Singing to the Dead

by Caro Ramsay

  ‘What’s Lewis up to?’ asked Costello, totally ignoring Anderson.

  Quinn sat down on the bench, and shot Costello a funny look. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Just that she seems to be permanently reapplying her make-up or on the phone to bloody Stuart The-Met-Would-Fall-Apart-Without-Me. Cow.’

  ‘Costello, you are still on duty, technically,’ Quinn warned.

  ‘I’m in the locker room.’ Costello rubbed her head. ‘And I’m concussed. So, technically, I am not responsible for anything I say. What are you doing down here?’

  ‘I think I’ve got the hang of how you lot work – little huddles of gossip and information,’ said Quinn, leaning back against the wall. ‘So, I am joining a huddle. I want to run something past you. Much as I would love to suspend you both, I do trust you implicitly.’ She looked at the door, as if daring it to open. Anderson moved away from the window and leaned casually against the door, to prevent anybody from coming in.

  Quinn smiled a quick smile, as if recognizing her acceptance at last, but she looked lined and worn without her make-up; even the lipstick had gone. She was clearly troubled.

  ‘I have no idea how – or even if – this fits together,’ she said in an intense whisper. ‘But I’ve just had a long chat with Irvine. You suspect we have a definite murder plot?’ Quinn raised her eyebrows at Costello, who took that to mean she could go ahead. As she filled him in, Anderson slowly slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor.

  ‘OK, consider this,’ Quinn took over. ‘We learn from O’Hare’s PM report that four more deaths have been caused by cyanide, and that in there somewhere is a deliberate murder. I’m waiting for my brain to come up with an argument against it. But I can’t.’

  Quinn leaned forward.

  ‘But how does any of this get me closer to my son?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Colin,’ Quinn said gently. ‘Sorry. And we had a no-show on Peter on the CCTV tapes near the outbuildings, where PC Smith or Smythe or whatever keeps suggesting.’ Quinn reached out and touched Anderson on the arm. ‘Look, you know I should put the squad on the tampering now, if that is a murder. We need to look deeper into every single one of those victims.’

  ‘That’s shite, if the stuff is off the shelf nobody is in any danger,’ snapped Costello.

  ‘This might be off the record but I am still your boss.’ Quinn hesitated; Costello kept her mouth shut. ‘But I agree wholeheartedly. We’ll get the teams out again – the door to door again – no stone unturned. It’s the Saturday afternoon before Christmas, people will be in – we need more statements, we need blanket coverage of everybody who lives or works in here. The teams should be getting access. Take a good torch and some evidence bags, go along the back lane nearest to where Peter was taken, look for anything big enough to take a car. Then do the one at the bottom end. If they took Peter off Byres Road, it would only take a minute to get up Highburgh Road and you’d be away. It mimics exactly the way we think Luca must have gone.’

  Anderson stood up, opened his locker and reached in for his anorak as Quinn moved behind him, indicating to Costello that she wanted Anderson out the way.

  26

  Costello collected her jacket from the locker room and decided to visit the loo while she was downstairs. One of the cubicle doors was closed, and the sound of clothes coming on and off indicated that Lewis was getting changed. Her big Louis Vuitton bag was visible through the gap at the bottom of the door, and the strong smell of Lou Lou perfume was stinking the place out.

  Costello trotted down the corridor, up the stairs and into the front office. She saw Anderson having a final check of the whiteboard; nothing had changed. ‘Listen, I’m going home for a wee while. I’ve a sore head needs resting.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Colin looked guilty. ‘Is it…?’

  ‘Don’t worry; I’ll be back after a couple of hours’ kip and a shower and a decent cup of tea. With a bit of luck, this might be a long night.’

  Every time a uniform came in and walked up to the board, Colin Anderson looked over and his hopes rose. And they fell again when the uniform walked away without adding any further information. The minute the case opened, it seemed to have slammed shut immediately.

