The Tears of Angels

by Caro Ramsay

  McAvoy had vanished into thin air. Now he had reappeared. But how had he got off that godforsaken island – Inchgarten or whatever the hell it was called? But it didn’t matter how. The fact was he had.

  Webster thought back to the endless hours of surveillance of McAvoy’s stupid sister going to the chippie, the DSS and the hairdresser. Even interviewing McAvoy’s mother when they could find what doorway she was sleeping in. They had interviewed every mad publicity-seeking fuckwit.

  He glanced at the date.

  The solstice was on Saturday. The anniversary.

  Nice touch, that. The rat had been flushed out and executed by way of celebration. DCI Colin Anderson had thought the manner of the execution was rather impressive. And the tarot card. The Fool. Fitting. Never mind, they had saved the country a fortune in trial costs and a long stay at Her Majesty’s Pleasure.

  Colin Anderson, now who was he? The name didn’t mean much to Webster, so he presumed Anderson was neither a drinker nor a shagger. Webster allowed himself a little smile. If any shit was going to stick it would not be to him, he’d bloody make sure of that.

  He looked at the clock – just gone noon. His fingers played over the buttons on the phone, thinking about Anderson’s exact words. A body with McAvoy’s ID had been found. The body was clean and well nourished. Clean and well nourished? Webster replayed the tone in his mind, searching for any nuance. Anderson was telling him that McAvoy had been looked after by somebody.

  There had indeed been a stone somewhere that had not been turned over.

  There would be a review, an enquiry.

  Well, they could go take a running fuck. Webster would bet the contents of his secret mobile that any review would conclude that McAvoy had been hidden by the witchy weirdoes up at the holiday camp. Daisy, the one with the big tits. Anderson could content himself with doing them for perverting the course of justice; as McAvoy had died before being charged with anything, he was not technically a criminal.

  In the outer office, one of the admin girls bent over to speak to DC Dorwood. Nice arse, bit on the hippy side but he was getting into that as he got older. His fingertips caressed the buttons on the phone but in his mind he was caressing the back of that skirt, the curve of her bum cheeks, the zip on that skirt, weird skirt, like pony skin. Kinda kinky … Was this the one that Woody from Traffic was shagging, or was that the blonde one? He’d need to ask.

  He tried to drag his mind back to the McAvoy situation. The case had been scaled down at Webster’s request last December when he reported that the most likely outcome was that McAvoy had committed suicide. Sammy Winterston had suggested, over a very nice pasta and two bottles of red wine, that it might have been helpful if he had killed himself before he murdered Callum McCardle and Robbie Dewar, but you couldn’t have it all your own way, could you?

  The admin girl stood up and laughed, sticking her ample chest into Dorwood’s face, lucky bugger. Better tits than Sammy, but nowhere near as good as that redhead he’d been chatting up in the Horseshoe Bar … What the hell was her name, now?

  It would come to him when he was not thinking about it. His hand left the phone and danced across the computer keyboard, all keys tapped with his middle finger, a habit left over from the days when he was a forty-a-day man.

  Colin Anderson. Worked out of Partick for a while, made DCI and then … well, the site had not yet updated itself with Anderson’s current remit. But he was based at Partickhill, west sector under Govan command. Bernie was north sector, which included Balloch and Loch Lomond. Anderson had been called to the McAvoy murder scene purely for geographical reasons, not because they were intending to commission a review of his work from another part of the force.

  No need to get paranoid.

  But every cloud had a silver lining. He picked up the phone and called Lyn, his third wife, telling her that he would be late home and why. She didn’t question it. He thought about phoning Sammy Winterston, but she had been an integral part of his team and she would want to talk shop. She would be concerned for his future career, rather touchingly, before having any concern for her own. She’d want to empathise. Webster had something more horizontal planned to take his mind off it. He decided to phone the wee redhead he’d met in the Horseshoe Bar. She had been well up for it, if only he could recall her name … Dawn, Donna, Dione, Darlene …

  He took out his blue mobile stored in a locked drawer at work where his wife would never find it, containing as it did all the contact details for his ladies, and his marks out of ten. The redhead answered on the third ring – turned out her name was Destiny, so he was close enough. She had a husky voice, could make a career on 0898s. He gave her a bit of chat – talk of a film but he’d heard it was crap, talk of a play but he was too late in getting good tickets for them – sounding like he cared, then he mentioned a late supper and an early night at the Holiday Inn. He said he would swing by the Horseshoe Bar and pick her up at eight. She told him a filthy joke about a nun in the bath and a candle. He was still smiling when he ended the call.

