by Caro Ramsay
Drew Elphinstone was writing letters to himself.
She looked closely at the letters, noting the appearance of strange symbols now and again, then she looked at the dates. The more recent letters displayed more writing, more urgency in the style, and more symbols. She didn’t recognize any of them.
She leaned over the bed to look at the letters hanging above it. They looked fingered, as if they had been read again and again. She would ask Rhona about the mail Drew received. How much of this arrived for him in the post and landed on that big table in the hall? Or did he just sit and write in his room on his own?
‘Have you found anything?’ Rhona called through the slightly open door.
‘Nothing,’ Costello called back, turning her attention to the bookcase.
Drew’s choice of reading matter was all about survival. Costello pulled a couple out: an SAS survival handbook – the ultimate guide to surviving anywhere – and its neighbour, a book about animal traps and trapping. She knelt down to read the spines of the rest. Her foot kicked against something, and she crouched down, ignoring the dust on the parquet floor. Under the bed was a big old-fashioned leather suitcase with leather handles and metal buckles. There was no dust in front of the suitcase, so it had been moved, and recently. Costello kept an eye on the door as she pulled the suitcase out slowly and quietly. She undid the buckles, had a quick look inside, then looked again to confirm what she was seeing.
She pulled out a small brochure with illustrations on how to trap people without having to be there. She recognized the large-scale version of what she had seen beside the river – the pit that had hurt Libby. She flicked through the rest, stopping at a picture, obviously torn from a book, of a naked and brutalized body, with terrible cuts and slashes. Somebody had written over it the names of the arteries, whether each cut would kill, and how deep the knife had to go. Somebody was doing their homework.
She suddenly understood Rhona’s concern – if the school merely thought they had a problem before, they certainly had one now.
11.15 A.M.
Anderson was back at Glen Fruin, back at the site where they had discovered MacFadyean’s body, waiting for Matilda to turn up. Mulholland was strolling around in the undergrowth, having a good look around for any sign of discarded evidence as to where MacFadyean might have lived.
Anderson pulled his sweat-sticky shirt away from his back and gazed up at Ben Lomond, feeling the confusion of his life seep away a little in the stillness of the warm air. The ben had stood there for millions of years, and it would still be there in another million years. Lambie’s life by comparison was less than a blink of an eye.
Anderson felt himself hold back the tears – too much had been happening too soon. Costello had phoned him from a landline at the school and had reported that Saskia was up to something secretive. He had passed that on to Howlett, whose advice had been to wait.
In the early morning they had visited the post office at Luss to speak to the two sisters who ran it. Two cups of tea, two scones and a close encounter with an Alsatian later, they had some decent information. Wullie, as he was known, had been in and out of the post office nearly every day for years. They only knew he lived ‘up there somewhere’. This was accompanied by a vague gesture westwards in the direction of the hills surrounding Glen Fruin. He had been seen many a time, walking along the Low Road. There were no houses up the High Road, explained one of the sisters.
Anderson looked around and mentally got his bearings. At the top of the glen, the new road went over to the naval base at the Gare Loch. The old road, a wee single track, went along the bottom of the glen. So, Wullie must have lived along here somewhere. It was still a decent walk northwards on a busy road to get to Luss, but there could be any number of old tracks and trails up there.
The sisters had been sure there was no Mrs MacFadyean, but he did eat a lot of Quality Street. And he was ‘a fillum buff’. Gina explained he got them from a rental company. ‘The one that uses those little red envelopes shaped like pillar boxes.’
There was one still waiting for him – it was now locked in the boot of Anderson’s car, wrapped in a tartan paper bag.
So, they had a chatty, sociable recluse, a chocoholic diabetic, a married man with no wife and no known address, who had the same interest in films as a dead drug dealer.
Anderson was still thinking all that through when Matilda’s Ford pulled up behind the Jazz.
She got out and announced, ‘I don’t like this place.’ She gazed around at the trees. ‘It gives me the creeps.’
