Absolution (33 page)

Costello’s head began to thump. She read her notes again: Dutch. Another coincidence?

In direct answer to her next question, she learned that Robert McAlpine had been the twenty-year-old son of Annabel McAlpine, née Wallace, and Alan McAlpine. One sibling – Costello knew already – another boy, Alan, called after his dad.

She hung up, just as Julie London was interrupted by a sudden rush of wind at the French windows, and felt the spaghetti of confusion in her head start to unravel. She had no answers. But she was starting to make sense of the questions. The blow of losing a much admired brother like that – no wonder McAlpine drove himself so hard. But for Anderson’s purposes she could dismiss the contents of the call – Robert McAlpine was a dead-end in the truest sense of the word. Anderson had been right to check it out, but an accident was an accident.

She listened to the second message, glad that the girl on the switchboard at McKillop’s, the estate agents in Mauchline, was not the brightest. What she learned half confirmed what Davy Nicholson had told her and taught her a great deal more. Sean McTiernan had indeed come very close to
buying a house called Keeper’s Cottage, at Culzean. To Costello, Culzean was a castle, not a place, but that was something she could check out at her leisure. But at the last moment Sean had backed out of the sale with no explanation. ‘Mr Laidlaw’, whoever he might be, remembered the purchase, because both properties at the location had been on the market for so long, and Shiprids and Keeper’s had been snapped up at the same time. And by a woman Mr Laidlaw considered far too old to be living in such a remote place. Costello’s eyes narrowed.
Far too old?
The old dear with the mole? So McTiernan was still as snug as a bug in the bedsit his social worker had got for him. Mrs Mole might be on the coast. But who was in the other house? And where was Trude? Costello made a mental note to speak to Mr Laidlaw.

Her instinct was right. She knew she was on to something – she had no idea what – knew she had the start and finish of something, but no clue as to the bit in the middle. She closed her eyes, nibbling the HobNobs from the edge and working her way round, a habit she had had since childhood, when such treasures had to last her a long time. She wondered what had happened to the dog. The wind slammed into the glass again; another burst like that and the window would be in.

She sat motionless for about an hour, then dragged herself to her feet. One day – one day, please God – she was going to be able to come home and just fall into bed. She looked at her watch. Half eight, but as soon as she thought about catching some shut-eye, her brain woke up. She reached for the phone.

In answer to her question, Wyngate said, ‘Batten’s in the Boss’s office having a private chat with DI Anderson. He’s almost asleep on his feet. The whole squad’s coming in.
Having the Boss’s wife attacked like that – well, it makes it very personal indeed.’

‘Has DCI Quinn put in an appearance?’ Costello wanted to know.

‘Not that I know of.’

She rang off and ran the receiver across her lips a few times, deep in thought. Sleep? Who was she kidding?

It was five minutes to nine at night when Costello entered the main incident room, which was fetid and stuffy after a day’s hard labour. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed louder than ever as she walked up to Anderson and whispered in his ear, quickly summarizing the conversation with the records office and adding a few words about the estate agent. Anderson did not look up. ‘So we’ve no evidence that Sean had money to buy a house. And nobody was responsible for Robbie’s death,’ he said half to himself. ‘Pure accident; it’s happened twice since that I know of, something to do with suction of water between two boats – ’

‘There was another fatality that same night.’ She realized even as she said it. ‘A Dutchman.’

Anderson frowned and leaned across to say something, but was interrupted.

‘You two finished?’ asked Batten. He was sitting in McAlpine’s office, feet up on the desk, a pile of pictures on his knee. Today’s T-shirt said ‘I started at the bottom and worked my way down’. A small set of stairs disappeared into the top of his jeans.

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Costello cheerily. Would you pinch the Boss’s grave so quick?’

‘Sorry, Costello,’ said Batten, smiling but staying in McAlpine’s seat. ‘I was getting a better view of that lot.’ He indicated the rest of the squad, meandering round the room
outside. ‘Look,’ he said urgently to them both, ‘if DCI Quinn takes over, she gets the credit for all McAlpine’s work, and we all know what this case has cost him – his sobriety, his reputation, and, if we’re not careful, his marriage and his career.’

‘Nice of you to be so concerned,’ said Costello sarcastically. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by any of them how easily Batten was taking over.

‘So if the original team cracks it, it’s best all round. You get my drift?’

