The Blood of Crows (17 page)

‘Was he involved in that?’

‘Is the Pope a Catholic? That’s how he made his name.’

4.00 P.M.

Now, Anderson was back in his garden sipping a cup of hot strong coffee. Nesbitt was at his feet, chewing at his favourite tennis ball with loud growling noises, and Brenda was leaning against the garden fence, yattering to the neighbour about Australia, no doubt. She was standing with one hand on her hip, just where Carruthers’ body had had marks, Anderson was reminded. He had noticed them in the post mortem photographs, particularly the one that clearly showed straight, linear scrapes among the chaos of injuries caused by the fall – the tipping point, the pivot. A jump wouldn’t have caused that. He could get O’Hare to have a look at the pictures – well, pictures were all they had, as the body had been cremated.

And another thing: Moffat comes back on the scene and Carruthers is found dead at the bottom of a block of
flats. This is just after the publication of a book about the kidnap of a boy, and Moffat was in charge of that. The kidnap that made Moffat’s career – not because he solved it but because of the disruption it created in the criminal underworld.

Was it all connected somehow, and did Howlett know? There was nothing really, thought Anderson, running through it in his mind. Apart from the timing – and, as they say in the theatre, timing is everything. Lambie really needed to look at those diaries he’d spotted in Carruthers’ flat.

Nesbitt sneezed loudly and Anderson went back to his blank piece of paper. He made three headings: ‘Bridge Boy’, ‘Biggart’, ‘River Girl’. Then he scored them out. He wrote ‘Rusalka’ across the top, and the word ‘Russian’. ‘Biggart’ with a red line through to show he was deceased. ‘Melinda Biggart’ with a similar line. He put a ‘+’ between them, with ‘pretty boy’ in between. Anderson was sure he had torched Biggart, but he had not killed Melinda. Then he recalled Howlett saying that the ‘blood eagle’ as a method of killing was … what was the word he had used? … 
beloved
of the Russian mafia.

He pulled out his phone and keyed in the words ‘blood eagle’ and read that it was a method of torture and execution mentioned in Norse sagas. He scrolled down, reading the method, which involved cutting the ribs of the victim by the spine, then breaking the ribs so they resembled bloodstained wings. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to think about Melinda. She had been cut down the front, a reverse blood eagle that had immediately brought the Russians to Howlett’s mind. And Rusalka was, probably, a Russian.

He keyed in the word ‘Rusalka’, uncertain how to spell it. He was interested to know why Mulholland of all people had given the dead girl that name. Up flashed a Wikipedia article: … 
an opera by
Antonín Dvořák
 … 
first performed in Prague in 1901
 … 
based on Slavic fairy tales
 … Curious, he scrolled down to the synopsis. Rusalka was a water sprite, who fell in love with a human prince betrothed to a princess, and lost the power of speech. Wyngate was right; it was a darker, more elemental version of
The Little Mermaid.

But without Walt Disney’s happy ending.

9.45 P.M.

‘Do you have some cover story for this?’ Anderson flung Costello’s small suitcase into the back seat of the Jazz, slammed the door, and got into the car. He reached across and picked up the book lying on top of her bag on her knee.
Little Boy Lost
by Simone Sangster. ‘And why are you reading this shite?’

‘It came with the job. I may as well as read it.’

Anderson was confused.

‘This place was implicated as a getaway route.’ She looked at him. ‘Do you know anything?’

‘Obviously not, but I don’t think you’ll learn much reading that crap. The Marchettis tried to get it banned, you know. Does it mention Eric Moffat anywhere?’ He noticed Costello startle slightly.

‘Yes, but I’ve not got that far.’

‘But you do know him? What do you think?’

‘He dumped me from a case. The only time in my career. So, no, I don’t think much of him.’ She adjusted her short hair. ‘He’s back for Carruthers’ funeral, isn’t he?’

Anderson pulled on to the dual carriageway, looking at the water of the Clyde, a deep sapphire blue in the late light, rhomboids of silver flashing across the top of subtle waves. He imagined them as pieces of the jigsaw, coming together and then being pulled apart. Moffat, Glen Fruin, the kidnap? He kept his voice level. ‘Did you deserve to get put off the case?’

