The Blood of Crows

by Caro Ramsay

  ‘And only went to see Mum when he had run out of clean clothes.’ Matilda wrinkled her small nose. ‘He’s a good-looking lad. But I need you to look at this.’ She put an old photo of a room in the Marchettis’ house in front of him. ‘Do you see that, there?’ She pointed to the blood spatter on the floor. ‘Somebody was bleeding as they were dragged towards the front door. The blood didn’t belong to any of the family, so the police presumed it was Tito Piacini’s. It was mixed with saliva, as if he’d been punched in the face. They thought he was injured defending himself.’

  ‘Logical thought. But why take him?’ asked Anderson, fingers drumming on the table. ‘Why not just leave him?’

  ‘So they could kill him elsewhere?’

  ‘Why not kill him there and then and save the bother of transporting him?’

  ‘Panic?’

  ‘If they’d panicked, they’d have been more likely to kill him immediately.’

  ‘Maybe they did, and took the body because it had something on it that could ID them.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Can’t think of anything right now, but there must be a reason. Anyway, the blood was only tested to determine blood type, for exclusion purposes. There was no DNA profile done; in those days it was so expensive they only did it when there was something to compare it to.’ She pulled out a lab report on a single A5 sheet. ‘See, the blood was AB. That proved it wasn’t any of the Marchettis – the family are all O, the universal donor.’

  ‘OK, so why are we spending money on doing a DNA profile now?’

  ‘Because you have no other leads to follow.’ When she smiled, she looked about twelve. ‘And it’s so much cheaper nowadays.’

  ‘And what do you think that’s going to tell us? He’s been listed as a missing person since the evening of the 8th of October 1996.’

  Anderson saw the twinkle in her eye. ‘But Eric Moffat was in charge, and maybe that DNA would have taken him somewhere he didn’t want to go,’ she said.

  ‘Or didn’t want anyone else to go, more like. OK, McQueen, permission to get started.’

  Matilda beamed. Her enthusiasm was irrepressible.

  As she slipped out of the door, Anderson muttered, ‘And for an encore you can get me God’s phone number. I could do with his help right now.’

  1.30 P.M.

  Costello had spent most of the journey in the taxi feeling guilty. A ten-minute conversation with Batten had provoked in her emotions of sadness and annoyance at her own prejudice. Drew Elphinstone was not well. He was a young man growing up without any parental help in a world he saw as persecuting him. Just imagine, Batten had said, when the thing that scares you most is inside your own head. You never get away from it. Costello could not think how frightening that must be. His parents provided for him well, but how could they not admit there was a problem? Rhona had said that the school had told them often enough. He was ill.

  Based on Costello’s short observation, Batten had thought it sounded like the onset of schizophrenia. Drew was ill, and he was alone in his illness. Batten explained that the boy had an inability to distinguish between what was real and unreal. He would stop relating to others, and he would become increasingly paranoid and act in bizarre ways. He asked Costello to find evidence of Drew’s paranoia, such as signs that he was preparing to defend himself from attack. Armed with that evidence, he would convince Drew’s parents to get him the help he needed. If they refused, at least Batten had evidence to take it further.

  Costello had thought about talking to the boy’s classmates, Rhona, his teachers and Mr Ellis. She remembered hearing Libby shout what might have been Drew’s name, when she was in the forest. She had injured herself in the trap and had called somebody ‘fucking maddie’.

  So, Libby Hamilton was a good place to start.

  Costello was now watching her. The girl was sitting on the wooden bridge, feet dangling over the water, her cigarette smoke curling into the still, warm air. She was totally in a world of her own. She didn’t move or look up, yet she was obviously aware of Costello’s approach. The long echoing corridors of the school had given this lot a sixth sense about approaching authority.

  ‘Fascinating, are they, your toes? They’re the only thing you’ve been looking at for the last ten minutes.’

  Libby wriggled her toes; her black flip-flops were lying on the wooden decking of the bridge. ‘I think they’re a work of art, feet.’ She looked up at Costello through her dark heavy fringe, her eyes squinting into the sun.

