Singing to the Dead

by Caro Ramsay

  Douglas screwed his eyes up as he tried to examine the pictures of Rogan, and moved the magazine in and out to gain focus. ‘What’s he saying in today’s interview? Yesterday’s was about saving the planet, saving the children of Pakistan, global harmony. The tabloids today are full of his “sexploits”, as if we’re interested.’

  ‘He says he doesn’t do drugs. Well, he did when I knew him – and he was no spring chicken then – but now I expect the only drugs he’s into are Botox and Viagra.’

  Douglas looked at Lynne and tapped his temple. Lynne smiled and left the room. ‘When you knew him?’

  ‘Yeah, we were an item once.’ Eve placed a podgy hand over her heart, and fluttered her eyelashes. ‘I could sell my stories about him for a few grand, I can tell you. In fact, I still might.’

  ‘And it’s that dubious past of yours which means you’ll never be the public face of Evelynne Calloway,’ said Douglas in all seriousness. ‘And, not to be too harsh about it, look at the girlfriend he’s got now.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s gone downmarket a bit, but all men do as they get older,’ Eve said, flicking a glance at her sister.

  ‘Stop it, Eve,’ snapped Lynne, coming back into the room and handing Douglas a glass of water.

  ‘She’s a supermodel; she was a bit tasty in that bra campaign.’

  ‘If you’d put your specs on you’d get a better look at her tits. I thought she had a black eye in the Daily Record this morning.’

  ‘Surgery for laughter lines, I expect. It happens to us all,’ said Lynne.

  ‘Not to you, it won’t,’ retorted Eve. ‘Look round her eyes; look at how swollen and puffy they are.’

  ‘She happens to be pregnant, which is why she’s not working. At least, that’s the rumour,’ Lynne pointed out.

  ‘She’s backed out of all kinds of deals, apparently. A shame. Still, she’s a very attractive girl, with those endless legs,’ Douglas said admiringly, holding the magazine right up to his face.

  ‘Functioning legs – that always helps.’

  Douglas ignored Eve’s barb. He handed back the magazine and took a sip of water, then palmed a capsule down his throat and swallowed.

  ‘You should wear your specs, you know. It’s eye strain that’s giving you all those headaches and you’ll end up with gut-rot from those painkillers,’ said Eve, her nose back in the magazine.

  ‘It’s stress headache,’ fired Lynne. ‘His job is very high-powered.’

  Douglas changed the subject. ‘So, if you knew him, what do you know about this rumour in today’s paper that O’Neill didn’t write any of his greatest hits?’

  ‘I know lots and lots…’ Eve rolled her eyes and sighed. ‘But my lips are sealed. Put it this way: his two greatest hits, “The Lost Boy” and “Tambourine Girl”, are hauntingly beautiful, genuinely melodic songs. Everything else sounds like a pathetic rehash of any Beatles song you wish to mention. He thinks we’ve forgotten the twenty years he spent singing crap on the Scottish pub circuit. Then one day he suddenly hit it big – one day he got talent. Work it out for yourself.’

  ‘Did the real tambourine girl write them?’ asked Douglas.

  ‘Got it in one. Then Rogan did a runner with the dosh. Did a runner on her as well, in fact. She’s penniless now and starving in a garret. And you want me to do the same thing with Squidgy? Sign him over and then starve in a garret while you and Lynne live off my talent?’

  ‘It’s not the same thing,’ Douglas said patiently. ‘Not the same thing at all. I do actually have your best interests at heart.’

  Eve grinned, delighted to see him hooked. ‘Oh, Doogie, don’t you worry about me,’ she said. ‘I have many talents, including a marvellous memory. I don’t forget much.’ She looked at him almost adoringly. ‘In fact, I don’t forget anything at all.’ Her left hand had slipped below the tabletop to rub the side of her hip, right at the point where the bonnet of a green Mitsubishi had staved in the door of her car, pushing the head of her femur three inches into her abdomen, before the bottom of the door smashed the lower part of her leg.

  ‘I can believe it, Eve, I can believe it,’ Douglas said, not without sympathy.

  ‘Hello, hello, better late than never.’ Professor Jack O’Hare couldn’t resist glancing at the clock through the lock of grey hair that had a habit of falling over his face.

