Singing to the Dead

by Caro Ramsay

  ‘Troy’s medication. Just spoken to the family GP, he was worried about this Strep throat. I feel the clock is ticking for that wee boy.’

  ‘You might be right.’ He looked at the clock, thinking about Peter. ‘Anyway, did you tell Vik about his delivery?’

  ‘I will,’ Costello answered. ‘Eventually.’

  Irvine got up on the footplate of the Transit again, and leaned on the top of the open door to gain more height. She hadn’t pressed the orange button; she hadn’t alerted the entire Strathclyde Police radio network to Lewis’s incompetence. Or indeed her own, in trusting Lewis in the first place. She sighed, swallowing her panic. She had sent four cops up to either end of Byres Road, and the driver and Littlewood had gone east and west at a fair jog.

  She couldn’t think what to do. Give it five more minutes, just five more minutes, she told herself, and then she’d press the orange button. If the worst came to the worst – OK, she hadn’t called the alarm, but neither had Lewis, and Lewis was the officer in charge. Irvine was aware, deep inside, of a snide pleasure that Lewis had fucked this up. She just hoped it wouldn’t be wee Peter who paid for it. But at the end of the day, he was a cop’s son and he wouldn’t go without a struggle. He had to be somewhere.

  The crowds were dispersing. She jumped down, pulled her padded jacket round her and set off.

  She saw one boy, in a parka, but he had dark hair. Her heart jumped when she saw another, blonder, on the opposite side of the road, with the same airy way of walking that Peter had, face in the sky, arms swinging. He was immediately hidden by an Irn Bru truck pulling up to wait at the lights. Irvine skipped across the road through the traffic, caught sight of the boy again and a woman pulling him away, the boy not wanting to follow. Irvine touched the boy on the shoulder, knowing as she did so that this boy was too tall, a good couple of years older than Peter. His mother turned to look at her, an unspoken question on her face.

  ‘Just in case you haven’t got a child safety leaflet,’ Irvine said, thrusting one into the woman’s hand.

  As she waited to cross back over the road, she looked at the French Café opposite, the seats outside clearly visible, those inside clouded by the condensation on the glass. A woman was sitting outside under the canopy, warming her hands on a mug of coffee, long coat drawn tightly round her, and in front of her a little boy was dancing. He was wearing a parka, and a dark hat with a red bobble. The woman’s short cropped hair was in disarray, as if a hat had been pulled off. But the way the boy moved… it was Peter. Irvine ran across the road, risking death from an overtaking black cab. She ran up to the table.

  The woman lifted her head, taking her attention from the boy, and said, ‘Hello, Peter here has been telling me all about it. How did it go?’

  Irvine looked at the face, the close-cropped auburn hair; in her mind’s eye she painted more flesh on those cheekbones, imagined the hair long and tumbling. ‘Fine, just fine, thank you,’ she said. ‘How’s Peter?’ she asked, wishing she could strangle the wee sod.

  ‘Oh, he followed me in there, saying he was cold, but I thought he’d better be out here where you could see him. He said you had finished with him.’

  ‘Not quite, Mrs McAlpine,’ said Gail Irvine, the name coming to her at last. ‘We have to take him home now.’

  ‘I can do that, if you want.’

  ‘Thank you, but we’d better do it.’

  ‘I can go with Auntie Helena and do dragons,’ Peter insisted.

  ‘No, I don’t think so, Peter.’ Helena pulled her hat from his head. ‘You go with this lady, and do as you’re told for once.’ Helena smiled up at Irvine. ‘That’ll be a first.’

  Irvine took Peter firmly by the hand and led him away, texting Lewis to say all was well and to call the guys back. She glanced back over her shoulder. Helena, lifting her coffee to her lips, took a deep breath of its sweet aroma, watching them. Well, watching Peter at any rate, Irvine thought.

  They exchanged a brief smile before Irvine turned away.

  11

  Somebody had closed all the windows in the toilet, the doors to the cubicles were shut, and the main door had also been closed before Costello opened it, yet the toilet was freezing. Irvine, trying to get her body temperature above zero, was huddled up against the radiator, with her arms drawn up inside the sleeves of her police uniform jumper, rolling them into mitts that enveloped her hands as she cradled her cheeks with the rough wool.

