by Caro Ramsay
The door of the Incident Room opened, and Mulholland walked in, snow still clinging to his hair. ‘Those two guys on the CCTV tape? The logo was of Rogan’s tour, and Frances recognized them as Dec Slater and Jinky Jones. Dec hasn’t changed much over the years, but Jinky has. She got really upset, and I didn’t have the heart to bring her down here.’
Lewis swore under her breath, loud enough for everybody to hear.
Quinn nodded slowly. ‘Littlewood, take over here, will you? And I’ll remind you lot that anything said in this room is highly confidential. It goes no further, not to your wife, husband, kids – nobody. And particularly not to Colin Anderson, in view of what you’re about to hear.’ And she busied herself putting papers into a folder, then went into her own office and closed the door as if with a sense of relief.
Littlewood took an armful of transparencies, folders and envelopes from his drawer and placed them on his desk. He got straight to the point. ‘Here is a map of the USA,’ he began.
‘Yeah, we got that,’ said Lewis.
Littlewood ignored her. ‘And marked in blue are the locations of the disappearances of eight young boys over the last ten years, plus dates. Not much, you might reckon, for a country that size and given the movement of the population, but these disappearances correlate directly with – this.’ He pinned up over the map a transparency showing a second annotated map. ‘This shows the tours made by a certain rock star over the last ten years. Rogan O’Neill. When you superimpose it like this, you get an exact match of times, dates, states.’
‘Jesus! Is this what you’ve been working on?’ Costello leapt to her feet. ‘Why did you not say sooner? Why did you let it get this far?’
‘Go on, call me an arse; I know you want to,’ said Littlewood, unperturbed. ‘It was all very gradual at first. I was asked by upstairs to keep an eye out for any unusual activities of Rogan’s, then all this started happening. First Luca – well, we didn’t even think that was an abduction at first – then it all moved too fast. We’ve now decided that you do need to know.’
‘About time.’
‘Now obviously we can’t exactly walk up to O’Neill and search him, but we have a way in, don’t we, Costello?’
‘Lauren the bimbo? Yes, indeed,’ she said harshly. ‘And I’ll get something out of her, if she…’
‘She might not know,’ said Wyngate.
‘Oh, she knows. Or suspects,’ Costello’s voice was cold with ill-disguised disgust, remembering that one flicker of fear in Lauren when Rogan had spoken to her.
‘I am going to leave this envelope of photographs lying here. They don’t leave this room, they do not even leave this table. Anybody who looks at them needs a strong stomach. ’Nuff said.’
Mulholland slowly flicked through the pile of photographs, looking at each one before putting it to the back. The expression on his face did not change one iota but his skin paled. Occasionally he would pause, turn a photograph ninety degrees and then proceed with the next.
He handed one photograph to Wyngate, and Wyngate, already red-eyed with fatigue, swallowed hard and handed it back. ‘You don’t need to see these, Costello,’ said Mulholland.
‘You’re right, I don’t.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Lewis, sounding bored. She stood at the window, looking out, beautiful in profile, her make-up perfect, her curls still shiny in precise twirls. ‘I have a phone call to make.’ She strode past Costello, as if she had somewhere more important to go. Costello resisted the urge to trip her up.
‘I don’t believe some of these pictures,’ Mulholland said. ‘Every boy used, abused, brutalized, killed – who in the world…?’
‘Yeah, who?’ Anderson was leaning on the wall at the door.
‘Sorry, mate, didn’t see you there.’
‘Obviously.’ Anderson put his hands deep in his pockets, and looked directly at Littlewood. ‘What’s going on?’
DCI Quinn was out of her office like a bat out of hell. ‘OK, Anderson – you are now a witness, not a detective. Littlewood, take Colin down to the canteen, and go through the conversation he and Costello had with O’Neill, right now. What you said to Rogan, what he said to you, Colin, and what Costello said to him. Then show him the photos of the crowd that turned up outside Joozy Jackpots, or whatever the bloody place is called; he might recognize somebody.’
Littlewood put a hand on to Anderson’s arm and led him out, following Burns who had already started down the stairs.
