by Caro Ramsay
‘Police,’ said Anderson, holding up his warrant card, Costello following suit. ‘We were looking for Ruth McCardle.’ He let his tone drift into a question.
‘Hello.’ The door opened. ‘She’s through here.’ The man paused after he closed it behind them. ‘I’m the Reverend John Gibson.’ He shook hands with both the detectives while keeping his voice low. ‘Ruth heard the news yesterday.’
‘So she knows.’
‘Indeed. Mr Webster phoned her, didn’t want her seeing it on the news first. She had a bad night …’ He rubbed at his ginger beard. ‘I wouldn’t put your warrant cards away if I was you, she’ll want to inspect them. Through here …’
He walked them through a small hall full of half unpacked boxes, tennis racquets, a jumble of old trophies, crushed duvets and vacuum packed, unrecognizable items squashed beyond recognition, before opening the door into a small living room. The sofa was covered in a rumpled duvet, it looked still warm. The bright sunshine was blacked out by grey curtains closed tight over the windows. Two big green plants stood on the window ledge, the only real sign of life in the room. A thin, grey-haired woman sat on a chair near the fire. She seemed to be wearing black pyjamas and a dirty dressing gown, easily looking ten years older than the press conference twelve months before. She bore little resemblance to the pretty woman with the raven hair in the photograph on the mantelpiece.
‘The police to see you, Ruth. Do you want me to stay?’ asked Gibson.
Ruth gave them a half-hearted smile and leaned forward as they presented their cards. She studied their photographs, then their faces, before folding them over and handing them back to Costello. For a moment, their hands touched. Costello got the impression of rough, cold reptilian skin.
‘May we have a seat?’ asked Anderson, taking the duvet from the far end of the sofa, and sitting down, showing Costello that she was to lead.
‘Of course, forgetting my manners.’
‘Do you want me to stay or can I put the kettle on …’ asked the minister again, brushing something from the leg of his trousers.
‘Don’t go …’ The words were out of Ruth’s mouth like a bullet. ‘Please.’
‘I’d love a cuppa,’ said Costello, settling into the sofa nearest Ruth. ‘Sorry, did we wake you up?’ She shuffled forward, concerned but not overpowering. She felt the seat warm through her trousers, and presumed that the minister had been sitting here as well. No doubt saying the same words.
‘I’ve not slept, sorry for the mess.’ She swept her hand over the coffee table, the small, bony fingers roughened and red. There was a half-drunk cup of cold coffee, old enough to have developed a layer of scum on the top. The piece of toast on the side plate was half eaten. Three boxes of medication were stacked against the cup but too far away for Costello to read the label properly. A glass of water was beside them.
Anderson studied the mantelpiece. Pride of place was a school picture of her son Callum, wide smile and squinty tie, who had died aged ten, killed by person or persons unknown. Probably Warren McAvoy. And he wondered how anybody lived with that. Or did they just exist? Then he saw the Bible, well thumbed, sitting on the arm of Ruth’s chair. Ruth and the minister had been reading it before they arrived.
‘Sorry, I’m not much used to having visitors these days. Is this about McAvoy? You found him dead?’
‘We found a body we believe to be him,’ said Costello carefully as the minister ghosted into the room carrying a tray of cups.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ he asked, looking at them in turn, at Ruth in particular. ‘You must eat something.’
‘Coffee, my colleague will have tea,’ said Anderson as Ruth shrugged.
‘So what can I do for you?’ Ruth asked as the minister left the room.
‘We wanted to talk to you, Ruth, to introduce ourselves. We can go away and come back at some other time if you prefer.’
Ruth shook her head.
‘The investigation into McAvoy’s death will be by us; we are all new faces to you.’
‘I don’t understand. Why are you investigating the death of that piece of crap?’
‘Ruth!’ Gibson had come back in. As he poured the tea, he said conversationally, ‘I think they might need to know who killed Warren McAvoy and—’
‘I want to know who killed him too,’ said Ruth, ‘so I can shake him by the hand.’
‘A very human response but not a very humane one,’ he said, calmly. ‘Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” That’s what the Bible says. You know that.’
