Absolution (24 page)

Mulholland sat for a moment. ‘Well, sir?’

‘Yes,’ Anderson said, still not moving.

‘The DCI said he would meet us here.’

‘Yes, just give him a minute,’ said Anderson, hoping the DCI would look clean and sober when he turned up. Anderson himself had eventually fallen asleep at McAlpine’s house, to be woken by Helena coming in at half one in the morning. The image of her smile had stayed with him long
into the night, as he tried to sleep on his own sofa, barred yet again from the marital bed.

‘How long are we giving him?’ asked Mulholland, thinking more along the lines of getting in there and getting on with it. He showed his irritation by looking at his watch.

Anderson ignored him.

Mulholland started fiddling with his impeccable cuffs. ‘Do you know Thomas O’Keefe?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Anderson. ‘But, in view of Batten’s initial profile, we should find him an interesting character. Richard Branson in a Roman collar.’ He held up a photocopied newspaper interview.
‘Father Thomas O’Keefe, aged thirty-four, says – ’

‘The age is ticked in Batten’s box.’

‘Calm down.
We are not creating the drug problem in this area. If anything, we are moving the problem away from the general public. At least we give the homeless a bed, the hungry a meal.’

‘Druggies a warm place to shoot up.’ Watching Mulholland constantly fiddling with his cuffs, Anderson realized why he irritated Costello so much.

‘According to this, O’Keefe’s next step is to start up a medically supervised programme at Partickhill Community Centre, handing out clean needles for use under supervision and providing heroin substitute as part of a detox programme. It seems to be some sort of stipulation they make; if you’re not in a programme, they don’t touch you. And so it goes on.’

‘What does that sign say?’ asked Mulholland, craning his neck to see.

‘Can hardly read it from here.’ Anderson leaned forward to peer through the windscreen.
‘The Phoenix Centre. Open for Breakfast 9 to 10 a.m. Overnight accommodation by booking only. Abuse of our staff or neighbours will not be tolerated.’

Who the hell would book to stay here?’

‘It’d feel like the Hilton once you’d had your arse felt on the floor of Central Station a few times.
Doctor here every day ii to 12.
Hmm.’

‘That the drug programme? When they move it here full time, I give it a week. The first hypodermic found on the street, and the middle-class majority of Partickhill will find their charity has run out. Maybe not as long as a week. How long has this place been here?’

‘Two years in this location, but there’s been a Phoenix for six years, in one place or another. It’s O’Keefe’s baby, apparently. He came over from Ireland as a very young newly ordained priest and set it up under a multi-denominational committee.’

‘Clever bloke – imagine how many lottery grants he’d get.’

‘You’re so cynical, Vik. He has two GPs on board, and a rep from Pitt Street. Community Constable Elliot.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Well, I had a quiet word. He says the place gives very little trouble, apart from the neighbours complaining initially about undesirables hanging about when the place wasn’t open. And admittance is refused if you smell of drink at all.’

‘Strong-minded man, then, this O’Keefe? Does he tick Batten’s boxes?’

‘I’m not excluding anybody. From what it says here, the place appears to be well run. As far as I know, the policy on the homeless has been welcomed, the policy on the alcoholic problem is being tolerated, and I’ve a sneaking suspicion that even if the drug abusers do push the good citizens on the posh side of the hill too far, the good ship Phoenix will simply sail on, doing exactly what is required, regardless of public opinion. Elliot said O’Keefe is the kind
of Irishman who keeps going regardless. The only stipulation the Phoenix seems to make is that no one under the influence of drink or drugs gets in, so you’d have to make some commitment to getting clean before you could queue up for your bowl of soup.’ Anderson unclipped his safety belt. ‘Let’s go. McAlpine can catch up if he’s interested.’

‘Bit of a shitter if O’Keefe and Christopher Robin are one and the same,’ said Mulholland, getting out of the car.

‘It would tarnish his public image somewhat,’ muttered Anderson.

