Absolution (37 page)

‘And Christ knows, Arlene had hers.’

Anderson was looking past O’Keefe at the photographs – happy times, people having fun – on the wall behind him.

‘We think that the answer to all this may lie within these walls,’ said Anderson quietly.

‘I gathered as much. I find the thought unsettling.’ O’Keefe ran his hands through his hair. ‘Please, you know you have the run of the place.’

‘We appreciate that, and nobody doubts the sincerity of anybody who works here, but you cannot guarantee who’ll walk in that door. If the devil himself came in, you wouldn’t know.’

O’Keefe looked at Mulholland as he walked in, the younger detective tipping the wink to Anderson. If O’Keefe noticed the signal, he didn’t respond, and continued to talk to Anderson.

‘You know, you always think that you know right from wrong. I always thought that my faith would bring me through anything. But this is awful. For the first time, I feel I want to pack it all in and just walk away.’

It seemed to Mulholland a much more human reaction than Leask’s – or maybe Thomas O’Keefe was just a better actor. ‘And how do you feel about that?’

‘How would you feel? Look at this place. Empty. Years of hard work down the drain. People should be here waiting to be fed, but there’s nobody. We won’t recover from this.’ He bit on his bent forefinger, looking out of the window for a minute. ‘The word is out. Six years I’ve been painstakingly building up goodwill. And it’s gone. I was officiating at a funeral yesterday, and there was more talk about the murders than about the deceased.’

‘How did you know Elizabeth Jane?’ asked Anderson gently.

‘I’m not sure I did. I didn’t recognize any of the pictures you showed me. But who knows, maybe my memory is worse than I thought. A poor excuse for the living slipping
through your fingers. I’m told I spoke to Lynzi, but if so I never knew her name. A few women would come in and sort out old clothes; I used to just say hello and leave them to it. I did know Arlene, but no better than I’d know a hundred other people that walk in here.’

‘You never spoke to Elizabeth Jane on the phone?’

‘Not that she identified herself, no. But that phone rings all the time, so I might have. And if I’d known it was her, I would have had a few things to say to her.’

Mulholland noticed how O’Keefe strove to distance himself from the victims, never making a definite statement that could be disproved.

‘You never met her parents?’

‘No. Why would I?’

‘Do you know this girl?’ Mulholland asked gently, handing over two pictures of Arlene.

‘That’s Arlene Haggerty? I spoke to her mum, like I said.’

‘Do you remember seeing her looking like that – with that hair colour, to be specific?’

O’Keefe glanced at the dark-haired version. ‘No,’ he said with no hesitation. ‘She was always blonde when I knew her.’

‘Do you know Helena Farrell?’

‘Runs that posh art gallery? Wife of the Detective Chief Inspector, the dark-haired guy? I know who you mean, and Leask told me what happened to her. How is she?’

‘Comfortable,’ Anderson answered with easy vagueness.

‘I don’t think she was ever down here, was she? I don’t think I ever met her.’ O’Keefe’s phone rang again, and he picked it up. ‘Sure, fine, yes, I’ll have a word. Can I have a few minutes?’ he said to them, covering the mouthpiece with the palm of his hand. Then back to the phone, ‘I’m really sorry to hear that. How is she coping?’

Anderson whispered as he got up, ‘Just one quick question – have you seen Sean McTiernan?’

O’Keefe shook his head and pointed to his own hand. At Anderson’s shrug he asked the caller to hold on ‘while I close the door’.

‘I haven’t seen Sean today,’ said O’Keefe, his hand clasped over the phone. ‘He had to go to get his hand stitched yesterday. He left in some hurry.’

‘He left his tool kit here,’ said Mulholland, patting the knife in his jacket pocket. ‘It’s out the back.’

‘Leeza said the wound was bad, and Mr White, the boss, came to get the van to take him to the Western. I have to get on,’ O’Keefe said pointedly.

Anderson felt his mobile vibrate against his leg and cursed inwardly. ‘Bye for now.’ He left the room and stood in the corridor, his face pale and carefully expressionless.

Mulholland followed Anderson from O’Keefe’s office and stood in the draught of fresh air coming through the front door. He silently acknowledged Anderson’s turned back, a need for discretion while the Boss was on the phone. Mulholland made a point of not listening and watched Wyngate look aimlessly at the cars parked on the circus. He stood leaning against the wall, his arms folded, thinking: in the file, in Costello’s handwriting, was a note about Sean putting a chisel through his hand. And they said at the meeting that he’d used that trick before, so it was another convenient accident to rearrange the timing of events to suit himself. Mulholland listened for a moment, but Anderson was still on the phone. He felt the knife in his pocket as his own little treasure, not wanting even to mention it while there was a chance of being overheard. He thought about the photograph of O’Keefe, benign, charming and affable. In the midst of all this murder, the priest’s only genuine
concern seemed to be for the future of the Phoenix. An ego out of control?

