Singing to the Dead

by Caro Ramsay

  ‘There are no cameras at the park itself. We can see the woman and the dog on the way there, but the tape is so bad, they look like snowmen in a blizzard. We don’t actually see Troy. Or anybody else,’ came a mumbled reply.

  ‘The camera would only pick them up if they came out to go to Byres Road or up on to Great Western Road. There’s a whole maze of side streets and back lanes in between, it’s a bloody rabbit warren. Look at the geography – the two main roads form a right angle and the park is dead centre, if you’ll pardon the phrase. So is this station, in fact,’ Anderson pointed out.

  Quinn sighed. ‘So, cast the net a bit wider.’

  They groaned.

  ‘Both boys disappeared in public places. They must have gone somewhere.’ She gestured vaguely at the four corners of the map. ‘Go through all the statements again. Examine what we have, compare it with the door to door, see if we can match anything up. Look again at the lower end of Byres Road, the pubs, the back alleys. We know Troy was wearing a fleece when he went missing, but somebody might have put a parka on him. So, look for a boy with a hood up. DI Anderson…?’

  He nodded.

  ‘… Any discrepancy, I want to know; especially close to the location of the last sightings by the dog walker Moxham and the cashier McKinnon. Vehicle alerts have gone out, all with these photos.’ Quinn indicated the blown-up photos on the incident board. ‘I’ve asked both boys’ social work teams to liaise with each other and to note any point of contact between them, so I daresay we can expect them to report back sometime before the next millennium. If anybody has a friend in that office, call in any favours you can. Littlewood, does that MO cast anything up on the sex offenders register?’

  Littlewood shook his head, scratching his beer belly through his white T-shirt. ‘Nothing as yet, ma’am. I’m going to Stewart Street HQ to look at that myself, chat up a few contacts, see if anything has come down the wire yet. I’ll report to the DI, ma’am.’

  ‘Good. Wyngate, get on with tracing all Troy’s relatives, recheck his usual haunts, press them to think where else he might be. Lewis, get on with the reconstruction. And Mulholland, get something ready for the cameras; they’re parked downstairs. Irvine will help you. Bear in mind we’ll only have one shot at this. Anderson, you’re checking statements and collating the results of the door to door. And Costello can join in when she deigns to grace us with her presence. The rest of you, get on with the grid and the door to door, and stay in touch with DI Anderson. I want those photographs everywhere. Somebody saw those boys, with somebody, going somewhere. And, I expect you – no, I am telling you – to man this office 24/7. No leave until you are all dead on your feet.’

  ‘Dad, is that you?’ A bout of coughing came from the back room.

  ‘Yes, sweetheart, I’m home.’

  ‘Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home,’ squealed Peter in delight. ‘Did you get my dragon suit?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Why?’ Peter managed to stretch the word out to three syllables of outrage.

  Colin pretended to cuff him, and said, ‘Because. Let’s go in and see your sister; she’s not well.’

  They went into Claire’s room. She lay on the bed, her favourite Paddington Bear beside her. She looked hot, with a sheen of sweat over her pale face.

  The Barbie-themed room smelled stale. ‘I’m poorly,’ said Claire, impersonating a dying swan, her voice dry and croaky.

  ‘She said she felt like shite,’ added Peter, with some enthusiasm.

  ‘I didn’t say that, Dad, honestly, I didn’t.’ Her large eyes looked as black as coal and her hair, wet with sweat, lay sleek against her skull. ‘My throat’s really sore. See that big lump?’ She opened her mouth. ‘That’s my gland. The doctor said it was swollen.’

  ‘Did the doctor say that today?’ asked Anderson.

  ‘No, yesterday. You were supposed to get my stuff last night but you didn’t come home for ages.’

  ‘Sorry, pal, I was busy.’ Colin kept his tone light while mentally wanting to strangle Brenda. She could have gone for the prescription; it would have taken her ten minutes. He bit back his anger and made up his mind. ‘Right, this is what is going to happen.’ They both listened. Dad was always easier to get round than Mum and they could sense weakness. ‘I’m going to go out and get your medicine…’

  ‘Wouldn’t some ice cream be better? My throat’s really hot.’

