The Blood of Crows (6 page)

‘Made it easier to watch him burn. Worth thinking about.’

‘And marvellous Matilda requested samples on that as well. So, somebody thinks there is a connection.’

‘She’s working under the orders of somebody other than a cop, isn’t she? Somebody at national level?’

‘Probably. No doubt we’ll be told. Don’t let it trouble you,’ said O’Hare smoothly. ‘You were the last person to see our little water sprite alive and therefore you’re a valuable witness, so I should show you these.’ He handed Anderson two sheets of paper that looked freshly faxed and one that was printed. ‘Three gas chromatography results.’

O’Hare took the papers and moved over to a side bench.

‘Three photographs.’

The third one was the perfect face of the girl in the Clyde. Her eyes were closed, and she looked at peace. The other two were of girls of a similar age, both lying on slabs as if asleep, eyes closed. The two men looked at them in silence.

Anderson traced his finger over their faces, noting the similar features. ‘So, was this new drug, R2, found in those other two girls?’ he asked eventually.

‘No, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t used on them. If enough time had elapsed between ingestion and death, they would have cleared it totally. But your girl died too soon and left us a clue.’

‘So, why do you group them all together?’

‘Because somebody else has, which suggests somebody somewhere has requested an R2 screen on any body we find that fits this profile.’

‘And do we know who they are, those other two?’

O’Hare shook his head. ‘Both were dumped in remote country areas, one in Tain, one in Argyll. One had multiple fractures post mortem as if she’d been dropped from a height. They were both left where there were sheep, ergo shepherds with sheepdogs that can sniff out a dead body half a mile away. Might as well have put a beacon on the deposition site.’

‘So, who’s interested? Exactly?’ queried Anderson. ‘This goes beyond Strathclyde’s jurisdiction. Somebody on the National Crime Squad?’

‘No idea,’ O’Hare shrugged again. ‘But both girls died within the past six months. I’ve just an interim report here but I’ll request the full PM results from the Northern Constabulary …’ He paused. ‘Interesting that they’re all three still unidentified, never listed as missing. I know society has gone a bit awry but most mothers in this country have some concerns as to their daughters’ whereabouts. Three young girls, all abused, all dumped in a small country with a very big coastline.’

‘It fits with the child porn theory. Or trafficking?’ asked Anderson.

‘Both are big business in this part of the world at the
moment. Might be why it’s being kept hush-hush. And another thing – the similar features? Look at the high flat cheekbones, the big eyes. You said she muttered something – do you recall what it was?’

‘
Moshka
?
Moochka
?’ Anderson shook his head. ‘Russian, do you think?’ He pulled his mobile from his pocket, scrolled to a number, and pressed Call.

Mulholland answered almost immediately.

1.35 P.M.

Vik Mulholland closed his phone and tapped it against his perfect teeth. He suspected that the call from Anderson had something to do with the girl in the river, otherwise why would he be asking?
Mamochka
was a word a kid would use. But was Anderson getting the case? No matter, if there was a Russian connection anywhere, they surely must include him. He was bilingual in English and Russian. His Russian mother had always insisted it would come in useful one day, and maybe that day had come. But who should he back – MacKellar or Anderson?

There had been talk that a new taskforce was being set up under the grand acronym LOCUST – Local Organized Crime Unit Strategic Taskforce. The rumour was it was going to be at Paisley – the drugs capital of Scotland, Mulholland’s old stamping ground. He wanted to get his stripes back, so he needed to get his rank reinstated. Maybe this was his chance to get on that taskforce. Mulholland pocketed the phone and went back to his work. The desk he and Anderson shared was rapidly filling with
more paperwork on the life and history of William Stuart Biggart. That would keep him busy for a long time.

Mulholland reached for a file and had a flick through it. Every so often he tagged an insertion, anything to do with Biggart’s association with the Apollo building. Across the room DS Lambie was munching on a chocolate muffin, forgetting he was supposed to be on a diet so he’d look good in a kilt at his wedding.

Mulholland handed a few pictures over to him. ‘Fiona’s photographs,’ he explained. ‘The fire investigator,’ he added to Lambie’s bemused face.

‘This would be a bloody sight easier if we had a bigger board to put all these up on. How are we supposed to see anything, passing pictures back and forth like this?’