Costello seemed to consider her answer. ‘I was a rookie. ’93, was it? A woman had been stabbed in the NCP in Mitchell Lane. I was first on the scene, but he turned up and said I was useless. He wasn’t wrong, but it was the way he said it while this poor woman was just lying there, pregnant, on oil-stained freezing concrete. She was covered in blood. I held her hand. Her nails were bitten right down to the quick. Moffat said I was being useless and sent me on my way.’ She looked out of the window, her head against the glass. ‘It wasn’t nice.’

‘And what happened.’

‘Nothing. I was never asked to write it up. Nobody was ever charged. Not long afterwards, they had found the body of a man named Liam Flynn, decapitated with a machete, and I was told that Moffat had stopped looking for any more suspects. Some kind of street justice had been done. I was told to leave it at that.’

‘Was she connected, then?’

‘Only slightly. Pauline, part of the McGregor family but not an active one.’

Anderson’s mind was racing ahead, looking at the facts, his brain trying to make the pieces of the jigsaw fit. ‘So, how far have you got with the book?’

‘It’s mostly about Sangster’s theory that the family had something to do with it. Don’t you think it’s strange to have a male babysitter? But then, the parents did know him well – he’d worked for them for some while in their restaurant. Piacini, he was called. And the normal babysitter had let them down at the last moment. It’s a crap read but the bit about Glen Fruin is interesting.’

‘And what happened here?’

‘All it says is that a car similar to one seen somewhere near the Marchettis’ flat was seen forty minutes later driving through Glen Fruin. But it’s all maybes – there was no concrete evidence. It’s a good conspiracy theory, though. That they were getting the kid out to the coast. That’s one thing about this country, we have a great coastline for hiding things.’

That was the second time in so many days that Anderson had heard that sentiment. ‘So, the first time Piacini is left in charge, he and the child both go missing? And stay missing? Dead or alive, they must be somewhere.’

‘Must be dead, otherwise they would have resurfaced. But were they brought through here to get to the coast or be dumped somewhere? The glen was home to some torpedo testing centre during the war or something, it being long and narrow and tucked out of the way. It’s not easy to kidnap a child and keep him secure somewhere. There’s all sorts of underground, hidden-away things up here.’ She sounded excited, like a child. ‘There’s a great underground tank there that they used to test the Dambusters’
bouncing bomb, then it was used for hydro-ballistic research.’

‘Like you’d know what that was.’

‘Good deposition site for a couple of dead bodies. It’s an overflow reservoir now.’

‘I read in the
Herald
recently that a lot of the older tunnels and drains are being tested for recommissioning, something to do with anti-terrorism. But that’s down at the un-posh end. You’ll be up in the seriously posh bit. You do know that there’s bugger all up there but the school? The nearest shop is six miles away.’

‘There’ll probably be a Harvey Nicks on site,’ Costello grunted.

Though it was going on for ten o’clock, the light was only just starting to fade, and the midges were out in force. Anderson could smell Costello’s citronella repellent spray. ‘It’ll be a nice drive. Glen Fruin is one of the most attractive glens in Scotland, you know.’

‘So, not only are the kids a load of over-privileged little sods, they have a nice view as well.’

‘I don’t think that attitude is going to help, Costello. The term “button it” comes to mind. Just be careful. There’re not a lot of places you can run to, and you can’t drive.’

‘I’m only going up to have a look around, not start a revolution.’ Costello ignored him. ‘But I’ll need to use a landline; the mobile reception is patchy.’

‘Well, you have my number if you need me, if you get stuck.’ Anderson turned on to the expressway and headed west. ‘What is it all about, anyway?’

‘Important people send their children to Glen Fruin.
So I cannae tell you,’ Costello said, bored and leaning her head against the window.

As they neared Glen Fruin, Anderson turned right, taking the low road through the glen. Within minutes the trees had closed over the road, creating a long dark tunnel that still held the balmy heat of the day trapped under the canopy of the leaves. He had the feeling it was an omen that Costello had no real idea what she was being sent to ‘observe’.

‘Sorry to nag,’ he started again. ‘But is there somebody you can trust up here?’

‘Apart from the Warden, there’s a security guy called Pettigrew. Colin? What the hell do you think I can’t cope with? These kids can’t even wipe their own arses without a nanny.’

