by Caro Ramsay
The jet eyes opened and stared at Costello. A faint smile curled the bright red lips. The gnarled hand, ringed and decorated, floated out like Nosferatu’s. Bent, withered fingers reached out for her, then stopped in mid-air. The fingers started to dance. The lips worked, she took a deep breath and fought to pull faint words from her throat: ‘Pietrino, finalmente sei venuto.’
‘Sorry?’ said Costello smiling, trying to ignore the hand, watching the door, and wishing that Archie would hurry up. Then she heard rushing footsteps along the hall. Not from the stairs though. A care assistant appeared at the door, a middle-aged lady in a blue uniform hastily tying a plastic white apron behind her back, hurrying across the thick pile carpet in light blue crocs. Fake crocs, Costello noticed. She had seen the notice from Trading Standards.
‘Oh God, I am soo, sooo late. The bloody traffic is terrible out there,’ she said with the flashing smile of the professionally disinterested while pulling her fingers through her short brown hair. ‘Are you here to visit Pippa? I haven’t seen you before.’
‘Just popped in to see how she was doing,’ lied Costello.
‘Thank God. I thought you were from the management for a minute.’ She relaxed, catching her breath. ‘Couldn’t even stop for a fag.’
That was a lie, judging by the smell that hung round the woman like a halo. ‘Are you one of the nurses?’
‘I wish. I’m Sandra, one of the carers. If you are looking for Pippa’s designated carer, that will be Lisa, wee dark girl. Got a dolphin tattoo on her arm, you can’t miss her.’ Sandra shuffled over to the lady in the wheelchair and flicked the brake with the toe of her croc. ‘We are so short staffed.’
‘Way of the world these days,’ agreed Costello, standing to one side, as the wheelchair and its passenger glided past. The dark eyes cast a dismissive glance at Costello and the hand drifted through the air, playing its invisible piano andante.
She left a suggestion of Fracas behind her, and took something just as subtle with her. Maybe somebody less sensitive to human emotion would have missed it, but Costello sensed the tension had eased, the atmosphere relaxed, as if a suspect had realized that the difficult question had not been asked and the conversation had moved safely on. Chic and the robin woman were staring into space, canary lady was still worrying her blanket. Pippa was still head down in her Maeve Binchey, rattling her beads. Only Scarface was different, his posture had relaxed, his lips curled at one corner. He was looking at the spot where the wheelchair had been, amused, having driven her out by the power of his will.
His dark eye flickered. Costello wanted to walk out, but felt fixed in his stare. Threatening? Curious? Scared? She stared back, stony faced.
A loud screech made them jump.
Costello was at the window in an instant, hearing the slam of a car door; something was happening in Athole Gardens. Costello pulled out her phone, saying, ‘Even for parade day, it’s a bit early for a drunk and disorderly.’ She could see two squad cars park up at the end of Athole Lane but she could see nothing more, not from here. She turned round. There was another change in Scarface’s demeanour, the look in his eye. Pleading? Needy for an escape away from this life? ‘I’ll tell you all about it next time I am in,’ Costello whispered conspiratorially as she passed him on her way out. Heading down the main stairs, she could see Archie’s shadow coming down from above. Maybe he had heard the commotion too, but she hurried away before he could catch up and remind her she was off duty. The matron was still in the main hall, another one who had not appeared to have moved position. She gave Costello a thin-lipped little smirk before flicking a look at the clock high on the opposite wall. A silent accusation: You didn’t stay long?
‘Duty calls,’ said Costello, lifting her mobile to her ear.
Matron tried not to cross her arms in disapproval.
‘The Italian looking lady …?’
‘The Duchess?’ Matron Nicholson confirmed.
‘Of where?’
‘That would be confidential.’
‘And the old gentleman, sits in the corner? Badly scarred face? Was he ever a cop, do you know? Or is that also confidential?’
‘Mr Kilpatrick? No. To be in this establishment, he would need to be a member of the Theatre Trust or the Actors Guild.’ She softened a little. ‘Well, anything connected with the stage nowadays, if they have the money. So, not a cop. No …’ But something in her attitude had altered, a flicker of respect.
