Singing to the Dead

by Caro Ramsay

  ‘Love?’ said Costello, aghast.

  ‘Being battered is better than being ignored, to some,’ said Quinn dryly.

  ‘So, why do you think Frances was taking the children?’ asked Costello. ‘Just because she wanted them?’

  O’Hare’s voice was sharp. ‘I’m only saying she lost a child. And I’m suggesting that when O’Neill turned up after twenty years, bearing in mind he was both the father of the child and maybe – though I’m stretching a point – the reason for the death of the child, it dug everything up again, and destabilized her. And look at those two; they were both vulnerable children with inadequate mothers, and she looked after them, maybe in the way she wished she had been able to look after her own.’

  ‘Or in the way she wished somebody had looked after her,’ Costello said, feeling dangerously close to tears. She remembered Vik saying, I just want to look after her, give her things, make her happy… and wished she’d been nicer to him.

  ‘Very likely,’ O’Hare agreed.

  ‘But how would Frances know these children in particular were at risk?’ Quinn asked. ‘Do you think she saw something of herself in them?’

  Costello smiled wryly. ‘It was the hospital, I bet. Miss Cotter’s at the tea bar with her Empire biscuits. Miss Cotter looked after Frances when she was a wee girl, as she looked after Troy. She was still close to Frances, who was in there every week. It was Miss Cotter who came and enquired after her. She’s upset, to say the least. She’s blaming herself, because she used to chat to Fran about Alison and Lorraine; they all used to sit there munching her homemade biscuits, gossiping the way women do while they hang around, waiting for hospital appointments.’

  ‘Miss Cotter knew Troy well, but did she know Luca, though? Had she ever met the boy?’

  ‘She only said she knew of him, if I remember rightly, but the important thing was that Frances would have met them too. It could have been a gradual progression in her mind, from looking out for them, to worrying about them, to thinking she was some kind of saviour to them, and then taking them. Which raises the question – why did she leave them to starve in a stinking basement?’

  ‘That’s your point of view, Costello. Frances had bought them food and bedding, and they were happy, living in their basement castle, running through that great flat during the day. Ask Luca; he was having a great time, until the end,’ said O’Hare.

  ‘So why let Troy be eaten by the rats? You don’t just lock children up and abandon them,’ snapped Costello.

  O’Hare looked at Costello, half-quizzically and half-enquiringly, before replying. ‘The problem with Troy was a medical one; he had a throat infection, and his mother didn’t see that it got treated. He was malnourished, and ill, so that innocent little scrape on his leg progressed to septicaemia and a necrotizing syndrome. His wee body was already reacting… his tissues were dying on him. There’s no way he could have fought that. Infection spreads as fast as your blood flows. He could have been fine at breakfast, dead by teatime.’

  ‘You’d think she’d have noticed, though. You do notice when a kid’s foot goes black.’

  O’Hare sighed, exasperated. ‘Costello, she was dead by then. I don’t think she ever meant them any harm. I repeat, whoever killed Frances Coia just as surely killed Troy. And you two are still sitting here. You should be finding the tamperer. There are six dead now, that we know of. Six.’

  ‘We need to find Peter first,’ said Costello, blankly.

  ‘Well, let’s get to it.’ Quinn walked towards the door and paused. ‘You can’t testify to any of that, can you, Jack? You’ll just testify to what’s in front of you – the cyanide.’ O’Hare opened his mouth to protest but Quinn had turned to Costello. ‘None of her history has anything to do with how she died. Legally, I mean. I’d bet good money Rogan’s press office is releasing a statement this very moment, about his great tragedy, how his wee Scottish sweetheart died, his one true love, how she wrote those songs for him. I can see it now… he’ll turn the funeral into a PR triumph, donate yet more money to a good cause, and the press will love it.’

  ‘We can’t let that happen,’ said Costello.

  ‘We have no choice.’

  ‘Watch me.’

  ‘Costello, I’m warning you. You – we – cannot go public with this.’

  ‘Maybe we can’t. But I’m bloody sure somebody can.’

  Anderson held the plastic hoof in both hands, and lifted it to his face as if it might whisper to him and tell him its secrets. It was definitely Peter’s, and it was at the top of the stairs that led to Helena’s basement. And she had given him the keys. Was she trying to tell him something? If so, what?

