Singing to the Dead

by Caro Ramsay

  ‘Apparently I am instantly forgettable,’ said Costello.

  ‘DS Costello, you are far from being instantly forgettable,’ said Littlewood, noisily moving his chewing gum from one side of his mouth to the other, and snatching the photographs back. ‘For one thing, you’re too bloody irritating.’

  ‘I was going to leave the car here and walk round. Believe me, it’ll be quicker.’ Vik Mulholland un-clipped his seat belt. ‘That OK with you? It’ll be fun. Have you got your mobile with you? I put “Jingle Bells” on it as your ring tone, did you notice?’

  Frances nodded. ‘Christmas and fun. Fun and Christmas. Not two words I automatically put together.’ She slid out the car. ‘Do we need to go, really?’

  ‘Yes. Come on, I’ll get you singing along to “Wombling Merry Christmas” if it kills me.’ Vik folded his hands on the roof of the car and leaned his chin on them. He smiled. ‘I might even seduce you into thinking about Christmas Day and what you might want for…’

  Frances’s face grew dark. ‘Maybe,’ she said, mimicking his posture on the roof of the car, dark hair framing her face, the snow speckling her coat. But she was gazing over his shoulder, her eyes lost somewhere. ‘Maybe.’ Then she smiled at him, and his heart lurched.

  ‘We don’t really need to go,’ he said, in a voice he hoped was mildly suggestive and sexy.

  ‘You just said that we do need to.’ She wiped a comet of snow from the roof of the car and stretched her gloved hand out to his. He tipped a snowflake from her nose and kissed where it had been.

  They walked slowly up Beaumont Place, Vik on the pavement, Frances in the gutter, her boots kicking up the sodden leaves.

  ‘There’s a fair crowd gathering. I hope the security boys are on the ball,’ Vik said, aware that Frances was deep in thought about something that didn’t involve him. ‘Rogan O’Neill is paying for it all.’

  ‘It’s him that’s caused it all, so why not?’ she muttered, almost as if she had not heard him.

  Suddenly three kids came running round the corner. The two boys had the St Andrew’s flag painted on their faces – wee Bravehearts – and the girl held a Squidgy balloon on a stick, one in each hand, and little lights flickered up the sides of her red wellington boots. Frances watched as they went dancing across the end of her road.

  ‘Stay together, you lot!’ Mulholland shouted after them, but they had gone. ‘I hope they look out for each other. Where are their bloody parents?’

  ‘Some folk just don’t deserve kids. Vik? Could we just go for a coffee at the French Café, then you could go along on your own,’ said Frances. ‘Please.’

  He stopped and pulled her face towards his by grasping the collar of her long woollen coat. ‘Look, it’s leaving three o’clock, I have to be there asap, and you are coming with me.’ He kissed her on the forehead, a quick stab of the lips. ‘And you are going to meet Squidgy McMidge, Santa, Rogan O’Neill and my work colleagues.’ For a moment Frances looked disconcerted. ‘That was in descending order of intelligence.’

  She had to smile at that, but only just. Then she turned away quickly, but not before Vik caught the look of fear on her face.

  ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to – meet them, I mean,’ Vik said as they joined the crowds on Rowanhill Road. ‘I just have to let them know that I’m on the premises, that’s all.’ He took her by the arm. ‘You OK?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, but in a tone that suggested she wasn’t. She pulled her scarf and collar up round her face, as if she were hiding. ‘I’m just not that good with people. That’s all.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to be good with people; I’m just asking you to be good to me.’ Vik was careful to keep the humour in his voice but he knew Frances was already upset about something and had walked on ahead so he wouldn’t see her tears.

  18

  ‘He did well, didn’t he? Are you two not really proud?’ Helena smiled at Mr and Mrs Anderson, as she tried to think of them, but failed.

  Colin and Brenda exchanged glances. ‘Who?’ asked Brenda.

  ‘Peter? Doing his Puff on the stage over there,’ she gestured vaguely. Her eyes flicked towards Colin. Don’t tell me you missed it!

  They had been arguing non-stop, Brenda’s voice rising until Colin had pulled her to one side of the hall where the argument had continued in low heated whispers, and they had got so embroiled… ‘We got caught up in something.’

