The Blood of Crows (31 page)

‘It’s 1977,’ said Rene, handing it over. ‘That was the year of the Jubilee, all those bloody flags.’

But Lambie had noticed Mary’s hand tighten slightly. She didn’t quite look up, but she clearly did not want to give that diary away.

‘Are you sure you’re OK with me looking at this, Mary? It’ll stay confidential.’

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Rene was wittering on about the Queen Mother and her teeth. As she was speaking, Lambie let the diary fall open between his thumb and forefinger. The pages were full of dense handwriting – neat, tidy, all in blue or black biro. Mary was staring blankly at the wall. He could feel her just wishing he would go. He sat tight and tilted the diary so that it opened at the beginning of the year. It fell open easily, too easily. The handwriting at the start of January was slightly shaky, as if unsure of itself. Then he realized that there were pages missing – most of January, from the look of it – pulled out right at the bindings. He flicked forward, catching a few words
– God knows
 … 
God help us
 … His eyes scanned down.
I know he’s dead
 … 
and I’m sure we killed him
 …

Mary seemed entranced by the wallpaper, but she was aware the minute Lambie raised his eyes from the page, as if she had been waiting for his question.

‘Is this all there is? No loose pages anywhere else?’

She shook her head. ‘It was like that when I found it.’

‘Have you read it, Mary?’

‘Why? Whit is it? A good story?’ chirped Rene.

Mary shook her head again, imperceptibly. ‘It was a private thing, for him.’

‘And it really is OK for me to take it?’

She nodded, ignoring Rene’s wittering. ‘In fact, I’ll be glad if you can get all the diaries picked up. I want them out this house. I just want you to find the man who killed Tommy.’

9.35 P.M.

Lambie thought about taking the diary back to the station, but the boss had said he could take it home – and he didn’t think ACC Howlett was going to start accusing him of ripping out the missing pages. Better to go home, have something nice to eat with Jen, then sit and read the diary at his leisure.

Why did Carruthers hide a diary that had been written twenty years earlier? There was probably enough still in there to fill in the back story.

In the lift, he had another look. On the title page the handwriting was good, a perfect hand. It simply said the Gaelic name Seana Bhraigh – the mountain, Lambie supposed – then the date, the 1st of January 1977, and two words:
Bloody cold.
Then that gap, until the end of January. The names Hunter and Purcie jumped out at him. Faddy was MacFadyean, obviously. Hunter was the one who had fallen off a mountain – or had he? – and Purcie had died
later from a bullet in the head. Both reports were being tracked down.

He tucked the diary under his arm, and walked towards his car. Despite having told her to go to bed, he hoped that Jennifer would still be waiting up for him. After looking after her sister Emily for so many years, Jennifer relished the simple domesticity of sitting down with a meal on a tray and a glass of wine, feet up in front of the television. So did he.

He fished the car keys out from his trouser pocket, turning slightly on hearing a noise behind him, expecting somebody to ask him for a light or for some spare change. The first thing he felt was a punch in the back, then a quick blow to the front. He looked the man in the face, but felt no recognition. He saw a hand reach for the diary, vaguely registered the tiny stub where the little finger should have been. Then he felt himself being lowered into the gutter between the car and the kerb, and felt the toe of a shoe nudge him, tipping his outflung arm into the shadow of the car.

As if he was a piece of dog dirt, he thought.

9.40 P.M.

‘Batten called,’ Anderson said.

‘Hang on, I can’t hear you.’ Costello gazed around at the plague of Black Watch tartan that darkened the walls and floor of the lobby of the Highland Glen Hotel. A mangy stag’s head glared down at her glassily. She pushed through the revolving door again and out into the car
park, where Pettigrew was apparently enjoying a contemplative smoke, leaning against the bonnet of his car. ‘Go on.’

‘Mick managed to persuade Gaynor Spence to come clean about Richard’s father,’ Anderson told her. ‘One Archibald O’Donnell. Wee Archie.’

‘No wonder she wasn’t so keen to tell you.’

‘But the boy needs a new bit of liver. Blood runs thicker than water. And there’s more. Mick played a hunch, and suggested I phone the Bar-L and pull rank to get some urgent information from the visitors’ log. And he was right. Richard Spence, law student, has been visiting Archie every two weeks for a while now.’