‘Be careful, and watch your back. Don’t drink anything or eat anything that might have been tampered with. Just be on your guard.’

There was a slow head-turn from the passenger seat. ‘Do you really think I can’t look after myself?’

‘Fine,’ said Anderson, and he put his foot down.

10.25 P.M.

Rosie wondered how long it would take her to die. She knew you could die within hours without water, especially in this weather, and she’d had no water now for … how long was an hour, anyway? She had had to void her bowels again, and the air in the bedroom was wretched and foul.

Then she heard a bluebottle, a gentle hum that came
close and louder until it seemed to be buzzing in her ear. She couldn’t lift a hand to wave it away, and it kept landing on the soiled sheets, trying to get through to eat at her skin. Then there were two of them. Then another, and another, until she couldn’t fight them off any more. Now she really started to panic. She was going to die of thirst, and the flies were going to swarm over her and eat her as she rotted, stinking the whole house out. She closed her eyes, and thought about Wullie. She thought about death.

She heard a noise, and her eyes shot open. It was Wullie, coming back! She tried to call out to him, joy flooding her heart, and her voice caught in her throat. Wullie was back, he was back … Then reality caught up with her – the noise was scuffling, a thud. Even if he had forgotten his key, Wullie knew that there was a spare one under the stone – he was terrible with keys. Her eyes automatically darted to the laptop, to the disks.

She closed her eyes again. Wullie had not come back, and now they were coming for her. She screwed her eyes closed as somebody walked into the room. She could hear his quiet footfall, could hear him breathing, smell a waft of cigarette smoke. Somebody was watching her. Now she knew true fear, total terrifying fear. Only one of them – why had they sent only one? He still wasn’t moving. He just stood there, watching her, smelling her, and she could feel his eyes crawling all over her exposed flesh. The bluebottles rose from the bed to buzz in circles round the ceiling.

She held her breath, and waited – for the blow, the bullet, the knife.

10.45 P.M.

‘What’s that over there?’ asked Anderson.

‘Over where?’

‘In those trees, what a racket!’ He pulled the car to a halt. ‘Down there, just at the treeline. It’s like a scene from
The Birds.
’ He leaned across to get a better look out of Costello’s window.

‘Can’t see anything, but those crows are having a good investigation of whatever it is.’

‘They are pulling at something. Oh God, that’s horrible. Listen to them.’

The noise of them screeching and squawking filled the air.

‘Probably just a dead sheep?’ She could hear them crowing and cawing, she could hear the wind high in the trees, and she tried to quell the panic.
She could do this.
She closed her eyes tighter, in quiet desperation, when she heard the key click in the ignition and the engine die. ‘Can we not get a move on, Colin? It’s getting late, and it’s dark.’

‘Just a minute. I want to have a look.’ Anderson unclipped his seat belt and got out of the car. He walked round the back of the car and paused on the grass verge, peering up into the woods.

Costello resisted the urge to lean over and press the lock on his door. Instead she watched him walk away, before taking a step down into a dip. He paused, bending forward, his hands on his knees, moving his head from one side to the other, his eyes fixed on something low down. Without standing up he reached into his back pocket for his phone, and pressed a single button. Then
he started talking, straightening up and looking over his shoulder, giving somebody their location. Costello felt a cold hand round her heart. She was starting to feel trapped. But she forced herself to open the car door, intending just to get out and stand there.

Anderson heard the sound of the door opening, and turned and saw her. He held up his free hand.
Stay there.

But, hypnotized by the shadows in the trees, she started walking.

‘Costello, stay back!’

She walked on, her mind filling in the details her eyes saw: the blood, the eyes – no, no eyes – the flies, the green mottled skin of the face, the crows pecking at it, stripping it of its flesh …

‘Costello, get back to the car!’

But her feet were rooted to the ground. In a tree beside her, a crow scrawked loudly. Anderson clapped his hands to make it fly away. But it only flapped its wings and hopped from one branch to another.

‘Costello,’ repeated Anderson. ‘Go – back – to the car –
now!
’

Costello looked at the crow again. It cocked its head at her. Its grey beak was half open, and something once living was dangling from it.