‘Maybe he was an actor who played a cop? Probably murdered in Taggart. I bet they all were at one time or another, eh?’ Costello joked.
The matron’s face cracked a little. ‘Mr Kilpatrick is one of our characters.’ She was going to add something, but the thought died before it grew to action. Her hand had lifted to her cheek, a comforting rub, subconsciously connecting his name with a sore face.
Costello said goodbye and was out the door, jogging down the hill following the curve of the railings at the north end of the garden, her footsteps quickening as she saw another unmarked car arrive. The tape was already up.
Here was a story she could tell Scarface all about. He might not be a cop. But that little look on the matron’s face spoke volumes. Mr Kilpatrick was no stranger to criminality.
Going up in the lift, Sandra Ryme checked her make-up in the mirrored wall. She was, as her mum would have said, making some effort. The cake might be a bit bashed, hanging in its Lidl’s bag round the handle of the wheelchair, but the old dear wouldn’t notice.
Sandra had got a fright when she walked into the day room and clocked the spikey-haired blonde in the officious suit. She recognized those calculating eyes that flickered everywhere, checking this and assessing that, seeing everything and forgetting nothing. Sandra had thought she might have been from the Pearcy Kirkton senior management team, coming to invite her for a performance review to kick her arse for yet another misdemeanour. But as she got close Sandra had spotted the casual uneasiness of the unfamiliar visitor to the facility, the guest that did not want to be here, the reluctant, the guilty and the neglectful. It was logical to Sandra that if she was new, she must be here to visit Pippa Walker, as she was the facility’s newest resident.
Sandra herself had only worked here for a couple of years, a lifetime as a carer with no real qualifications or monetary reward. She had worked in much worse places than Athole House, home for retired stars of stage and screen with prudent health insurance. Or were rich enough to be self-financing like the Duchess. She had class and money. And jewellery. Good jewellery. And she, Sandra Ryme, was her designated carer, which was a good start. She couldn’t believe her luck when Lisa told her Paolo was the Duchess’s only son. And was single. And best of all, the Duchess was gravely ill. And really old.
It was perfect.
Sandra looked at her watch. Paolo would be round to give his mother her lunch later. He never, ever, let the Duchess eat with the other residents with their slurpy, dribbly habits.
Sandra squared up her blue nylon tunic, dusting a few doughnut crumbs from the front. She checked her eyeliner in the mirrored panel in the lift, pulling faces to check that she didn’t have bits of doughnut caught in her teeth. The lift jolted to a stop and the door rattled to the side, in need of oil. She might mention it to Paolo, saying she was concerned it might jar the Duchess’s spine. That would get her Brownie points.
Sandra smoothed down her short brown hair and checked her lips again. She daydreamed what she could do next as she wheeled the Duchess slowly along the long hall to ‘Tosca’, her own room – the biggest, most expensive room, right at the front of the home and with best view over the gardens. There was money in that family. As she pushed her along, Sandra looked down the back of the Duchess’s neck, at the red and black silk scarf and thought, with admiration and longing, of the solitaire diamond brooch that pinned it at the front.
As she unlocked the door of Tosca, the twinge in her wrist reminded her of that beautiful Wednesday when she came back to her work, six weeks after D
eke Kilpatrick had broken her wrist with one swing of his good arm. Paolo had taken Sandra quietly to one side, and told her in his lovely soft voice that he was going to request that she became the Duchess’s designated carer, to keep her safe from the likes of Kilpatrick. She went into nice mode and had replied that she was honoured but didn’t think the management would allow it; she was not long enough in the job. He had then said that any attempt by the management to block the reassignment would be met with a few comments about the management’s failure in their duty of care to keep their staff safe from a resident who had a history of violence. And he had held her gaze with those big blue eyes of his. Sandra didn’t think she had taken a deep breath since. God knew she recognized blackmail when she heard it. She was a master.
