by Caro Ramsay
‘The latter. And she says that the white Volvo was never correctly identified, so I think you should have another go at tracing that car – in case it was another piece of Moffat’s particular brand of policing. Go back to the original statements, check that all attempts were made to trace the plate. If the plate wasn’t found, check the most likely mistaken numbers. Did any of them belong to a white Volvo? And go back to the DVLA – this was 1996, before automatic plate recognition, so you’ll have to do it the hard way. Don’t just take what it says on file as gospel, double-check. The only thing we know is that the babysitter was in on it all along.’
‘But we don’t know that for absolute certain,’ Anderson reminded her gently.
‘Why doesn’t Howlett just bloody find Fairbairn, arrest him and get it out of him?’
‘Because the wee shite has disappeared, that’s why. He’s nowhere to be found. And Howlett can’t go public with it, as he wants it all to be kept very low key. Nothing’s been released to the press. Nobody even knows yet that Moffat is dead. Or his sidekick, Perky. Apart from the guy who shot them. And anyway –’
Anderson’s phone rang.
‘You have to walk further up the hill for a good signal. The terrace here is too much in the cradle of the mountains.’ Costello just caught sight of a figure in the trees, pulling back into cover, as she pointed the way to Anderson.
He started to walk, telling his caller to hang on, he was waiting for a better signal.
The figure in the trees set off in the same direction as Anderson. Costello kept her eyes on the treeline, her glance flicking from the retreating figure of her colleague to the trees where the figure had been.
Nothing.
1.15 P.M.
‘How can I help you?’
The air in the warehouse was deliciously cool, the air con was on full blast. So was the smile of Sally, as she introduced herself. She smiled at everything – even if you told her she had halitosis, Mulholland thought, she would simply stand there and smile. She was smiling now at him and Wyngate, apparently not at all fazed by two detectives standing in her office.
‘Just some background, Sally. How long have you worked here?’
‘About ten years.’ She brushed aside the long blonde hair that fell like snakes across her black dress.
The office was ultra-modern, with a thin blue carpet and two desks. Beyond a glass screen they could see a huge library of the same red sleeves as they had found at Biggart’s flat.
‘I run the place.’
‘All on your own?’ Mulholland smiled back.
‘I’ve another two girls who come in during the week, and there’s a guy part time. But they’re all on their lunch break at the moment – or they’ve nipped out the back for a fag,’ Sally admitted.
‘Can you tell us about an address in Apollo Court?’
‘Up the West End, the old cinema? I know we send stuff there. Any address in particular?’
‘Just tell us about the whole building. And do you do any stuff that might be a bit under the radar? A bit on the rude side?’
‘Only legit X-certificate.’ She folded her arms, pushing up her bosom – an intentional distraction? ‘All our stuff’s legit. Customers pay a monthly fee and we let them have four films out at any time. As long as they send them back, we don’t care how many they take over the year. They’re all originals, no dodgy copies or anything. You can come and take a look, if you want.’
‘Can we have a printout of all the films ordered to number G2 Apollo Court in the last year? Surname doesn’t matter, just that address.’
‘I’m not sure if I can do that.’ Did the smile slide just a fraction? ‘Do you not need a search warrant or something?’
‘We could go and get one, but as the tenant of the flat is dead, it might be less hassle if you just print it out for us. Now.’ Mulholland leaned across, his seductive smile more than a match for hers.
Wyngate wondered how he did it.
‘No harm, then. Do you want to watch me do it?’
‘Oh, I’m sure we can trust you,’ said Mulholland, not taking his eyes off her as she called up a screen and scrolled down, her false nails clicking in a way that made his fillings hurt.
‘For the last year?’ she confirmed.
Mulholland nodded, carefully watching what her fingers were actually doing.
Wyngate sauntered over casually to the storage bins, keeping up an audible monologue for Sally’s benefit. ‘Right, so these are the films that are sent back, waiting to be put back on the shelves. So, an order comes through online. The DVD is stored according to a code, it gets taken off the shelf, checked off and sent out – is that right? Just three people to handle all these DVDs?’ Wyngate was playing the village idiot.
