Singing to the Dead

by Caro Ramsay

  It was getting on for ten, and he wondered where Brenda had gone for her night out, and who with; he had noted her vague ‘the girls’. She had been out a lot lately, with friends from the PTA, friends from the Sunday school, women she had been friends with since Peter had been at the toddlers’ playgroup.

  He switched off the living room’s main light, leaving his dirty dishes on the settee along with Brenda’s, Claire’s and Caroline the babysitter’s, and went to the bottom of the stairs, deciding to leave the light on for Brenda.

  He became aware of a strange grunting and wheezing noise from upstairs. Peter doing his impression of the Little Engine That Could, no doubt. At least it would be a respite from Puff the Magic bloody Dragon.

  But Peter was in his cabin bed, dead to the world, his bum up in the air, his PJs exposing a wide expanse of bare flesh. The noise was coming from Claire’s room. He rushed in. His daughter was lying there red-faced, sweating, glassy-eyed, her finger-nails scratching at her throat. She was gasping for breath.

  They said the ambulance would be a quarter of an hour at least, and Colin Anderson knew he could drive it faster. Christ, he could see the Southern General from his own back garden.

  At the entrance to A&E, he dumped the car and walked through the sleet to the sliding doors, Claire in his arms, wrapped in her duvet, her head lolling. He tried to walk steadily but Peter, frightened and crying, was clinging tightly to his trouser leg. Colin looked around, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the bright lights. They’d said they would be waiting for him but there was a long queue for registration.

  Claire was unconscious now, her eyes rolling, her body totally limp. Weaving in and out of the queue, Anderson carried his daughter through a throng of drunks vociferously demanding attention for the usual collection of cuts and contusions. He’d found himself muttering, ‘Keep breathing, keep breathing,’ in the car. He was still doing it now.

  And there they were, waiting for him. The door to an examination cubicle was being held open for him by a female doctor who looked only slightly older than Claire. ‘Sorry about that lot out there,’ she said. ‘Party season. No party for us, though.’ She patted the bed. ‘Could you just lie her on the bed, Colin?’ But he couldn’t; his brain was only half listening and he couldn’t let her go.

  ‘And how old is Claire again?’ the doctor asked, wresting her gently from her father.

  ‘She’s nine,’ Peter sniffled. ‘I’m five.’ Anderson nodded agreement.

  ‘You’re both tall for your age, aren’t you?’ said the doctor, pulling the stethoscope from her neck. She turned to Anderson. ‘Do they get that from you?’

  Colin knew what the doctor was doing – that thing Costello did: Keep bloody talking and sooner or later they respond.

  ‘Has she been complaining of a sore throat?’ Claire’s mouth was opened, her tongue held down. A nurse steadied her head. Then with the ophthalmoscope, the doctor gazed into her eyes, a white latex thumb gently pulling her eyelids back.

  ‘Yes, she’s on antibiotics.’

  ‘Since when?’ The doctor was feeling the glands in Claire’s neck, probing the flesh under her chin. ‘She’s still very swollen. Has she been lethargic? Complaining of being hot?’

  Anderson shrugged his shoulders and sighed. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve not been around, I mean, at home much lately. I don’t know.’

  ‘Mmmm, when did she actually start taking the antibiotics?’

  ‘Eight o’clock… no, a bit later.’

  ‘This morning? Or tonight?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘And that was her first? But she saw her GP, surely? Yesterday? The day before?’

  Colin confessed, ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘So, there was a delay in her getting the meds.’ The doctor made a decision. ‘We might need to tube her.’ She stood back and rattled off some figures to the nurse. In one easy movement a fine plastic tube was stripped from its sterile backing then Claire’s head was whipped back, her throat sprayed and the tube slid in from the side of her mouth. Claire convulsed, her spine arching from the bed, then she relaxed, her body sighing to rest. The doctor looked at the nurse, and Anderson read it as not a minute too soon.

  ‘She’ll be fine.’ The doctor stood back, the job done, and pulled off her gloves. ‘Her antibiotics were far too little far too late. I’ll give her a dose of IV antibiotics right now, and she needs the rest every four hours. And I mean exactly that. If she is asleep, wake her up; don’t allow the time to pass. A child’s immune system can’t really cope with this infection. It can be very serious indeed; in fact, it can be fatal.’

