The Blood of Crows (16 page)

It was a command.

‘Anything that’s beneficial to the enquiry. And the precise objective of this operation is … ?’

‘To break the Puppeteer, simple as that. I’ve released Lambie, Wyngate. And you will liaise with Matilda McQueen and only her for any forensic work you need
done, I don’t want any of this lying around a general lab. And Mulholland, of course – he’ll be useful.’

‘They’re all useful, sir,’ Anderson replied carefully.

‘They don’t all speak Russian, though, do they? The one stipulation is that I want tabs kept on each and every one of you, where you are every minute you are on duty. I want someone to be able just to look at the noticeboard and to know where you are and who you’re with at any time.’

‘OK, but for the sake of completeness, can you ask DCI MacKellar if he can reassign the case of the River Girl to me. And there’s a white Transit and –’

‘Indeed, consider it done. I wasn’t fully aware that MacKellar had split the investigation. I’ll sort it out straight away,’ he lifted the phone, pausing halfway. ‘And don’t forget DS Costello in all this.’

‘But she’s at –’

‘I know. I’m just telling you not to forget her. I’m afraid I don’t have any female staff free, so you might want to keep in close contact with her and the security team at Glen Fruin Academy. It was the Warden of the Academy who called us in. They don’t have a headmaster like any normal school; they have to have a Warden.’

‘Sounds like a hostel. But Warden or no, I presume he wants it kept quiet?’

‘It had better be kept quiet – he’s my brother-in-law. I’ll phone MacKellar now.’

It was a subtle dismissal so Anderson got up and left, letting his fingers run along the back of the leather chair. Howlett had mentioned the Russians twice. As fact.

He wondered what else Howlett knew.

9.05 A.M.

Sitting in his car, parked on the steep hill at Pitt Street, Anderson thought about nipping into Costa in Sauchiehall Street and getting something to eat. Even the metropolitan bustle of the precinct, thronged with shoppers and sightseers, would be quieter than that bloody station at Partick, with the phone going every two minutes, and the strange habit they had of shouting across the room rather than just getting up and walking all of ten yards. The first thing he did was read the notes by Batten – the word ‘profile’ had gone out of favour – in which Batten had referred to the Puppeteer’s ‘characteristics’. He glanced through it, his heart chilling: intelligent, well read, patient, probably a businessman, flash with his money, very engaging, does charity work, probably has a legitimate reason to travel internationally, background in military, family or some kind of community tie, he will have a team working with him, people at his disposal. The word ‘communication’ had a question mark after it.

He turned the key in the ignition, so he could wind down the window, and rested his elbow on the door, letting the stifling car cool. The steering wheel was almost too hot to touch so he couldn’t drive away yet, anyway. He slipped on his sunglasses, glad of the anonymity they afforded him.

Anonymity? Was that why the passenger in the van was wearing them? Did that suggest that he thought his face was traceable, recognizable? Anderson didn’t want to insult Wyngate by asking him to enhance the tattoos on
the man’s arm and then do a search on them. He needed to trust his team and let them get on with it. He was a DCI now, time he started to behave like one.

He needed time to think about what Howlett had just offered him. He was considering going somewhere quiet to have a look through that file. The ACC was no fool; he had handed Anderson either the opportunity of his career on a plate, or something that everyone else considered untouchable.

He picked up his phone and dialled Wyngate. ‘Gordon, I want you to pack up everything for the Biggart case, and the case of the girl in the river from next door.’

‘Biggart, right. And Rusalka. Yes, we’ve already started.’

‘Rusalka? You have a positive ID on her?’

‘No,’ said Wyngate sheepishly. ‘Just a name Mulholland’s given her. It’s some opera he knows – sounded just like
The Little Mermaid
to me.’

Anderson sighed. ‘Trust Vik to know about something poncy like that. Never mind, it’ll do. Look, just pack all that stuff up in boxes.’

‘Do you want me to do that now?’

‘Why, have you got something more important to do?’

‘Well, I’ve just had a strange call from HQ. I’ve to go to the Western and get the keys to the university lecture theatre from a janitor. And they want me to hang about at the theatre because some computers are being delivered. For us to use. I presumed you knew about it, sir, from the way it was said.’