  Costello had half expected a few handwritten notes to be left on her desk. It wasn’t like Irvine to go in for subterfuge and clandestine meetings. But just the look on Irvine’s face was enough to tell Costello that there was more to it. ‘I take it you’ve something up your sleeve – apart from your hands, that is.’

  ‘Before we get to the good stuff, can I just tell you first that Kate Lewis is a cow?’ said Irvine. ‘A complete cow.’

  ‘OK, so I promise not to buy her a Christmas present. What do you have for me?’

  Folded under Irvine’s arm were a few pieces of A4 paper, some of them just taken off a fax machine. She shuffled along the radiator. ‘I got a lot further than I thought I would, really quickly. We have a fair number of leads to follow up. Three unexplained, in inverted commas, deaths and one near miss.’

  Costello stood still for a minute. She didn’t know what to say. She and Anderson had made a deal in a quick conversation outside Interview Room Two: he was going to follow that lead, she was going after the cyanide, and he would present both to Quinn.

  ‘I want to do the follow-up,’ said Irvine, her voice hard with an undercurrent Costello could not place.

  ‘Why shouldn’t you?’

  ‘The thing is, I’m fed up of getting shat on for the mistakes of my superiors.’

  ‘Is that directed at me?’ asked Costello.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, we’ll get this sorted first. Have you really come up with something?’

  ‘Something big. But I won’t get any thanks for it. You and DI Anderson get to bomb about while I get to roll on a shitty carpet and do your typing. And Lewis swans about like the Queen of the New Year. She is so up herself.’

  It dropped on Costello with the subtlety of a mallet. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Gail, I’ll see you get credit for this, whatever it is. I’m taking it to DI Anderson; you know he’s fair.’

  Gail Irvine’s face fell. When Anderson found out about Peter…

  ‘So, come on, Gail. Out with it.’

  ‘John Campbell was poisoned before he burned to death. His daughter was poisoned as well, though not fatally.’

  ‘She’s still in the High Dependency unit, though,’ Costello said. ‘What else do you have?’

  ‘Well, a woman called Nessie Faulkner, aged sixty-two, collapsed and died last Wednesday at the bowling club up by Hyndland Road. It was thought to be a heart attack but there was no evidence of it on PM. Cause of death was undetermined, but it’s being reviewed on the advice of the Poison Unit. They think there might be a whole chain of…’

  They were interrupted by the sound of rushing water as a toilet flushed. Irvine looked horrified, and Costello tapped her ear, indicating that the person in the loo must have heard everything. It came as no surprise when the door opened accompanied by the sound of clippity heels and Kate Lewis came out, swinging her handbag over her shoulder, smiling broadly like a cat. ‘Does the dishy DI know all that?’ she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

  ‘Who?’ asked Costello amicably, turning to wash her hands.

  ‘DI Anderson – Colin, isn’t it? He seems rather distracted; I think he and the Mrs are having a few problems. It’s a shame, he’s so nice. Does he know about all this cyanide stuff? Are you two on to something?’

  So, she had been listening – and wasn’t so stupid as to deny it.

  ‘We have a few unexplained deaths to look into,’ said Irvine, holding out under the pressure of seniority.

  ‘We know nothing for definite yet, and DI Anderson will know as soon as we do.
’ Costello tried to change the subject. ‘And who wouldn’t have problems at home? The hours we’re putting in at the moment, his two wee kids will see more of Santa than him this Christmas.’

  ‘I’m so lucky with Stuart. He understands what it’s like.’ Lewis looked unbearably smug as she checked her make-up in the mirror.

  ‘Working five hundred miles away probably helps.’

  ‘Well, I think DI Colin Anderson should be at home, nicely wrapped up in bed. Now there’s a thought!’ Lewis ran damp fingers through her hair, and her brown curls immediately revitalized and sorted themselves the way Costello’s never did. She shook her head violently as if proving that the curls would stay there.

  ‘Anderson? Colin? You don’t have the hots for him, do you?’ asked Costello.

  Lewis pursed her lips. ‘He’s a good-looking man. Must be nice to have a man who knows where the towels are kept and who can put a load of washing on for you. Stuart has no idea about anything; the only thing in his fridge is beer… and more beer. He sends all his clothes to the launderette. Have you never… you know… with Colin?’