  ‘I think it would help, Dad,’ Peter agreed. ‘My goldfish died today.’

  Anderson tried to see the connection but failed. Not for the first time, he got the feeling that his son would end up either running the country, or in jail.

  Brenda was doing her teeth in the bathroom. Anderson could see a new outfit spread out on the bed, the TK Maxx label still on it. A glittery top and a pair of silk trousers in powder blue. Then he realized he had no idea where she was going. Or who with.

  He turned back to the kids. ‘Right, here’s the game plan. You,’ he looked at Claire, ‘stay in your bed and do not move till I get back.’

  ‘What if Mum goes out and you don’t come back?’ asked Claire, pointing a finger at him.

  Colin met her fingertip with his own. ‘She won’t. You stay here with Pooh and Paddington, and don’t move.’

  She tutted in annoyance at being treated like a child, but her arms went round both bears just the same.

  ‘Peter, you come with me. We will get the medicine and get some…’

  ‘Ice cream,’ they both said in unison. Colin raised a finger to his lips.

  He went into the bedroom. Brenda was peering in the mirror, rubbing foundation over her face. ‘Can you stay in for now?’ he asked her. ‘I’m going to nip out for the prescription, I know you’ve been busy today.’

  ‘Did you get his dragon suit? No, I bet you didn’t.’ She didn’t look at him. ‘As usual, my life depends on what you are doing at your bloody work. But I’m being picked up at half six, and I am leaving at half six. So you’d better be back.’

  ‘If I’m not, you can follow in a taxi, or ask them to wait. I’ll only be a few minutes. Pour some wine down their throats. It’ll be cheaper than going… where are you going anyway?’ He placed his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently. He could smell a perfume he wasn’t familiar with.

  ‘Out. I’m going bloody stir crazy in this bloody house with those two,’ she said, shrugging herself free of his touch.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ said Colin calmly, aware Claire’s bedroom door was opening. ‘I’ll call if I get held up. If you really need to go, get Caroline in from next door to babysit. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ Anderson softened his voice and tried again. ‘You going somewhere nice?’

  ‘Christmas night out, with the girls.’

  ‘When will you be back?’

  She sneered. ‘You’re never back when you say you’ll be. Why should I?’

  ‘Because you are going out with your pals and I’ve spent the day looking at…’ He felt Peter swinging at his elbow. ‘Never mind how I spent the day. Do you think you will be late? Will I wait up?’

  ‘Do what you want,’ Brenda said, rolling her eyes as she pulled the mascara brush through her lashes. ‘You normally do.’

  He retreated into the hall as the bedroom door slammed shut. Peter hesitated for a moment before following his father downstairs.

  It was the number plate Anderson noticed first. The blue BMW 5 Series was common enough but the plate – HF 113? He would have recognized it anywhere. The car was pulled hard against the kerb, its hazard warning lights flashing like fairy lights in the rain. Helena’s car. Helena Farrell, Helena McAlpine – Alan’s wife. Alan’s widow, he corrected himself. He felt a rush of familiar pleasure, as though the old Boss himself had come back to help out his former squad. But then he remembered – and the memory was almost enough to crush him.

  Helena was crouching on the pavement, wielding the handle of a jack ineffectually. Anderson put on his own hazard lights at the last moment bef
ore pulling in front of the Beamer, while the car behind tooted in annoyance.

  He looked in the rear-view mirror while Peter turned in his booster seat to look through the back window, holding his Monkey Meal with Cheeky Chips to his chest like a pensioner clutching a handbag full of Bingo winnings.

  Helena Farrell got to her feet, hand up to protect her eyes from the rain, and looked at the tyre. She was thinner, less substantive, but it was definitely her. She had had her auburn hair cropped short. Colin preferred it long; he always had.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said to Peter, and added as an afterthought, ‘and don’t touch anything!’ He got out of the car. ‘Trouble?’ he shouted.

