The Blood of Crows (36 page)

Mulholland was standing, looking at Anderson and
waiting for Wyngate to finish. ‘Until Mrs Carruthers comes to light, can I talk to you about this?’ He put down a pile of notes, indicating that Anderson should follow him to the corner of the room. ‘Skelpie Fairbairn didn’t do it.’

‘Didn’t do what?’

‘Whatever else Skelpie Fairbairn, Tito Piacini, did, I don’t think he had anything to do with the Lynda Osbourne case.’

‘I’m not really in the mood for this, Vik. I have rather a lot on my plate at the moment, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Have they brought him in yet?’ Mulholland demanded.

‘You know that he’s gone. He’s not returned to his digs, and the lawyer’s claiming ignorance of his whereabouts. We’re all getting a bit uneasy about it.’

Mulholland threw Anderson a look that could have turned the tide. ‘I’ve noticed in McAlpine’s notes that there was a taped interview with Fairbairn at the time. I think I’d like to get hold of that and hear it.’

‘Your wish is my command, fill your boots,’ Anderson said acidly.

‘And I think there’s somebody else I should talk to. Lynda’s father.’

Anderson stood back and looked at Mulholland. His voice was quiet but staccato with anger. ‘Vik, Fairbairn’s DNA identifies him as Tito Piacini, the babysitter in the Alessandro Marchetti case. We also have him raping that girl on the DVD. If you remember, Lambie and I found her chained at the bottom of a ladder in the bloody Clyde. She
died
there, Vik. And you want me to go on some sort of campaign to prove that scumbag’s innocence? Sorry, but am I missing something here?’

‘Yes, you’re missing the fact that we still need to catch the guy who sexually assaulted Lynda Osbourne, if Fairbairn did not do it – which is the state of the law as it stands.’

‘But he did.’

‘He did not, Anderson. And your personal conviction that Fairbairn was guilty is exactly what got you into the mess that you’re in now.’

‘I’m not in any mess.’ Anderson raised his voice.

Wyngate looked over, then looked away quickly.

Mulholland raised an
‘
if you say so’ eyebrow. ‘Well, I’m going to go and have a word with Lynda Osbourne’s father.’

‘Why?’ asked Anderson quietly.

‘Because I want to.’

‘That would make it official.’

‘Well, so be it.’ And Mulholland walked off.

Anderson covered his face with the palms of his hands and sighed.

11.20 P.M.

Looking in the mirror, Costello felt like the man in the old Milk Tray advert. She was dressed in black jogging trousers, dark trainers and a black jumper. She glanced around the room, looking for anything else to take with her. All she really needed was her phone. She had Pettigrew for protection.

She glanced at her watch – eleven twenty. Outside there was still a vestige of light around the fringes of the sky.
She closed the door quietly behind her, and crept round the gravel of the big car park without being seen from the school.

They had agreed to meet down at the wooden bridge.

‘We’ve to move quickly. He’s already on his way,’ Pettigrew said.

‘He’s early.’

‘This way.’ He moved into a strange low run that easily ate up the ground. Costello tried to emulate it but each footfall ricocheted up her body, jarring every bone until it reached her left cheekbone, where it hurt like hell. She wondered who had taught Pettigrew to run like that. She trotted along instead, more noisily than she had intended, but at least she was keeping up.

A few minutes later, Pettigrew stepped behind an oak tree. It was very dark here under the canopy of the trees. There was a loud cawing of disturbed crows, then they settled back to silence. ‘You keeping up OK?’

‘I’m fine.’ Costello caught her breath, wiping the sweat from her eyes. ‘How do you know he’s on his way?’

‘He’s over there, moving in that direction.’

‘I can’t see anybody. But then he’s probably read some SAS book about how not to be seen,’ she said sarcastically.

‘I was scouting about a bit today. I found the track he uses, parallel to this, just over there. So, we’ll go this way.’

‘He put some traps on the path down there –’ she pointed down to the river ‘– so maybe we should go there. He might be trying to protect something that is important to him, to his psyche …’

‘No, I think we should go this way,’ Pettigrew said, allowing no further comment.

