by Caro Ramsay
‘You mean you don’t have a pot to piss in now you have a nice shiny office, hen?’ says Billy, backhanding jam from his lips and smearing it on his face. Even Charlie has got the hang of that one.
‘Well, I’ll stand you the tea and doughnut.’ Costello gets up to leave, and her phone goes. ‘Hello, Matilda, what can I do for you?’ She sits down again, her face growing paler; her lips smile but her eyes crease. Conflict, a bittersweet memory. ‘Oh, that is interesting. Yes, you did the right thing to ask me. OK, I’ll sanction it. I do know that name, Sean McTiernan is a blast from the past. Thanks, Matilda. Don’t tell Parnell that we’ve spoken. Act like you’re doing him a big favour. I’ll deal with the dynamic duo at this end.’
SATURDAY, 16 JUNE
It takes us over an hour to drive to the coast. Once we leave the Glasgow city boundary the rain stops. As we pass Irvine the clouds begin to break up. By the time we reach the seaside town of Ayr, the sun has broken through. Billy opens the window of the Vectra, letting the warm breeze swirl round his face. He spent last night going through the files of Sean McTiernan’s culpable homicide conviction and had decided I needed to know all the details. Especially the fact McTiernan had a temper and had stamped on his victim’s face then kicked him so hard in the stomach that his liver had exploded.
Matilda had found his DNA on the envelope the ransom demand came in.
It concentrated my mind.
Suddenly Billy pulls the car to a halt in a lay-by on the main coast road, unwilling to turn down the single track lane that leads to the beach. We are looking for a hamlet of remote cottages.
The view is breath-taking. On a day like this it is paradise. I know all about the trouble that can hide in paradise.
‘Can it be as easy as this?’ I ask him.
‘No,’ says Billy. ‘Costello is a twisted cow but in many ways she is a dinosaur, an old-fashioned instinctive cop. She was taught the hard way. She got to know this McTiernan through a case, like I said. She doesn’t think McTiernan is right for this. I trust her judgement. And McTiernan has been squeaky clean since, living down here with his lady.’ He does his slurping lips trick again. ‘But the lab found his DNA on that envelope so it flagged up.’
‘He is dangerous.’
‘Well, you don’t serve time for culp hom because you played pat-a-cake with somebody. But a kidnapper should know better than to handle the envelope after varnishing something. It was a forensic gold mine, a bit too much of a gold mine: traces of pine dust, red stain and radioactive fucus vesiculosus, to be precise.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Bladder wrack seaweed. The radioactivity means west coast, Hunterston. The entire nuclear arsenal of the United Kingdom is just a few miles up the road from here. All that in a red stain that Matilda got from the back of the envelope.’
‘Strange combination.’
‘Handy, leads us straight to a joiner who lives on a beach, as McTiernan does. Strong, intelligent, a runner – what more do we want?’
‘A big Russian dog?’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Yet, with all that, Costello’s instinct was to not bite.’
Billy nods and shuffles in his seat a little. ‘Just taking the weight off my brains. Any other cop would say, “Great! Got the bastard!” But she didn’t.’
‘Maybe because she doesn’t have the evidence,’ I suggest. ‘Technically that belongs to Parnell. She doesn’t know about the link with McTiernan officially. We’re following a lead that doesn’t exist for the investigating team. She’s trying to follow the book.’
‘Oh, she wouldn’t let that get in her way if she thought McTiernan was the Night Hunter. It’s more than that: her instinct is that he’s not right for it. Anyway, we tread carefully. He might be very dangerous. Do not take him on even if you think he has Sophie tucked away in his back pocket. Promise?’
I murmur something. The sun is in my eyes, so I lean down to my rucksack to get my sunglasses. Alistair MacLean is still there, lying tattered, a ripped cigarette packet marking his place. The book from the skip. ‘He’s a joiner?’
‘Yip.’
‘The Parkes’ next-door neighbour was having work done.’
Billy is deathly quiet. ‘Christine has had an extension done.’
‘And Lorna’s dad said they had a training pool put in. Builders all over the place. Joiners.’
