The Blood of Crows (24 page)

He walked down Byres Road, pausing to take his leather jacket off and stuff it in on top of his rucksack. He stopped for a pint of cold beer at the Blind Pig, a pub with an open frontage. Instinctively he held his hand over the satchel – anybody who stole that would be in for a few sleepless nights; when it came to violence Glaswegians made Scousers look like the cast of
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.

Batten had examined the pictures of the three dead girls – children, he reminded himself – that O’Hare had linked from the post mortem findings. The three live girls represented somebody’s insurance; but the dead children would have netted him pure profit. And more. They could simply have been shot like dogs once they were too beaten and traumatized to be of any further use. Instead, their deaths had been cruel, protracted and deeply disturbing. As they were meant to be. The message would have come across loud and clear:
Mess with us, and this is what you get.

And if somebody could waste human resources like that, it meant he had a supply coming from somewhere, and that meant human trafficking.

Batten sipped at his pint. Glasgow and Liverpool: both had a tradition of football, shipbuilding, alcohol
and sectarianism. And gangland feuds. Every so often somebody got taken out and the hierarchy readjusted itself. And it was in that period of readjustment, while the lie of the land was changing, that things got dangerous. In the case of Glasgow the dynamic had always been more like shifting tectonic plates; the tension would build up for years and then there would be a massive rumble. Batten knew exactly who was ruling at the moment – the Russian mafia. The ‘
Vorony
’, as he called them.

The Crows.

But for how long? And who was the pretender to the throne?

9.00 P.M.

Anderson snapped his phone shut and made his way back to the table.

‘Good news?’ asked Moffat, coming back with the drinks.

‘We think we might have a lead on an ID on the Bridge Boy. I’ll be glad when he comes out of his coma and tells us who did that to him.’

Moffat nodded. ‘Good. But what about Melinda Biggart? She was killed by blood eagle.’

Anderson sipped at his Coke, hoping that Moffat wouldn’t dwell too much on the exact details of Mrs Biggart’s demise; he was already feeling queasy at the memory.

But Moffat was well into his stride and not to be stopped. ‘The blood eagle was something the Vikings
used to do, only they did it from the back, disarticulating the ribs from the spine and flattening out the ribcage like wings.’ He stretched out his hands in demonstration.

Anderson shut his eyes and swallowed hard.

‘The Russians do it from the front, so the victim looks like the double-headed Romanov eagle. More like a spatchcocked chicken, actually.

‘For each killing, by any method they like, the Russians get a black crow tattoo. Then once they have three black tattoos, they get to do the whole blood eagle thing. Not many men can cut the heart out while it’s still beating, which is what the Vikings did.’

‘Probably against health and safety regs now,’ muttered Anderson. Considerable strength as well as manual dexterity, O’Hare had said.

‘They do it to prove their allegiance, to show they have nerves of steel, that they’re true soldiers. Then they get a red eagle tattoo. And that identifies them as a life member of the
Vorony
, I think they’re called. Means crow, eagle, something like that.’

‘
Vorony
?’ Anderson was thinking of what Dr Redman had said, and the notes he had made – the words ‘brawny’, ‘Trelawney’.

‘These guys do not mess about. Are you OK?’ Moffat was peering at him with some concern.

Just thankful that he hadn’t actually thrown up or passed out, Anderson managed, ‘Probably just a bit dehydrated, out in this sun …’

‘You have to keep your fluids up, mate. Another drink?’

‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’

Moffat looked at his watch. ‘Nine o’clock. I’d better go.
Call me if you want to chat some more.’ And with that, he slapped Anderson on the back and was gone.

Anderson drained the last of his Coke, then waited a few minutes for his stomach to settle.

9.05 P.M.

‘Hey, look what the cat drags in when you’re not there to kick its arse!’ Lambie shook the other man by the hand. ‘Dr Batten, as I live and breathe.’

Mick Batten’s eyes darted round the room. ‘Have you lot been credit-crunched or downsized or something? Well, they do say small is beautiful.’

‘Is this a social call?’ asked Mulholland, after the initial round of hellos.

‘No, I was called in by ACC Howlett,’ Batten said, putting Mulholland firmly in his place. ‘Where’s Colin?’