  Anderson watched as she drew up the injection, accompanied by strident singing from a drunk out in the corridor. The doctor turned to the nurse. ‘Get somebody to shoot him, will you?’ A look passed between them as the rabble of raised voices, effing this and effing that, was followed by a smack and a crash.

  She clicked her pen and slipped it into the breast pocket of her white coat, as the swearing and crashing of a full-scale fight echoed down the corridor. ‘Can you call Security?’ she shouted to someone outside.

  ‘Forget it, I’ll do it myself.’ Anderson strode out of the room. ‘I’m just in the mood for this.’

  Thursday, 21 December

  7

  The orchestra inside Costello’s head had at last fallen silent, but a single campanologist was now practising his bell-ringing. In her mind’s eye, she could see him swinging up and down on the rope, the huge clapper clanging against the inside of her skull, its intensity increasing with every stroke. She turned over, pulling the duvet up round her ears, trying to blank it out, but the noise was incessant, echoing round her skull, deafening, and the pain wasn’t much better than it had been the day before.

  And buzzing. As if a wasp had got caught in her ear. Something pricked her brain, and the buzzing stopped, giving momentary relief. She sighed and pulled the duvet up again.

  The buzzing resumed.

  Stopped.

  Then started again.

  ‘Costello.’

  Her own name echoed round inside her head.

  ‘Costello? Are you there?’

  She heard the letter box rattle, and rolled over again, covering her eyes against the dull December daylight.

  ‘Costello! ’

  The inner cover of her duvet was soaking, she was stinking with sweat, and the sweet smell of cloistered sick hung in the room. She still had on the grey trousers she had worn at work. She had managed to remove her tea-stained jumper, which was lying where it had landed on the floor, but was still wearing the pink T-shirt. A brief memory of Colin Anderson picking her up in his car flickered across her mind, and a memory of being very sick in a streaming gutter. She didn’t want to think about it.

  The doorbell sounded again.

  ‘Hang on,’ she muttered vaguely, trying to disentangle uncooperative feet from the duvet.

  A familiar voice said, ‘Are you still alive?’

  She opened the door, one hand on the lock, the other holding her head. ‘Only just.’

  Vik Mulholland walked in purposefully and uninvited.

  ‘Come in, why don’t you?’ She closed the door, wincing at the noise as it slammed shut. ‘Obviously I’m very pleased to see you, but what the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘It’s Thursday morning. John Campbell’s PM. You were supposed to be on duty at eight. Colin’s daughter was ill last night, he got in late and Quinn the Eskimo is raging.’ He looked over at the answering machine; its little red light was flashing repeatedly. ‘You haven’t listened to that?’

  ‘Thursday,’ Costello repeated slowly, as if she recognized the word but had no idea what it meant. ‘Thursday?’ She walked to the mantelpiece and picked up the clock. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half past nine.’

  ‘I’ve just woken up. What was up with Claire?’

  ‘She had that throat bug. Very nasty but she’s OK now.’ Mulholland sniggered slyly. ‘His missus was
out and he didn’t know where she was, so he had to do the hospital run. Which meant he was late getting back to Quinn about a discrepancy he thinks he might have found in Mrs Moxham’s witness statement. If he’s right we might have nailed a time for Troy’s last sighting. And of course, Sarah McGuire phoned again asking for that report which Colin was supposed to get you in early to do. Quinn couldn’t find it – or you – and went off on one. There was a briefing at eight. You weren’t there. Then Colin got worried when you didn’t answer the phone. Quinn thought it was interesting that he was with you yesterday… a brief encounter as he nipped out for lunch. I think she thinks you and he are at it like bunnies.’ He looked at Costello standing, pale faced and with her hair dishevelled, in a yellow dressing gown that had seen better days. ‘Maybe not.’

  She held her forehead with both hands, face flushed with embarrassment. ‘Oh God, I was ill. I nearly threw up in Colin’s car.’

