The Blood of Crows

by Caro Ramsay

  Costello thought for a minute. ‘Someone must have found out he burned Biggart. Do you think the O’Donnells are fighting back?’

  ‘But all that was years ago.’

  ‘But it kind of fits. Apart from the fact that old O’Donnell is gaga in a care home and his son is serving life for decapitation.’

  ‘It was always rumoured he decapitated the guy who killed that woman in the car park; I’d buy him a drink if I ever met him.’

  ‘And Moffat was there too, wasn’t he? That’s another bit of the jigsaw.’

  Anderson yawned. ‘I’m off home to catch up on some of the sleep I haven’t been having recently,’ he said.

  Costello thought about telling him about the Transit, but reconsidered – better to wait until they had a positive ID.

  ‘Look after yourself out there,’ he said.

  ‘I will.’ She closed the phone but kept it to her ear. Anybody watching would think she was still having a conversation. She looked at the Transit, noting that it had a sliding side door.

  Costello shut her eyes, trying to remember the photograph of the MacFadyean scene, the image of the tyre print. A ‘cross-shaped insult’, Matilda had called it. She couldn’t recall which tyre. She was just wondering if she dared approach it and look herself when she saw Pettigrew stroll from his car over to the van, cigarette between thumb and forefinger, just a bloke having a fag in the car park on a warm summer night while his pint was lying inside in the bar. She saw him very casually looking at the Transit van, looking at the tyres, looking specifically at the front off side. Costello watched him closely as he then sauntered around, seemingly not looking anywhere in particular, but she knew he was scanning the back of the hotel, the doors, the windows, the fire exits. His eyes were wary and his face unreadable, but his right forefinger was tapping nervously at the cigarette. And he had put on a jacket. Costello noticed the slight bulge where the gun was.

  Costello dropped her phone down by her side, suddenly feeling out of her depth. Her mind chased some thoughts about James Pettigrew – where his expertise came from, and what kind of ‘security’ work he actually did.

  He glanced up as he walked back to his car and signalled, a slight thumbs-up so subtle that she doubted anyone else had seen it. Then a casual flick of the head towards the side wall.

  Costello saw a tap, with a coiled hose attached. Handy.

  He knew exactly what he was doing and what he was looking for.

  Had he been a soldier at one time? He was in that age range where men who came out of the army often joined the police force or the fire brigade.

  And he had a gun.

  She jumped as her phone went; it was Pettigrew.

  ‘It’s a match. Get your forensics team down here. You might want to find out who exactly owns this hotel.’ He rang off and continued his walk.

  This time, Costello walked round the back of the van, appearing to check her texts in the light from the hotel bar window, then sauntered to the front again. She photographed the cut on the front right-hand tyre with her mobile, without appearing to do so, and sent it to Matilda. And she realized she could smell blood – not fresh blood, but the sickening sweetness of old blood. So, she texted Matilda and told her to get a move on. She then phoned the lecture room. Wyngate answered, and two minutes later she had her answer to her question. The hotel was owned by Red Eagle Properties.

  ‘The company that owns the flats where Biggart was found,’ Wyngate explained when she went silent. ‘All the flats on the ground floor except Janet Appleby’s. In turn, Red Eagle is owned by PSM, a bigger property company. And PSM rents the industrial unit from which PillarBoxFlix operates.’

  ‘And what does PSM stand for? Pimp Somebody’s Mother?’

  She heard the click of a keyboard.

  ‘Pavel Sergeievich Moro–’

  ‘Morosova,’ Costello said.

  ‘No, Morosov.’

  ‘Same friggin’ difference,’ said Costello and slammed the phone shut. She was calling up Anderson’s number when Pettigrew marched over to her and grabbed her elbow.

  ‘Get in the car. Howlett just called,’ he said out of the side of his mouth. ‘Something’s happened.’

  11.30 P.M.

  Anderson felt completely helpless. There was nothing he could do or say. Words meant nothing. He sat with his arm round Jennifer Corbett, who was sobbing, tears pouring down her face.