  Helena shrugged uncomfortably. ‘Well, he did really well. The girl behind him stood on his tail during his wee dance and he told her, in no uncertain terms, to remove her foot. You must have heard the laughter…’

  Colin had indeed been aware of a sudden burst of adult laughter, and he had recognized the tune, badly played on the gym hall piano. God knew, he had heard it enough recently.

  ‘If he used bad language, it’s you he gets it from,’ said Brenda. ‘I’ll go and see what he’s up to.’ And she went off without another word.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Colin.

  ‘Stressed out, Christmas, the kids, being married to a cop when his mind is elsewhere – I can sympathize.’ Helena rubbed her hands together. ‘Well, I’ve done my bit. God, that Calloway woman is a right prima donna. From what she writes and draws I thought she’d be warm and wickedly witty, but she’s horrible. She hates kids.’

  ‘I guess you can never tell,’ said Anderson. Helena took a step towards him to avoid the obese woman in her wheelchair, making for the exit with the speed of Michael Schumacher but none of his skill. Helena was now standing so close to Colin Anderson he could smell her perfume, the clean scent of Penhaligon’s Bluebell, but with an undertone of something antiseptic. He took a deep breath and said, as casually as he could, ‘Claire seems much better. So, the disco is a done deal. Which means I’m free.’

  ‘Oh. So, you can make it tonight?’ Colin was flattered to hear genuine pleasure in her voice.

  There was a sudden bark from the corner of the room and a ripple of movement as people turned to look. Pat the Penguin was struggling to get free of the huge growling Alsatian, which was hanging off his tail with bared teeth.

  ‘I’ll see you outside the Theatre Royal. About twenty past seven?’ She smiled, and he wished he hadn’t changed into his old jeans. ‘I think you’ll need to go home, Colin – to drop off the new family pet.’

  Coming the other way was Vik Mulholland, carrying a plastic bag with a goldfish in it. Peter, dressed in his dragon suit, was carefully poking the bag with his finger, and chatting to the fish. Two steps behind, Brenda was berating him for not looking where he was going.

  ‘Dad, look! A goldfish!’

  ‘So I see,’ Anderson nodded at Vik.

  ‘This is my girlfriend, Frances,’ said Vik, and the tall dark-haired woman with him smiled shyly, holding her hand up to the side of her face as though she had toothache.

  ‘I’ve just won it in the lucky dip. Would you like it?’ she asked. Peter’s face lit up like a light bulb, and Mulholland, ignoring the filthy looks from his boss, handed the goldfish over.

  Peter took it with both hands. ‘And did you see me sing my song? I was best.’

  ‘I’m sure you were,’ said Frances, in a low husky voice.

  ‘Mum and Dad missed it,’ hissed Peter.

  ‘Tell everybody, why don’t you?’

  ‘Well, I’m going away with my goldfish,’ he said petulantly.

  ‘Your mother…’

  ‘Let’s go and buy him some food,’ Helena suggested tactfully. ‘You hold tight to my hand now. Maybe I can take the goldfish home and look after it and you can come and visit it when you want.’

  ‘Auntie Helena? It’s not a it, it’s a him,’ squealed Peter, swinging on Helena’s arm, making her wince.

  ‘Don’t pull on Auntie Helena’s arm like that,’ Anderson hurriedly reproved him.

  ‘But he wants a hamburger,’ said Peter, as they walked off. ‘Doesn’t he, Auntie Helena? I’ll help him eat it.’

  Wynga
te came rumbling across the empty room on his wheeled chair, and pulled a piece of paper from the fax machine. ‘I have a result. Well, Mulholland has a result – he did the donkey work – but I have the fax.’ He read it, eyes skimming for the pertinent points. ‘We’ve moved on the cyanide order from Glasgow and we don’t know exactly who, but we do know where. I’ve traced it to an internet café in Sauchiehall Street. The order was for sodium cyanide, chemical symbol NaCN, very specific; the person knew what they were after.’

  ‘Sodium cyanide?’ Costello pulled O’Hare’s report and the printout from Toxicology from the huge pile of papers on her desk. ‘Is that what O’Hare was expecting?’

  ‘Yip,’ said Wyngate, waving the piece of paper back and forth. ‘The café is called Bijou Bytes.’

