by Caro Ramsay
‘Thanks,’ she said, flashing him a beaming smile. ‘Everybody here has been so nice.’
‘They can be if the wind is in the right direction,’ muttered Costello.
‘I never realized you were that Costello.’
Costello felt her heart jump, the scar on her forehead jagged in remembrance.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to bring it up.’
‘Can’t choose your family,’ said Costello, looking into the breakfast delivery for her own fried egg roll, with extra buttered toast.
‘I don’t have any family myself. So is there nothing going on between you and that fiscal?’
‘Not while there is breath in my body,’ said Costello casually, unwrapping a bag with COST written on it to reveal her fried egg, runny yolk in a buttered roll. Without being asked, Wyngate poured her a cup of tea. ‘Walker’s wife phones him every five minutes and he runs like a puppy. All that stuff in here is bravado. His wife is never at any functions or the Law Society Dinner. He always attends alone.’
‘Bernie is a bit like that. Nobody ever sees the wee woman. He doesn’t want her to talk to somebody she shouldn’t.’ Her eyes glazed over.
‘We’ve still not heard from Bernie, you know,’ said Costello, stopping in mid-chew. ‘He’s not turned up in any hospitals. Or mortuaries. That’s getting on for forty-eight hours.’
Sammy shook her head. ‘I called his house last night. Lyn is in pieces. It’s as if he’s disappeared off the face of the earth.’
Wyngate said, ‘We’ve got alerts out looking for the car. The Dewars’ house and workplace have been checked. There was a casual call to Ruth McCardle. I think Batten’s going to check out Inchgarten.’
‘You don’t think that he’s run away to Spain with some fancy tart, knowing that this case was coming back to bite him?’ Costello backhanded some yolk from her chin. ‘His timing is rank rotten.’
There was a slight pause before Sammy answered, ‘Lyn said he’s taken no clothes, and his passport is still there. He left his office exactly the way it should be.’
‘So it crossed your mind as well?’
‘The more I think of it, the more I think that he got a tarot card and has been taken by that bastard McAvoy. The timing is, as you said, rank rotten.’ She choked slightly.
Costello stopped chewing again. ‘You really think we’re looking for a body?’
‘Well, I’m worried.’ Sammy wiped a tear from her eye. Costello recalled the redness round her eyes the day they had met.
‘Maybe you should …’
The door opened. Anderson came in, carrying two plastic envelopes. ‘Glad you two are here. Look at these.’
‘Not more?’ asked Costello with her mouth full.
‘One for me at my house. One for you, Sammy, sent here to the station.’
‘Oh my God!’
‘Do you want to open yours? I got the Emperor, black envelope but the card was white. Oh, and Ruth McCardle has been on the phone complaining about the press coverage.’ He sat down in an empty chair beside them. ‘Any more coffee in the pot? I’ve had about two hours’ sleep.’
‘Ditto,’ said Costello to nobody.
‘The Emperor means … rational sensible thought,’ said Sammy as Wyngate obliged with the coffee flask.
‘She’s been swotting up this stuff,’ said Costello, nodding at Sammy as she opened her card.
‘The lovers.’ The word choked in Sammy’s throat.
‘Really?’ said Costello, her small teeth ripping apart a bit of toast.
Sammy looked at her then looked away, hands trembling.
‘Enough,’ said Anderson. ‘We will put the “Happy Families” to one side until Batten the mind-reader turns up. So, new orders. Nobody is to be solo – stay in pairs at all times. I’m a bit worried about Elvie up at Inchgarten. If McAvoy is behind all this, that is where he’ll be. We might be better going in mob-handed.’
‘So he can hide for another year? We need softly softly.’
‘I don’t think that is such a good call, Costello.’
‘Then you don’t know Elvie like I do. And she was going up there anyway, remember? She’s employed by the agency acting on instructions from Warren’s dad. At least she has Vik reining her in. You should be more worried about Bernie.’
‘We are doing what we can,’ Anderson said slowly, poking his tongue round his mouth as if he had toothache. He looked at his watch. ‘Walker and I have a meeting at nine to soothe the angry breast of the press. Then I am going to see Ruth. Batten will be on his way out to Inchgarten by taxi. Costello, can you go out with Vik, spend a couple of hours checking it out, get some bearings?’