Costello hesitated, then followed him, keeping her eyes down, watching where she put her feet, aware that deep in her police brain a little voice was telling her something was wrong.

After five minutes or so, she tapped Pettigrew on the shoulder. ‘Aren’t we going too far south?’

‘No, we’re going slightly north.’ He pointed. ‘Where we want to be is right over there. He’s still moving, and moving fast. He’s in a hurry to go somewhere.’

‘I can’t hear him.’

It was really dark now, and nothing could be seen through the trees.

‘He’s there all right, and he’s getting ahead.’ Pettigrew moved off, darting confidently between the trees.

Costello hesitated. What was the big hurry? Maybe Pettigrew had seen something she hadn’t. She set off again, trying to catch up, but he was gone. She stopped in her tracks, and looked around, listening hard. Nothing. Pettigrew had disappeared. Could she find her way back? Of course – if she went north, sooner or later she would come to the road. Or she could call out. Drew must be way ahead, and Pettigrew couldn’t have got that far. She walked on quickly, listening hard but still hearing nothing. She jumped as a crow cawed loudly above her and swooped low over her head. Another three flew off after it, black shape-shifters gliding through the night.

She was out in the forest on her own.

Suddenly, two hands grabbed her shoulders, and she felt herself being dragged. She tried to struggle, to kick herself free, but her arms were pulled back and held
tightly. She cried out as something soft went over her head.

The darkness really was total now.

11.25 P.M.

‘Batten?’

‘Dr Batten to you.’ Mick offered ACC Howlett a cigarette. The late night was still warm, but the slight breath of wind coming up University Avenue promised a change on the way.

‘I shouldn’t, you know,’ the older man said, taking it gratefully.

Batten flicked the top of his battered lighter. He lit Howlett’s cigarette and then his own before perching on the wall. ‘How are you keeping?’

‘You have no idea how good that feels.’ Howlett leaned against the wall, looking out at the closing-time crowds spilling out of the pub, all laughing with the ease of the slightly drunk. He contemplated the end of his cigarette, then looked at Batten with weary eyes. ‘How did you know?’

‘You’ve lost a lot of weight, too quickly for your clothes to keep up. Your eyes are yellow. There’s a tremor in your right hand. And you’re not like the ACC Howlett I expected from your file. For a man who has a reputation for being cautious, you’re suddenly moving very fast. And for a man who’s a stickler for the rules, you’re breaking them right, left and centre. So, what are you trying to achieve before you shuffle off your mortal coil?’

‘Trying to put something right. I want to rid this city of a great evil.’ The words were breathed like some kind of personal mantra, and Howlett sounded as though he didn’t care if Batten believed him or not.

‘I see. Something you’ve tried to achieve all through your career is suddenly going to come right for you.’ His voice was calm, contemplative.

‘Sometimes the only thing you need do to succeed is to give up hope.’

‘And is that worth endangering the lives of good men? My friends?’ Batten’s voice was interested, non-confrontational. They could have been discussing the merits of the canteen coffee.

‘Something is going to happen in this city. And we shall see a new heaven and a new earth.’

Batten glanced quickly to see if ACC Howlett had started to foam at the mouth, but he was merely speaking with a quiet certainty.

‘It will be the end of days. And we are, like it or not, moving towards it with every hour that passes.’

‘Are we getting a new Christ or something?’

Howlett drew on his cigarette imperturbably. ‘Not far from it. A new beginning. The good will rise up, and the evil will be driven out. I’ve just been trying to stack the odds in favour of the good. That’s all.’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘OK, more like the lesser of two evils. Always better the devil you know.’

Batten nodded. ‘I am glad it’s only me you’re talking to. Anyone else, they’d wonder what else you’ve been smoking.’

11.35 P.M.

Oh no, you bloody don’t! Costello tried to think clearly. She let her body go limp, allowing herself to fall to her knees, and pitched sideways, pulling her knees up and trying to roll, head tucked in. But somebody grabbed her arms through the blanket that covered her, tighter this time. She cried out involuntarily, and heard a voice say, ‘Don’t hurt her.’ Then she felt a warm hand over her face, and fingers forced her mouth open, a cold liquid crept along her tongue, and her mouth was closed over it. She felt her nostrils being pinched, and tried not to swallow, but the tasteless liquid was going to make her choke otherwise.

