by Caro Ramsay
‘Oh, I thought something important had happened.’
Elvie cursed over the phone and battered some branches out of her way in anger. Then she saw something lying in the mud, muddy brown and half rotten but folded, the material making peaks in the undergrowth. She picked it up between her thumb and forefinger and shook it out. ‘I’ve found a top. Might have been green once.’
‘Means nothing, but I’m beginning to like you, hen.’ Batten began to text back to Wyngate at the incident room – a single question, and one line of text. He could hear Elvie breathe heavily out on the island. ‘And?’
‘And it is overgrown above ground but if I look down, the ground is clearer, as if there has been a narrow pathway at one time. I’m not looking for a body, am I?’
‘No, the dogs would have found it last summer.’
‘Good.’
‘Unless it was washed away and washed back up again. The currents here are famous for that. Keep going. You’re a wee kid on an adventure.’
‘No, I am not.’
‘Keep going, or are you getting tired?’
‘No.’ She pushed her way forward. The foliage got thicker, the ground was slippier. The rocks had been wet until very recently.
Batten’s phone beeped. ‘Light green T-shirt. Army colour.’ He was congratulating himself that his hunch might be right when he heard a gasp and the sound of something falling, like a sack of potatoes hitting the ground. Then some extreme swearing.
‘Well, I’m much lower now. I’ve fallen about six feet. Don’t think I’ve broken anything.’
‘You OK?’
‘Yeah. It’s slimy here. Looks like it could get covered by water most of the time.’
‘Keep going.’ Batten had to keep the excitement from his voice.
He heard her footfall cease, her breathing went quiet. ‘Prof? There’s something here, a pair of doors. Half-submerged, two doors hidden behind loads of greenery.’
‘Can you see the far shore?’
‘Too overgrown.’
‘Can you open the doors?’
‘Not without getting very wet.’
‘So get wet then.’
She slipped her feet in, soaking her trainers and her leggings to above her knee. She reached forward and tried to yank the doors open. The wood was damp and rotten, covered with green moss. ‘The hinges are rusty, one of them has been pulled off. It’s twisted.’
‘Can you still be seen by somebody high on the hill?’
‘No. I’ve a canopy of leaves over me. This stinks of damp wood and animal shite, and it’s all rank rotten. I’m standing in brown mulch.’
‘Is there a roof?’
‘There are some bits of decayed wood, covered in green moss, good camouflage.’
‘Can you get in?’
‘You want me to go in there? Bloody hell …’ Elvie knelt down into the stinky brown water; a cloud of insects flew out. She waited for them to fly away and then leaned forward, sticking her head into the heavy warm air. ‘It’s a hut half built in the water. I can see the loch out the other side, it sits about six inches above the surface of the water. The rest is solid, well solidish. I can see bracken and trees round there.’
‘But open water beyond.’
‘Must be, I’m very close to the waterline where I’m standing. Can’t see much – it’s very dark.’
‘Is it big enough to hold a boat?’
‘Barely. Oh, wait …’
‘What?’
‘On the far corner there’s some yellow casing. It’s all faded, mottled and brown round the edges. Emergency yellow, though. It might be a canister for a life raft. The small ones, the ones that blow up? It’s empty.’
Batten dropped the phone to his knee and looked over the water. ‘Empty. So now we know.’
Batten waited patiently, enjoying the sun and the solitude, the slap and chatter of the waves on the rock. He heard the phone buzz.
‘Hi, I’ve taken the photos.’
‘Great, could I ask one more thing? Just to prove a point. Swim through the boathouse, come out the other side and find out what’s your quickest way back to land. Take the Bluetooth off. I’ll be keeping an eye out for you; as soon as I see you from this vantage point, you can swim back to the island.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s interesting.’
‘OK.’ She battered her way through the waterside of the door, pushing hard with her arms. Then she was plunged out to the cold waters of the loch, deep, dark water underneath her. One hard push and she was out of her depth and into the sunshine. She listened, sensing the way the water was moving, getting her bearings. She needed to go north, north-east to get past the northern tip of the island.
