The Blood of Crows (2 page)

Anderson coughed loudly to bring his sergeant back to earth, knowing that Lambie was thinking about his wedding to the lovely Jennifer again.

A phone rang. He looked round the office; none of the Partick boys seemed inclined to pick it up so he did, grateful for the diversion.

‘A
what
?’ he said, once the voice at the other end had paused for breath.

It was such a bad line that, even at eleven thirty on a Sunday night, when the room was quiet, he could hardly hear.

‘Can you repeat that?’ He caught Lambie’s eye, made a dip of the head towards the door. ‘Yes, we’re about two minutes from it, we might get there first. No, we don’t mind … yes, we’re on our way.’

DS Lambie had already grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘Where are we heading off to?’ he asked as they rattled down the stairs.

‘Down to the river. There’s an incident just this side of Anderson Quay. Seems some drunken reveller aboard the
Waverley
’s reported somebody in the water.’

‘If it’s somebody in the river, shouldn’t the marine police unit deal with it?’ puffed Lambie, following Anderson out and across the car park. The air was still hot and heavy, the darkness of the summer night unconvincing.

‘Disbanded, pretty much. It’s just an anti-terrorism strategy now, a response to 9/11. If you fall in and are drowning, you only get an old guy in a rowing boat. But this guy is holding on to a ladder.’

‘Why doesn’t he climb up it, then?’

‘Knackered? Pissed? Drugged? Anyway, those ladders are all covered in slime and weed. Bloody slippy … no matter what, it’s a breach of the peace and a chance to get out the station.’

Four minutes later, Lambie pulled up on the Harbour Terrace. They both hopped out of the Focus, eyes scanning the river for any signs of activity. There were no lights, no patrol cars, nothing.

Anderson took his mobile from his pocket as he legged it over the outer barrier, and phoned Control.

‘Are we in the right place?’ he demanded. ‘You said a squad car was on its way. But there’s nothing here.’

With one ear he heard Lambie say, ‘I’ll get the torch, boss.’ With the other, he listened to Control confirming the location.

‘You should still be able to see the boat,’ a woman said. ‘Someone on board caught the image on their phone and called 999.’

Sure enough, several hundred yards away the old
Waverley
was slowly making her way up river.

Still on the phone, barking out landmarks to Control, Anderson climbed over the inner barrier and peered down into the water lapping at the concrete about twelve feet below. He heard Lambie slam the boot shut. He made his way cautiously along the edge, but there was nothing to see, just a concrete stanchion and the impatient slap of the river. Far in the distance, he could hear sirens.

He heard Lambie behind him at the barrier and reached for the torch, turning the powerful beam downwards, sweeping it back and forth along the slimy wall. He peered down at the iron ladder bolted to the concrete, and the crushed beer cans bobbing in the murky water. Then he stopped dead in his tracks. He had almost missed it, running the beam past it before his brain could register what he’d seen. In the dark swirl of the water, tucked right in against the wall, he could see what looked like a clump of seaweed, splaying out and flattening again with every wave.

Hair
, his brain registered at last. Human hair.

‘There’s someone there. I’m going down,’ he told Control, before thrusting the torch and phone at Lambie, and
pulling his jacket off. ‘For God’s sake, keep the light steady.’

Ignoring the unspeakable stinking slime on the iron rungs, Anderson made his way down hand over hand, until his foot came level with the head. Down he went, his feet feeling for each rung, until he was in the water up to his shoulders. He hooked an elbow under the chin to lift the face clear.

‘It’s OK, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.’ He could just hear a small mewling noise in response. ‘She’s alive,’ he called up to Lambie. Then, ‘Oh Christ, she’s just a kid. And she’s naked.’ His voice was barely a whisper.

Above him the iron ladder shuddered and creaked. He heard Lambie call, ‘I’m coming down, boss.’ Lambie stopped as his feet reached the level of the girl’s head. ‘Can we get her up?’ he asked.

Anderson tried to get a grip under the girl’s arms, but couldn’t. They seemed to be clasped tightly behind her. Then he realized she was not clinging on; she was tied on. ‘I can’t get her arms free. There’s something tethering her.’ He reached further down the ladder, swearing profusely as stinking water broke over his face every few seconds.

