The Blood of Crows (33 page)

‘He looked like he was waiting for the news at breakfast,’ said Agnes. ‘And then I caught him looking at the
Daily Record.
So, I took it off the old bugger and brought it down here,’ she giggled.

‘So, what was he so interested in?’

‘The Lockerbie Bomber? Andy Murray? Christ knows.
Told you he was gaga.’ Agnes turned over the page, not noticing the black and white image of the Bridge Boy. The sidebar read:
Mystery man still critical after expressway plunge.

10.00 A.M.

‘What do you have, DC Wyngate?’ asked O’Hare, watching as Wyngate flicked the pages on his shorthand pad back and forth, each page covered with lists and dates in blue biro.

‘Well, it turns out that Carruthers was off duty the night of the 8th of October 1996, whereas MacFadyean requested the night off.’

‘In 1996? The day of the kidnapping?’

Wyngate nodded. ‘And the senior investigating officer in the Marchetti/Piacini kidnapping was one DCI Eric Moffat.’

O’Hare felt relieved that Eric Moffat was in a cold drawer in the mortuary and had ceased to be a problem. He thought – not for the first time – how much less complicated the dead were than the living.

‘I’ve got the post mortem reports on Graham Hunter,’ he said. ‘And I’ve requested the actual photographs of the skull. Maybe, if we have another look at those, we might be able to work out better now than we could have in 1977 what actually caused the injury.’

‘And the weather reports at the time,’ Wyngate said, with more flicking of pages, ‘show that the weather was due to close in, but they still went. It was a full-blown
blizzard. I think the trip was supposed to be up and back, three days max, but they were away for nearly five.’

‘Five days? In that weather? Madness. Makes you wonder why they set off.’

‘Unless there was another agenda all along.’ Wyngate shrugged. ‘I suppose they argued that they were heading for a bothy, so they would hole up there and come back down once the weather was better.’

A thought struck O’Hare. ‘At the enquiry, did they actually say how Hunter got separated from the rest?’

Wyngate flicked over his notes, ‘No – well, yes. They all made it to the bothy, and then Hunter went out into the blizzard. They all said they tried to stop him, tried to restrain him, but Hunter was adamant. Four against one?’ He handed two faded photographs to O’Hare.

‘Sounds totally irrational to me,’ said the pathologist. ‘Something must have happened to cause that. Drugs? Or a slow bleed to the brain? I wonder if there’s any mention in the diary that he fell earlier in the day and hurt his head. Wyngate, go over those statements very carefully, and compare them to the account in the journal,’ said O’Hare absentmindedly, looking at the pictures.

Wyngate opened his mouth to point out that the account in the journal was missing, then shut it again as the pathologist went on, ‘Ah, yes. These would have been taken in spring, when the body was found. Seana Bhraigh is a bastard of a hill, a great stack of jagged rock, with a brutal drop to the water below. Very dangerous to go near the edge in poor visibility. Hunter’s judgement
must
have been compromised in some way. He wasn’t an idiot; he was a good cop with a good career in front of him.’ He
peered at Wyngate over his glasses. ‘Let’s think about distances. They must have got to the second bothy for Hunter to get near the stack of rock that we presume he fell from. So, even if we say he got to the top of the stack of rock, fell off, and his head was damaged in an impact on the way down, that still does not account for the strange behaviour that got him there in the first place. They can’t have it both ways.’

‘Well, they all said the same thing. They got to the second bothy about nine at night, had something to eat, just as the weather was closing in, and Hunter went out against their advice. Purcie, his pal, went out to try and stop him first, and the rest followed, in the snow, the high wind, the dark. They failed to get Hunter back in, and they never saw him again. All the official statements were absolutely consistent.’

O’Hare raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Absolutely consistent? In that weather and confusion? Don’t you think that makes it all the more suspicious?’

