by Caro Ramsay
‘So, when do you get home?’ It was out before he thought, the one thing he had meant to avoid, pointing out the obvious – that there was no one to go home to. Helena turned back to the window, biting her top lip.
‘They won’t let me out while there’s no one to look after me.’ She blinked, her eyes fixed on some point of freedom outside the window. Tears were not far away.
The woman in the opposite bed looked over at her, then at him, accusingly. He wished the bell would go, then he could leave. But time seemed to be stretching.
‘At least you can go home now and enjoy a rest, enjoy a really nice Christmas.’
‘Maybe. But we’ve let a poisoner slip through our fingers. Sarah McGuire is getting better with every day that passes but that’s no thanks to us. We all feel terrible about that – unfinished business, shouldn’t happen in our job.’
Helena nodded, and Anderson smiled. She was a cop’s wife, who understood without being told.
‘But you have to look forward to a family Christmas now. It’ll be extra special after all you’ve been through.’
‘I doubt it. I can’t talk to Brenda, and there’s more than a few things need to be said.’
Helena squeezed his hand slightly. ‘Being married to a cop worked for me. But it doesn’t work for all. I have – had – my own life, my own profession, my own friends. Alan worked all the hours God sent. I went to India for six months to tour and paint and draw and he didn’t bat an eyelid. It worked both ways. You and Brenda have kids, you’re bound together. Alan and I just collided every now and again, but we were happy. Different kind of relationship. You nearly lost Peter; don’t lose anything else.’
Her hand tightened over his again, and he gripped it back, surprising himself when the tears started to fall.
Peter was lying in a hospital bed, snug as a bug in a rug, just a contented little boy who’d been on an adventure and was now back, safe and warm. They’d run a few tests, and he was on a drip to get some fluids into him. He had his arm round his favourite dragon, his thumb bound in a yellow bandage. He was smiling in his sleep. His dad envied him.
‘We need to talk, Bren,’ said Anderson.
‘Don’t we just!’
Colin took his wife by the elbow, over to the window of the small children’s ward. He was about to start but she got in first.
‘You coming home for Christmas Day? I mean, will you actually be there, at the table?’ Brenda spoke softly. Anderson could hardly hear.
He looked out the window of Yorkhill Hospital For Children, over to the Western where Helena was. Brenda was looking in the same direction. Neither of them seemed capable of facing the other.
‘Sure, I’ll be there,’ he said.
‘And what about the rest of it?’
‘The rest of what?’
‘Last year we talked, and I agreed that I wouldn’t go back to work. Before that, the agreement always was that I would.’
‘Yes, I know. But you changed your mind. You wanted to stay at home.’
‘No. You got the chance to work in Edinburgh, a well-paid nine-to-five desk job and weekends off. Like a normal person. Long hours, I know, but we had a family life. I couldn’t go back to work because of the commute you had every day. But then,’ Brenda’s voice became harsh with anger, ‘DCI Alan McAlpine snaps his fingers and without even asking me, you came right back here, to the Murder Squad. Without even asking me,’ she repeated.
‘The Crucifixion Killer was the biggest murder case in our history, and I was to ask your permission to go and work on it?’
‘It has to do with being a husband, a father.’ Brenda looked back to make sure Peter was still asleep. ‘Never home for the kids’ tea, not even home for Christmas Day. You didn’t pick up Peter’s dragon suit. You even volunteered your own flesh and blood for a dangerous reconstruction, and look what happened. You spend more time with Costello and Mulholland than you ever do with us. Wouldn’t be like that if you were a bloody milkman, would it? You never even switch your phone off.’
‘I have responsibility…’
‘You have a responsibility to us.’ Brenda was well into her stride and wasn’t about to be stopped. ‘And that is the problem. You’re more married to your job than you ever will be to me. Don’t deny it; I know you too well. But you have to decide what is more important. The hurtful thing is, I don’t think you’ll find that easy. And it should be.’
Colin smiled at her reassuringly and pulled his phone from his pocket, pressing Off. He showed her the blue display as it swirled and died.
32
Vik Mulholland sat there, his head in his hands, and waited.