She looked at the clock, ignoring the time while admiring the four silver spires. It was a fine example of a Gothic revival mantel clock. Two grand at least. According to an auctioneer’s website. Two grand!
She parked the wheelchair in the curve of the bay window so the Duchess could enjoy the view, and switched the kettle on. The Duchess sat, stony faced, alone in her world, her right hand up, still playing its silent piano. Sandra then picked up her duster and looked round at the glass-topped dressing table, the bottles of Fracas perfume, the tubs of luxurious cream and the locked jewel boxes. She wiped underneath them, making sure she set them all down where they had been. Paolo would notice if it wasn’t exactly right, just as he would notice if anything went missing. Which was a bit of an issue.
He noticed detail. He always dressed the Duchess in the style of the women she admired: Jackie Onassis, the Queen, Wallis Simpson. Today her ebony hair was pulled back into a whalebone clip, cottage loaf style and her make-up was pancake white, lips a deep ruby red, like a Disney queen. Her bright eyes were circled in blended kohl, the eyelids were painted bright azure, then blended to lend some colour to the faded cornflower blue of her eyes. And the eyelashes; each had been added separately and then mascaraed over, three times. Paolo had offered to teach Sandra how to do that. Sandra eagerly agreed, thinking he meant for herself, and then felt embarrassed when she realized Paolo had meant to show her how to do the Duchess’s eyelashes.
Of course he had.
These were theatre people, and good make-up was part of that job. To be fair, he had then offered to teach her a few tricks of the trade but he hadn’t mentioned it since. She needed to get some time alone with him. That one time when he had drawn his forefinger down the side of her cheek, saying something about her cheekbones, her spine had tingled. Funny how all those men, panting and puffing and stinking and sweating, Sandra had felt nothing. Well, not until they had fallen asleep and she had emptied their wallets. But one touch of one fingertip from an Italian bloke, and she felt as though her legs might give way.
Sandra draped the olive green cashmere pashmina round the old lady’s thin shoulders, over the soft folds of her duck egg blue dress. Then she pinned it with the diamond brooch. The red scarf was discarded, it didn’t match her room the way the pashmina did. Sandra loved the Duchess’s clothes, and their muted colours. Even the rug under the wheelchair was the gentlest of green, marbled in white.
Sandra had a go at humming the tune from the opera, trying to better herself as she filled the china teapot from the kettle. The Duchess liked to have a cup of Earl Grey with her cake, a napkin across her lap or held gently to her chin.
The pashmina had slipped so Sandra straightened it up and gave the shoulders a little massage, thinking that the Duchess was getting thinner by the day. The old lady closed her eyes in gratitude, her right hand raised to clasp Sandra’s fingers – a gentle squeeze, a little acknowledgement for how she looked after her, and Sandra surprised herself by the wee stab of guilt that pricked her conscience.
Sandra poured the tea into a porcelain cup; the cake sat on a doily on a matching side plate that was then placed on the wooden carved table that was a bugger to dust. Sandra stood it to the side of the Duchess’s chair, then returned to her duties. A little face powder had been spilled on the dresser, covering the glass like a fall of fine snow. As she dusted, she heard a car go past the home at speed, screech to a halt, then a door slam. Of course it was parade day and the traffic was snarly out there. There had probably been an accident.
She stopped dusting mid swipe, her eyes drawn to some movement down in the lane, where the 4x4 families munched on their artisan breads while moaning about their gluten intolerance. As she watched, a woman came out the back door of a flat on Athole Lane, right at the extreme of her vision, a police car, lights flashing blocked the entry into the lane. Sandra looked round to ensure that the Duchess was safe in her own wee world, then she cupped her hand against the glass and pulled up her uniform so she could climb on the ledge to get a better view. She saw the woman she had met downstairs, the one with the short spikey hair and the official looking suit walking quickly, mobile in hand, talking nineteen to the dozen while looking back and forth. She looked like she would take no shit from anybody.
One to be watched.