‘Hardly nuclear physics, is it?’ Sally said loftily. ‘The brains are in the system.’
The printer jumped into life, and a single sheet was fired out. Sally handed it to Mulholland.
‘Funny how you can tell so much about people by what they order,’ she observed. ‘Whoever lived at that address liked mindless violence and kiddies’ cartoons. I bet that’s a weekend father keeping his child amused.’
Mulholland looked down the list of films as Sally accompanied him back to the warehouse entrance. Wyngate trailed close behind him. Goodfellas, all three Saw titles, Scarface. Some vile-sounding things he’d never heard of – and didn’t want to. Then Shrek. Toy Story. He had to agree with her. At the bottom of the headed paper he found the VAT number and the company registration. PillarBoxFlix was owned by PSM Ltd.
Sally tapped out the exit code and escorted them out. The security man was outside, waiting for them.
‘Don’t hesitate, will you, if you need to know anything else,’ Sally said, the smile still firmly in place. ‘I’ve never been involved in a murder investigation before.’
Wyngate waited until they were in the car, door closed, before asking, ‘Did we mention the word murder? We didn’t, did we?’
2.00 P.M.
The moment Mulholland walked into the lecture theatre, he went up to the board and read the notice about Pavel Sergeievich Morosov. The background check had borne little fruit, just a long list of business interests and two addresses – one in Moscow city centre, one outside the city. He was a wealthy, well-respected businessman who travelled a lot.
‘Is that all we have on him?’
‘So far,’ said Anderson, who was trying to concentrate on tracking down Mary Carruthers. ‘He appears legit. One hundred per cent.’
‘Of course he does. You looked at those DVDs yet?’
‘I was waiting for you.’ Anderson indicated the brand-new DVD player on the table, its flex still wrapped. Mulholland plugged it in while Anderson scowled at his telephone and punched Redial yet again. ‘Mrs Carruthers has been at the solicitor’s for bloody ages,’ he complained. ‘We really do need to talk to her – softly, softly or otherwise.’
‘Probably gone into town to spend all her dosh.’ Mulholland switched the machine on, and a digital HELLO appeared.
‘That’s what my wife would have done.’ Anderson winced as he remembered that he still had to face Brenda; he couldn’t put that one off for ever. He went to the end of the table where Lambie had sat, and flicked through his odd bits of paper. His heart dropped at the sight of the doodle in his colleague’s notebook – a small heart with the letters ‘J’ and ‘D’ coloured in. He tore the page out and slipped it into his pocket.
He’d make sure Jennifer got it.
‘Howlett did say it was this morning Mary was going to the solicitor, didn’t he? You’d think she’d have been home for her lunch long since.’ He flicked through more notes, found a phone number, dialled it and sat listening until the ringing went to answerphone. ‘No answer from the solicitor either.’ He put the phone down, and picked up a few typed sheets clipped together. ‘What’s this?’
‘Oh, I’ve summarized that for you,’ said Wyngate. ‘It’s the HR record of Rosita Maria Ha
rmon, who became the second Mrs Wullie MacFadyean.’
‘I thought I told you to do that, Mulholland.’
‘Well, I’m doing this.’ Mulholland opened the red DVD cover, read the label. ‘It’s a kiddies’ film, looks original. Don’t tell me MacFadyean had kids too.’ He slid it in and pressed Play. The machine growled quietly, showing an error signal. He shrugged, ejected it and tried the other. The label was the same. Error. He looked helplessly at Anderson.
‘Give it here,’ said Wyngate. He looked closely at it. ‘This is a CD, I think.’ He slipped the first disk into his computer, which whirred obligingly. ‘Password-protected,’ he reported.
Anderson leaned over his shoulder. ‘Can you hack in?’
‘You watch too many films, boss.’ Wyngate tapped a few keys. ‘But from the size, it’s just a document, nothing complicated.’
‘OK,’ Anderson said slowly, sitting down. He pointed at the computer, a hunch forming in his head. ‘So, could this be their method of communication? As simple as that? Just that – through the post?’
