The Blood of Crows (11 page)

The seating area was nearly full. A group of three young men sat together with a weary patience, and there was an older woman, dressed in a black coat far too warm for the day. She was gripping a plastic cup of water with trembling hands. Costello recognized her from the funeral; it was Mary Carruthers.

At that minute, there was a knock at the glass window. DCI MacKellar beckoned her over, pointing at Mary Carruthers while ignoring the man with the oil-stained hands.

‘Whatever she wants, can you see to it? I really don’t have time.’

‘No,’ said Costello sharply. ‘I’m here to see Colin Anderson. Is he in?’

MacKellar pulled a face at her, turned round, then had a few words with the desk sergeant who looked at a computer screen. ‘He’s out. Just take her for a cup of tea. Just get her out of here.’

Costello sensed the anxiety of a man faced with a weeping OAP. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Look, she’s greetin’ all over the place,’ MacKellar said out of the corner of his mouth.

Costello looked at him, saying nothing.

‘DI Anderson will not be back till five or so.’

Costello held her ground.

‘It’ll be one I owe you.’

‘You’ll owe me big time.’ Costello smiled at him. ‘And I’ll get that in writing when I return. She turned away, but not before she heard MacKellar swear and slam shut the glass partition.

At that precise moment the man with the oily hands lost the plot and started shouting, ‘How long is this going to fuckin’ take?’ to the desk sergeant, who asked him to watch his language. He kicked the wall as two phones started ringing, muttering that the moon landings had taken less time.

The others in the queue told him to wait his turn, as a young man with tattooed bare arms got to his feet. The door at the far side of reception flew open, and two uniforms came out.

Costello judged it a good time to make herself scarce and slid into the seat next to Mrs Carruthers. ‘It’s Mary, isn’t it?’

The red-rimmed eyes stared back at her, a flicker of recognition. ‘You were at the funeral, weren’t you, dear?’ One clammy hand clasped Costello’s. Her skin was smooth as silk. ‘Did you know Tommy?’ She screwed her face up as the altercation behind her became more aggressive and made it hard to hear.

‘I think it’s time to get out of here. I know a nice wee tea shop across the road, somewhere quiet?’

Mary looked confused. Costello noticed she had been holding a piece of paper in the palm of her hand all the time; it was wet with sweat, moulded and creased to the shape of the plastic cup. ‘But I need to talk to somebody.’ She tried to juggle the paper, her shopping bag and the cup, her hands still shaking.

Costello showed her her warrant card.

Mary’s relief was obvious. ‘Oh, thank God. She handed over the letter to Costello, who unpeeled it and gave it a quick read, flicking a glance at the photocopy underneath.

She whistled slowly. ‘OK,’ she said calmly. ‘So, let’s have a wee chat. But we’ll go somewhere nicer.’

3.00 P.M.

Melinda Biggart – Mel to her friends and Melons to her close friends – buzzed them in when they rang at the front door and introduced themselves through the speakerphone. A voice sandpaper-thick with a forty-a-day habit breathed huskily for them to come round the back, then added how young the police were looking nowadays. Anderson didn’t rise to the bait by looking for the camera; he just smiled at the speakerphone and made his way through an ornate wrought-iron gate and round to the back of the house. A small swimming pool came into view, with a large blonde sitting in the shallow end. Behind her were a phone and a slightly larger device. The remote entry, Anderson presumed.

‘DI Anderson, DS Lambie,’ she greeted them, her lips
barely breaking contact with the cigarette at her mouth. One taloned hand was holding a bright pink drink, and she swished the water around with her other arm. Two small triangles of bikini strained to restrain her surgically enhanced assets. ‘You should come in and join me, it’s lovely and cool in here.’

She smiled at Anderson as Lambie moved behind him, out of her line of fire, and he heard Lambie mutter, ‘You’re the one who’s Acting DCI, sir.’

‘Mrs Biggart, we’re here about your husband.’

‘Good. Has Niven MacKellar given up on me, then?’

‘I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ Anderson persisted. ‘So, why don’t you get out the pool, cover yourself up, and we’ll have a little chat. We’ll try not to trespass on your obvious grief.’ Anderson made his way over to the table and chairs on the patio, sat down and glanced casually at the neighbouring houses, refusing to watch as she got out of the pool.

‘Grief? Relief, mair like.’ It was a different Melinda who walked, feet flapping in flip-flops, making wet question marks on the stones, then sat down, wrapped in a blue sarong, all graces gone.