  Before he put his blue mobile away he scrolled down, finding a number that only he had – the one person he needed to see before his date with Destiny. He smirked at the joke, but when the phone was answered his voice was as grave as a mortician’s.

  ‘Hi, I’ve got some news for you.’

  They were in the big incident room at Partickhill. The furniture had been rearranged to form a large central table where a tray of water jugs and flasks sat with a motley collection of cups and glasses. There were eight chairs in all, facing the front. The projector hung from the ceiling and the scarred whiteboard had been covered by the viewing screen.

  A small woman with dyed red hair that Anderson had never seen before came in, ignored him and put a plate of shortbread fingers next to the coffee.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  She didn’t look his way, just muttered ‘Aye,’ as she walked out the door.

  There was no sense of who was in charge; it might be him, for all he knew. So he sat on the far side in the middle, the most egalitarian spot. He glanced at his watch, six forty-five. He was fifteen minutes early. There was no evidence or case notes lying around although he had seen the list of documents and articles requested. It had been comprehensive. Right from the fatal accident enquiry into the death of Grace Wilson to school reports of Callum and Robbie, who had both been killed one year later. Bernie Webster had done a good job. Anderson had asked him to come in at six forty-five, to settle things – one to one.

  But he wasn’t here.

  So Anderson went through his own scribbled notes from that morning and tried to make sense of them. The location? The farm had been an excellent choice – the killer knew the area and knew it well. The smallholding sat on the far side of the drive, beyond the old caravans and the stables so any noise would not reach the house where the family slept. Being summer, the horses were out overnight and accessible. Maximum time in and out? Twenty minutes, maybe less.

  Anderson could picture the horses munching, the snip and grate of their teeth on the grass. Then the interruption, heads up, ears pricked, the incentive of a Polo mint maybe, and two horses move towards the killer with their slow, measured stride. Why did McAvoy think he was there? He knew he was a wanted man; he had been living under the radar for a year. So who would he trust?

  Then there was the problem of the footmarks. The deceased had been dragged at some point. Yet the two sets of footmarks on the ground suggested he had walked. Three people entered the field, one left. One for the lab boys or a Channel Four illusionist.

  He tried hard to imagine what came next. The killer whispering in the horses’ ears as they nuzzled at his jacket, maybe. What had passed through McAvoy’s mind at that precise minute, that split second when he realized what was going to happen?

  Then the loop slipped over the head, pulling the ears through, letting the rope rest over strong, sloping shoulders. The tying of the free ends of the ropes to the forearms, knots no
w identified as ‘blood knots’ wound round the elbow and back down again. That had been practised and thought through. A sailor? A climber? The knots would take time and would need a compliant victim.

  So when was the punch that knocked him out?

  Then he must have laid McAvoy on the ground, arms out. Standing the horses back to back, getting the cigarette out ready. The vet had said the burns on the horses’ buttocks were close to the tail, causing the horses to bolt forward with maximum power, maximum damage. That fitted with the face looking skyward. The body did not appear to have jerked to one side first. How does one person control two horses that are facing in opposite directions? Two people, not one? But then there was the single set of footmarks leaving the field.

  Anderson felt a headache coming on.

  The contrast was almost poetic: the scents of the night, the horses, the warm weather, and a peaceful summer pasture above a gently flowing river, to the horror of the dismembered body.

  The killer must have hated him a lot.

  He hoped the parents had good alibis.

  He shuddered at the thought of the shoulder joints giving way. What did the killer do then? Watch the horses gallop off then place the folded card in McAvoy’s mouth? Did the killer look at his victim, lying like a hieroglyph, the empty anorak sleeves and their comet tail of blood tapering into the grass?