Something in his voice made Lambie turn round from the CCTV film he had been analysing. ‘That’s just what ACC Howlett asked, but he’s not back. Were you expecting him?’

‘He said he’d be here by now. Do we know where he is?’

‘He was heading out to meet DCI Moffat.’

‘Did he say where?’

‘It’s on the chart – we can’t even go for a pee without telling teacher. He’s up at the lochside. Why – you expecting trouble?’ asked Lambie.

‘Like I’m expecting the rain. It’s only a matter of time.’ He put his satchel on the table beside Lambie and pulled a seat in so close that Lambie retreated at the smell of tobacco. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Tracing the CCTV from the bottom of Bruce Court. That’s the flats where –’

‘Thomas Carruthers lived and died. You trying to track down who threw him out the window?’ Batten unwrapped some chewing gum, oblivious to Lambie subtly edging their seats apart. ‘You looking at the main door?’

‘I’ve just seen Mary going out at 10.04 a.m., so I think the killer will have been watching and will appear soon.’ He leaned forward, concentrating on the four images on the screen in front of him.

‘There are two doors?’

‘Two plus another two you need a key for. These doors are just an entry pad.’

They watched in silence as people came and went, carrying shopping, standing chatting, walking quickly, walking slowly. A small dog kept running up to the door, hoping to get in, only to be thwarted.

‘How much footage do you have to go?’

‘A lot!’

‘Well, you get on with it; I’m not going to interrupt. I’ll just get myself up to speed.’ Batten walked over to the board and stood, arms folded, with his back to them.

Lambie kept watching the CCTV footage. Every time the clock ticked over, he knew he must be closer to finding Mr Aspel. He had stopped the film a few times, noting down the time and a description of anybody who looked as if they might be of interest. Then the recognizable figure of Rene appeared, on the camera for the east door. She entered with a key, rather than using the keypad. For the next ten minutes nobody came or went. It didn’t make sense.

He sighed loudly. ‘He should be here somewhere.’

‘Start before Mary leaves and run the film backwards,’ suggested Batten. ‘He might have accurately judged your thinking and been inside all the time, waiting for Mary to leave the flat. They might have known each other, remember – easy to say, “Oh, come round Monday morning, Mary’s going out at whatever time.” There might have been trust there.’ Batten slid back into the seat beside Lambie. The time on the cloak was 8.55 a.m. A man appeared, coming out of the flat backwards, having held the door open for a woman reversing her shopping trolley out. He was walking quickly backwards, wearing dark glasses.

Batten tapped the screen. ‘Take it back three minutes, then play it forwards.’

Lambie did so. The figure appeared, his head turned away from the camera. And it stayed that way. He was tall, male, slim, blond or grey-haired. He timed his approach perfectly to help an elderly resident come through the door with her shopping trolley. He looked respectable, and he entered unchallenged. Once in, he paused a little, looking up.

‘He’s looking for the camera,’ remarked Batten. ‘Do you know who he is?’

‘Tall and grey-haired, tanned? Looks a bit like Michael Aspel? I think that’s Eric Moffat.’

‘I thought you said Anderson was out with Eric Moffat right now,’ said Batten to nobody as both Mulholland and Lambie were already on their phones.

9.30 P.M.

Anderson sat in his car for a few minutes with the window open, trying to clear his mind a little. He really felt like going to sleep, but he had to get home. It was just after half past nine, the sun was setting, and the light would soon be fading. He pulled out on to the dual carriageway and headed back into Glasgow. He had only gone a few miles when he began to notice that his vision was blurring, that the white lines in the middle of the road were drifting. He was starting to feel sick, his head thick and woozy. He wondered if the sun had given him a migraine.

He pulled into a lay-by and parked, got out and walked to the trees at the side of the road, thinking he was going to be sick. He heard a car pull in behind him but didn’t turn round to look; he was trying to get his phone out of his pocket, and he had already dropped his car keys. He couldn’t even think about picking them up. He was just going to sit here with his back against a tree and try to calm the turbulence in his stomach.

‘Are you OK, mate?’ It was Moffat.

‘I think I’m having a stroke. God, I feel awful.’