  Then he realized he had a piece of evidence in his hand, the only real piece of evidence they had. He should bag it, phone it in, get a squad out; they would rip through the house in less than half an hour. He would get Helena interviewed by Littlewood, who wouldn’t take any of this I’m-not-well shite. He sniffed back a few tears. He had trusted her… Of course he trusted her – what was he thinking? – but Peter had been here. He tried to calm his heart. He would phone Quinn, pass it to her. But not until after he had had a good look round.

  He picked up his Marks and Spencer carrier bag and ran up the steps to the front door, pulling unfamiliar keys from his pocket. The storm doors were closed, and the inner glass-panelled door took a second and third smaller key. The hall was exactly how he remembered it – tall and airy, all painted in cream and beige, with some of Helena’s original watercolours on the wall. He called out Peter’s name, but the only answer was a click from the central heating. The heating is still on, she’d said. Had she left it on for a reason?

  He made a quick journey through all the rooms downstairs: the living room where the goldfish was swimming happily in a large glass vase, the sitting room, the formal dining room, the huge kitchen with its Aga, the two utility rooms. He took a quick glance round each, scared of what he might find, but even more scared that he would find nothing.

  In one of the utility rooms, he noticed, it was cooler, cold even. He walked into the warmth of the kitchen, then back into the cold of the utility room – a cold draught was coming from somewhere. Anderson felt the hot pipes, which came up through the floor before splitting above the worktop to go left and right. So, the boiler was below here. He moved a laundry basket away from a panelled door; there was a draught, a breeze almost, coming in through a gap at the bottom. It was locked. He went back into the kitchen, his heart pounding, and found a selection of keys hanging on a violin-shaped piece of wrought iron by the back door. He picked up the oldest one, a chunky bronze key. It slid into the lock easily, and the door opened to reveal a set of stairs going down to the basement. He stepped down, slowly. It was warmer here; he could hear the boiler and the pump. And there was the same draught. Then he saw that the basement door had been left slightly open; somebody had failed to lock it. A cold wind was coming in off the street, down the area steps and right into the basement.

  He pushed the outside door closed, it scraped against the floor, jammed tight then freed itself and slammed shut. The noise of the wind ceased immediately. He leaned his head back against the door, and closed his eyes. At least nobody had noticed the unlocked door and gained access to the house. He felt the little hoof in his hand and opened his eyes. As they adjusted to the dim light that shone from the street through the narrow gap round the door, he could see something familiar, another hoof sticking out from under a little bundle of anorak huddled under the boiler.

  ‘Peter?’

  Lynne curled her fingers round the cup of Earl Grey and sipped slowly, relaxing. For the first time she could ever remember – from the minute Eve was born, the house had never been restful the way it was now. The house had never been hers, the way it was now.

  Eve had finally stopped making that dreadful, rasping noise. It had gone on for ages – stopping then starting – as if every time life drifted away, Eve snatched it back.

  The house had
been quiet for ten minutes now.

  It was all hers. She sipped her tea again and sighed. Total contentment. She supposed she should phone the police or somebody soon but she was too much in the moment of her deep reflection, sitting coiled into her mother’s favourite armchair and looking out to the darkening garden. It looked bare, desolate, one degree above freezing; the fronds of the ferns were gathering a fine dusting of snow. It didn’t look like Christmas, but it was trying.

  She would plant her sweet peas again. Once the weather turned she would weed out the fish pond, restock it with koi and lilies. Douglas would help her. She wondered how long it would be before he could move in; with Eve gone the house was big enough for him to have an office upstairs. She passed her china cup under her nose, scenting the perfume of the Earl Grey, then smiled. His secretary lived across the road, after all – she could walk to work in two minutes.

  It started to snow a little more heavily; the ferns became filigree ghosts, gently dancing in the dark. It was the start of something new and wonderful.

  Time to get rid of the past. She stood up and went into the dining room, where Eve’s drawings were still on the sideboard. She flicked through them before picking up the phone – some of them, the ones featuring Rogan O’Neill, would be worth a fortune. And then there was the chess set. She picked up the ebony king, the ivory queen – Douglas and Lynne. She rolled them in the palm of her hands and wished, before placing them back on the board, together, and tilting them so they kissed.