  ‘We had difficulty rousing the Sleeping Beauty here,’ said Mulholland. ‘John Campbell’s PM?’

  ‘You’re lucky; you nearly missed it. Costello, how are you?’

  ‘Bloody awful, thank you for asking, Prof,’ she said, amicably. The place stank more vilely than usual. She wondered if the rumour that the mortuary was full was true.

  ‘Never mind, you still look better than most of my clients.’ Then O’Hare looked at her more closely. ‘But only just. I think the term Sleeping Beauty might get you done under the Trade Descriptions Act. Have you seen a doctor?’ He advanced on her, then realized, as she pulled away, that he had a scalpel in his hand.

  ‘I’m OK,’ she answered tetchily. ‘I had a migraine. I get them when I’m overtired. Things just take a wee bit of getting used to, you know.’

  O’Hare frowned slightly. ‘Well, make sure you get enough sleep. And take time for a meal every now and then.’

  She tried to be light-hearted. ‘In our station? That would be asking for food poisoning.’

  O’Hare’s voice was serious. ‘Bereavement takes us all in different ways. Throwing yourself into work is commendable, but not always wise. I don’t want to be doing a PM on you.’ He looked at her, noting the defiant set of her mouth. ‘Haven’t seen you around; I thought you might have taken some time off.’

  ‘Yeah, I tend to hang around the morgue when I am at a loose end. Dead end even?’

  O’Hare raised an unamused eyebrow. ‘You eating OK?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she insisted. Kindness always made her feel vulnerable. ‘I’ll have something to eat later. My stomach’s still a bit sensitive.’ She looked round for a pair of latex gloves.

  ‘Only really intelligent people suffer from migraine, you know,’ the pathologist went on. ‘As I know to my cost. I get them too.’

  Mulholland coughed and pointed at the charred remains on the table. ‘Is this our man?’

  John Campbell – what was left of him – lay on the slab covered by a blue plastic sheet. O’Hare pulled it back, revealing a body where the exposed flesh had turned black then grey. The burned skin on the forearm was split open, the edges drawn back like lips baring teeth of blackened charcoal bone underneath. On a stainless-steel trolley beside the slab lay the cremated remnants of a pair of trousers, a leather belt with its buckle still intact, and a tiny piece of dark-blue cardigan, burned and crisp, with a few twisted strands of Fair Isle wool sticking out like half-cooked vermicelli. On a kidney dish, with a pair of green plastic tweezers, lay five metal buttons, still gleaming. Somebody had taken the trouble to turn them face up, lining up all the little lions rampant.

  Costello took the sixth, still in its sterile packet, from her pocket and placed it on the tray. ‘You’ll see from Anderson’s report that he took one of these from the scene. That’s me returning it, OK?’ She paused to line up the button so that even inside its little plastic bag it matched its fellows.

  ‘Noted, DS Costello,’ said O’Hare formally. ‘I hear another child has gone missing.’

  ‘Some drunken bint lost her son in the playground, but we don’t know if it’s connected with anything else.’ Mulholland was impatient and could barely be bothered to conceal it.

  ‘Well, this one should be a nice straightforward accidental death, then you can get on.’

  O’Hare called out for his colleague, Dr Cathie, getting a hurried I’ll be along in a minute in response.

  ‘Have you an established cause?’ Mulholland, flicking over the report sheet, spoke with the slightly superior tone of one who has better things to do. ‘A specific one, I mean, apart from being toasted. We need…’
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  ‘I know what you need, DC Mulholland,’ said O’Hare frostily. ‘And I know I’m good, but it is customary to open the body first and have a good look around; it tends to give a better idea of what might have happened.’ The sarcasm was thinly disguised.

  ‘He did have a history of arthritis in his knee and a bit of tummy trouble,’ said Costello.

  ‘Really? And do you know the daughter is in the High Dependency unit at the Western? She collapsed this morning, and young Karen found her on the kitchen floor. Quinn couldn’t find any paperwork at all pertaining to your visit to her home, DS Costello.’

  ‘When did that happen?’ asked Costello. ‘And why? She was OK when I left her yesterday.’

