The Suffering of Strangers Page 8

  ‘You were a person of interest,’ smiled Mitchum. ‘For about five minutes.’

  He remembered now, she had lost a year at uni due to a knee injury, and she was so happy to get back on the hockey team, back on the running track and out onto the hills. Then the attack happened. ‘Did you ever find her attacker?’ he continued.

  ‘No.’

  ‘We never found the man who attacked Gillian either, did we.’

  ‘No.’ Mitchum caressed his pen, holding it under his nose as if scenting a fine cigar. ‘Sally was, if you recall, very media friendly as we would put it nowadays. She was that bright, smiley, any girl type of victim.’

  ‘Yes.’ He remembered that smile well.

  ‘She had agreed to waive anonymity and become the face of a personal safety campaign we had at that time. She had our photographer take pictures of her neck wounds, the bruises on her face, the damage to her shoulder. Physically, she was a mess after the assault and she would have been good in that role, an eloquent woman standing up, telling her story, her injuries visible. Telling other women that keeping safe was the better part of being strong.’

  Anderson was confused. He would have known about that if it had come to pass, that was the sort of thing he would remember. She was not a woman easy to forget. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We don’t really know. She backed off. She changed her mind. Suddenly.’

  ‘Women have that right,’ said Anderson.

  ‘Indeed, they do. We want you to ask her again. Give her the same script you were going to give Gillian for the SafeLife campaign. You know, speaking out for the victims of violent and sexual crime.’

  Anderson said quietly, ‘Would that not be better coming from one of your specially trained media officers? You spend a huge budget training them, why not use them?’

  ‘Because they are all on a bloody training course,’ said the super with a flicker of a smile. ‘But you have history with the woman.’

  ‘Hardly, sir, we were at the same university. Twenty-odd years ago, but I have no problem catching up with her and having a chat. But if the answer is no, then the answer is no. I am not going to use any past acquaintance to persuade her.’

  ‘Of course not. But just one more thing.’ The detective super got up, sliding a file towards Anderson. ‘We have contacted your old DI. She’s in the building right now on another case but feel free to approach her if you feel it more prudent to do this with a female officer.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘DI Costello.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Anderson, wondering what idiot would put the words ‘prudent’ and ‘Costello’ in the same sentence. ‘Just as I was beginning to like the idea.’

  Costello slipped her card through the electronic lock of West End Central, summoned to a meeting which she knew would be about the media fallout from the Kissel case, so on the way she had got hold of PC McCaffrey on his mobile, firing out instructions, passing on all the information she had about the routines of Roberta and Sholto Chisholm and asking him to get them cross-checked and dig deeper into the phone call records of James. He was up to something, she could smell it off him. The lives of the parents would now be subjected to intense scrutiny, him more than her. He had told Roberta to go to that shop, the remote way he stood in the hospital cubicle. It was too neat, but so far there were no red flags.

  As she waited for the lock to recognize her, she ran through various scenarios for the meeting. She had no doubt she was invited here for a game of one potato, two potato with social workers, cops, doctors, health visitors; all the king’s horses and all the king’s men sitting in one room seeing who else they could blame. Responsibility for the death of that child would be bounced around between them. Ignoring Humpty who sat in the corner, quietly bleeding to death, or starving to death as he would have been in Bernadette Kissel’s care. She thought of the wardrobe in the child’s room, a single wardrobe with a solitary rail and on it hung one hanger. On the hanger was one tiny jumper, a small blue and white striped affair, a navy blue anchor sewn onto the bottom corner.

  And that was all. The only piece of child’s clothing in the entire house. And it still had its label on it.

