Singing to the Dead

by Caro Ramsay

  Costello stopped mid-stride. ‘Bloody hell, Vik. You’ve got it bad.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he admitted miserably. ‘Lewis says she’s playing hard to get, just to see how far she can push me.’

  ‘Lewis is talking shite. Frances wouldn’t play games like that, she’s not the type. Vik, just how well do you know her?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I thought you were a detective. Look, she’s – what? – a good ten years older than you? She lives in a huge rambling flat in Beaumont Place, on her own. She’s intelligent, but she doesn’t work. She’s skint.’

  ‘She’s not well, she’s on disability…’

  ‘Yeah, but any other woman would flog the place. What’s it worth – three hundred thousand? A bit more?’ It hadn’t dawned on Vik but Costello was right. ‘So, what’s holding her there? I’d say she’s not had an easy life. I bet nobody ever gave her a goldfish to keep her company when she was a kid. Then you come along. I mean, I think you’re a pain in the arse but you’re solvent, you’re nice to your mother, you drive a nice car…’

  ‘A very nice car,’ smiled Vik, warming to Costello’s train of thought.

  ‘And underneath all the pretentious crap, you’re quite a nice bloke, I suppose. I bet Frances is scared shitless.’

  ‘Of what?’

  Costello shrugged. ‘Getting close to you? Losing you? We all judge things on our past experiences, and how do you know what she’s been through?’

  ‘I don’t. I just want to look after her, give her things, make her happy…’

  ‘But, Vik – how long for? Maybe she can see a time when you won’t want to be with a woman ten years older than you, who’s on disability. Then what’ll happen to her?’

  ‘So, what do I do? I really am – well – serious about her.’

  ‘Like I’m an expert? Oh, Vik, how the fuck should I know? Just don’t get pissed and shag Kate Lewis at the Christmas night out.’

  At six o’clock Costello was drying the hems of her trousers on the radiator, fending off the questions from Lewis about Colin Anderson and Helena Farrell which were interspersed with a discourse on how totally perfect her bloody boyfriend, Stuart, was.

  Costello had never met the bloke but she disliked him anyway. ‘So, why are you not going out with him tonight?’ Costello asked sourly. ‘I thought he drove up yesterday.’

  ‘He’s busy,’ said Lewis with a sly wink. ‘After Christmas, we’re going to book a holiday in the Seychelles,’ she added, wistfully.

  ‘What makes you think you’ll get any time off? We’re too short-staffed,’ said Costello, shifting to sit on the radiator, trying to dry the seat of her trousers.

  Lewis ignored her. ‘I hope I don’t have to make do with Tenerife again. I just need some quality sun.’

  Costello thought she was starting to get the hang of DS Lewis now: she talked the talk, walked the walk, but cheap charm wears off quickly. Or did her self-confidence know no bounds?

  ‘You having a holiday this year, Winifred?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Costello, quietly.

  19

  Luca thought this had been his best day ever. He’d had a strawberry milkshake and a whole Monkey Meal with Cheeky Chips to himself. He’d wanted to go to the fair to see Squidgy, but in the end he’d spent all afternoon lazing on the big settee watching DVDs. He’d sent a letter to Santa saying what he wanted for Christmas; and he’d helped Troy write his, because he could write better than Troy, who said he hardly ever got to school.

  He was all warm and snug now, so he wasn’t going to get out of his bed. He could hear music – Christmas music – the sort of thing he was supposed to sing along to at school, ‘Hark, the Herald’ and that stuff.

  He wanted to see his mum. He knew she was ill again because of the way she’d rolled around making such an awful noise at the amusements. But he’d been promised he’d be home in time for Christmas, which meant his mum would be better soon, so it was all going to be OK. He wondered what day of the week it was. And if Santa was coming soon.

  He put his arms outside the duvet, into the cold air, stretching out his hands as far as he could reach on both sides. Glory to the new born king… he saw a movement from the corner of his eye, just catching sight of the rat before it scurried off.

  He pulled himself back under the duvet and drew the cover over his head. The rats worried him. He didn’t really know why he’d been put down here. And he didn’t know why he wasn’t allowed to see his mum. He liked his mum and he always cheered her up when he went to see her in hospital. So, why was the door locked?

