by Caro Ramsay
‘Hardly, judging by the way MacKellar is acting. Surely he’d be told first.’
‘You’d think so.’
Anderson didn’t even want to think about it. He could hardly dare to hope.
Instead, he reached for the original CCTV still. He sat back and examined the lower half of the picture. T-shirt, an expanse of flat stomach, low-slung jeans, and a set of keys clipped to the belt. The iPod was in the boy’s front pocket, his left hand slightly covering it. The right hand had reached round to steady the rucksack.
‘Wyngate? Can you get a close-up of those keys? Make that image a bit clearer? They might match the keys we have for the flats.’ Wyngate’s fingers ceased their rapid tapping over the keyboard, clicked on the mouse, dragged, then another click, and an image of the key ring almost filled the screen. A curtain of pixel activity descended the screen, as if cleaning it from top to bottom, leaving a crystal-clear image behind.
‘Sometimes, Wyngate, I understand why you were put on this planet,’ said Anderson, giving his constable a pat on the back. He leaned over Wyngate’s shoulder, looking at the screen. ‘Now what is that, there?’ he asked carefully. ‘Mulholland, come over here. Can you make out what that is, hanging from his belt? It looks like a knife, one of those pointy things martial arts people use, those things they throw about in kung fu.’
‘The thing that looks like a can opener? It’s a key ring for the BMW Z3, in the shape of a Z,’ Mulholland said loftily.
‘And so we have him: the cute guy, the Bridge Boy, the pretty one and the arsonist?’ Anderson peered at the image. ‘But who the hell is he?’
7.45 P.M.
Anderson was sitting in the garden, having enjoyed a rare picnic of fajitas and salad with Brenda and the kids. He was now sipping a beer and looking at the sky, wondering when the weather would break and trying to gather his thoughts on what had been a long, hot and eventful day. DCI Niven MacKellar had some kind of hold over his career, and there was no trust between them – none at all. He wondered if the River Girl being Russian made MacKellar think she could be a stepping stone to a squad like LOCUST. Even in death that wee lassie was being used, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was glad that his ruminations on the day were constantly interrupted by Nesbitt dropping a stinky half-chewed tennis ball into his lap, waiting for it to be thrown so he could scamper down the lawn on his three matching legs and the other one, skid past the ball and then return, good ear up, bad ear down, with his prize. Then he would drop the slaver-wet ball, ready for the game to start again. He was starting to wear out the lawn.
‘Are you worried about it, this Fairbairn thing?’ Brenda asked, turning over the page in the newspaper she was reading. Her voice was low so that Peter and Claire, each sitting on the grass with a Nintendo DS, didn’t hear.
‘Not worried as in I did something wrong and I’ll get found out.’
‘But you are worried about it, Colin? What could they do to you?’
‘Well, nothing that the federation wouldn’t fight, but it would be a question mark over my career. The end of any hopes of promotion, I suppose.’ He rubbed the back of her hand, ‘But no need to worry until we have something to worry about, eh?’
‘How long will it be hanging over us?’
‘More than a year.’
Brenda frowned. ‘So, why do you think this Howlett wants to see you tomorrow?’
‘I don’t know.’ He thought about it. ‘But Costello came back to work today.’
‘Did she? I thought she wasn’t fit.’
‘She’s not. She’s signed off to be operationally fit but she’s been given an “observational role” I suppose you’d call it. She’ll be good at that. She’s very nosey. She was a bit reckless, though.’
‘No change there, then.’
‘Maybe I’ve just forgotten what she was like.’
Brenda licked her finger with the tip of her tongue and flicked another page over. ‘Colin, you really didn’t do anything to get that guy off the streets, did you? I mean, with the best of intentions.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ he answered quietly.
‘Did McAlpine? Could he have done something that will get pinned on you?’
Anderson was searching for an answer that sounded honest and was glad when his phone rang.
8.20 P.M.
Melinda Biggart was floating face down in the swimming pool, blonde hair undulating gently. As soon as the cloud of red around her dissipated, a movement in the water produced another release of stronger red. Her arms were tied behind her back, the red-taloned nails pointing upwards like a sea anemone, the fingers blue and wrinkled. Around the wrists was a white plastic tie, which cut deep into the flesh.
