by Caro Ramsay
Quinn looked up and handed him a manila folder. ‘Are we any further with Luca Scott? Have the hospital given Costello permission to interview his mother yet? I arranged an update on the basis that there’d be more news.’
Anderson decided to tread carefully. ‘Sorry, but the last time I spoke with DS Costello, it was still no go.’ He opened the folder. ‘I think we need to be careful to emphasize that she was not an “unfit mother”, she was a medically unfit mother.’ He fell silent as he looked at the three photographs, so recently developed they still smelled strongly of chemical fluid. The first showed a blond-haired boy, Luca, smiling at the camera, his hand holding out an apple for a police horse. The huge head of the horse was down, the grey velvet muzzle engulfing the apple, narrowly missing the fingers. The next picture was a close-up of the same, the third even closer, just the boy’s face. Anderson covered Luca’s smile with the palm of his hand. ‘He’s terrified of that thing,’ he observed. ‘It’s only his mouth that’s smiling. His eyes are scared.’
‘But he’s being brave,’ said Lovely Legs on the window sill, nodding thoughtfully.
Anderson handed the photographs back. Briefly, he remembered how apprehensive Peter had been not so long ago, faced by a truculent goat at the zoo. ‘I think you should make it clear that all Lorraine Scott’s drugs were prescription. She has some mental health issues, and she’d just come from having an injection at the hospital, as she does weekly, regular as clockwork. She then had a…’ he paused, looking for the right word, ‘… fit in the Joozy Jackpot.’
He saw the brunette raise an eyebrow.
‘It’s a small amusement arcade in Byres Road,’ he said in answer to the unspoken question.
She nodded as if she knew it well.
‘It was in the ensuing confusion that Luca went AWOL. Wyngate will put it in an update for those who missed your full briefing. He’s good with computers,’ he added for Quinn’s benefit.
‘Medically unfit mother? Was she fit to look after her child?’ Quinn looked up. ‘No, she wasn’t. I don’t particularly care why. We have to keep our own noses clean on this one. If the social work team have messed up, this station is not taking the blame.’ She looked Anderson straight in the eye.
‘We run a tight ship,’ he said evenly. ‘No leaks.’
Quinn pursed her lips. ‘But if the boy was on the street unattended, why did we not act immediately on the basis of it being a possible abduction?’
Anderson phrased his answer carefully. ‘We acted on the basis of him being a runaway, because it’s not the first time it’s happened. As a team, we agreed that since his mother had reported him missing six times before, we could assume it was probably another false alarm… and then time passed, and we’re so short-staffed… we did what we could…’ His words sounded like an excuse even to his own ears.
‘And what would happen if the press got hold of that?’
‘Well, they shouldn’t. We had credible support for our assumption from Patsy McKinnon, the cashier in the amusement arcade, and the security chap. The medics were slow to give us details of the mother’s depression, paranoia and epilepsy.’ The brunette perched on the window ledge smiled, offering understanding. Cautiously, Anderson smiled back. ‘But you’d know that if you had read the file. Luca was last seen with his mother about four, but he wasn’t reported missing until gone seven. And that was only when his mum was coherent enough to ask about him.’
‘Spare me the sentiment,’ said Quinn, her pen tapping on the desk. ‘So we have no idea where the wee sod is? We’ve checked all known contacts?’
‘Yes. And he’s not at his home, not at his friends’. We’re still trawling through all the places he might be. And now Troy McEwen’s been reported missing.’ Anderson shook his head.
‘Poor wee Luca, with his mum being so poorly,’ said the brunette, swinging her heels. It was said casually, and Quinn nodded in agreement. The best of friends then. ‘Do these boys know each other?’
‘Still working on that one, ma’am.’ Anderson was careful to direct his answer at Quinn.
‘Where is DS Costello at the moment?’ asked Quinn, her tongue flicking round her lips like a serpent’s.
‘Well,’ Anderson began cautiously. ‘She was on the blower to the hospital earlier, trying to interview Lorraine Scott, then I sent her out to see John Campbell’s family to get a positive ID without anybody having to look at his burned remains. Is she not back yet?’