Anderson put a smile into his voice. ‘Yes, it’s OK, just that the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing. You sort it out any way you can but by five p.m. tonight we
will be working out of there rather than Partick Central.’

‘Is that why the IT guys are getting a system up and running for us?’

‘Probably. Phone me if you have any problems.’ He rang off.

A small hand-picked team all to himself, nothing too formal, nothing too traceable. But why?

One explanation came to him as easily as an ice cream down the back of the throat. They had been a secure unit at Partickhill and all Howlett had done was to take the four or five officers he knew he could trust, the implication being that there was somebody in Partick who could not be trusted. A mole.

Clever. If Anderson didn’t know what he was chasing, he wouldn’t go looking for what he wanted to find. He would simply find it without prejudice.

10.40 A.M.

They were still packing up, their colleagues watching with a mix of pleasure at seeing the back of them and a touch of envy that they were moving somewhere with double the floor space for a tenth of the staff, when the door of the incident room opened and DCI MacKellar came in. With him was a tall tanned man with grey hair and gold-rimmed glasses, in a pristine white long-sleeved white shirt and expensive linen trousers, who looked around as if he owned the place. A few of the Partick team said hello, and two older members of the CID went up and shook hands warmly. The heartfelt double-handed handshake might have been
Masonic for all Anderson knew. He looked enquiringly at Lambie, but Lambie shrugged, ‘No idea.’ Mulholland scribbled something and slipped a scrap of paper to Anderson as he walked past:
If his name’s Moffat then he’s God.

So, this was the man Howlett had told him to talk to.

Anderson went back to reading the list of injuries and identifying marks on the Bridge Boy when MacKellar tapped him on the arm.

‘I think congratulations are in order. Well done.’ The handshake was genuine. ‘I was kind of hoping for it myself, you know. But, well done.’

‘For what?’ asked Anderson. ‘All I have is a DCI position, nothing else.’

MacKellar dropped his voice as there was an outbreak of laughter at some in-joke by Moffat. ‘You didn’t get LOCUST?’

Anderson shook his head, then added mischievously, ‘In fact, I think we are moving out to give you more room. Make what you will of that.’

‘Great, ta. Nice one, Colin.’ MacKellar punched him on the arm. ‘Cheers.’

Anderson went back to his reading, ignoring the adoring throng around Moffat. The Bridge Boy was holding on, Dr Redman had reported, but only just; he might be in need of a liver transplant. Anderson made a mental note of points to look for on the missing persons register, though one flick-through had produced no likely matches. He couldn’t help but watch Moffat from the corner of his eye, thinking about Batten’s list. Moffat had obviously lived abroad for a while, Australia from the sound of it – somebody called him ‘Crocodile Dundee’ to a hoot of
laughter – and was well enough respected to be allowed to walk around the station freely. Arrangements were being made to go out for a drink.

‘Yeah, I’m over for a whole load of reasons, but wasn’t expecting Tommy’s funeral,’ Moffat was explaining.

Anderson could not help listening. Lambie, who was loading files into a box with the slow deliberation of one whose concentration was elsewhere, was clearly listening as well.

‘And who are these guys? I think I know you,’ Moffat said to Anderson. ‘By reputation, if nothing else.’

‘Don’t believe everything you hear. DCI Colin Anderson,’ Anderson said, relishing the sound of his new title.

Lambie’s head jerked up in surprise; he grinned but said nothing.

‘DCI Anderson? I’m glad the grapevine was to be believed.’ Moffat smiled. ‘Congratulations. You’re very well thought of by the top brass, I hear.’

‘More than I ever get to hear,’ said Anderson.

‘And you worked with an old mentor of mine, I think – Alan McAlpine.’

‘Yes, I did.’ Anderson was confused for a minute. Moffat was older than McAlpine had been by a good few years.

‘I was in the military before I joined the force,’ explained Moffat, as if he had read Anderson’s thoughts. ‘He showed me the ropes. Hard bastard, but fair.’ His blue eyes looked deep into Anderson’s. ‘If I can be of any assistance to you,
any
assistance,’ he emphasized, ‘in the next few days, just let me know. I’m not going back to Oz for another week.’