Costello thought for a minute. ‘Someone must have found out he burned Biggart. Do you think the O’Donnells are fighting back?’

‘But all that was years ago.’

‘But it kind of fits. Apart from the fact that old O’Donnell is gaga in a care home and his son is serving life for decapitation.’

‘It was always rumoured he decapitated the guy who killed that woman in the car park; I’d buy him a drink if I ever met him.’

‘And Moffat was there too, wasn’t he? That’s another bit of the jigsaw.’

Anderson yawned. ‘I’m off home to catch up on some of the sleep I haven’t been having recently,’ he said.

Costello thought about telling him about the Transit, but reconsidered – better to wait until they had a positive ID.

‘Look after yourself out there,’ he said.

‘I will.’ She closed the phone but kept it to her ear. Anybody watching would think she was still having a conversation. She looked at the Transit, noting that it had a sliding side door.

Costello shut her eyes, trying to remember the photograph of the MacFadyean scene, the image of the tyre print. A ‘cross-shaped insult’, Matilda had called it. She couldn’t recall which tyre. She was just wondering if she dared approach it and look herself when she saw Pettigrew stroll from his car over to the van, cigarette between thumb and forefinger, just a bloke having a fag in the car park on a warm summer night while his pint was lying inside in the bar. She saw him very casually looking at the Transit van, looking at the tyres, looking specifically at the front off side. Costello watched him closely as he then sauntered around, seemingly not looking anywhere in particular, but she knew he was scanning the back of the hotel, the doors, the windows, the fire exits. His eyes were wary and his face unreadable, but his right forefinger was tapping nervously at the cigarette. And he had put on a jacket. Costello noticed the slight bulge where the gun was.

Costello dropped her phone down by her side, suddenly feeling out of her depth. Her mind chased some thoughts about James Pettigrew – where his expertise came from, and what kind of ‘security’ work he actually did.

He glanced up as he walked back to his car and signalled, a slight thumbs-up so subtle that she doubted anyone else had seen it. Then a casual flick of the head towards the side wall.

Costello saw a tap, with a coiled hose attached. Handy.

He knew exactly what he was doing and what he was looking for.

Had he been a soldier at one time? He was in that age range where men who came out of the army often joined the police force or the fire brigade.

And he had a gun.

She jumped as her phone went; it was Pettigrew.

‘It’s a match. Get your forensics team down here. You might want to find out who exactly owns this hotel.’ He rang off and continued his walk.

This time, Costello walked round the back of the van, appearing to check her texts in the light from the hotel bar window, then sauntered to the front again. She photographed the cut on the front right-hand tyre with her mobile, without appearing to do so, and sent it to Matilda. And she realized she could smell blood – not fresh blood, but the sickening sweetness of old blood. So, she texted Matilda and told her to get a move on. She then phoned the lecture room. Wyngate answered, and two minutes later she had her answer to her question. The hotel was owned by Red Eagle Properties.

‘The company that owns the flats where Biggart was found,’ Wyngate explained when she went silent. ‘All the flats on the ground floor except Janet Appleby’s. In turn, Red Eagle is owned by PSM, a bigger property company. And PSM rents the industrial unit from which PillarBoxFlix operates.’

‘And what does PSM stand for? Pimp Somebody’s Mother?’

She heard the click of a keyboard.

‘Pavel Sergeievich Moro–’

‘Morosova,’ Costello said.

‘No, Morosov.’

‘Same friggin’ difference,’ said Costello and slammed the phone shut. She was calling up Anderson’s number when Pettigrew marched over to her and grabbed her elbow.

‘Get in the car. Howlett just called,’ he said out of the side of his mouth. ‘Something’s happened.’

11.30 P.M.

Anderson felt completely helpless. There was nothing he could do or say. Words meant nothing. He sat with his arm round Jennifer Corbett, who was sobbing, tears pouring down her face.

He wished Costello was here, to make the tea and do practical things, and he tried not to look at the Congratulations On Your Engagement cards on the mantelpiece.

Jennifer straightened up slightly. ‘He was on the phone to me just a few minutes before. Maybe, if I’d answered, it wouldn’t have happened.’