‘It also says an eye for an eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe, and on it goes.’
It sounded like a common exchange between them.
‘Ruth, Warren should have been brought before the courts, so the whole story came out. That would be justice for Callum and Robbie, not this. This is revenge. Now do you want a cup of tea or not?’
Ruth’s face remained almost expressionless, just a faint flicker of something. Her eyes half closed, a slight tightening of her mouth. Costello had seen that look many times before; when a relative identified a loved one in the morgue. It was a lack of anger, an acceptance of pain, an acceptance that life would no longer be the way it was before. A life of whys beginning.
‘Ruth!’ The minister’s voice was sharp but Ruth reacted, reaching out to take the proffered cup of tea. The thin, bony fingers of her right hand curled round the handle.
‘We need to know where McAvoy has been for the last year, since the night—’
‘Since the night he murdered my son?’
‘Yes,’ said Costello bluntly. ‘I know this is distressing, but can you run us through what happened that night?’
‘I’ve told you a hundred times.’
‘You haven’t spoken to these two before, though. New faces, Ruth, so it might help if you go through it,’ said the minister, earning a grateful smile from Anderson. ‘Somebody helped McAvoy escape justice. You want them caught.’
Ruth looked into the fire and shivered, reliving some terrible memory.
For a few moments nobody said anything; the gentle click of teacups on saucers was the only sound. The minister waited; Anderson and Costello followed suit.
‘Fergus never liked flying, so we holidayed here.’ Ruth shrugged at the fire.
‘Ruth’s husband. He has battled with alcohol. At the moment the alcohol is winning,’ Gibson said helpfully.
‘He’s a drunken bastard,’ said Ruth.
‘Do you have any idea where we might find him?’ asked Costello.
She shrugged. ‘Hospital? Drying out clinic? Cemetery. I don’t really care.’
Gibson said, ‘He sometimes attends addiction counselling, Robertson Centre, in the city centre. But not recently,’ he added to Anderson.
‘You never told me that,’ Ruth said scornfully.
‘A shepherd has many sheep, Ruth,’ Gibson reproached her.
‘So, Ruth. You spent the whole summer at Inchgarten Lodge Park, didn’t you? Always in the same lodge?’
‘Bute, the lodge with the best view of the … island.’ She closed her eyes wearily, then continued. ‘We had some lovely times. I used to do my tapestry, play with the boys.’ Her eyes drifted towards the photograph of her and Callum on the TV, the boy holding a tennis racquet. Ruth looked incredibly young, incredibly happy in a Nike T-shirt, headband, some strapping on her left wrist. ‘Eoin and Isobel were there as well, every year. Jimmy, Robbie and Callum. The three amigos.’ Her eyes floated up to another picture, this time a framed pencil drawing of Callum. It was also sitting on the mantelpiece, waiting for a hook. The artist had caught the boy in a sombre mood, a sad smile and big brown eyes.
‘We’ll get that put up on the wall for you, Ruth, it’s a good likeness,’ said the minister.
‘It is.’ Ruth smiled at the picture, her eyes welling up. ‘It only a
rrived on Saturday. It’s lovely. Reminds me that last summer I had a son, a husband, a job, a nice house, and now I have nothing. Except drugs.’
‘And your faith. Maybe this McAvoy situation will bring you some closure,’ said Gibson. Then added, ‘Nothing can hurt you more, can it? Not after all that …’
Her hand left the cup and rested on the Bible. ‘Yeah. Have you spoken to Isobel and Eoin?’
‘They are at the station now.’
‘Isobel has held it all together, hasn’t she? No idea how.’
‘Do you still see them?’
She shook her head. ‘Too many memories. Eoin gave me this film, though.’ She picked up her mobile phone. ‘I look at it every day. You’ll have a copy, on the file,’ she added with some bitterness.