  The headache started pulsing. McAvoy must have been drugged. That was another thing that didn’t make sense. Why do something so painful to someone who couldn’t feel a thing? Why not dump him in the bloody river?

  It was nearly seven o’clock. Anderson was trying hard not to dwell on what McAvoy went through in those final minutes of awareness. He needed to concentrate on the job in hand. He was walking a tightrope, investigating a murder that should never have happened if Bernie Webster’s previous investigation had been thorough. He thought about sending Helena a text saying that he might pop over when he got away from here. He fancied a wee glass of something chilled and white to cheer him after this bloody, long and awful day. But he only got as far as taking his phone from his pocket when the peace was shattered.

  The door banged noisily against its retainer arm, a mass of buff files dropped on to the table, two plastic cases of computer discs slid off the top. ‘You teacher’s pet?’

  Anderson returned his phone to his pocket. ‘Hi, DI Costello.’

  ‘I found him in the corridor, gave him some stuff to carry. He’s been at Bella’s all day.’ Costello swung her bag from her shoulder, businesslike, and slid the dark jacket of her suit from her shoulders. Then she rolled up the sleeves of her light blue blouse. She looked like an efficient, slightly cross secretary. DS Vik Mulholland was standing at the door, face hidden by evidence files. He stayed there, petulance in every sinew.

  ‘Come in, Vik. She won’t bite you. At least not in working hours.’ Anderson got up and took the top box from him. ‘How did you get on at Bella’s?’

  Vik slid into the seat beside Anderson. Costello looked at Anderson, one eyebrow raised – Mulholland was a front row, hands up first type of man. ‘Hemphill the Lardy Boy said you have a victim with no arms. Is that true?’

  ‘He has all his limbs but not all attached,’ said Anderson, rubbing his temples. ‘How have you left it at Knightswood?’

  ‘I’ve sealed the house, the body’s been removed. The fire investigation guys are happy. I had a good look round with the wee wittering neighbour, confirmed that nothing has been taken. I’m seeing Bella’s daughter tomorrow. Hemphill is trying to collate the visitors to the square. Virgin Media have had their vans in the area; a black-haired woman has been walking her dog – small black dog – round the square recently; a grey Volvo estate did a U-turn there yesterday; and a council van with Bella’s carers. Except Bella’s carers were private, not council.’ Vik waved his pen in the air.

  ‘Nobody else has been in touch to take the case?’ asked Anderson.

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK, get Wyngate to help Hemphill in the logistics. That constable has the IQ of a dried apricot. Concentrate on the van. Did you say a wee black dog? Get that checked out; the dog walkers will know it if it’s local. Cusack reported a black dog at Riverview as well.’

  Mulholland slumped in the seat, but scribbled down a few notes. ‘I’m shattered.’

  ‘Me too. I’m sure Costello will get us a lovely cup of coffee if we ask her nicely,’ said Anderson, winding up his DI.

  ‘Well, let me consider that.’ Costello started to separate the files into three different piles, causing a landslide of shortbread fingers as she slammed them about. ‘No. And you can both …’ She stopped at the sound of the door opening behind her. Walker and DC Wyngate walked in, followed by ACC Mitchum. Behind them was a tall, slim, dark-haired woman, well dressed in a tailored skirt suit, a single silver chain at her neck, a lone charm hanging from the chain at her wrist. She looked very uncomfortable. The fiscal already had his gold pen in one hand, mobile phone in the other. ACC Mitchum was resplendent in his pristine uniform and shiny shoes. He strode to the front of the room, ignoring those already in it. Anderson shuffled forward in his chair. The woman hung about the door until Mitchum removed his glasses and pointed to the end of the room with the leg.

  Costello was reminded of a documentary she had seen about the Nuremberg trials.

  The woman in the suit nodded nervously at the Partickhill squad. The slight tic of her left hand adjusting her jacket collar gave her away. Costello noticed a slight smudge of subtle eye make-up, a faint redness round the nose. Either she had hay fever or she’d had a wee greet in the loos. That would be from the rollicking she’d just had, or the fear of the one she was about to get. She had the word scapegoat written all over her.