  The door, resolutely refused to open. She gave it a quick push but it remained firm, responding to her violence with a reproachful buzz. She swore, waited, looking round her. Standing in a doorway across the street was the beggar she had seen the day before, still looking for handouts. Everything that woman owned in the world would be in that big Lidl plastic bag. She was ferreting about in the bottom of it now, a large lady bending over straight over from the hips. Costello saw that she still had her Crocs on. Of course she would, how many pairs of shoes do homeless people have? Her feet would get cold in this weather. Although still raining, it was warmer today, but if that woman was sleeping rough or out on the streets begging tonight, then the evening chill would bite deep. God, nothing was going right in this world. She wondered if she should go across and mention the nearby hostel. She could try and get her a bed for the night. Suddenly the thought of Malcolm floated across her mind. Had he been fed last night? Was somebody taking him to a doctor or to hospital? Or was he sent off to school because there was going to be nobody at home to look after him? Although she tried not to, she automatically recalled the black Porsche that had driven into the house. She had clocked the plate, of course: VA 2661.

  Costello had friends in traffic, a revengeful nature. And endless patience.

  The door buzzed her in and she walked through, into the warmth of West End Central.

  ‘We are being joined by a leading supervisor from Social Services, she’s in charge of liaison between social workers and health visitors for the various child protection units around Glasgow. She has a multi-agency remit and is keen for her input to be heard right at the get-go.’ Detective Super McGrath glanced at his watch and then at the clock. ‘She seems to be running a little late.’

  ‘Probably can’t get in that bloody door,’ muttered Costello to herself.

  The room fell quiet, six of them sat, looking at each other and the two empty seats. Four of her colleagues had laptops or tablets placed squarely in front of them. Costello pulled out her battered black notebook and searched her handbag for a pen that worked. Aware the very well-dressed man who looked like the actor in the stairlift advert was looking at her, Costello looked out the window of the room, taking advantage of the good view of the corridor her position afforded her. She thought she had caught a glimpse of Colin Anderson going into the room opposite. If it was him, he was looking much better. He had either put on a little weight or had started working out. Or maybe he could afford a well-cut suit now. She wondered what his meeting was about. Would they bump in to each other later? Surely if he knew she was here, he would make the effort? Then again, when did men ever make any kind of effort for her nowadays?

  And she was thinking about it, wasn’t she? Considering it rather than making a definite plan to catch hold of him later. They had grown so far apart without either of them really noticing, maybe that was the way of things as people grew older, they were merely twigs floating in the stream. The door closed on their meeting room leaving her to look again at her colleagues, trying to read the agenda upside down.

  She wondered if this meeting had anything to do with a rumoured convergence of the cold case unit and her domestic violence remit, maybe bringing some psychological insight to those who started with fists and ended up with knives. And stop them before they did it.

  Nobody had said a word. Costello had a sudden impulse to burst out laughing. Mr Stairlift, she didn’t know. Ditto the other police officer, looking like he’d put his hand up first to answer teacher. There was one nervous-looking civilian poised to take minutes. The well groomed man on the far side was from the fiscal’s office. He looked too young to have an opinion about anything. He was here to report back to his boss, Archie the bastard, who wasn’t here to see things for himself. Probably couldn’t face her, in case she read the guilt
written all over his face.

  ‘I think that might be the head of the team coming now,’ said the young police officer at the noise of clomping footfall along the corridor. Whoever it was was heavy and dragging their feet, or maybe burdened down. The young cop got up to open the door, Archie walked in. Costello refused to return his smile, giving him her thousand-mile death stare but he ignored her, standing to one side to let his companion enter the room. Their local head of child protection social work. As the woman came in the room, she glared at Costello as hard as she could with her soft brown eyes before she placed her bulging, Lidl bag on the table.

  Costello found herself on her feet, her face fixed to conceal the conflict of her emotions: guilt, shame, embarrassment and disbelief. And she daren’t look at Archie, in case the woman had mentioned that some stupid, racist, female cop had thought she was a bag lady, snapping at her that she had no spare change. God, she could be in all kinds of trouble now.

  ‘This is Deliana Despande.’ Archie introduced her, his careful enunciation making it obvious he had been practising.

  She pulled a cushion from her Lidl bag then sat down on it, smiling her way round the room at the introduction. The smile got rather fixed and frosty when it came to Costello.