  ‘How is the injury?’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine. Stuck some antiseptic on it, didn’t go near Matron – she’s a sociopath. Have a seat, have a look at the view for yourself.’

  Costello sat down beside her, and dangled her feet above the water. Suddenly she felt hot and sweaty, and wanted to pull her shoes off and dunk her feet in the cold stream. ‘I love this view,’ Libby said. ‘It’s the only good thing about the whole bloody place. Look, from here you can see right down the glen, and the trees cover all that military stuff. It’s perfect, the way it’s supposed to be. And it’s beautiful in every season. You should see it in the middle of winter, when the river’s frozen and the grass is white. The deer come down for the grazing, and all those trees –’ she waved her arm ‘– change into white cobwebs that merge together to make a sort of enchanted forest. It’s spectacular.’

  Despite herself, Costello shivered. Libby had a way with words that was just a little too descriptive for her just yet. She had had enough icy water and snow to last her a lifetime. ‘Do you know who was doing it? Making those traps?’

  ‘I can guess.’

  ‘Want to tell me?’

  ‘Drew, probably. He’s always doing things like that. He was damming up the river with his bare hands last week because it was circling the school and going to make us all invisible. But don’t say anything – he’s a loony, but he’s harmless,’ she said, watching a cloud of midges rolling their way up the burn.

  ‘Has anybody tried to help him? He does need help, Libby.’

  ‘He needs a dad who actually cares. He needs a mum who doesn’t have such a busy schedule. I know from Pettigrew that Ellis has tried. Good that you are here. Wouldn’t want him being arrested for being ill.’ Libby suddenly changed the subject. ‘It’s an unusual thing up here, a forest like that, full of oak and elm. The Forestry Commission chopped them all down before the days of biodiversity enlightenment, and replaced them with pine – pine planted in rows with military precision. All the same height, all the same width, depriving anything underneath of light and nutrition. In these enlightened days, they allow the land to lie after felling. They encourage the black and red grouse to nest, and catch the crows to feed to the eagles. The native Scottish birds are falling in numbers, they need their habitat back.’ She nodded to herself, pleased, and drew hard on her cigarette.

  Costello and Libby sat in silence for a while, listening to the chattering and bubbling of the burn. The water level was low, and the water seemed to tickle the small stones on the bed of the burn. An azure flutter appeared for an instant, a streak of brilliant silk, and then was gone.

  ‘That was a kingfisher,’ Libby whispered. ‘You were lucky to see it.’

  It was hypnotic, Costello thought, watching the busy little life of pebbles, midges, dragonflies and kingfishers. The racket in the great hall of Glen Fruin at feeding time, the busyness of Byres Road … all seemed like something from another planet. I could die happy here, was the thought running through her head. ‘I can see why you like it here,’ was what she said. ‘Peaceful, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Kind of disconnected from real life. Don’t think that does the Drews of this world much good. I don’t imagine the three supermodels on the lawn this morning hang about here when they have free time.’

  ‘No, they get out. Saskia has a brand-new Mini convertible. Eighteenth birthday present a few weeks ago, from Daddy. Every Friday and Saturday night they’re out on the town.
Bunch of slappers,’ she said dismissively. ‘There they go now – you can tell by the inane giggling.’

  Costello turned her head to watch the Three Graces getting into a soft-top Mini. Their laughter drifted across the car park, music blared up, and the car pulled away.

  ‘Why do they even bother getting up in the morning?’ asked Libby, ‘I mean, they don’t eat, they don’t think. They just … are.’

  ‘You know them well?’

  ‘Don’t want to know them at all. There’re loads of rumours about where bloody Saskia’s family fortune comes from. Probably produced by hundreds of poor buggers stuck down a salt mine in Siberia somewhere.’

  Costello turned a little to watch Saskia, the one who had waved at her the first day she had arrived. A little hunch had told her then that Saskia knew exactly what Costello was, and she tended to believe her hunches. She shuddered as some crows briefly set up a raucous squawking somewhere downstream. She noticed Libby gazing intently at her before looking away again.

  ‘Bloody crows, do you know they follow pregnant ewes just to rip out the innards of newborn lambs?’