Billy turns to look at me; it’s a slow Exorcist head turn. ‘You are good, Elvie. So, we go carefully. This could be dangerous. We do have one thing in our favour. If any of us looks like a serial killer, it’s you.’
‘You OK to go ahead with this?’ asks Billy, once the Vectra reaches the beach car park. He pats the back of my hand for comfort. His comfort, not mine.
‘There might be a perfectly simple explanation for it all. If there is we won’t find out sitting here, will we?’
‘Nope.’ He leans over my lap and takes some binoculars from the glove compartment. ‘Bring these. We can pretend we’re looking at birds.’
The lane down to the beach is pitted with deep potholes, overgrown hedgerows on either side. It twists and turns as it makes its way down to the sea. Every time we look up, the view is different, sometimes a beautiful sight of the sea, sometimes a green wall of thorn.
In tacit agreement we both quicken our pace, past the one-in-ten gradient warning sign, the Use Low Gear warning sign, the No Passing Places Until Beach warning sign, then we round a corner and see Ailsa Craig, a little dumpling of an island sitting in its own faint blue mist, the waves around the steep cliffs twinkling in the sunlight.
Once on the beach itself Billy stops and looks along the sand to Culzean Castle high on the cliff top, then he lets his eyes rest on the shoreline. He points up above the high-tide line to the soft folds of sand, some scrub, a path and a fence where hardy bushes clump and grow together, hiding something. There’s a barely visible roof.
Sean McTiernan’s house.
Billy instinctively steps sideways, back into the cover of the dunes.
‘Hand me the binos, will you?’
I hand them over, and stand on a mound of rough grass to gain a better view myself.
‘Well, there’s life about,’ he says, almost reluctantly.
‘What were you expecting?’
‘No idea.’
‘We’re here for Mary.’
‘Here for all of them, sweet cheeks.’ He hands me back the binoculars and we move down on to the beach, our feet slipping on the pillows of soft sand as we make our way to the water’s edge. We take our time. I close my eyes, tasting the salt on my face and relishing the kiss of the sea breeze on my skin.
Even with my sunglasses on, the glare of the sun on the water irritates my eyes. It’s firing up the acne on my cheeks; I’m trying not to scratch. I can just see the sails of a yacht on the horizon. I turn and slam right into Billy, who has stopped dead in his tracks.
‘Look,’ he says.
I shield my eyes with my hand and look along the beach. There are four figures, two larger in front and two smaller ones behind, milling around the sand right at the water’s edge. Something dashes into the sea, is caught by a wave, disappears and then re-emerges. I hold up the binoculars and look, adjusting the range until the figures in the distance come into clear focus. The tallest figure is a slim blond man, long-legged with a youthful walk. His jeans are cut off at the shins, and his baggy T-shirt billows around his chest as he bends over into the waves that chase around his feet. I note his shoes. He is grabbing a dark fur ball and pulling it from the waves.
‘Well, he has the puppy version of the big dog.’
Billy is sweating, not only with the heat.
The man picks up the puppy and holds it high, bringing it down to his face to kiss its nose. Then for an instant he looks right at me. But his eyes crease, and he laughs as he says something over his right shoulder, still holding the soaked puppy.
‘See?’ I let Billy have a look.
�
�It’s him all right. I suppose flinging sticks into the sea for a puppy would get some radioactive seaweed on your hands.’
I take the binoculars back and pan the beach, searching for the other two of the group. I am too quick on the first pass, the figures just flash across my field of vision. I pan back slowly, my heart pounding, and there, framed in my sights, is a small, thin woman with long blonde hair that tumbles free in the wind. She walks with a limp, as if she is frail. Her face is angled slightly down, she is walking with one shoulder dropped, her arm out. Her skirt billows out in the wind, then drops like a falling curtain. It reveals a small blonde child, chubby-legged and barefoot, tramping unsteadily along the sand. As she turns I focus on the child. The puppy bobs into view, tongue lolling, having a grand time.
‘Is that the Night Hunter? Remote house. Fit. He has on Brooks Glycerins. Running shoes, not trainers. His job could take him all over the place. Dog. In paradise.’
‘Do you want him to look like a monster?’