  He looked across at the big wooden door. It was old and the wood was all dry and splintered, and it hurt his hands if he leaned on it. But the lock – that was bright and shiny.

  He looked up at the sound of footsteps overhead, a door closing, then another. The footsteps stopped.

  ‘Goodnight, Troy,’ Luca whispered. But there was no answer.

  Miss Stella McCorkindale was sitting in the deserted canteen, still wearing her dark-blue coat and a Squidgy McMidge on her lapel. She appeared slightly agitated as she followed them to the interview room, and kept pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose, as if she had difficulty focusing on close objects with her slightly protruding eyes.

  Stella had given her age as fifty-six, and stated her occupation as legal secretary in a company that now specialized in property work. She lived in Horselethill Circus. Troy had gone missing from the park outside her flat. Littlewood had underlined that bit. He had said she was a good clean witness, not over helpful, but thoughtful and measured.

  Quinn and the witness sat opposite each other; Costello sat a little further back, following her instructions to act as a casual observer, and form a clear picture of Miss Stella McCorkindale.

  Her story was precise, and she never wavered from it.

  ‘I was coming home from work on Tuesday, I was a bit earlier than usual…’

  ‘Do you know what time, specifically?’ asked Quinn.

  Stella shook her head slowly. ‘The back of four, maybe a bit later… sorry I can’t be more precise. You see, I came out of the subway at Hillhead, then I popped into M&S and started walking up Observatory Road. It was there I saw him.’

  ‘Why did you wait so long to come forward?’

  ‘I didn’t realize who he was.’ She shook her head, the palm of her hand out in front. ‘What I mean is, I saw him but didn’t know it was the boy who was missing. I went home today and there was a card behind my door; you missed me on your initial enquiry. I came here to save you coming to me.’

  ‘Do you know Troy?’ asked Quinn lightly.

  ‘One thin boy in a hoodie is exactly that. But when I saw the description of his mother… well, I’ve had to phone the police to get her moved from the gardens in front of my house. She wears that silly coat, I would always notice the coat.’

  Quinn nodded. ‘And the boy? When you saw the boy on Tuesday?’

  ‘Well, if it’s the boy I saw, he was limping a little. He has a cheeky way with him.’ She shook her head as if clearing her mind. ‘I’m sure it was him.’

  ‘What was he wearing?’

  ‘I read in the paper, sweatshirt.’ She nodded. ‘He had thin legs, wee skinny legs. Definitely him.’

  Quinn’s face was quizzical, pretending she was trying to work it out. She was good, Costello thought. ‘Was he on his own?’

  The specs got pushed up the bridge of Stella’s nose. ‘There was a few folk walking up Observatory Road at that time. It was dark, I can’t say if he was on his own or not.’ Stella was talking again. ‘It was dark, it was sleeting but not heavily. The pavement on Observatory Road is all bumpy with tree roots, so I’d been watching my feet. I’ve come a cropper there before now.’

  ‘But he wasn’t struggling? He didn’t appear restrained in any way?’

  Stella shook her head. ‘No, quite the opposite. He was limping, but he was… skipping, I suppose.’

  Qui
nn said thank you and gestured to Costello that they should leave. In the corridor she said, ‘Not a lot of use that, is it? Do you think that was Troy? It’s all been suggested by something else. It was the mother she recognized really, not the boy.’

  ‘I’ll get Gail to sit with her and show her a few photos. But it kind of makes sense, taking him down there, where all those wee lanes and paths are. If it was him, he could be anywhere by now.’

  Quinn swore under her breath, ‘OK, get Gail and get her a cup of tea. Maybe she’ll remember something she didn’t read in the paper.’

  Carols by Candlelight was living up to its reputation as one of the events of the year. Colin Anderson was enthralled by it all: the costumes, the candles, the spectacle, the glorious music, the exuberance of the singers, and the sheer pleasure of watching something very difficult being made to look easy.