She swam strongly, noticing the change in the current; not so easy to swim out from the shelter of the island. But after about ten minutes she had cleared the north end of the island and turned to look at the shore, saw Batten and raised her arm to wave at him.
He didn’t seem to be paying any attention so she trod water for a while, waiting.
Then he turned and saw a distant, elegant arm moving to and fro like a lone flower being blown in the wind. She was fit, strong, a good swimmer and dressed appropriately. How strong a swimmer was McAvoy? How did he fare in the power of the solstice current, the strength of the wind? In water that killed most people within a few minutes of immersion.
He watched the arm, back and forth, back and forth, raised his own in response and she was gone, under the water.
Waving or drowning?
Anderson got the nod that Lexy McAvoy was now in one of the interview rooms. He cursed and looked at his watch. He had to have an important transatlantic conversation first.
The big man sitting in his house somewhere in Connecticut looked right back at him. Anderson had no idea what he was thinking. He was a good-looking American in the De Niro mould. Ridiculously square jawed, ruggedly handsome in his late fifties with black hair sprouting wings of grey, a third generation Italian American. He could see Warren in him, though, diluted but there all the same. He was the shadow of his dad.
Geno DiMarco leaned forward and cleared his throat. Anderson was treated to a hundred-watt smile. With perfect teeth.
No wonder Patricia McAvoy had succumbed to his charms. In the greyness of the biscuit factory where she had worked, Geno would have been a lively spark.
‘I’m sorry I have so little news for you.’
‘Yip, I’m following it in your press. First my boy was dead but now he isn’t?’ His fingertips tapped out a beat on the leather top of his desk.
‘Somebody went out of their way to make us think that he was dead.’ Anderson let the question hang.
Over the Skype, Geno’s head disappeared for a moment. Then returned. He looked worried. ‘I don’t know my boy, Mr Anderson. You think he’s killed some kids? That’s a hard one to take.’
‘He’s never been convicted of any crime,’ Anderson said. ‘But I have some bad news for you. We found Patricia. She was dead, murdered.’
‘Little Patty? Jesus.’ He covered his eyes with his hands, liver spotted and wrinkled, much older than his face. ‘You know, I’d been looking for Patty for a while. Then the agency found Lexy. And Lexy found Warren, or so I thought. I’ve not heard from Lexy … she OK?’
‘She’s OK, we know where she is. Is she like her mother?’
The American shook his head. ‘Not at all. Patty was a hoot, a real fun girl.’
‘So why did you want to find your son now, after all this time? Thirty years? It’s a long time to decide to come back into his life.’
The man across the Atlantic leaned forward. ‘I never knew about him, it was Patty I was looking for. I lost my wife.’
‘I’m sorry. Did you have any children?’
He shook his head.
Anderson was not going to be swayed away from the difficult question. ‘Mr DiMarco, have you ever met Warren? In the flesh, I mean?’
‘Nope,’ he shook his he
ad. ‘Facebook, Skype. But I have sent over money every month, well, to Lexy for Warren. He was Skyping me every second day for the last, oh … eighteen months or so …’
‘Every month? Eighteen months,’ Anderson repeated, wondering how much money had changed hands. What was this worth to Lexy?
‘Mr DiMarco, can you tell me who you think this is?’ Anderson held up a photo of the body from Riverview Farm, Mr Field.
‘That’s Warren. Well, that is Warren on Skype.’ DiMarco nodded.
‘He’s not your son, I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry for what? Lexy scamming me for money? She played me; I kinda admire that. But I had my money’s worth, though – I got to talk about Patty. My Patty, Patty McAvoy.’ He puffed his chest up a little. Then crumpled. His eyes darted down to the picture frame on the desk. ‘This was my wife, Daria.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Anderson repeated.
DiMarco smiled to himself. Anderson got the impression that he was lonely.
‘I want you to find Warren. And find the guy who murdered his mother.’
‘And if they are one and the same?’
He shrugged. ‘You have to do what needs to be done.’
Anderson thanked him and closed the Skype connection. He sat looking at the face in the photograph, the face who was not Warren.
