents on the wall in the hallway, her father looking uncomfortable in a dark suit and Brylcreemed hair, pencil tie, a single flower in his lapel, and her mother, in a boat-necked wedding dress, ballerina length, smiling shyly. The similarity of daughter to mother was striking.
‘What do you mean, how the land lies?’ asked Irvine.
Costello lowered her voice. ‘If she gets talking, find out how amicable the separation and divorce really are. There’s a GSPC magazine on the coffee table, lying open at the West End property pages. Look at this place – would you want to move from here? Posh Newton Mearns postcode? Brand-new Porsche outside? Electronic gates? And Karen’s at private school.’ She mimicked Sarah cruelly: ‘We’ve invested a lot in her education. And those are not fake pearls round her neck.’ Costello added as an afterthought, ‘If your dad was burned to death, would you be worried about the state his bloody flat was left in?’
‘Are all those statements connected?’ asked Irvine, slightly confused.
‘Call it instinct, call it snobbery, but that magazine is open at a page of properties far inferior to this, and she doesn’t strike me as an inferior sort of woman, that’s all. If her dad owned all of 34 Lower Holburn Street, then he’d be worth a bloody fortune.’
‘How can you be so suspicious?’ asked Irvine, horrified. ‘She’s just lost her father…’
‘My point exactly. The suspicion goes with the territory; we’re cops, not bloody agony aunts,’ Costello said. ‘Find out the story with the husband and the break-up, and be a bit nosy with regard to the finances. I’ve a feeling something is wrong here. Those tears didn’t convince me.’ She pulled her mobile from her pocket and called a memory-stored number.
‘You might be right. I was in pieces when my dad died.’ Irvine looked as if she were about to cry, right there and then.
‘Didn’t know my dad, and what you never had you can’t miss.’ Costello smiled at her, phone clamped to her ear. ‘Wingnut? Is Quinn the Eskimo not in her igloo?’ She pulled a face at the answer. ‘Look, I’m feeling rough, I think I’ve a migraine coming on, so I’m clocking off before it gets worse. Leave a message for her, will you? It’s just gone one now. I’m leaving PC Irvine here to wait for the hubby, then she’ll get back to Part
ickhill asap for the update at two… No, I’ll be blind and unconscious by then.’ She closed her phone.
‘But you’re going to miss the update? You really feel that bad?’
‘Yes, but if I get a good kip, I’ll be in tomorrow. Luca’s mum should be available by then; I can get moving on that. Can you get in touch with the dentist?’ Costello ripped that page out of her notebook. ‘Leave anything you get on my desk and I’ll deal with it tomorrow. Don’t bother to type it up. We’ll do it all in the one report.’
She walked towards her car, her head thumping, and put the rest of her notes into her handbag. Like she said, she would deal with it tomorrow.
4
Colin Anderson’s first impression of the new DCI had been of a hard, brittle woman. A month of working with her had not changed his opinion. When Costello commented that the SS had lost a good recruit when Quinn joined the force, he had laughed. He wasn’t laughing now.
‘Do come in, DI Anderson.’ A tight smile snapped across the face of Rebecca Quinn. As usual, she was dressed in her classic navy-blue suit, red hair pinned back. The smattering of pink freckles on her nose reminded Anderson of those red ants that burrow under your skin and eat you alive.
He walked into the DCI’s office, now painted white and furnished with a state-of-the-art water cooler for her own personal use. The windows had been cleaned, the squeaky leather chair replaced, and the breath of life had miraculously returned to the fern on the window ledge which was now luscious and verdant. It jarred with Anderson. So did the tanned length of lean thigh being displayed by the leggy brunette perched on the window ledge. He nodded at her face and pretended not to notice her legs.
‘DI Anderson, thank you for joining us – eventually.’ Quinn looked pointedly at the clock. Anderson wasn’t aware that he was late, so he didn’t apologize. No introduction was offered with regard to the brunette and he wasn’t going to be the one to ask. Rumours of the new DCI’s mind games had gone before her.
‘Hello, ma’am,’ he said to Quinn, then said it again to the brunette who flashed a quick smile in response. Quinn ignored him and sat down behind her desk, slid up the sleeves of her jacket and adjusted the small clasp that contained her hair. Satisfied, she opened a brown file and ran her thumb along the fold, up and down, up and down. Anderson bore the silence, still trying, with increasing difficulty, to ignore the length of leg behind her. Both women were of a type – slim, well dressed, well groomed, assertive. He detected a little attitude problem coming from somewhere. He wished he had a map of the situation.