The Blood of Crows (27 page)

O’Hare replied, ‘I reckon about ten. There are two other girls. One found in Argyll and one up near Tain.’

‘Their full PM results showed similar injuries to Rusalka’s, so we conclude, tentatively, that they suffered the same fate,’ said O’Hare.

Matilda stood up unsteadily, her face white. ‘Sorry, I think I’m going to be sick,’ she said, and fled.

‘Do you want to go and make sure she’s OK?’ Howlett asked Costello.

‘Not particularly,’ said Costello.

Howlett took off his glasses and polished them, before putting them back on, and coughing gently to retrieve everybody’s attention. ‘I have something very important to tell you. But first I should say that I don’t want any of this to leave this room. I know, and have known for a long time, that you are a close-knit unit. I doubt that there is any possibility of this unit being compromised.’

‘No leaks, you mean?’ Costello snapped.

‘Indeed, that’s why I took you all out of Partick – I needed to isolate you, to get you out on your own.’

‘And what exactly are we working on?’ Costello asked. ‘I’m presuming we are all working on the same thing?’

‘You are,’ Howlett said. He picked up a file from the floor beside him, and pulled out a piece of white card, Wyngate’s scale drawing of the floor plan of flats G1 and G2 at the Apollo. ‘This is the unoccupied flat next to the one that burned. Now, Miss McQueen’s report shows that the marks pointed out to us by DCI Anderson on the ceiling and the walls were bore holes that match where the lights had to be in relation to the object being filmed. The camera was hand held, as you saw, but the lights were steady. So, between Anderson and Matilda, we have independent, corroborative evidence.’ Howlett took a deep breath. ‘The samples from the towels Anderson sent to the lab mean we can now place Rusalka in that room. Matilda got enough DNA to get a positive match. Analysis of the child’s hair indicates that she had been drugged regularly, over time. But the important thing for now is that Biggart has been stopped.’

‘By the Bridge Boy?’ It was Mulholland who asked. ‘An arsonist as a hit man? That’s novel!’

‘But it would be nice to know why he was subsequently tortured, and by whom.’

‘But we don’t know who he is,’ remarked Costello, with slight sarcasm.

Lambie said. ‘I think we might get the answer to that later today. We have some information from –’

‘Good,’ said Howlett, not letting Lambie say any more. ‘DS Wyngate, you can go and find DCI Anderson, and tell him he can come back in now.’ Howlett turned to O’Hare. ‘Jack? Have you anything else for us?’

‘I have indeed.’ O’Hare placed a post mortem photograph on the table. It showed the total disintegration of a head struck by a high-velocity bullet. He put down another photograph, of the skin crease of an elbow with three wavy lines tattooed on the skin above and a delicate band of barbed wire round the wrist. The prints were so fresh they still smelled of developing fluids.

Anderson and Wyngate came back into the room and sat down. Anderson reached for both prints and studied them wordlessly.

‘That tattoo on the wrist matches, exactly, the one on the passenger in the white van,’ said Howlett. ‘And also the tattoo on the wrist of the man whose arms we saw in the film just now. Among the fingerprints lifted from the flat are some that match a set on file under the name Alexei Grusov, among many other aliases. A further distinguishing feature is white scarring on the iris of his right eye, the result of an old stab wound.’

Anderson looked up. ‘Somebody mentioned that.’

‘Janet did,’ said Mulholland. ‘So this man Grusov – the man in the van – was the man shot with Moffat. And he was a visitor to Biggart’s flat.’

‘It certainly seems so,’ Howlett agreed. None of this seemed to be news to him. ‘He was known on the street as Perky. I don’t imagine his death will be regretted by many.’

‘Perky? Why?’

‘Because they work in pairs. The other Russian has the street name Pinky, due to the loss of the small digit on his left hand. But these are no cute wee piglet puppets. Both are trained pilots, ex-military. And they are well versed in
torture, and survival techniques. Russian survival techniques usually involve killing the other bloke. Pinky is the more violent of the two.’

‘Do we have any idea where Pinky is?’ asked Anderson.

‘Gone to ground.’

‘And do we know who shot Moffat and Perky?’

Howlett appeared not to have heard Anderson’s question.

‘Whoever he was, he was a crack shot,’ said Batten soothingly. ‘What about the Bridge Boy’s ID?’

Anderson noticed how Batten had steered the conversation away from his question, replacing it with another for which there was an immediate answer.

