by Caro Ramsay
‘Still no answer?’
Anderson looked puzzled and left a curt message for Brenda to get in touch. He closed the phone but looked at it, reading the time. ‘Where is she? I hope Claire’s OK.’
‘She would have phoned if there was a problem. Do you want me to check the desk downstairs? See if any messages have been left for you? They forgot to pass on my message to Quinn the Eskimo.’
Anderson shook his head. ‘She would have left a message on my mobile. But I guess they will have to use Peter. It’s too late to find another kid…’
‘… who looks so like the other two,’ finished Costello for him. ‘But if I were to bet on how much effort the delectable Miss Lewis had put into finding a stand-in? Fuck all, would be my guess. How’s Claire now?’
Anderson rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. ‘She’s fine. It was one of the more frightening experiences of my life. But one injection at the hospital and that was that.’ He sighed slowly through pursed lips. ‘This morning she was up and demanding breakfast, so she can’t be all that bad.’
‘I was surprised to see you in today,’ said Costello.
‘No reason to stay at home,’ said Anderson.
And every reason to escape, Costello thought. ‘Anyway, I’ve just heard back from O’Hare,’ she said. ‘John Campbell has tested positive for sodium cyanide.’
Anderson looked at her eager face, animated. ‘From where? Burning ceiling tiles? His settee? Something like that?’
Costello shook her head. ‘No, he ingested it, not inhaled it. No corrosion in his airways, no soot – he was dead before he hit the deck. Because he hadn’t eaten much and he had a thin stomach lining, it went through him like a stone through a wet paper bag. He had no chance.’
‘Why do I get the feeling you’re on to something?’ Anderson folded his arms on his desk and dropped his head on top.
Costello pulled her chair closer, opened the file and took a magnifying glass from her pocket. ‘Well, you can’t eat cyanide and not notice. O’Hare told me that. So, how did it get into his stomach?’
‘No idea.’
‘Rhetorical question. Look…’ She pushed the photographs of John Campbell’s flat underneath Anderson’s forearms, forcing him to look. She tapped her fingertip on the scorched counter. ‘What do you see there?’ She placed the glass on the photograph. ‘Right there, beside that tin?’
Anderson sighed and leaned over, closing one eye to look. ‘That’s a strip of tablets of some kind.’
‘Did you see them there? What were they?’
‘Sorry,’ Anderson said sarcastically. ‘I was busy concentrating on not stepping on a dead body while being asphyxiated. But I remember thinking that Bugatti biscuit tin looked as though the flames had just swept over it. And the tablets are right beside it.’
‘But John Campbell kept his tablets in a seven-day dispenser – one of those dosset boxes.’ Costello stabbed at the photograph with her pencil. ‘I’d say this is it here. So, what was in that strip? Karen said he had a headache, and that she took him some Headeze. He would have been careful what painkiller he used so as not to upset his sensitive stomach, and Sarah made the point that Headeze didn’t. The Prof said Campbell only had cyanide and his stomach tablet in him drug-wise, and a few bits of food he’s sent for analysis. Which means we could be talking poisoning, in error or by product tampering. I’ll check the contents of his fridge, see what he and Sarah might have eaten in common. But I’m looking at that strip of painkillers first.’
‘What about Sarah?’
‘She’s still in the High Dependency unit. I’d like to look round her kitchen.’
Anderson could read her like a book. ‘On the pretext of…?’
‘Well, if there is a toxic substance in that house, I’d better go and find it. In case poor Karen eats it too,’ she added lamely.
‘As long as you’ve alerted the Poison Unit…’
‘O’Hare’s seen to all that. Look, maybe Sarah took a painkiller from the same batch. If the stuff’s out on general sale, we need to get moving.’
‘Yeah, but not you. Get a uniform round to Sarah’s to search the kitchen and bring back any tablets or meds. In fact, run it past Quinn to send Irvine; she’ll be out that way in any case to pick up Peter. If a faulty batch of headache tablets is out there, they’ll be dropping like flies after Hogmanay’s hangovers.’
‘It might be a faulty batch. Or they might have been tampered with. Deliberately. I think I’ll have a word with the ex-husband.’