‘I think we can drop the theory that she was hell-bent on taking over Biggart’s empire,’ Anderson said, not looking. ‘I mean, she clearly didn’t drown. Who found her?’
‘The guy on the gate called it in,’ O’Hare answered. ‘He said you were here talking to him earlier. He just wanted to check she was OK before the end of his shift. He says he didn’t see anything or let anybody through the gate, but provisionally I’d say whoever killed her was here within minutes of you two leaving. She was actually killed in the kitchen, but you don’t want to go in there – it looks like a bloodbath.’
‘OK, do you want to pull her to the side, get her out?’ Six hours – it had been barely six hours since he and Lambie had visited her, but now the tranquil pool area with the mosaic tiles resembled a scene from a Hammer Horror film.
How had her killer gained access to the house? For the second time, Anderson cast his eyes around the neighbouring houses, the walled garden. If James on the gate had not let anybody through, that meant somebody had found another way in. The back of the house wasn’t overlooked, so it would have been an easy kill. A SOCO was skimming the garden wall with a gloved hand, assessing whether it might yield any interesting samples. But Anderson knew he was unlikely to find anything. These people were good. Professional. Quick in, quick out, like the SAS. He shivered. Organized crime again: teamwork, quick, efficient, planned.
Melinda was being gently lifted in a cradle from the pool on to a plastic sheet. O’Hare turned her over carefully; as he did so, the body opened up like an accordion, the ribs spreading freely and the massive breasts lolling grotesquely. Melinda’s eyes, black-ringed like a panda’s, gazed unseeing at the sun, her make-up and lipstick smeared into an obscene mask. Her heart and lungs, drained of blood, were a soft grey-pink colour.
‘Sweet suffering Christ!’ Anderson was appalled. ‘What’s been done to her?’
O’Hare’s face remained impassive as he probed the ribcage with a gloved finger. ‘It’s been skilfully done,’ he said reflectively. ‘Do you see how she was cut open with one very assured stroke? Then her killer, or killers, disarticulated the costochondral joints the length of the sternum, right up to the manubrium. Even the xyphoid process –’
‘In words I can understand, Prof!’ Anderson was trying to look anywhere but at the horror that had been Melinda Biggart.
‘Sorry, Colin. Her ribs have been neatly snapped away from the breastbone. They did it carefully; none of the ribs has actually been broken. Contrary to what most people imagine, the ribs and the breastbone are not a single unit of bone. Everything’s connected by cartilage. And it doesn’t just involve skill. Human cartilage is tough stuff; this would have taken considerable strength as well as manual dexterity.’
‘Would you say they’d done it before?’
‘Undoubtedly. And often,’ the pathologist said gravely. ‘This would have taken plenty of practice to perfect.’
‘And …’ Anderson could hardly bring himself to ask the question, not wanting to hear the answer. ‘Do you think she was … ?’
‘Alive? Judging by the amount of blood in the kitchen, I fear so,’ said O’Hare, deep in thought. ‘But I doubt for very long.’ He paused. ‘Colin, leave it with me but it reminds me of something. I’ll phone you, just leave it to
me.’
‘Thanks.’ Anderson made his way carefully round the poolside, his hand covering his mouth, his feet slipping inside the shoe covers. He walked through the huge conservatory into the state-of-the-art kitchen. The black marble worktops and white floor were indeed thickly spattered with blood. He said hello to a uniformed constable who was watching the photographer.
‘Handbag?’ asked Anderson.
‘Over there,’ said a SOCO. ‘I’ve got the phone already. But the place has already been searched, by somebody other than us. Purse is still here.’
‘Any idea what’s missing?’
‘Nothing, as far as I can see. There’s a safe upstairs, untouched.’
‘Keep me posted.’ Anderson pulled on gloves and opened the handbag. He took out the purse, and flicked through an astonishing quantity of gold credit cards. He looked swiftly through a diary with a few appointments scribbled in large handwriting, and finally fished out an electronic personal organizer. He looked at it vaguely, and the SOCO pointed, showing him how to switch it on. It requested a password.
