Singing to the Dead

by Caro Ramsay

  Lauren said, ‘It’s about me.’

  ‘So, let’s talk about you.’

  Lauren looked around again, fingered her sunglasses, then thought better of it.

  ‘Whatever it is, it was bothering you when we interviewed Rogan.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ She seemed surprised.

  ‘I’m a policewoman, remember? I’m trained to see these things.’

  Lauren raised the coffee to her lips and blew on it gently. Costello knew when to stay silent. ‘I’m sorry?’ She realized Lauren was speaking, but so quietly she had to lean in to hear.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ Lauren was almost whispering, urgently. ‘Very loyal. He’s loyal to his friends, he’s loyal to his business, to his fans, and he’s loyal to me. You know why he brought me back to Scotland?’

  To escape a criminal investigation? ‘From the sunshine of LA to Glasgow?’ Costello looked up through the glass overhead. ‘I’d have to think a long time about that one.’

  ‘Because a long time before he met me, he had a girlfriend who lost a baby. So, this time, he wants it all to go right, and he wants his baby born on Scottish soil. He wants to be in control.’

  ‘How romantic.’ Costello pulled a deliberate face. ‘In control? That’s a strange way to put it.’

  ‘He just wants to look after me – is that so bad?’

  ‘So, why do you keep looking over your shoulder? Does he have you followed?’

  ‘He looks after me. He doesn’t like me going out on my own.’

  Costello felt her way in. ‘Loyal, you say? Well, that’s the Rogan I remember from years ago. Loyal to his friends. He never left the boys behind – his success was their success.’ She sipped her tea; it tasted like tar. ‘Dec Slater and Jinky Jones were there in my day. They were all very close.’

  ‘They still are.’

  ‘Still close to each other or still close to Rogan?’

  ‘Both,’ said Lauren. Again that trace of bitterness.

  ‘Rogan seems very much in love with you.’ Fishing again.

  ‘I know. I know.’ Her voice faltered.

  ‘So, why did you leave the States?’ asked Costello, bluntly.

  Lauren’s reply was immediate, practised. ‘Like I said, Rogue wants the baby to be born here.’

  ‘The real reason?’ Costello’s question punched the air. ‘Why so quickly? You were out of there in a matter of days.’

  ‘You know then. It wasn’t Rogan…’

  ‘So, tell me?’

  Lauren sighed. ‘I don’t understand how it happened, but some pornographic stuff went through our computer system, and it carried our address. Our IP address, I mean. But it was somebody else using it,’ she insisted. ‘They could have been anywhere in the world. The computer guys said it was sophisticated and designed to cause us as much trouble as possible. The house was full of people coming and going – PR people, police, you know. I just had to get out of there. Rogan was worried about the stress having an effect on the baby.’

  ‘I can understand that.’ Costello patted the slim tanned hand.

  ‘Oh, it was no sweat, we just jumped on a plane. The hotel’s OK and we bought the castle quickly enough. We’d looked at it on the net from LA.’

  As you do, thought Costello.

  Lauren had her supermodel face on again. ‘Well, I thought we were getting a place of our own, then I find Dec and Jinky are moving in with us.’ Her voice was more bitter than before. ‘I guess Rogan felt he couldn’t leave them behind, not after all these years.’

  Costello felt her skin creep, and she phrased the next question carefully, getting the conversation back on track. ‘But surely porn’s not unusual for a bunch of blokes? You should see what some of the Neanderthals back at the station look at, and that’s the cops I’m talking about.’

  Lauren moved slightly in her seat. ‘I don’t care about that. It wasn’t Rogan.’ She was definite about that. She sounded almost bored with the subject, as though it really didn’t bother her. Yet she looked around uneasily, and Costello was alarmed to see Lauren’s face turn waxy grey. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t feel well. I have to find the toilet.’

  Luca stretched up to look through the keyhole into the room beyond. He had already tried the keyhole in the big door but he couldn’t see anything apart from a small sliver of light at the side of the key.

  This other door was easier. The keyhole was clear. He could see Troy lying on a narrow bed, with his bedclothes piled on top of him all higgledy-piggledy like a great pile of washing. Luca rattled at the door, but it would not open. So, he tried pulling. Nothing.

  He leaned down to put his mouth against the keyhole. ‘Oi,’ he said quietly. ‘Oi, Troy?’