  She smiled to herself, her stomach twisting with the pleasure of anticipation. She then glanced at her watch – time was moving on. One minute in the kitchen and the rest of the Earl Grey was down the sink, the cup washed and put away. She stepped over Eve and went to her desk. Lifting out the pastel box, she removed the upper tray and took out the plastic bag of white powder, the yellow label with the skull and crossbones now crushed and folded. She placed it and the wig in a brown paper bag and put them in the bottom of her handbag. They wouldn’t be here if the police came sniffing or searching. But to them, Eve was just another victim of the tamperer, nothing more.

  The tamperer had been tempered.

  Hoisted with her own petard.

  She took a deep breath and went to pick up the phone, then noticed Squidgy sitting on the sideboard, his rotund purple belly leaning against the handset. Lynne couldn’t remember him being there before. The midge regarded her with a lifeless, black accusing eye. Lynne felt a draught snake round her feet, and she shivered.

  Anderson held his son to his chest, cradling him in his arms, and breathed in the soft scent of apple blossom shampoo from Peter’s hair. He buried his nose deep in his neck and kissed him again and again, the sense of relief almost unbearable.

  ‘But why are you here, Peter? Why did you run away from Mummy?’ Colin felt Peter’s hands – frozen. Nose – frozen. Apart from that he was unhurt.

  ‘I didn’t run away, Daddy. I wouldn’t run away,’ Peter sniffled. ‘I called her but she walked away.’ He rubbed sleep from his eyes with the ball of his thumb.

  ‘And why did you come here?’

  ‘I came to see Auntie Helena. And my goldfish.’

  ‘But you know she went to the hospital, because she’s not well.’

  ‘Claire was in the hospital but she came home, so why did Auntie Helena not come home?’

  ‘Because…’

  Peter wiped his nose on his damp sleeve. ‘I waited for her, but she didn’t come. And I got cold. So, I came in here and waited some more.’

  ‘Why did you not come out?’

  ‘I tried to, Daddy, but I couldn’t move the door. I got a skelf, look.’

  Colin took his hand. The cold, chubby little hand, with the black thread of the skelf visible under the skin, looked red and angry. ‘I think we’ll have to go to hospital and get a plaster.’

  ‘Auntie Helena went to hospital and didn’t come back. I’m not going.’

  ‘That’s because she had to stay in hospital to be looked after. You and Claire have me and Mummy to look after you.’

  ‘Auntie Helena has nobody to look after her,’ said Peter, squeezing at the skelf until a bubble of blood appeared. ‘And you didn’t look after me, you didn’t come to get me.’

  Anderson had no response to that. ‘Why did you come here to see Auntie Helena?’

  ‘Because she saw me do Puff. She got up at the end and clapped – like this.’ He wrestled his arms free and attempted a handclap until he remembered his thumb hurt. ‘She thought I was best.’

  ‘Peter, could you not have gone out on the street, got somebody to phone? Mummy and Daddy have been very worried about you.’ Colin put his son’s arms back round his neck, where they clung to his collar. The boy had had a fright.

  ‘Don’t talk to strangers, Daddy.’ Peter wagged his finger at him. ‘I just stayed here. The door banged, and it woke me up… But I went back to sleep again. I waited for you to come and you took ages.’

  Anderson pulled Peter under his own jacket, and cuddled him tighter. Without letting go he pulled his mobile from his pocket; the battery still showed a little life. With one thumb, he selected ten numbers and sent a text: Stand down, Peter found safe and well.

  It was getting chilly in here now. He looked at where Peter had been lying, right under the boiler. He had been lucky. Colin pushed all thoughts of Troy from his mind. He tried to slip his arms from his son, but Peter’s grip did not yield. And Colin wasn’t inclined to prise off the little fingers that held on so tightly.

  He opened his phone up again and phoned John Littlewood.

  ‘Great news,’ the voice at the other end said. ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘He’s fine. Look, can you come and get me?’

  ‘Course, Col. Where are you?’

