The Blood of Crows Page 8

  There was a nod, a slight rise of the bony shoulders. ‘Of course.’

  Howlett left the silence to itself as the door opened and Eilidh brought in a tray with hot coffee and water, and a plateful of chocolate biscuits. He watched as the grey eyes of the woman opposite him flickered at the noise of a car horn outside, then darted towards the fax machine as it beeped and whirred. She was wary, jumpy.

  ‘So, to cut to the chase –’

  ‘Good,’ said DS Costello. A pale bony hand tugged the silk scarf a little further forward, but not before Howlett had seen the scar, still red and angry, in her hairline. She saw him look, and met his gaze with a bland expression.

  Howlett lifted the coffee pot and poured himself a cupful, adding a little milk. He kept his eyes down, intent on not letting his hand shake.

  ‘Are you familiar with Glen Fruin Academy?’

  The grey eyes registered a little surprise. ‘I know of it.’

  ‘It’s a delicate matter.’

  ‘Yes?’ she said. Her hand went up to the scar again, and he noticed the slight tremor. It almost made him warm to her.

  ‘There might be some rather odd goings on up there and we want you to have a look round …’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘I’d rather send you in with no preconceived ideas.’

  ‘OK,’ said Costello slowly. ‘So, what crime has been committed?’

  ‘Technically, none – as yet.’

  ‘So, why is it a police matter? As opposed to a school matter, I mean.’

  ‘That depends on what you find, doesn’t it?’ answered Howlett with a degree of charm. ‘I know you will come up with something. I’m sure you can already guess what it is – young people, money not an issue, testing the boundaries and the pressures of life.’

  ‘So, they have a drug problem up there?’ she asked.

  She noticed Howlett was careful not to answer. Something bigger than drug usage, then. Dealing?

  ‘I want you to go and live in. It’s nearly the end of term. In fact, they have an end of term garden party there on Sunday and we would like you to have everything cut and dried by then.’

  ‘So, no pressure, then. Do I get any clues at all?’

  Howlett smiled again, the charm still in place. ‘Your cover is that you are a design expert. Don’t worry, nobody will ask you anything technical, but you can watch the movements of people and photograph who you like. Nobody will think it odd, the school has been talking about expanding for ages. You can pretend to do a logistical study on the movement of pupils.’

  Costello nodded. Drug dealing, it had to be. She could see their predicament, she bet they knew who was using but didn’t know who was supplying. Always better to catch the organ grinders than the monkeys. With no official police involvement, any pupils with a problem could go off to a clinic to get clean with their record clear. Though why she was involved was beyond her, except for the fact that she was not officially operational yet.

  Howlett was talking on, smoothly rolling his fountain pen between the palms of his hands. Costello had the feeling he had rehearsed the speech.

  ‘The parents are the sort of people who would need very good evidence in place before the school could politely ask them to take their children away. Without that evidence they might take legal action, and we can’t afford any mistakes. I think Strathclyde police have enough mistakes to deal with at the moment. The one thing we must avoid is the media getting a sniff of who is involved. At all costs the school’s name must be kept out of it. And we don’t want the local force involved at all, it’s been cleared at the highest level. We know you will not let us down. But I want you to keep it as quiet as possible, and get back to me. And nobody but me.’

  ‘So, I have four days?’

  ‘Three. Plenty of time for a detective of your experience. You have tomorrow to prepare, maybe do some background reading. There are some books in that envelope. History of the place, et cetera. Mr Ellis, the Warden – the headmaster, if you like – and the security man, Pettigrew, will know who you are and why you are really there. With the naval base being at the other end of the glen, the rest of the staff are used to a bit of cloak-and-dagger stuff.’

  Costello didn’t comment.

  ‘Just approach it as you would any covert operation. Watch everything but say nothing. You need to make your own way there for first thing Thursday morning. You’ll have your own quarters. It’s like a hotel, and the food is supposed to be excellent. Dress appropriately. Apart from that, you have free rein. Any questions?’

  ‘Glen Fruin itself is a good half-hour by road from Glasgow, and no public transport goes anywhere up the single track that leads to the school itself. Whatever is going on must need some transport in and out.’

  ‘In terms of technology and transport, the whole place is like something from the eighties,’ Howlett told her. ‘There’s a new road that runs the length of the glen on the north side, and an old road, not much more than a track really, goes across the lower part of the valley. The whole place is really cut off, bad for TV reception, little mobile phone reception, Internet by cable only. But it’s well thought of among the progressive parents of today, who are themselves children of the hippies of the sixties.’

  The grey eyes regarded him steadily. ‘You know what’s going on, don’t you?’

  ‘I have my suspicions. Some evidence would be nice.’

  Costello’s hand went up to caress the arc of her cheekbone. ‘But apart from all that, I can do what I like?’

  Howlett felt another twinge of doubt, but he said, ‘Of course you can.’

  2.20 P.M.

  Half an hour in the sub-Saharan temperatures in the station was enough. Anderson was glad to get out into the fresh air, and then into his car which he had left parked in the shade.

  ‘Why don’t I drive, and you can fill me in on the way? My car has air conditioning and yours doesn’t,’ said Lambie.

  ‘Yes, it does,’ said Anderson. ‘It’s called opening the window. Have you brought your printouts of the Biggart file with you?’

  ‘It’s all in here,’ Lambie tapped the side of his head. ‘I’ve been studying it all morning. Look, sir, I’m not going to tell you how to do your job, but do we know what we’re doing? I mean, have we heard from upstairs or are you kind of acting DCI without portfolio, so to speak?’