  Nothing.

  He put his eye to the hole again, but Troy hadn’t moved. He stood up, and went to the other door – the big, solid door – but he couldn’t get it to budge. He didn’t like this; he couldn’t work out what was going on but it didn’t seem right.

  He didn’t like it here any more, he decided. He wasn’t going to stay until his mum came to get him; he was going to get out now and go and find her at the hospital. He went back to the smaller door and pushed really hard, not caring if anyone heard. The door opened a wee bit, then a bit more. Troy looked as though he had been asleep for ever. Not a normal kind of sleep. Luca watched him for a while, watched how he was breathing, in a funny way, not in and out like a normal person. It was the kind of breathing his mum did sometimes when she had to lie on the floor. There was something wrong with Troy – the shape of him, the colour of him – it didn’t look normal at all.

  And he hadn’t eaten his dinner. The Monkey Meal lay cold and congealed in its tray at the side of the bed, and the drink was untouched, the straw still in its polythene sleeve. Troy always ate his tea, he shovelled the food in. Luca’s mum said that boys who ate like that got tummy ache. Troy said he ate like that because he was always bloody starving. Luca sniffed at the chips, and opened the lid of the burger roll. It smelled of cold mustard, but it had not been touched. Troy’s face was wet and waxy, and little rivulets of water were running down it. His hands looked really strange; they were big and puffy and turning black, as dark as his sleeves. And he still had not moved. He must be hungry by now so Luca knelt on the stinking floor and pulled the straw from its sleeve. He pushed it into the top of the cup and gave it a wee suck. The cola was flat but cold. He held it to Troy’s mouth and whispered in his ear, ‘Here’s some juice.’ But the cola just dribbled down the side of Troy’s face as Luca squeezed the side of the cup.

  Luca sat back. ‘Oh, dear,’ he said.

  He rubbed Troy’s arm, gently at first, then a bit more roughly, but he did not wake. He nudged the bed, jumping back as a movement ruffled under the bedclothes. Luca lifted up Troy’s duvet and came face to face with the rat. The rodent raised itself on its hind legs, and tensed, whiskers twitching. Luca caught sight of the two yellow spickles of teeth.

  All he felt as it jumped was a flick of pain on the side of his face.

  Anderson was being sick again; streams of vomit flooded from his mouth, staining the water in the toilet pan a deep dark brown.

  DS Littlewood opened the door. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Not really,’ Anderson grunted, ripping off sheet after sheet of toilet paper and wiping his nose and mouth. ‘I’ve seen a lot in my time, but nothing like that.’

  Littlewood leaned against the wall and lit a forbidden cigarette under the extraction current of the Vent Axia, as Anderson made his way to the sink and started washing his face with cold water. ‘You shouldn’t have looked at those pictures. They shouldn’t have been left there.’

  ‘How can you work with people like that? How can you stand it? Jesus!’

  ‘In Vice we got stuff like that through all the time. Until some bastard pushed it too far. It got me demoted and cost me a few grand on my salary – but, God, it felt good. It’s always good to know the enemy,’ Littlewood said. ‘But if that’s the reason the
se kids are being taken, it means they’re still alive.’

  Anderson looked up sharply. Littlewood chewed noisily on his gum, refusing to meet his stare, clearly having thought better of uttering the words snuff movies, which nevertheless hung deafeningly in the air. He looked at his watch, he couldn’t help but count the hours, the minutes: 15 hours, 23 minutes. ‘But you don’t think it is, do you? And don’t bullshit me.’

  ‘Years on Vice tell me no. These children could have been taken at any time but three have gone together, which suggests an organization. We don’t know of one, and I doubt our intelligence is that poor. But you can argue it either way round. The Rogan thing is a nice excuse to have a poke about, see if he’s up to those tricks. But he – or whoever it is in his entourage, if it is them – has never taken more than one kid a year; two in fourteen months is as close as he gets. This is something different. There’s something else we’re missing.’

  ‘So, why are you and Quinn putting so much weight behind it then?’ Anderson asked. ‘That’s where the resources seem to be going.’