‘Just make a start somewhere. I’m busy,’ Anderson’s eyes went back to the screen, checking a more recent map of the Red Triangle, as the area of abduction had become known, an isosceles triangle with Byres Road, Great Western Road and a bottom line that varied with every false sighting. His phone rang, and he answered it without moving his eyes from the black cross that indicated the Joozy Jackpot on Byres Road. A shiver chilled him to the core as he said, ‘Yes?’
‘Daddy, will you take me to the place tomorrow for my dragon? You said!’
‘Where?’
‘The place for my dragon? To wear.’
‘Peter, is your mum there?’
‘Mummy’s busy, and I have to do my Puff the Magic Dragon.’
Anderson sighed and looked at his watch. ‘I’ll get your outfit if you do a big favour for Daddy.’ As he told Peter about the re-enactment, his eyes drifted back to the photographs of the two missing boys.
Costello listened to him carefully explaining to his son what he had to do, sounding calm, comforting. She sat back, thinking about Sarah McGuire, so keen on Karen’s education at one of the most expensive private schools in the city. The gap between granddad and granddaughter was a social chasm. Giving Anderson a comforting pat on the shoulder, she went back to her desk and began to type a formal request to look into the estate of John Campbell, and the financial affairs of Thomas Patrick McGuire. And, to a lesser extent, his daughter Karen Lisa McGuire. Costello flicked her pen against her cheek. The girl was doing a school project about the war, and her granddad was helping with it, lending her books. She recalled seeing some of them in their living room, marked with fluorescent page tags. She twisted in her chair and called across the room to anybody who would listen. ‘What do you lot know about cyanide?’
‘It kills you. It tastes bitter,’ Wyngate volunteered. ‘It’s found in apricot kernels.’
‘The Nazi war criminals killed themselves with it, Goering for one,’ offered Littlewood. ‘You seen that film, Downfall? The big scene is Magda Goebbels killing their kids – one cyanide capsule in the mouth then…’ Littlewood snapped his teeth together, ‘… goodnight, Vienna.’
‘Or goodbye to Berlin, in that particular case,’ said Wyngate and smiled. ‘Why do you want to know about cyanide?’
‘Just an idea,’ said Costello bluntly.
Littlewood asked, ‘Do you know when Lewis plans her little showpiece to kick off?’
‘About four, I think,’ answered Costello. ‘Why, don’t you know?’
‘She’s playing it close to her lovely and ample chest. Not a good idea.’ Littlewood rolled his shoulders and turned away. He stood at the open window, arms folded, his thick neck red with a nasty rash, concentrating on the street below, thinking. DS Littlewood had spent more years in the dirty squad than Quinn had spent on the force, and he was clearly not happy about Lewis’s plan.
Costello didn’t like the implications of that.
‘How is she doing?’
Thomas McGuire didn’t turn round, not that he was looking at the figure lying in the bed in front of him. He was staring into space, holding a forgotten cup of tea in mid-air. ‘As well as can be expected, apparently,’ he answered. ‘They seem to be pleased with her so far. Who’s asking?’
McGuire was a small fresh-faced, casually dressed man, with pointed but attractive features. His grey hair was pulled into a small ponytail. He was not at all what Costello had expected.
She flashed her warra
nt card at him. ‘DS Costello. I was chatting to Sarah only yesterday, about her dad.’
He nodded. ‘Karen said. Yeah, old John, bit of a shocker that one, rather a tragedy.’ He said it in a way that implied his wife lying in a coma wasn’t so much of a tragedy.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t get back to Karen when her mum collapsed but I wasn’t in the station. You’d think somebody would have had the sense to pass on the message to me.’
‘Would it have made any difference? Her mum would still be in here.’
Costello shook her head. ‘But I gave her my card in case they needed their hands held. And she phoned and I failed to get back to her. I feel bad about it,’ she lied. ‘Have they told you anything?’
He laughed slightly. ‘Do they ever? What do you want, DS Costello? What’s going on here?’
‘We’re following a line of enquiry.’
‘I know they’re testing her for cyanide. It’s not the sort of stuff you leave lying around, is it?’ He downed the dregs of his tea and placed the empty cup and saucer on Sarah’s bedside table.
‘Can I ask you a few questions? If it’s convenient?’
‘Fire away.’
‘Where’s Karen? I don’t want her overhearing.’