‘Stick it on the wall. Not our fault if the board isn’t big enough, just move Smoutie and Co down a bit. Fiona has a theory …’ Vik went on to read out her theory about the flashover, word for word. ‘So, the arsonist who set the fire might have stood and watched. I don’t think O’Hare is going to contradict anything Fiona says, you know.’

‘Might confirm some bindings, though. Biggart was a strange beast sexually; the rumour was he would do anything to anything. So, if he was into a bit of bondage, maybe that’s how they were able to control him. The minute the Prof notices anything to confirm that theory he’ll be on the blower.’

Vik looked from one photograph to the next. ‘So, have we got any pictures of the part of the room that wasn’t burned? The bit by the door?’

‘There’s a wee hallway just inside the front door …’ Lambie muttered, as he pawed through the brown
envelopes. ‘Here. Don’t think they found anything, though.’

Mulholland looked through them, then looked again. ‘Who lived here?’ he asked, pointing on the plan to the flat opposite Biggart’s, the one that looked on to the little garden at the back. ‘J. Appleby?’

‘That’s right. And the one we found Biggart in and the one next to it are listed as –’ Lambie flicked through a file ‘– second accommodation, council tax paid by a rental company, Red Eagle Properties. Who never answer their phone.’

Mulholland muttered absentmindedly, ‘So, Biggart didn’t actually live here?’

‘Not technically. He lives – lived – with his loving wife in the Mearns. One of those gated developments. Marriage for appearance’s sake only. Like I said, he was a man of strange sexual proclivities – the stranger the better.’

‘Do you know them? The family, I mean, not the sexual proclivities?’

‘Melinda Biggart is scary, a bit like one of those dogs that let you in a house then growl when you try to leave. In Paisley we had our run-ins with Mr Biggart. Always well protected, never got his own hands dirty. Devious but not bright. Always a bit of a mystery how he got so far.’

‘But ripe for somebody taking their revenge. It has that kind of feel about it, doesn’t it, burning?’ Mulholland began looking through the crime scene shots in his turn. ‘And how would you describe a good night in, David? If you weren’t hell-bent on committing matrimony?’ Mulholland put the photograph of Biggart’s front room flat on the desk and tapped it with his finger. ‘Here we have a
melted TV with a screen only a tad smaller than the cinema that used to be there, squashed beer cans, two big sofas, one burned, one half-burned. A stack of DVDs by the door. A … what’s that?’

‘I think that’s the remains of a gaming console, and the remains of some games as well.’

‘And next door, a huge bed. Bet that wasn’t used for sleeping. And fuck all in the kitchen apart from beer. It’s a bad boys’ paradise, isn’t it? A place to play out all kinds of sexual fetishes. Men, women, boys, girls, young, old, anything in between – as you say, Biggart was rumoured to have a wide range of sexual tastes, only a few of them legal.’

‘I think we should chat to the neighbour, J. Appleby, about any other comings and goings. Order the CCTV footage for two hours before the fire started and an hour after it was put out. Get footage from Anniesland train station as well. The embankment is adjacent to the Apollo flats. You never know where it might lead us.’

Mulholland lowered his voice. ‘But surely it’s already been checked.’

‘It would appear not. Not checked, not requested.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t think the initial investigation got that far. Don’t think they tried that hard.’

‘And why should we?’

‘Because while it’s nice to think some kindly avenging angel killed Biggart to rid the world of a piece of scum, it’s more likely that anyone who ever knocks off an evil bastard will be a bigger, more evil bastard. I don’t find that a comforting thought. Do you?’ Lambie went back to his chocolate muffin.

Half an hour later, his stomach rumbling for lack of lunch, Mulholland had a sheet full of scribbles. Five of the six flats on the ground floor of the converted cinema were owned by Red Eagle Properties of 266 West Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow – registered at Companies House as being owned by PSM Ltd. The sixth was owned by Ms Janet Appleby.

While there was nothing odd in one company owning a range of flats in a new development to rent out, the odd thing was that none of them had actually been rented out. Reduced council tax was being paid on them, but gas and electricity were being used. The only genuine inhabitant on the ground floor was Janet Appleby, who had been temporarily relocated to the incongruously named Highland Glen Hotel, up a lane near the Botanic Gardens. Vik looked at his watch. He phoned the hotel reception and was put through to the room. A sleepy voice answered. He apologized for disturbing her, and said who he was.