‘Right, come on, let’s get it over with.’ I take a purposeful stride then I feel Billy’s hand on my upper arm.
‘No heroics, hen, just let them come to us.’
They hover around the waterline, dancing back and forth with the rhythm of the waves, the perfect family having a walk on the beach on a lovely summer’s day. Billy and I stand on the dunes and watch as they approach. We pretend to look out to sea, pointing to things we know nothing about.
I do an occasional sweep with the binoculars, noting how close they are getting.
I see McTiernan point at us, a casual lift of the hand.
‘He’s spotted us,’ I say quietly. Billy is staring out to Ailsa Craig and does not turn to look.
‘Has he stopped walking?’
‘No. She’s picked the kid up, though.’
‘Wait here until they’re close.’
‘Do you have a plan?’ I ask out the corner of my mouth.
‘No.’
The puppy solves the problem, running happily towards Billy. It stops to shake itself, and I see that its fur is not so dark after all, just wet. It comes over to us, tail wagging, like a dog that has all the friends in the world.
Billy takes his cue and bends over to pat the puppy on the head, and the puppy immediately rolls over and exposes a pink, hairy tummy to be rubbed. As McTiernan approaches, I back off, ready. McTiernan is tall, with that lithe build that belies power. Billy is playing a blinder in the body language stakes, putting McTiernan in control by making himself appear vulnerable and weak, doddery and old. Maybe not a lot of acting there.
‘Great puppy!’
Sean nods.
‘He’s going to be a big dog.’
‘Husky.’
‘I thought he was one of those big Russian things. Same colour coat.’ Billy smiles engagingly.
McTiernan smiles back but does not seem to react. He is simply indulging an old guy on the beach who likes dogs.
I stand behind Billy, looking at her, the small, fine-boned woman. She looks about twelve, dressed in a long skirt soaked by waves at the bottom, holding her son on her hip. There is something of the Cinderella about her, incredibly beautiful in a fragile way. Her skin is almost translucent, her blue eyes large and innocent. Her expression is unreadable.
She moves slightly behind her husband, as Mary usually moves behind Parnell, but that is the only echo. This woman is happy to be here with this man. Her hand twines into his, tender and loving.
McTiernan lifts the puppy up. ‘Come on, you.’
‘Do you know Alex Parnell?’ asks Billy.
No plan then.
McTiernan misses a beat, looks at Billy then at me. He does not lie. ‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘How?’
‘What’s it to you?’
I hear the aggression in his tone but Billy is all sugar sweetness.
‘He’s employed us to find his wife.’
‘Oh, right.’ He has reverted to a casual easy acceptance. The puppy wriggles to lick his chin. ‘I heard about that, I thought it was just rumours.’
‘When did you last see Parnell?’
‘I haven’t seen the boss since, since …’ A long exhalation. ‘Last week sometime, we were having trouble with a roof, rotten right through it was.’
So he works for Parnell’s building division.
‘Well, we have a wee problem. Your DNA is on file and it was picked out as a direct match to some on the envelope, of interest to us.’
The look of confusion seems genuine. The woman looks from my face to her husband’s and back again.
‘We’re aware of your past …’
‘I’ve nothing to do with this, nothing.’
‘Exactly. Mr Parnell says that you have an excellent character so he wants us to try and sort it out before the police get hold of it.’
‘You know what they can be like, small-minded, a bit thick?’ I add.
‘So who are you?’
‘Parnell’s security,’ I say.
‘Have you seen this before?’ Billy holds out a photograph.
‘It’s a photograph. Of an envelope,’ says McTiernan, shrugging.
Billy holds out the picture further, forcing McTiernan to put down the puppy and take it for a closer look.
‘So it’s a brown envelope. The address on the label means nothing to me.’ He holds it out to give it back.
Billy does not take it. For a moment they stare at each other, the silence broken by the noise of the waves tickling the sand.
I am the one that breaks the tension.
‘Come on, Sean, help us out here. Mary has been kidnapped, and God knows what she’s going through. You know Charlie is four years old. He’s frantic. So think on, eh? The forensic report was clear – on the flap of that envelope is red stain, freshly sawn pine, from down this coast.’