  A photograph of Miss/Mrs Cotter had been circled in blue, and a photograph of Stella McCorkindale had been circled in red. Arrows, forced to bend into curved lines, were going everywhere as connections were tested and broken. Now and again, Anderson would step up, make a mark, cross it out and try again. Mrs Cotter had had the opportunity to know all three boys, and she’d been seen at the fair, but they couldn’t trace any communication with Peter. Unless Mrs Cotter had spoken to Peter while he was with Helena. But Helena was in hospital, so not contactable. Mrs Cotter certainly matched the profile but the letters FTO – far too old – were scribbled next to her name. She had a bad chest but she could walk smartly enough. But was she strong enough to hold on to a struggling seven-year-old?

  Stella McCorkindale may have seen Troy limping up the street, she had taken her time to come forward, she was on the verge of the credit card enquiry. She was on the verge of all sorts of things. An arrow trailed from her name, to the top of the freestanding board where the name Munro was written.

  Lewis’s desk phone rang and Wyngate dived across to pick it up, getting there just before Mulholland.

  ‘Kate Lewis?’ an arrogant voice snapped. No please, no thank you.

  ‘Who’s calling?’ asked Wyngate.

  ‘What business is it of yours?’

  ‘I think you have the wrong number.’ Wyngate slammed the phone down. ‘That boyfriend of hers is an arse.’

  ‘You really are Costello’s little puppy, aren’t you, Wingnut?’ said Mulholland.

  ‘Whatever your problem is with your girlfriend,’ said Wyngate, pulling himself up to his full five feet six, ‘get it sorted. You were a much nicer human being when she was around. I’m away to see Quinn.’ He nodded at Anderson. ‘We won’t leave until we get him back, Col.’

  Anderson nodded. ‘I know.’

  Mulholland was seething; he was stung by Wyngate’s remark about Frances. He was even starting to think that Lewis might be right and Costello wrong. After all, it was Lewis who was in the hot relationship, while Costello was just a grumpy old cow who hadn’t had a man as long as he’d known her.

  But Wyngate was right – Peter was priority, Fran could go on the back burner for now.

  Anderson sighed, sitting down in Quinn’s office, refusing yet another cup of coffee. He ignored the clock. More than twenty-four hours now. ‘Is it possible that somebody just wants the reward money? Is that why they have taken Peter?’ He tried to rub the tiredness from his eyes. ‘But it was never made public that Rogan O’Neill was doubling the reward, was it?’

  Littlewood licked his lips, answering slowly. ‘You know, I don’t think it was. Wasn’t there something about the wording that we didn’t want released to the press just yet? In case it brought the nutters out the woodwork?’

  ‘Then it gets us no closer to finding Peter, does it?’ said Quinn.

  ‘So, let’s go at it the other way round. Who was privy to Rogan doubling the reward?’ asked Anderson. ‘Can you do me a favour? Find Lewis and ask her who she might have blabbed to – she has the biggest mouth. I don’t know her and I don’t trust her.’

  ‘I do know her and I do trust her, DI Anderson,’ said Quinn. ‘I know she can be flighty but she’s a good cop. In the same way Costello has a mouth like the Clyde Tunnel but is still a good cop.’

  Anderson said nothing.

  ‘But I’ll keep Lewis out your way. Smythe will keep her in that room, looking at tapes and overseeing the door to door. The wee lad’s enjoying his break with the big boys.’

  ‘The wee lad’s a good cop.’

  Anderson looked through the glass to the main office; the whiteboard hadn’t changed. ‘I used to be one of them.’

  ‘Last year’s Only Fools and Horses is on! I tho
ught you wanted to watch it,’ Eve shouted from her wheeled throne in the front room.

  ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment,’ shouted Lynne from the drawing room, turning over the page of the Herald, scanning column after column.

  ‘Doing what?’ came the shouted reply.

  ‘Thinking about wringing your neck,’ Lynne muttered quietly, then called out, ‘Wrapping up your Christmas present, so don’t come in.’ She sat still, listening for the telltale squeak of the chair, but there was nothing. Eve wasn’t falling asleep; she should have been, but she wasn’t. She had been up most of the night playing her Rogan O’Neill CD, singing along as the old codger warbled on about saying hello to this and goodbye to that. She must have had that one on repeat as it had gone on all bloody night, and in the end Lynne had shoved her head under the pillows to shut out the racket. Once asleep, she had dreamed that Eve was getting married to Douglas and that she hadn’t been invited to the reception. It turned out he had loads of Mrs Munros; tall ones, dark ones, thin ones, blonde ones… but they all had Eve’s face. After that, sleep had evaded her.