  He wished Costello was here, to make the tea and do practical things, and he tried not to look at the Congratulations On Your Engagement cards on the mantelpiece.

  Jennifer straightened up slightly. ‘He was on the phone to me just a few minutes before. Maybe, if I’d answered, it wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘It would have made no difference,’ Anderson assured her. ‘Some boys in the car park called 999 straight away. The paramedics say that he was dead before he hit the ground. He didn’t suffer, Jennifer. It was quick, very quick, and painless.’ He knew he wasn’t helping but it was all he could say.

  ‘Does Dad know?’

  ‘Yes, I already called him. He’s on his way. I’ll stay till he gets here.’

  Jennifer wiped her tears with the cuff of her jumper. ‘That’s kind of you. But I’d rather you went back to being a police officer. I’ll be all right on my own. After all, I have a lot of things to see to. I have a wedding to cancel. And I have a funeral to arrange.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can help you with all that?’ Anderson felt bloody hopeless. He had no idea what to say. Costello would have known.

  Jennifer smiled crookedly through her tears. ‘Just Dad, who’ll take over and try to make it all go away, as he always does. When Emily was alive, there was no time for friends, there was always just David. We’d been friends since we were kids, you know. Childhood sweethearts. He made me a Valentine’s card when he was in Year Seven. He wanted to take me to the school dance and Dad wouldn’t let me go with him because his mum cleaned for us.’ She blew her nose loudly. ‘Do you know, I can’t remember the last thing I said to him.’ She looked blankly into space.

  ‘It’ll come back to you.’

  She leapt up, panicky. ‘I’ve left his dinner in the oven!’

  ‘I’ll get it.’ He stood up, his hand on her shoulder.

  She looked up at Anderson. ‘Why was he killed? I mean, why him? What was he doing?’

  ‘He was just walking down the street, Jennifer. That’s all I know. I am so, so sorry.’

  At that point, she collapsed into his arms and started to sob her heart out.

  Saturday

  3 July 2010

  1.30 A.M.

  Anderson stood in the shadow of the great beech hedge outside the Corbett family home, breathing in the warm night air and the scent of wild garlic. The street was quiet; everybody else was getting a good night’s sleep, unaware that yet another tragedy had struck the family in the big house at the end of the drive. A car pulled up violently, and Jennifer’s father, Donald Corbett, got out and rushed into the house – either ignoring Anderson or, in his haste, failing to see him.

  His phone went, and he cursed. Could they never give him a break? He looked at the number, registering that he knew it and that it wasn’t work. Not many people would call him at this hour from a 334 phone number – a West End number. It had to be something to do with Lambie.

  He opened the phone, and a voice said, ‘Hello? Colin?’

  It took a moment for him to work out who it was. He was glad it wasn’t Brenda. If it had been, this would be the ‘sorry about your friend’ phone call – the ‘that’s why you have to leave the job’ speech would come later.

  This was somebody who was concerned. Concerned for him.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Colin. I’ve just heard; Donald just called me. How are you?’

  ‘Oh, hello, Helena. It’s all … it’s … very difficult.’ He felt his voice break. Another car pulled up, and he turned to face the hedge, aware that tears were now running down his face.

  ‘I
didn’t want to phone Jennifer, but when the time is right, tell me and I’ll call her.’ She didn’t need to add, ‘I know what it’s like; I’ve been there.’

  ‘Her dad’s just arrived.’ He rubbed the fatigue from his eyes. ‘Helena?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He couldn’t say it.

  But she did. ‘You’re only two streets away. Why don’t you come round?’

  He closed the call. A text had appeared. It was from Brenda. When will you be home? How are you feeling? Not her fault; nobody had told her. But he didn’t want to.

  Not now.

  1.45 A.M.

  How had he got here? He didn’t recall getting in his car, or driving the short distance to Helena’s house.