It has the desired effect. McTiernan looks back at the envelope; even the woman steps forward to peer at it.
I start talking again, playing my role as the brains of the outfit. Billy plays with the puppy. ‘And no, we don’t think for a minute that you have anything to do with her disappearance. But kidnappers by their nature tend to recycle, cutting up newspapers for letters, reusing envelopes, you know all that. So at some point in time you have touched that envelope, and if you can tell us when, or where, it might give us a lead to who sent it.’
McTiernan smiles slightly. He is trying to appear helpful. He turns the photo over in his hands, strong, long-fingered hands. I feel a shiver go through me. He shakes his head. ‘Sorry.’ He shows it to the woman, who looks at it but doesn’t respond. ‘We don’t get mail at the house so I don’t know where I might have touched it.’
‘What about work?’ I ask. ‘Where have you been using red stain?’
‘I work all over the place.’ He frowns slightly, turns the photo over again and shrugs. ‘Red stain?’
‘There was some red stain on the flap of the envelope, and dust that seems to be pine. You been in any houses where you might have picked the mail up?’
‘Most of the work I do is indoors, rebuilds and major refurbs; the places are empty. But red-stained pine – that’s a combination for outdoors, a chalet maybe. Eddie’s place? Maybe you should ask him.’ McTiernan turns to look north, up the coastline.
‘Eddie?’ I ask.
‘Eddie Underhay, he works for Parnell as well. He’ll be on your list, I’m sure. He’s been at the house at Ardno, doing a wall repair, lives in Glasgow but has a chalet about forty miles up the coast near Portencross. Ailsa View, I think it’s called. He was putting in some extra insulation and I gave him a hand. A bit of work, a few beers, a curry.’
Billy and I exchange glances.
‘And does Eddie have a wife?’
‘Somewhere, but she’s not … on the scene, as you might say.’ McTiernan hands the envelope back firmly. ‘Nice bloke.’
‘So you might have been working there and touched this envelope, then Eddie might have put it in the b
in and someone took it out again?’ I suggest.
‘I’ve no idea. But that’s the only time I recall using red stain on pine. It’s not my thing. Wood is beautiful as it is, don’t you think? Some things are better left as they are.’
We drive in silence up the coast, a sign that Billy is thinking about something. It is bitter cold in the shade, deceptively warm in the sun. The car stinks of fags. I open the window, which gets stuck halfway down. Eventually we arrive at Portencross Castle.
‘I think we’ve come too far. Do you not think we should tell Costello?’
‘We’ll make sure of our facts first. Has this Eddie guy ever seen you at Ardno? One look at your face and he won’t have forgotten it.’
‘Cheers. Do you do a lot of this confidence-building work?’
‘It’s all part of my charm offensive.’
‘Minus the charm. Just the offensive. Stop and ask this guy for directions to Ailsa View.’
A weather-beaten man is texting from his tractor seat with a bright-eyed collie beside him. He points us back down the road. ‘The chalet park is about two miles down there, on the other side of the road,’ he says. ‘What is it with that place? You’re the second lot this week.’
Billy feigns a lack of interest. ‘So who was that then?’
‘Why, who are you two? They were better dressed.’
‘We’re working for Partickhill CID.’
I notice the slight nod at the truth but the farmer shrugs as if it is nothing to do with him. ‘They were cops as well. They had a better car.’
‘A car? Not a four-by-four?’ I ask.
The farmer looks at me, so does the collie. ‘No, it was a car. Noisy exhaust. Two men, middle-aged. What can I say?’ He turns his attention back to his phone as it buzzes in his hand.
Billy executes a very bad three-point turn in the narrow road and nearly gets stuck in the ditch. I get the feeling tractor man is enjoying Billy’s bad driving.
The only indication of the holiday park entrance is a wooden archway among the trees. We drive in over speed bumps made of logs. The chalets need a good coat of varnish but it looks pleasant enough if you like spending your summers as a midges’ buffet. A few cars are parked, three dogs are tethered to stakes in the tiny front gardens, an old woman is weeding. I can hear Radio 2 from somewhere, there’s a smell of fried bacon. It’s nothing flash, just comfortable.
