Singing to the Dead

by Caro Ramsay

  ‘Cancel the whole fair? Life goes on, Wyngate. But put the word out I want as many police in attendance as possible, informally. The dog squad are doing a display in the car park anyway. There’s been muttering from Stewart Street HQ that Rogan O’Neill is going to pay for some kind of extra security. I suppose it’s all grist to his publicity mill. But then again, with all those children around and unobtrusive security – who knows what it might pull out the woodwork?’ Anderson swung round in his seat, and found John Littlewood staring at him.

  ‘Risky,’ said Littlewood, scratching his bald head, scattering dandruff on the shoulders of his leather jacket. ‘Too risky. That re-enactment was risky.’

  ‘But it went OK? Peter was OK?’ Anderson asked.

  Littlewood dropped his gaze, and blew a perfect sphere of bubblegum until it popped. ‘Peter was just fine.’

  Anderson missed the nuance in the reply and looked back at the photographs of the two missing boys stuck on to the front of his monitor. He couldn’t imagine never being there to touch his son on the cheek as he fell asleep, to read his bedtime story, to have the usual fight about bathtime and whose turn it was to spray the mousse and who was to scrub. The little bits of life that held a family together. But Luca Scott and Troy McEwen were both growing up without a father, and effectively without a mother either. What kind of family life was that?

  Another memo popped up on his screen. Rogan O’Neill’s agent had been on the phone, offering a reward of a hundred grand for information leading to the safe return of the boys. Anderson let a slow whistle whisper through his teeth; Quinn, he noted, was waiting for agreement from HQ. He noticed Littlewood’s head come up as the memo popped up on his own screen, and a slightly puzzled look cross his rugged face.

  ‘Even if they say no, can they actually stop him putting up a reward if he wants to? I think we should just take Rogan up on his offer to do an appeal,’ Anderson said. ‘We need somebody like that to keep the boys in the headlines. He’d do better putting all that money into more security at the fair tomorrow, seeing as he’s the big attraction. He’s the one who’s creating all the fuss anyway. Can you get a map of the school and review the security, the entry and exit points, check the security camera placements?’

  ‘You think any kid is going to be safe – even one with careful parents – if someone in the crowd lures them with a Santa and Squidgy McMidge?’ Littlewood said in disbelief, and walked away.

  Anderson turned back to his own desk to think further. Posters, radio appeals and door-to-door searches had brought in nothing, but no bloody wonder if all someone had to do was not answer the door to avoid being questioned. Tomorrow, uniformed personnel would be interviewing anybody in the Red Triangle, stopping them in the street, but again anybody who wanted to avoid that could. And who was to say the kids were still in the area? Another memo appeared on the screen – the media liaison unit had asked Rogan O’Neill to firm up a time to film the appeal, and Vik Mulholland was going in front of the cameras in the meantime. Anderson took a sip of stone-cold coffee, and reread the statement Mulholland had prepared. Very easy on the eye was DC Mulholland, and he came over well. Although he was proving to be as much use as a chocolate fireguard today, away with the fairies dreaming about the new girlfriend. Anderson’s phone rang again, and his home number flashed up on the digital display. He let it ring. It would be Brenda, wanting another night out and moaning about a lack of money. Couldn’t she – just this once – stay at home and look after Claire?

  ‘I’m OK, I’m OK…’

  ‘No, you are not.’ Lewis was kneeling beside her, trying to get her to sit up. But the more she helped, the more confused Costello’s body seemed to become. She was on the floor of the toilet, with her legs crumpled beneath her, and could neither get up nor lie down. Her head pounded with every movement as Lewis tried to pull her to her feet, and she thought she was going to be sick again. She put her hand up, telling Lewis to leave her alone, and let her eyes focus on the contents of her handbag scattered all over the floor, knowing that they must be hers but not really recognizing the leather purse and the torn make-up bag with the black stain on the corner where her eyeliner had leaked.

  She was seeing double – more than double – every time she moved left or right, and Lewis’s face danced round her as though they were both in some strobe-lit disco.

  ‘Costello, can you stand up?’