  ‘Colin! My knight in shining armour!’ Helena smiled through the rain, which was rapidly turning to sleet, flakes settling on the shoulders of her coat. ‘I’ve got a flat, and I can’t even get the nuts off the wheel.’ She kicked the jack with an elegant boot. ‘The AA said they’d be another two hours or so.’

  He took the wrench off her, feeling like a man doing a man’s job. ‘I’ll do it.’ He crouched, running his hand under the sill of the car, pressing his thumb into the tyre. ‘Go and sit in my car. You’ll get soaked.’

  ‘I’m soaked already.’

  ‘Can you keep an eye on Peter then? I wouldn’t put it past him to drive off. I’ll shout if I need a hand.’ He watched her walk away, head down, into the rain. He wondered how her expensive cashmere coat would survive in his car, with its deep litter of Ribena cartons, and Peter’s Cheeky Chips fingerprints.

  Six minutes later, with the Beamer standing on three alloys and a spare, Anderson put the jack back in the boot of Helena’s car. He put the flat tyre in the boot of his Astra, then he flicked the door open and dived into the driver’s seat. ‘How are you getting on?’ he asked.

  The answer was surprisingly well. Helena had made herself at home in the back with Peter, and both were involved in a grave discourse on dragons and how to draw them. Helena looked up and smiled as Anderson twisted round in the driver’s seat, but she made no move to get out of the car. Her arm was round his son, her index finger pointing to the back of the Monkey Meal box – they both looked totally at ease.

  ‘A long, long tail,’ she was saying.

  ‘A long, long, long tail,’ Peter repeated, the pen going along the top of the box and down the side.

  ‘If you’d drawn him a bit smaller he would fit.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s wagging his tail,’ Peter said in all seriousness, rotating the box so Helena could see.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough, Colin, rescuing a damsel in distress and all that.’

  ‘I’ll get the tyre repaired for you.’ How easily it would have rolled off his tongue – seeing as Alan isn’t here to do it.

  Helena smiled again and shook her head. ‘If you have time, that would be great. I’ve a lot on my plate at the moment.’ She changed the subject abruptly, and turned to Peter, saying rather formally, ‘It was a pleasure to meet you again, Peter. Come and see me sometime soon, and we can finish your dragon.’

  ‘You keep my crayon and you can help me colour it in.’

  ‘I’ll be on my way, Colin.’ She began edging her way towards the door.

  ‘What are you doing out in this? Should you not be…? I mean, how are you and everything?’

  Helena bit her lower lip. ‘I get up in the morning, I miss my husband. I eat my breakfast, I miss my husband. I go to work, I miss my husband… you get the picture?’

  ‘We all miss Alan, but I can’t imagine how it must be for you.’ He rubbed the heel of his hand round the arc of the steering wheel. ‘But I asked how you are.’

  She caught the meaning in his voice. ‘I have a meeting with a surgeon tomorrow at the Western.’ She reached to open the door but paused slightly. ‘Just my pre-op check thing; the big op won’t be until later in the week. It’s a small lump, it’s not been there long, but they’ll only know how much to take out when they are in there digging around. The only problem I really have is that I feel so cold all the time.’

  ‘Maybe because it is cold,’ Anderson smiled, flicking the windscreen wipers from normal to fast to clear the build-up of sleet, then switching them back to normal again. ‘If there’s a problem, phone me. Getting there? Getting back? Flat tyres?’

  ‘I will.’ She was looking at him thoughtfully, the streetlight casting raindrop shadows on her cheekbones. She looked stunning.

  ‘Hope it all goes OK,’ was all he could think of to say.

  She sighed slightly. ‘I’ll be fine, Colin.’ Her hands still did not release the door catch. ‘Colin?’

  There was something in her voice that made his heart jump. ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I’d booked our usual two tickets for the Christmas concert, Carols by Candlelight. Alan and I used to go every year. He said he hated it, but I think he enjoyed it all really.’

  ‘I know; he said he had to dress up like a penguin to see a lot of fat women shouting at each other in a power cut.’

