Singing to the Dead

by Caro Ramsay

  Costello looked out the window, thinking. ‘How many murderous friends could a property developer have? Loads, I would imagine.’

  ‘So, there could be more deaths to come. Please can we go to Quinn with this?’

  ‘You go. I’m going back to think about Sarah McGuire. If that bitch killed her own dad, she’s not getting away with it. I’m going to chance my arm.’ Costello picked up her notebook and found Tom McGuire’s phone number. Their conversation was short – scarcely two minutes. John Campbell’s flat had been valued by a company called Munro Property not long before his death. The initial valuation had been quite unprompted – just a prospective gambit by an avaricious property developer with an incipient paunch. But the full valuation survey had included the property upstairs and had been commissioned by Sarah herself. Tom remembered it because he had been a builder for twenty years and even he had been surprised at the quoted value of the property. Costello’s heart started to race – was this her connection? No, Thomas went on, he himself did not know Munro as an individual. He regarded him as the sort of low-life who drove up property prices and gave builders a bad name. A lawyer who wanted out when the gravy train of legal aid dried up and saw a chance to make a quick buck at the property game, that was all he was.

  ‘And how’s Karen?’ Costello asked.

  ‘Terrible. I don’t think she’s slept at all. I’m arranging for her to have counselling; I think it’s all hitting home – everything that has been going on. And how close to taking the stuff she was herself. But Sarah’s showing signs of recovery now, thank God. Not much of the stuff got into her system, so we hope there’ll be no permanent damage.’

  ‘I’m glad she’s doing well.’ Costello finished by asking him what his own mother had died of. He seemed surprised by the question but answered, saying stomach cancer. She had been ill for a long time, and it had been a blessing in the end. Sarah had agreed the final divorce settlement a week later, so she had inherited half his mother’s estate. Her dad’s estate would be one hundred per cent hers. Thomas McGuire made no effort to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  Costello thanked him, rang off, and looked at the valuation figure in her notebook, whistling slowly through pursed lips. If it was accurate, that and her dad’s life assurance made a tasty little package for Sarah.

  She pushed her notebook across the desk to Irvine. ‘Look at the value of that property.’ Irvine’s quiet whistle was an approximation of Costello’s. ‘And look who did the valuation – a firm called Munro Property. The credit card that paid for the cyanide belonged to Douglas Munro. We were at his office this morning. Smooth bastard.’

  ‘Well, there’s your connection, right enough. Are they in cahoots, Munro and Sarah McGuire? An item? Do we have any evidence?’

  Costello looked across at Mulholland and Lewis, who were still chatting away about Frances and Stuart; one hadn’t received a text, the other was only receiving texts. Their constant twittering was getting on Costello’s nerves.

  She fanned her book against her hand, listening to the ripple of paper. ‘We have a connection, but it’s between one investigation and the other, both ways round. Munro to the cyanide and McCorkindale to the abductions. It’s not… Oh, for fuck’s sake…’

  Lewis’s phone started to bleep annoyingly; she picked it up and laughed flirtatiously before she started stabbing her thumb over the keys in response.

  Costello got up, walked over to Lewis’s desk and took her mobile phone from her, threw it in her drawer then slammed the drawer shut.

  ‘You can start work anytime you want. Come on, Irvine.’

  The squad watched in silence as they walked out.

  ‘Are you going to Quinn with this?’

  ‘I think we can trust Quinn,’ said Costello.

  ‘You think? She’s the DCI,’ said Irvine.

  ‘There’s only one DCI I completely trusted and I’d need a spiritualist to talk to him. Fuck!’ said Costello. ‘But Quinn will do. She’s a stroppy cow but she’s not bent.’

  25

  Anderson flinched as Costello’s phone rang. He grabbed it automatically, snapping, ‘Hello?’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like Costello.’

  ‘It isn’t. DI Anderson here.’

  ‘Colin, it’s Mick Batten. Sorry to hear about Peter. Do you have time to talk?’

  ‘I have all the time in the world, for you.’ Anderson’s voice cracked. Please, God, let him have something.

  ‘Costello sent me some stuff…’

  Anderson held his breath, his heart pounding. ‘Was it any use?’