‘Will somebody keep an eye on him? For a big man he’s a right creeping Jesus. Wyngate, get out the CCTV from the fair again and home in on the time frame. Then do the same with the films of the German Market. See if you see any hats with logos of Rogan’s homecoming tour at the fair. Phone the hotels where Rogan’s crew are staying; they’ll have a record of door entry activity for each room. Another thing – try and get the ID photos for everybody involved in that US tour. I want to know if those two guys we see hanging around are Jinky Jones and Dec Slater. Those two and Rogan himself are the only three who link every incident in the States, but for God’s sake be careful who you ask. Just try to marry something up. I’ll get Irvine to help you once she’s free.’
DS Lewis shimmied back into the room. ‘What are you giving Costello to do, or is she off on one of her tangents?’
‘What do you mean – Lauren McCrae?’ asked Quinn.
Lewis shrugged, her lips tauntingly drifting into a smile.
Rebecca Quinn settled herself behind her desk, indulging in her usual disconcerting habit of looking at her paperwork while relishing the disquiet of her victim.
‘So, what are you up to?’ She put her index finger to her lips and licked it, spikily turning over a page of some update she was reading.
‘Working,’ Costello said petulantly.
‘It’s wearing a bit thin,’ said Quinn. She sighed and twisted her seat from the desk, bending over and tightening the laces on her trainers. ‘Are you doing something without my permission? And I don’t mean the Lauren McCrae thing.’
‘I’m talking to Dr Mick Batten. Without your permission.’
‘About what?’
‘Peter’s disappearance.’ Costello stopped. Quinn looked up. ‘He says I shouldn’t get involved.’
‘But do you ever do as you are told? You are off the case.’
‘What!’
‘You heard – you’re off the case. Now be quiet, Costello,’ said Quinn, not unkindly. ‘Sit down and listen. Are you and Colin Anderson having an affair?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever?’
‘No!’
‘OK, just wanted to make sure.’
‘That’s Lewis, gossiping…’
‘A bad habit of hers. But you two are close, so you are very involved and I don’t like it. It’s not healthy on a case like this. And you have no idea how hard it is to take over a team that’s as close as you lot. You seem to hate each other but you slip and slide together like a well-oiled machine; so well oiled I can’t seem to get a grip on any of you. You don’t trust me.’ Their eyes met. Quinn dropped hers first. ‘And that affects how well the team works.’
Costello didn’t know what she was supposed to say. ‘It’s just the way we are, ma’am, nothing personal.’
‘But it is too personal, and you’re too close. I can’t have you and Colin going off at your own tangents. And for that reason you are both off the case. Burns is babysitting Colin, and he’s big enough to hit him if he has to. I’ve no doubt that everyone out there would speak to him before they’d speak to me, regardless of procedure.’
‘True.’
‘And you have to stay off the case. I know you’re seeing Lauren McCrae,’ Quinn glanced at her watch, and sighed when she realized the minutes and hours had crawled into Saturday, ‘today – Littlewood will brief you – but once that’s over, you’re on the cyanide stuff; you can make your own case, do your own thing. God knows you do that anyway.’ Quinn pursed her lips. ‘But if you feel
like obeying orders for once, you can get out and get on with your own work. If you don’t, and all this documentation disappears and gets faxed to Mick Batten behind my back, I’ll be very upset…’
Costello’s hand paused on the door handle, and she held her breath.
‘… But not as upset as I would be if it didn’t.’ Quinn slowly pushed a narrow beige file across her desk, close enough for Costello to reach easily, then she stood up and turned away to look out of the window. ‘Shut the door behind you.’
Saturday, 23 December
22
Anderson had had a terrible night, drinking endless cups of coffee in the canteen, going through the conversation with Rogan O’Neill again and again, looking at photograph after photograph until the grit in his eyes blurred one face into another. They had taken him through every big case he’d ever worked on, considered anybody who might bear a grudge. They’d delved into his personal life only to find it squeaky clean. They’d gone through his entire career with a fine-tooth comb, digging up nothing except memories of the old DCI. And Colin could not help but think that if Alan McAlpine was here, they would be out on the streets pulling the city apart. He knew they were putting him through the motions to keep him busy, and he was grateful for something, anything to do. He had refused to talk further to Brenda, but had helped to draft the statement for her appeal, even though he knew it was getting him nowhere.