Anderson nodded to show that he understood; a subtle invite to an off-the-record conversation passed between the two of them without any of the others noticing. ‘This is DC Mulholland, and DS Lambie.’ He waved a hand at them in introduction. ‘DC Wyngate is around somewhere. So, you moving on?’

Moffat looked down at the paper Anderson had just been reading. His old colleagues drifted away, waving and calling that they’d see him later. ‘So, somebody did for Billy the Bastard. I’m glad I lived long enough to see that.’ Then Moffat leaned over and asked under his breath, ‘The lad with the ears – Wyngate – is he trying to track those tattoos?’

So, he had clocked the photograph pinned to the file – the last thing to go into the box so it would be the first out. Anderson nodded.

‘Get him to do it quickly, then let me have a look-see; I might be able to help.’

‘For ID?’

‘I’ll tell you once I see them.’ Moffat looked closely at Anderson. ‘I do remember you, you know.’

‘You have the advantage of me, though I recognize you from somewhere.’

Moffat slapped Anderson on the back. ‘Of course you do, boy, of course you do. I used to kick your arse when you were a probationer. God, that was years ago.’

‘Eric? Eric Moffat? I don’t recall. But then I got my arse kicked by loads of people in those days.’

‘Well, rumours of my death were exaggerated, as you can see – I just retired to Australia, where it’s only slightly cooler than hell.’

‘Must have a chat with you about that. My wife wants us to go out there.’

‘Nice place, can’t say a word against it.’ Moffat polished his glasses on the end of his tie before slipping them on again. ‘Look, let’s meet for a beer when there’re fewer folk about.’ He pulled a card out from his top pocket. ‘There’s my cell number, call me and we’ll have a chat. Might save you a lot of legwork.’

Anderson looked at the card. Moffat lived in Brisbane, in Queensland. And he couldn’t say a word against it. Oh God, Anderson prayed, please don’t let him and Brenda ever meet.

2.00 P.M.

Anderson decided there was no point in him being there while they were connecting computers and dragging furniture around, so he left the boys to it – they knew what to do. He would go home and sit in his garden with a blank sheet of paper and try to make some connections.

A colour print of the mocked-up image of the Bridge Boy had arrived, and Anderson was impressed. It was a good image for the appeal, he’d called in a few favours, and Bridge Boy’s face would be all over the morning editions. He was keeping a tight rein on anything going to the papers, but he needed help with this one. The boy’s fingerprints were not on record. His dental records were proving useless – so many of his teeth had been pulled out. And DNA testing would only be of use if they had a comparison. Better to put his face out there, place a guard on his
bed and see what came out of the woodwork. He decided to go home and plan his strategy for the case.

But getting out of the station proved to be difficult.

A rather harassed-looking Lambie met him on the stairs, and pulled him back through the security door. ‘Look, can I speak to you about Carruthers? There’s a few things that don’t really add up. I’ve requested the CCTV film for the area round the flat. For the six hours before the … incident.’

Anderson looked out of the window, watching Wyngate manhandle a box into the boot of his car.

‘I’ve talked to the solicitor. You know that Carruthers put twenty grand in a bank account his wife didn’t know about, one single payment in November 1996. Well, it’s a lot more than that now with interest. Untouched, totally. The bank records show it was a win on a horse, and they were shown all the paperwork at the time. Enough to satisfy them, seemingly,’ Lambie continued in a low tone.

‘Except – don’t tell me – Tommy never bet on anything in his life.
Seemingly
may be about right.’

‘Once the solicitor told Mrs Carruthers, she told Costello. She really had no idea about that money. She seems almost scared of it.’

‘And Carruthers was a cop at that time.’

‘A bent cop?’

Anderson shrugged. ‘If that money is all they find, only bent once, from the look of it. But whatever he did to earn it – could it really have been something bad enough to drive him to suicide fourteen years later? Or maybe he was murdered for it. Keep on it, keep me posted. Tell me, what do you know of ex-DCI Eric Moffat?’

Lambie shrugged. ‘Off the record?’

‘Dish the dirt.’

‘Masonic, bit too sectarian for my liking but give him his due, he almost brought down gangland Glasgow single-handed. He took both the O’Donnells and the McGregors on and wiped the floor with them. I never worked with him for long, though. He went Down Under, probably for his own good. Is he back because of that bloody book about the Marchetti boy? I think the author gives him a roasting.’