The Blood of Crows (7 page)

She turned away from the unpleasant memories to see a small woman in a bobble hat slip a salt cellar into her handbag. An elderly priest politely but firmly retrieved it and placed it back on the table.

‘The family klepto,’ muttered MacKellar with some amusement, as they watched the priest guide the old woman away and Moffat carefully sidestepped into the crowd at the buffet.

‘He must know her, he’s avoiding her.’ Costello raised her glass, indicating Moffat then the bobble-hatted woman.

‘Everybody’s avoiding her; that’s Rene, the demented sister-in-law. I remember Tommy telling me a few stories
about her. God, she must be in her eighties now. Well, well, well. DCI Moffat – he’s a blast from the past. I suppose he and Tommy had a long working career together. Talking of ex-DCIs, have you heard from Rebecca?’

‘DCI Quinn? No.’

‘She’s on holiday in Bali, lucky sod.’

Costello didn’t know what she was supposed to reply so simply commented that the weather was probably better here. Then she asked pointedly, ‘Any sign of Colin Anderson being made up to DCI yet?’

‘I wouldn’t hold my breath, Costello. It’s unfortunate, but this Fairbairn business is going to hit him hard.’ MacKellar was talking like a spy at a secret assignation – quietly, out of the corner of his mouth. He was glancing across the room, saying silent hellos to various men who he obviously did not want to speak to. ‘I mean, his track record with McAlpine was exemplary but this Fairbairn enquiry will prove that one “filing error” –’ he made quote marks with his forefingers ‘– stopped the jury hearing support for his alibi.’

‘Not much of an alibi,’ retorted Costello. ‘And neither Anderson nor McAlpine would have withheld evidence.’

‘I know you are a loyal cop, Costello, but if there is a hint that McAlpine withheld it, Anderson will be tainted by association. If Anderson did it himself, then he deserves all he gets.’

Costello glared at him.

‘I’m sorry, he’s a good cop and if truth be told I feel a bit sorry for him. But he’s my inspector and he will not be promoted until all this is over and done with. I have two other DIs who don’t have an enquiry hanging over them.
So, if a DCI post comes up, it’s not going Anderson’s way. Not until it’s all over and he’s cleared.’

‘Eighteen months to wait for the appeal? No wonder Brenda wants him to emigrate. He’s one of the best cops I’ve ever worked with and that’s what they do to him.’ She saw MacKellar watch the buxom waitress go past. ‘And he doesn’t chase skirt like the rest of you.’

‘You don’t believe the rumours are true, then – about him and Helena McAlpine?’

‘They are not. What about the bright-eyed boy DS Mulholland? Is he still a DC?’

‘Oh yes, get back soon enough and you’ll still be his boss.’ MacKellar took a sip of coffee. ‘Can you keep a secret, Costello?’

‘I’ve nobody to tell it to.’

‘There’s a rumour that ACC Howlett has been asked by Special Branch to form a taskforce. Two hundred strong, plus.’

‘Anti-terrorism?’

MacKellar shook his head. ‘Operation LOCUST. Organized crime. With Biggart gone there’s a vacuum, and we should be moving on it now. But what’s happening? I’ve been hauled in for performance assessments. Do you know anything about it?’

‘How would I hear? But have they decided who they want to head up this taskforce? It’d be the chance of a lifetime, for the right person.’

‘I think a few names have been mentioned.’

‘Is one of them standing right beside me?’

‘Indeed. I think Anderson was being considered, but not now with the Fairbairn fiasco.’

‘And he has no experience in organized crime. His wife wants them to emigrate. And that taskforce could run for years, so it’ll be a long game. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Niven. If it was up to me, I’d put you in charge.’

‘Cheers, Costello.’

‘You’d do less damage there,’ she said sweetly, thinking about her own meeting with ACC Howlett.

Oh yes, she could keep a secret.

7.30 P.M.

Anderson was sitting in his garden, showered, fed and sipping a beer. He let the cool evening breeze play on his face, enjoying the sun. He had been on the go for twenty-four hours, and it had been a busy day. He was glad of the time to reflect, think things through and address the niggle in his mind that he was missing something important. Everything Professor O’Hare had said depressed him, and by the time he got back to the station and the desk that wasn’t really his, it was littered with pages from the daily papers. The press had gone to town on the Cameron ‘Skelpie’ Fairbairn story. Some bright spark had circled Anderson’s own name on page 5. He was aware of eyes watching him, waiting for a reaction. He gave the story a cursory glance, noting with some pleasure that from the look of the photograph, Skelpie had had a tough time inside. His face was lined, the jowls sagged a little. He looked like a man approaching fifty rather than under forty. Anderson folded the paper and put it in the bin. He
didn’t have to read it, he knew it all already. He had wondered then if Costello had seen it and that was why she had tried to call.