Quinn shook her head. ‘Costello left the McGuires ages ago. She has not phoned in.’
‘Not like her, ma’am. Maybe…’
‘And there is no report on her desk. And PC Gail Irvine – was she there too?’
Anderson silently cursed Costello. ‘Yes, she was.’
‘So why did you send Costello?’
‘You wanted me back here and she’s good with women.’
The brunette smirked. ‘I’m better with men.’
Quinn allowed a smile to curve her lips. ‘So, you don’t know where Costello is, and the report has not been done?’
‘No.’
‘The deceased’s daughter has already been on the phone asking about it and wasn’t happy being fobbed off with the officer in question has not yet returned to the station. I want the report on John Campbell’s death first thing tomorrow.’
‘It’s his PM tomorrow.’
‘So, get Costello in early. What do you call this tight ship of yours? The Titanic?’
Anderson looked at his watch. ‘She only left there at the back of one, and given the Christmas traffic coming through the Clyde tunnel…’
‘Well, let’s hope it doesn’t turn out to be important.’ Quinn glared at Anderson who failed to respond. ‘So, DS Costello did not actually attend the fatal fire?’
‘No.’ Anderson glanced to the brunette at the window, looking for some clue as to why he was being asked this. But the young woman stayed silent, merely giving him the full benefit of her luscious smile.
‘And was it just a fatal fire?’
‘No sign of foul play with regard to the fire.’
‘But with regard to his death?’
‘I’d like to wait for the postmortem.’
‘We are very busy.’
Anderson stood his ground. ‘I know.’
‘You have twenty-four hours.’ Quinn swivelled her seat back round to the desk.
Thinking he’d been dismissed, Anderson got up to go to the door when Quinn’s voice whiplashed him back.
‘We are not finished yet.’ She turned to the other woman. ‘Lewis?’
‘About Luca Scott – I thought it might be useful to do a re-enactment,’ the brunette said. ‘It must have caused a commotion, a forty-year-old woman losing the plot in the arcade. The street outside would have been busy, so somebody must have seen the boy come out. It might jog a memory if we stage a photo opportunity – give the press something to latch on to.’
‘Good idea. It also might draw out the perpetrator, if he or she exists. So, if you do it, better send our photographer down there, get him snapping the crowd,’ Anderson said.
Quinn tapped her fingernail against the desk. ‘So, it’s agreed. But when? This is the twentieth. By Friday everything will be breaking up for Christmas. Best get it done tomorrow, Lewis, as close to four o’clock as you can. Go and speak to Patsy McKinnon or the manager of the joint and get the same staff in the same place. Get hold of Irvine, she’ll do the legwork for you. Mulholland will get a press release done; and get him on film, the camera loves him. I presume you know where DC Mulholland is?’
Trick question? Anderson glanced at the figure on the window sill in a subtle search for clues. ‘He’s off duty today. But I think he said he’d be back in later so we can catch him then.’
‘We need more media coverage. With Rogan O’Neill flying in, the way they’re carrying on you’d think it was the Second Coming of Christ. We didn’t get much on the TV about Luca, and in the papers all we got was a single column an
d a small picture. The evening papers are picking up more.’ Quinn’s catlike eyes moved across Anderson’s face, not exactly accusing but not approving either. Then, in a moment, her whole demeanour changed.
‘Detective Inspector Colin Anderson, this is Detective Sergeant Kate Lewis. Pitt Street have transferred her here from Aikenhead Road. She’s a very experienced officer. I’m sure you will welcome her as part of your team – you are more than a little short-staffed.’
‘Are we?’ Anderson enquired, trying to ignore the flash of thigh as Kate Lewis crossed her legs.
‘For what we have to do, yes.’
‘Well, you’d know more about that than me,’ Anderson said pleasantly. ‘Were you not transferred here from Aikenhead Road yourself, ma’am?’
‘I’m sure they can manage without the two of us,’ Quinn replied curtly.