The foyer of Lorna Shaw’s block of flats was that mix of dark blue and white that Costello associated with the old fish shop in Paisley Road West her mother used to drag her into, with its smell of kippers and damp sawdust. The carpet in the hall was blue, the plaster on the walls was blue, and in the corner stood a blue wrought-iron stand housing plants that had dehydrated a long time ago. All it needed was a few plastic fishing nets and lobster pots hanging from the wall to complete the theme. The block had the look of an institution, not inappropriate for a woman who’d spent most of her working life as housekeeper in the Good Shepherd Orphanage.

When Lorna Shaw opened her front door, although introductions had been made over the intercom, Costello made a point of showing her ID.

Lorna looked at it closely, comparing it to the blonde woman in front of her, dressed in an ill-fitting suit, before waving her through as if welcoming royalty. She was a tall elegant woman, her plaid dress belted in the middle, a Peter Pan collar snug round a thin wrinkled neck. Her hair was the same blue as the ceiling.

‘Last door on the right,’ Lorna Shaw said, still waving.

The theme for the living room was brown, every shade of brown, except the carpet, which Costello classed as a very light beige, easily marked. She paused for a moment at the door; she did not like to think what was on the soles of her Dr Martens. The only colours in the room came from the inhabitants of the fish tank gurgling away in the corner.

‘Tea?’

Costello shook her head. Tea would have been a welcome distraction, but she knew it would come in tiny white cups with handles too small for her fingers to get through. And shortbread.

On a doily.

Costello pulled her notebook from her bag, aware of Lorna’s observation of her trouser suit, the trousers washed too often to still match the jacket, the knees slightly bagged.

Lorna pulled a face that said something about young people today, her narrow red lips pursing. ‘So what can I do for you?’

‘I was going through some old notes, a review for a current case. It’s purely routine to check offenders who have recently been released…’ Even as she spoke, she realized she was sounding defensive.

‘Sean McTiernan comes to mind.’

‘Sean, yes.’

‘Our most notorious charge.’ Lorna Shaw’s face cracked into a smile, and she sat back on the sofa and relaxed, sticking her legs out and regarding her feet. ‘I quite liked him, actually. A wee rascal but never a nasty boy, and we had enough
of them,
believe me. His nose was always running, his knees were always skinned, and he was always getting things wrong, but a nice kid.’

‘It seems, from his notes, he was never fostered? The
background reports are a bit vague.’ She guessed Lorna Shaw was the type to counter Vague’ wherever she heard it.

‘Oh, my dear, the social services tried to home him many a time, but he always bounced back like a bad penny.’

Why?’

‘Destructive behaviour, usually. That’s the reason he was sent back, but he was never like that with us. Quite the opposite. I could see we were being manipulated, but you can’t tell a child psychologist just out of university anything, can you?’ She sniffed with disapproval.

“We have to suffer them in our job as well,’ Costello confided.

Lorna Shaw turned round suddenly. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a cuppa?’

To Costello’s surprise the tea was served in bright Dunoon ceramic mugs. She had guessed the shortbread right, though. And the doily. As she stirred her tea, Lorna Shaw came back into the room with a photograph album.

‘Sean was very friendly with one girl, very friendly. I mean, inseparable. Mrs Drummond referred them to the hospital. Psychological twinning, twinning between two people who aren’t related, that’s how the child psychologist explained it. They become two halves of the one; they can only function together, not apart. Like Morecambe and Wise. Tom and Jerry. And I think that had a lot to do with what happened later… the murder.’

Brady and Hindley, Bonnie and Clyde, West and West, thought Costello. ‘And what happened when they were separated?’

‘He went violent; she stopped eating. She was a very quiet child, not easy to get close to. In those days we were allowed to cuddle them. But not that one.’ Lorna wrinkled her nose. ‘She never seemed to invite it.’

Was he a bright boy, Sean?’ Costello asked, returning to her subject.

‘Not in the academic sense. Bright enough if he was interested. If not, you might as well talk to the wall.’ Lorna flicked the album open, scanning the pages.

Costello took a mouthful of strong tea; it reminded her of her granny. Were you surprised, the way he turned out?’

Lorna shrugged thin bony shoulders. ‘He got into a fight, and the other man died as a result, is that right?’

‘More or less.’

