The Suffering of Strangers Read online

  ‘Is she another one of your redheads?’

  ‘No,’ he said patiently. ‘She ended up marrying the guy at uni who got her better after she was attacked. Her physio, I think he was. And he was a much bigger bloke than me so I wasn’t going to fight for her. He would have crushed me like roadkill. What happened between you and Archie?’

  Anderson lifted his paper cup of coffee from the machine and took a sip, but Costello was already going through the file, memorizing the names, seeing the injuries, the scar, the deep cut on the side of Sally’s face, the swelling with the odd speckle constellation of scars around her shoulder, some of them forming perfect teardrops on her tanned skin. He let her look, then held out his hand to stop her at one picture, a close-up of the bruising around her shoulder.

  ‘Does she know you are a cop now?’

  ‘She will when I tell her. I am going out to see her later. Does Archie know you are back here?’

  ‘Yes. Is she involved in SafeLife?’

  ‘You seem very well informed.’ His voice was curt.

  ‘Tread carefully, my friend, fools rushing in, where angels fear to whatsit.’

  ‘And what happened with you and Archie? Precisely?’

  ‘He’s a bastard. Precisely. I’ve never heard you talk of her before? What’s her name again?’

  ‘I didn’t say. It’s not a big deal, Costello. Brenda and I were not in their social league. They both had the sort of parents that … well, they had money, let’s leave it at that. They lived a life we couldn’t afford.’

  ‘The sort of life that you can afford now, Colin? Or have you forgotten that? You could buy Claire a flat in the city centre if she goes to art school. You and your ex – Sally, is it? – might be in the same league now, you can easily afford to take her out to the fancy dancy places. She might be able to show you how to work that bloody coffee machine of yours.’

  ‘Costello, I have no interest in working this case at all and Sally’s not my ex.’

  ‘Liar,’ she replied sweetly.

  ‘I have enough on my hands, with Brenda and Claire and Peter. Nesbit is the only one that doesn’t give me aggro these days.’

  ‘And David. And Paige.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He turned over the page, ‘We didn’t keep up with them, Sally and Andrew, but it will be nice to catch up with old friends. Brenda wasn’t that keen on socializing with them, back in the day.’

  His DI pursed her thin lips, not saying ‘thou protesteth too much’, but the silence let him know she was thinking it. ‘Brenda doesn’t really like anybody,’ was all she said.

  ‘Neither do you,’ he snapped. ‘And that is my file.’ He turned away, pulling the file from her and closing it, wanting the conversation to be over. It had been about six months since he had last set eyes on Costello. Two minutes reunited and she was annoying him already.

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘At a meeting.’

  ‘Me too.’ She sighed, then bit her lower lip. She deflated.

  That was a bad sign that he recognized. ‘Are you in trouble? Do tell, are you on your final written warning? I could do with cheering up.’

  ‘It could be serious.’

  ‘Even better.’ But he was looking at her closely now. She was thoughtful, and he felt guilty and concerned. They had been through a lot together, her distress already part of his territory.

  ‘The head of a new unit from Child Protection for Strathclyde was at my meeting. I bumped into her yesterday. She approached me and, well, I told her I had no spare change and she wasn’t to bother me.’

  Anderson tried not to laugh. ‘You thought she was a dosser. Why?’

  ‘Because she looks like a supermodel? Why do you think?’ Her voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘Dali she called herself. Like the painter.’ She rubbed her face, she looked worn out.

  His eyes drifted over her shoulder to a door opening and an overweight woman of Asian origin was making her way towards them, dragging her feet along the corridor, her Lidl bag over her shoulder, the weight of it giving her gait a roll.

  ‘Did you think the head of the new unit was an immigrant beggar?’ He laughed, but he could see why. ‘I wouldn’t worry, if she has got that high in her career in this part of the world, she will have heard, and been called, much worse. She probably found it funny.’ He turned away. ‘Probably. But if she wants to make a thing of it, you could really be in deep shit.’

  ‘Oh God, she’s coming along here, isn’t she? Is she stopping at the lifts? Please tell me she’s getting in the lift.’