He had fallen asleep around half past six, ten minutes’ shut-eye with his head down on the canteen table. But his sleep was even more tortured than his waking hours. His back was sore, his head was sore, and – worst of all – there was still no news.
Like Troy and Luca, Peter Anderson had disappeared into nowhere.
When he woke at the back of nine, Burns suggested some fresh air, some exercise to get their brain cells working. They walked back in silence, down Hyndland Road – Anderson in a borrowed coat, hunching his shoulders against the slight smirr of snow – ignoring the few very early morning commuters heading into town. As they turned into the lane, Anderson heard feet crunching in the gravel behind him.
‘Colin? Colin?’
He turned. Helena was standing there, holding her hood up with a gloved hand. She looked as though she had spent most of the night crying, her eyes red raw, her lips swollen and chapped.
‘Colin, how are you?’
‘Not good.’ He nodded at Burns, who raised a hand and went on without him. ‘Worst time of my life.’
‘How’s Brenda?’
Anderson didn’t answer. He couldn’t tell Helena that he had hardly spoken to his wife, how much he blamed her. What was he supposed to say? Helena took his silence as a sign of distress.
‘Oh, Colin, I am sorry. Have the police come up with nothing? Surely…?’
‘Not much. All paedophiles are being checked out; all my old cases are being reviewed and they’re bringing everybody and his dog in for interview.’ He shut his eyes, trying to hold it together. ‘I can’t believe it, can’t admit it to myself…’
Helena had been a policeman’s wife for too long to say the customary, calming: Oh, I’m sure he will be all right. ‘If there’s anything I can do, anything at all…’
‘Not that I can think of.’
‘Sorry, Colin, I’m going into hospital today. I should have been there at ten, I’m just on my way now…’ her voice trailed off.
Anderson couldn’t think what to say. ‘Good luck,’ was all he could manage.
She nodded tearfully, and turned away through the slush.
Behind him, Costello gently peeped her horn. She was sitting in her white Corolla, barely visible through the mist on the windscreen. She popped the passenger door open for him.
‘Quinn has put me off the case.’
‘Join the club.’
‘I wanted to let you know that I have faxed Batten most of the details – of Peter, I mean. He might want to talk to you, off the record.’
‘You could lose your job over that.’
‘I’d like to see them try. But Quinn was OK about it. I’m going off to see Lauren now. If she knows anything, I’ll find out.’
‘I know you will. Thanks.’ He looked out at the dull rain, and the puddles being whipped into wave-lets. The forecast was for it to turn colder before they got through the day. ‘The temperature’s falling,’ he said. ‘Peter’s never seen a white Christmas.’
‘Well, he’ll see this one.’ She pointed as a few snowflakes settled on the windscreen.
It was snowing seriously now, but the air inside the Botanic Gardens was warm and cloying. Costello had made it clear: the Kibble Palace, the older part of the Botanic Gardens, at eleven. It was a fine building, and she was glad the burghers of the city had got their collective finger out at last and refurbished it. The glass of the circular Victorian dome was clean and sparkling, covered by a doily of snow where iron met glass. Costello walked in, keen to get out of the cold, immediately undoing the collar of her jacket and shaking the snow from her scarf before stuffing it in her pocket. She just hoped she would stay awake.
Littlewood had been clear: Let Lauren run with the conversation; listen, prompt but do not lead. Costello had had little experience of paedophiles, even less of supermodels – but when he said, Treat her like a battered wife in denial, she felt on more solid ground. She would be polite, interested and empathetic, no matter how much she wanted to slap the truth from Lauren’s pretty but empty head.