  ‘Without portfolio, without a desk, without a bloody clue. To be honest, Lambie, I’m just doing the best I can. With all this talk about LOCUST, I don’t think anybody has their eye on the ball. But it worries me that we have a sadistic and forensically savvy fire-starter walking about with a grudge. And the one person who has not been interviewed at length is Mrs Melinda Biggart. That’s the next logical step, and it’s a box we will tick. I don’t see my promotion being thrust upon me so I might just as well stay busy. What else can I do?’

  ‘Exactly what you are doing – a DCI’s job on a DI’s wages.’

  Heading south towards Newton Mearns, Lambie found himself having two simultaneous conversations – one about Biggart’s history as a career criminal, and the other trying to navigate Anderson to Thorndene Park gated community in the Mearns, where Biggart had lived the good life among neighbours who would have spent their entire existence trying to avoid him.

  ‘Did you see it? In his history, when you looked over it?’

  ‘See what?’ Anderson missed the subtlety of a mini-roundabout and drove the Jazz right over the top. ‘Christ, this place is well hidden.’

  ‘He has a funny history. I was wondering if he was just found out?’

  Anderson thought for a minute. ‘You’ll have to fill me in. I didn’t find him that fascinating. I thought he was just a pimp and a drug dealer who’d made it big.’

  ‘I do believe the expression, in his own parlance, would be “he was a fart trying to be a shite, and failing”. He used to be a small-time pimp, with a few girls on the street, and a small drug habit of his own to feed. He was beat
en up a few times – twice by his own girls for short-changing them, and twice by his own wife.’

  ‘The lovely Melinda.’

  ‘Then, about eight years ago, everything changed. He seemed to go straight, with a legitimate business, ran a night club.’

  ‘The Zoo.’

  ‘An old pal of mine says it was investigated for having a brothel upstairs but I can’t find any record of it. Then he moved to another, and his sexual tastes changed – for the younger. Everything he wanted, he seems to have been given.’

  Anderson halted the Jazz at some temporary traffic lights. He’d got the drift. ‘So, was somebody financing him? He was a small-time loser, so why would they? Why him? Did they get fed up backing him and decide he was surplus to requirements? He’s been well protected over the years – and, whatever the reason, I’m not losing any sleep over it.’

  2.25 P.M.

  Rosie lay back on her pillow. The heat was sweltering, and the sweat was running in rivers down her face and body and soaking the mattress. She had no idea where Wullie had got to. He had set off for the funeral yesterday and hadn’t come back. He had never done that before, so something must have happened. And she was panicking. Yet, she told herself, she had no need to panic. She had food, she had water, she had her sponge to do the toilet, and she had her notebooks and pencils to work – and as long as she could work, she was good. She had things to do. Things to work out.

  But she wished Wullie would come back. He’d probably met old friends from the force at the funeral, gone out, got drunk and fallen asleep face down on somebody’s couch. Or had he had a hypo and been admitted to hospital? She couldn’t bear to think of him, at his age, falling over, people ignoring him, stepping over him and thinking he was drunk, that he was a nobody. Wullie wasn’t a nobody. He was a great guy, the best.

  She wished her laptop was within reach. The mobile phone was on the table, too far away, and that was no use anyway, there being no signal at the cottage. She just couldn’t move to reach anything. Her body was a great anchor that kept her pinned to her bed. She had a jug of water and a lot of chocolate, which she was trying to ration while trying to think. The cottage was hidden high in the treeline on the north side of the glen, invisible to the horrible jumped-up brats at the school. It was equally hidden from the road that ran along the top of the glen, the only access being an overgrown path. In the winter, once the old oaks and elms had lost their leaves, you could just make it out if you knew where to look, sitting in a slight natural bowl high on the hill. But in the eight years they’d been here, nobody had ever found it by accident. And nobody was ever invited.

  Rosie knew she had no way of letting anybody know she was here. So, she’d just have to wait for Wullie to come back, which he would – he always did, sooner or later. She reached for a new box of Quality Street and truffled about inside for the raspberry creams.

  She lay and watched the clock move slowly round to half past. The warmest part of the day was over. She slipped the sponge in between her legs, working it between the heavy rolls of fat, and peed, tightening her pelvic floor to stop the flow, removing the sponge and wringing it out in the basin of water. Years of practice had perfected the technique. Back and forth, back and forth, until her bladder was emptied.

  She was ignoring the dull tightness in her bowels.

  2.55 P.M.

  Costello climbed out of the taxi and adjusted her shoulder bag. The big envelope that Howlett had given her was just a couple of inches too big for it. She had torn it open the minute she had left his office, of course. It contained a plan of the school and grounds, a pamphlet written by some former pupils, and a copy of Simone Sangster’s book, Little Boy Lost. Intrigued, she had flicked through it in the taxi, finding Glen Fruin was mentioned in the index with references that spanned about six pages. She closed the book, glad at the thought she wouldn’t have to read the entire thing.

  Partick Central reception was busy. Costello smelled that familiar smell of floor cleaner, disinfectant and blocked toilets. The desk sergeant was dealing with a couple at the glass window and the discussion was moving from the persistent to the argumentative. The woman with the low voice was obviously from the ‘if I repeat it enough, it will happen’ school of thought. Pacing the floor with annoying squeaky shoes was a man in an oil-stained T-shirt who was looking daggers at the couple at the desk window, then at the desk sergeant, and then at his watch in quick succession. He flashed a look at Costello as she walked past him, then dismissed her as somebody of no value and continued his pacing. Costello bet that he was there to report a stolen vehicle.

  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 di
dn’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?’