The Blood of Crows (15 page)

The staff listened, arms folded, chewing gum, desperate to get out and have a fag. Their attitude did not change at first, but as time went on information researched on the Internet started to filter down. Auld Archie’s past life read like a Hollywood film script, full of prostitutes and shootings, arson and protection rackets. He had had a reputation for being fearless, and there were reports of him being shot twice. The next time Ella, his reluctant but designated care worker was giving him a shower, she had a closer look and saw the ugly scars among the folds of liver-spotted skin.

And then the staff’s attitude changed again. They became scared. Agnes and Ella summed it up over a quiet mid-morning cup of tea. There they both were, wiping the backside of one of the most feared men in Glasgow.
But it wasn’t who he had been that was scary, it was who he was now. ‘The way he looks at you,’ they whispered. ‘Like a mad dog. Nothing behind those eyes.’

But Auld Archie was not as blind or deaf as he made out, nor was he as gaga. He had made it to their office and used the phone that morning to phone the hospital without them noticing. The wee cow at the other end wouldn’t speak to him. He tried to stop the tremor in his hands. He was nervous these days – not bad nervous, but nervous like he used to get before he shot somebody in the head, and God knows he’d done that more than once. Auld Archie looked out at the darkening sky, and he knew the days were about to get darker, in every sense.

There would be blood spilled. The death of that no-good arsewipe Biggart was just the start.

Wednesday

30 June 2010

7.45 A.M.

His third day on the case started badly for DI Colin Anderson with an angry phone call from the sergeant who had initially investigated the Carruthers case up at Maryhill. He was furious that somebody else was reviewing the work, and he was going to get his DCI to complain to Anderson’s DCI. He sounded like a little boy in the playground, saying, ‘My dad’s bigger than your dad.’ Anderson had affably wished him good luck with that one and put the phone down. He had a spare few minutes before his meeting with Howlett so he set the alarm on his mobile, just in case he got too engrossed, and picked up the Carruthers file from the tray. The fiscal’s office had ruled his death a suicide because of the contents of this file. Coffee in hand, he began to read.

On the face of it, it was indeed a straightforward suicide. The post mortem report said death was due to ‘multiple injuries consistent with a fall from a height’, and the fact that the safety catch had been removed with a screwdriver tended to rule out an accident in the eyes of the fiscal. Mrs Carruthers had no explanation for that; her statement said they always used the tilt-and-turn
when they cleaned the windows, which appeared to rule out an accident.

So, the safety catch had been removed, but by whom?

Anderson skimmed on, flicking the pages over. There was no mention of a screwdriver, no mention of the screws. Had somebody picked them up and pocketed them? The thought didn’t make Anderson feel any easier.

He looked at the black and white pictures of the body of Thomas Carruthers, aged sixty-eight. The only emotion on his poor smashed face was surprise. If, in his last minute on the planet, he had seen his former life flashing before him, or the pearly gates opening up for him at the end of a brilliantly lit tunnel, it had surprised him. At least, something had. His feet, twisted at impossible angles, were covered by bloodied socks. A dark slipper, circled in red, lay right at the edge of the picture. The next photo was a close-up, in high resolution. Anderson could see the little craters in the concrete, and tiny fronds of moss holding on to tenuous life, all in sharp focus under the scrutiny of the camera. The internal scaffolding of Carruthers’ face had collapsed under the impact into a weird asymmetry, and there was a lake of blood spreading under his eye, with little rivers forming in the runnels of the concrete. A mangle of broken glass and dark plastic that Anderson presumed had been his specs was compressed against the bruised flesh of his cheek.

Why did he still have on his slippers and glasses? Why didn’t he take them off and leave them neatly, with a note? The way suicides are supposed to.

Anderson paused, looking down at the picture; the point of his finger drifted on to Carruthers’ exposed hip, to the small linear pattern of bruising on his skin.

8.30 A.M

ACC Howlett’s office looked as though it should smell of old leather and cigarette smoke. Instead it smelled faintly of TCP. Howlett himself was smaller than Anderson remembered – not just thinner, but as though the man himself had shrivelled.

