by Caro Ramsay
He stood in a little inshot, a marbled porch protected by a metal slide gate that was pulled back and locked at the moment. He pressed a button to call the lift. The door clicked opened, and he entered directly into a lift filled with the scent of flowers. The green marbled walls and the carpet tiles on the floor were very clean. He imagined there was a well hidden camera, scrutinizing anybody who pressed that button before they were admitted. Nobody who looked like they needed a pee was ever going to get in here.
It played a sweet light tune, not the usual banal lift muzak, it sounded like an acoustic version of the Beatles? ‘Blackbird’? The lift took him, silently and smoothly, right up to the sixth floor.
He wondered if Sally owned the gym, or managed it? Had she ever finished her degree? Or had her career been derailed, as her life had in many more subtle ways. He was curious, maybe more than curious, about what had become of her. He had been very sure of himself when he had told Costello that Sally and Andrew were still together, but he didn’t know that. He only knew what was stated in the file at the last update. Anything could have happened to them since then. He didn’t know what he was hoping for. So, he didn’t hope for anything.
The doors opened and he was immediately overwhelmed to complete surrender by gentle greens and beguiling blues, the heady aromas of eucalyptus and lavender.
A young woman as slim and neat as BA cabin crew, brown hair pulled into a bun, sat behind a glass counter, on a rattan and blue cushioned chair, the counter an artistic mix of bamboo and glass. On the wall were similar bamboo shelves and tinted glass. The shelves were stacked with rolled turquoise and sunflower towels, ornamental vials of azure liquid and small wooden sticks that looked like instruments of torture.
‘Can I help you?’ Her smile was very friendly. She looked young and … Anderson struggled for the word … clean. Almost sterile. She was either very pretty and wore no make-up or was so good at putting on make-up, that it was enhancing but invisible. She didn’t look like the usual beauty therapy bimbo, more like a nanny from a posh nanny academy.
‘I’d like a word with Sally, Sally Logan, or Braithwaite.’ His smile said, this is official business and you would really be better off not asking. His fingers flicked round his warrant card, upending it on the glass surface of the reception desk, ready to show it if needed.
‘Can I tell her who is calling?’ A saccharine smile as she lifted up the phone, then placed the handset back on its cradle.
‘Don’t worry. I think I recognize that voice. Hello, Colin.’
He recognized her voice. He knew it in an instant. Soft and low, with a slight upward inflection that hinted at invitation. Or was that his wishful thinking?
He turned to see her standing in the doorway of the office behind him.
And for a moment he drank in the sight of her. She was older, but unfathomably so. She was, in essence, exactly the same. He would have recognized her anywhere. Her dull golden hair was wound up loosely on the top of her head, as if she had scooped it up and stuck two long pins through it. Her face was a little more lined, her lips a little thinner. Her pale green eyes were now hidden behind round-framed glasses. She was dressed in a kind of Japanese kimono, open at the front, wrapped round her blue leggings and her loose T-shirt.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘I think this is where you are supposed to say that I haven’t changed a bit.’ She stepped forward, the kimono billowed out a little behind her. Even in her blue trainers, she was nearly as tall as he was.
‘You haven’t changed that much.’ Their eyes met and held. ‘Not that much at all, if truth be told,’ he said, honestly.
She stepped forward, easily slipped into his arms and proffered a cheek for him to kiss.
His heart thumped as he caught a scent of lime, the perfume that Helena used to wear. It confused him and for the quickest beat, he closed his eyes and held that moment; a beautiful woman in his arms and the scent of lime. When he stood back he hoped she didn’t notice the moistness of his eyes. Well, why not, they were old friends. Maybe more than that.
Then she stood back and looked him up and down, a slow blink of those green eyes behind the glass rims.
‘I think I can guess why you are here. Have I worked my way to the top of the pile again?’ She turned away and looked back over her shoulder. ‘Do you want to come through?’
‘You don’t need to speak to me,’ he said, not moving.
She wrinkled her nose, a tic that took him back twenty years. ‘No, I don’t need to, but I would like to.’ She gestured that he should follow her into the office. ‘Robyn, hold any calls.’
The office was a fair size, the same theme of pastel shades, saved from looking too cold by the warmth of the golden sand colour, and the matching swirls of muslin at the huge window that formed one wall of the office. The view of the Clyde snaking in the distance was impressive. Today the sky was low, grey and rolling but it was pleasantly warm in here.
Anderson walked up to the glass, and stood, aware of the draft of heated air coming up from a gap on the floor. ‘What a view.’
‘I like it. I have my desk looking out the window. Bet you don’t get that at your job.’ She had climbed up on her desk, folded her long legs underneath her, easily, sitting in the lotus position in supreme comfort.
‘If I had, I wouldn’t get any work done. I presume you know I’m a cop?’
‘I have heard that down the grapevine. And I may have read about you in the newspapers now and then.’ Then her face changed, as if remembering why he was here. ‘Do you want a seat?’ she indicated the two pastel blue sofas behind the desk, huge cushions nestling in wicker frames. She swirled on the desk, so while she was facing him, she was also looking down on him. He could give her that. If she felt the need to be in control, to be at home, then so be it. He noticed the slim wedding band, the small solitaire engagement ring slipped over it. Did that mean she was still with Andrew?