‘Outside, texting her pals.’ He didn’t sound impressed. ‘So, what have you dug up? Both Sarah and old John – that can’t be coincidence.’
Costello agreed, making a mental note to find out when Thomas McGuire had been told. ‘Please keep it to yourself. They might not have been targets; both might have been accidental, purely random events. But in case they weren’t, we need to investigate.’ Costello leaned against the wall, ignoring the figure on the bed. Somebody wheeled a trolley past the open door, singing ‘Hark, the Herald Angels Sing’ very badly. ‘I’m out on a limb here; I need a bit of help.’ She tucked her blonde hair behind her ear in a way that made her look unthreatening; it always got men to say more than they intended. ‘Is your wife in any financial trouble?’
‘You lot are quick, aren’t you?’ he smiled. ‘Not yet, she isn’t, but the minute the house goes on the market she will be. She has been dragging her feet over the sale. I’m supporting Karen for now but she’s growing up, and God forbid Sarah might have to get a job and support herself. Sarah got half my mum’s estate in her settlement and she’s already gone through that. I’ll get none of John’s – not that I want it. And if you were to ask me if everything in our marriage comes down to money, the answer is – latterly, yes. Sarah is a leech and a bitch.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t take the dog when I left her. Next thing I knew, Treacle had been put down. She said he was ill, but I doubt it. I don’t know how you can tell somebody their dog’s been put to sleep, and smile.’ He shook his head. ‘But that’s the way she is. And Karen’s turning out the same. She said she wanted a gap year to go round the world. So, I told her to get a Saturday job to save up; in fact, I made a few phone calls to a few contacts, to see if they could put a few hours her way. I was curious to see what excuses she’d come up with not to work.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘My wife was bleeding me dry, and my business would have been brought down too, if I hadn’t escaped. But if I was going to do away with either of them, I’d have done it before we separated and saved myself a fortune. Sorry to be so blunt.’ He looked down at the face behind the oxygen mask. ‘I got a call on her mobile this morning, asking why she wasn’t at the tennis. She’d arranged the match last night. I ask you, playing tennis the day after your dad’s died?’
‘It takes all sorts,’ Costello said evasively. ‘Tell me, did your wife generally eat breakfast?’
‘No, she always made do with a fag and black coffee.’ He thought for a minute and then added, ‘But she and Karen were both on a pre-Christmas diet, some carbohydrate nonsense.’
‘The GI diet?’
‘Something daft like that.’
‘And did she normally suffer from headaches?’
‘All during our married life,’ he said caustically.
‘Thanks.’ Costello couldn’t think of anything to say so she slipped her card onto his saucer. ‘If you need anything, or think of anything, let me know.’
‘Will they pass the message on, though?’ Tom McGuire smiled and then looked her straight in the eye. ‘I’m sorry about John. He was a nice old bloke. And she was his eternal disappointment,’ he said, and his voice cracked slightly.
Costello nodded, understanding. ‘Well, you can never choose your family, can you? Bye.’ She left the room. Outside she had to sidestep a wheezy old dear who was manoeuvring a WRVS trolley with a cargo of fruit and newspapers, bottled water and Lucozade, and a wicker basket of home baking, scones, pancakes and Empire biscuits with the Scottish flag on the front in wobbly white and blue icing. Costello took a deep breath as she passed, and the smell was wonderful. She stopped the woman and bought a can of Diet Coke.
She needed to find a quiet corner and think about the money. She made her way out to the car, parked in the loading bay behind the Pathology lab of the hospital. She sat in the front seat, her yellow notebook resting on the steering wheel, sipping her Diet Coke. She wrote the word Money in the middle of the page, then thought. Who’d made it, who had it, who wanted it? Thinking was what DCI McAlpine – the Boss – always did. First rule of detection, he used to say… follow the money.
8
Anderson was still studying the pictures of the two boys on the white wallboard. Blond-haired Luca, blond-haired Troy, so like each other. So like Peter. It made him uneasy. He looked at the map. The Red Triangle was becoming a mass of stickers and pins. Somebody had scribbled Large scale map on order under it. Anderson looked at the names on the rota for the search parties –he didn’t recognize any of them. That made him uneasy too. He glanced at his watch – it was going on half one – and coughed. ‘Is Costello back yet?’