  They sat down, Costello taking her time to pull the seat in under her, still not able to believe it. She really was up to her neck in shit now.

  ‘Call me Dali, it helps.’ Her accent was pure Glaswegian, slightly punctuated with harsh Asiatic consonants. She shuffled her heavy bulk down on the cushioned seat, adjusted the shoulder strap of her bra and slipped a dirty, bulky anorak from her shoulders. ‘Sorry I am late, I am too fat to walk quickly.’ She laughed as she pulled another file from the bag and opened it.

  Costello, sitting at right angles to her, had a good view of the first and second pages, densely covered in an inky web of thick black italic pen.

  She cast a glance at Costello, a small, fleeting smile that seemed totally without vitriol. ‘And you are DI Costello?’

  Costello nodded, wondering how fast her career was going to come crashing around her. She looked at Archie, the two-timing bastard gave her a sweet smile like everything was normal. Had Dali not said anything to him and she was waiting to make her humiliation public? Or was she going to be taken in to a small room and lectured before being suspended for abject racism?

  Dali was talking, ‘DI Costello. Yesterday you were sent to investigate a very strange crime indeed? One child, a baby was swapped for another?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know, I tried to talk to you about it twice but you were … busy,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ That didn’t sound enough. ‘Sorry,’ she added.

  ‘It happens all the time, don’t give it a moment’s thought.’ Her dark eyes twinkled. ‘We need to get to the bottom of that incident, and given your circumstances, I think you can be of great help to me. And vice versa.’

  Given your circumstances? Was that a hint of career blackmail? Costello, while resentful, couldn’t help but be impressed.

  Dali waved her arms about and pulled up her bra strap again. ‘I need a team of people who are focussed and don’t talk shite. My office is complete rubbish, too many chiefs and not enough Indians.’

  Costello smirked, caught Archie’s eye and received the hint of a grin. The bastard.

  ‘We are under investigation, our investigators are under review from this agency and that agency. I really would like some staff to help my staff to do their bloody job and then,’ she rattled her fingertips off the top of the table, ‘you Mr Walker, might have less work to do. We are there to prevent the crimes, not solve them and then you do not have to prosecute something because … it has not happened. Why is that madness?’

  Shocked, Archie opened his mouth, but she was talking, sweet and brown-eyed, chattering like a Gatling gun wrapped in a duvet before he managed to get a word out.

  ‘We need to start doing something. And it starts now. With us. Here.’

  And something deep in Costello cheered.

  She had left the meeting enriched as if somebody had lit the fire in her belly. There was no doubt that Dali was a straight talker and took no shite from anybody. Costello had become aware, as the meeting had gone on, that the young fiscal wasn’t getting a word in edgeways. The cop with all the right answers wasn’t doing that very well either. In the end, she felt like Dali was talking to her and Archie alone. Maybe because they were the only two listening rather than typing and looking up various references.

  The young fiscal argued that a point Dali was trying to make was unlawful but she talked over him, her silky voice had the subtlety of a snow plough.

  ‘This bastard broke the child’s arm, in three places, he made the child sit in the house with pants on his head, pants that were covered in shit and piss. Now, Mr Fiscal, if you tell me that any intervention to stop that is unlawful then I suggest you set about getting the law changed. Or you get another job.’ She didn’t quite add the ‘young man’ but it was there.

  Dali was proposing a unit that would actually get things done. They had to report back to her wherever they encountered problems. Why things were not getting done, and then, yes, all they do is sign reports that sit on the fiscal’s desk and nothing happens, while the wee kid still gets to sit in the corner with the shitty pants on their head.

  ‘This is the now, it is in the present, it’s not like a crime that should be investigated after it has been committed. We have to prevent those crimes from being committed and I know that does not sit well with you legal people, but the consequence of your reluctance to act is this.’ And she placed an A4 colour photograph in front of the young fiscal. Costello could make out the boy’s bare body, bruised, broken and burned.