‘Difficult for us to trace. Will I take it down to the IT guys?’
‘No, get them up here. Good work, you two.’ Anderson’s mind was working overtime. ‘So, to the lovely Rosita, who became Mrs Wullie MacFadyean. How did you get that information?’
Wyngate smiled cherubically. ‘A friend in the Police Federation.’
Anderson flicked through the sheets. ‘This is a summary?’
‘It’s a long story.’
Anderson glared at him. ‘Just tell me, Wyngate.’
‘Well, she was one clever cookie – she was a tactical chief.’
Anderson looked blank.
‘In charge of tactical firearms teams and an adviser to the Public Order Incident Team.’
Anderson breathed out slowly. ‘OK, so not somebody to be crept up on in the canteen.’ The little hunch was starting to play a tune in the back of his mind.
‘Despite her office job, she still had to do her officer safety training. She kept dodging it due to health issues that were unspecified. But, reading between the lines, she has dietary issues.’
‘Too fat or too thin?’
‘The former. She injured her knee on the training day and took the police force all the way. She never returned to her not very active duty, but the force refused to pay out and punted her off the job.’
Anderson sighed. ‘OK, longer summary than that.’
‘She had a little alcohol in her bloodstream, and they argued that it contributed to her fall, and therefore her injury – and therefore she was liable. She shouldn’t have been at work having consumed alcohol, so she was booted out with no compensation. My friend said that Rosita was hell-bent on screwing the force for every penny they had, but got nowhere.’
‘And … ?’
‘Well, she was brilliant but her career was already on a shaky peg – she’d had two formal warnings. One for having an affair with another officer. He was married.’
‘Wullie MacFadyean.’ Anderson scanned the rest of the papers.
Wyngate lowered his voice. ‘The other warning got her bumped off the ITU, the equivalent of the Intelligence Cell Team in those days, for misuse of intelligence – looking up things on databases she’d no right to look up. She was already bitter when the legal battle over the knee injury started. It went on for three years, which is why my pal remembers it so well.’
‘Embittered ex-cop. Ripe pickings for somebody on the lookout for a police informer. Well, more than an informer. She knows how we work. She could … God, she could apply that know-how to any organization.’
‘Such as organized crime?’
‘But once she was off the force, she’d have no contacts.’ Anderson drummed the desk with his pen. ‘So, what do we think? What was she looking up on those databases? She was turned, wasn’t she? It might have happened before she left. She knows how to hide, as she knows how we track people.’
‘She’d know not to use a mobile phone or the Internet. So, where the fuck is she?’
‘And where was Wullie? He was still on the force. We could be looking at a team, operating like that for years. She’s still out there somewhere. So, let’s find her before somebody else does. Do we have a picture? If not, get one.’
‘Here’s her last picture from her ID, but that was years ago.’ Wyngate pinned the printout on the wall. A cheery, pretty face, short dark hair, chubby-cheeked but pretty.
Mulholland was standing, looking at Anderson and waiting for Wyngate to finish. ‘Until Mrs Carruthers comes to light, can I talk to you about this?’ He put down a pile of notes, indicating that Anderson should follow him to the corner of the room. ‘Skelpie Fairbairn didn’t do it.’
‘Didn’t do what?’
‘Whatever else Skelpie Fairbairn, Tito Piacini, did, I don’t think he had anything to do with the Lynda Osbourne case.’
‘I’m not really in the mood for this, Vik. I have rather a lot on my plate at the moment, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Have they brought him in yet?’ Mulholland demanded.
‘You know that he’s gone. He’s not returned to his digs, and the lawyer’s claiming ignorance of his whereabouts. We’re all getting a bit uneasy about it.’
Mulholland threw Anderson a look that could have turned the tide. ‘I’ve noticed in McAlpine’s notes that there was a taped interview with Fairbairn at the time. I think I’d like to get hold of that and hear it.’
‘Your wish is my command, fill your boots,’ Anderson said acidly.
‘And I think there’s somebody else I should talk to. Lynda’s father.’