  ‘Nice,’ said Costello. ‘Don’t think I’ll bother with my tea, then.’

  1.45 P.M.

  Anderson was standing in front of the wall, with a marker pen. He had written the word ‘Puppeteer’ at the top of the board, and then ‘Glen Fruin’ down the side, with ‘MacFadyean’ spanning the gap. They still had no idea where he lived but the insect activity on the body, lying as it was on the forest floor, strongly suggested that MacFadyean had been killed only hours after being seen with Moffat at the funeral. Anderson didn’t ask for the precise details. The words ‘insect activity’ were enough for him. He was trying to avoid looking at the black-and-white close-up photographs of maggots that Matilda was studying so carefully. It was too soon after lunch.

  Batten handed him a coffee he hadn’t asked for. ‘Get it down you, it’ll do you good – help keep you awake.’

  ‘Are we chasing the Russian mafia here? Honestly?’

  Batten nodded, patting Anderson’s shoulder. ‘Hard people. They are tough, and the Vorony – Ekaterinburg’s finest – are the toughest. That’s who you have here.’

  ‘It’s pronounced “Voron-neigh”. Well, that’s as close as a Glasgow accent can get. Vorony, with the emphasis at the front, means “ravens”. Vorony, emphasis at the end, means “crows”. Voron-neigh plural,’ Mulholland said authoritatively. ‘A murder of crows, if you prefer.’

  ‘Voron-neigh,’ repeated Batten, rolling the word on his tounge. ‘Corvus corone, the carrion crow, is among the most intelligent of birds, highly aggressive, and with excellent communication skills. Good name for a gang of thugs, you must admit.’

  ‘And back home, they are admired. The Shirokorechenskoe is a cemetery dedicated to gangsters, with all these lavish memorials and portraits. It’s practically a shrine – the hologram pictures of dead gangsters stand up and watch you as you drive past in the tour bus. And now they are here in the flesh.’

  ‘Very nice of them to visit. So, if you two are so bloody well informed, tell me … how do they communicate with each other?’ Anderson pulled the files out of the cabinet behind him, fishing out the photographs of Biggart’s flat immediately after the fire and then the ones taken by the forensic team. ‘Think – if I wanted to get in touch with you and keep it secret and untraceable, what would I do?’

  ‘Use a code?’ Lambie offered, stretching back in his seat and yawning.

  Batten shook his head. ‘Nothing so complicated. Do you remember that gang of diamond smugglers who sent millions of pounds’ worth of diamonds through the post in those yellow boxes that slides are stored in? If I was communicating regularly, I’d make it look ordinary, something to be expected, not noticed. I mean, how often do we look closely at a cardboard package with the word “Amazon” on it? We don’t.’

  ‘OK, is there anything – anything at all – in these shots that could be used as a means of communication? Howlett has already said, no mobile, no computer. Snail mail?’

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, peering minutely at every inch of the photographs.

  ‘Can you pass me that close-up?’ Anderson asked. He looked at it intently, then made a noise a bit like a low growl. ‘There you go. What do you see on the floor, on the carpet by the side of the chair?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Wyngate.

  ‘Well, no table, which is what you’d expect to be there. But through the soot and the stains of water, you can see four distinct round indents in the carpet where the table legs were. And in this one, there’s a table of the right size out in the hall. It’s been moved. Someone carefully put it where the fire wouldn’t damage it, but where the fire investigator would find it.’

  ‘And look what’s on it.’ Batten tapped the photograph with the corner of another. On top of the table was a mobile phone, and neatly under the phone were two DVD holders shaped like pillar boxes. In the black-and-white photograph they looked grey, with darker grey tops. ‘PillarBoxFlix.com? Haven’t they been mentioned before? If they’re communicating using DVDs, there’d be a legitimate rental company by way of a front. And PillarBoxFlix are legit, aren’t they?’

  Wyngate was tapping away at his computer. ‘Here’s the address of PillarBoxFlix, at the Phoenix in Paisley. Factory unit is owned by Red Eagle Properties.’ Another rattle of fingertips on keyboard and the screen changed. ‘Which is, in turn, owned by PSM.’ He swung round in his chair, circling his finger at the wall. ‘Red Eagle also own the flats at the Apollo.’

