The Blood of Crows (28 page)

‘Has anybody tried to help him? He does need help, Libby.’

‘He needs a dad who actually cares. He needs a mum who doesn’t have such a busy schedule. I know from Pettigrew that Ellis has tried. Good that you are here.
Wouldn’t want him being arrested for being ill.’ Libby suddenly changed the subject. ‘It’s an unusual thing up here, a forest like that, full of oak and elm. The Forestry Commission chopped them all down before the days of biodiversity enlightenment, and replaced them with pine – pine planted in rows with military precision. All the same height, all the same width, depriving anything underneath of light and nutrition. In these enlightened days, they allow the land to lie after felling. They encourage the black and red grouse to nest, and catch the crows to feed to the eagles. The native Scottish birds are falling in numbers, they need their habitat back.’ She nodded to herself, pleased, and drew hard on her cigarette.

Costello and Libby sat in silence for a while, listening to the chattering and bubbling of the burn. The water level was low, and the water seemed to tickle the small stones on the bed of the burn. An azure flutter appeared for an instant, a streak of brilliant silk, and then was gone.

‘That was a kingfisher,’ Libby whispered. ‘You were lucky to see it.’

It was hypnotic, Costello thought, watching the busy little life of pebbles, midges, dragonflies and kingfishers. The racket in the great hall of Glen Fruin at feeding time, the busyness of Byres Road … all seemed like something from another planet. I could die happy here, was the thought running through her head. ‘I can see why you like it here,’ was what she said. ‘Peaceful, isn’t it?’

‘Very.’

‘Kind of disconnected from real life. Don’t think that does the Drews of this world much good. I don’t imagine
the three supermodels on the lawn this morning hang about here when they have free time.’

‘No, they get out. Saskia has a brand-new Mini convertible. Eighteenth birthday present a few weeks ago, from Daddy. Every Friday and Saturday night they’re out on the town. Bunch of slappers,’ she said dismissively. ‘There they go now – you can tell by the inane giggling.’

Costello turned her head to watch the Three Graces getting into a soft-top Mini. Their laughter drifted across the car park, music blared up, and the car pulled away.

‘Why do they even bother getting up in the morning?’ asked Libby, ‘I mean, they don’t eat, they don’t think. They just … are.’

‘You know them well?’

‘Don’t want to know them at all. There’re loads of rumours about where bloody Saskia’s family fortune comes from. Probably produced by hundreds of poor buggers stuck down a salt mine in Siberia somewhere.’

Costello turned a little to watch Saskia, the one who had waved at her the first day she had arrived. A little hunch had told her then that Saskia knew exactly what Costello was, and she tended to believe her hunches. She shuddered as some crows briefly set up a raucous squawking somewhere downstream. She noticed Libby gazing intently at her before looking away again.

‘Bloody crows, do you know they follow pregnant ewes just to rip out the innards of newborn lambs?’

‘Nice,’ said Costello. ‘Don’t think I’ll bother with my tea, then.’

1.45 P.M.

Anderson was standing in front of the wall, with a marker pen. He had written the word ‘Puppeteer’ at the top of the board, and then ‘Glen Fruin’ down the side, with ‘MacFadyean’ spanning the gap. They still had no idea where he lived but the insect activity on the body, lying as it was on the forest floor, strongly suggested that MacFadyean had been killed only hours after being seen with Moffat at the funeral. Anderson didn’t ask for the precise details. The words ‘insect activity’ were enough for him. He was trying to avoid looking at the black-and-white close-up photographs of maggots that Matilda was studying so carefully. It was too soon after lunch.

Batten handed him a coffee he hadn’t asked for. ‘Get it down you, it’ll do you good – help keep you awake.’

‘Are we chasing the Russian mafia here? Honestly?’

Batten nodded, patting Anderson’s shoulder. ‘Hard people. They are tough, and the
Vorony
– Ekaterinburg’s finest – are the toughest. That’s who you have here.’

‘It’s pronounced “Voron-neigh”. Well, that’s as close as a Glasgow accent can get.
Vorony
, with the emphasis at the front, means “ravens”.
Vorony
, emphasis at the end, means “crows”. Voron-neigh plural,’ Mulholland said authoritatively. ‘A murder of crows, if you prefer.’

‘Voron-neigh,’ repeated Batten, rolling the word on his tounge. ‘
Corvus corone
, the carrion crow, is among the most intelligent of birds, highly aggressive, and with excellent communication skills. Good name for a gang of thugs, you must admit.’