  Costello looked at Lewis in the mirror, wondering how she managed to look like that after a twelve-hour shift. ‘He’s my boss,’ she said simply.

  ‘That’s never stopped me in the past… quite the reverse, in fact,’ Lewis said, flicking the back of her hands on to her cheekbones to give her skin a healthy glow. ‘Cheaper than blusher,’ she explained.

  ‘It’ll burst the blood vessels in your face and you’ll look like a Halloween cake by the time you’re forty,’ said Costello.

  ‘Long way to go then. So, why was he answering your mobile?’ Lewis asked coquettishly.

  ‘I was being sick in his car at the time.’

  Lewis shot her a gleeful look. ‘Ah, the old sick-in-the-car routine.’ She whisked a lipstick round her mouth then started pulling faces, pressing her lips against each other, before returning to her favourite subject. ‘Stuart would go nuts if you threw up in his car; he drives a Lexus.’

  ‘Obviously very well paid for his nine-to-five in the Met,’ said Costello, shooting a look at Irvine.

  ‘Not really.’ Lewis looked at herself full length in the mirror and straightened her skirt. She sighed. ‘He has other business interests.’ She started spraying perfume over her long unlined neck. ‘So, what are you two doing at Christmas?’ she enquired.

  ‘Oh, I always work over Christmas. I prefer it,’ said Costello, finding Kate Lewis as sweetly irritating as a grain of sand to an oyster.

  ‘Prefer it to being on your own?’

  ‘Well, the TV’s been rotten these last few years.’

  ‘What about you, Gail?’

  ‘Boyfriend’s parents, deaf grannies, somebody having a punch-up, the usual happy family Christmas.’

  Lewis shrugged with glee as her phone rang. That bloody ‘Sex Bomb’ ring tone was doing Costello’s head in.

  At first she tried to ignore Lewis’s inane mutterings down the phone, then the words penetrated her brain, ‘… and Costello has a really good lead on this cyanide stuff. The Poison Unit has come up with a whole lot of new information.’ She nodded at Costello. ‘I’ll be back the minute I’ve finished this call; you can give me the gossip then.’ Still on the phone, she headed out of the door. ‘I think…’ What she thought was lost as the toilet door closed slowly on its retaining arm. She hoped Lewis was talking to her boyfriend; indiscreet as that was, it would be criminal if it had been anybody else.

  Gail Irvine’s face was ashen with realization. ‘I can’t believe she heard me call her a cow.’

  ‘And you said she was up herself! But think of it this way – the truth will out.’

  ‘I think DI Anderson is going to be very angry when he finds out we lost Peter at Joozy Jackpot.’ Irvine looked at the floor. ‘Lewis has told me to keep it quiet. Ordered me to keep quiet. But we couldn’t find him for a good eight or nine minutes. It was DCI McAlpine’s wife who found him.’

  ‘Helena?’ Costello smiled a tight smile. ‘If it was Helena Farrell who found him, then Lewis’s goose will be cooked. Colin and she are good friends. She’ll tell him, or Peter will, and then the shit will hit the fan. But if I were you, I’d get my version in first. If Brenda finds out, she’ll disembowel him – slowly.’

  ‘How well do they know each other? The DI and the DCI’s widow? I mean, Kate’s right, isn’t she? Just because we think he’s Mr B&Q doesn’t mean he’s not an attractive guy.’

  Costello shrugged non-committally. Her mind was elsewhere. ‘Whose fault was it Peter got lost?’

  ‘Lewis. She was being chatted up by that reporter Dave Ripley.’

  ‘He’s a right sleaze.’

  Irvine pulled her jumper down, smartening herself up. ‘Right, I’ll speak to DI Anderson but I’ll need a coffee first.’ Irvine thrust some papers into Costello’s hand. ‘I’ve scribbled on them. You might want to talk to this Dr Robert Garrett; he’s a nice guy.’ And she went off in search of caffeine to steady her nerves.