‘Indeed,’ Costello said non-committally. ‘But we’d have to wind it up fast.’

‘So, how would you say it was going, DS Costello?’ Anderson asked, in an uncharacteristically formal manner.

‘Like swimming the Channel through treacle. With one hand behind your back and cramp in the other.’

Mulholland came in. ‘Is this a private party or am I allowed to join you?’ He pulled a chair away from the wall and sat down.

‘DS Costello was about to give us a run-down on her own investigations,’ Anderson said, slightly turning his own chair towards her, so that Batten was almost imperceptibly distanced from the three of them.

‘Can’t we get on with looking for Christopher Robin?’ asked Mulholland.

“We are,’ answered Batten coldly. ‘Can you call in Irvine, get her to take notes and get it typed up for the rest of them? And don’t turn your back like that. I’m a psychologist, I feel threatened when you do that.’

Costello ignored him and deliberately perched herself on the corner of his desk. What I’d like to do is tell you all a story, and see what you think. Once upon a time, in the Good Shepherd Orphanage, there were two little orphans
called Sean and Trude. They were inseparable, so much so that they contrived to be sent back from foster homes again and again so as not to be parted, and once they grew up the inevitable happened. But they couldn’t stay in the orphanage for ever. Sean left and trained as a joiner. Trude left when she was sixteen – that was six years ago – and has never been seen since, except for, we think, one trip to a lawyer when she came of age. Also, when she was eighteen, Sean turned himself in for killing Malkie Steele down Whistler’s Lane, claiming self-defence, and served a bit over three years. Shortly before the killing, he backed out of the purchase of a house out at Culzean. He also bought a dog – an expensive pedigree husky – which was never seen again. Since he’s been out, he’s worked at White’s the Joiners, which is where he worked before he went down; they were pleased to take him back. They sent him to Fortrose Street to work on a skylight, and he’s been to the Phoenix. And he’s been living in a wee bedsit at Gardner Street. On the night of Sunday, the 1st of October, into Monday, the 2nd, he was again seen up Whistler’s Lane, having apparently had sex there with a black-haired Goth in a long dark cloak. An odd place to choose, you might think. And Arlene – witnesses place Sean and Arlene together twice, don’t forget – was found dead there not long after. Malkie Steele had been kicked so hard one of his eyes was dislodged and his liver fatally damaged, mashed to a pulp – we know that from the PM. And Arlene Haggerty’s face was damaged, but not in the same way, admittedly. But damage to the face is… well… extremely personal, no matter how it’s done.’

Costello realized she was subconsciously painting the sequence of events to look as bad as it could for Sean, in the half-hope that one or both men would demolish the pattern. ‘His mother abandoned him when he was young,
and there’s no family that we can find. But he’s in touch with the woman who was the cleaner at the Good Shepherd. There’s evidence that he was looking for a house for her to buy, but I’ve not got to the bottom of that yet.’

‘He’s not having an affair with the old dear with the mole, is he?’ Mulholland asked facetiously.

‘No,’ Batten said seriously. ‘But she’s a substitute mother figure. And don’t read too much into the damage of the face. Go on, Costello.’

‘He’s good with his hands – ’

‘And sharp objects,’ Anderson muttered.

‘According to DI Nicholson, he’s strong-minded enough to injure himself with a chisel if need be,’ said Costello. ‘That’s how he changed the time of his meeting with Malkie Steele. Steele was supposed to watch him playing footie, but Sean injured himself and re-engineered the meeting… to a private place on the doorstep of his childhood haunts.’

Nobody said anything for a minute or two. Batten rubbed his chin, fingertips rasping on day-old stubble. ‘Any sign that McTiernan was paid for the hit on Malkie? That would be the only trace of a contract killing.’

‘None that we can find,’ said Costello. ‘But the timing of his house hunting is suspicious.’

‘But no payment was ever made.’

‘We haven’t found any,’ Costello repeated.

‘Or if he’s hidden it,’ Batten went on, ‘he’s hidden it well, waiting until he’s off parole, then he’s home and dry.’ He sat back again in the chair. ‘The black-haired Goth – we think she’s Trude, do we?’

‘Except that Trude has white-blonde hair. But it’s possible. Trouble is, no one’s seen her either,’ said Anderson.

‘Because she does not want to be seen. Nothing changes a woman’s appearance more than changing her hair colour.’