‘How long to crack a password on these things?’ he asked.
‘Five minutes. Try her name, his name, mother’s maiden name, pet’s name.’
Anderson typed in a few variations, the screen lighting up when he tapped in MELONS. It flashed on to a picture of a handsome young man, leaning on the bonnet of a BMW Z3. Anderson noticed a small stud earring halfway up his left ear.
‘Hello, pretty boy,’ he said.
9.30 P.M.
‘Do you know why I wanted to see you?’ asked DCI MacKellar, his heavy gold bracelet rattling as he sat down at his very tidy desk.
‘I’m more concerned about the timing of it, sir. It’s getting late, I’ve been run ragged in the last forty-eight hours,’ Anderson said smoothly. ‘I think my time could have been better spent at the scene.’
DCI MacKellar took no notice. ‘Any progress with Biggart?’
Anderson was careful in his response. ‘I’ve just got an email from O’Hare. We asked him to have a look at Biggart’s skin. As well as an indistinct tattoo on the biceps, he found a thickening of the skin round his ankles and wrists, indicating mild restraint over a period of years. It’s already been suggested that it’s not difficult to tie somebody up if they are into bondage where there is a degree of trust. The Bridge Boy showed signs of a consensual homosexual relationship, so maybe those two things are linked.’
‘Bridge boy and Biggart?’ MacKellar shrugged, unimpressed. ‘There were loads of rumours that Biggart swung both ways. The Bridge Boy – you made any headway with him?’
‘It’s all in my report. We’re close to getting an ID.’ Anderson was aware that he was holding back, and couldn’t quite identify the reason why. But he went with his instinct, sure that none of his boys would talk without telling him. ‘We have a good likeness of him, and an appeal is going out tomorrow.’
‘Good, good. Another thing …’ MacKellar’s voice was a little softer. ‘I didn’t realize how close you and McAlpine were when Fairbairn was first arrested.’
Anderson gave no response to the non-question.
‘Strange that those statements in particular, the ones from Hugh McAdam and Lenny Wood, were overlooked on the file. They give him an alibi for the time Lynda Osbourne was assaulted.’
‘Not really, sir. As I recall, it just altered the timeline a little.’
‘But apparently none of you noticed that this evidence was not put in front of the fiscal. It won’t be long until somebody establishes where it went and who should have noticed.’
‘It’s bloody easy with hindsight. Sir, you know how much paperwork a case like that generates,’ Anderson answered. ‘But the bottom line is that Fairbairn’s a paedophile, end of.’ He shrugged. ‘Is that not what’s important?’
‘In the eyes of the law, he’s an innocent man.’
‘Are you not concerned there’s a paedophile walking about out there, free, unmonitored? Not on any register?’
‘No, that’s not my concern.’
‘Maybe it should be,’ snapped Anderson.
‘He’s always claimed he was innocent.’
‘Of course he would. Maybe he got his friends to alibi him.’
‘And maybe your experience has altered your perception of the case. Mr Fairbairn was well liked by the passengers on the school run, don’t forget.’
‘Typical behaviour. They like to get children to trust them.’
‘And he requested to be taken off his bus run immediately the allegations were made. And now he has a swanky new defence team who have gone straight down the non-disclosure route. It’s not a question of new evidence, it’s a point of law, and there is nothing we can do about it.’
Anderson remained silent.
‘I’ve seen his statement,’ MacKellar went on. ‘Fairbairn states clearly that DCI McAlpine, the senior investigating officer, hated him and made no secret of it.’
Anderson noted that there must have been a meeting about Fairbairn somewhere up on Mount Olympus, but he just shook his head. ‘That’s not fair; we all hated him.’
‘McAlpine was desperate to put him away.’
‘We all were. Fairbairn’s a kiddie-fiddler.’
MacKellar sighed with impatience. ‘Not in the eyes of the law, DI Anderson. And the record makes McAlpine look like an overzealous officer suffering from bad judgement. Did McAlpine tamper with evidence? Did he “lose” that file?’