  He parked at the bottom of the terrace and took his time over the long walk up. His brain knew that this thing had happened, but the rest of him – heart, mind, body – was deciding to be numb to the idea that Lambie was gone, gone for good, one small blade between the ribs all it took to end his life. Jennifer would not be his wife, his children would not be born, and he would never grow into the good detective he was planning to be. Such a waste. Such a waste, by such scum! And nobody yet knew why.

  Anderson couldn’t really come to terms with any of it. That night when they had tried to save the wee girl on the ladder in the river, Lambie hadn’t hesitated to jump straight into the filthy freezing Clyde. He’d been there for his boss. But who had been there for him? He couldn’t even bear to think what Brenda would say. If Lambie could get stabbed and killed, any of them could. He looked round behind him, checking whether somebody was following him. Too tired to think, he walked on, the heavy warmth of the night air making his breathing labour a little on the upward slope.

  Maybe Brenda was right. Maybe they should get away from all this to pastures new. Life was a fragile gift that could be taken away in a second, with no warning. He remembered the horror of the previous night – was it only the previous night? – and Moffat’s head exploding right in front of him. No matter how vehemently Howlett insisted, he himself had certainly been in danger. But somebody – capable of two kills with two bullets, with a high-powered weapon – had come to his rescue. Somebody who had run away through the trees. MacFadyean was hit by a car, Carruthers thrown from a high window. A slim blade had ended Lambie’s life. Howlett had been very deliberate in the lecture room in ensuring Costello knew she could count on Pettigrew. Did that mean he thought Costello was in some danger? Then there was Howlett’s insistence that the whiteboard should show where they were every time they left the station.

  His pace quickened as he walked up the pavement of the high terrace. At Helena McAlpine’s house, he knew, there would be a big sofa, hot coffee and fresh toast; it was that kind of house. He thought about the dead, about Billy and Melinda Biggart, about Tommy Carruthers and Wullie MacFadyean. He thought about Rusalka. And he thought – how could he not? – about David Lambie. His sergeant. His friend. How close had he himself been to joining them all in death?

  He jumped as a crow swooped down from a tree on to the fence ahead of him and perched there, glaring evilly at him. Then a second came down, hopping sideways along the fence to join its mate.

  The first wee craw was greetin’ fer its maw.

  The children’s song came into his head and wouldn’t leave. The first wee craw? That was poor little Rusalka, whose last frightened whisper had been ‘Mamochka’.

  The second wee craw fell and broke its jaw.

  Tommy Carruthers?

  The third wee craw couldn’t flee awa’.

  A nightmare vision composed of Melinda Biggart, a woman who had been butchered, her arms pulled out like wings, but no chance of flight.

  And the fourth wee craw – the one who wisnae there at a’?

  That was Wullie MacFadyean – a shadow of a man who everybody knew, but nobody knew anything about for sure. Or was it the Puppeteer, Kukolnyik, the evil controlling bastard at the very heart of his web of cruelty and corruption?

  Woozy with fatigue and grief, Anderson almost fell over his own feet, and stopped walking. Christ, he was no good to anybody like this! He looked up and realized he was at Helena’s house. He heard the doorbell resonate all through the house, and the sound of feet coming to answer it, soft slippers on a tiled floor. Then the door opened, and there she was.

  She didn’t smile. She didn’t say anything. She just held her arms out to him.

  And he started to cry.

  5.30 A.M.

  It was five thirty in the morning, and the early sun was glinting diamonds off the tarmac. Anderson could tell from the number of cars round the front door of their little lecture theatre that the room was already busy.

  He felt he had no idea what he was doing. He had no idea what he was doing here, with the case, with his life.

  He had been unfaithful to Brenda. Full stop. There had always been that unspoken desire between him and Helena, but it should never have happened. It certainly should not have happened the way it had.

  But last night he had been so alone, so bereft – at the lowest point in his life that he could remember – and Helena had opened her arms to him. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world. And he couldn’t bring himself to regret a moment of it.