  Anderson watched the overweight woman pass the small queue for the lift. She was coming directly towards him, her plastic bag tucked under one arm, her anorak swinging from her shoulders. ‘Nope. She’s right behind you,’ he whispered.

  ‘Costello?’ Her voice held a hint of command.

  ‘Dali?’

  The eyes were calculating and intelligent. ‘Excuse us,’ she said to Anderson with consummate politeness. ‘Costello, can I have a word, please,’ she said, flashing Colin Anderson a smile of beautiful white teeth as she placed a puffy hand with gnarled joints on Costello’s shoulder and guided her back along the corridor.

  He wished he was a fly on the wall.

  FIVE

  Orla Sheridan lived in a small flat tucked away in one of the narrower side streets off Dumbarton Road. Wheelie bins were out permanently, two skips at the end of the street stuffed full with old sofas and carcasses of kitchen units. A row of three discarded fridges like decayed teeth was evidence that the students had started a new term and the detritus of the tenants last clear out had not yet been uplifted. Somebody had left out a cheese plant, complete with ceramic pot, a sign round its neck pleading for a good home.

  It looked as though it had been waiting for some time.

  The journey took less than ten minutes. Stromvar Drive was spotless at one end, slightly more ‘bohemian’ at the other. Dali seemed to have forgotten her embarrassing encounter with Costello, too busy talking about the stress her staff were under. But Costello had no doubt it was tucked away at the back of her mind, a weapon of destruction that could lay dormant, to be armed when needed. That’s exactly what she herself would do.

  Dali’s stream of consciousness was a rant about her anger and her passion for women and women’s rights and their safety, and furious too that Lorna McGill, the young social worker, had been battered by an expensive legal team determined to blame the death of Bernadette Kissel’s child on anybody but Bernadette Kissel.

  Then it dawned on Costello that it was the same social worker they were talking about. Piecing together the strands of Dali’s rant, she deduced that Lorna McGill had gone out to visit a five-week-old baby called Polly. And was determined she wasn’t going to leave until she saw her. Polly’s mum Orla wouldn’t even open up until the guy from upstairs had come down and battered on the door. Dali described Orla as ‘thick as mince’, brown with fake tan and ridiculous black eyebrows. The excuses followed; first the ‘wean’ was asleep, then it was asleep at her mum’s, then it was with a friend in the pub. Like it wasn’t there at all. Once she had gained entry Lorna had carried out a quick check. No Polly. More alarmingly, no food, nothing to suggest that a baby had ever lived there. Costello thought of all the evidence lying around in the Chisholm’s house as Dali ran through all the correct protocols the young social worker had followed, slightly defensive as if she was fed up of her team getting the shitty end of the stick. It was while Lorna was phoning Orla’s mother that Orla said she was going to the loo and then climbed out the window.

  Costello had to smirk at that. ‘How was she to know?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Dali, ‘Lorna’s a good kid, go easy on her. She’s had it tough the last few weeks. And what motivation do they have now. They are too young, too inexperienced, too big a case load and not enough support. I mean it’s the bloody lawyers and the bloody fiscals, all those arses who pass letters here and emails there and nobody ever makes a fucking decisio
n about anything. All they are interested in is a blame hound. And this girl Lorna is good, she is very good and now we will lose her to the profession, and—’ she started banging her fist on the dashboard – ‘we cannot afford to let good staff like that go. We cannot allow that.’ She sat back and took a deep breath. ‘But how do you solve a problem like Orla Sheridan?’

  ‘That sounds like a cue for a song.’

  The flat was the small one, bottom right, one tiny living room with a kitchen off it, bathroom in the middle with an air extraction unit, and an even smaller bedroom at the back. Even at the front door it smelled of damp and dope.

  Dali had left her plastic bags in the back seat of Costello’s car, only taking a well-worn black diary with her. She waddled straight through to the living room, obviously familiar with the property.

  Costello introduced herself to the young woman standing by the window, waiting their arrival. ‘Lorna? DI Costello.’

  ‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’ She sniffed, her eyes red and sore from crying.

  ‘I worked the Kissel case, Lorna. You might have seen me at court.’

  Lorna looked worn out, defeated, ready to cry again. ‘Well, I fucked that up and I think I fucked this up as well. She got away from me.’