Anderson snapped his phone shut. Yes, yes, yes, yes!’ His fist punched the air. ‘That was O’Hare. The blade had a broken tip, and it twisted when it contacted bone. We have a fair idea of length, so now we have a distinctive blade we can identify. He’s sent some pictures to the station, and I’ve asked Burns to bring them over here.’

‘Why? Why don’t we go back there?’

‘I’m not leaving. If that knife’s anywhere, it’s here. Where’s Costello?’ he added as an afterthought.

‘McTiernan’s done a runner, and Costello’s gone after him. Don’t get on to me about it, she was out the door before I could stop her.’

‘Oh, shit!’

‘And if you’re looking for something like this, it was in McTiernan’s toolbox.’ Mulholland looked behind him to ensure they were alone and took the knife from his pocket, still wrapped in the handkerchief. He held it up to the light. ‘It’s covered with something dry and flaky. It used to be liquid. Look, it ran down the handle.’ He held it against the skin on the back of his hand. ‘It looks like blood, recent blood.’

‘Evidence bag, Mulholland. Fuck! Where did you say Costello was?’

‘She’s gone after McTiernan,’ said Mulholland.

‘But where? And who with? You’re here, I’m here, Burns is on his way over here and Wyngate’s outside. So who’s with her?’

‘Nobody.’

‘You let her go on her own?’

‘I don’t see how I could’ve stopped her. You know how she is; once she gets an idea, she’s off and – ’

O’Keefe opened his door apologetically. ‘Look, I have to leave, I’m needed at the Western – last rites, you know.’

‘Yes, of course. Do you mind if we send somebody with you? He’ll be discreet; but it’s for your own protection, really.’

O’Keefe muttered under his breath, and Mulholland thought he heard a few swear words he never thought would leave a priest’s lips. They followed O’Keefe back into his room as he grabbed a black zipped bag from under his desk and hoisted it on to his shoulder. ‘I’ll be in the red 2CV out the front,’ he said tersely.

Anderson followed him back through the door and got hold of the nearest uniform, instructing him in a voice so low neither O’Keefe nor Mulholland could hear.

‘Right, where were we?’ Anderson sat on O’Keefe’s desk, picked up his mobile, thought a moment, then put it back down again. ‘I’ll get back to the knife in a minute. Where did Costello say she was going?’ he demanded again.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What d’you mean, you don’t know?’

‘She said she had an idea.’

‘Fuck. The stupid cow.’ He stuffed his mobile in his pocket. ‘I’m going to get a team in here. This has been going on too long.’

‘Don’t we need a warrant?’

‘You heard O’Keefe – we have his full cooperation.’

‘I’m not sure he meant it.’

‘Neither am I, but who gives a toss?’

Costello drove back down the Heads of Ayr Road and parked in the lay-by near the first lane she had seen. She had been right; she had found the old dear with the mole.
Sean was near by; this was the place. She was looking for a small cottage with a big dog. She thought about going back to Ayr and requesting assistance, but the cottage was still half a mile away. She could get down there and not even be seen. She saw a gap in the hedge and tyre marks in the field beyond, and wondered if this was where the Boss had crashed the Beamer. It was certainly along this stretch of road somewhere; the same geography that made the bay so attractive was exactly why it made such an accident black spot… and indeed why the new inland road had been built. If this was the aftermath of his accident, he had been lucky.

She got out of the car, checking she had her binoculars and pulling the phone from its charger. It was bitterly cold, even in the sunshine. Pulling her fleece up round her neck and flattening the hood of her duffel, she walked down the lane towards the sea, which sparkled from a dull grey through a myriad of colours to dazzling white, where the wind kissed it into white horses. She shivered.

There was a small white cottage halfway down the lane,
Shiprids Cottage
written in black italics on the whitewashed wall. Was that an old Scots word for sheep? Shepherds? Something like that. Everything in sight had been whitewashed.

She rang the doorbell.

Nobody answered.

She tried again.

Nothing.

Shit. There was no evidence of another house down here. She was debating with herself whether to go down to the beach or to walk back up to the car, when her phone rang. She knew before she answered it that the decision had been made for her.