She handed it to Gibson who handed it to Anderson. He watched the short piece of film, listening hard to make out what was being said. The boys in shorts and wet T-shirts, all scratched arms and bruised thighs, pushing a canoe off a stony beach into the water. A man, thin and dark-haired, walked into view. Right into the water, bare feet, soaking his trousers. A deeper voice spoke over the gurgle of the boys’ chit-chat. The thin man got them to line up and slipped a crew saver over each of their heads, making them adjust the straps. The voice who held the camera was asking if there was one for him. ‘Over there,’ was the answer. One boy, Jimmy, said it was ‘gay’. The thin man in the frame turned to the camera; there was a full face shot of him saying, ‘Nothing gay about drowning. You go in there you don’t come out.’ Anderson couldn’t make out what was said next. The thin man patted Callum on his head, a slow pat on the cheek, and turned to the left. The filming stopped.
The frame where McAvoy turned to the camera was the one they had used in the publicity shot. McAvoy. Costello was cricking her neck to look.
‘Eoin and Fergus had been friends since university, then business partners. The boys were pals, but not really Isobel and I. She’s a typical teacher, bossy, bit older than the rest of us. Could be a right royal pain in the arse.’
‘And Grace?’ Anderson was still holding the phone.
‘Yes. If you had caught McAvoy when he murdered her then my boy would still be alive.’ She nodded at that little shadow of pain. ‘I have noticed the date and I’m quite happy that McAvoy is dead. But I can’t help you. Can I have my phone back?’
‘Ruth,’ the minister spoke, a compassionate rebuke.
‘Were the boys close?’
‘Very. The three amigos, like I said. Every summer, Christmas, Easter. All the school holidays …’ she choked on her words.
‘Just the two families?’ asked Anderson gently.
‘When the incident happened, yes.’ She drifted off, looking at the fire. ‘Happy days.’
‘You were a bit of a champion, back in the day? The trophies in the hall?’ asked Anderson.
Ruth smiled rather shyly. ‘In my day.’
‘Did the boys play tennis?’
‘At Inchgarten, yes. They played all sorts. Eoin had his own boat at that time, taught them how to sail. Tony let them hang around the farm. I spent a fortune on computer games at Christmas and Callum preferred jumping on bales of hay. What can you do?’ She bit her lip. ‘McAvoy never said much to us but he chatted away to the kids. He hung around with the boys, hillwalking, climbing, lighting campfires. They would get a sing-song going and we’d pass the whisky round and they’d toast bread in the flames. There was always a big pot of soup on the fire and we’d sit there all night. It never got dark … it never seemed to get dark at all,’ she narrowed her eyes, recalling, ‘in those days.’
‘Sounds like a Boy’s Own adventure. What happened that night?’
‘Well, they were messing about in the canoe. We watched them until they got to the island. We saw them on the shore. Then we had something to eat and Tony gave us a tune on the pipes. “The Skye Boat Song”, can’t hear it now without greetin’. They had a dram, I stayed sober. Then about midnight we saw Jimmy coming back in the canoe, paddling on his own, like a ghost on the water, shouting. You know the rest …’
‘In the end, Robbie and Callum were found dead. No sign of McAvoy.’
She sighed, letting her thoughts flow. ‘Tony called the police, then went out in the wee motorboat, the Scoob. Jimmy was curled up in a blanket in Isobel’s arms. I kept asking where Callum was. I kept thinking he would turn up, behind a tree or safe somewhere. McAvoy vanished into thin air.’ Her head dropped, her eyes closed, tears and snot streaming down her face, dripping off her chin. ‘Sorry.’
‘You should get some rest.’
They stood up. Costello placed her cup back on the tray and squeezed behind the coffee table. As she passed the window, she nudged the curtain open a little; it was blazing sunshine outside. ‘Can I ask you one more thing, Ruth?’ She felt the leaves of the plants, catching her thumb in the damp earth. ‘I know you will have turned this over in your mind many times, but did you ever, ever see any sign that McAvoy was capable of murder?’
‘Would I have let Callum anywhere near him if I had?
By five o’clock, Elvie was back at the office. She was still thinking about what she was going to say to Geno and when. She needed time to think those things through, rehearse the various options in her head. She wasn’t good at people.
And Costello had told her to wait.