‘Can he not go by himself?’
‘What have I just said? Two. Together. I want you to give the place a once-over, let me know what it’s like. God knows when I’m going to get out there myself. Walker wants me here, and only here. The surveillance on Lexy and Eoin is proving useless.’
‘So if we’re not thinking of Warren as serial killer of the decade, but thinking of the killing of pseudo-Warren as an act of revenge, then my money is on Eoin. He’s fit, strong, and he can handle a boat. I bet that means he can tie blood knots …’
‘Anybody tracked down Fergus yet?’ Anderson asked.
‘Last time I saw him he was in pieces,’ said Sammy, ‘as you would expect. I’ve never seen misery like that in another human being before and I never want to see it again. He had cancer a few years back and started drinking as soon as he got the all-clear. He’d cleaned himself up but then hit the bottle again when Callum died.’
Anderson raised an eyebrow.
‘Bernie was digging into their,’ she licked her fingers, ‘medical histories. Of all the parents. And Fergus nearly lost them the business. The house has gone. You’ve seen the state of penury that Ruth lives in. I remember them at the press conference, Fergus looking away into the far distance. He was lost already.’ She pursed her lips.
‘Or was that because he was already planning his own justice? I could understand that,’ said Costello.
Anderson sipped his coffee. ‘We have alerts out for him as well. Addicts can’t stay away from their fix; he can’t stay hidden. I’m just thinking about that thing that Ruth said: it was Eoin and Fergus who were the real friends.’
‘In case they are still “real friends”, you mean?’
‘What did they do at uni?’ asked Costello.
‘Who?’
‘Eoin and Fergus. They met at university. Ruth said so.’
Sammy shrugged her shoulders. ‘I can’t recall.’
‘Gordon, can you check that? And how was Eoin at the press conference? Can you remember?’ Costello was looking at the photograph of Eoin on the wall, the strong, handsome alpha male.
‘Eoin? Full of resolve, eyes narrow, throat tight, concentrating. Coiled spring type. Always reaching out for Isobel, like she needs to be held. Needy.’
‘They were doing that hand thing yesterday. The company is still running but scaled down, is that right?’
‘I think so.’
Costello nodded and scribbled something down in her book.
‘You know that issue with the footmarks,’ Sammy pointed to the board, ‘four feet in, two feet out. Do you think one of them rode out of the field on a horse, to confuse us? I’m just thinking about there being two of them seen walking towards a white van at Dotty’s.’
‘And two carers seen at Bella’s,’ said Anderson. ‘She is linked to all this somehow,’ he added before the others had a chance to question it. ‘Hemphill is trying to find the link, but she has no connection with the boys or Inchgarten. Is Dotty’s DNA back?’
‘No.’
‘Bella’s neighbour said, “two carers, the old one and a youngster”’, Anderson continued. ‘What gave her that impression? A big one and a wee one. Eoin is tall and strong. Fergus is a weedy wee thing.’
‘So are we not thinking about McAvoy any more?’ Costello asked. ‘He was number one suspec
t before breakfast. Or do we think he has an accomplice? What has changed?’
‘It could be two hell-bent on revenge,’ Anderson said. ‘Or Warren on some mission which only makes sense in his head. Killing the families he never had? Either way we’re getting bloody nowhere.’
‘We can’t make any sense of it until we know if Mr Field was killed because they thought he was McAvoy. Or did McAvoy kill him and place the ID to put us off the scent?’ said Costello.
‘I’d be happier talking about what we do know,’ snapped Anderson.
‘McAvoy doesn’t make friends. Daisy is too unfit. Tony is a weed,’ said Sammy.
‘I need to wind this up, press conference calls,’ said Anderson, getting up and taking his coffee with him. ‘We are releasing no information about the arrow. And before anybody tells me, I learned at school that Robert the Bruce got his bows from the wood of Inchclonaig, which is near Inchgarten. Somebody else might know that as well.’
‘I did,’ said Walker, who was standing at the door. He flicked his wrist at Anderson, warning him to watch his time.