  ‘OK, Vik, you go out to the warehouse at Paisley tomorrow and have a look around. Wyngate, can you find the actual DVDs taken from Biggart’s flat, and check that they’re what they say they are?’

  ‘And that mobile phone has been put neatly on top of the DVDs,’ Batten said. ‘That was left for us to find as well. I’d put my bottom dollar on it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The arsonist didn’t make any other mistakes, did they?’

  ‘The other mobile phones found in the room were burned to cinders,’ said Matilda, placing the photographs neatly in a pile. ‘But I already have a printout of the activity on that phone. It’s normal procedure now.’ She shuffled through her folder. ‘Here … look at this.’ She handed it to Anderson. ‘That’s the SIM on that phone. Only two people were on it. Biggart and A. N. Unknown, who declined to identify himself when he answered. But it’s a pay-as-you-go, one of three purchased in Glasgow by credit card on an expense account belonging to Biggart’s lawyer, Faulkner, the week before Fairbairn got out. Faulkner says he gave the phones to a Robert McGee, a Gavin McCready and to one fine gentleman of the parish called Cameron Fairbairn, known to his friends as Skelpie.’

  ‘God, that was quick,’ said Anderson, really impressed.

  ‘Not really – it’s a card number we all know by heart. Most criminal lawyers deal in phones and phone cards now that fags are banned. And even criminal lawyers need forensic friends sometimes, so I called in a favour.’ She shrugged.

  ‘Good work, Matilda.’ Then Anderson asked Lambie, ‘What’s the update on Gaynor Spence?’

  Lambie said, ‘She’s OK. She’s a single mother and the boy has no idea who his father is. And she wants to keep it that way. However, she has a nice house in Milngavie. She drives a big Mercedes. Holiday villa in Spain. I don’t see a single mum managing that on a GP’s salary.’

  ‘So, you think the dad has been helping out? Somebody rich but married? Is that why she’s so secretive?’

  ‘I’m wondering if the dad knows about the state Richard is in,’ Lambie said.

  ‘That’s not really our business.’

  ‘It might be, if the boy needs a bit of a liver from somewhere. In his case a live donation is preferable, so the first stop is the parents – them being the best probable match. She’s being tissue typed at the moment, to see if she’s a suitable donor. A better question is, where did Richie go to school?’

&nbs
p; ‘Don’t tell me.’

  ‘Glen Fruin. He was head boy last year. Probably got really good marks in the chemistry of combustion.’

  2.00 P.M.

  ‘So, where is home, then?’

  ‘Where’s yours?’ Libby didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I’m with Paul Young on that one. Home is wherever I lay my hat.’

  Costello had an image of Libby sitting on her bridge like a garden gnome with a fishing rod, dangling information in front of her. But she was not going to bite, not yet.

  ‘And where do you go to escape?’

  ‘Some friends. Some family.’

  ‘Family?’ It was Costello who was fishing this time.

  ‘Not close, but family is family. I think myself lucky. Look at Drew. And there’s a girl in Third Year – her mum’s in Edinburgh with a boob job and a drink problem, and her dad’s in New York with the nanny. The poor kid gets passed around all over the place in the school holidays, and the rumour is she hasn’t seen either parent for over a year, and I don’t think she’s noticed. This school is a dumping ground for career parents who saw kids as a must-have accessory and got bored with them. It’s the way of the world. Even in the state system, they have breakfast clubs, after-school clubs, weekend clubs. Parents fuck you up.’

  Costello pondered the truth of the statement.

  ‘And they’re a clever lot, our school board. They saw that the gap in the market is the holidays. This school takes being in loco parentis very seriously, so it never closes.’

  ‘Does that bother you?’ Costello didn’t need to ask where Libby spent her holidays.

  ‘Don’t give a shit one way or the other. I’m not a stupid sixteen-year-old whose only chance of getting a flat is a quick shag to get pregnant. What’s with all the questions?’