‘Are you scared?’ teased Mulholland.
‘Yes,’ said Matilda, quite unabashed. At that minute, the crows were disturbed and started up with their racket. Matilda jumped at the sudden noise.
‘And why are we here again?’ asked Mulholland.
‘I need to see if there are any more paint samples in the road, anything to ascertain where exactly MacFadyean was when the van hit him. And I’ll be looking for evidence of how he got down there, off the road, to end up in the position he did,’ Matilda said briskly. ‘I have photographs of the body in situ, so between us we should be able to work it out.’
‘Well, you two find what you need to find,’ said Anderson. ‘I’m going in search of the house.’
Mulholland protested. ‘But I need to get back to Glasgow. I have to track down that DVD rental company. Maybe they can give us an address for MacFadyean’s place.’
‘I think you’ll find it was always care of the post office. He wasn’t daft, this guy, was he? But I’m sure if you speak nicely to Matilda she’ll run you back when she’s finished, seeing as you’re both going back to the same place. I am going to drive up and down this lane endlessly until I find where MacFadyean lived, and then we are going to search the place. The glen isn’t that long – nine miles or so – it must be somewhere along here, and within walking distance of the road. You’ve got all the details you need, so I’m taking the DVD with me.’
‘Can I not come with you?’
‘No, you can’t, Vik, so bugger off.’
Anderson climbed back into his car, glad to be alone. He looked around the wooded hills, scanning the tops, knowing that there was somebody up there, watching out for him. He checked his mobile phone, wondering whether to text Helena. Phone her? Wait for her to phone him? He had no bloody idea what he was supposed to do now. How did men who balanced more than one woman ever manage? One was enough, but two? Add in Costello back on full form, and his life was over.
He glanced out of the side window and saw Matilda and Mulholland looking apprehensive, like Hansel and Gretel about to be abandoned in the forest by their father.
But Matilda had her car. And although they were in the middle of nowhere, Lambie had been killed in the city, in a quiet suburban street. Anderson wound down the window. ‘One hour max, and stay together!’ It would do them good, he told himself; every challenge was character building.
He waved at them in the rear-view mirror as he drove away, then decided to put both hands on the steering wheel as the road narrowed dangerously, the edges crumbling away, often to a drop with jagged rocks and deep ravines. But the sheep looked happy, standing at all kinds of odd angles and pulling at the short grass with little twists of their heads. As the road turned down the glen, closer to the river, the mountains receded to a glorious backdrop of lush greenery. There were no hidden houses here, just the odd farm dotted along the patchwork of fields that carpeted the floor of the glen. He stopped at a few of them along the route, knocking on doors. He chatted with a wifie hanging out the washing, with somebody standing in a mucky yard texting on his mobile, and with a man taking a tractor to bits.
The uniform branch of the local nick had been there before him. No, no one actually knew anything about Wullie MacFadyean. They recognized his description as somebody they had seen around, somebody they had stood next to at the post office – a farmer had even given him a run into Glasgow once.
But nobody had ever giv
en him a run home. Nobody knew where home was. It was always ‘somewhere up the glen’.
This man was steadily going up in Anderson’s estimation. He spent the next hour driving up and down the glen, looking for houses on the high road and the low road, but he could see nothing. He scanned the dense, deep green blanket of trees on the north side before driving to the top of the glen. Here he got out and looked again, with binoculars. He turned at the sound of a car behind him.
It was the military police, wanting to know exactly what he thought he was doing.
1.00 P.M.
‘I think this might be it.’
‘Big place, innit?’
‘Site of the old Linwood car plant. Nearly eight thousand people worked here once. Then it was reborn as an industrial estate. Hence the name Phoenix.’
Wyngate looked around. ‘Look at all that security.’
He was in one of his dumb moods. Mulholland wished, momentarily, that he was still in the car with the walking intellect that was Matilda McQueen. At least with her he learned something; with Wyngate he got the feeling he was babysitting.