‘DCI McAlpine wasn’t that kind of cop,’ answered Anderson with a bland smile. ‘Mistakes happen.’ He stood up. ‘Can I go now, sir? It’s just that it’s late and I’ve had a bit of a busy day.’
9.50 P.M.
Rosie was getting panicky. Another day had passed; she knew that from the fading of the light that was filtering through from the kitchen. Soon she would be in darkness. Her water was nearly finished, and she was rationing it to a mouthful at a time. Her chocolate had been finished long ago. She didn’t know how long she could survive.
She had no way of getting in touch with the outside world. Nobody else knew where Wullie lived. They might miss him in the village, might start asking questions, but what would they think? That he had gone for a few days’ holiday? That he’d gone into hospital? The post office would just hold on to his mail as they always did. Cars would pass on the road half a mile to the north and have no idea there was a cottage lying deep in the woods. Her only hope was to try to get out of bed, to try to reach the mobile phone. She had no idea where she would get a signal; Wullie was always cursing about it. But she hadn’t been out of her bed for years, and her bones had thinned down to spindles as her body mass increased. She hadn’t seen a doctor in all that time, but she knew. The skin on her right side was starting to fester, the infection slowly eating its way into her skin. That was what would kill her.
Occasionally, during the day – the last days, she couldn’t really recall – she woke up hungry and thirsty and simply went back to sleep, as if her brain was searching for a quiet way out. And in those moments, when she thought she was lucid, she thought she could remember things, dreams and daydreams and nightmares all becoming one. She had thought she was eating toasted cheese and crisps and cheesecake, drinking Coke. She woke up hungry and thirsty. She had thought she could smell cigarette smoke but woke up to find the air foetid with her own stink. She had thought Wullie had come back, but she woke up alone.
She thought she had no water left, but the jug was full again; she could see the top of the water through the glass, clear fresh water. And she drank from it. Then it was empty and she knew she had been dreaming.
For the first time since her wedding day, Rosie MacFadyean started to cry.
10.30 P.M.
It was a couple of months after Auld Archie arrived at St Boswell’s Care Home that the whispers began to filter down, just a rumour at first that grew to fact, and was talked about with such certainty that Matron was forced to call a meeting to put the staff straight. Yes,
Auld Archie was one of the O’Donnells, one of the biggest gang families in Glasgow. But it would be wrong, Matron emphasized, for them, as professionals, to adopt anything other than a professional attitude. He was to be treated no differently from any of the other residents. He was just a tragic old man now, with no friends, no family. He had seen two of his sons shot dead in front of him, and his only surviving son, Wee Archie, would still be in jail when Auld Archie died; he wasn’t even allowed out to visit his father on compassionate grounds. There were no grandchildren to drop in for a visit.
He didn’t get on with any of the staff, apart from that wee part-time boy on his gap year – and handsome and helpful though the boy was, he hadn’t been round for a while and he hadn’t even bothered to give in his notice; he’d just not turned up for work. Matron agreed that the young man had made Auld Archie’s moods more stable, and that now he was a nightmare. But they were professionals, she repeated. So, they were to treat Auld Archie just like anybody else, no matter who he was. Or who he had been.
The staff listened, arms folded, chewing gum, desperate to get out and have a fag. Their attitude did not change at first, but as time went on information researched on the Internet started to filter down. Auld Archie’s past life read like a Hollywood film script, full of prostitutes and shootings, arson and protection rackets. He had had a reputation for being fearless, and there were reports of him being shot twice. The next time Ella, his reluctant but designated care worker was giving him a shower, she had a closer look and saw the ugly scars among the folds of liver-spotted skin.
And then the staff’s attitude changed again. They became scared. Agnes and Ella summed it up over a quiet mid-morning cup of tea. There they both were, wiping the backside of one of the most feared men in Glasgow. But it wasn’t who he had been that was scary, it was who he was now. ‘The way he looks at you,’ they whispered. ‘Like a mad dog. Nothing behind those eyes.’