  Costello came back in, carrying a can of Diet Coke. Anderson beckoned her and Littlewood over, and put the speaker on quiet, so only the three of them could hear.

  ‘I’ve had a look at the abducted kids…’

  They all reached for their notebooks. ‘And…?’

  ‘Two of them are kids who are used to being passed around, nobody’s kids, to all intents and purposes…’

  Costello remembered her own childhood, a ragged patchwork of attention and neglect. Mick was right. Luca Scott and Troy McEwen would have been happy with anybody taking them away; they wouldn’t have thought twice about it, particularly if some inducement were offered. But Peter… ‘Peter wouldn’t have walked off with just anybody,’ she said.

  ‘My point exactly. If he was abducted, he would have struggled, he would have screamed. And nobody saw him struggle or heard him scream.’

  ‘Unless they just saw a kid having a tantrum. We’ve been through this.’

  ‘But when the news of the abduction came out, then somebody would have clicked – you’d have a truckload of witnesses all feeling guilty that they didn’t intervene. Peter walked away with whoever took him. Walked.’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ said Anderson in quiet desperation. ‘Not after what I’ve drummed into him. He wouldn’t.’ Tears came to his eyes, remembering wrestling Peter to the bed, blowing raspberries on his little bare belly, Peter demanding Cheeky Chips. His little Peter.

  ‘Peter’s a well-loved, happy wee boy from a close-knit family,’ Mick went on. ‘How many people are there in his immediate circle?’

  ‘A good few. I’ve been through the list a hundred times,’ Anderson said. ‘School, playground, me, Claire and Brenda, Brenda’s mother. I’ve a sister down south. And we have a babysitter.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Girl next door.’

  ‘And with what you do for a living that circle is closer than it might be otherwise. Even so, what connects him with the other two boys is someone he knows, I’d say. So, who is new in his life?’

  Costello scribbled a name as Mick continued, ‘The other two might have a connection through the hospital. One has a mother in treatment for alcohol abuse, the other’s mother has a history of being bi-polar and God knows what else, so that’s one avenue to explore. Colin, has your wife ever been to that hospital – the Western?’

  Anderson shook his head. ‘The Southern is our hospital.’

  ‘Claire?’ asked Costello.

  ‘No, that was the Southern.’

  ‘Well, what about Miss Cotter? She’s up at the bloody hospital with her Empire biscuits.’ The hospital was not up as an active line of enquiry. Littlewood nodded and made a note to get on with it.

  ‘But Peter – he’s a different thing altogether. Who’d know him well enough to get him to walk away with them?’ Mick’s voice asked, his Liverpudlian accent exaggerated by being disembodied.

  ‘But he wouldn’t walk away with them.’ Anderson shook his head. ‘I’ve been over this a thousand times,’ he muttered. ‘Peter wouldn’t walk away with anybody.’

  ‘Colin, empty your mind, sit down with somebody, and go through everything Peter did in the last seven days, and who with. Don’t you tell them, let them do the asking. Get somebody to do the same with Brenda – both of you are missing something,’ Batten said. ‘Don’t automatically disregard people you trust. The more you trust them, the mor
e likely it is to be them. Look, this report says your son is intelligent, well balanced; he’s described as vocal, free with his opinions…’

  ‘Too right.’

  ‘And you’re a policeman. So, Peter would be more aware than most little boys of the unpleasant side of life. Which means if somebody tried to take him by reason, he would refuse. Politely, but he would refuse. He’s an articulate little boy, he’s bright, he’d argue back. He’s been conditioned that way. So, he went with someone he trusted.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been saying. I’ve been over this a million times. It didn’t happen! My son is not a stupid wee boy, for fuck’s sake. How many times do I have to tell you? Jesus!’ Anderson swore, slammed his chair back and left the room, banging the door.

  ‘Will I go after him?’ asked Littlewood, rising.

  Costello shook her head. ‘Did you hear that?’ she asked the speakerphone. ‘That was Anderson’s chair hitting the deck. So, let’s run with this – say I know a female who has suffered recent personal loss, no family, no chance of having any kids; she knows Peter, buys him presents, knows how cops work, she might even have a uniform hanging around. And if the rumours are true, she’s not a stranger to the hospital. Somebody we know Peter ran to when he was left with strangers. Good to go?’

