The Blood of Crows

CARO RAMSAY

The Blood of Crows

PENGUIN BOOKS

Table of Contents

Prologue: 31 January 1993

Sunday: 27 June 2010

Monday: 28 June 2010

Tuesday: 29 June 2010

Wednesday: 30 June 2010

Thursday: 1 July 2010

Friday: 2 July 2010

Saturday: 3 July 2010

Sunday: 4 July 2010

Monday: 5 July 2010

Tuesday: 6 July 2010

Epilogue

PENGUIN BOOKS

THE BLOOD OF CROWS

Caro Ramsay was born in Glasgow and now lives in a village on the west coast of Scotland. This is her fourth DI Anderson and DS Costello novel, following the critically acclaimed
Absolution
,
Singing to the Dead
and
Dark Water.

To Alan

Praise for Caro Ramsay:

‘A cracker of a debut … many shivers in store for readers, followed by a shuddering climax’

The Times

‘Undoubtedly one of the most impressive debut novels in the field in some time’

Barry Forshaw, Amazon

‘Edgy, fast-paced, this crime thriller is a cleverly understated page-turner … deliciously dark, this well-written debut will leave you wanting more’

Woman

‘Glasgow comes alive in Caro Ramsay’s dark, vivid and daring thriller’

Val McDermid

‘A cracking debut [4 stars]’

Mirror

‘A very sophisticated first novel … at once humane, horrifying and exciting’

Literary Review

‘A classy example of the genre’

London paper

‘Intelligent, unpredictable and hard to put down’

Sainsbury’s Magazine

‘A thrilling crime read’

Daily Telegraph, Sydney

‘With her first novel, Caro Ramsay makes an impressive contribution to the growing ranks of Scottish crime writers’

Shots-Mag

‘[Ramsay] is able to write scenes of heartbreaking tenderness nestled amid evocations of such grotesque violence that it is difficult to imagine that they can coexist as such sublime interlocking pieces of the whole … Absolution marks the beginning of what certainly will be a major career’

New York Sun

‘Proves [that Ramsay] deserves to inhabit the same orbit of Scottish thriller talent as Rankin, McDermid, MacBride and Mina’

Daily Record

Four wee craws, sitting on a wa’.

One wee craw was greetin’ fer its maw,

The second wee craw fell and broke its jaw,

The third wee craw couldn’t flee awa’

The fourth wee craw wisnae there at a’.

Prologue

31 January 1993

Pauline McGregor walked quickly towards the lift; the smell of petrol and exhaust fumes was making her feel nauseous. She was getting too old for this subterfuge. Not only too old, she was too pregnant – eight months now. It was nine weeks since she had been able to button her coat, and exactly seven weeks and three days since she had last worn her stilettos. Was she going to be a bad mother? Probably. But at least she would be a stylish one.

She hated the red pumps she had on; they made her ankles look fat and she could feel the cold of the concrete beneath her feet nibble through the soles. She pulled her scarf up round her neck. The forecast said it was going down to minus five tonight but the chill in the wind that funnelled through the first level of the multi-storey car park promised an even colder night was on its way.

She stopped at the lift doors and pressed the mangled button with a gloved finger, swaying from side to side as she waited, rocking the baby. The lift doors opened with a reluctant whine and she stepped forward, then back again, cupping her hand to her mouth as the stink of stale urine swept out to meet her. A discarded beanie hat lay in the corner, a syringe lying neatly on top of it. The mess that splattered the wall looked like a half-digested kebab.

One advantage of her flat shoes was that she could take the stairs. But at the door to the stairwell she heard
voices higher up – hard, violent words answered by the sing-song anger of the drunk. She thought better of it and decided to walk up the narrow pavement that edged the spiralling exit at the centre of the car park. She shivered, and placed a protective hand over her stomach. It was dark and cold, and the sooner she was in her car and out of here the better.

She knew she was parked on the second storey, on the side that faced down on to Mitchell Lane. Sound travelled far on the cold evening air, and she could hear bursts of chit-chat from the pub on the street below, which echoed strangely off the bare walls, slightly disorientating her. Her gloves patted the way along the wall, the cashmere wool catching occasionally on the roughness of the concrete, and her breath billowed in front of her as she walked round a hairpin bend up to Level 2, her back and legs aching. She could hear fighting in the stairwell, then the slam of a door. A figure shot past the glass panel in the stairwell door, followed by another. Another slam and a nearby car alarm started to shriek, then fell silent. For the first time she hesitated, feeling a vague prickle of apprehension that she was being watched. All noise had ceased now, the silence in here somehow separate from the sounds of life going on down in the street. It was quiet. Too quiet.