‘But only just,’ said Kate Lewis as she slid from her window seat on to fine tippy toes. She smiled again, displaying a full set of too perfectly capped teeth.
‘Their loss our gain, I’m sure. Welcome aboard,’ said Anderson, reaching out a hand.
The grip that returned was soft, long fingers stroked their way into his, and he thought he registered a flirtatious scrape of her nail on the palm of his hand. Her smile stayed wide and seductive before a veil of silky brown curly hair fell across her eyes.
‘Maybe you could arrange for DS Lewis to be teamed with DC Mulholland. We’ll let the young good-looking ones charm the press.’
‘Things seem very cosy here,’ Kate Lewis said to Colin.
‘It’s a small station,’ he said, again aware of an undercurrent but not of where it was flowing.
‘It may be a small station but it’s too big to find DS Costello,’ Quinn said to Lewis who was posturing like a young foal, all wide-eyed innocence and very long legs. ‘DI Anderson, while you’re looking for Costello you can find DS Lewis a desk. And,’ Quinn paused for effect, ‘I want everybody – everybody – back in the Incident Room at two p.m. Lewis, have the arrangements for the re-enactment ready. This other seven-year-old, Troy McEwen, wandered off to God knows where while his mum was pissed. The house-to-house team is out already and I’ll call in the search team again. No assumptions this time – I want it done by the book right from the start.’
‘It was by the book…’ Anderson began to argue, but Lewis interrupted, slipping her arm through his elbow.
‘Come on, you can introduce me to the squad.’ Once again, he got the full power of that smile face on.
‘Of course.’ Anderson released himself from her grasp on the pretext of opening the door for her.
Kate Lewis had a voice to match her smile, low and gravelly, like a porn star’s. ‘Is DI your first name?’ she asked, preceding him through into the main office.
‘My wife calls me Colin.’ Hoping she would note the wife, while reflecting that he should be so lucky that a girl like that would notice him. Costello once told him that he wore being married like a pair of old slippers. At the time he had thought it a compliment.
Kate Lewis stopped in front of DS John Littlewood’s desk. ‘And this is…?’
The old detective looked up and held in his beer belly, a slow smile moving like honey across his razzled face. ‘Well, hello,’ he said. ‘We could sure use you to brighten up things around here. Detective Sergeant Littlewood – call me John.’
‘You must have made an impression; we never get to call him John,’ muttered Anderson, loud enough for him to hear. ‘We call him many things but none as friendly as that.’
‘Well, John, I’m sure we will be great friends.’ Kate Lewis winked at him and lifted her ringing mobile from her jacket pocket. The ring tone was Tom Jones’s ‘Sex Bomb’. ‘Personal phone,’ she said in explanation, and walked away to take the call, leaving Littlewood and Anderson watching the undulation of her narrow hips as she went.
Something about the way she moved, straight-backed with a long stride, her skirt shorter than it should be and her heels higher, made Anderson think of a pole dancer. Or what he imagined a pole dancer would look like. One thing he knew: women who moved like that were trouble.
She smiled at the whole squad as she went past, and a few of the men smiled back. DC Wyngate forgot he was speaking down the phone, his jaw hanging open in mid-air, making him look more glaikit than ever.
‘Rabbits in a sack, rabbits in a sack,’ said Little-wood, staring at Lewis’s retreating rear end. ‘So, that’s Kate Lewis.’
‘From Aikenhead Road? You know her?’ Anderson leaned over, speaking softly. ‘Pray, do tell.’
‘DCI Quinn and DS Lewis. You don’t get one without the other. Quinn got Pitt Street to send her up here the minute the Scott boy went missing.’
‘And how do you know all this?’
‘Make it my business to keep my eyes on an arse like that,’ murmured Littlewood. ‘Lovely to look at, this Miss Lewis, but I’d trust her as far as I could spit on her.’
‘Yip, I’ll give it three weeks before she sues for sexual harassment,’ said Anderson. ‘If Costello doesn’t have her for breakfast first.’
Littlewood said, ‘Yeah, but still a nice piece of arse.’