  ‘I don’t know, I just felt faint.’ Costello tried to steady her breathing, fanning the collar of her shirt against her neck, letting the cold air cool the sweat. ‘I’m fine now.’

  ‘Yeah, you look fine. Could you walk across this room with your eyes closed?’

  ‘Could I do that normally?’

  Lewis helped Costello to her feet, placing her hands on the basin, and then took a paper towel, soaked it in cold water and held it against her forehead. ‘I don’t know why they do this on the telly but it always seems to work wonders. Do you want a paracetamol or an aspirin? Have you eaten anything?’

  Costello smiled weakly, starting to feel better, starting to think Lewis might be a nice human being after all. ‘I think I’m just hungry. I had a migraine yesterday, and I threw up everything. And I’ve had nothing to eat today, so it serves me right.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get down to the canteen and get some food inside you, some sweet tea. I’ll go and tell the boys what’s happened; there’s about to be another meeting.’

  Before Costello could stop her, Lewis was gone. Costello didn’t know whether she had said tell the boys or tell the boss. She decided she didn’t care.

  13

  Mulholland had been swinging backwards and forwards on his chair, plaiting the fingers of his gloves and letting them spring loose. He wished Fran hadn’t simply handed them back without asking to see him. He was even more miserable that his quick visit out to her house had been unsuccessful – she hadn’t been in. He’d bought her a pink mobile phone, got it registered and charged up with a full card, just so he could tell her if he had to work on, but all he could do was leave it behind her storm door with a note. Was she really playing hard to get, as Lewis suggested? He didn’t think that was like her.

  He was supposed to be reading through his script for the press conference, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He heard a phone ringing, checked it wasn’t his, and went back to his script. But a glare from Colin Anderson, who was on his own phone, told him Costello’s phone was ringing, and had been for a while. Anderson’s pointed gesture implied strongly that Mulholland should answer it.

  ‘Hello, Dr Robert Garrett from Gartnavel Hospital here.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Mulholland answered, only half listening.

  ‘I was told to ask for DS Costello. I’ve been speaking to a DC Irvine and Professor O’Hare,’ said the voice on the telephone.

  ‘DS Costello’s not available at the moment.’ Mulholland looked up. Costello was nowhere to be seen, and there were no notes on her desk, so he decided to play it by ear. ‘This is her phone. I’m DC Mulholland, on the same team as DS Costello.’

  ‘Oh, right. We were told to notify you if we hardened up any details of the fatalities I told DC Irvine about earlier.’

  Mulholland was paying attention now; this was big. He listened, a smile slowly dawning on his face. Dr Garrett was innocently filling in the blanks; in fact, he was being very helpful indeed.

  He pulled his own notebook from his pocket. ‘Sodium cyanide. And it was in a capsule?’ Mulholland narrowed his eyes in concentration, then turned away, aware of Anderson hanging up his phone and looking over, trying to listen in. Mulholland held tightly on to his pad and scribbled it all down, even to the description of the half-dissolved capsule one of the victims had vomited up in the ambulance.

  Mulholland himself felt sick but thanked Dr Garrett, then sat and had a good look for Costello’s notebook. He saw Wyngate chewing on his bottom lip like a cow looking over a wall, looking at the door for Costello then back at her desk where Mulh
olland now sat.

  He didn’t find much except a log of where Costello had been and for how long, but not why. He noted Sarah McGuire’s phone number, the same number for Karen and a different one for Thomas McGuire. He was itching to get to Quinn before he had to film his TV statement.

  ‘You didn’t see any of that,’ he told Wyngate. ‘I’m taking this to DCI Quinn.’

  ‘Taking what to Quinn?’

  ‘You’ll be told as and when. Keep quiet about it.’ And he walked away.

  Wyngate was uneasy. His sense of unease increased when Mulholland met Lewis in the doorway and she pulled him to one side, stretching up on her toes to speak into his ear, excited, apparently desperate to tell him something, forcing a fold of yellow paper into his hand. Mulholland pulled out his notebook and they went into the corner to compare notes. Wyngate watched them together, two smart young people in designer clothes, both hungry for promotion. Costello’s phone rang again, but nobody seemed inclined to answer it.