She quickened her step, pulling the bone-handled knife from her handbag. She always carried it – it was part of her, a gift from her father. Then she heard a car door open on an upper floor, and she moved to the inside of the pavement, in case the car came past her. She wasn’t so nimble on her feet these days.

She could see her own Merc waiting for her in the far corner. Looking carefully left and right, she stepped off the pavement to make her way towards it. All the spaces between her and her car were full.

She sensed him rather than heard him, and her grip on the knife tightened. He came out of the darkness between two cars. There was a few seconds’ slow dance between them. Then his blade went low and into her ribs, like a hot knife through snow. Hers went high, into his face. Neither made a sound.

He raised his hand to stem the blood – a thick curtain of red, pouring down his cheek into his scarf – and walked off, making his unhurried way to the level above, leaving her to stagger against the bonnet of the car. She felt her knife slip from her fingers, felt the baby kick, then she sank to her knees on the ice-cold concrete. She punched the car on her left hard, and kicked the one to her right, relieved at the cacophony of alarms.

She curled up between the cars, her hand pressed to the wound. She watched the flow of her own blood spreading on the concrete. She raged silently at the betrayal. The baby kicked again, and she spread her fingers on her belly.
Be calm, be calm.
She was hidden from view, she realized; if anyone came past, they wouldn’t be able to see her. Her fingers scrabbled against the wheel arch and she pushed her body a few inches, so her feet in their red shoes would be visible to anyone driving past. But would they see the red shoes, in the blood? She tried again, another few inches, then fell exhausted, out of breath.

But nothing was happening. There was no air coming into her lungs. She felt her chest collapsing to nothing.

The baby kicked, then kicked again, demanding oxygen.

She heard the shriek of a cold engine being gunned, the screech of tyres. A black car swung round the spiral, steering wide, then jerked left, aiming straight for her. She never felt the tyres go over her legs, crushing her ankles, ripping her shoes off. She only saw the raw ends of her own bones, so beautiful and pink.

A billow of exhaust hung in the air as one blood-red shoe bounced and rolled, and came to rest in a puddle of oil.

Sunday

27 June 2010

11.30 P.M.

It was late on a hot summer night, Partick Central Station was sweltering, and DI Colin Anderson was bored – not tired, just bored. There was a pile of paperwork waiting for his attention but he couldn’t concentrate on it. He really wanted a case he could get his teeth into – but all he had was the suspicious death of one William Stuart Biggart in a fire in the very early hours of the 21st of June, and that case had visited every other desk in Partick Central before landing on his. The forensic fire investigation unit were due to deliver a report first thing in the morning, after which he might have something of evidential value, but he knew his heart wasn’t in it. The top brass would be better off putting their money towards LOCUST, the new organized crime initiative, rather than looking into the death of pond life such as Biggart, whose only evolution had been from a dealer in dodgy DVDs to a dealer in dodgy heroin.

He knew it was frustration. He should be a DCI by now – he had completed his required Competency Portfolio for promotion twice over; by right the next DCI post that
came free would be his. But the current DCI Niven MacKellar was making it difficult for him to shine. The Biggart case was not going to be a career maker. He glanced over the room, noting the quiet chit-chat of phone calls, the odd conscientious cop typing at a computer, everyone catching up while they had a minute’s peace, going through the door-to-door statements from the night of the fire. It was known to everyone that Biggart was dealing – and dealers, by definition, had connections. But nobody wanted to talk. Anderson couldn’t blame them.

DS David Lambie was sweating just as much as Anderson, red hair clamped to his skull, his fair skin pink and angry along the hairline and the collar as if he’d caught the sun. He had been on the phone to every takeaway within 300 yards of Anniesland train station, which put them in close proximity to the scene of the fire at the Apollo flats. Lambie’s voice showed he had little hope of getting any kind of lead at Suzy’s Palace and was making notes in a suitably relaxed manner. Anderson looked closer; his sergeant was doodling. Then Lambie hung up the phone and gazed deep into the middle distance, rattling his biro noisily back and forth between his teeth.