  Mulholland shuddered. ‘Probably used to it, with those kids of his.’ He tapped his watch. ‘We have to get a move on. The Prof is waiting for us before he can do the PM. The Fire Master’s report will be in when we get back. If we can tie that up, we can get on to tracking down Troy. The mother sobered up yesterday for five minutes then promptly got pissed again. And Gail Irvine was telling me about the reconstruction outside the amusement arcade – they still haven’t found a boy to act the part of Luca. She reckons Peter Anderson will be called in at the last minute.’

  ‘How hard have they been looking? This is the first I’ve heard of it. So, who’s in charge of that then?’ Costello rubbed her eyes, the fog in her head starting to clear.

  ‘The gorgeous DS Kate Lewis…’

  ‘Oh yeah, Colin mentioned her. Where’s she from?’

  ‘New cavalry thrust upon us by Pitt Street, from Aikenhead Road.’

  ‘BOGOF? Buy one get one free? I think we could do better without either of them.’

  ‘Maybe, but poor Irvine is mortified that she’s going to be left to ask Colin if they can use Peter. I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Over Colin’s dead body might be a reason why not,’ said Costello.

  ‘Oh – by the way – Irvine said to tell you that you were right about Sarah McGuire…’

  ‘John Campbell’s daughter. Really?’

  ‘So, what were you dead right about?’

  Costello blew her nose really loudly just to annoy him. ‘Motive. I asked Gail to check out Sarah’s finances… and her finances with regard to the soon-to-be-ex-hubby in particular. Pretty women can be dangerous, you know,’ she answered cryptically.

  ‘So, I’m safe from you then.’ Mulholland smiled sarcastically. ‘But do we have a crime?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we might have a reason for one. I suspect Sarah McGuire’s having to move out of her million-pound house because divorce is imminent and hubby wants his share in cash. And what do you know? Dad conveniently drops dead and leaves a property worth half a mill even burned to a crisp. Her half of the house plus her dad’s estate would keep her comfy.’

  ‘Now that’s a motive,’ said Mulholland, wondering, not for the first time, what depths Costello’s mind would sink to.

  ‘Did you check up on the old guy’s health? Prof O’Hare might ask while he’s dissecting.’

  ‘Irvine did a check with Campbell’s GP; he had a bad knee and a sensitive stomach. So it’s looking less likely he had a heart attack.’

  Costello sniffed loudly, her brain slowly crunching into gear. ‘Stick the kettle on, will you? I need a shower.’

  ‘You certainly do. You smell like cat litter. And put some make-up on. Go into the mortuary looking like that, they’ll keep you in.’

  ‘So, what’s the script with your hickey bites?’ Costello shouted from the hall.

  Mulholland raised his hand to his neck, feeling an area of tenderness, remembering – smiling – Fran. If only Costello wasn’t so thrawn, he would have asked her for a dab of make-up to cover it but that would be like telling Radio Partickhill. He wandered into the kitchen, and found the kettle half buried among notebooks and old newspapers. He switched it on and tried to look at his neck in the distorted reflection. ‘Oh, but wait till you see the new Aikenhead Road cavalry,’ he called back. ‘The new DS. Very tasty, legs right up to her arse.’

  ‘And what would the lovely Frances think about that?’

  Costello heard the change in Vik’s voice, even over the noise of the shower. ‘Fran’s fine, she’s cool.’ He sounded affectionate, as if genuinely fond of her. ‘She’s a funny girl. I saw round her flat yesterday. It’s really strange – right out of the 1950s, no central heating and a bloody great dummy with a fedora meets you when you go in the door. She doesn’t watch the telly, never reads the papers. Unworldly really.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound your type at all. Probably do you the world of good,’ said Costello as she kicked the bathroom door shut.

  After her shower she wrapped a huge towel round her and went back to the bedroom to dress. ‘Has Quinn got me on her hit list now?’

  ‘Yip,’ Vik shouted through from the living room. ‘Twice.’

  Costello paused, pulling on a clean T-shirt. ‘Bugger. I mean, I told Gail Irvine and bloody Wingnut that I had to go home, that I had a bad migraine. Why did they not tell Quinn? Why didn’t Anderson?’

  ‘They all told her, they all got a bollocking. Then this morning, somebody called Karen McGuire phoned and insisted on talking to you and you were nowhere to be found.’