  The fiscal looked away, towards Archie who offered him no help.

  ‘You can pretend you don’t see it but we see it every day. And now, I hope that image is burned onto the back of your eyes. It’ll make you better at your job. Now, who is in charge of the tea here? I could do with a brew.’

  And with that she had announced that while they were waiting for the refreshments she was going to use the ladies. She lifted her cushion and stuffed it back in her bag, a clear indication that she considered the meeting over. Costello watched as Archie stood up, trying to help her, and she gave him her bag to carry as she put her jacket back on, then thanked him and made her way clumsily out the room. They heard her heavy footfall on the squeak of her Crocs on the lino floor.

  Costello sat quietly, closing her notebook, thinking about Malcolm. There was a case that was going to happen, but the young fiscal was right. You can’t act on a feeling or experienced intuition. It was almost impossible to wade in before there had been an incident. Even if there was evidence of initial abuse, sending an official round might keep the child safe while the abuser was sober, and could apply reasoned thought, but once they were drunk or high or enraged, then it would be open season.

  She found herself alone with Archie. The others had left, he was standing at the door. She wasn’t sure if he realized he was holding it closed.

  ‘So how are you getting on? I’ve not seen you since the Kissel verdict came back.’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’ And she added, ‘And so have you.’

  ‘Are you working on the Waterside abduction?’

  ‘I am, and I seem to be a one-man band on it.’ She folded her arms, waiting for Archie to open the door.

  ‘You’re a DI, form a team.’

  ‘Aye right, meanwhile here in the real world.’

  ‘Are you in a mood?’

  ‘Why should I be?’

  ‘Bloody hell, I only asked.’

  Archie looked normal, he hadn’t changed into a two-headed evil beast that dripped blood on the floor. He was the same Archie, neat as a new pin, sharply ironed creases and perfect salt and pepper hair.

  ‘How is Pippa?’

  ‘Not good, she’s refusing to eat and that’s causing issues at
the home.’

  She wanted to ask where he was on Tuesday afternoon but couldn’t.

  ‘Is Colin here?’ she asked. ‘I thought I saw him.’

  ‘Yes, I think Mitchum has him next door. He’s being collared into PR.’

  ‘I’ll go and find him then,’ she said and reached round him to open the door, and squeeze past him before he could stop her.

  Costello walked up behind DCI Colin Anderson but he was so engrossed in his phone and the outpourings of the coffee machine, he hadn’t even noticed. She had waited until her lips were at the lobe of his ear, waited until she could smell the familiar scent of him, before she spoke. ‘I thought I smelled you in the building.’

  He turned. ‘Costello, how are you?’ He sounded glad to see her and thought about hugging her then remembered that she hated any physical human contact.

  Her grey cold eyes were already on the file, honing in on the photograph that he had been examining before his phone went. ‘I’m fine. Are you working here? Is that your case?’ She nodded at the picture.

  ‘Somebody I knew at uni. Is Archie with you?’

  ‘No. Who is she?’

  ‘Where is Archie?’

  ‘In that room there, waiting to burn in hell so he might be a while.’ She turned her head to look at the photograph the right way round. ‘God, she looks good for her age, much better than you. Has she had surgery or did you go to a tough school? She’s …’

  ‘Absolutely gorgeous?’ suggested Anderson, knowing the only way to avoid interrogation was to give her something. ‘She was always a good-looking woman. Nice too. Not like you at all, she’s one of these really healthy types, always climbing mountains at weekends and swimming across lochs at six in the morning.’

  ‘Sounds a right pain in the arse. I bet she ate yoghurt.’

  ‘By the bucketful.’

  ‘Is she a cold case?’ She plucked the picture from him, sticking it under her nose, so close to her face Anderson thought she might need her sight tested.

  ‘She was raped. It was never solved, so yes, it might be a cold case. Or something.’ He took the photograph back. Not wanting her to have possession of it. Of any of it. ‘She got badly hurt.’