Wrong place at the wrong time. He was fifteen or sixteen when I retired, and I didn’t see him after that – no, that’s not true; I met him once when he was doing his apprenticeship. I wasn’t surprised when White’s took him on; he was always good with his hands. As a little boy, he used to like taking things apart and putting them back together again. He was doing fine, still plenty of chat. Quite charming, really. He was always…’ She paused, searching for the right word. ‘Passionate about things.’

‘No problem with substance abuse?’

‘Drugs, you mean?’

Costello nodded.

Lorna shook her head. ‘No, I remember the police asking us at the time. I worked in that place for over thirty years, ever since I finished my training, so I had a fair idea how most of them would turn out. I wasn’t often wrong, Miss Costello.’

‘And how did you think Sean would turn out?’ Costello asked.

‘He was committed to sport, running, and he was good. He’s the sort of young man who would watch football simply because he liked football, regardless of who was playing. He was keen on Kung Fu or whatever it was called.’

‘Do you know anything about his parents?’

Well, I don’t think Sean’s mother ever had any real feeling for him. That’s why we were always taking him back, poor wee mite.’

‘What about the dad?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Lorna turned over a few more pages. ‘The only request we ever received from his mother was that he be brought up Catholic. Sean had plenty of friends, he developed relationships within the place. I got on well with him, the kitchen staff always had time for him. The cleaners had a cupboard, you know, for keeping the buckets and brushes. He and Trude were in there more often than they were in the playground. In the cupboard, playing cops and robbers.’ She shook her head in memory, holding out the album for Costello to see.

‘This Trude – not a relative?’

‘Oh, no, but I can tell you they were closer than some of the siblings we had. Everyone had a soft spot for those two, used to let them get away with things just so long as they were a pair. It made them – well, special.’

Lorna Shaw held out the album for Costello to see. The cleaner in her uniform, laughing, one foot holding her bucket steady. A gap-toothed Sean balancing on the other side of the rim. The little blonde girl, her hands to her face, shoulders hunched, covering her laughter. Costello looked at the cleaner, the big glasses, a mole or cold sore on her top lip. Add on twenty years? She would be in her late sixties by now.

‘And can you tell me this woman’s name?’

‘Do you know, I can’t. And here’s me priding myself on my memory,’ Lorna Shaw said, reaching for another triangle of shortbread. ‘I heard she retired a while back, and I think she moved away.’

‘Can I take this and make a copy? You’ll get it back, I promise.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Lorna nibbled at her shortbread, edging the crumbs into her mouth with her finger, dusting them away before reaching for the album again. ‘There might be some more here of interest to you.’

Costello looked at the picture in her hand. Sean, a thin, attractive little boy.

‘Do you know his sexual orientation?’

‘He preferred girls to boys.’ Lorna started to flick the pages back and forward. ‘There she is.’ She showed Costello a picture, three boys eating ice creams, pulling faces. And, off to one side, that beautiful pale face with tumbling blonde hair. ‘That was taken on the beach at Largs.’ Lorna’s voice drifted. ‘Trude Swann. Two
n
’s.’

‘Really?’ Costello asked, intuition rising.

‘Yes.’ Lorna shook her head. ‘Trude looks like an angel, but she was incredibly bright, IQ off the scale. Used to draw pictures all the time, not much use in the real world. Beautiful too – just look at her. Always using bits of this and that, just rags and stuff, to dress up, pretend to be a fairy or a princess, someone with a personality she didn’t have.’ Lorna Shaw sighed. ‘Pretty, but distant, lived in her own head. Nowadays she’d be tested for autism or something like that. Sean was the only one who talked to her, really. He always called her Truli, after Truly Scrumptious.’

Costello smiled.
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?
She had lost her train of thought completely.

Lorna looked at the picture again. ‘Sean was a good-looking boy, she was a very beautiful girl. You don’t have to read Mills and Boon to know what would happen as soon as they were older. Sean stayed in the area, working with
White’s, and visited her until she was old enough to leave. I don’t know what happened to them after that… well, I know what happened to Sean.’

‘What did you think of that?’

Lorna shrugged. ‘He was never a bad boy, never cruel. But who knows?’ she said enigmatically, as she pulled the photograph from its protective film, looking at the perfect face of the little girl. Who knows what became of her? Without him? The only person – absolutely the only person – she trusted was Sean.’

‘And she had no family, anything that would help me trace her?’