‘So how was he?’ asked Sammy, appearing at his shoulder, close enough he could smell her perfume.
‘Fine, he seems a nice bloke, vulnerable. Perfect victim for a scam.’ He walked over to the board and picked up the marker pen, standing thinking, his pen tapping on his chin.
She turned to watch him, like he was a teacher giving a private lesson.
‘So,’ he tapped the picture of the burned body, ‘this is Warren McAvoy’s mother, but this,’ he tapped the picture of the body from Riverview Farm, Mr Field. ‘This is not Warren. The DNA tells us that. This is the man in the scam. Where the hell does Bella come into all this?’
‘If she does at all. You think Lexy took the poor sod for a fortune?’
‘He was ripe for the taking. We’ll deal with Lexy later. So,’ he looked back at the board, ‘we have gone full circle. We are right back to the night of the summer solstice. That was the last time anybody saw McAvoy alive, and since then he has been …’
‘The shadow man.’
Elvie had said goodbye to Batten and had a shower up at the lodge. Then she set up the laptop in the small, cool bedroom on the dressing table. The machine beeped immediately: Gaynor Matthews, the Tattoo Boy’s sister, was asking for an update. She thought her mum was holding on, just waiting for her son to walk in the door. Elvie knew that cancer took its own destructive course. It didn’t wait for any errant family members to put in an appearance. But she also knew she couldn’t say that.
Amy Lee’s chat box started to blink as soon as Elvie logged on. She didn’t seem to want an update, just a chat. Her brown hair and wide smile flashed at the bottom of the screen. Elvie typed, mindful that she needed to work on her communication.
Sorry, Amy Lee, I’ve been busy, I’m up at the loch. She thought of a link, something that might make electronic small talk. Loch Lomond is the home of the Colquhouns. Or Cohoon, as you lot like to drop the unused vowels.
Hiya! AL here, how u doing. I’ve gotta be quick. Yip, Grandpappy, like really old dude, did spell his name different. What a nerdy nerd. So you on the loch then, you getting your feet wet Is it as awesome as it looks? Grandpappy doesn’t know but I took his phone and looked at all the photos and the videos. A few of the loch. One’s dead dark. But it would have been dark as it was night-time, midnight . It was all a bit scary … what is it doing today?
Today it is sunny and sparkly. When was Grandpappy last here?
Last year, for his b’day so we don’t have to buy him cake He should be reducing as he has a bad knee. And a bad attitude. You have a Grandpappy?
What kind of question was that? No I don’t, you are very lucky. But I’ve found something out for you. Just a quick Google search of the embarkation records. On 30 September 1934, two Colquhouns sailed, father and son. The age is right; both of them gave their hometown as Glasgow. That was on the Caledonia, a steam ship, sailed out of Greenock.
Oh, would that be right? Grandpappy says he wasn’t from Glasgow but a place called Govan with big fields and cows and mountains and stuff, you know that place? The Colquhouns had a castle there. Back in the day …
Yip, I know it. I think we might be talking about the same person though. Can you tell me, does your Grandpappy sometimes tell porkies?
???
Lies, fibs.
All the time!
Lexy was sitting in the interview room, drinking a mug of coffee and twitching for a cigarette.
Sammy Winterston sat opposite her; Anderson wanted her to lead on this one.
‘I remember you,’ said Lexy, a sly look on her pasty face, ‘Oh yeah, I remember you from last year, you and Bernie the Bonker.’
‘His name is DCI Webster,’ Sammy bristled.
‘Aye, whatever.’
‘We have a problem, Lexy. I’ll cut the crap. We know that the body is not that of your brother. End of.’
She shrugged.
‘So can you tell us who that young man in the morgue is, please?’
Lexy folded her arms. ‘I thought he was my brother.’
‘No, you identified him as your brother, when you knew it was not. Why?’
There was a flicker … ‘I didnae say that, you did.’
‘No, Lexy, you said it, not us.’
‘I thought it wis, I really thought it wis.’
Sammy said quietly, her voice softer, ‘You got really upset when you saw that face, and when you realized who it actually was. That was somebody you cared for.’