Silence on the other end of the phone. Then, ‘Sorry, I was asleep. What is it you want? Is it about the fire?’ She sounded young.

‘I’d appreciate five minutes of your time.’ He heard her yawn, imagined her lying under hotel sheets, the curtains closed tight against the rage of the sun outside. ‘Just five minutes,’ he said again.

She explained sleepily that she was long-haul cabin crew, she had just woken up, her body clock was all over the place. What time was it? What day was it? What country was it? ‘Look, I’m almost too tired to think. And I’m about to fly out again tomorrow.’

‘Can I ask you a few questions now?’

‘Phone me back in half an hour, once I’ve had a coffee. Then you might get a sensible answer.’

3.30 P.M.

The funeral mass of Thomas Eoin Carruthers had gone well and the mourners had retired to a private room of a small pub just off Maryhill Road for a cold refreshment and a warm sandwich. There was a sense of relief in the air – it was over, and now old pals could catch up, say what a nice service it was while taking care not to mention the deceased at all.

Costello was leaning on the wall, studying the grime on the window, when she saw DCI Niven MacKellar look around for somebody in particular to talk to, a plateful of sandwiches in one hand, a small cup of coffee in the other. ‘Well, well, well, DS Costello, how are you?’

Costello studied his face, looking for any subtext, but decided she was just being paranoid. He was genuinely asking after her health. ‘I’m keeping much better.’ Then she added. ‘Thank you, Niven. I thought I saw you at the chapel.’

‘I presume you worked with Tommy at some point?’ MacKellar nodded in response to his own question. ‘I wouldn’t have said he was the type.’

‘Type?’

‘Suicidal type.’

‘I don’t suppose you ever really know anybody.’ It came out more philosophical than she had meant, and MacKellar gave her a look.

He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. ‘Are they allowed to have a mass if Tommy committed suicide?’

‘Doesn’t really matter these days. Suicide is still a sin but it’s been recategorized as a sin that you were too ill to realize you were committing, so you can still be given a mass.’

MacKellar regarded a triangular cheese sandwich, stuffing it into his mouth sideways. ‘Same as divorce? Doesn’t count if you weren’t married in church?’ He turned his back slightly to the grieving crowd, so his mouth was very close to Costello’s ear. ‘Why do I keep hearing rumours that it might not have been suicide? Is that just talk? The fiscal was convinced but …’

‘But?’

MacKellar took a step back, and looked his colleague up and down. She looked businesslike but distant. He had worked alongside DS Costello before. She was one of the scruffy but committed-to-the-cause brigade, not the designer-suited-and-booted career type. But there was that hungry look in her eyes. Ready to get yourself back to work, thought MacKellar. ‘I suppose folk have difficulty in accepting it, especially as he was a cop,’ he said. ‘But the fiscal was satisfied, and that’s good enough for me.’

A pause hung in the air between them. At the far end of the room, a woman in her early sixties, her black handbag hanging on her arm, was making her way to the top table.

‘Poor woman,’ said Costello as the woman in question had a chair pulled out for her, and another cup of tea was poured. ‘Happily married for nearly forty years, then he jumps out a window and she had no idea that he was going to do it? I find that hard to believe.’

‘But you said it yourself – you never know what goes on in anybody else’s head, do you?’ MacKellar rammed a salmon paste sandwich into his mouth this time. ‘Though
I think my wife always knows exactly what goes on in my head,’ he said, trying for levity.

‘If you stare at all women’s tits the way you’re staring at that waitress’s, I’ve no doubt she does.’ Costello turned round, her eyes passing over the mourners.

‘Good God, that’s ex-DCI Moffat back from Oz!’

‘Where?’

‘The one who looks as though he’s interrogating the priest.’

As if he had heard, the tall, tanned grey-haired man looked up and raised his cup, signalling a hello across the crowded room. MacKellar nodded back.

Costello felt herself react. Eric Moffat … not a name, or a face, she would forget. It provoked a strong memory of cold and car exhaust fumes. Of course, Moffat had been Tommy’s boss, they had worked together for years. It was Moffat who had told her to leave the dying woman alone, leave her lying on the concrete floor of a cold multi-storey – a bad place to die.