‘And back home, they are admired. The Shirokorechenskoe is a cemetery dedicated to gangsters, with all these lavish memorials and portraits. It’s practically a shrine – the hologram pictures of dead gangsters stand up and watch you as you drive past in the tour bus. And now they are here in the flesh.’

‘Very nice of them to visit. So, if you two are so bloody well informed, tell me … how do they communicate with each other?’ Anderson pulled the files out of the cabinet behind him, fishing out the photographs of Biggart’s flat immediately after the fire and then the ones taken by the forensic team. ‘Think – if I wanted to get in touch with you and keep it secret and untraceable, what would I do?’

‘Use a code?’ Lambie offered, stretching back in his seat and yawning.

Batten shook his head. ‘Nothing so complicated. Do you remember that gang of diamond smugglers who sent millions of pounds’ worth of diamonds through the post in those yellow boxes that slides are stored in? If I was communicating regularly, I’d make it look ordinary, something to be expected, not noticed. I mean, how often do we look closely at a cardboard package with the word “Amazon” on it? We don’t.’

‘OK, is there anything – anything at all – in these shots that could be used as a means of communication? Howlett has already said, no mobile, no computer. Snail mail?’

They sat in silence for a few minutes, peering minutely at every inch of the photographs.

‘Can you pass me that close-up?’ Anderson asked. He looked at it intently, then made a noise a bit like a low
growl. ‘There you go. What do you see on the floor, on the carpet by the side of the chair?’

‘Nothing,’ said Wyngate.

‘Well, no table, which is what you’d expect to be there. But through the soot and the stains of water, you can see four distinct round indents in the carpet where the table legs were. And in this one, there’s a table of the right size out in the hall. It’s been moved. Someone carefully put it where the fire wouldn’t damage it, but where the fire investigator would find it.’

‘And look what’s on it.’ Batten tapped the photograph with the corner of another. On top of the table was a mobile phone, and neatly under the phone were two DVD holders shaped like pillar boxes. In the black-and-white photograph they looked grey, with darker grey tops. ‘
PillarBoxFlix.com
? Haven’t they been mentioned before? If they’re communicating using DVDs, there’d be a legitimate rental company by way of a front. And PillarBoxFlix are legit, aren’t they?’

Wyngate was tapping away at his computer. ‘Here’s the address of PillarBoxFlix, at the Phoenix in Paisley. Factory unit is owned by Red Eagle Properties.’ Another rattle of fingertips on keyboard and the screen changed. ‘Which is, in turn, owned by PSM.’ He swung round in his chair, circling his finger at the wall. ‘Red Eagle also own the flats at the Apollo.’

‘OK, Vik, you go out to the warehouse at Paisley tomorrow and have a look around. Wyngate, can you find the actual DVDs taken from Biggart’s flat, and check that they’re what they say they are?’

‘And that mobile phone has been put neatly on top of
the DVDs,’ Batten said. ‘That was left for us to find as well. I’d put my bottom dollar on it.’

‘Why?’

‘The arsonist didn’t make any other mistakes, did they?’

‘The other mobile phones found in the room were burned to cinders,’ said Matilda, placing the photographs neatly in a pile. ‘But I already have a printout of the activity on that phone. It’s normal procedure now.’ She shuffled through her folder. ‘Here … look at this.’ She handed it to Anderson. ‘That’s the SIM on that phone. Only two people were on it. Biggart and A. N. Unknown, who declined to identify himself when he answered. But it’s a pay-as-you-go, one of three purchased in Glasgow by credit card on an expense account belonging to Biggart’s lawyer, Faulkner, the week before Fairbairn got out. Faulkner says he gave the phones to a Robert McGee, a Gavin McCready and to one fine gentleman of the parish called Cameron Fairbairn, known to his friends as Skelpie.’

‘God, that was quick,’ said Anderson, really impressed.

‘Not really – it’s a card number we all know by heart. Most criminal lawyers deal in phones and phone cards now that fags are banned. And even criminal lawyers need forensic friends sometimes, so I called in a favour.’ She shrugged.

‘Good work, Matilda.’ Then Anderson asked Lambie, ‘What’s the update on Gaynor Spence?’