Costello walked round the glasshouse, rehearsing the interview, breathing in the smell of damp earth, compost and warmed air. Her schoolfriend’s granddad had had a greenhouse that smelled like that, of paraffin and sweet peas, and at the right time of year, they’d always had the smell of home-grown tomatoes on their fingertips, the taste on their tongues. How innocent those days had been: two little girls with an old man in a greenhouse at the bottom of a deserted garden. The memory brought her back to her reason for being here.
The café was a temporary-looking arrangement with pseudo wrought-iron tables and chairs on uneven slabs, and a chalk-written menu offering cappuccino spelled badly and Irn Bru spelled correctly. Two women sat with three wheelchair-bound children. Two of the kids were eating soup; the other, a boy with cerebral palsy, was being fed from a spoon during pauses in his constant writhing. Costello wasn’t aware that she had been staring but the boy caught her eye, and large brown eyes stared back at her, intelligent and kind. Costello smiled, feeling awkward now about turning and walking out. She waved at him and went to stroll round the pond, where large sleepy koi carp, mottled silver and white against gold, gently undulated under the water lilies. She walked up to them slowly, not wanting them to dart away as her shadow fell.
Lauren McCrae was late; it was nearly ten past. Costello assumed it went with the job. She gazed at a large tree which stopped abruptly a few feet from the glass roof, trimmed to stay within its limitations, and stroked its trunk. ‘It grows well in warm climates,’ a slow Canadian drawl said from behind her.
‘No chance here then,’ said Costello. ‘This snow will be making you feel at home.’
‘Kind of.’
They walked on round the pond, the clack of McCrae’s boot heels following her. Costello glanced sideways at Lauren. ‘Do you mind if I say something first? This is Glasgow, Lauren, in December. Sunglasses tend to draw attention, especially indoors. I’m assuming that’s not what you want.’
‘I guess I just get used to being recognized everywhere I go.’ Lauren pulled the Raybans from her face, but not before glancing over her shoulder.
Costello would not have recognized her. The natural sheen of Lauren’s super-healthy beauty seemed to have worn off in the last twenty-four hours. Her eyes looked red and puffy, as though much-desired sleep had passed her by. She folded down her collar, shaking her hair free, and continued to walk slowly, her catwalk glide looking a little ungainly on the cobbles.
Costello considered how to approach the conversation, in the light of Littlewood’s revelati
ons; like approaching the koi, she presumed, slowly and steadily. She knew she couldn’t push.
‘Do you fancy a sit down and a cup of tea? I’m not sure what it will be like in here.’
She noticed, again, that nervousness about Lauren, the slight hesitation before answering. ‘Yeah, sure.’
They settled on one black coffee and one black tea, in dubious-looking waxed paper cups with cardboard butterfly wings for handles. Costello warmed her hands on her cup, holding it under her chin. She was impatient, but she had to win this woman’s confidence. Peter’s safety might depend on it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This may be pretty vile.’
‘Can’t be as bad as that stuff they serve at the hotel. Rogan calls it pure Madeira, I don’t know why.’
Gain her confidence, thought Costello, she’s here to tell you something. ‘Glaswegian for crap,’ she explained.
‘Why? Madeira’s a lovely island. I was there last year on a photo shoot.’
‘Not the island, the cake. It’s the powdery yellow cake you get at Christmas once all the good stuff with icing and marzipan and sultanas is finished. Nobody likes it, hence… pure Madeira.’
Lauren looked a little bemused. ‘The diet of you people never fails to amaze me. Is it true you deep-fry your candy?’ She stretched out long beautiful fingers tapering to perfect nails.
‘Sometimes. Is that a French manicure?’ she asked, in an effort to break the ice.
‘What? This?’ Lauren splayed her long-boned fingers on the plastic table. ‘Oh, I had it done yesterday.’
Costello hid her own discoloured nails, one black from a fight with the photocopier, another bloodied and ripped to the quick. ‘So, Lauren, what can I do for you?’
‘Nothing really.’ Lauren’s forefinger circled the top of her cup.
Costello lowered her voice. ‘Lauren, in my job I have seen everything and heard everything. I have had the decency to meet you. So, you should tell me what’s bothering you.’