  Lynne yawned, closing the newspaper. She had only been able to find the product recall warnings for Headeze brand painkiller. Douglas had told her about that, but he had also mentioned deaths, that people were actually dying, poisoned by Headeze. And then, lo and behold, in his pocket – a packet of Headeze.

  Eve had been there, in his office. How many times had he asked – in their house – for a glass of water and a capsule for his headache? She would know that sooner or later he would take one.

  Lynne concentrated, seeing in her mind’s eye where Douglas always hung up his jacket. Stella had left with some keys, he said. So, her bloody sister must have been alone in there.

  She thought about the photocopied picture of Douglas, the way it had been handled over and over. Or caressed? Eve and her fat clumsy fingers, yet Lynne knew only too well the ease with which Eve opened up her painkilling capsules.

  Lynne stood up quietly and crept down the hall. The last time she looked, Eve had not eaten her steak and kidney pie, so she wouldn’t have eaten the sprinkling of her Zimovane on top of the gravy. She’d said she was hungry, and she never refused food. But the plate was still untouched, the pie cold, the gravy congealing, dusted with the powder of the sleeping tablet. Lynne had almost withdrawn when Eve started shouting, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, you plonker!’

  Lynne wasn’t sure if it was directed at her or the TV and she didn’t feel like asking.

  Quinn tried to steady her nerves. She had to stay calm, not let the others see her panic, not let Anderson see her panic. The boys were gone, into fresh air, and every minute that passed was screaming at her that they would not get them back. Not alive. And now the only lead they had on the cyanide had gone cold. Munro simply owned the card that had paid for the stuff, the details of the card could have been copied from anywhere. He was glad to help the police with their enquiries and would assist in any part of the investigation he could. The Headeze would go for analysis but the labs were closed for at least a week and nobody felt inclined to taste it, so Quinn had taken a chance and examined the tinfoil backing using her eyebrow tweezers. Just as Costello had described, the backing looked as though it had been pulled back on one side, then reattached. And, according to Munro, it had been placed in his jacket pocket.

  And that was it.

  She dropped her head into her hands and began to massage her temples, willing some inspiration. She heard a thump and a shout, the partition wall reverberated. Quinn was on her feet, hands against the glass.

  She saw a hole in the wall, a scatter of photographs discarded over the floor. Burns was grabbing his coat, Littlewood was racing to the window and looking down to the street. The one person she couldn’t see was Anderson. His jacket and coat were still over the back of his chair.

  Burns caught her eye; she looked out into the snow. Get after him.

  Anderson couldn’t have stayed in the station another minute, sitting there and doing nothing, listening to them doing nothing. Watching each lead come to a dead end, every one shutting or slamming in his face.

  On a lamp post, somebody had put a sticker advertising a Boxing Day sale over a poster of Luca and Troy – bastards! There was no picture of Peter.

  Anderson was angry. Now he decided to get furious. Then suddenly he started to cry, tears of anger and absolute frustration pouring down his face. Peter – where are you?

  He wrapped his arms round himself, shivering without his coat, fighting the tears. As he banged the car door, the glove compartment flew open and Peter’s ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ song sheet fell out, and a side piece of the Monkey Meal box, with a dis-embodied dragon head coming round the corner. Peter had drawn it with Helena’s help. Helena?

  He played with the cardboard in his hands, thinking, looking at the wavy lines where his son had tried to keep his pen straight. A long, long tail, he heard Helena say. A long, long, long tail, Peter’s voice repeated.

  Two coppers came out the back door of the station, talking loudly, almost laughing. They walked past without seeing him and continued on their way, relaxed and unhurried, disappearing into the darkness of the lane in a sudden flurry of snow caught by the rising wind.