‘You would.’
Anderson spoke quietly to Costello. ‘I want you to search Bernie’s office. Bring back anything you think might be relevant. I’ll take Sammy out to Ruth’s. By the end of the day I want to know where Fergus is. It’s a common feature in this case, folk floating about in the ether.’
‘Nowadays we depend so much upon the electronic footfall,’ Costello said. ‘We are kind of lost without it. Makes me think that some part of that is deliberate.’
‘Just one more thought,’ said Anderson in her ear. ‘When you search the desk, don’t lose sight of the possibility that Bernie might be involved, however unpleasant the thought.’
He got up and left, leaving Costello sitting looking at Bernie’s face on the whiteboard. A cop pushed too far by a case he couldn’t prove?
‘Anybody interested in the fact that Fergus McCardle was never at any university of any kind?’ said Wyngate into the air. Nobody was, so he got up, went to the board and drew a grey arcing line from Fergus to Eoin like the jet stream from an aeroplane, destination unknown.
The sun was blinding, the car was hot. Elvie turned off Elvis and his suspicious mind on the CD player. She was getting restless. She needed to get out and have a run and a stretch. Less than an hour out of Glasgow city centre, she was now in the middle of nowhere. She was supposed to leave the Polo in a field, surrounded on three sides by some very ancient trees. There was no sign of any human life. She had driven past the small sign for Inchgarten Lodge Park twice, and carried on past it until she ran out of road. Her fourteen-point turn to avoid the ditches was impressive, but she had eventually found the field. She picked up her rucksack from the back seat of the car, making sure her hybrid laptop was inside, along with her phone, swimming costume and all her running stuff. Then she went round to the boot and picked up a box and a bag from Waitrose, full of food and goodies packed by her mother. She had also brought her own duvet, pillows and towels. Just in case. But they could stay in the car for now.
She set off across the field, the bronze-tipped grass showing signs of a long, hot summer and more verdant growth from the recent rainfall. She followed a path that led into a small gathering of trees, then across a wooden bridge, where the path turned, probably down to the lochside. She could hear a dog barking in the distance.
Elvie could recall the map perfectly; this path would come out at the Roonbay or the Round Bay as it appeared on the older maps. So called because it was small in diameter – almost a lagoon. That was where Grace had died in 2012, near the Rocking Stone. Elvie looked around her as she walked. The hills were green and splendid, not too steep, good for hill training. The bitter cold water would be great for swimming. She was supposed to have a bike but she didn’t intend going too far away from here.
She owed it to Geno to find out what had become of Warren, good or bad. She also owed it to Costello, who was letting her put a foot inside the investigation, although she knew there would be a greater advantage for Police Scotland than there would be for Geno DiMarco. And she had to suffer Vik Mulholland, Mr Cheekbones, looking over her shoulder, keeping an eye out in case she overstepped her mark and ruined any future prosecution.
Warren McAvoy had not been killed in that field. So, he was still alive. Out there somewhere. Or here, somewhere.
She walked along the path that skirted the bay, small bushes growing in a fringe round the sand and the huge stone right at the water’s edge. This was where Grace had fallen; the wee girl had snuck out of the lodge and gone down to Roonbay to spy on her parents and their party at the bonfire.
Midsummer’s Day.
The summer solstice. Midnight.
Robert Cohoon’s birthday. The unrelated fact flashed through her mind.
The barking of the dog was louder now. She went round the bigger bushes to a copse of small trees and saw Inchgarten Bay beyond, larger and with a more subtle curve than Roonbay. The island sitting out there in the water. It looked close and peaceful but looks were deceiving. It was a long way, a very long way in cold water. The lodge park and the bay were carved out of a recession in the land. The natural curve of the loch would easily encompass the island, and there was a strong current through the channel between the bay and the island. You’d need strong arms to row that on a windy day when the current would be at its most powerful. And Jimmy did that. Testament to the adrenaline surge from terror.