She filled out a time sheet and expense claim for her trip out to Balloch. She read a few emails: Avril at the Missing Person unit – Police Scotland had another report of the Tattoo Boy Iain Matthews moving to the south side, around Kinning Park, so Elvie might want to change her search pattern.
Elvie thanked her and asked her to pass on anything else she heard, before opening her personal email. There was one from her mum, asking when she was coming round for dinner. She typed back that she was snowed under with work, but that she would go out and see them soon. That was what you were meant to say. The ‘Buddhist lie’, somebody had called it. Elvie had learned the hard way that lying was easier. The next email was her tutor saying that her essay was excellent, and the feedback from the surgery rotation was good. How did she feel she was coping? Elvie knew that was another lie, a precursor, a cushion for something else further down the email. She scrolled through: nice things about her – academically. Oh yes, here it was. Would she like to come in for advice re some complaints about her interpersonal skills? Same old, same old. She tried to be so careful, tried to be empathetic, but to her anything beyond ‘you are ill, do this and you will feel better’, was a real problem.
She left that email unanswered and opened the Fox Parnell email account.
One unopened email from somebody called [email protected]; the subject line was Help with Project.
Can u help me? I’m 14 and doing a project 4 school. About my grandpappy, genealogy and all that. He left Scotland from a place called Greenock in a boat called the Caledonia. Can you tell me how I can find out more? How old he was when he left? He won’t tell me … He’s v old now and v grumpy, he ended up in Saskatoon, but has been all over … Is it really cool in Scotland? Grandpappy loves it. Look forward to hearing from you. Amy Lee. PS cool name by the way. Do you have sideys like Elvis?
Had the girl never heard of Google? But Elvie thought about it. She had to improve her interpersonal skills – she would have to learn to care even if it was on email – so she emailed back.
Do you want me to have a wee sniff around for you?
There it was, not really committing herself to anything. How to end it? Maybe a personal response to what the girl had said would do the trick …
No sideys.
There was a picture attached to the sender’s name. A more Canadian girl she couldn’t imagine in her own very unimaginative mind: a green American football top, shaggy brown hair, huge smile, perfect teeth. But the sporting top was something she could relate to.
You play football?
Elvie
She sat back and was about to log off when the email arrived. G
eno.
Just been on internet. Is it true? Is Warren dead?
Knowing the limits of her empathy, she logged off anyway.
‘Were there any ritualistic aspects to the killing? WERE there any ritualistic aspects to the killing …?’ Anderson slammed a drawer in the filing cabinet closed with the palm of his hand. The bang made Wyngate jump.
‘So did you tell them that there was a ritualistic aspect to the killing?’ asked Costello dryly, her pen following a line of text on the computer screen. ‘They pulled his arms out, how much more ritualistic can you get?’
‘But how did they know to pose the question?’
‘And you said, I have no comment at this time.’
‘Yes. But they knew. Who the hell is tipping off the press?’ Anderson slumped forward, his head in his hands.
‘No idea, but Elvie said it was a “he”.’ Costello slipped Grace Wilson’s fatal incident report under his nose and turned to Mulholland. ‘What did you think of the Dewars?’
‘The Dewars are way too close to Sammy to be productive. It was a counselling session, not an interview. They are suspects. She never asked them for their whereabouts and she—’
‘Is that Isobel?’ She pointed to a picture on his desk.
‘Yes, taken last year.’
‘She older than Eoin?’
‘Ten years. Why?’
‘She looks terrible, but then …’ the door opened.
‘Behavioural analyst, he’s been waiting downstairs,’ said PC Gillan, hovering at the threshold. ‘Thought I’d bring him up.’
Anderson wasn’t listening. He still had his head in his hands with his eyes staring into his palms, so he missed Costello’s slow, sly smile as she nodded to the tall figure who took his hat off, wafting the scent of patchouli round the office. He smoothed his bald head as if he believed he still had hair there.
‘Is that what you are now?’ she said to the figure at the door. ‘A behavioural analyst?’
‘So I am told, only because it comes in a different column in the budget.’