  Most of all, he was enjoying just being there, with the woman sitting next to him. Helena was wearing her favourite deep-green velvet dress, which folded around her in a coil from one shoulder to the other. Her pale thin neck was circled by a single string of creamy pearls, small, expensive, real. If he looked carefully, he could see the finest wrinkling of her skin, tiny creases that deepened and flattened as she moved her head. Green eye shadow emphasized the catlike slant of her eyes, and the first signs of crow’s feet that deepened as she laughed, which she did a lot.

  He was touched by how apologetic she had been for arriving late; he didn’t mention that he had stood outside in the cold, thinking that her standing him up would put the tin lid on a bloody awful day. He had been surprised at how much relief he felt as she came running round the corner, breathless and beautiful, her long coat swirling behind her. He had been surprised how guilt-free he felt as he waved Claire off to the disco and Brenda took Peter away to go to the German Market. And surprised at how little he was thinking about work. But he had phoned Brenda at the German Market, shouting over the Bavarian music and the sound of lederhosen being slapped in the background, and warned her to take care of Peter. She said she was on her way back to the car, then told him in no uncertain terms that she was quite capable of looking after her own son. Colin asked to speak to him but Brenda had already hung up.

  After a while Colin realized that he was watching Helena more than he was watching the performers. Then she would turn to look at him, aware that he was watching her. Enjoying it? she mouthed to him.

  He nodded. Mozart, in full costume and holding a candelabrum, was making his way on to the stage.

  He felt a lump in his throat and closed his eyes, allowing the beautiful sound to wash over him. He really was enjoying it. And he found himself relaxing. Dangerously close to sleeping.

  He felt a dig in his ribs. Helena was gazing intently at Mozart, a faint smile playing at the side of her mouth.

  Then, totally unexpectedly, a massed pipe band entered from the back of the hall, and marched down every aisle abreast playing ‘The Flower of Scotland’, causing a flutter of laughter on the way as the audience noticed every piper was wearing a Squidgy instead of a sporran. They filed up on to the stage, and stood in ranks, playing a medley of Christmas tunes. Then, to thunderous applause, they all marched out again. The first half was over.

  Out in the foyer, Colin was amazed at Helena’s social grace. She knew everybody. ‘This is Colin Anderson,’ she said to everyone they met. ‘He was a great friend of Alan’s.’ Then a small whisper – ‘His wife’s let me borrow him for the evening.’ For once he was glad he looked like a copper.

  Helena dished out hellos and air kisses, flutters of the fingers and I must catch you laters. Then suddenly she seemed to have had enough.

  ‘Would you mind if we didn’t stay for the second half? I think I’ve had enough. Oh, Christ,’ she said suddenly, and retreated behind a pillar. ‘See that guy over there?’ Colin surreptitiously turned to look. ‘Tall, slightly greying? With a woman who’ll have a dead rabbit or something round her neck?’

  ‘I can see the guy with the old dear – yes, covered in a dead animal.’

  Helena ducked further out of the way, pulling gently on Colin’s jacket. ‘God spare us, every time he sees me he tries to buy my house.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because his mother owns the one three doors down. But he never misses a trick. He’d love to buy up the entire terrace to convert them into flats.’ Her voice suddenly went quiet. ‘He came to my door three days after Alan’s funeral. Three days.’

  Colin looked carefully round the pillar. ‘Tell me what his car number plate is and I’ll get him clamped.’

  ‘No need. The word is he’s in the financial pooh; at least his company is – Munro Property – you must know them.’ Helena put a slender finger theatrically to her lips. ‘But Mummy mustn’t know the company is on borrowed time.’

  ‘Is that his mother he’s with?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Eleanor Munro, Doctor of Law, with the social conscience of Attila the Hun. And he has A Levels in smarm.’

  ‘Remind me to ask you next time we need intelligence; you’ve a better network of gossip than we have.’

  ‘Not difficult,’ Helena chided him. ‘Anyway, he never goes anywhere without his bloody mother. They still live together, can you imagine that? I’ve heard him pretend he’s married. I mean, don’t normal men pretend that they are single! I think he might be a perv… Oh, hello, Douglas, how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, Helena. How are you?’ The man caught Helena’s fine-boned hand in a limp handshake, and his gold bracelet rattled loudly. He looked nervous.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. And you, Mrs Munro?’