  Lewis slid from her desk and sauntered over. ‘I know that place. They do a great chocolate croissant.’

  Costello noted it down. ‘And how did they pay?’

  ‘Credit card, and I have a trace on that as well.’

  ‘A break and a chocolate croissant?’ Lewis grinned. ‘What do you say, Costello? You could do with some fresh air. And I’d get a chance to do some Christmas shopping.’

  ‘It’s the back of three now. Time is a bit tight; we have to appear down at the fair, remember?’

  ‘Another date with Rogan?’

  Costello ignored Lewis to answer the phone. ‘Yes? Oh, hello.’ She paused, her eyes slanting sidelong at Lewis. ‘If it has any bearing on the case – no, I’m afraid we can’t talk in confidence.’

  Costello gestured for DS Littlewood to lean over her desk and listen in. Lauren, she mouthed. Littlewood nodded, urging her to keep talking. ‘But we can have a chat now, if you like, and you can let me know what’s on your mind… I’m more than a little busy here. Well, if you really don’t want to talk about it over the phone…’ Costello raised her eyebrows at Littlewood, who scribbled Botanics tomorrow on the back of his hand. ‘What about meeting in the Botanic Gardens? It’s warm in there and we can have a coffee and a chat and look at the plants. Tomorrow? About eleven – yes, me too – see you then…’

  Costello tapped the phone against her chin, thinking. ‘Cheers for that, Littlewood; I really need to babysit a supermodel.’

  ‘Good. Can you spare me ten minutes before you go out?’ asked Littlewood. ‘I want to bring you up to speed on a few things.’

  ‘I haven’t got ten minutes right now. We need to get over to the fair. Quinn has triple underlined it,’ she said. ‘But…’

  ‘You go,’ Littlewood grunted. ‘The Mary Celeste had more crew than us.’

  ‘OK, tomorrow we can do the internet café and the credit card at the same time.’ She marked it on the wall and signed it.

  ‘Why did she phone you?’ asked Lewis. ‘She’s an international supermodel. Why you?’

  Costello sighed. ‘Probably because we have so much in common.’

  Up to now Eve had been merely acting miserable. Now she actually was miserable. She was being ignored by her bloody sister, and she had an unpleasant feeling that her bladder wasn’t going to hold out much longer. She had been texting and phoning Lynne to tell her she needed to go to the loo but her sister was too busy posturing and being photographed with Helena Farrell, no doubt boring the knickers off the poor woman.

  She had been people-watching long enough to know that the Farrell woman, who was holding a goldfish, had a thing for the tall blond bloke who had been hanging around her with two kids. Where the smaller, dumpy woman with the red hair fitted into the picture, she had no idea but she was arguing with the blond bloke as if they were married. He looked like a cop. So did the Johnny Depp bloke who was forever kissing the long-haired hippie chick. Eve leaned forward in her seat, trying to get a better look at the girl. Now, there was a face to paint, with those long bones and cavernous brown eyes. The expression never seemed to change much, although Eve noticed it softened a little when she looked at the Johnny Depp guy. But when she started a pat-a-cake clapping game with the little fair-haired boy with the goldfish – Eve hadn’t seen that since she and Lynne were kids – the patrician mask melted. That would make a good painting. The hippie chick turned, her eyes fixed about two feet above Eve’s head. Eve had a feeling she knew her, but couldn’t quite place when or where.

  She sat for some time watching as her sister and Helena Farrell lined up for more photographs. She eased her chair out a little way, to see if she could spot anybody she knew, anybody she could ask for help to find the toilets. She knew she had to go now. She decided to trundle over and ask the blond policeman with the children for some assistance. She had to slow down as a crowd jostled past, bumping into her, ignoring her. She parked her chair at a window and looked out. Lights were starting to come on in the car park. She smiled to herself, and looked at her watch. The fair was running late. It was ten past four.

  The children’s faces shone in the light of a hundred candles as they finished a final chorus of ‘Oh Come, All Ye Faithful’ and the last shoebox was loaded on to the truck. In a whirr of cameras and flashlights Rogan climbed into the cab, a lone piper taking up the refrain of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. The candles wavered in the air, then the piping stopped, and a countdown started. There wasn’t a dry eye in the street when, on cue, Rogan O’Neill finally fired up the engine of the sixteen-wheel truck. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the huge vehicle inched forward, and Rogan drove it all of five yards in the direction of Pakistan.