‘I saw you pull up.’ Moffat hauled him to his feet. ‘Come on out the sun, Colin, away from the road.’

Anderson was trying to say that there was no sun, and why should they move away from the road, but nothing was coming out of his mouth. All he could hear was the cawing of the crows that circled overhead. He suddenly thought of MacFadyean, dead among the trees, alone with the crows.

Moffat was talking, his voice sounding muffled in Anderson’s ears. ‘You know you’d never have got this far without help from us. But you were coming to that conclusion, weren’t you? Slowly. Your problem, Colin, is that you’re too bright.’

He was being pushed deeper into the wood, and tried to pull away, but his limbs refused to obey him. Whichever way Moffat moved him, his body agreed. Moffat pressed him up against a tree, pulling his arms behind him, and he felt plastic clips being put on his wrists.

The restraints were drawn tight, then tighter still. Any tighter and his wrists would start to bleed, and he’d get blood on his shirt, clean on that morning. He had ironed it himself.

Another man appeared out of the forest from behind them. He said something, but in such a heavy accent that Anderson couldn’t understand. He tried to turn his head, to look Moffat right in the eyes. But Moffat’s returning stare was that of somebody who was doing a job and doing it right. He stood back and rolled one sleeve up, then the other, so as not to get them dirty. Then Anderson saw the three black tattoos on the upper part of Moffat’s arm.

Moffat clocked that he had seen them, and gave him a swift smirk. ‘Oh, yes,’ he taunted. ‘I’m going for the red.’

Anderson felt his head being pulled back by his hair. He could see flecks of grey on Moffat’s chin. By the time Moffat shaved that off, Anderson thought vaguely, he would be dead. In fact, by the time Moffat walked back to the lay-by he would be dead, and one of them would drive his car away. He had even left them his car keys, somewhere …

He saw the knife that seemed to appear from nowhere, a keen hunting blade with a curved edge like a bowie knife. He knew what was coming next. ‘Oh, Bren, Bren,’ he whispered silently, trying to picture his wife’s face. But all he could see was Helena McAlpine’s affectionately mocking smile. He tried to think of Peter and Claire, but could only remember them as babies. They were only wee, he thought, too young to go to Australia.

Then a moment of cruel clarity stabbed into his befogged brain, bringing images of splintered bones and blood.
Oh God, Oh God
, he prayed.
Please
 …

He closed his eyes and waited. But he only heard a dull thud, and felt a very gentle punch in the stomach. He dropped his head, his brain telling him that he was feeling no pain. He knew he should be glad.

He opened his eyes. His stomach was bloodied, and grey matter was splattered across his shirt.

Moffat’s head had exploded.

10.00 P.M.

Alone in the dark, Rosie had no idea how much time had passed or even what day it was. She was dry inside and soaking outside, and something had happened to Wullie. Or had Wullie come back and she had been asleep? Where had he been all this time? Maybe lying unconscious in a ditch somewhere, and then unconscious in hospital – where they would surely have seen his diabetic tag, and he would be brought round sooner or later. And now he had
made his way home. She called out to him but there was no answer.

It was such a simple thing – before he went out she had asked him to pull the table that slid over the bed, holding the telephone and the laptop, to the side, over against the wall. Where she could not reach it. How could she have been that stupid? Before, she had always thought of it as being out of her way, not out of her reach. She knew she had finished the water in the jug, she knew she had eaten all her chocolate. She had fallen asleep with her throat dry and her lips flaking.

Until now she had been drowsy, almost unable to keep her eyes open, but now she was wide awake, staring at the full glass of water. A piece of cheesecake wrapped in a dirty paper napkin sat beside it on the bedside table. Wullie must have brought it back from the funeral for her. But why hadn’t he wakened her?

She heard a noise, a thunk-thunk. Two feet landing. She couldn’t turn on to her back to see without the handle that hung over her head, just out of reach. It wasn’t Wullie, was it? Wullie had gone.

She thought about calling again, then she smelled that smell – a brief scent in the air of stale sweat and cigarette smoke. They were there again, the memory of them was clear now. They had been before. They had not harmed her. They had just observed her and made their way to the front of the cottage.

It wasn’t Wullie, but somebody was looking after her. They had come last night. They were here again tonight.