  Helena laughed. ‘That sounds like Alan.’ She stopped laughing. ‘And that’s my point.’ She pursed her lips and gave him a wry smile. ‘Well, this year they’re fundraising for the Pakistan earthquake and I feel I need to go. And I’d like to go with someone who remembers Alan, as he was, if you know what I mean. I want to talk about him, with somebody who knew him.’ Her voice was barely a whisper.

  ‘If that’s an invite, you’re on,’ said Colin, thinking that even if Brenda killed him, he’d die happy. ‘But in return you have to come and listen to Peter singing “Puff the Magic Dragon” as part of his nativity play at the fair. Are you not judging the drawings or something?’ he asked, belying the fact he had noted the time and date in his head the minute he’d seen the flyer.

  ‘I’m judging the kids’ art competition.’ She poked Peter’s Squidgy in the stomach. ‘They’re drawing this horrible wee guy that’s everywhere nowadays…’

  ‘My goldfish died,’ he said, prodding Helena with the rubber end of his pencil. ‘He’s in heaven now.’ Peter pointed to the roof of the car. ‘It’s a very special place,’ he said carefully.

  Anderson sighed. ‘As in P.L.A.I.C.E…’ he explained.

  ‘The best place for a goldfish’s soul – as in S.O.L.E – to be.’ Helena ruffled Peter’s hair again, smiling at Colin, before she got out the car and walked back out into the rain.

  He watched her in the mirror as she got into the BMW and raised a hand to him. He started the engine of the Astra, thinking. She had said something at the funeral about wishing she had had Alan’s children, something to comfort her, a little piece of him to remind her. And she had looked so natural, sitting in the back of the car with Peter…

  As if reading his thoughts, Peter said, ‘She’s a nice lady. She’s going to finish my dragon.’

  Anderson realized he was smiling, but whether at Peter or the thought of seeing Helena McAlpine again, he wasn’t quite sure. But he was sure of one thing; the woman had not looked well.

  6

  ‘Ma mum’d go mad if I did that,’ Luca said, watching Troy as he tugged at the mattress standing up against the wall until it nearly toppled over on top of them.

  Troy giggled. ‘Stupid place to have it anyway. Let’s lean it against the bed and make a tent and hide. We can put the light out. Then if someone comes we can jump out! Come on – gie’s a haun.’

  Luca didn’t want to refuse, so he grasped the edge of the mattress. He’d ask his mother later why anybody would stand mattresses up against the wall when the bed was narrow and all knobbly and jabbed you in the back. But then, when he slept at his foster parents’ – when his mum was sick – he often made a tent from the furniture and slept in that. It made him feel safer.

  Gravity eventually had the mattress keeling over, Troy shouting ‘Caber!’ as it went. With a lot of pulling and shouting they got the end up on the bed, and it became a tent, or a slide, or a squinty trampoline.

  Luca placed a hand on the wall in the gap whe
re the mattress had been, between two others. The wall was cold, wet even, and made his fingers smell funny, like somebody else’s granny.

  Troy went to the wall to put out the light, and they hid under the bed, behind the mattress, giggling and making shoosh noises, forefingers to lips. The footsteps outside grew louder, then receded. Nobody came in.

  ‘Let’s go sliding,’ said Troy.

  ‘You’ll hurt yourself,’ cautioned Luca.

  ‘No’ me.’

  Troy hopped up on the bed and jumped up and down experimentally on the twanging bedsprings before bouncing on to the mattress. He slid chortling down the mattress, again and again, first on his backside, then on his back, and finally head first.

  But he got too cocky, bounced too hard, and the mattress bounced him right off again so he landed on hands and knees on the hard floor. He sat up, rolling his legging up, crying a little with the pain. He’d opened up the raw scab on his knee, only it was worse now, the blood bubbling and weeping down his leg.

  Luca went across to put the light on. He prodded at Troy’s knee carefully, his dirty fingers leaving livid marks on the hot and angry skin. ‘You need a plaster on that. Ma mum always has Mr Men plasters – she’s always cutting herself.’ He went to the big door and pulled the handle down. The latch clicked but the door didn’t open. He pulled again, harder. Nothing.