‘Where were you the night your husband died?’ he asked.

‘Here. I told DCI MacKellar the morning after.’ Her eyes did not leave Anderson’s for a single moment. ‘Ah know ma man wis a bastard, but he didnae deserve that.’

‘All the more reason why we should track down who did it. But he had a lot of enemies. You know about anybody who was noising him up recently?’

‘There was a queue. But anybody – anybody normal – would just have shot him. Bang-bang, dead.’

‘Instead of which … He didn’t die a good death, Mrs Biggart.’

‘He didnae live a good life either.’

‘Looks kind of good from here,’ said Lambie, looking around the huge back garden, the conservatory, the Porsche 911, and the eight-bedroomed house in a gated community at one of the smartest addresses in Glasgow. ‘But you’ve no idea who might want to knock him from his perch?’

She shook her head. ‘The thing is this – ma man didn’t like women – or men, come to that – that had had too many.’ She knocked back a mouthful of the pink drink. Anderson could smell rum. ‘And by that I mean birthdays, not drinks. So, our marriage as such ended about three years after we were married. After that, I could please myself. And I did. Often.’ Melinda lit another cigarette and blew the smoke out in a thin stream.

Anderson gazed past her to the pool. The bright diamonds of reflected light hurt his eyes. ‘But did you have anybody special?’ he asked softly.

She didn’t answer immediately, but her eyes caught Anderson’s, giving him a glimpse of the girl she had been once. Did he detect a fleeting wistful look? ‘Aye, I had somebody special. Haven’t seen him for a while.’ She looked away. The next drink was a bit hurried. That conversation was over.

‘So, again, where were you when Billy died?’ asked Anderson.

‘I was here. You can ask the gateman, James. Sorry, don’t feel like saying much more. You know who my lawyer is.’

They said goodbye. Once they were safely out of the
house, Anderson drove the Jazz round the corner and parked immediately. ‘Just let’s wait till I get my breath back. God, what a cleavage.’

‘You could feed the whole GDP of this country down there, in cash! Silicone, of course. If they look like the guns of the battleship
Potemkin
in firing position, they’ll be silicone.’

‘I’m not going to ask how you know that.’ Anderson shook his head, trying to clear the image from his mind, slipped the car into gear and headed out towards the gate. The barrier rose as they approached, but Anderson pulled into the monoblocked space designated for those not yet allowed to escape. The gateman came out, wearing his commissionaire’s cap in the presence of authority.

The DI got out of the car, thinking that the Jazz probably didn’t quite cut the mustard in a place like this. Still, it showed the police were suffering cutbacks just like everybody else.

‘James?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The security man didn’t actually stand to attention but it was not far off.

Anderson heard Lambie get out of the car behind him. ‘I’m sure you’re aware, James, that some – well, one – of the residents here didn’t come by their wealth via the most legal means possible.’

‘Couldn’t really say one way or the other, sir. Rumours and idle gossip.’

‘But you get my general drift?’

‘Oh yes, sir.’

‘So, we’re obviously investigating the death of Mr Biggart.’

‘Mr Biggart, yes.’ James’s face filled with fear. ‘Mr Biggart,’ he repeated quietly.

‘And I’m sure you want to stay well out of it. You have your job –’

‘Yes, I do.’ James’s face relaxed with relief.

‘So, off the record, James, how often did Billy come in and out with somebody else in the car? How often did he have visitors?’

James shook his head. ‘Not often, sir, not often at all. He always drove his own car, sir, a Hummer, a dark grey Hummer.’ He rattled off the registration number. The vehicle was six months old. ‘Not one for bringing his work home, not him. Not even a lot of visitors …’

‘And?’

James nodded, as if a thought had struck him. ‘I mean, there weren’t a lot of visitors when Mr Biggart was in.’

‘Meaning his wife had more visitors when he was out?’

‘Mrs Biggart had a few visitors … you know, women. A few women came and went …’

Anderson was aware of Lambie behind him, scuffing the ground with his toe. ‘And what about men? Did Mrs Biggart entertain any male visitors when Mr Biggart was away? Anybody in particular?’

‘Wouldn’t want to put it like that, sir.’

‘How would you like to put it, James? Not in writing down at the station, I’m sure?’

James answered immediately. ‘Well, her usual callers – her flowers get delivered, her hairdresser, her personal trainer. A company sends cleaners – all male cleaners – laundry delivery. All men.’