  ‘Because we’re being told to. We’re being leaned on to collect intelligence about what the Rogan tour is actually up to.’ Littlewood sighed. ‘A report from the LAPD says they’ve found over four thousand images on the computer in the O’Neill household. Four thousand and not one kid in them was over the age of twelve. Somebody in that set-up likes them young. Let’s hope Costello comes back with something.’

  ‘But that won’t bring us any closer to Peter, will it?’ said Anderson.

  ‘I doubt it.’ Littlewood shrugged. ‘I’d rather just find the kids. Work it back from there. You could pick a hundred kids off a hundred street corners, but they chose these three. There’s something about these three.’

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Who knows? Something,’ Littlewood said, vaguely. ‘Let’s see what Costello comes up with. The way to break these guys is through the women. A pregnancy will change Lauren’s priorities – we couldn’t have asked for better. If that doesn’t work…’ Littlewood formed his podgy hand into a fist, ‘… I’ve heard Rogan’s trying to double the reward money. If I beat information out of him, do I still qualify?’

  Lauren was away from the table so long, Costello thought she’d done a runner. So, she phoned the station for an update.

  ‘The morning news broadcasts have all carried the story,’ Wyngate reported. ‘So, we just have to hope someone’s memory gets jogged. And you’ve to meet Mulholland outside HMV in Sauchiehall Street as soon as you’re free.’ Before Costello could ask why, she had to ring off. Lauren was striding across the canteen, oblivious to people gawping and wondering where they had seen the tall blonde before. She had reapplied make-up to hide the redness around her eyes. But the dark glasses were slipped on again as she sat down. The wall was going up again. She picked up her cup, decided her coffee was cold, and put it back down.

  ‘Lauren, does anybody know you are here?’ Costello asked. Lauren shook her head, but the expression on her face had changed; she had come to some kind of decision.

  ‘No, nobody.’ Then she began, speaking like a child. ‘You know how some women who live with guys will put up with anything?’ The plastic table wobbled, and she put out a slender tanned hand to steady it. ‘Their friends say: I really had no idea what was going on. Do you believe them?’ She was trembling, like a smoker desperate for nicotine. ‘I don’t feel like sitting here any longer. Can we walk?’ Lauren was already on her feet, her suede bag slung over her shoulder.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Costello followed her, searching for casual conversation to keep Lauren talking.

  ‘You think people will change, but they don’t.’

  Costello pursued her, ‘Anybody in particular? Jinky Jones? Dec Slater?’

  ‘Why do you keep going on about those two?’ She kicked at a loose stone on the path with the toe of her boot. ‘God, they are faithful to him, closer than brothers.’

  ‘Lauren, how long has this been going on?’ Costello asked, not sure what ‘this’ was.

  ‘Since we met. He cares, I know he cares, but it doesn’t stop him. And they are there all the time, watching me, so I don’t put a foot out of line.’ Lauren paused and turned round, her eyes wide.

  Costello said nothing, not quite sure of the track of the conversation. They walked on for a few minutes. Eventually Costello looked pointedly at her watch. ‘I have to ask you, Lauren…’ She halted directly in front of her. ‘I have to ask you: Do you think Rogan is involved, in any way, with this porn stuff?’

  Lauren was instantly dismissive. ‘Are you crazy? Not Rogan. He’s not the type.’

  Of course. They never were. Costello handed over her card. Lauren lifted her glasses, and Costello looked at the bruise on the back of her hand. She was also looking closely at Lauren’s lovely face. No, she hadn’t been mistaken; there really was another bruise, smaller, fainter, beside her right eye. She raised her hand as if to stroke it, and the sunglasses came down like a curtain.

  ‘If you need me, any time – day or night – that’s my number. You just call me,’ said Costello, thinking that Lauren suddenly looked like the loneliest person on the planet. ‘You have got to talk to somebody about this.’

  ‘I thought I was talking to you.’ Lauren shook off Costello’s hand, and strode off through the jungle of exotic vegetation, her boot heels clicking into the distance. The interview was at an end.

  A week ago Costello would have said Lauren McCrae was one of the luckiest women in the world but, as her granny used to say, in rare moments of sobriety: There’s nothing like having your own front door.

  It didn’t feel like a Saturday. As Christmas came closer all routine slid out of focus. It was the day after the shortest day of the year. And it wasn’t that the light was fading; it had never been there to fade. The snow had eased off a little in the mid-morning, but the forecast said more was on the way and that the wind was going to get a bit rough by nightfall.