And waited. He had made a mistake in telling the only member of staff he could find that he was a cop. So, he guessed he shouldn’t expect the niceties and condolences reserved for the bereaved. He’d just been told to have a seat.
And that had been twenty minutes ago.
He looked at the posters opposite him for the tenth time. Bereavement counselling, Cruse, the Samaritans. In the past, they had just been numbers he had handed out to people on a card, solutions to other people’s problems. Now he was grieving for somebody, in need of somebody to talk to, somebody who had known her. He couldn’t think of anybody. It was warm in the corridor, yet he was chilled, shivering and wretched. He had no idea where he was going to go. Where was he going to go? Home, with his family, was the last place he wanted to be when he had just had his heart ripped out. It was Christmas, and he had no idea how he was going to get through it. Something inside him had died.
He heard the rattle of a deep cough from the other side of the swing doors; one door opened a little then closed, then opened fully, as though somebody was gaining strength to come through it. He considered getting up to help, but thought, ‘Fuck it.’ He turned away, pulling his coat round him, resenting the intrusion.
An old woman walked in backwards, her raincoat soaked through, her hat dusted with snow. In the crook of her arm was a teddy bear dressed in a Scotland strip, its toorie bunnet hanging by a thread. She came towards him, walking slowly on stick-thin legs, coughing and wheezing.
‘Oh son, oh son.’
Mulholland got up, offering her the only seat, and laid a guiding hand on her elbow.
‘It’s awful weather out there. Why don’t they have all the hospital under the same roof? Oh, my legs. Is there a buzzer or something that we press?’
‘Somebody will be here in a minute.’ Once she was settled, Mulholland turned his back, angry that his solitude had been interrupted.
‘You see, I’m looking for my poor Frances.’
Mulholland turned his head sharply. ‘I’m sorry – who?’
‘My wee Frances. That’s who I’m here to see.’ The woman looked directly up at Vik, and he saw the tears in her faded eyes.
‘I’m here to see Frances as well. It’s Miss Cotter, isn’t it? I’m… well, I was a friend of Fran’s.’
Miss Cotter’s face trembled into a smile. ‘A friend of Fran’s?’ She leaned forward, reaching out with cold reptile hands, a single, gnarled finger outstretched, and looked at him intently. ‘You’re Vik, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Oh, she talked about you; she always talked about you. She was so fond of you…’
‘Fond of me? Did she say that?’
‘She did. You gave her some lovely flowers, she said. Nobody ever gave her flowers before. They made her very happy.’
Vik bit back his tears. ‘I hope so,’ was all he could say.
Miss Cotter was dabbing at her eyes with a sodden hanky, and Vik automatically took out his own, immaculately laundered, and gave it to her.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ she said, sniffing hard. ‘Oh, I can see why she liked you – such a nice young man. She’d a sad life, you know, a hard life. There weren’t many who were kind to her. I did what I could when she was a wee girl, though it wasn’t much…’
Vik was desperately wondering whether he would make it out of there before he fell apart, whe
n he heard a light, hurried tick-tock of footsteps approaching from beyond the door, and Gail Irvine came in.
‘Oh, good,’ she said. ‘I was looking for you.’
Gail Irvine went over to Miss Cotter, and crouched at her feet, taking the old woman’s hands in hers. ‘Miss Cotter,’ she said. ‘Miss Cotter, I’ve something to tell you.’
The reddened eyes struggled to focus on her, uncomprehendingly. ‘What’s that?’
Gail hesitated, clearing her throat slightly. ‘Miss Cotter, you remember the Daily Record mentioned that you’d helped us with our enquiries?’
‘Aye – yesterday, was it? I can’t remember…’
‘They’ve just sent over a fax.’ Irvine unfolded a sheet of paper. ‘Someone in Australia saw that piece…’
Miss Cotter looked straight into Gail’s eyes, with a glimmer of sharp intelligence. But then she shook her head. ‘I don’t know anyone in Australia,’ was all she said.
Irvine took a deep breath and ploughed on determinedly. ‘This fax is from a young boy – he’s fourteen, he says – who reads the Scottish papers sometimes on the internet, because his dad and granddad both came from Glasgow. He thinks he might be related to you.’