‘Costello, you stupid cow! Where are you?’

‘I can hardly hear you – the signal’s bad.’ She looked up at the hills behind her, the sea in front: no chance. ‘What?’

She heard ‘stupid cow’ but she was too happy to be upset. ‘Just wait, sir. I’ve traced Sean’s old friend, from the Good Shepherd. I’ve made the connection…’

‘… found… McTiernan?’

‘McTiernan… Well, not really, but…’

‘… arse back… here…
crackle crackle crackle.
Now!’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Costello…
now
!’ McAlpine would talk to her like that, but Anderson? That meant trouble. She put her finger in her other ear, turning her body this way and that; a few words came over crystal clear – ’I mean it, keep away from him’ – before the buzzing started again. She felt a cold handclasp over her heart, a deep shiver that went through to bone. It was a lot colder than she had thought.

‘You have no idea where McTiernan is?’ Anderson asked. The air in O’Keefe’s office was getting very stale, and he waved his hand in front of his face.

‘No, I really don’t. I know his address is a bedsit near here, but that’s it,’ Mulholland replied.

‘How long’s Costello been away? An hour or so? Where was the house? It was in that report. Christ, she told me right after she spoke to the estate agent.’ Anderson pinched his fingers over the bridge of his nose. ‘There’s only one road that follows the coastline, isn’t there?’

Mulholland nodded. ‘Yeah, the Heads of Ayr Road.’

‘Get a car down from Ayr,’ Anderson snapped. ‘If he follows type, as Batten would say, he’ll head to his “mother”. Tell them they’re looking for a white Corolla parked near a remote house. Get to it.’

While Mulholland dialled, Anderson tried to get hold of Costello. But every time, the mobile was dead. Wherever she is, she’s out of range… down beside the water. Tell them that.’ He put his phone down and started to fiddle with the binoculars on the windowsill.

‘Sorted!’ Mulholland snapped his phone shut. ‘You a birdwatcher too?’

‘Feathered or two-legged?’ said Anderson.

‘Either.’

‘Neither. I’m an expert on Postman Pat and Edie McCreadie from
Balamory.’
He looked out of the window again, his finger tapping the telephone on O’Keefe’s desk. ’If this line is busy, does it stop anybody else ringing through?’

‘No.’

Anderson was holding his mobile in his palm, willing it to ring. It stayed silent, its green light ridiculing him.

‘Where’s the Boss?’ Mulholland inquired.

‘McAlpine? He was going to visit Helena and then have a good sleep, I hope.’

‘Leask goes birdwatching up at Ballachulish,’ said Mulholland, flicking through a pile of magazines with
Leask
written on the front cover.

‘He has family there as well. Bloody sight closer than Stornoway.’

Was that true, about Stornoway Airport not allowing landings on a Sunday?’

Anderson nodded. ‘Yeah, they’re a funny lot. Where’s that team? Where’s Burns? He should be here by now.’

‘Do you want me to run this over to forensics?’ Mulholland held up the evidence bag, desperate to get out of the dusty, smelly office.

‘No, no, I’ve phoned it in, and somebody’s coming to get
it. I want a search team and I need you here. We need to wait.’ The office seemed darker, more oppressive. A delivery had come in, and a pallet of dried soup was stacked on the floor, along with litre bottles of detergent and floor cleaner. Boxes upon boxes of what looked like man-sized tissues were stacked to desk height. Mulholland’s curiosity got the better of him.

‘Gloves,’ he reported to Anderson. ‘Latex gloves.’

‘Eh?’

‘Latex gloves? No fingerprints?’

‘No fingerprints because he doesn’t touch anything that would retain them, Mulholland; don’t get carried away.’ Anderson bit his teeth into his lips.
‘Phone,
you fuckers!’

Her day ruined, Costello walked back up the lane slowly, past the patch of burned grass where the car had crashed and gone up in flames. There were bits of glass everywhere – small cubes of windscreen sparkled on the ground like diamonds of dew – and fragments of blue metal. It was the same colour as the Beamer’s paintwork. She could see a pattern of something here… She was starting to sound like Batten.

She climbed the fence to look down at the bay, a last look before the lane climbed to the height of the main road and she lost sight of the beach altogether. It was a strange place, mystical even. It was blowing a gale down on the shore, yet there was no wind here. A dull grey cloak of cloud had fallen over Ailsa Craig, and it looked as though another storm was on the way.