  The speakerphone was silent for a few moments. ‘Who are you talking about?’

  Costello and Littlewood exchanged glances.

  ‘Who are we talking about?’ repeated the speakerphone.

  ‘Well.’ Costello didn’t want to say it; she was betraying Alan.

  ‘Who are we talking about?’ Batten demanded again. ‘I’m supposed to be the expert here.’

  Silence.

  ‘Who?’ demanded the speakerphone.

  ‘Helena McAlpine.’

  Silence hung round them like lead for what seemed like a long time.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ said Mick Batten eventually. ‘Mrs McAlpine? Are you serious, about her being a suspect? Didn’t you say she’s going into hospital? She couldn’t just borrow three children and then give them back. Why would she?’

  ‘She’s been through a lot; she might be that irrational.’

  ‘Not the only one,’ said Littlewood, looking at Costello.

  There was another long silence as Mick Batten thought. Then he asked, ‘One question – well, two. They didn’t have kids, did they, she and Alan?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And, Costello – does Helena McAlpine have pictures of Peter anywhere?’

  ‘I know for a fact she does, in pride of place in the front room,’ answered Costello. ‘And another thing – all they’ve been looking for on the CCTV is a wee boy with a Winnie-the-Pooh rucksack, wearing the bottom half of a dragon outfit, but two minutes in a toilet, a jacket with a hood, and he’s not what we’re looking for any more.’

  Mick Batten said nothing; he just sighed heavily.

  ‘The other thing is that Helena sees him a lot. They sort of hang out together. She was the one who went to get Peter. She offered to look after his gold-fish. It’s as if she’s trying to borrow him from his family. Maybe she’s gone one step too far. She has everything, that woman. I mean everything.’ Costello paused. ‘Apart from her husband, kids and a family.’

  ‘So, she has nothing.’ Batten sighed down the speaker. ‘But psychologically, the timing fits better with that, a woman driven to irrational behaviour.’

  Costello felt shivery and deathly sick. Here, let me take your bag, Peter; I’ll put it in mine. Put your hood up, Peter, it’s cold outside – yes, we’ll go and find your mother… She shoved her chair back, scraping it along the floor. ‘OK, thanks, Mick. Littlewood, we’d better go and get hold of Colin, calm him down; I think he might be ready to hit somebody. We’ll take him through all Peter’s contacts, just as Mick suggested, and get back to Quinn asap if any shite floats to the top. And, Littlewood, please don’t let this go any further, but Anderson was with Helena last night, when Peter was abducted. They were at the Theatre Royal. Peter was taken after seven.’

  Littlewood showed no sign of surprise. ‘About twenty past. Colin had his phone off. We did wonder why.’

  ‘Because he was at the concert. He only picked up our call when he got back to her house. They left at the interval. We need to find out if she was late for the curtain-up. If we ask him directly, he’ll go ballistic. He’s very… protective of Helena,’ said Costello.

  ‘She’s an attractive woman. I could get quite… protective of her myself,’ said Littlewood, licking his lips as if he had just tasted a good malt. ‘She was with Peter at the fair. They were the best of pals, like I said.’

  ‘OK, you ask how late she was for the concert. You get on his bad side, I’ll stay on his good side.’

  Costello found Colin Anderson sitting in a corner of the locker room, with his feet up on the bench, hugging a cup of tea to his chest.

  ‘No need to ask what’s going through your mind,’ she said, sitting down at the other end of the same bench. They avoided each other’s eyes. ‘You know, Colin, you have to look at all aspects of this… you have to talk to Littlewood, let Irvine go out and speak with Brenda… And Batten is right about Peter.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I’m just sitting here thinking about how many people Peter knows, that I might not know about. How can my son know people I know nothing about? Even Claire has a boyfriend that I knew nothing about, even if he is a borrow your pencil boyfriend, as Helena put it.’