Suddenly she was awkward, messing with her hair, a nervous biting at her lip. The tic of wrinkling her nose again.
‘So how did you end up with all this? I am very impressed.’ It was trite but it got the conversation moving.
‘Not all this, I have the gym, the spa and the studio. That is about it. I really got into yoga, you know. All those years ago I wasn’t really getting over it.’ Her eyes flicked up to meet his, the consent to talk about ‘it’. ‘I went away for a while, travelling. I spent a few months in India, did all kinds of soul-searching and navel-gazing. And yoga.’
‘Oh. We were wondering where you went.’
‘We? We or you? Did you ever wonder where I went?’ She learned forward, searching him for a response. He was unsure what was expected.
‘Of course I did.’ He was indignant, he meant it. ‘I think we all wondered about you. God, when did I see you last?’
‘I can tell you that. I can tell you that exactly. It was at a party, at the uni, there were cocktails and the bar staff were so pissed they were just sticking anything in the drinks. We all got very drunk and ended up in the park.’ She coloured a little, some other little memories filtering through. Then she said quickly, ‘And you ended up with Brenda. Was that the girl from the hockey team? Business studies?’
‘Accountancy. We have two children.’
That made her face cloud over, a slight tensing in her long, tanned neck. She flicked the small chain that hung there, quickly as if in irritation. ‘So, you and Brenda are still together?’
‘Sort of.’
She laughed. ‘What kind of answer is that? Surely you either are? Or you are not?’
‘We are close but we live apart. It’s a long story. And complicated.’
She smiled and nodded, content to leave it at that, as if Colin Anderson from uni should never have matured into somebody ‘not complicated’. ‘So what do you have? Girls or boys?’
‘Youngest is a boy, a sloth who lies in his bed all day and … Well, I have no idea what he does apart from eat and sleep with
occasional forays to school. But my daughter is a beautiful girl who is the most marvellous creature on the face of the planet. That is a scientific fact, I am not biased about that at all. She’s 17. Some kind of talented mega being.’
Sally giggled. ‘A daughter? How marvellous. And what makes her tick? Is she going to be a detective like her dad?’
‘Bloody hope not. She’s an artist, hoping to go to the art school in Glasgow.’
‘She must be good. What is she doing?’
‘What do you mean, what is she doing? Makes a lot of mess as far as I can see.’
‘I mean, is she doing fine art or sculpture or design or …?’
‘Painting, painting pictures, that is all I get told. And I see things going through on the credit card that make me wonder what she is actually painting. It looks like I am sponsoring enough paint for the Forth Road Bridge and three undercoats. Oh, I know, her latest thing is fluorescence. Fluorescence and Warhol.’
‘We have fish downstairs that glow in the dark, in the big restaurant. You should bring her in to see it, it’s very beautiful.’
We?
The Blue Neptune had one of the most expensive restaurants in Glasgow and he wanted to say that money was not a problem, he could afford to eat there, but chose not to. He wanted to take her in his arms and say it’s OK and I can take care of all this.
He chose not to do that either.
That was not why he was here. And there was nothing that needed taken care of. Sally was doing fine, the same Sally. Except …
He was here to ask her to revisit the most awful day of her life.
She inclined her head, peering at him over the top of her glasses, a few strands of reddish gold hair toppled, a scent of lime drifted across to him. ‘But you didn’t come here to talk about fluorescent fish, Colin.’
DS Viktor Mulholland looked at his iWatch, swiping at the screen with his thumb while the phone was jammed between his right ear and his shoulder. He had been waiting for Social Work to answer their phone for thirty-three minutes. He had read all the bits of paper stuck on the blue-padded partition of the office and had rearranged his desk, counted his paperclips, if Big Brother hadn’t been monitoring his computer activity he would have been playing FreeCell.
He slunk down in his chair, a parody of death by boredom played on his handsome face.
DC Gordon Wyngate, swinging on his chair like a slow metronome, held up his hand from his position on the opposite desk. Somebody had answered. The phone had actually been picked up. He punched the air in sarcastic celebration then collapsed again. Wyngate listened for a moment to the voice on the end of the phone, his hand stroking the top of his head, then he slowly turned his swivel chair round until he faced the handsome features of his colleague slumped down at the desk opposite him, shaking his head. ‘Yes, but we are not Child Protection. I can put you through if you want.’ Wyngate stuck his tongue out at Mulholland and got a two-fingered salute in return.
They both pressed mute on their respective calls.
‘That will give them a taste of their own medicine, God I am bored.’
‘I have applied to get back to MIT. Did you get anywhere the last time you tried?’ It was a conversation they had often had in the last few months. ‘I had heard there was another big reshuffle, thought I might try my luck.’
Mulholland pulled a cynical face as he was informed yet once more that his call was very important to somebody but not important enough for someone to bloody answer it. He covered the receiver. ‘Colin Anderson has a cold case post now, do you know that? Why is he still working anyway? If I was him I’d be in Vegas having three blondes lapping Jack Daniels from my belly button while watching a box set of Game Of Thrones.’