  Bernie swirled the water round his mouth, spat out the remaining toothpaste and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He smiled to himself in the loo mirror; a bit greyer, losing a bit of hair on top, gaining a few extra pounds in the middle, but he could still pull. Maybe not the babe magnet he used to be, but hey ho. He looked at his watch; he still had time to do what he needed to do and make the meeting with Mitchum and Walker. He’d arrive once the fighting was over. Anderson could wait. Sammy was a good girl, but she was only a DI and they had their place. As cannon fodder.

  Yip, it would be better for him to get on with stuff here, leave her to the lions, then he could swan in and save her later. And she would be grateful. After all, he was the main man and they couldn’t really proceed very far without him.

  Ten minutes past seven he was in Glasgow city centre negotiating the one-way system to West Nile Street. They had agreed to meet in Patisserie Valerie. He could get a panini there before going to the station at Partickhill. He’d give that thirty minutes then he’d be out on the piss at the Horseshoe with Destiny. Once he got to the pub, he would explain apologetically that he had been offered a bite to eat at the meeting and it would have been rude to refuse. It would save him from buying her a meal, and there would be no receipt for Lyn to find and spark off the usual argument. Her needle was getting well stuck in that groove. She wanted a family. He had enough of them from his previous two wives. Lyn had money, though. And she kept the house nice and tidy; too nice to be disturbed by more kids.

  He turned the Insignia into the lane next to the Patisserie, bumping the rear wheel on the high kerb. He edged the car past a white council van, two motorbikes and a pile of bulging refuse sacks before placing the police permit on the dashboard. He got out with difficulty as the car was jammed in tight against the wall, up behind a dumpster that was in bad need of a visit from the midden motor. There was nobody about. He pulled the collar of his jacket up round his neck to protect him from the summer rain and the smell of the dumpster. The hot weather was playing havoc with …

  He hit the ground. His first thought was that he had tripped. He didn’t have time for a second.

  ‘Is Bernie short for Bernadette then?’ Costello muttered across to Anderson. The DCI pulled his
forefinger across his lips, telling her to button it.

  Wyngate fired up a laptop and started fiddling clumsily with leads and remotes with all the expertise of a second-rate geography teacher.

  ACC Mitchum swept the leg of his glasses around the room, doing a mental head count and choosing his target. ‘DC Wyngate? Get everything set up. I want to talk through this, once and only once. Why is Webster not here?’

  ‘I did tell him, sir,’ said the dark-haired female.

  ‘So where is he?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’

  Mitchum flicked a look at his watch, then the clock. ‘Well, you all know me. If you don’t know each other …’ He pointed, the leg of his glasses trick again. ‘Walker from the fiscal’s office. DI Costello, Partickhill.’ He indicated towards the dark-haired woman. ‘DI Samantha Winterston, Alexandria, from the original case.’ Mitchum’s voice hinted at some disdainful disappointment. ‘This is DS Vik Mulholland. DC Wyngate will collate the documentation. DCI Webster will no doubt join us, when the mood takes him. And this is DCI Colin Anderson, who will be in charge of this disaster after today.’

  Anderson looked as though he had been presented with a huge MOT bill. He was about to say something, but Mitchum kept talking. ‘Both Bernie Webster and Sammy Winterston will answer to you. Directly.’ An awkward smile passed from Anderson to Winterston and was gratefully returned. ‘Wyngate has pulled together the visual material. Winterston will talk us through it. Nothing that we say leaves this room. This case is one monumental cock-up that makes me bloody ashamed to wear the friggin’ uniform.’ He put the specs back on his nose and rammed them up to the bridge. ‘Jesus knows how the hell we’re going to get out of this. The media are already all over it; Karen Jones is on my phone constantly. So we, and by we, I mean Police Scotland – no hiding behind divisions here – need to stay focussed. Right …’ Mitchum directed his tirade in Winterston’s direction. She looked steadfastly at the file in front of her. ‘Basically we are here to talk about McAvoy and the total fuck-ups of the Grace Wilson investigation in 2012, and then the Dewar/McCardle investigation in 2013. Three dead children.’