‘Quite a reputation you’ve carved out for yourself,’ Howlett observed, then continued without waiting for a response, ‘I was talking to a colleague of yours only yesterday.’

‘DS Costello? Yes, I know.’

‘You two are close? I understand you’ve worked together for the last five years or so with no hint of disruption between you.’

‘I think we know each other’s strengths and weaknesses,’ answered Anderson ambiguously.

‘So, if DS Costello was alerted to something, do you think she would come to you?’

‘Unless she was expressly told not to, sir. In which case, she wouldn’t.’

Howlett smiled a little. ‘But I presume she has told you that we have her back in harness, so to speak.’

‘And that was all she said. She can be far more discreet than she makes herself out to be.’ Anderson crossed his legs, giving the impression of relaxing. He hadn’t trusted
Howlett when he had first walked in, and he had no inkling that he was about to reappraise the man any time soon. ‘She did tell me where, because she would have difficulty getting there – she hasn’t been able to drive since what happened in February – and I offered to run her out there tonight.’

‘Good. So, if she came to you with vague suspicions of something, you would not be dismissive of her opinion?’

Anderson had no hesitation in answering. ‘I would never dismiss DS Costello’s opinion.’ He thought he had a glimmer of where this conversation might be going.

‘So, you know we’re sending her to Glen Fruin Academy. Did she tell you why?’

‘No.’

‘It’s a great school with a great tradition.’ Howlett nodded to a photograph of what looked like the school rowing team. ‘I was there for a couple of years myself.’

‘I think I had heard that,’ said Anderson, realizing that he now had no idea at all where this conversation was going.

‘Good, good,’ said Howlett, as if Anderson had answered an important question for him. Then he changed tack completely. ‘Did you make any progress on that girl in the river?’

‘Not my case, sir.’

Howlett ignored him ‘Do you have any reason to believe she’s foreign?’

Anderson looked at the ACC’s face, but it was unreadable. ‘I think there might be a suggestion of that. O’Hare
would know more than me. No doubt he’ll furnish you with the paperwork in due course. Why don’t you ask the man in charge? I think that’s DCI MacKellar?’

‘Because I am asking you. So, that’s as far as you’ve got?’

‘As I said, it’s not my case, sir, and the Prof is not a man to be hurried.’

Howlett folded his arms, considering this, and frowned in concentrated thought. ‘And you have established that Biggart was probably burned alive. Any idea by whom?’

‘We have a sighting on CCTV. We’re making an appeal this morning for a positive ID; the young gentleman is definitely key to all this. There’s no misper that matches him so time to go public, I think.’ Anderson couldn’t resist flicking a look at the clock.

‘I am insisting on a media blackout on most of this. So, just appeal for the ID of the young man in connection with an arson attack. That’s all they need to know.’

‘Don’t worry, the team are committed to tracing him,’ Anderson elaborated.

‘Oh yes, the team that came with you.’ Howlett rubbed his fingers gently together, as if he was slightly bored now. ‘And what about Biggart himself?’

‘Well, the murder of his wife last night puts a different –’

Howlett did not seem interested. ‘But apart from that, the man himself?’

‘They had a nice house and he seems to have lived there. But he also used a flat he paid no rent for – a perk of some kind, we think. The flat is one of several that also appear to be unrented – well, unoccupied, at any rate. It
doesn’t look like a typical love nest away from the wife and kids.’

‘More like a hive of industry?’ The question was very matter-of-fact.

‘Might be. I’ve requested some samples from the towels in the flat next door.’ Anderson took a breath and started to theorize. ‘I have an idea that the ceiling was rigged for lights. I think that Biggart might have graduated from dealing in films to making them. O’Hare was mooting the possibility that that is what the River Girl had been used for.’ Anderson watched Howlett for any response. There was none; he got the feeling he was not telling him anything new. ‘That means there might be a supply of girls from somewhere.’

Howlett’s eyes watched Anderson carefully from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, scrutinizing him rather than listening to him. ‘But you suspect there was some questionable sexual activity going on.’ Howlett’s statement didn’t invite a response. Instead he leaned forward, fixing Anderson with his deceptively mild gaze. ‘If you feel you are being constrained in any way in this case, come and see me. Directly, I mean.’