  Costello perched her backside on the edge of the sink and glanced through the notes Irvine had made, her handwriting all over the place as she scribbled on her knee with her phone in the other hand. Four names, four doctors. She copied them on to a Post-it note and stuck it in her shoulder bag next to her yellow notebook. She looked at the four names again – three fatalities – Moira McCulloch, Barbara Cummings, Duncan Thompson. A Lars Lundeberg had survived, but only just. Underneath Irvine had scrawled Costello – they’ll fax details through to you. She had very formally signed and dated it, making her point – she wanted credit where credit was due.

  Did they have a serial poisoner on their hands? Was something leaking into some factory plant somewhere, silent but fatal? Costello felt her heart begin to race. Not this, not with two missing children – the squad couldn’t cope with it. Not at Christmas. Costello looked again at the list of names, tried to focus on Lars Lundeberg. He didn’t sound local. He couldn’t have had much in common with the others. But he had survived. So, he was potentially a walking witness. She tried to focus on the letters as they blurred then separated.

  She was shocked when the cold hard sink hit her on the back of the head.

  12

  After a frustrating half-hour of people promising to phone him back, Colin Anderson put the phone down, his throat raw from too much talking. No Miss Cotter was registered at Havelock Street but a Mrs Cotter was. It troubled him, a woman like Miss, or Mrs, Cotter living one floor up in a hilly area of Glasgow, with her wheezy chest. He tried her GP again; he wanted to know just how bad her chest was, what she might physically be capable of, but the GP was in the middle of a busy clinic. Even if Anderson got him, he would probably quote patient confidentiality and Anderson was in no mood to sweet-talk the situation with Yes, but hypothetically speaking…

  He looked at his diary, flashing at him from the corner of the screen that there was a memo from Quinn. So, she couldn’t be arsed walking all the ten yards from her office to his. The message was straight and to the point. There had been a suggestion from an officer on the house-to-house that the search was not thorough enough, that premises were being overlooked. Of the twenty uniformed officers who had been drafted in, Anderson knew about two. They were all meeting at eight the following morning in the dining room at Rowanhill Primary School where, later, in the gym hall, the car park and the street outside, there would be a special Christmas fair for the earthquake appeal. That would draw every kid in the surrounding area out of the woodwork.

  He called up the database for the search. The last update had been from the night shift. He called up the list of premises where no access had been gained and cursed when he saw the length of it. He checked who had last updated it – a PC Smythe, probably some pen-pusher in an office somewhere. Anderson himself would have to go through it all again, get the grid map out and examine it inch by inch. There were too few ground troops, and they were too tired, too cold. Too sure in the knowledge th
ere was nothing to find. Maybe they were not wrong. And as well as all this, the force had to babysit Rogan O’Neill for his public appearance tomorrow.

  Anderson’s phone sounded, a voicemail coming through from Peter. When are you coming home? I need to do Puff. He was about to reply when Wyngate thumped a buff file on top of the growing pile on his desk. ‘I’ve been through every classmate Troy has, his teacher and classroom assistants; I’ve tracked down the few neighbours we still had to speak to, but nothing. Sorry, sir, nothing.’

  ‘OK, Wyngate, nice try. Do me a favour and phone the delightful Miss Cotter’s GP, see if you have any better luck than me. I’m trying to find out what’s wrong with her chest. She wheezes as if she has Chronic Obstructive Airways Disease and if she does, and it’s bad, then we can strike her off the suspect list.’ Anderson tapped his pen against the screen. ‘It’s going down to minus four tonight. That wee lad has only a thin fleece on, and he’s in need of medication for his throat. We need to get it on the news that the boy is ill. Make sure Mulholland labours the point in the press release. Oh, get him to labour it even if the boy was fit enough to climb Everest backwards. Where is he anyway?’

  ‘Nipped home. I think he had something or somebody on his mind. And, sir? If you want to go home for a bit and see Claire, sir… We’re all doing a double shift again tonight.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Anderson. ‘Quinn missed that bit out of my memo.’

  ‘I’ll cover. No matter what Mulholland gets up to he will be in later, and Costello – Costello has disappeared.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll take you up on your offer of a bit of home time. I think the wife is going out again. I’ll take these with me and look over them. Can you get the addresses into some sort of geographical order?’

  ‘No sweat.’ Wyngate glanced down the list. ‘Is this fair going ahead tomorrow? With two children gone, does the DCI think it’s enough just to beef up security? Might be better to…’