10.45 A.M.

Costello was rather enjoying herself, and thinking that, in some small way, she was helping to avenge the death of David Lambie. She was sure bloody Saskia was the key to all this – she just could not yet see how. She recalled the way the girl had turned and waved at her on her first day, as if she knew who Costello was. However, at the moment she was having the time of her life going through Saskia’s things, rootling through her wardrobe
and doing a thorough search. The Russian girl had an awful lot of designer clothes, and very few books – though the ones she had were in Russian and Dutch, as well as English. There were shoes everywhere and, hanging on the back of the door, not good enough to go into the wardrobe, two sets of school uniform.

But she was Russian, and thin – and that was enough for Costello. It wasn’t only Saskia’s property – a search warrant was a mute point – but if she had anything to do with Lambie’s death, she forfeited any right to privacy.

Pettigrew was outside, keeping watch for the return of the Three Graces in the slappermobile. Costello had faith in Pettigrew – he was ex-job, whatever his background, and he was a solid man in a crisis. She didn’t really want to think about the way the jacket had hung on him last night, and the gun it was concealing. Important people sent their children to Glen Fruin. So, why would there not be special security measures. Government-funded security measures? Security measures that involved carrying a gun?

But James Pettigrew, she was sure, was no ordinary security man. Just as she was sure Saskia Morosova was no ordinary school pupil. Howlett knew that; he had known it all along. A pity she and Pettigrew couldn’t have stayed around into the early hours to watch the girls come back to the hotel, and see who they came back with. But Lambie had died, and they had all rather lost heart. Matilda had got the van taken in for analysis, and Costello had left Mulholland with the paperwork and gone back to the school with Pettigrew.

He had been uncommunicative on the drive back, whistling to himself as he drove. Twice up the glen road
she had caught the flash of headlights in the wing mirror, and told Pettigrew they were being followed. He had patted her hand and told her it was OK. He hadn’t even looked to check; he knew there was somebody there, keeping their distance.

Once home, she had got out without a word, shot all the deadbolts and tried to sleep.

But sleep had refused to be her companion. The room felt smaller, and the ceiling of the mezzanine that held the bed seemed lower, darker. She had raised her hand to her cheek and felt along the skin for the little piece of mesh. It was still there.

She had put on the bedside light and picked up
Little Boy Lost.
On the back cover was a dark-haired little boy, with an impish smile to melt your heart, and a little gold St Christopher medal round his neck.

Then she began to read.

That precluded sleep for her completely. She had read on until morning, when Pettigrew had come knocking to say that Saskia and her friends were not back yet, and now might be a good time to have a look round her room.

So, here she was, in the Wallace Room of the school’s accommodation block. Looking at Saskia’s single bed, with its slightly chipped wooden headboard, and the marked wallpaper, she could understand why the girls went to the Highland Glen Hotel for their romantic trysts.

The bedlinen would be changed by a member of staff, so there would be no point in hiding anything there. A quick look through the wardrobe had revealed nothing except that Saskia was a size six and wore extra-long trousers. Costello was convinced this combination would lead
to very early osteoporosis and dearly wished it would prove so. She bounced one foot a little on the expensive wooden slatted floor. None of the boards looked as though it was pulled up on a regular basis.

She looked under the bed – nothing. A pink laptop sat on the desk, but Costello didn’t want to turn it on. Anything she would be interested in looking at would be secure and password-protected, anyway. Saskia might be a skinny osteoporotic slapper, but she would not be stupid. A couple of leads were plugged into the laptop: one looked like an iPod lead, and one might be for a camera. Beside it a pen, pencil and memory stick were lined up, ready. A
tidy
skinny osteoporotic slapper. Costello was hating Saskia more with every passing minute.

There was a safe in the wall, which Costello presumed was a remnant of older times when physical things could be stolen – not like identities, the tradable commodity of the twenty-first century. The door didn’t actually close, and probably hadn’t done so for years. Inside stood a female figure with eight arms, bearing loads of costume jewellery. Good stuff, probably, but not really valuable. There was a box of rings, one of bracelets, and a whole tray of earrings. Costello poked about a bit, more out of feminine curiosity than anything else, but found nothing of interest.