By the time it was four o’clock he was pissed off and tired, in a foul mood and ready to take on DCI MacKellar, only to find he was still at Tommy Carruthers’ funeral. When MacKellar did return, he was in a solicitous mood.

The meeting in his office was almost pleasant. MacKellar assured him he had considered Anderson’s objection about the reassignment of the ‘River Girl’ case. The DCI’s argument was cohesive, and it was convincing – Anderson knew he had to think about the bigger picture. Now, looking back, MacKellar was probably right; not only did the Biggart case deserve just as much investigation as any other, it had to be
seen
to be that way. It was a massive PR exercise. This was a police force that treated all crime the same, no matter the identity of the victim. ‘With the Fairbairn case in the papers …’ MacKellar didn’t need to finish the sentence. The Strathclyde force was going to have to appear whiter than white.

Anderson felt the evening sun warm his tense shoulders as he recalled the strange turn the conversation had then taken. MacKellar had asked him about LOCUST. As if a jobbing detective like Anderson would know about such high-level initiatives. Or was MacKellar letting Anderson know that he, being a lowly DI, was out of the loop?

Office politics.

But the cold water of the Clyde, the burned-out stench of Biggart’s flat and the release of Cameron Fairbairn
seemed a million miles away as Anderson sipped his beer, feeling a little more at peace. All day he had been in the car, at a mortuary or in an office, and this was the only fresh air and peace and quiet he was going to get. Well, it was reasonably quiet. Lorna next door had tried to have a chat over the garden fence, her conversation quickly turning to house prices and did he really think it was a good time to sell? He presumed Brenda had been canvassing some opinions without telling him. As long as that was all she was doing. Then Terry Lomax over the back decided to mow his lawn with his old-fashioned mechanical lawn mower, which purred on the push and growled on the pull.

Anderson now had a glass of cold beer in his hand, a warm dog at his feet and a belly full of spagaroni Bolognese that he and the kids had cooked up together, only realizing halfway through that they’d run out of the right kind of pasta.

He had enjoyed making a mess in the kitchen with the kids, being a dad, having some family time. He knew Brenda had been going out somewhere but had forgotten where, and for the moment he didn’t care. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the chair, practically asleep.

Five million pounds. The black dots on the ceiling of the empty flat. The face of the River Girl. MacKellar’s words: ‘But why don’t you leave all your paperwork on the River Girl with me, plus any notes you made while talking to the Prof?’ He had then added, ‘Even if what he said was off the record.’

Anderson’s silent response was, ‘Over my dead body.’

11.50 P.M.

The hall of St Boswell’s Care Home stank of Brussels sprouts and pine air freshener. It was going on for midnight, and the home was quiet except for a radio playing gangsta rap somewhere down the corridor and the irregular cacophony of snoring from the bedrooms.

A lone figure sat at the bay window, hunched in his wheelchair, a rug over his bony shoulders to ward off any chill in the night air. Auld Archie O’Donnell always sat there. He had sat there for most of the last year, only moving for his breakfast, his dinner and his tea. He would be put to bed, then he would get up again, grab his Zimmer, get himself into his wheelchair and be off back to the window, back to his waiting, his watching. Put him in the day room, he’d be back at the window. They’d tried to talk to him, but he told them in no uncertain terms to go forth and multiply. And Archie was a man used to being obeyed.

This evening, he wore his rug over his dark blue cardigan and a short-sleeved cotton shirt. He had on clean flannel trousers and his good leather shoes. He always put his shoes on, even though they’d tried to take them off him and put on the slippers supplied by the home. Shoes caused problems for the cleaners. Sometimes it was easier if they all wore the same slippers. It was certainly easier if they all wore the same clothes. In fact, it would be easier if they were all dead. But Auld Archie was having none of it. At best he ignored them, at worst he swore at them. He hadn’t actually hit any of the staff – at least, not anything they could prove was intentional.