  ‘I think she was admitted about nine this morning. As yet they do not know what the problem is.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Costello, adding, ‘Sorry, Prof,’ at his glance of disapproval. ‘So, are they connected then? Could it be a hereditary thing? The daughter’s only in her mid-forties, and she didn’t mention anything. She didn’t seem too distressed about her old dad either.’

  ‘It seems too close to be coincidence,’ said O’Hare. ‘Rebecca and I have already discussed it.’

  Rebecca and I! Costello opened her mouth to ask but O’Hare had already moved into professional mode. ‘However, John Campbell’s heart doesn’t look too bad; it’s within normal limits on X-ray. We might find some kind of sudden blockage in the coronary arteries, but I doubt it…’ He walked down to the end of the table. Costello followed him while Mulholland stared at the ceiling, bored. ‘His left foot largely escaped the attention of the flames, which means it might have been underneath him when he fell.’ He touched John Campbell’s toe, the skin matching the latex of the glove in colour and texture.

  ‘His other foot looks like a rotisserie chicken,’ said Mulholland.

  ‘All flesh is meat, chicken or human, and cooks likewise.’ O’Hare lifted up a magnifying light and peered through it at the toe. ‘His nails are in very good condition, and he still has hair on his big toe.’

  ‘So, what does that make him? The missing link?’ said Mulholland, his eyes on the clock, looking anywhere but at the body.

  ‘It means, young man, that his circulation was excellent for a man of his age. Probably better than yours.’

  ‘Definitely better than his,’ said Costello. ‘Mr Campbell had a heart – Vik here has a swinging brick.’

  Dr Cathie appeared through the door, gowned up, her short brown hair sprouting from its clasp like a thistle. She was clinging on to a large glass of water, as if clinging to life itself. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Hard night, was it?’ asked Mulholland.

  ‘Had to represent the department at the Christmas do,’ she croaked. ‘It was a huge sacrifice.’

  ‘Come on, children, better get started,’ O’Hare said, handing the file to Cathie. ‘I presume you can still write.’

  Costello watched as his fingers spanned the distal clavicular notch, pulling the skin tight as he dipped the blade of the scalpel firmly downward with the precision of a sculptor. This was the only time Costello ever looked away; the first prick of the blade was the one cut that made her queasy. When metal first punctured skin, even with no blood seeping and the flesh lifeless, no matter how dead they were, how decomposed, how blue, how bloated, she somehow felt it must still hurt.

  She was glad O’Hare was covering the blade with the curve of his hand, as they watched the chest, then the abdomen, open under the scalpel. The two police officers stood in respectful silence, listening to O’Hare’s more technical mutterings to his assistant and understanding every second word.

  O’Hare, his fingers like rubberized octopus legs digging inside the chest cavity, paused; his eyes were on Costello. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘Anything that stayed down? Tuesday night.’

  But O’Hare was already ignoring her; he was peering into John Campbell’s chest, easing the ribs out of the way. ‘You know, it’s very red in here. That’s not usual.’

  ‘And it smells foul in here, worse than usual,’ said Costello, wrinkling her nose. ‘Something smells bitter, sweetish. I don’t know. Not the normal niff you get in here anyway.’

  ‘Do you get a hypersensitivity syndrome with your migraine, DS Costello?’

  ‘No, I get a terrible headache and I throw my guts up,’ she answered sweetly.

  ‘I mean,’ he tried again patiently, ‘do you develop a sensitivity to light, smell and sound?’

  ‘Oh aye, I do that. That’s what makes me sick.’

  O’Hare said carefully, ‘This smells the same to me as any other burned body, but it doesn’t smell normal to you?’

  Costello shook her head gingerly.

  ‘And you, Dr Cathie?’

  ‘Hang on, I’ve just done my teeth so all I can smell from here is toothpaste.’ She walked forward and sniffed the air above the body. ‘But DS Costello is not mistaken,’ she said, looking meaningfully at O’Hare who grinned with satisfaction.