  The office of McDougall, Munro and Munro was old-world, plush but understated, delicately perfumed with the odour of old leather and good brandy. The office of Munro Property was on the top floor of the old family legal firm, and Mulholland and Costello had been halted at the first hurdle; they had to get past the reception desk before they could proceed any further. So, they were hanging around. Vik just wanted to get this over with and get out of there. And to make matters worse, Costello was in a foul mood after failing to get anything concrete out of the supermodel, and then getting frozen while he had kept her waiting outside HMV. He had come over from Partickhill Station and that meant driving past the end of Frances’s street, so he had stopped. Either she hadn’t been in or she hadn’t answered the door. He walked over to the window of the reception area, pretending to be interested in the traffic below while furtively listening to Frances’s message again. She had left it in the early hours of the morning, a long message saying she hoped they got the wee boy back; she was upset about it, her face was sore and she was going to her bed. She’d phone again when she was up. Then a sniff, a little laugh, she’d got the hang of the mobile now. After a pause she’d said she’d like to spend Christmas with him – actually said it – and then she added So, I’ll say goodnight, in that low husky voice of hers. She still hadn’t phoned back, and there’d been no more messages. He sighed, closed the phone, switched it to silent and put it in his pocket. He didn’t know why he had been detailed on this cyanide thing. He was angry at being sent to trace the credit card; that was a job for a complete plonker – any of the uniforms from downstairs could have done it, even wonderboy Smythe who was still hanging around Partickhill getting Brownie points – but DCI Quinn had sent him. She had been quite clear – Anderson’s boy going missing would not make any difference; the detail for today would remain as planned. She was covering her back, and they knew it.

  Across the road, the tinsel in the window of Water-stone’s bookshop had half fallen down, and a column of red Squidgy McM
idges shivered in the wind on either side of the doors. Mulholland looked at his watch again, then fished out his phone once more – still no more messages. He listened yet again to the one that he already had, then he texted Frances – hope u r feeling better, luv u – and pressed Send.

  A discreet buzzer sounded. The receptionist said, ‘He’ll see you now, if you’d just like to go up in the lift…’

  The lift was vintage, like an open cage. Costello shivered. ‘Imagine getting your hand caught through the bars,’ she said. ‘And having it slowly amputated as the lift goes up…’

  ‘A real bundle of laughs you are, Costello.’

  On the upstairs landing, opposite the lift, was a picture of a commanding white-haired lady, like a badly painted portrait of the Queen. The eyes seemed to follow Costello and Mulholland across the carpet, as did the eyes of the dead fox that hung around her neck.

  ‘I hope it bloody strangles her,’ Costello hissed.

  Douglas Munro, LLB (Hons), was casually dressed in expensive cashmere, with a slight tendency to fat round his waist, his hair sprinkled with grey at the temples.

  ‘I’m DC Mulholland, this is DS Costello,’ announced Mulholland, stepping in front of Costello, showing that he was in charge. This time she was content to let him. ‘It’s very good of you to see us on a Saturday, sir.’

  ‘Just clearing my desk for the Christmas break,’ he answered. ‘And of course I would be pleased to help in any way I can. Do come through into my office.’

  Mulholland discreetly flexed his fingers. Munro’s welcome was like shaking hands with a dead haddock.

  ‘Would you like some coffee, tea? I’m sure Stella would rustle something together for us.’

  ‘Coffee would be fine, thank you,’ said Mulholland.

  ‘You know Stella, don’t you? She’s been in a terrible state since, well, since she knew she saw that wee boy.’

  ‘We’ve had quite a few witnesses through our doors recently,’ said Costello, evasively, adding a no thanks to coffee. Munro ordered coffee for himself and Mulholland, and a glass of water, over the intercom as they sat down in his long narrow office. It was mostly mahogany and burgundy leather, with sepia photographs and slightly faded oil paintings of the previous occupants on the walls. Only the architect’s models of building developments around the city gave a clue to the current use of the room. Mulholland noticed another photograph of the haughty white-haired dame wearing a showy pearl choker. On anybody else it would look cheap, but she had the type of face that said ‘money’. A wearily overweight spaniel sat at her feet. Both the spaniel and its owner bore a resemblance to the main portrait over the desk.