‘Stay where you are, boss,’ Lambie said, and launched himself off the ladder over Anderson’s head. He surfaced a few seconds later. ‘Shit!’ he spat.

‘Very probably,’ Anderson grunted.

Lambie grasped the iron upright on the other side of the girl. He was still holding the waterproof torch. ‘Can you see what’s holding her?’

‘No. Where the fuck is that squad car?’ Anderson
looked up towards the wall. ‘Is that wash from the boat, or is the tide on its way in?’

Lambie looked behind him, shaking the water from his face. ‘It’s coming in. We need to get her out. Now.’ He took a deep breath and disappeared under the waves, pulling himself down by the rungs of the ladder. All Anderson could see was the light of the torch wavering up through the filthy water.

Anderson had noticed that, even in that short time, the level had risen and the river was now lapping at the girl’s chin. ‘You’ll be fine. I’ve got you,’ Anderson kept repeating, like a mantra. ‘You’ll be OK.’ He hitched the girl’s head as high as he could to keep her mouth out of the water, and tightened his hold on the ladder, preparing himself to take the full weight of her body if Lambie managed to untie her. The one thing they did not want was to drop her. He could feel Lambie’s hands groping round his legs, trying to free the girl from whatever held her. He seemed to be having trouble.

‘Come on, David,’ Anderson muttered. ‘We haven’t got long.’

The girl was gasping now, in and out, whimpering fragments of words he couldn’t understand. The beam of the torch ghosted from beneath the water, a rippling light shadowed on her face, and Anderson saw her face for the first time. He recognized with a shudder just how young she was. She had a little snub nose, and a gap in her front teeth. Her unfocused eyes, the largest hazel eyes he had ever seen, looked past him, her shock too deep for her even to realize he was there.

‘Don’t you give up on me now,’ he told her fiercely.
He readjusted his arms, his fingers slipping on the slime coating the ladder. He threaded one arm across her chest, trying to lift her, giving her a little space, a little time.

Then her face rolled back, and she seemed to look at him. She whispered, ‘
Mamochka.
’ Her eyes lost focus; a wave washed over her cheek but she didn’t react.

Lambie’s head appeared suddenly. ‘Chains,’ he spluttered, gasping for air. ‘Some bugger’s chained her. Hands and feet.’

‘No!’

‘Honest, Colin.’ Lambie shook his head again, backhanding the surplus water from his face.

Suddenly a powerful torch beam illuminated the water, roving around until it settled on the ladder. ‘You OK down there?’

‘No, we bloody aren’t!’ Anderson shouted back. ‘Bolt cutters! We need bolt cutters!’

‘Er …’ The head vanished for a moment, then reappeared. ‘We haven’t got any.’

‘A snorkel? Plastic tubing? Anything like that?’

‘We can send down some ropes.’

‘No bloody good! She’s chained on to the ladder!’

The head disappeared again. A few moments later, Anderson heard the crackle of police radios somewhere beyond the barriers.

‘You OK, Lambie?’

‘Fine, boss,’ Lambie grunted. ‘You?’

‘Fine. We’re all going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine,’ Anderson said. He didn’t know who he was trying to reassure – Lambie, the girl or himself. Close to his
ear, the feeble whimpering had ceased, and the girl’s weight felt inert in his arms. He twisted his head slightly to look at her again. Her eyes were still open. Another wave slopped across her face, but she didn’t blink. Her gaze was vacant; she was staring out over the Clyde and way beyond.

Then the voice shouted again. ‘We’ve radioed it in. Fire rescue’s on its way.’

‘Don’t bother,’ Anderson said bleakly. ‘We won’t be needing it.’

Monday

28 June 2010

0.27 A.M.

DC Viktor Mulholland rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He’d eaten too late, and his stomach had been playing up. He had just been slipping off to sleep when Anderson phoned. The message was short. ‘Get your arse down to the river.’ For once Mulholland hadn’t hesitated. Something told him his boss was seriously upset, and that wasn’t like him. It must be bad.

And it was. He didn’t want to think about what Anderson would be feeling now … the girl had died in his arms.

Logic was telling him that Anderson wanted this case, and Anderson had phoned him. Six months after being busted back to DC, he needed to get his stripes back. He needed it just as much as Anderson needed his promotion – and this case might just do it for them both. Poor wee lassie, but it was an ill wind.