  DS Costello was tucked up in a corner of the empty canteen with her jacket wrapped round her against the chill. The canteen had stopped doing hot food due to staff shortages but Agnes had said she’d fry her an egg and stick it in a soft roll. For now, she was drinking a cup of hot black tea and she had her mobile phone and a load of jumbled thoughts for company. She rummaged in her handbag for the original notes on their yellow paper, but she could only find her Post-it note. Puzzled, she started searching again, and then went through her pockets, just in case. But nothing. Maybe Gail had taken them with her. For the first time in days, her mind seemed to be clearing itself of its migrainous fog, and she wondered if the bang on the head had done her some good.

  Logic was telling her that a leak at some factory somewhere would have had a bigger impact by now, and the Poison Unit would have identified it. This was something more local. All the victims came from within a two-mile radius of the two hospitals. Gail had said the painkillers at Sarah’s house were Headeze, and she wondered if Sarah had regained consciousness yet. Where were those capsules bought? That was what Costello wanted to ask her. And what of Lars Lundeburg? She had phoned the hospital to find out that he actually lived in Gothenburg and had already returned home, after what he thought was the worst bout of food poisoning he had ever had. But the nurse she had spoken to had left a note for a nurse called Malin, who was Swedish herself, and had chatted away to him in more depth than the rest of them.

  For the moment, Costello was stuck. She was staring at her street map of the West End when the doors of the canteen flew open, and Wyngate marched in, bouncing a Christmas tree and dropping pine needles everywhere. He slung it on the nearest table and gesticulated to Costello that maybe she should be upstairs. She shrugged. Nobody had invited her anywhere and she had some important phone calls to make.

  ‘Can I ask you a question? Do you carry any painkillers with you?’

  ‘Why? You not well?’ asked Wyngate.

  ‘I just want to know. What about you, Agnes?’

  ‘I’ll have a painkiller or two in my bag, got a bad back,’ said Agnes.

  ‘I just have my inhaler,’ said Wyngate, trying to be helpful. He searched his pockets but found nothing. ‘Did you know that Vik Mulholland… oh, hang on,’ he said, wandering out the room and muttering that he’d be back in a minute.

  ‘Can I see your painkillers, Agnes?’

  Agnes shrugged and went off to get her handbag, as Costello pulled her jacket further round her, wishing that Kate Lewis had not soaked the fringe of her hair quite so enthusiastically. It was cold now, chilling her face, and her brain hurt as though she had eaten too much ice cream too quickly.

  John Campbell had asked for some headache capsules the week before he died. There was that telltale blister pack, twisted but identifiable in the photograph. But had father and daughter taken two capsules from the same packet? Or was one a cover for the other? And where had bloody Wyngate gone?

  Agnes came toddling out from the kitchen. ‘This is what I have, hen.’

  She proffered an old bubble pack of Transprofen. The tinfoil backing was marked and bent, and two of the capsules were poking their way through. If somebody she knew offered her that, Costello thought, she would probably take it, though she would have no idea whether it had been tampered with or not. And if somebody gave her the whole strip, she might walk about with it for months. She could see a plan there. She thought of Littlewood taking his blister pack of chewing gum from his pocket, popping out the pellets of gum and sticking them in his mouth without looking. But medication? Those packets were tamper-proof; after the baby food scare and the Tylenol case, they carried security labels and seals.

  ‘Can I use these, Agnes?’

  ‘That’s what they’re there for.’

  ‘Thanks, Agnes; I’ll buy you some more.’