Miss Cotter’s head was shaking agitatedly, Vik’s handkerchief, now a crumpled rag, pressed to her face. ‘No, no, no,’ she was saying over and over.
Gail shot a frantic look up at Vik, as if asking him to help.
He turned his back to Miss Cotter. ‘Irvine, do you think this is a good idea?’ he whispered under his breath.
She nodded. ‘We’ve checked it out. It’s fine.’ She reached up to take the old woman’s face in her hands, trying to stop the distressed shaking. ‘Miss Cotter, this boy says his dad’s name is Ruari. Do you know a Ruari Cotter?’
The shaking stopped, and Miss Cotter’s hands dropped to her lap. She gave a great sigh, and two tears ran down her damp cheeks. ‘My son was called Ruari,’ she whispered at last.
‘Well, he still is,’ Irvine said, sitting back on her heels. ‘Now, why don’t you come back to the station with me, and have a nice cup of tea? Then when you’re ready, we can put a call through to Australia. You can talk to him.’
‘Talk to him? What’ll I say?’
‘Hello? Happy Christmas? These conversations take care of themselves. Come on now.’
‘Oh, I can’t take it in. It’s too much…’ Miss Cotter started gathering her things together. She picked up the Scotland teddy, and looked at it for a moment, as if confused. ‘I wanted to give this to Troy,’ she said.
‘Bring it along,’ Irvine told her. ‘I’ll take you so you can give it to him yourself. But maybe just not now.’
‘Oh, you’re all so kind,’ Miss Cotter quavered. She stood up.
‘Miss Cotter?’ Vik said, and she turned round. ‘Later – sometime – could I come and see you?’
‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘We can talk about Frances. And I can give you your handkerchief back, all nicely washed and ironed.’ She walked up close to him and laid her hand on his arm. ‘I’m that grateful to you,’ she said. ‘You made my wee Frances happy.’
And she let herself be led away by Irvine through the swing doors.
Lynne was sitting in an old plastic armchair, her coat pulled round her. The relatives’ room at the Western was overheated, but her bones refused to warm up. Somebody had made her a cup of tea, and slopped it so that two Rich Tea biscuits lay one each side of the cup, slowly dissolving into mulch. She shuddered with disgust.
‘Lynne, I’m so sorry.’ She looked up at the sound of Douglas Munro’s voice.
‘Oh, hello, Douglas, how lovely to see you. Thank you for coming.’ She rose, turning her cold cheek for him to kiss, then sat down again, still holding his hand, on the edge of the chair, ankles crossed like the Queen. She seemed remarkably composed.
‘I can’t believe what you’ve been through.’
‘But what about you? Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m OK, thank you. How about you?’ Douglas was discomfited. Maybe it hadn’t hit her yet. ‘Lynne?’
‘Yes, darling?’
‘You do know that Eve… that Eve… she didn’t make it?’
‘Oh, yes, she was dead before she went in the ambulance,’ said Lynne matter-of-factly. She smiled at him, a thin tight-lipped little smile. ‘She was eating her starter – you know the way she used to stuff food down her – she must have choked and that was it.’
‘It must have been awful for you.’ Douglas covered his mouth with his hand, imagining.
She shrugged. Her smile was wider now. ‘I’m fine. I really am.’
‘Maybe, but maybe not. I should drive you home. I’ll arrange to take you to the police station afterwards; you might have to speak to somebody about this. I think you’re still in shock.’
‘No, I’m not. I am perfectly aware of everything. In fact, I feel happier than I’ve felt for ages.’ She laughed a little. ‘It’s for the best, you know.’
‘Eve was your sister, Lynne. How can her death be for the best? OK, she was still in pain, but she was getting over it. Every day she was getting stronger and stronger. And such a talent.’
‘She was going to ruin everything for us.’ She twiddled with her ring. ‘But now you can leave your wife and move in with me – you’ve always said how much you like our house. And it will be mine now. Eve was never going to sign that contract, never in a million years. But I’m her legal next of kin. So, now all her intellectual property is mine, and I own the rights to Squidgy McMidge. Computer graphics can do the rest. She meant to kill you, you know, Douglas. But I had my chance and I took it.’ She seized his hand and gazed adoringly at him. ‘I’ve saved your life, Douglas.’