‘Anybody new? Very recent? Any man who might be visiting on a more … friendly basis?’

Anderson could see the cogs turning in James’s mind. ‘Well, there’s that young one, sir, dark hair, very dark eyes, handsome – almost pretty, you might say.’

Very dark eyes.
Anderson thought about Janet Appleby’s statement. Could the same man be a visitor to both the Biggarts? ‘And you’d recognize him again?’

‘Oh yes, I could. He drives a BMW Z3.’ James rattled off another reg.

Lambie got his notebook out and scribbled it down. ‘You didn’t catch a name?’

‘No, but he was pleasant, polite, a well-spoken young man. Always stopped and had a word.’

‘Did he ever mention why he was here?’

‘No, don’t think so.’

‘One more thing, do you have a phone here?’

‘Yes.’ James gave them the number, and Lambie wrote it all down.

‘Thanks, James, we’ll try not to bother you again.’

Anderson pulled the Jazz to a halt at the traffic lights and let his fingertips drum on the steering wheel.

‘Did we learn anything from any of that?’ Lambie enquired.

Anderson quoted, ‘“I had somebody special. Haven’t seen him for a while.” Her exact words. There’s something going on there. Either somebody decided to take out Mr and Mrs Biggart in a two-for-one offer, or maybe Mrs Biggart was a bit fed up being second best? Wouldn’t be the first gangster’s wife to sleep with A. N. Other and decide to take over the company.’

‘And decide to hire a hit man? I might go for that. But nobody hires an arsonist for a hit man, they just do insurance work.’

Anderson said, ‘True, they’d just shoot him and put him somewhere we wouldn’t find him. Like a flyover support on the M74.’

‘I’ll just phone those reg numbers through, see what the DVLA say.’ Lambie spoke on the phone for a few minutes, then announced to Anderson, ‘That BMW reg belongs to a Vauxhall Corsa.’

‘Do you think James got it wrong?’

‘He didn’t get the other number wrong, did he? Curiouser and curiouser,’ said Anderson, pulling on to the main road. ‘And who’d have enough savvy to get a Z3 with a false plate? Gangster’s moll, I bet!’

4.45 P.M.

Back at the station and bagged down with two mugs of strong tea, Costello was starting to feel vaguely sick. And more than a little confused. She had walked into the reception, now a haven of peace. The desk sergeant had nodded at her and then gone back to his screen; a uniform cop gave her a passing glance as he left, then automatically held the door open for her and, equally automatically, she had taken it from him, said thanks and walked through into the station proper. No questions asked. She headed for the stairs, nobody gave her a second glance, up to the CID suite. She looked through the glass panel in the door to see Mulholland flicking through a file in his lazy way,
peeling the skin from an orange as if his fingers were getting tired. Wyngate, she noticed with a sudden flurry of affection, was sitting over a keyboard, battering away and pulling faces at whatever was not going right on the screen. Some things never changed.

Behind her she heard the door of the major incident room click open. She quickly bent her head, as if reading the letter. A female plain clothes cop came out and held the door open for her. Head still head bent in concentration, Costello took the door, muttering thank you. She walked in as if she had a right to be there. Two of the cops sitting working said hello to her, she said hello back and strode over to the photocopier. She opened out the letter and the already photocopied bank statement, placed her hand flat on the paper, smoothing it out, then held the lid down as the flash moved slowly from left to right and back again. She looked around the wall, seeing the pictures of a girl’s face. A dead girl’s face. In profile, then face on, a case number underneath in black marker pen. Next to them was a strangely proportioned photograph from the river, taken from the middle of the river, looking at the north bank. A street plan with that section highlighted, the CCTV picture of a white Transit van with a cross through its number plate. The number plate arrowed, reassigned to a tractor.

Costello took out the letter and replaced it with the bank statement, not daring to look round and see if anybody was paying her any attention. She nonchalantly placed her hand on her hip and pressed the button for four copies, just to take up more time. Her eyes scanned around, taking in smaller papers, files, the address, phone
number and a contact name for the Russian Consulate in Melville Street in Edinburgh. On a desk, stuck to a monitor, were the photographs of two other girls, the same age. Dead. In the photographs they were badly bruised and distorted, covered in leaves and dirt, as if they had been left somewhere, exposed. She pulled the statement from the photocopier and her phone from her pocket as she turned to leave. She was on the phone to Central Records before the door had closed behind her.