He pulled his Audi to a halt at the security gate and they both showed their ID to the man in the booth. Even in the stifling heat he had a good uniform on, and his booth was full of all kinds of cameras and high-end security kit. He waved them through, and the barrier rose, but only to let the car through into an area enclosed by high railings, spiked at the top. On each corner were security cameras that swung to focus on the car. A second gate opened, and the security man signalled that they should pull through and park.
‘What the hell is this place? Fort Knox?’ asked Wyngate in wonder.
‘Not far from it,’ said Mulholland. ‘Who knows what’s in these warehouses? And there’s PillarBoxFlix, right over there.’
The big security man gestured that they should get out, and they followed him one at a time through a turnstile. ‘I’ll see your warrant cards, please,’ he said. He had the kind of face it was better not to argue with. They handed them over, and he nodded as he examined them carefully. ‘Do you mind if I phone, while you wait here?’
Yes, I do mind actually, now get out the way, you monkey in a gorilla suit, were the words forming in Mulholland’s mind. He said, ‘Of course not.’
The man walked away.
‘So, why is a DVD rental company in a place like this?’ Wyngate asked.
‘It’ll all be computerized, with one huge bloody website and a small staff, but a massive amount of stock.’
‘I wonder how much stock they hold and how much it’s worth?’
‘That’s not why we’re here. We know Biggart and MacFadyean got DVDs from here. PSM own it. Whoever torched Biggart left some for us to see and make a connection. I’d put money on it. So, we’ll be careful what we say in here.’
1.10 P.M.
‘I thought they were going to shoot me there and then.’ Anderson sat down on the sandstone wall bordering the front lawn at the school and ran his fingers through his hair. It was oppressively hot, but at least he was out of the lecture room.
‘No wonder, standing on top of a hill looking at a top-secret naval base through binoculars. What did you think they were going to do? Blow you a kiss?’
Anderson smiled. Costello the sharp mouth was on her way back. ‘It took some smart talking to get out of it.’
‘Oh, so who did the smart talking for you?’ asked Costello. ‘I bet one of the MPs walked away while the other one spoke to you.’
‘Well, yes. He was on the phone to Howlett, I think. Probably making sure I was legit.’
‘And then Howlett phoned here and authorized you to have free run of the place. If you want to practise the art of subtle observation –’ Costello looked over his shoulder ‘– look at those two down on the lawn. What do you think the relationship is between them?’
‘Who am I spying on?’
‘The girl down there. Short black hair. Talking to Pettigrew. She’s had some experience of cops; she could tell I was one just by looking.’
‘Interesting,’ said Anderson. ‘But some people can. Mostly those who want to avoid us right enough. What’s her name?’
The security man was standing and talking, as if he was explaining something. The girl was sitting, head in her hands, as if she didn’t want to hear.
‘Elizabeth Hamilton.’
‘It doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘I don’t think that’s troublesome pupil and security man, is it?’ Costello suggested.
‘They certainly look as if they have a bit of history, those two.’ He watched as Jim Pettigrew shook his head and walked away, clearly with nothing resolved. Libby turned away, her chin on her hand, definitely not watching him go. Whatever it was he was offering had been soundly rejected. ‘Have you asked him if there’s an issue between them?’
‘I think he has enough to worry about. See that boy there? The one in the vegetable garden? That’s the one I was taking to Batten about. He’s not well.’
‘And hot, with that leather coat on. He’s standing there swinging a stick in mid-air.’
‘Fighting his invisible demons. But he is obsessed with survival and self-defence. That includes killing people. He draws pictures of people and describes how to defend yourself, what to shoot them with – and what happens to them when you do. He practises digging traps for people the way the SAS do. He knows how to do a blood eagle sacrifice – the Viking kind, not the back-to-front one we’re dealing with.’
Anderson noted the ‘we’.