‘Lynne, you are in shock.’
‘Once again, I am not in shock.’
‘Why don’t you have a lie-down?’
‘The best bit is, we can have our Christmas together.’ She kissed his cheek, her pale hair lighter under the fluorescent light, her blue eyes turning green. Strangely, she had a look of her sister. ‘After what we’ve both been through, I think we deserve our wee bit of happiness.’
‘What are you saying, Lynne?’
‘Didn’t you hear me? Eve was going to kill you.’
Douglas’s voice was quiet. ‘Oh, I don’t think so, Lynne.’
‘Then you’re a fool,’ Lynne laughed, a cruel dismissive laugh. ‘Of course, you believed her. Even I believed she couldn’t walk. She fooled all of us. But I have the evidence with me.’ She patted her handbag. ‘She got hold of your credit card, and she put a pack of Headeze in your pocket. She probably did it while she was in your office. She knew you’d take it sooner or later. When they’re analysed, I’ll be proved right. She played you, Douglas. I’m sure she’s killed God knows how many other people too. All those people who shopped at that horrible supermarket.’ Lynne sniffed fastidiously. ‘So, it’s for the best that she’s dead, really.’ Lynne folded her arms with triumph. ‘I think it’s all going to turn out just fine.’
He looked at her, and saw a hard flinty-eyed woman, older than her years. He didn’t reply. Instead he said, ‘Come on, let’s go.’ With a wave of his hand he gestured that she should go first. He followed her as she walked to the lift and down the back corridor to the car park. They walked past a dark-haired man sitting on a single plastic chair against a featureless, cold wall. The young man didn’t look up at the sound of Lynne’s voice; he sat motionless, an image of desolation, hands deep in the pocket of his coat, weary. Munro recognized the face, the immaculate cut of his coat – the policeman who’d come to enquire about his credit card. It didn’t look official, but he supposed the police suffered bereavement like everybody else.
Douglas walked Lynne back to the car park, careful to keep two steps behind. Lynne didn’t stop talking.
‘We can be together now. I’ll have it all, the house, her money, Squidgy – you said yourself that he’s a gold mine. I’ll have the house and you an
d I can get married. Life will be wonderful.’
He opened the Corsa door for her. ‘Are you sure you’re safe to drive, Lynne?’
‘Yes, yes, I’ll be fine.’ She got into the driver’s seat. ‘As long as we can be together.’ She leaned over and opened the passenger door invitingly.
But Douglas leaned his head close to her car window and took a deep breath. ‘But you know that isn’t really going to happen, Lynne. It was very nice while it lasted but – well, sometimes these things run their course.’
Lynne looked smug. ‘Douglas, I killed her so that we could be together, so it will be fine.’ She kissed him on the nose through the open window.
He drew back as though she had bitten him. He knew he had been kissed by a monster.
He stepped away from the window as his phone went. ‘That’ll be the wife,’ he lied. ‘And that will always be the problem. I’m sorry, Lynne. I’m truly sorry. But – well, recently there has been a lot of water under the bridge.’
Munro paused as he looked at the caller ID number; it was his mother, she’d be wanting to know where he was. He flipped the phone open quickly as he walked away from the car.
Many times in his career Colin Anderson had thought about taking up smoking, and now, standing outside the A&E entrance to the Western Hospital, in the rain and bitter cold sleet, with Harry Secombe belting out a Christmas carol from a radio somewhere within, he thought it might be his only hope of sanity. He could hear the revellers in the Byres Road end of the hospital getting wound up and ready to go, while outside a small group was puffing in silence along the hospital wall, huddled against the weather. The only movement was the occasional cloud of smoke, which swirled high before being swallowed by the sleet.
Colin opened his car door and slipped into the cold seat; he had no particular place to go. He couldn’t even summon up the energy to be miserable. Peter was in good hands in a drug-induced sleep. Brenda was at his bedside, and her mother had taken Claire home with her. Luca had regained consciousness, and his mother had smiled for the first time in years. Troy was lying cold in the morgue, along with Frances.