Lexy shook her head, the fringe bounced. ‘I thought it was Warren. I told you, I haven’t seen him for ages.’
‘According to Geno DiMarco, you saw him last week. He can’t have changed that much.’
That got a reaction. The imaginary cigarette flicked up but her lips only found her fingertips. So she rearranged her fringe instead. The minutes ticked by. ‘OK, I was keeping that quiet. I was making a few bob. My brother and I were making a few bob, so what? But I thought it was Warren, you had said it was Warren. I couldn’t see his face proper, so I didnae want to look. So I presumed it was him.’
‘So the man on the table, the dead man, is the man who Skyped?’ asked Sammy.
‘Aye. My brother.’
It was Anderson who spoke this time. ‘No, it isn’t, Lexy, and if you sign a statement to that effect, when the DNA says otherwise, you will be in deep shite.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You’ve never done time, have you, Lexy? You won’t like it.’
Lexy became a little more wary. And then the hand came up to flutter with the fringe again, the little tell of deceit.
‘Right, so you still are telling us that the man lying dead in the morgue is your brother and he was the man who claimed to be your brother when Skyping Geno DiMarco. Or scamming Geno DiMarco. Just so I am sure, Lexy.’
‘He gave us money. It was the right thing to do; he was his son.’
‘No, he wasn’t, Lexy.’ Anderson made his voice sound tired and irritated; it wasn’t hard.
But Lexy was defiant. ‘Yes, I hadn’t seen my brother for ages. I thought that man was him, in fact I still do. And I’m not saying anything more or signing anything until I see a solicitor.’ And she folded her arms over her chest. It was the end of the interview. As far as she was concerned.
Sammy stood up to go. Anderson followed her, then paused and walked back to the table. He leaned right over Lexy. ‘I’m getting fucking pissed off with this. I don’t give a shit about you or your brother, but we have another body in the morgue – your mother. Don’t worry, we won’t ask you to identify that body seeing you’re crap at it. And you haven’t seen her for a while. She died a horrible, slow, painful death. And here’s the weird thing, she had a tarot card too.
Like yours. So think on. We’ll get a car to take you home. And when you get home you can have a long think about any strange incidents over the last few days, anybody walking up your garden path that shouldn’t have. Any little knocks on the door, pizza you never ordered. They only need to get lucky once. Once. But you take care now. A lot of care.’
He shoved the folder at her, a buff folder that contained one photograph of a mutilated body lying in a field.
And he left the room.
‘That was cruel,’ said Sammy.
‘Well, I’m getting fucking nowhere being nice.’
Costello presumed this was the right place. A flat field up a narrow winding lane, and lots of trees. The only car she had seen for six miles was a taxi and she had nearly driven into that, much to Vik’s horror. Single track road and all that. But Costello could see the Polo parked in the only bit of shade in the entire field. She looked round, they could have been anywhere. Costello knew Vik hated trees, and countryside and all that shite. She was going to enjoy this. She got out the car, Vik pulling his backpack from the rear seat as Costello lifted her shoulder bag. ‘So your protégée is already here,’ Costello looked round. ‘Yip, there’s a sign.’
‘Bloody hell, they don’t make it obvious, do they?’
‘Bernie says quite clearly in his notes that they do no publicity. God knows how folk find out about it. Or how they make money. Probably wife swapping or witches’ city breaks. Or Tupperware. That can be the work of the devil.’ They walked slowly along a grassy path that darkened as the sunlight became dappled by the branches overhead. The path was well worn. It brought them to a wooden footbridge rising high over a small stream. Mulholland looked at the bank of the burn; the water was running lower than normal at the moment. He leaned on the handrail looking down into the water, enjoying the sun on his back, the quiet buzz of insects underneath him.
‘Is there any news on Bernie yet?’ he asked. ‘I mean, is this dangerous?’
‘Nope, he has vanished into thin air. And of course this is dangerous. You don’t think he found something about this place and they turned him into a frog? That is definitely Elvie’s Polo; I recognize that wee sticker of Elvis on the back. She’ll look after you. But don’t take her on over a hundred metres, your ego will never recover.’