Howlett said, ‘DCI Anderson, I’d like you to go and talk to a Dr Gaynor Spence, and confirm that she’s the Bridge Boy’s mother. Her neighbour saw the mock-up photo and called her. She was abroad at some conference and is flying back this morning. She didn’t know he was missing. Go as soon as we’re through here.’

‘Is there anything I’m actually allowed to tell her?’ Anderson asked.

‘Just be circumspect,’ Howlett warned. ‘However, we’re pretty certain one of the men who tried to kill her son is dead. You can tell her that, at least.’

Anderson nodded. ‘But even though Biggart’s gone, and Grusov has gone, the Puppeteer is still alive and kicking, right?’

‘And not known to us. But he controls everything, and we need to identify him. Looking at any terrorism intelligence, the one fact that arouses suspicion is a lack of mobile phone communication. It’s so easy to trace – anybody involved in serious activity avoids them. Hence the
reason why we have looked at areas with no mobile phone signal.’

‘Such as the glen?’ said Costello.

‘And when there, Wullie MacFadyean just falls into our laps,’ Anderson said. ‘Has Christmas come early?’

‘And he was at Carruthers’ funeral, and so was Moffat. You are the watching brief in the glen, Costello.’ Howlett paused and looked round at them all. Even shrunken and ill, he dominated the gathering. ‘There is no chatter on the ether, no texting, no emailing for the intelligence boys to trace, nothing to track. So, how does this gang communicate? Because they do – this is a well-tuned organization. But how are they doing it? Until we know that, we can’t stop it. We need to ID the Puppeteer and take him out the picture. That is our job.’

As Howlett dismissed them, he gently put his arm out to stop Costello and said in a low tone, ‘I repeat, you are the watching brief in the glen. Are you OK with that?’

She nodded.

‘Well, I want you to know you can always trust Pettigrew.’ Howlett looked at his feet. ‘Good man, Pettigrew. Keep in touch with him.’ He gave her a tight little smile and walked out of the room as Wyngate held the door open for him.

Costello looked round. ‘Excuse me, Mick, can I have a word with you? About a boy called Andrew Elphinstone? I think he might be dangerous.’

‘Just give me a minute. I need a fag after that.’ Batten pushed his chair back.

Costello noticed his hand shaking. ‘If not something stronger.’ She smiled and watched him go, then turned to Anderson. ‘Do you trust Howlett?’ she asked, whispering
in Anderson’s ear once Batten was out of the door. ‘Because I’m bloody sure that he knows exactly who the Bridge Boy is.’

‘Why does that not surprise me?’ Anderson raised an eyebrow at Costello. ‘I overheard that wee conversation. So, Pettigrew is one of us?’

‘Depends what you mean by “us”,’ Costello replied.

12.30 P.M.

Matilda slid into the seat beside DCI Anderson, giving him a concerned little smile. ‘How did it go?’

‘The moment Gaynor saw the boy lying there, she collapsed against the glass and sobbed her eyes out. So, we’ll take that as a positive ID, and we’ll request some DNA samples for you.’

‘So, she didn’t know her son was missing?’

‘No, she was in Geneva and flew back first thing in the morning.’ Anderson showed her the photograph of a handsome young man, with dark eyes and a smile that could melt an iceberg. ‘Mum is a GP in Milngavie. She has a son – Richard, known as Richie – now nineteen years old. He was doing the gap year thing; working at a care home while Mum paid for his flat in the West End.’

‘And only went to see Mum when he had run out of clean clothes.’ Matilda wrinkled her small nose. ‘He’s a good-looking lad. But I need you to look at this.’ She put an old photo of a room in the Marchettis’ house in front of him. ‘Do you see that, there?’ She pointed to the blood
spatter on the floor. ‘Somebody was bleeding as they were dragged towards the front door. The blood didn’t belong to any of the family, so the police presumed it was Tito Piacini’s. It was mixed with saliva, as if he’d been punched in the face. They thought he was injured defending himself.’

‘Logical thought. But why take him?’ asked Anderson, fingers drumming on the table. ‘Why not just leave him?’

‘So they could kill him elsewhere?’

‘Why not kill him there and then and save the bother of transporting him?’

‘Panic?’

‘If they’d panicked, they’d have been more likely to kill him immediately.’

‘Maybe they did, and took the body because it had something on it that could ID them.’