  ‘One of the many areas of female superiority is the sense of smell.’ He stood back, his fingers in the gap made by the rib separators, spreading the contents of the chest cavity, looking intently at the colour. ‘He was in the kitchen, you say, cooking chips? Was there any upholstered furniture in the kitchen? Anything containing foam?’ O’Hare went over to the bench, slipped one glove off to take the notes from Cathie and proceeded to flick through them. He read for a minute, the silence interrupted only by the whoosh and hum of the door as Dr Cathie left, rubbing her temples. O’Hare repeated the question without looking up. ‘Anything containing foam?’

  Costello shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Is it important?’ O’Hare went back to the body after he had re-gloved and she watched closely as he opened John Campbell’s mouth and shone a little torch around inside. ‘OK, we stop the PM right now. I’ll do some tests. We might need a clean cabinet.’ He signed off on the first two pages of notes. ‘And leave me your mobile number, Costello; I’ll want to talk to you shortly. But first I need to speak to the hospital and alert the Poison Unit. I’ll get the team looking after Sarah McGuire on it as well; it might answer a lot of their questions. It could be that father and daughter were poisoned by the same substance. Do you know what he was on for his stomach?’

  ‘It’s in the notes,’ said Mulholland. ‘Began with an L.’

  ‘Lansoprazole, probably. So he had a thin stomach lining – interesting. If they ingested the same thing…’ O’Hare was thinking out loud. ‘He might have been more vulnerable because of his stomach condition, and she would have gained some protection if her stomach was full, so find out if she’d eaten. I’ll get Garrett from the Poison Unit to phone you.’ With that O’Hare was out of the door, the air pressure hissing slightly as he went through.

  The two of them were left standing over the body.

  ‘I suppose this is what you call a deathly silence,’ said Costello.

  Costello pressed the End Call button on her mobile phone and tapped it gently against her lips. Colin Anderson was flicking through statement after statement about Luca Scott and comparing them with those about Troy McEwen. Every so often his eyes would float to the pictures on the wall – Luca with his mop of blond hair, Troy with his blond spikes, freckles and earring. He sighed as he typed something into his computer with his index finger. He then sat back, closed his eyes and waited. He looked dog-tired.

  Costello glanced over her shoulder, checking that DCI Quinn was head down in a pile of paperwork. She stood up, picked up a file and shooed Wyngate from the seat beside Anderson but didn’t get a chance to sit down as a long-legged brunette beat her to it.

  ‘Kate Lewis,’ she introduced herself to Costello, while managing to flutter her eyelashes in Anderson’s direction.

  ‘Enchanted,’ said Costello dryly.

  ‘Guess what?’ Lewis asked huskily.

  ‘They’ve arrested Santa for housebreaking?’


  ‘I had a little boy lined up to wear a parka for the photo this afternoon.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘And I’ve been let down.’

  ‘Story of my life,’ said Costello, now perched on the desk and looking at her fingernails.

  ‘I know it’s a big favour, Colin, but could we use Peter?’

  ‘Peter? He’s too young, he’s only five…’

  ‘But I hear he’s tall for his age. And he’s a dead ringer. I saw the piccy in your wallet; it’s soooo sweet.’

  Costello looked heavenward in disbelief.

  ‘Can’t. Claire’s not keeping so good and Brenda has to look after her. The wee guy’s at home as well; he got no sleep at all last night.’

  Lewis was not to be put off. ‘We’ll send a car. Irvine will look after him; he’ll be fine.’

  Anderson looked at Costello, trying to find a way to say no.

  ‘I don’t think the DCI would like it,’ said Costello.

  Lewis didn’t move her eyes from Anderson. ‘Actually, it was Rebecca’s idea. We’ll keep the hood of the jacket up, so nobody will see his face.’

  ‘I’ll have to ask Brenda.’

  ‘I’m sure you can persuade her,’ Lewis purred. ‘I’m sure you can tell her how important it is, those two wee boys out there… it’s going to snow, you know.’

  ‘Just keep him anonymous,’ growled Anderson, picking up the phone to call home.

  Lewis gave him a beaming smile. ‘You’re a star.’ They watched her wiggle away.

  ‘You know, women like that remind me how long it’s been. I’d need a map these days,’ Anderson said, ear to the phone, waiting. Costello drummed her fingertips on the desktop as Anderson rang off and then tried his wife’s mobile.