She looked round to see the shoe rack, and put her hand on the first pair of Jimmy Choos she had ever seen in real life. All the shoes were strappy except for the pair of trail boots at the door, a pair of school courts and a pair of Nike Pegasus running shoes. Then she saw a pair of winter boots paired neatly, kept upright with boot supports. She went over to them and looked at them, then
picked them up. Something was wrong with their weight … they were lighter at the heel. Costello turned them upside down and had a good look. Oh yes. The thick sole on the heel? The tiny pin? She swung the sole to the side, revealing a narrow hollow in the heel. She stuck her finger in it, pulling out a memory stick with padding wrapped round it. She unwrapped it to reveal a printed label. Just letters, in Russian.

Costello put it back, carefully lining the boot up with its neighbour, before slipping quietly out of the room to join Pettigrew in the corridor.

‘Oh, hello!’ The voice sounded as though its owner had just had a fright. It was Rhona, the woman with the mad hair.

‘Hello,’ replied Costello, wondering what the chances were of a secret panel opening in the wall behind her so she could disappear through it.

‘Are you doing detective things? Were you going to search Drew Elphinstone’s room?’

It was a natural question, since Costello was in the accommodation wing. ‘I was actually going to …’ She pointed vaguely in the direction of Pettigrew, who was steadfastly refusing to look at her. Batten’s words came back to her. There would be signs of paranoia, signs of persecution. The boy needed help.

‘He’s just gone out, you know, for one of his walks. He won’t be back for a long time. But I have a master key, so you can go in and see what he’s got in there.’

‘And what do you expect me to find?’

‘
Evidence!
’ Rhona said, excitedly. ‘What else?’

‘What of?’

‘Do you not think they should have stopped Columbine before it started?’ Rhona asked, her hands stretched out as if she was pleading to Costello. ‘Please.’

‘Come on, then,’ and Costello found herself being led through a huge wooden dividing door to a different accommodation block. The boys’ block, she presumed. The tartan carpet here was a runner of well-worn Stewart. Rhona stopped and rattled a key in a door, which swung open. She turned her head from right to left, checking the corridors the way they did in films.

Costello stepped in, leaving Rhona to stand guard outside. The curtains were pulled tightly closed, so she put the light on. The wardrobe in here didn’t hang open like Saskia’s; it was locked shut. The room smelled of stale sweat and lack of ventilation. The bed had been made with almost military precision, yet hanging all the way round the walls at shoulder height were handwritten letters, each hanging by one corner from a drawing pin. All had been written to Drew – and all the handwriting was the same. Costello pulled out a jotter from under a pile of books. The writing was the same as that on the letters.

Drew Elphinstone was writing letters to himself.

She looked closely at the letters, noting the appearance of strange symbols now and again, then she looked at the dates. The more recent letters displayed more writing, more urgency in the style, and more symbols. She didn’t recognize any of them.

She leaned over the bed to look at the letters hanging above it. They looked fingered, as if they had been read again and again. She would ask Rhona about the mail Drew received. How much of this arrived for him in the
post and landed on that big table in the hall? Or did he just sit and write in his room on his own?

‘Have you found anything?’ Rhona called through the slightly open door.

‘Nothing,’ Costello called back, turning her attention to the bookcase.

Drew’s choice of reading matter was all about survival. Costello pulled a couple out: an SAS survival handbook – the ultimate guide to surviving anywhere – and its neighbour, a book about animal traps and trapping. She knelt down to read the spines of the rest. Her foot kicked against something, and she crouched down, ignoring the dust on the parquet floor. Under the bed was a big old-fashioned leather suitcase with leather handles and metal buckles. There was no dust in front of the suitcase, so it had been moved, and recently. Costello kept an eye on the door as she pulled the suitcase out slowly and quietly. She undid the buckles, had a quick look inside, then looked again to confirm what she was seeing.

She pulled out a small brochure with illustrations on how to trap people without having to be there. She recognized the large-scale version of what she had seen beside the river – the pit that had hurt Libby. She flicked through the rest, stopping at a picture, obviously torn from a book, of a naked and brutalized body, with terrible cuts and slashes. Somebody had written over it the names of the arteries, whether each cut would kill, and how deep the knife had to go. Somebody was doing their homework.