Sandra leaned her forehead on the glass, enjoying the coldness of it against the heat of the day. She watched a strip of blue and white tape go up, the woman ducked under it and vanished into a group of people. Sandra slid down. The Duchess was staring right past her, out the window, her blue eyes focused on an empty sky.
PC Graham sat on the front desk, settling down to a fresh brew of tea and a full box of Jaffa Cakes for his break. It was that kind of day; parade day and the madness had started already. There was an incident kicking off down Athole Lane, two units were attending. For now he was vaguely listening to Amy Niven’s story. He had been young once, he had been there. Being a man, he couldn’t help but notice how pretty she was. Being a father he couldn’t help but worry about young students getting their drinks spiked. And of course, the ACC had phoned from outside so he phoned Wingnut Wyngate in the CID suite and he in turn had gone off to find DCI Anderson who had last been heard, in his own office, swearing loudly.
Amy Niven was voluble, enthusiastically describing the green matchstick men hanging on the ceiling when the private door of the outer office banged open. DCI Colin Anderson’s handsome face did not look good when unhappy, and he was not happy at being interrupted. He had grey patches under his eyes, shadows of the sleepless. Graham put his hand up to stop Amy Niven in mid-flow. She started giggling.
Anderson called Graham through, staying behind the one-way glass. ‘Who is she?’
‘Amy Niven, she’s nineteen. She seems to know you. And Mitchum said—’
‘Yeah, I heard what he said. Where does she know me from?’ asked Anderson, ‘I don’t recognize her.’
‘She’s not clear on that. She’s very clear on the aliens though. The Safer Society might need a new initiative for that, you never know …’ Graham’s voice trailed off lamely, realizing that Anderson was muttering something about there being a first for everything.
‘And she hasn’t got to the end of it yet. She says that she was abducted by aliens and the aliens wanted her to tell you. She is very insistent about that.’
As Anderson watched her, Amy slid off the seat and recovered herself before she hit the floor.
‘What is the exact protocol here, sir?’ asked Graham, joining the DCI at his viewpoint behind the window. ‘Do I ask her if she wants a coffee?’
‘That would make sense if she was drunk. But God knows what she might have taken, or been slipped. We need to get a medic down to find out what it is and how it might affect her.’ He rubbed his face, tired. There was a lot to be said for living alone with your teenage daughter, but the hours they kept was not one of them. ‘What do we know about her?’
Graham leaned across and turned round the computer screen so that Anderson could see the Facebook page for Amy Niven, age nineteen, a classics student at Glasgow University, who had 567 friends and had been to secondary schools in Glasgow and Fife. She wasn’t in a relationship and she liked Breaking Bad.
>
‘God,’ said Anderson, ‘young people today. All life is a goldfish bowl. Take her upstairs and I’ll be with you in a minute.’
DCI Colin Anderson looked at the girl opposite him, thinking his own daughter Claire was not that much younger than Amy. He had an A4 piece of paper. DC Gordon Wyngate had compiled a very concise list of all that was known about Amy, when and where she was last seen by her friends on the Saturday night, her mother’s opinion of her and that she had a thyroid condition and had not had any of her medication.
Wyngate sat in his usual position, with his back at the window, rubbing his jaw. Anderson knew he liked that seat because his skin was still sensitive to strong sunlight after suffering a chemical injury last year, and now the constable was suffering a bad bout of toothache. Between him and Mulholland’s leg, they were turning into the walking wounded.
DCI Colin Anderson himself was sitting on the blue plastic chair, comfortable, upending the piece of folded paper over and over against his thigh, studying the girl opposite. She was sitting with her eyes closed, unaware of his gaze, smiling slightly to herself. He had tried to follow her story while thinking how many ways he could kill Gordon Wyngate, Arran Graham, ACC Mitchum and James Kirkton and in what order he would do it in. Slowly. Painfully. With no mercy whatsoever. Twisting their limbs and dicing them in a million tiny pieces while playing Adele at full volume. That would hurt, they would soon be begging for death.
Despite his benign demeanour, Colin Anderson could be very vengeful when he wanted to be.