‘That’s an image I didn’t want in my head before lunchtime.’ Wyngate checked the phone, still on hold. ‘And if you get to MIT, and Anderson leaves, then guess who might take over cold case, and think of the pleasure they might feel as they swipe you from your true vocation, back to looking at cold cases by desk-bound file review.’ He raised his eyebrows in a speculative way, the small plaques of scarring on his face, white and circular, made him look like an overanxious panda when he pulled faces like that.
And Mulholland’s mind moved up a gear. Back to a log cabin at Inchgarten, crouched in the corner as a forest fire raged around him, holding onto two human beings he barely knew. Not able to get out, not able to get away, his injured leg failing him. Colin Anderson and Costello had put him in the safest place they had, they had locked him away out of danger and gone to face the unknown. And somebody Anderson loved had died. That was the job, he could live with that. But he wanted to work that again, he wanted to be on the front line. This secondment was a slow death by a thousand paper cuts. He looked at the phone number flashing up on his phone. And then did a double take.
He widened his eyes at his colleague, lifted the receiver and said, ‘Of all the gin joints in all the bars in all the world, you had to walk into mine.’ He allowed himself a smile, knowing that Wyngate had turned around wondering who the hell was calling. Mulholland leaned back in the seat and pushed himself into a little twirl of his own.
The voice at the other end was as caustic as ever. ‘DS Mulholland? You are still a DS, aren’t you? Not been demoted again?’
He smirked, Costello might be a pain in the arse, but she always attacked from the front, none of that political nicey nicey shite he was subject to now.
‘Good to hear from you,’ he said and with a bit of a shock he realized he actually meant it. ‘And what can I do for you?’ he asked in mock politeness.
‘How long have you got?’
‘I’ve been on hold to Social Work for twenty minutes so I think I might have all day.’
‘What part of Social Work?’
‘Well, I have now been passed to Child Protection, but these kids might be grown up and married by the time they answer this phone.’
‘Child Protection?’ she said out loud, watching Dali rummaging around in what passed for a dressing-table drawer, still looking for a passport or credit cards. ‘Why was this call transferred through to you? Are you the office boy?’
‘What do you want, Costello?’
‘I am here with the head of a child protection unit. If you put a rush on this, I will get somebody to answer your call.’
‘Deal.’
‘OK, here’s the whole story.’ She told it, keeping the story of Orla, and Polly, short and sweet. ‘I think she legged it out the window and went through the close. She might have been pulling a leopard-pattern hard plastic suitcase, a rigid one, carry-on baggage size. Might being the operative word. She might have called a taxi, that would have been about half eleven.’
She could hear him typing, he asked her to repeat the address. ‘But she might not have called the taxi to this precise address, here or hereabouts?’
‘Do you have CCTV there?’
‘Maybe not on this street but you could check on the main road. Would you be a gentleman and do that for me too? And get a trace on that phone number, she’s supposed to be not that bright so might still be texting her friends. We need to make sure that child is well and with who it is supposed to be with.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘No clear idea yet.’
‘Is this a case for MIT?’
She said quietly, ‘I think it might come to that. There’s a lot about this I am not liking. We haven’t found Baby Sholto yet either.’
‘You involved with that? Any chance you might need some more feet on the ground?’ He laughed to keep the longing out of his voice, knowing that she would be alert to his desperation, but he had to take the chance. He couldn’t sit here with his career on hold.
‘Feet yes, but you only have one good foot, so no, not you. Have a good day with the phone company and the CCTV. Get back to me ASAP.’ The line went dead.
‘Bitch.’
‘So, Lorna? Give me some background on Wee Polly.’ Costello was
thinking of Baby Sholto and Little Moses and looking for any tentative connections to Polly.
‘Well, we inherited Orla Sheridan from another department. She was a troubled teen, from a stable background, the sort that give their parents sleepless nights. She said that she didn’t know she was pregnant until she was about eight months. Once the pregnancy was confirmed she was passed over to us,’ Lorna explained.
‘Eight months and she had no idea. You are joking.’
‘If she had known, she would have already applied for a new flat, all kinds of benefits. She would have gone right to the top of the list so no, I don’t think she knew she was until it was too late. She’s not the brightest.’ Lorna then added, ‘But she knows the value of a dollar. You know the type.’
‘And she could afford a brand new phone. Any idea where the money was coming from?’
‘She wasn’t a substance abuser beyond a bit of dope. And if she was a sex worker it wasn’t a regular thing. It’s what we a call a promiscuous profession that indulges in high-risk behaviours, those are the new buzz words. Covers a multitude of crap and criminality.’
‘A small player but not professional, if you like. Just cash for favours, like the government,’ Dali said shrugging, and Costello knew what she meant.
Lorna looked miserable. ‘I shouldn’t have let her walk out the room like that.’
‘What were you supposed to do, rugby-tackle her? Lorna, I once held the lift door open for the man who mugged me, so don’t worry about it. When he tried to get out the lift I sat on him so I got the last laugh.’ Dali held up a stylish pair of skinny leg jeans. ‘Size 8. They have been worn recently, pulled inside out and left here. Top of the pile.’