‘Like what?’

‘Can’t think of anything right now, but there must be a reason. Anyway, the blood was only tested to determine blood type, for exclusion purposes. There was no DNA profile done; in those days it was so expensive they only did it when there was something to compare it to.’ She pulled out a lab report on a single A5 sheet. ‘See, the blood was AB. That proved it wasn’t any of the Marchettis – the family are all O, the universal donor.’

‘OK, so why are we spending money on doing a DNA profile now?’

‘Because you have no other leads to follow.’ When she smiled, she looked about twelve. ‘And it’s so much cheaper nowadays.’

‘And what do you think that’s going to tell us? He’s
been listed as a missing person since the evening of the 8th of October 1996.’

Anderson saw the twinkle in her eye. ‘But Eric Moffat was in charge, and maybe that DNA would have taken him somewhere he didn’t want to go,’ she said.

‘Or didn’t want anyone else to go, more like. OK, McQueen, permission to get started.’

Matilda beamed. Her enthusiasm was irrepressible.

As she slipped out of the door, Anderson muttered, ‘And for an encore you can get me God’s phone number. I could do with his help right now.’

1.30 P.M.

Costello had spent most of the journey in the taxi feeling guilty. A ten-minute conversation with Batten had provoked in her emotions of sadness and annoyance at her own prejudice. Drew Elphinstone was not well. He was a young man growing up without any parental help in a world he saw as persecuting him. Just imagine, Batten had said, when the thing that scares you most is inside your own head. You never get away from it. Costello could not think how frightening that must be. His parents provided for him well, but how could they not admit there was a problem? Rhona had said that the school had told them often enough. He was ill.

Based on Costello’s short observation, Batten had thought it sounded like the onset of schizophrenia. Drew was ill, and he was alone in his illness. Batten explained that the boy had an inability to distinguish between what
was real and unreal. He would stop relating to others, and he would become increasingly paranoid and act in bizarre ways. He asked Costello to find evidence of Drew’s paranoia, such as signs that he was preparing to defend himself from attack. Armed with that evidence, he would convince Drew’s parents to get him the help he needed. If they refused, at least Batten had evidence to take it further.

Costello had thought about talking to the boy’s classmates, Rhona, his teachers and Mr Ellis. She remembered hearing Libby shout what might have been Drew’s name, when she was in the forest. She had injured herself in the trap and had called somebody ‘fucking maddie’.

So, Libby Hamilton was a good place to start.

Costello was now watching her. The girl was sitting on the wooden bridge, feet dangling over the water, her cigarette smoke curling into the still, warm air. She was totally in a world of her own. She didn’t move or look up, yet she was obviously aware of Costello’s approach. The long echoing corridors of the school had given this lot a sixth sense about approaching authority.

‘Fascinating, are they, your toes? They’re the only thing you’ve been looking at for the last ten minutes.’

Libby wriggled her toes; her black flip-flops were lying on the wooden decking of the bridge. ‘I think they’re a work of art, feet.’ She looked up at Costello through her dark heavy fringe, her eyes squinting into the sun.

‘How is the injury?’

‘Oh, it’s fine. Stuck some antiseptic on it, didn’t go near Matron – she’s a sociopath. Have a seat, have a look at the view for yourself.’

Costello sat down beside her, and dangled her feet above the water. Suddenly she felt hot and sweaty, and wanted to pull her shoes off and dunk her feet in the cold stream. ‘I love this view,’ Libby said. ‘It’s the only good thing about the whole bloody place. Look, from here you can see right down the glen, and the trees cover all that military stuff. It’s perfect, the way it’s supposed to be. And it’s beautiful in every season. You should see it in the middle of winter, when the river’s frozen and the grass is white. The deer come down for the grazing, and all those trees –’ she waved her arm ‘– change into white cobwebs that merge together to make a sort of enchanted forest. It’s spectacular.’

Despite herself, Costello shivered. Libby had a way with words that was just a little too descriptive for her just yet. She had had enough icy water and snow to last her a lifetime. ‘Do you know who was doing it? Making those traps?’

‘I can guess.’

‘Want to tell me?’

‘Drew, probably. He’s always doing things like that. He was damming up the river with his bare hands last week because it was circling the school and going to make us all invisible. But don’t say anything – he’s a loony, but he’s harmless,’ she said, watching a cloud of midges rolling their way up the burn.