‘True, true,’ Batten said, ‘but in the meantime, back to basics. We trendy psychologists would say
follow Arlene.
She’s the different one. The other two were comparatively gentle murders – yes, I know, I know – I mean that there was a formality about them, a carefulness, he still exerts a degree of self-control. But Arlene – Christopher Robin was angry with
her,
her personally. Look at the damage to her face. Why?’

Mulholland said, ‘McAlpine saw an echo of McTiernan and Malkie when he saw that damage. We don’t know what McTiernan evolved into, but we do know what he evolved from. You’ve seen the social worker’s report… what his childhood was like. We know for a fact that Arlene met him, for God’s sake.’

‘Of them all, he fits the profile,’ Batten put in quietly.

‘Apart from the fact he’s too young,’ countered Costello. ‘And has no faith to speak of. And if we’re going the religious-nutter route, Arlene’s mother used the word ‘friendly’ when talking about the
priest
and her daughter. I think if Arlene had meant O’Keefe she would have used his name. But she might have been referring to Leask, and not wanting to tell her mother he was a Protestant. If I wanted to wrap a naive clergyman round my finger, he’d be the easiest.’

‘If she wanted to keep a tasty priest to herself, O’Keefe would be the easiest. Good Catholic or not, women are attracted by men like that.’

‘Sean might not have a motive, but he is the bastard son of a Catholic mother,’ Mulholland persisted.

‘It’s only a profile, not a road map, but you’ve made your point.’

‘There might be a connection through White’s the Joiners to the two other girls,’ Costello said. ‘One phone call from
Sean to them, being charming and asking to come round to look at the job, would be all it would take.’

‘I just feel he’s too young…’ Anderson said.

‘But very mature,’ Costello insisted.

‘Indeed. All roads go in circles, eh?’ said Batten. ‘So we go back to Arlene – anything else about her that might have caused a spark, any change?’

‘Nothing that we haven’t already looked at,’ Mulholland started. ‘She had some hare-brained scheme to get a new flat, but no real plans to better herself. She was just trying it on to make more money. On the game, I mean.’

Costello opened Arlene’s file, idly looking through the girl’s life and death. ‘She was cautioned often, arrested twice. There’re photos here from her vice file. Look at these. See, here she’s a geisha girl. Black hair. A schoolgirl. Brown hair and pigtails. What would you call that?’

‘Personally, I would call that repulsive. Was this what she was putting in phone boxes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Christ! No wonder she had no money.’ Mulholland screwed his face up in distaste.

‘Look, this is the most recent, with red hair. She had still to take Tracey’s advice on the hair.’

‘I don’t see your point, Costello,’ said Batten.

‘She was blonde when she died, but there are no photos of her blonde.’

‘Tracey said she told Arlene it would bring in more money if she went blonde,’ Mulholland enlightened the rest.

‘You’re not fucking telling me Christopher Robin goes bonkers because some daft bint bleaches her hair!’ snorted Anderson.

‘You said she was
the obvious one,
killed because of who she was?’ Costello turned on Batten.

‘Yes,’ he answered mechanically.

‘You wanted a recent event, a change? That’s a recent change.’

Batten had his foot on the desk, swinging McAlpine’s chair back and forth. The squeak was getting on Costello’s nerves. ‘I suppose there was no positive ID on the clergyman who spoke to Arlene in the café?’

‘No,’ said Costello. When people see a dog collar, they don’t look at the face, seemingly. Sean’s a good-looking boy, the waitresses were all looking at him. So no joy there. Wyngate looked at the CCTV footage, but for some reason that camera looks out at the road.’

Anderson cursed inwardly, jumping as somebody banged on the window. We’re sending out for pizza before the shop shuts. Anybody want anything? Last chance to eat before daybreak.’

At the Phoenix Refuge, a harassed-looking Leeza was doing her best to tidy up the kitchen after the Thursday breakfast sitting; the police presence had done little to reduce the numbers at breakfast, but it had totally annihilated the volunteer support, and today she was on her own. The smell of fried bacon hung stale in the air, and mugs of all shapes and sizes covered the work surface, gathering round the sink like wildebeest at a watering hole. Costello noticed that Leeza did not touch anything without the protection of industrial-strength rubber gloves. She looked tired; the piercing above her eyebrow was red and angry, and she kept backhanding her fringe from her face.