Vik climbed over the inner rail and leaned out as far as he could over the outer rail, but even then it was difficult to see what exactly was going on in the water. He knew there were two boats circling the almost totally submerged body. He could hear the quiet instructions of Professor O’Hare, the pathologist, in the stern of the rowing boat as the old man at the oars kept the boat steady in the swell. Nearby, a rubber inflatable was
tugging violently on its mooring ropes like an anxious horse, while a police cameraman on board struggled to keep the victim in the beam of the searchlight that was attached to the video camera.

Anderson and Lambie had gone back to Lambie’s car to get out of their wet clothes, and to settle themselves. Both men had looked traumatized, merely nodding to Mulholland as they passed him.

Mulholland caught flashes of the scenario below as the beam of the light danced with the movement of the boat. The girl was gently lifted from the ladder and slid into the body bag beneath her. Then, accompanied by the babbling of the water, she started to rise.

Vik heard O’Hare ask the SOCO, ‘Ten years old, would you say? Eleven?’

‘Too young,’ muttered Mulholland.

They were always too bloody young.

0.30 A.M.

Costello turned over and looked at the alarm clock for the third time. It was only half past midnight, yet she felt as if she had been in bed for hours, lying awake staring at the ceiling, sweating like a pig. Her body was tired, the kind of tired that goes along with being ill, the sort of deep-in-the-bones tiredness that made her think that she wouldn’t be able to get up even if the place was on fire. Why couldn’t the little voices in her head just shut up and let her get some sleep, a deep long decent sleep that would leave her refreshed instead of bloody knackered?

She thought about getting up and having a shower, or maybe a bath, but the sound of the water in the pipes would disturb her downstairs neighbours, and they had been good to her over the past few months. In fact, there was often – too often – a gentle tap on the door, a wee call through the letterbox: ‘Are you all right?’

She began to prod at the side of her face, searching for the little incongruity, the little island of mesh that lay right under the skin. One day, she thought, she would search and it would not be there. Then none of it would have happened, and everybody could go back to the way they were.

She looked at the alarm clock again. Three minutes had passed since she last looked.

To hell with this.
She got out of bed, padded off to the loo and washed her face in cold water, avoiding looking at herself in the mirror. She didn’t recognize the old woman with the short mousy hair who looked back, the woman with the angry scar above her hairline. She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on to make a cup of tea, then went through to the front room and collapsed on the sofa. She stared at the balloon light shade overhead, focusing on a little tear in the white paper, covering one eye with her hand and then the other. The small crescent shape stayed in perfect focus with both eyes. It had been like that for a week now. But it wouldn’t help; the machinery of the occupational health team and her psychological assessments moved as fast as an elephant on a Zimmer frame.

She liked the psychologist – a nice young woman. Unfortunately, Dr McBride had decided to make Winifred
Prudence Costello some kind of special study. Apart from just getting through life cursed with a name like that, there was everything else – the emotional and physical trauma of the last few months would have crushed the strongest person with grief. Dr McBride, with her nice smile, sensible footwear and thick tights, seemed determined to make an issue of everything and then to make sense of it all.

Costello was more of the opinion that if she didn’t make an issue of it, she wouldn’t have to make sense of it. Life didn’t make sense; her years in the police service had taught her that. But no matter how hard she probed and got nowhere, Dr McBride refused to admit there was nothing there to probe at.

Costello felt no huge sense of loss, because there was no loss. What she’d never had, she didn’t miss. She’d felt worse four years ago when she lost DCI Alan McAlpine, and had said as much to Dr McBride. That had been a Big Mistake.

‘Hmmm. Did you consider him a father figure?’

‘No, I considered him a boss.’

‘Do you think you could be in denial?’

‘No.’

‘So, you are in denial?’

‘No.’

And so it went on.

And on.

It was all a load of bollocks.

She got up and went to the window, opened the curtains and looked out. Seen from the huge picture window of her riverside flat, the Clyde was a shining meandering
ribbon in the moonlight. She leaned her forehead against the cool pane. She would look a sight if anybody glanced up – a skinny wide-eyed woman with spiky hair, her face distorted by the glass. Below, in the distance, along the river into town, there was the familiar strobe of blue light. She could make out a cluster of cars but nothing definite.