  ‘And she’s – how old now? – nine?’ Costello carefully turned her back to Anderson, so she could watch him in the mirror on her locker door. ‘So, how is Helena? How was the concert? Did she make it on time?’

  ‘Only just. It started late but even then the lights were down as we were finding our seats. Not like her to be late; that was always Alan’s job.’

  ‘Did she say what held her up?’

  That was a question too far. ‘She was caught up in the traffic, like everybody else. That’s why they delayed the start. Why is it any of your business?’ His voice was caustic. ‘What are they doing up there?’

  ‘Well, nothing has come out of your old cases…’

  ‘I told them I’m not high profile enough to attract that kind of attention.’

  ‘… So, we’re tracking exactly what Rogan O’Neill has been up to in the last few days.’

  ‘He’s been house-hunting. Did you get anywhere with Lauren?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll ever be best friends,’ said Costello. ‘But I did find out that Dec Slater and Jinky Jones are still around, and I think they’re being watched. Colin, I know it’s hard, but look at the bigger picture. The kids who’ve gone missing across America – those cases are strung out over several years and across state lines. Compare them with three boys in one week who live so close they could all go to the same school. It’s not the same thing. Any paedophile that loony would already be on the radar. It’s not them. Not this time.’

  ‘Are you saying that to comfort me?’

  ‘I’m saying it because I believe it. Jinky and Dec were there on the tape because they’re staying at the Hilton. They were only listening to the German Band.’ Costello shifted slightly. ‘Nothing else so far.’

  Anderson shook his head. ‘So, nothing I can do there then.’

  ‘No,’ Costello agreed.

  ‘Anyone else? That woman…’

  ‘Wee Miss Cotter, with her Empire biscuits and little umbrellas?’

  ‘Or Mrs Cotter, as she actually is.’

  ‘Where did you get that from?’

  Colin looked at his watch, his face falling as he registered the relentless passage of time. ‘Records Office. We looked at her earlier. Mrs Amelia Cotter. Her husband emigrated to Australia and took the children. 1954, I think it was. She didn’t go, or at least we could find no record of her on the same passage.’

  ‘You mean they deserted her? All those years ago, and she made no effort to get them back?’

  ‘Apparently not, fo
r whatever reason.’

  ‘Losing your whole family like that would certainly be enough to turn a woman mental. But why our kids, why so quickly, why now? It’s fifty years on.’

  ‘The thing is, I don’t see Peter being seduced by a little old lady with an Empire biscuit.’

  ‘Why not? We nearly were,’ said Costello. ‘And if she said, I know your daddy, he’s that nice policeman…’ Her voice was cruel and mocking.

  ‘I still don’t think he would.’

  ‘Batten agreed it might be a woman – well, it makes sense – it might be a woman who is childless, or a woman who’s lost a child, who’s had a life-changing event. You know how something like that can push the sanest of women over the edge. Somebody that knew Peter, somebody that Peter would trust…’

  Colin sat up straight. ‘Who are you thinking of?’

  ‘Well…’ Costello suddenly couldn’t get the words out. ‘What about Helena? She ticks all the boxes. At the fair, the way she was looking at Peter, the way she…’

  ‘What? Helena McAlpine? Costello, what are you going on about?’

  ‘She’s childless, Colin; she had to face Alan’s death, she’s maybe facing up to her own, she…’

  But Costello didn’t get any further. Anderson leapt up so violently he knocked her shoulder, smacking her head soundly against the wall, and slammed out of the locker room. Costello slumped to the floor, letting her head fall on to her chest, waiting for her eyes to come back into focus.

  Then the door of the locker room opened again and Anderson came back through it, walking backwards. He and Quinn were face to face, staring each other down, in silence. Quinn cast an eye over Costello, then looked back at Anderson before asking, ‘Costello, are you all right?’

  ‘Just bumped my head, ma’am.’

  ‘Indeed? Well, you’re going home for a rest. You look terrible. But for now, sit down, both of you.’ She closed the door behind her, her trainers squeaking on the lino. ‘We need to talk, and we need to talk down here. It’s hell up there,’ Quinn said, nodding her head upwards. ‘The Press Room is crowded with journalists and a TV camera crew.’