  Helena turned to Anderson, and pulled a face of apology. Douglas Munro, smiling nervously, steered his mother away. ‘See you… later.’

  ‘So, you owe me some info, Mrs McAlpine. Shall we go?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in the car,’ said Helena, giving a fifty-pound note to the collection bucket for Andy’s Appeal as they left the Theatre Royal.

  Anderson drove Helena home in her Beamer, and she sat in the passenger seat looking at a snippet of Peter’s dragon cartoon she had found in her coat pocket. ‘I can’t imagine it, can you?’

  ‘Imagine what?’ asked Anderson, keeping his eye on the road, the lightness of the Beamer’s steering unfamiliar to him, as he headed down to Charing Cross.

  She didn’t answer; she seemed to relax in the warm silence of the car, then started quietly chatting. She talked about the fair, about Christmas, about the school – talking, but saying nothing. Anderson was content to let her, knowing she was warming to something.

  They were leaving Charing Cross when she said conversationally, ‘Your children are something special, Colin.’

  ‘I think so, but I’m biased,’ he laughed, making light of it.

  ‘They are your legacy,’ Helena said flatly, looking out the window. He could hardly hear her over the hum of the engine. ‘They are a testament to your existence.’ She put her fingertip up to her lips, for a moment, as her face lit up in the headlights of an oncoming car; she looked little more than a child herself. ‘But when I am gone, Alan and I are both gone. Somewhere along the line we should have stopped to think about a family but I always had a deadline, he had a big case, I was travelling, he was drunk. Time goes past and you can’t get it back, then it’s too late.’ She fell silent, and the silence still hung in the air as Anderson parked the Beamer outside her house.

  He had rarely seen her this vulnerable. He got out the car to walk Helena to her door, flicking his mobile phone on, giving himself time to think. He could hear Alan’s voice asking him not to leave her like this and Anderson felt guilty, relishing the fact he was needed.

  Helena turned to face him as she reached her front step. ‘Sorry, I’ve not been much fun to be with but I really needed a night out.’ She placed the palm of her hand on the front of his coat, a light touch.

  He covered her hand with his, slipped his fingers between hers, squeezing gently.

  ‘
I’ll say goodnight,’ Helena said, letting her gaze fall on to their entwined hands. Then she reached forward, pulling Colin into the deeper shadow, and kissed him on the cheek. She pulled back slightly, not far enough to be a rejection, still close enough for him to feel her eyelashes on his cheek, her breath on his neck. He put his finger under her chin, tilted her head and kissed her forehead, delicately but with purpose, feeling his heart pounding.

  Then he pulled her close and hugged her, and felt her body leaning into his. Nothing he could remember had felt so good. He rested his lips on her cheekbone, breathing in the scent of tea tree oil and bluebells.

  She was smiling now, that slightly flirtatious smile he loved. It was years since he had been smiled at like that. Then she leaned her head against the wall behind her; her green eyes – the greenest eyes he had ever seen – were suddenly tearful. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you along to that. But I just wanted to go.’

  ‘That’s what friends are for.’

  ‘I’m not sure I invited you as a friend.’ She sighed. ‘I invited you to fill a great vacuum.’

  ‘And that’s what friends are for,’ repeated Colin. ‘If me planking my arse on Alan’s seat gets you through a difficult hour, I’m happy to do it. Honoured, in fact.’

  He ran one hand through her hair, ending with tipping the end of her nose with his finger. She didn’t pull away. They looked at each other.

  He saw her lips move.

  She said something. He felt it rather than heard it. A murmur. His brain was trying to translate it into something low and seductive.

  ‘Your phone’s vibrating.’

  ‘Ignore it. I’ve just turned it on.’

  ‘Answer it,’ she said with a wry smile, letting her fingertips linger on his wrist, as if telling him to follow her into her house. But then he pulled away as though the phone had electrocuted him, his face drained of colour. ‘When?’ he said, his voice harsh with anger, close to panic.

  Both hands were on the phone as he pressed the End Call button.

  Helena turned round. ‘Something bad?’