  Costello cast a look at Dali thinking that she might remonstrate at the language, but the older woman just patted her younger colleague on the shoulder.

  ‘Well, you didn’t fuck up the Kissel case, but you did let Orla escape out a window – trick 2A in the book. Chalk it up to experience. Costello may be a DI here but she’s not beyond the odd fuck up herself,’ Dali said cheerfully, ‘and she is still standing so don’t you worry about it. It wasn’t your fault, not your fault at all. In this job, we never do anything right so we may as well settle for doing our best. We will always get roasted by people with testicles who never get off their fat backsides. It’s shite.’ Dali readjusted the huge navy blue duvet of a jacket, her armour against an unfair world. ‘The big question is, have you ever seen this baby? Ever?’

  Lorna shook her head, wretched. ‘Never.’

  ‘Never,’ Dali repeated, glancing at Costello, making sure she got that.

  ‘I think this might be Daniel Kissel all over again. Or am I seeing something that isn’t there?’

  ‘Innocent people don’t climb out windows. And you’ve checked to see if the child has been here recently?’ Dali wobbled her way round the sofa, her pen pointing, her head twisting to get sight of the worktops in the small kitchen area.

  ‘I’ve checked the bedding, the food cupboards, the clothes, the fridge. There is no sign that Baby Polly has been here for a while. Or ever.’

  ‘Good, you’ve done good,’ said Costello, looking at Dali.

  ‘Lorna thought there might be an issue going on here.’ She raised an eyebrow at Costello from behind the sofa, a silent tic-tac, not to be talked about in front of the young social worker. ‘Orla is what? 18? 19? Legged it through the back window while saying she was going to the loo.’

  ‘While I just sat here and let her,’ moaned Lorna.

  ‘You’ll learn. But we need to find her. And the baby, she’s only five weeks old. And not Down’s syndrome,’ she added knowing the way that Costello’s brain would jump.

  ‘Five weeks?’ confirmed Costello. Sholto was six weeks. Moses five. She realized Dali was looking at her, making sure she was joining the dots. ‘I presume that you have checked relatives, friends? Anywhere the baby—’

  ‘Polly.’

  ‘Polly might legitimately be? And are they reliable?’

  ‘I did. I have phoned everywhere, all the contact numbers I have. They all seemed to think that the baby is elsewhere. Should I phone Family Protection?’

  ‘I already have, they are sending somebody out to do a report,’ Lorna said.

  Dali raised an eyebrow at Costello. ‘Nice of them. But I think we will get DI Costello to do it instead. She can kick a few arses for us.’

  ‘I would but I have my hands full with—’

  ‘With what? A missing baby? Well, while you are looking for that one you might find ours. We might get a BOGOF. You know, buy one get one free.’ Dali’s look was slightly more threatening this time. ‘There is deliberate manipulation here.’

  ‘You’re telling me?’ said Costello, just so they understood each other.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Dali. ‘But I want you to find Polly. Quickly.’

  ‘Did she have a phone, Lorna?’ asked Costello, reminding herself that she did have the power of a police officer, not a social worker and grudgingly saw Dali’s point.

  ‘Oh God, yes,’ replied Lorna, the absurdity of the question making her forget her stress. ‘An all-singing, all-dancing one. With them it’s a bigger priority than feeding the kids. Hers was an iPhone 7, in a black and white diamanté case, skull and cross bones. I have the number, she never changed it. She also had an iPad, she was always taking photographs on that.’

  ‘Of Polly?’ asked Costello.

  ‘Of herself.’ Lorna scrolled down her own phone and pressed once, and held it out to show Costello. ‘It’s just ringing out.’ She tried it again with the same result.

  ‘OK, so ringing and traceable. Orla is not a priority but Polly is.’ Costello took the phone from Lorna and moved over to the front window to call the station and leave a message that they needed a trace on that number and would somebody call her back. ‘She said she was going to the loo?’ asked Costello, making her way to the small square hall. Dali had to move round the sofa to let her past.