  ‘Karen? The granddaughter? What did she want?’

  ‘No idea; she hung up on Quinn, which made her mood a thousand times worse.’

  ‘I’ll sort it out when I get there,’ Costello grumbled, slipping her jacket on, raking a hand through her hair and walking back down the hall. It was cold; the heating had gone off ages ago. ‘Something’s up – Karen wouldn’t phone me for nothing. No news on the wee guys?’

  ‘Just this reconstruction. Bet you a fiver they’re both dead. We’ve moved from searching empty, unsecured buildings to searching empty, secure buildings. That’s never a good sign.’ Mulholland pointed at his watch. ‘We were due at the mortuary ten minutes ago.’

  ‘The dead will wait.’

  ‘But the Prof won’t.’ Mulholland presented her with a cup of sweet black tea. ‘Don’t even think about chucking that up in my car.’

  ‘Here.’ She handed him a stick of concealer. ‘Dab that on your neck; it won’t come off on your shirt.’

  ‘Thanks, Costello,’ he said, surprised.

  ‘Ripping the piss out of you is my prerogative. I don’t want the whole bloody station doing it.’

  Eve was sulking. In silence. No breakfast TV, no radio. The remote was on top of the mantelpiece; it might as well have been in Timbuktu.

  She heard the front doorbell ring, heard her sister say, ‘Oh, do come in,’ loudly, and then a few moments’ silence. No footfall, no talking. Did they think she was stupid?

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she said amicably. ‘Finished snogging? Mr Munro, how are you?’

  ‘My friends call me Douglas.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said sweetly. ‘That’s why I call you Mr Munro.’

  ‘We really are in a bit of a hurry,’ warned Lynne, her eyes flashing at Douglas. ‘Don’t make a mess, Eve.’ She picked up some invisible crumbs off the floor. ‘It encourages mice, leaving food about like that; you tell her, Douglas, she doesn’t listen to me.’ Lynne tipped the crumbs artfully from one palm to the other.

  Eve smiled up at Douglas. ‘Lynne’s more used to encouraging rats.’

  ‘Take your medicine, Eve,’ said Lynne, with quiet malice. ‘We’ll be going soon.’

  Eve palmed her capsules to her mouth and slurped them down with a generous mouthful of water, pulling a series of Quasimodo faces.

  ‘The stage lost a great actress when you took up drawing.’ Douglas looked at the print on the wall, before asking innocently, ‘How’s Squidgy?’

  ‘How’s your goldmine, you me
an?’ She wheeled her chair closer to Douglas, trapping him mid-thigh. ‘Would it bother you, dreadfully, if I didn’t sign this contract thing, due to artistic integrity and all that? I mean…’ She smiled sunnily at him with mock politeness. She really was a very pretty girl when she wanted to be. ‘I mean, I have my personal integrity to think about – all those lovely little children thinking these books are written by my tight-arsed cold-blooded control-freak sister, when in fact, they were written by lovely wee me.’

  Douglas leaned down and spoke in her ear. ‘Do you really think you have any personal integrity left, Eve? It’s that warped thinking that forces us to keep you out of the public eye. If you don’t sign, you will be here, in Lynne’s house, dependent on Lynne’s good nature, all your life. You’re not stupid. You’ll sign. From here on in you and your sister will be one legal entity. You know we have been careful to use Lynne as the public face of Squidgy right from the start.’

  Lynne snapped. ‘We had to with your past of…’

  ‘Exactly, Lynne,’ interrupted Douglas before a long and familiar rant started. ‘But you do have to sign it, Eve, to create this single legal entity; we have discussed it a hundred times.’

  Eve gazed at him levelly, savouring her own knowledge like a fine wine. She had heard the lie and let it pass. Of course Lynne would lie to Douglas Munro of Munro Property. She’d do anything for money, anything to be seen to have ‘class’. Eve picked up the copy of Bonjour magazine that was lying on the arm of the settee. She turned the page over to the Rogan O’Neill centre spread. ‘My sister used to be a big fan of his, you know. That was before she took up with pathetic old bastards like you who have to dye their hair.’ She thrust the magazine at him. ‘Except your bald patch of course – is that natural?’