Eve Calloway took her mobile phone from the side pocket of her wheelchair as she heard her sister come in the front door. She found the stopwatch function and pressed Start. Lynne’s record for basic farting around was six minutes ten seconds, obsessive-compulsive cow that she was. Eve listened, creating the scene in her mind – Lynne taking off her coat, shaking it, sniffing the air to see what Eve had been eating without her permission. Lynne faffing around with her mousey blonde hair in the hall mirror – that could take another two minutes. Then she would be pulling her narrow features into some kind of prettiness – that could take for ever. Then Eve heard the bathroom door open – this was the big routine, eight minutes at least. The beige coat would be put on a quilted hanger, and hung over the shower, the collar pulled straight, every second button fastened, belt buckled, the hem of the coat tucked inside the shower tray. Then the heated towel rail, squaring the towels, folding them so the corners were perfect right angles. On and on it went.
Eve turned to Squidgy and whispered, ‘What do you think it’ll be? Using her towels or turning on the heating?’
Squidgy refused to pass judgement.
‘Eve?’ shrieked Lynne from somewhere down the hall. ‘Have you been using my towels?’ The voice was insistent. ‘Eve?’
Eve pulled a face at Squidgy; she had to hand it to her sister – Lynne missed nothing. She heard her pad down the hall, back to the front door, and pick up the mail. Then Eve heard the rustle of newspaper pages opening and closing; that would be Lynne feeding her obsession with property prices again. The feet padded back up the hall with some speed.
‘Look, Eve, this flyer advertising the Christmas Fair at Rowanhill School – listen! Guest appearances by Rogan O’Neill and bestselling author Evelynne Calloway. That’s me.’
‘That’s me actually,’ corrected Eve.
‘No, it’s me. Don’t think any decent publisher would let you near any children, with your foul language. God knows you’re disgusting enough in here, never mind out in the big wide world.’ Lynne scrutinized the flyer as if it were a near-miss lottery ticket, her pinched face screwed up. ‘Did you get the drawings done? You’ve had all morning.’
‘I devoted all of five minutes to them. That’s all I need, me being the creative genius I am.’
Lynne dismissed her. ‘Good. Rogan O’Neill has confirmed he’ll be at the fair. And look at this – Helena Farrell has the billing below me.’
‘Below us,’ corrected Eve. She picked up the pad on her lap and sketched a few deft pencil strokes – Lynne being strangled by Squidgy.
‘You just remember that your name is not Eve, not when we’re together. I am Evelynne and you are a nonentity.’
Eve’s voice was silkily sweet as she took her revenge. ‘Just think, Lynne, Douglas won’t be able to resist you now; you�
��ll be moving in the same circle of pretentious wankers that he moves in. Problematic, as you’ll keep bumping into his wife.’ Eve hit her chest hard with her fist, noisily clearing a ball of phlegm. ‘Because it’s the wife’s money, isn’t it? You’ll need a few bob more to prise him away from her. Or bigger tits.’
‘He’s branching out into property development now, for exactly that reason. The money, I mean. Money for us.’
‘But he must have made good money in criminal law. Defending the guilty.’ Eve let the words hang in the air.
Lynne changed the subject before Eve got started on her rant. ‘Can I see the drawings you sent?’
‘You’d better, seeing as you did them, supposedly. They’re on the system.’
Eve wheeled into the hall, taking another chip out of the skirting board as she went, before stopping at the kitchen door. ‘Do you want a cuppa?’
‘Yes, please,’ Lynne answered, the flyer held tight to her chest.
‘Get us one while you’re at it.’
Lynne turned, and walked smack into the wheel-chair. She growled, ‘Could you not have parked yourself somewhere else?’ She twisted sideways to get through the narrow gap. ‘And who has been here?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Well, somebody was tall enough to knock the picture in the hall.’
‘Must have been you on the way out.’
‘Oh, and I ripped the wallpaper, did I?’
‘No, I did that, but it’s so low the only person who would notice is a dwarf with a squint. Hurry up, I’m gagging for a cuppa. I’m drier than an Arab wrestler’s jockstrap.’