Anderson stood back and looked at Mulholland. His voice was quiet but staccato with anger. ‘Vik, Fairbairn’s DNA identifies him as Tito Piacini, the babysitter in the Alessandro Marchetti case. We also have him raping that girl on the DVD. If you remember, Lambie and I found her chained at the bottom of a ladder in the bloody Clyde. She died there, Vik. And you want me to go on some sort of campaign to prove that scumbag’s innocence? Sorry, but am I missing something here?’
‘Yes, you’re missing the fact that we still need to catch the guy who sexually assaulted Lynda Osbourne, if Fairbairn did not do it – which is the state of the law as it stands.’
‘But he did.’
‘He did not, Anderson. And your personal conviction that Fairbairn was guilty is exactly what got you into the mess that you’re in now.’
‘I’m not in any mess.’ Anderson raised his voice.
Wyngate looked over, then looked away quickly.
Mulholland raised an ‘if you say so’ eyebrow. ‘Well, I’m going to go and have a word with Lynda Osbourne’s father.’
‘Why?’ asked Anderson quietly.
‘Because I want to.’
‘That would make it official.’
‘Well, so be it.’ And Mulholland walked off.
Anderson covered his face with the palms of his hands and sighed.
11.20 P.M.
Looking in the mirror, Costello felt like the man in the old Milk Tray advert. She was dressed in black jogging trousers, dark trainers and a black jumper. She glanced around the room, looking for anything else to take with her. All she really needed was her phone. She had Pettigrew for protection.
She glanced at her watch – eleven twenty. Outside there was still a vestige of light around the fringes of the sky. She closed the door quietly behind her, and crept round the gravel of the big car park without being seen from the school.
They had agreed to meet down at the wooden bridge.
‘We’ve to move quickly. He’s already on his way,’ Pettigrew said.
‘He’s early.’
‘This way.’ He moved into a strange low run that easily ate up the ground. Costello tried to emulate it but each footfall ricocheted up her body, jarring every bone until it reached her left cheekbone, where it hurt like hell. She wondered who had taught Pettigrew to run like that. She trotted along instead, more nois
ily than she had intended, but at least she was keeping up.
A few minutes later, Pettigrew stepped behind an oak tree. It was very dark here under the canopy of the trees. There was a loud cawing of disturbed crows, then they settled back to silence. ‘You keeping up OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ Costello caught her breath, wiping the sweat from her eyes. ‘How do you know he’s on his way?’
‘He’s over there, moving in that direction.’
‘I can’t see anybody. But then he’s probably read some SAS book about how not to be seen,’ she said sarcastically.
‘I was scouting about a bit today. I found the track he uses, parallel to this, just over there. So, we’ll go this way.’
‘He put some traps on the path down there –’ she pointed down to the river ‘– so maybe we should go there. He might be trying to protect something that is important to him, to his psyche …’
‘No, I think we should go this way,’ Pettigrew said, allowing no further comment.
Costello hesitated, then followed him, keeping her eyes down, watching where she put her feet, aware that deep in her police brain a little voice was telling her something was wrong.
After five minutes or so, she tapped Pettigrew on the shoulder. ‘Aren’t we going too far south?’
‘No, we’re going slightly north.’ He pointed. ‘Where we want to be is right over there. He’s still moving, and moving fast. He’s in a hurry to go somewhere.’
‘I can’t hear him.’
It was really dark now, and nothing could be seen through the trees.
‘He’s there all right, and he’s getting ahead.’ Pettigrew moved off, darting confidently between the trees.
Costello hesitated. What was the big hurry? Maybe Pettigrew had seen something she hadn’t. She set off again, trying to catch up, but he was gone. She stopped in her tracks, and looked around, listening hard. Nothing. Pettigrew had disappeared. Could she find her way back? Of course – if she went north, sooner or later she would come to the road. Or she could call out. Drew must be way ahead, and Pettigrew couldn’t have got that far. She walked on quickly, listening hard but still hearing nothing. She jumped as a crow cawed loudly above her and swooped low over her head. Another three flew off after it, black shape-shifters gliding through the night.