  Costello glanced at her watch. She was still waiting to hear back from a Dr Garrett at Gartnavel Hospital; she should really go upstairs and check if the good doctor had phoned. She started to gather her things together, pausing as she picked up Agnes’s capsules, taking time to turn the bubble strip over and over, then frowning. She popped a capsule through its tinfoil backing, its plastic coating sticking to her sweating fingers, and pulled the two halves apart. A fine white powder spilled out on to the canteen table. She pulled another one apart, this time taking care to spill the contents on to a napkin, then she tried to refill the capsules with salt and slide the two halves together again. It didn’t work; she couldn’t even work out which went over which. Then she realized that the warmth of her hands was softening the walls of the capsule. So, she deduced, if she chilled one and warmed the other, it should be possible to fit them back together. The tinfoil backing was so battered, after weeks at the bottom of a typical female handbag, she couldn’t tell if it had been tampered with or not. The tinfoil backing was fractured and split over the capsules, but secure round the edges. Costello looked at the blister pack sideways. No breach. She could see no way of getting at the capsules and replacing the foil. And anyway she couldn’t even begin to think where an ordinary person would get their hands on sodium cyanide. Her mobile sounded, bouncing across the table in front of her. O’Hare was brusque to the point of rudeness. He was calling in; he’d be there in about ten minutes. And he rang off.

  ‘Great,’ she said, wondering how many bosses she could cope with at any one time. For some reason McAlpine came into her mind for the second time. Follow the money.

  Anderson put the phone down and took a deep breath. He had never, ever heard his wife use language like that, but she had every right to be angry, and he himself was going to kill Lewis and Irvine when he got hold of them. They should have told him. Did they think a chatterbox like Peter wasn’t going to tell his mum about his wee adventure – running away, and the nice policewoman… he looked up at the sound of his name and his anger faded. Slightly.

  He saw Helena across the office, walking with her usual elegant confidence, her long navy coat swinging from her shoulders as she made her way towards him. She looked as though she had been out in the rain; a wet knitted hat, with her short hair tucked inside it, emphasized the pallor of her face and the darkness of her eyes. Anderson could smell her as she approached. She always smelled faintly of turpentine and of Penhaligon’s Bluebell. It was her trademark scent.

  Helena smiled at him as she approached the desk, saying hello to John Littlewood and Gordon Wyngate on her way past. She was carrying a large carrier bag from John Lewis full of gift-wrapped parcels, swaying slightly as if it were too heavy for her, and a brown paper package on a string. He was glad the office was half empty. He felt his heart lift at the sight of her.

  ‘Not interrupting, am I?’ She looked apologetic, and her voice was low and soft, like an old charcoal drawing. ‘I know you must have a lot on your plate but I just brought these in.’ She rested the bag of gifts on the floor beside his desk.

  ‘A welcome interruption, believe me. How did you get on at the hospital?’
/>
  ‘Well, I got the green light. I don’t know whether that makes me more or less nervous, but at least the end is in sight.’

  He pulled a chair out for her. ‘I took your tyre in this morning. They’ll call when it’s ready. I was late for work anyway. Claire had a bit of a bad turn last night.’

  ‘Is she OK?’ Helena sat down, her face concerned.

  ‘Yes, it was just a throat infection that got out of control. She was unlucky to have a couple of parents who didn’t get the prescription in time.’ He shrugged. ‘But they bounce back. This morning she was sitting up in bed, demanding food and talking back, so no change there. It’s when my kids are quiet I worry about them.’

  ‘Well, there’s a present in there for her, but you have to give it to her now as I managed to get my hands on a dragon outfit for Peter. Two minutes on the internet and I found a supplier just half a mile away. I picked it up when I came out the hospital today. I had to hide it quick when I saw him in Byres Road.’

  ‘Byres Road?’ Anderson asked, slowly. ‘So, you were there then? I’ve just had an earful from Brenda. What the hell happened?’

  Helena pulled a slightly puzzled face. ‘Well, he was just wandering about. Were you doing a reconstruction or something? I looked for you but you weren’t there.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t there,’ Anderson said, barely trusting himself to speak.

  Helena was oblivious. ‘And there’s something in there for you, just a wee bottle, for helping me out last night. Colin, I was wondering about tomorrow night and the…’

  Helena was cut off by Costello popping her head round the door. ‘Col, can I have a w–. Oh, hello, Mrs McAlpine.’

  Costello’s eyes flitted between them for a moment. Anderson was looking furious about something, something more than just being interrupted.

  ‘I’ll be on my way then,’ Helena said, nodding a goodbye to Anderson.

  ‘Bye then,’ said Costello briskly.