  ‘The McAlpines’ place, just round the corner.’ Anderson closed the phone again, and put it on the floor, and slumped his head against the wall. ‘Just round the bloody corner.’

  31

  On the TV screen in the corner of Helena’s room, Andy Ibrahim was returning from Pakistan to bigger cheers than those that had greeted Rogan O’Neill.

  Helena smiled, looking much more like her old self. ‘So, how’s my young friend?’ she asked. ‘Is he well?’

  Colin Anderson smiled, a wide relaxed happy smile. ‘He’s just over the road in the Children’s Hospital, still being kept in to be on the safe side. He has a bit of a temperature and a penetrating wound.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Helena.

  ‘He had a skelf, that’s all. But with Claire having had the throat thing… well, they’re being cautious. He’ll be out in time for Santa, which is all he cares about.’

  ‘You have no idea how happy I am.’ Her eyes closed in relief.

  ‘Oh, I think I have,’ he laughed.

  ‘But why did he come to me? Why did he not tell anybody?’

  Colin pulled up a seat and sat down. ‘Because we weren’t paying him any attention; we didn’t even watch his performance. The only one who paid any attention to him was you. You’d offered to draw dragons with him. You’d taken his goldfish home. And you stood up and clapped and told him he was the best. So, he went to find you. How many times have I shown him where you live? He worked it all out for himself – when I think about it, my blood runs cold. He was so nearly following the paths Luca would have taken, a whole maze of little side roads and back alleys, adventurous places for little boys. And he found himself on Great Western Road. He went up to your house, knocked on your door and got no answer. So, he found his way down to the basement, and found the door unlocked. He just went to sleep in the warmth of the boiler, then the door got stuck.’

  ‘Alan was always going to fix that door.’ Helena smoothed an absent crease from the bedsheet. ‘One of those things he was always going to do.’

  ‘I’ll fix it before you get out of here.’ He stopped the movement of her hand with his. ‘Peter was so lucky.’

  ‘He’s a clever wee boy, finding his way ther
e. God, I feel guilty.’

  ‘Not as guilty as we feel.’

  ‘But he was under the house when I was in it. I thought the place was cold but I never thought to check that basement door.’ Helena shook her head.

  ‘Don’t blame yourself. You weren’t home when he arrived, and by the time he could hear your footsteps he would be frozen, tired, hungry and scared. Then remember, he is only five. He’s only a wee boy. ’

  ‘But I should have checked, Colin. I remember feeling cold, but I thought it was me. I just went straight up to my studio, up on the third floor. It’s where I go when I feel shaky. You know, I spent so much time up there when Alan –’

  ‘Yes, I know. But the wee guy is fine.’ Anderson touched her shoulder, and felt it cold and bony under his hand.

  A break in the weather means that the first lot of aid is getting through, a spokesperson for Andy’s Appeal was saying. And the truckload of food and clothing donated by the people of Glasgow is on its way.

  ‘Thank God for that. A little cheer on the news for once.’ Helena tried to pull herself up in the bed and he noticed her other arm, twice its normal size, the skin deep red, dull and furry like velvet. It looked like a big swollen, malignant sausage, overcooked and ready to burst. As she moved he could see the dressing and wadding round her chest, round her shoulder, up to her neck. He tried to stop himself from looking.

  ‘I brought you a couple of books from the shop downstairs – Proulx’s short stories and a Margaret Atwood.’

  ‘Cheers. I’m getting fed up with bloody women’s magazines. Twenty Ways To Make Friends With Your Cellulite.’

  He settled back in his chair, ready for it now. ‘So, how are things?’

  She shrugged, rasping her thumb across the pages of the book. ‘We have to wait. Tests, tests and…’

  He didn’t know what to say. His eyes scanned the mixture of Christmas and Get Well cards hanging from a string above the bed, appearing interested in who had sent what.

  ‘… more bloody tests. I feel as if I don’t have any blood left.’ She laid her head back on the pillow. She turned to look at him, an expression in her dark-green eyes that he could not read. ‘I can’t get any sleep in here either. I don’t drop off till half four and they wake me up at six thirty with something that’s supposed to be tea. I think I see every hour of that clock.’