She had to. She had no choice.

She lay there, heart pounding, feeling a vague rush through her head, a dulling of her thought processes, and then felt herself being lifted up. Her legs took her weight, and she was moving again. Hands on her shoulders stopped her stumbling but pushed with just enough force to steer her onwards. Her brain was confused; it was telling her legs to stop, but they kept going. Why was she not screaming? Not terrified? Her brain was panicking, her body was not. Under her feet she felt the path give way to grass, then clumps of longer grass and, finally, a smooth carpet of turf. She felt the hands pressing on her shoulders, and another hand on her ankle. Then hands were all over her, under her arms, behind her knees. She was being lifted, carried, and she felt herself acquiescing meekly.

She couldn’t resist.

She heard a gate creaking open, then the metallic grating
of ancient hinges. She felt herself being bundled, down, down, somewhere damp and musty. And dark. She knew it was dark. And cold.

Her feet were guided down metal rungs – how many? Then she was shifted sideways, and she sat down. Correction – someone had sat her down. On something very cold and hard. She felt something – a chain? – being put round her waist, and heard the click of a lock close by. Then her perch vibrated and lurched as someone transferred their weight from it, and their feet clanged on the rungs as they climbed up again.

Then there was that grating noise again. Some sort of trapdoor being closed over her head. Then silence.

She waited.

And waited, shivering with cold, but not fear.

She was underground. This place had seen none of the recent sun.

A strange calmness fell over her.
Don’t hurt her.

She could sit here; she could wait. She still had her senses, she told herself; the drug would wear off.

She rubbed her cheek against the shoulder of her jumper, trying to wake herself up, though she knew she had not been asleep. Then she realized her hands were free. She slipped the cover from her face, and opened her eyes to the blackness. Cold damp air wafted against her skin.

She felt about with her fingers. She was sitting with her back against a wall of smooth brick, yet under her was cold metal mesh that bit into her thighs. She was numb, with that damp cold that eats into the bones. And she could smell water, hear it trickling far below. Yes, she was
underground, yet high up. It made no sense. She stretched out her legs, quickly folding them again when she became aware that there was nothing in front of her, and a drop beneath her. She was on a ledge. For a minute she thought she would fall, and held herself totally still. Then she inched back to the wall behind her, the chain clinking in the dark. It was looped round a metal stanchion. Through a fog of not knowing what to do, she became aware of something hanging from her neck. A noose? One move too far, and it would tighten, and that would be the last thing she knew.

Yet she still wasn’t panicking. She should have been half dead with terror. Instead, she was starting to think a bit more clearly.

She felt for the noose. Not a rope, a tape. Weighted. She fumbled for the weight, and recognized it for what it was – a small stainless-steel torch. She switched it on and shone it slowly around her.

She was in a rectangular vertical shaft, lined with brick. In front of her, the wall glistened with water. To one side, a dark gaping chasm – a sewer? Some kind of underground communication tunnel left over from the war? Whatever it was, it disappeared into fathomless blackness. Fragments of stuff she’d had to read at school chased around inside her brain:
Great God! This is an awful place
 … 
caverns measureless to man
 …

Close beside her, to her left, the beam caught a metal ladder. She followed it up all the way to the top. Twenty feet, then a grating – her way to reach the outside world. If she could get up there and get it open …

She moved forward carefully, then froze as she heard
the rattle of a chain echo around the tunnel. She traced the chain with her torch beam. It was new, shining. But it was a chain clipped to the metal grid, easily unclipped with the pressure of her thumb. She ran it through her hands. Just enough slack to let her move, to tighten before she went too far. Were they keeping her safe? She unclipped herself, shining the beam around. There was only silence, except for the gentle gurgle of the underground stream.

To her right, the metal platform extended a few feet to the corner of the shaft. There was something on it, she could just see it, a few feet away. She edged along it, a strange confidence rising in her now that her limbs were once more under her own control, and shone the torch to see what it was. An animal, she thought at first. A rat? But it was just a small pile of … her heart began to race.

Don’t hurt her.