  Colin Anderson had nowhere to go. He could see Burns at the end of the lane, looking for him. He could do without any more fucking platitudes. He gunned the engine of the old Astra, the back wheels losing it on the snow-covered camber, before slewing on to Hyndland Road. He didn’t even bother stopping at the lights as he turned on to Great Western Road. And then up to Kirklee Terrace. His mood worsened as he looked at Helena’s house, in intense darkness, through the falling snow. He had always thought of that house as a safe haven, with a warm fire and good coffee. Now it looked dead, cold, threatening. It was the only house in the whole terrace showing no light. Of course – Helena was in the hospital. And Alan was cold in the ground. A wheelie bin, topped by an inch and a half of snow, was still up on the pavement; that would annoy her. As he got out of the car, the wind caught the lid and lifted it slightly. Anderson opened the lid to push the contents down. There wouldn’t be another collection until after the Christmas holidays, and if he left it like that the foxes would get in. He glanced at the contents of the bin. There, on the top, covered in wet coffee grounds, was Peter’s tattered cartoon of Squidgy with spiky hair, the one he had drawn for Helena at the Christmas Fair, with a wonky ‘H’ for Helena.

  He withdrew his hand as if he had been stung. He got back into the car and rammed it into gear, and the Astra jerked into speed. He took the hairpin and the lights in one, then raced up Queen Margaret Drive and on to Maryhill Road, where the car started skidding, hit the kerb with a bang and died. He bumped the pavement and got out, slamming the door with such ferocity the car rocked. He walked out into the snow and the dark, rolled up his sleeves and walked, soaked to the skin, his shoulders hunched, through the silence of the city, past front doors with Christmas wreaths, and lighted windows full of cards and Christmas trees. He turned left, up the wee hill, and found himself at the gates of the Western Necropolis. The small gravestones of those lost in the Second World War were skirted by snow but still standing to attention. He leaned against the railing that topped the wall, his face pushed hard up against the spars. He rattled the gates, and pulled at the chains in frustration. They held fast.

  The moon was clear, and everything was silent, deathly quiet. Somehow getting over that gate was the most important thing in his life. If he could do this one thing, this one simple thing, Peter would be found. He would go home, and Peter would be sitting on the settee, fresh from his bath, in his Deputy Dawg pyjamas, eating toast soldiers with his eggs mashed up in a cup. It would all be OK. Anderson started to climb the wall and then the wrought-iron fence that topped it, tugging his shirt free as it got caught on the spikes at the top; he heard the material rip as he dropped down on the other side. In the cemetery itself, the path was straight to start with, then it forked
off through sections of green that looked grey in the darkness. He followed it for some way before realizing why he was here, and what he wanted.

  High on the hill, open to the wind, with the orange lights of Glasgow twinkling below, the cemetery was deathly silent apart from the whisper of the wind through the bare branches. He stopped at the grave, which was still unmarked, with a single bouquet of fresh flowers blowing in the wind. He knelt down and read the card: My darling Alan, I miss you. Anderson bit his finger, unable to stop the tears now. And I miss you too, you sod. You should be here. He stood up and shouted, You should be HERE! He staggered back on to the path, the rising wind catching him on the exposed crest of the hill, cutting through him, driving his tears across his face. He wiped his cheek on his shirtsleeve. How could anyone know what it’s like to lose somebody you love more than you love yourself, someone you would gladly die for?

  Anderson looked for and found another grave, off to the side, and there she was – Anna. The someone Alan gladly died for. He said softly, ‘Of course you know, don’t you, Alan? You know better than any of us what it’s like.’ The wind nudged him, and he lost his balance, putting a foot out on to the path to stop him overbalancing. He looked around; the branches of the trees were still thrashing in the wind, the wind still whipped his breath from him. Yet he felt that somebody had just pushed him, pushed him away from the grave.

  Suddenly he realized how high up he was. He could see right over the city, all the lights – orange sodium lights, the white lights of the motorway, red tail-lights snaking beneath them. He looked up, letting the sleet sting his face and clear his thoughts. The only noise was the wind sneaking between the gravestones, and the branches rustling. He would go back and watch that tape, again and again and again, and watch nobody but Peter, see what Peter would see. He would do what the Boss always did – he would sit and think.