‘Saw her a minute ago, guv,’ said Wyngate.
‘And DS Lewis?’
‘Haven’t seen her,’ shouted somebody wistfully.
‘She’s running around doing her thing for the press. Irvine will be heading out to get Peter soon, once Costello has finished nattering to her about Sarah McGuire,’ said Wyngate. ‘She’s got a bee in her bonnet about that woman. She’s had Gail Irvine go right through that house.’
‘I thought that was to wait until Quinn had agreed it.’ Anderson turned round and, sure enough, Costello had collared Irvine for a chinwag that he was glad he could not overhear. If whatever they were hatching sent Quinn ballistic, at least he’d be able to say honestly that he had no idea what it was about.
‘Well?’ demanded Costello.
Irvine pulled out her notebook. ‘There was an open strip of tablets, Headeze to be exact, on the kitchen worktop, and a glass tumbler upturned on the draining board and a plate and a spoon lying in the sink, rinsed. I brought them in with me…’
‘For public safety, not because they’re evidence,’ prompted Costello.
‘Indeed. And I still have them in my desk. Locked. I made a list of the contents of the fridge and put stickers all over the place.’
‘The ex-hubby said Sarah was on some daft carbohydrate diet. So, what would breakfast be? Porridge? Weetabix?’ Costello looked thoughtful. ‘Look, Gail, I’ll stay on here for the briefing, as I missed this morning’s. I know Lewis has you running around like the proverbial blue-arsed fly, but can you do this for me?’ She handed over the final list that had evolved on the yellow notepaper. ‘I don’t want DCI Quinn to see the results yet, so just leave it on my desk marked for my attention, OK?’
Irvine’s eyes opened as she looked at the length of the list. ‘Will I have time?’ she queried.
‘Find time.’
Irvine hesitated.
‘If you don’t do it, somebody else will, and I’d rather you got the credit,’ said Costello quietly. ‘Rumour has it Quinn is putting names forward for promotion on these appraisals; that’s why Vik is being such an arse. I’d like to see you on the list as well.�
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‘Cheers, Costello.’
They both turned as the brisk clip of high heels along the corridor heralded the arrival of Kate Lewis with John Littlewood, Kate’s wide lips turned up in a hundred-watt smile as she gazed at him.
‘I get your point,’ said Irvine out the corner of her mouth, folding up Costello’s list. ‘You know, Costello, I’ve never seen that before, a woman smiling at Littlewood.’
‘She’ll be trying to borrow money.’
‘She doesn’t need it; the rumour is her man’s loaded.’
‘I’d heard he was a cop.’
‘A loaded cop? My God, Littlewood is smiling back.’ Irvine tapped Costello with the yellow paper. ‘I’ll get on with this then. I take it no one’s supposed to know?’ Costello nodded, and Irvine slipped out the room.
Anderson banged a spoon against a mug for attention. ‘Right, you lot – briefing. We know two children are missing. DS Lewis’s reconstruction is based on the definite facts, not the maybes. Luca Scott was in the Joozy Jackpot amusement arcade with his mum, Lorraine.’ He pointed at a picture of a pale-faced, black-haired woman of indeterminate age, her face drawn and eyes dead. ‘She went into a… status epilepticus…’ he stuttered over the word, ‘a constant fit to you and me, and they called an ambulance. In among all the confusion and mayhem, the wee lad disappeared.’ Anderson pointed to the other board. ‘Troy McEwen went missing on Tuesday; the window of opportunity is now from four thirty to four forty-five. You all know the site? It’s not a park; it’s a big public garden, overlooked on all four sides. The trees are bare, no buildings, no cover, and the boy wasn’t airlifted out by aliens. Somebody, looking out their window, must have seen something. So, we go back through all those flats again. We are now working on this bigger grid.’ He indicated the area on the map with a quick sweep of his forefinger. ‘Let’s look at the neighbour – Miss Cotter,’ he continued. ‘She noticed the McEwens’ flat door was open, and that Troy wasn’t there. She phoned the police, as she already knew about Luca. So, we have another seven-year-old boy, this one wandering around in a bright-blue fleece and baggy leggings, and again, nobody saw anything. There are no forensics at the park, just a speck of blood, and that’s being tested.’