  Helena held her handkerchief to her face, the tears pouring from her eyes. She looked at Peter’s goldfish, motionless in its plastic bag, the slow opening and closing of its mouth the only sign of life. She wrapped her scarf round it – the poor wee sod could freeze out here – and held the bundle carefully to her chest. She would make sure it got home safely. There was so much goodwill in the street, with everyone so genuinely happy and generous, that her heart was touched. This was the true meaning of Christmas. She looked at her watch. She had to phone the hospital before she went out tonight, just to make sure it was all going ahead. But for the moment she wanted to be among people, and who better than children at Christmas time? She stood back from the crowd, easing herself to lean on the wall of the playground, apart from the scene but able to see it all. Every child was waving – candles, tinsel, scarves and Squidgys swayed in the air as the truck pulled away, now with its driver on board, and everyone cheered it on its way.

  Helena saw Vik Mulholland chatting to Costello; the body language looked argumentative. Little Peter Anderson was running in and out between them, battering his Winnie-the-Pooh rucksack with his knees, his breath condensing in the air. As he ran, she caught his voice singing his ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ song, the song that had been the highlight of the nativity play. Peter knew perfectly well his parents hadn’t even bothered to listen to him and he was playing up now, wanting attention. Then she saw Colin go up to talk to Mulholland, a serious talk. Colin pointed to his watch, then Mulholland looked at his.

  Helena started to make her way through the crowd. Peter was no longer in sight but then she saw Brenda Anderson talking on her mobile and poking at Colin, who turned to say something. It was clearly acrimonious. Helena stopped in her tracks, her little moment of Christmas cheer shattered. Suddenly she found she was in tears again. She watched as Brenda kept jabbing at her husband with her forefinger, punctuating her argument. She had it all, Brenda: the love of a good husband, a wee live wire of a son, and the companionship of a daughter. God, she would regret it if she ever lost Colin. Helena wiped her tears on the end of her scarf. She heard Costello ask Mulholland where Frances had got to. So, was that her name – the dramatic-looking woman with the face of a Byzantine icon who had taken Peter by the hand for a moment and joined in his strange little dance? But now Peter was dancing alone, his dragon hooves tapping on his shoes, ignored by the adults again. She sighed, checked on the goldfish, and turned to walk back up to her house, high up on the terrace.

  Costello pulled her quilted jacket tig
ht and tipped the collar up round her ears. She was cold, bloody freezing. She’d just about kept warm while walking up to the school but standing around waiting for the charade with the truck had chilled her to the bone. And she needed the toilet. She turned round and started slowly up Rowanhill, back to the station. She wanted to be back there before six.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said as she walked into Vik Mulholland, standing in the middle of the pavement, staring into space. ‘I can go through you or round you. Your choice. But don’t you think for a moment that I’ll hesitate to walk all over you, you arse. It’s been a long day and I’m not taking one step further than I actually have to.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Mulholland immediately acquiesced and stood aside.

  Costello paused, then turned round. ‘You OK?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Oh, Vik, don’t be so bloody miserable. She only left because she wasn’t feeling well. It’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘She just didn’t say goodbye.’

  ‘Oh, you poor diddums.’ Costello stood, slapping her hands into each other in an attempt to keep warm. ‘What’s up with her, I noticed her clutching her face? Does she have the toothache or something?’

  ‘No, she has a trigeminal neuralgia.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Like migraine in your face.’

  ‘Well, I can sympathize with that.’ She walked away through the crowd, Mulholland following like a lost lamb.

  ‘I just don’t understand her,’ he complained.

  ‘She’s a woman; you’re not supposed to understand her,’ quipped Costello.

  ‘I’m serious,’ he snapped.

  ‘God, you are serious. Congratulations, Vik, you’ve joined the human race. You care more for a human being than you do for your BMW. That’s something.’

  ‘One minute she blows hot, one minute cold. One minute all over me like a rash, next minute ignoring me. I bought her a mobile, but she says she won’t use it. She can’t even be arsed to spend Christmas with me. And all I want is to…’