  ‘And she did. Then she came in here to put a jumper on and then climbed out the bedroom window.’ They walked through a cloud of cheap perfume into the tiny room at the back of the flat. All three of them stared at the peeling wallpaper and the mould growing up the corner under the window. It was a study in bright pink. A poster with six tangoed male strippers, each one wearing a tiny thong with a couple of socks jammed down the front, dominated the room but there was no cot, no crib, no nappies, no baby clothes, no bottle. Wherever Polly was, she wasn’t expected back.

  With a gloved hand, Costello lifted the window. The sash ran up easily, only the smallest of rumbles giving it away, easily masked by the closed door. It was low enough for Orla to slip through and drop out onto the bed of weeds beneath, across the back green and out. She had the choice of three or four different escape routes. Each would have taken her to a street not visible to Lorna in the living room at the front of the flat. But the weeds were flattened and broken by something more than a pair of feet. Costello looked around.

  ‘Did you see her take anything with her?’

  ‘Can’t say, I just saw her close the door.’

  ‘There was something sitting here?’ She pointed to a distinct rectangle of clear floor between a box and a pile of dirty clothes. ‘Every bit of floor in this room is covered with crap except this wee bit. What do you think? A small suitcase sitting upright? A big handbag?’

  Lorna looked round the room. ‘Well, she had a leopard patterned suitcase. You know, a small one with a pull handle? I noticed it when I came in, I thought she was taking her clothes to the laundry.’

  ‘Do you know if anything in the wardrobe is missing?’

  Dali looked at her. Then at the mess on the floor. And opened her arms – how would they know.

  Lorna shook her head. ‘No idea.’

  ‘This is worse than my daughter’s room and she is the messiest person I know. What a tip. Orla could be housing twelve illegals under her dirty laundry and we wouldn’t know.’

  Lorna flicked a smile at Costello, Dali’s sense of humour was well-known.

  ‘Can you look for a handbag, a passport, a bank card? Anything like that?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Dali. ‘I’ve been into Shareen’s room and got out without any notifiable disease. Well not that I know of. I’ll have a good look. Bloody teenagers.’

  Costello handed her a pair of nitrile gloves.

  ‘Are these for m
y health or your evidence?’

  ‘Both,’ answered Costello.

  Lorna smiled as Dali squeezed past her into the hall to deposit her diary somewhere safe.

  ‘What was she wearing when you last saw her?’ Costello had her notebook out.

  ‘Tiny skirt. Bare legs, flat black pumps and a black T-shirt. I think she put on a red jumper but I’m not sure.’

  Costello nodded. ‘And that, Lorna, what do you think that was?’ Costello pointed to the small picture lying on the bed in bits, the frame separated from the glass, the glass away from the picture.

  ‘It was hanging up there earlier. It was a picture of a stupid wee dog, like a postcard.’ She pointed to the empty nail. ‘Could she have knocked it off the wall as she made her way out?’

  Costello showed her the metal claws on the back. ‘Maybe, but she has prised these clips open. It’s an odd thing to have in a room like this with her Ed Sheeran poster and the Highlanders with their pecs. This wee Westie is a bit twee. The only reason I can think of as to why somebody would remove the back of a picture during their getaway was to retrieve something hidden there.’ She gauged the size of the indent. ‘Money? Credit cards?’

  ‘Sort of thing my granny likes,’ said Lorna, looking closely at the picture. She turned it over. It had been cut from a calendar.

  ‘She must have dropped that on the bed this morning if she slept in it last night.’ Costello picked up all the layers of the picture, feeling the odd width. She tried to put it back together. With the backing replaced, the picture at the front was bevelled. ‘Looks like there has indeed been something stuck in there. Look at the size of it, what do you think? Cash? Was she a prostitute? Drug dealer?’

  Dali was standing at the door, her face grave. ‘Neither that we know of, well not in any big way. But she had some cash stashed. And her baby is missing.’

  The lift up to the yoga studio was on the exterior corner of the Blue Neptune, right at the back on the junction of Sevastopol Lane and Inkerman Street, a complex comprising a nightclub, bars, four restaurants, executive offices and penthouse apartments. The rental included access to the gym on the top floor and that was where the yoga studio was situated. Anderson could have accessed it by the main door of the Blue Neptune and walked through the marble foyer to a reception where he would have to explain himself, so he chose the lift with its direct access to the gym and the studio from Sevastopol Lane.