Anderson nodded, feeling a slight stab in his stomach. There was a lot going on here that he knew nothing about. Did Howlett think he knew a lot more than he did? Maybe there was some new test for a DCI – work out what the bloody job is before you get the chance to do it.

‘Not a pleasant man, Mr Biggart. Whoever lit that match did the world a favour.’ Howlett pulled a thick file from his drawer. Old, crumpled, dog-eared and stained
with coffee rings, it must have been read many times. Anderson felt his heart sink further. ‘No doubt you will be looking for somebody who hated his guts. Somebody who might have watched him blister and burn then quietly let himself out the door.’

‘I didn’t know you were so well informed, sir.’

‘I am well informed about everything in this case, DCI Anderson,’ said Howlett. ‘And I
mean
DCI Anderson.’

‘Oh – er – right, sir. Thank you.’

‘I am well informed about you, about your team as you like to call it, and about your career so far and exactly where it is going. By that I mean upwards. You have a good track record.’ Howlett stood up and sat on the edge of the desk, a very casual pose, but there was nothing casual about his words. ‘If you are looking for somebody who hated Mr Biggart then you are looking at a fair few. This file will help you in your search. But I would rather you read it and then locked it in a drawer out of sight of the lower ranks, no matter how much you think you can trust them. A few years ago, a very few years ago, Biggart was just a small-time pimp who beat up anyone smaller than him. Then something changed. It looks as though somebody started backing him, giving him advice, funding him almost, no doubt while vastly overestimating his intelligence. If they’d realized they’d made a mistake, they would just have shot him. They wouldn’t have bothered going to all that trouble. The manner of his death leaves some questions unanswered. The manner of his wife’s death even more so, the “blood eagle” so beloved of the Russian mafia. With that degree of violence, the execution of the
operation, almost military in its precision. Nobody saw anything. Nothing at all.’

‘It had struck me, sir.’

‘I guess you’re starting at the bottom of the pile, investigating the person who lit the match. Find out who he is, but don’t stop at the fire setter; you’ll get further looking at Biggart. If you get anywhere at all, come to me, please.’

Anderson took the file, it was thick and very heavy. ‘Are we looking for somebody in particular?’

For the first time Howlett looked uncomfortable. ‘
Kukolnyik
,’ was all he said.

‘And that is what?’

‘More of a who. “The Puppeteer” is a literal translation. He – or she – who pulls the strings and has us dance to his tune. Most of that file is background. You will pick up the invisible thread of some puppet master in there, and that’s who I would like you to find. I don’t really want that being made common knowledge outside your team – just say you are working on the Biggart case.’ Howlett went on. ‘And if you need any more detailed information about Biggart, you should speak to Eric Moffat, who’s here in Glasgow for a little while. He was fully operational in Biggart’s youth, so speak to him and see what background he can give you that never made it into the official record. Listen well, but say little. And I want
you
to speak to Moffat, not Lambie or any of the others. I’m not sure if Moffat fully understands how the force has changed since he left …’ Howlett leaned back in his seat, and took a breath as if he had a pain somewhere. ‘I’ve consulted Dr Mick Batten about this, you
will find notes from him in the file. I intend to call him in, I know you two work well together. How are you getting on at Partick?’

‘Fine. Be nice to be working with Mick again,’ said Anderson, hoping Howlett would explain why a psychologist had been called in.

He didn’t.

‘From your record, I notice you feel comfortable working long hours with a small team. Not a practice that can easily be tolerated in today’s police service.’

‘No, sir, but it is effective. Yesterday I narrowly avoided a meeting that was purely about scheduling some more meetings.’

Howlett smiled thinly. ‘Such is the role of the DCI.’

‘I was a DI then.’

‘Your approach – delicate work, the need-to-know principle – does have its uses. But I’m afraid it’ll be a few months before the work at Partickhill is complete.’

‘I’ve worked in much worse places than Partick Central.’

Howlett steepled his fingers. ‘So, I take it you wouldn’t be interested in setting up a little unit of your own, just across the road at the university? In the lecture hall the hospital uses? Just for this operation, if you’ll pardon the pun?’