She stood for a moment taking in the view, dropping the bag and the box to the ground. The trees, the loch, the island, the sand. The crescent moon cut out for the remains of a bonfire, a small wall build round it with old rocks and bricks bordered by four huge old trunks of trees, arranged like bench seats, one to each side. At the far side was a single storey, stone brick building, the wide door closed. Some kind of old boathouse, but the lack of grass at the door showed it was in constant use. Behind it was a hedge, with the roof slates of an older building just visible. Near the boathouse there was an old pontoon with a small dinghy tied up against it, nodding and nudging in the water. On the other side was a larger wooden motorboat in need of a good lick of paint. Up on the shore, lying at a kilter, was the kayak which she recognized as the Dreamcatcher, bright psychedelic eyes painted on the front. She looked back to Roonbay, to the Rocking Stone right at the water’s edge, where the loch was inky black. From the strong sucking sound of the waves against the stone, she reckoned there was a deep rock shelf under the surface. It had looked so benign from the other side. The place was dangerous.
The farmhouse sat slightly higher on the hill, a pretty stone building, not quite roses round the door but not far from it. She could see the road going up the back of the hill, the road to nowhere.
She turned at the sound of barking, suddenly close. A huge dog, the colour of salt and pepper, came running down the grass to greet her, with its hackles up and tail wagging, mixed signals just in case. Elvie stood her ground, letting the dog take his time.
‘Hoi!’ The voice echoed like a foghorn down the hill and on to the water, from the high lodge. ‘Mr Peppercorn! Don’t you dare!’ A maze of bright yellow and blue appeared through the hedges. ‘You OK with dogs, hen? Up you come. It’s Elf Eh McCulloch, is it?’
‘Elvie,’ said Elvie quietly, picking up her stuff.
‘I’m Daisy. How are you doing, hen?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
The figure appeared in full, swathed in a long, strappy dress. Fuzzy headed, her hair a mop of brown. A good four stone overweight, but proportioned in the way that so charmed the old Masters; her beauty and curves deserved to be caught in oil. She had the widest smile and bluest eyes of any woman Elvie had ever seen.
Daisy Laphan, the sister of the owner. ‘Oh, up you come!’ The welcome in her voice was genuine. She held her arms out as if to envelop Elvie in an embrace, but wrestled the box from her instead, then the Waitrose bag, saying how nice it was and she was so slim and so strong and didn’t
really need a hand with the bags at all with her being so fit an’ aw.
Elvie slid into step behind her, letting Daisy talk, looking at the two rows of lodges, four in each row, staggered so that the ones behind had a view of the loch between the ones in front. Lovely wood, but not well maintained. It was the sort of thing that would have her mother’s boyfriend out with a paintbrush in a flash.
The ‘Eigg’ was the second last one in the front row, angled slightly to look more up the loch than out to the island. At the bottom of the few steps up to the front door, the woman dropped the bags. ‘No come far then?’
‘No.’
‘In you come,’ she thundered up the stairs, booted the door open with her heel, ‘let me take that bag from you, till you get in. You’ve got enough to feed the five thousand here. I do all the food if you want. Good stuff, all fresh, loads of fish. My, my, you are one skinny b … you are. Jesus, where do you put it all? I suppose it’s all that running about and all that stuff you do. I’m nipping out to get my hair done now, so you make yourself at home and make sure your wee pal gets here safe and sound. Glorious weather, innit?’ She stood in front of Elvie, hands on hips, and nodded.
‘Yes,’ said Elvie simply, not really knowing if any of that had been a question.
Anderson recognized the noise of locks being pulled back. Ruth’s head appeared round the door, eyes sleepy, bed hair. ‘I’m having a real bad morning.’
‘Ruth, we need to talk. It’s DCI Anderson. I’ve Sammy with me.’
‘Hi, Sammy, what are we talking about? I’ve seen the news.’
‘We need to talk about McAvoy. Can we come in?’
‘The door’s open, isn’t it?’ and they followed Ruth into the darkness within. She was wrapped in her grey dressing gown, sitting in front of the TV. ‘What about him?’ She took her place under the duvet on the chair by the fire; the room smelled of body odour and toast. ‘Sorry, the place is a mess. I’ve only been awake for half an hour.’ She rubbed her face with her hands, a little shake of the head. ‘I’ll need to put the kettle on …’
‘I’ll stick it on for you,’ said Sammy.