Lambie said, ‘She’s OK. She’s a single mother and the boy has no idea who his father is. And she wants to keep it that way. However, she has a nice house in Milngavie. She drives a big Mercedes. Holiday villa in
Spain. I don’t see a single mum managing that on a GP’s salary.’

‘So, you think the dad has been helping out? Somebody rich but married? Is that why she’s so secretive?’

‘I’m wondering if the dad knows about the state Richard is in,’ Lambie said.

‘That’s not really our business.’

‘It might be, if the boy needs a bit of a liver from somewhere. In his case a live donation is preferable, so the first stop is the parents – them being the best probable match. She’s being tissue typed at the moment, to see if she’s a suitable donor. A better question is, where did Richie go to school?’

‘Don’t tell me.’

‘Glen Fruin. He was head boy last year. Probably got really good marks in the chemistry of combustion.’

2.00 P.M.

‘So, where is home, then?’

‘Where’s yours?’ Libby didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I’m with Paul Young on that one. Home is wherever I lay my hat.’

Costello had an image of Libby sitting on her bridge like a garden gnome with a fishing rod, dangling information in front of her. But she was not going to bite, not yet.

‘And where do you go to escape?’

‘Some friends. Some family.’

‘Family?’ It was Costello who was fishing this time.

‘Not close, but family is family. I think myself lucky. Look at Drew. And there’s a girl in Third Year – her mum’s
in Edinburgh with a boob job and a drink problem, and her dad’s in New York with the nanny. The poor kid gets passed around all over the place in the school holidays, and the rumour is she hasn’t seen either parent for over a year, and I don’t think she’s noticed. This school is a dumping ground for career parents who saw kids as a must-have accessory and got bored with them. It’s the way of the world. Even in the state system, they have breakfast clubs, after-school clubs, weekend clubs. Parents fuck you up.’

Costello pondered the truth of the statement.

‘And they’re a clever lot, our school board. They saw that the gap in the market is the holidays. This school takes being in loco parentis very seriously, so it never closes.’

‘Does that bother you?’ Costello didn’t need to ask where Libby spent her holidays.

‘Don’t give a shit one way or the other. I’m not a stupid sixteen-year-old whose only chance of getting a flat is a quick shag to get pregnant. What’s with all the questions?’

‘Just trying to get my head round it. What are you going to do now that school has finished?’

‘I have to hang around here until after the party on Sunday. After that, we’ll see.’

‘But where will you go?’

‘Oh, I have a flat in Glasgow, in Maryhill – the posh part of Maryhill. It’s been rented out, but it’ll be all mine when I turn eighteen.’

‘You’re very young to have your own flat. It’s a lot of responsibility.’

‘Alexander III, the last Gaelic king of Scotland, was
king at eight, head of the military at sixteen, totally in charge by twenty-one. Revolution is the domain of the young. He reigned for thirty-seven years. I’ll set my sights a bit lower; I’m thinking about university.’

‘To study what?’

‘English Lit, or Law, I think. Haven’t really made up my mind. I’m only seventeen.’ She sighed. ‘So, no hurry. I could even go to Tulliallan, become a cop. But I wonder if I’m not too clever for that.’

So, she knew.

Costello couldn’t look at her. Instead, she focused on the middle distance, trying to catch sight of the kingfisher again. ‘How did you know?’ she asked after a few minutes.

‘I know everything that goes on in this school. And I recognized that look you have.’

‘What look? And I thought I was blending in so well. Bought myself a good grey suit and everything.’

‘It’s the look in your eyes, the same look as an alkie sobering up, or a druggie in rehab. Wary. As if reality just might be a wee bit too much to cope with.’

‘You ever thought of studying psychology?’

Libby grinned, the first time Costello had ever seen her smile. ‘I do, here, every day,’ she said. ‘Place is full of bloody nutters.’

3.00 P.M.

Mulholland had decided to give Anderson his chance on the Fairbairn issue. He himself had set his sights on getting his promotion back, and he wasn’t going to let
Anderson stand in his way. As soon as they were out in the car park, Mulholland took the DCI to one side.

‘Skelpie Fairbairn,’ he began.

‘What about him?’

‘I’ve been looking at his connections with Biggart. They had been in touch – the phone shows chatter between the two of them, and only the two of them. Don’t forget, Biggart was paying his legal fees.’

‘And … ?’

‘I need my stripes back, so I want you to hear me out. Say Skelpie wasn’t involved in the Osbourne case –’