  He had slid out of her bed and had a shower in the big bathroom on the half landing. Helena was still asleep when he laid the handwritten note on the pillow beside the auburn curls of her hair. She had not stirred when he let himself out of the front door. What he had said in the note was true. He loved her. And he thought he should say it, as if she hadn’t known for the last ten years. He could fool himself that the rest of the world knew nothing about it and never would. But he was not a good enough liar to keep something like this a secret.

  Brenda would find out, sooner or later.

  And then there was Costello – she would know the moment she laid eyes on him.

  He thought about going to Australia. The idea was becoming appealing. But first he had to go to work and face whatever was coming his way. It wasn’t going to be good.

  His phone went.

  ‘Are you sitting in your car?’ O’Hare asked. ‘And don’t lie, I can see you from here. I’m going across in a minute – do you want some coffee brought down?’

  Five minutes later, the Prof opened the car door. ‘I’ll go away, if you want time alone.’ He handed in a coffee on a cardboard tray; beside it was a paper bag, folded to a triangle, the toast inside still warm.

  For a moment, Anderson thought about falling in love with the good professor instead. ‘I’ve done enough thinking, thanks. Have a seat. You’re up early.’

  ‘I’ve not been to bed yet. Neither have you, from the look of you.’ O’Hare swung his long legs into the car, carefully balancing a coffee of his own. ‘Sad business, David Lambie.’

  ‘The paramedics said he didn’t suffer. Is that true?’

  ‘He would have felt a small nudge in the back, that’s all. And before you start feeling guilty again, you have nothing to blame yourself for, Colin; it’s one of those things that happen when you do the job you do. No point in feeling that it should have been you. It wasn’t you, so get on with finding who did it.’

  Anderson nodded. He’d heard better pep talks but, coming from the Prof, this one worked. ‘Pretty much what Jennifer said,’ he agreed. ‘I’m just gathering my strength to go in there.’

  ‘Well, they all feel the way you do, so in there might be the best place to be.’ O’Hare moved in his seat. ‘Young Richard Spence took a turn for the worse last night, went into complete liver failure. Time for the daddy to step up.’

  ‘Will he be allowed, do you think?’

  ‘I damn well hope so. He’s that boy’s only chance.’

  6.00 A.M.

  ACC Howlett was looking more shrunken than ever in his ill-fitting uniform, but the tired old eyes were sharp and watchful.

  ‘At the press conference, the official story will simply be that DS David Lambie was
attacked with a knife and suffered a fatal wound,’ he told the assembled company. ‘We will take care neither to confirm nor deny any connection between the attack and any case he was working on, or even if he was on duty at the time.’

  The rest of what he said was rather more what they had expected. They had all lost a valued colleague and a dear friend. It was a great tragedy. But while they mourned his passing, they must realize that he died doing a job he was committed to. They must show a similar commitment, and the guilty parties must be called to account. Only towards the end of his address did the ACC show the edge of his temper.

  ‘I understand that DS Lambie was asked to fetch the diary, and was then given permission to take it home and bring it here in the morning. But there was no mention of that on the noticeboard.’ He gazed around at the team, like a tired old owl. ‘I’m not seeking to apportion blame for his death – I doubt if any details would have helped. But when I said “at all times”, I meant it – for a very good reason.’ He turned away, trying to compose himself.

  ‘Are we being followed, sir? I mean, how did they know?’ Wyngate voiced the question in everybody’s mind.

  ‘I can only presume, with hindsight, that they have been watching the flats at Bruce Court. They wanted that diary for something, and they had tried every which way to get it. They killed Carruthers but he wouldn’t tell. His wife does not know. Tommy Carruthers might have hidden it so well that he took the secrets to his grave.’

  ‘But what is the significance of the diary? Somebody killed Lambie to get it, but why?’ asked Mulholland.

  ‘That is something we do not yet know for certain. According to his wife, the diary was the 1977 journal, but David had pointed out to her that most of January was missing. Had he taken that section out and put it elsewhere? She also said that David had been asking about Simone Sangster’s visit in October 2008. Carruthers had no involvement in the case that Sangster was writing about. But there must be a connection.’