‘In fact, I’d say he’s made a bit of a study of it.’
Anderson frowned slightly. ‘Is he dangerous?’
‘I bet they asked that at Columbine! I’m not joking, Colin.’
‘That bad?’ One look at her face told him that she was deadly serious.
‘Rhona – that teacher, councillor or whatever – thinks he’s the reason why I’m here, and I can see why. I can see the school’s dilemma. The boy’s parents are separated, and in different parts of the world. The words “washed their hands of him” come to mind. But if the school try to get him removed, or referred to a psychiatrist, they could be in trouble. They can only do so much without parental consent, unless he does something appalling. And then they’ll be in trouble, up to their necks. Meanwhile, Daddy’s lawyer just sends Mummy’s lawyer a letter, and with each day that passes another sandwich leaves the picnic. It’s fine to say “please come and remove your son” but how do you force somebody to do it? Physically, I mean? It takes time.’
‘I don’t have the answer to that one. We’ll ask Howlett – he has enough shiny badges to pull strings, I’m sure.’ Anderson contemplated for a minute. ‘But you know why you were sent here, don’t you?’
‘Saskia. Do you think that memory stick is important.’
‘The fact she’s Russian, with the surname Morosova, is important. The memory stick is important enough for her to hide. But it might just be her bank account details, for all we know. Has it dawned on you that Pettigrew might have been watching her as well? Do you think he knew exactly where they were going last night?’
‘I got the feeling it was no surprise to him. I think we are witnesses to it all. The Highland Glen is starting to look more and more like a Russian mafia base. Janet Appleby probably was sent to stay there by her insurance company because whoever insured the Apollo building had some sort of link – maybe perfectly above board – with Red Eagle Properties, which we know is ultimately owned by Morosov. It would have been useful for them to keep her under their noses. Thank God she flew out the country. And the van is registered there. Matilda will prove by the blood samples on the floor that Richard was in the back. No amount of hosing down removes blood from a floor pan. On paper, the van was being used quite legitimately to take laundry back and forth, or go to the Cash and Carry. They could hardly say on the expense accounts that they used it as a mobile slaughterhouse, could they? I suppose Howlett’s theory is not to go in mob-handed,
because that would just send the Russians and their entire network underground. We want to catch the Puppeteer guy, remember.’
‘Softly, softly, I think. And keep them in plain sight.’ Anderson watched as the boy leaned his head back, his mouth wide open as if he was baying at some secret moon. ‘You do need to do something about that boy, by the way.’
‘I need proof. I’ve asked Jim to come out with me tonight and follow the little bugger on his midnight wanderings.’
‘Are you up to that?’
‘I was sent here to do a job, and I will do it.’
‘I hope Jim said no, you’re off your head.’
‘He didn’t. In fact, he said yes.’
‘Why do I bother?’
‘I’ve often wondered.’
They sat in silence for a minute, watching the boy, who was still swinging the stick around, fighting some unseen enemy. There was a detachment and ferocity about his movements that spoke of true violence.
Costello shuddered.
‘How are you sleeping?’ Anderson asked.
‘Actually I’m not really sleeping at all. I spent most of last night reading Little Boy Lost, that book about the Marchetti child. I’ve got to the bit where she is discussing the getaway and the alleged police incompetence regarding that part of the investigation. Simone Sangster says there were reports of a white Volvo being seen parked underneath the Erskine Bridge, and later a white car was seen coming up this glen – up the old road.’
‘And?’ Anderson was intrigued.
‘She says a blue car was found burned out in the rough ground near the lay-by, down on the dual carriageway. One of Sangster’s theories is that they switched cars there. The blue car took the boy from the flat to the lay-by under the bridge, where they swapped to the Volvo and torched the blue car. Then they drove through Glen Fruin in the Volvo to get to the west coast and the open water.’
‘Theory, you say? Was the car driving up the glen identified as a Volvo, or just as a white car?’