But tonight he had asked four times if Richie the care
worker was coming on duty, and had been told four times that Richie hadn’t turned up for work yesterday or today. Young people today had no sense of responsibility, they said. The senior care worker scribbled on his notes that Archie was showing signs of Alzheimer’s.

Archie wheeled himself back to the window, and watched and waited.

11.59 P.M.

Rosie MacFadyean stretched in her bed, as much as she could stretch with the bulk and folds of fat and flesh that padded her arms and legs. She hated this weather, and the sweat that ran from her, soaking the mattress. The sweat got into places she could not reach, places it was impossible for her to clean and difficult for Wullie to reach when he was cleaning her. She needed another sponge bath now. She could feel her sweat turning acrid, feel it eating away at her skin, causing festering hacks which would ooze pus and a crusty, flaking exudate. Wullie had spent the hour before he went out washing her, drying her, powdering her, lifting the folds and flaps of her flesh, propping them up with a pillow if necessary, as he cleaned and creamed and powdered the irritated skin beneath. But that had been hours ago.

What was he doing, leaving her alone like this? Leaving her to use the sponge to urinate? In this weather, the urine turned sour really quickly. Wullie had left the windows wide open for fresh air, but it was a way in for the flies that were now buzzing to get out.

She had finished with the newspaper and wished, not for the first time, that technology would find a way to get a mobile phone signal down the glen. The details in the paper were scant – three men in their early twenties, with ‘known drug connections’, had been shot dead in a hotel car park. The paper didn’t name them, but Rosie could. Smoutie, Hamster and Speedo. Three stooges and no loss to man nor beast. She read on, smiling at the tabloid jargon:
Even seasoned police officers were shocked at the murders.

Shocked!
Rosie had snorted in derision.

Police officers nowadays were made of chocolate.

Not like they were in her day.

Tuesday

29 June 2010

4.32 A.M.

Colin Anderson pulled the sweat-sodden sheet from his shoulder. The wide-open window in the bedroom was letting in more heat than cool air. He turned over and fell into a confusing dream, in which he was burning and couldn’t get out of bed because his feet were tied. He could see the door but he had no chance of reaching it with the sheet wrapped round his feet. Who do I know who would kill me like this, he wondered. Why don’t I fight back?

But all was well. He could hear the gentle ring of the fire engine on its way. He was nearly safe. The gentle ring of the fire engine …

Then he felt a tap on his shoulder.

‘Your phone,’ Brenda said sleepily. She turned over, pulling the sheet with her.

Anderson reached for the bedside light switch, knocking the phone to the floor.

As he scrabbled on the carpet with sleepy fingers, swearing gently, the bedroom door swung open slightly, and Nesbitt wandered in, his wee Staffie face smiling, eager for a very late or very early walk. As he automatically answered with his name, Anderson looked out of the window. It was just getting light, a very early dawn, but definite daylight on the horizon.

‘Colin? Vik here. Something you might be interested in – a teenager took a dive off a bridge over the expressway, not far from the river. We have an eyewitness, who says he was dropped.’

‘Dropped … ?’ Something was trying to climb to the front of Anderson’s sleepy brain. ‘Signs of sexual assault?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m on my way.’ Then before he hung up he asked, ‘Were you called out on this?’

‘Yes.’

‘But not me?’

‘No, I’m calling you out. I’m not qualified to deal with this; I’m only a bloody DC, remember?’ Mulholland snapped. ‘And I have to get my stripes back, and you’re the best chance I have of getting a good case.’

‘Cheers,’ said Anderson with muted sarcasm. He turned and kissed Brenda’s exposed shoulder. ‘Something’s come up. I’ve been summoned.’

‘Let the dog out before you go,’ she said, and went straight back to sleep.

5.03 A.M.

‘What the fuck’s been going on here?’ asked Anderson, getting out of his car. ‘There’s about a quarter of a mile of the bloody expressway coned off.’

DS Lambie was talking on a radio and cut the call short, just saying, ‘Do what you have to, I’ll let the boss know.’ Then he said mildly to Anderson, ‘Well, the traffic boys want us off the road before rush hour. Just as
well it happened at four in the morning, not in the middle of the day. But it wasn’t a suicide. And he’s not dead. Young lad, not more than sixteen, they reckon. And there’s evidence of violent sexual assault among other things, which is why we called you out, or why they called us out.’