‘It would have made no difference,’ Anderson assured her. ‘Some boys in the car park called 999 straight away. The paramedics say that he was dead before he hit the ground. He didn’t suffer, Jennifer. It was quick, very quick, and painless.’ He knew he wasn’t helping but it was all he could say.

‘Does Dad know?’

‘Yes, I already called him. He’s on his way. I’ll stay till he gets here.’

Jennifer wiped her tears with the cuff of her jumper. ‘That’s kind of you. But I’d rather you went back to being a police officer. I’ll be all right on my own. After all, I have a lot of things to see to. I have a wedding to cancel. And I have a funeral to arrange.’

‘Is there anyone who can help you with all that?’ Anderson felt bloody hopeless. He had no idea what to say. Costello would have known.

Jennifer smiled crookedly through her tears. ‘Just Dad, who’ll take over and try to make it all go away, as he always does. When Emily was alive, there was no time for friends, there was always just David. We’d been friends since we were kids, you know. Childhood sweethearts. He made me a Valentine’s card when he was in Year Seven. He wanted to take me to the school dance and Dad wouldn’t let me go with him because his mum cleaned for us.’ She blew her nose loudly. ‘Do you know, I can’t remember the last thing I said to him.’ She looked blankly into space.

‘It’ll come back to you.’

She leapt up, panicky. ‘I’ve left his dinner in the oven!’

‘I’ll get it.’ He stood up, his hand on her shoulder.

She looked up at Anderson. ‘Why was he killed? I mean, why him? What was he doing?’

‘He was just walking down the street, Jennifer. That’s all I know. I am so, so sorry.’

At that point, she collapsed into his arms and started to sob her heart out.

Saturday

3 July 2010

1.30 A.M.

Anderson stood in the shadow of the great beech hedge outside the Corbett family home, breathing in the warm night air and the scent of wild garlic. The street was quiet; everybody else was getting a good night’s sleep, unaware that yet another tragedy had struck the family in the big house at the end of the drive. A car pulled up violently, and Jennifer’s father, Donald Corbett, got out and rushed into the house – either ignoring Anderson or, in his haste, failing to see him.

His phone went, and he cursed. Could they never give him a break? He looked at the number, registering that he knew it and that it wasn’t work. Not many people would call him at this hour from a 334 phone number – a West End number. It had to be something to do with Lambie.

He opened the phone, and a voice said, ‘Hello? Colin?’

It took a moment for him to work out who it was. He was glad it wasn’t Brenda. If it had been, this would be the ‘sorry about your friend’ phone call – the ‘that’s why you have to leave the job’ speech would come later.

This was somebody who was concerned. Concerned for him.

‘I’m so sorry, Colin. I’ve just heard; Donald just called me. How are you?’

‘Oh, hello, Helena. It’s all … it’s … very difficult.’ He felt his voice break. Another car pulled up, and he turned to face the hedge, aware that tears were now running down his face.

‘I didn’t want to phone Jennifer, but when the time is right, tell me and I’ll call her.’ She didn’t need to add, ‘I know what it’s like; I’ve been there.’

‘Her dad’s just arrived.’ He rubbed the fatigue from his eyes. ‘Helena?’

‘Yes?’

He couldn’t say it.

But she did. ‘You’re only two streets away. Why don’t you come round?’

He closed the call. A text had appeared. It was from Brenda.
When will you be home
?
How are you feeling?
Not her fault; nobody had told her. But he didn’t want to.

Not now.

1.45 A.M.

How had he got here? He didn’t recall getting in his car, or driving the short distance to Helena’s house.

He parked at the bottom of the terrace and took his time over the long walk up. His brain knew that this thing had happened, but the rest of him – heart, mind, body – was deciding to be numb to the idea that Lambie was gone, gone for good, one small blade between the ribs all it took to end his life. Jennifer would not be his wife, his children would not be born, and he would never grow into the good detective he was planning to be. Such a waste. Such a waste, by such
scum
! And nobody yet knew why.

Anderson couldn’t really come to terms with any of it. That night when they had tried to save the wee girl on the ladder in the river, Lambie hadn’t hesitated to jump straight into the filthy freezing Clyde. He’d been there for his boss. But who had been there for him? He couldn’t even bear to think what Brenda would say. If Lambie could get stabbed and killed, any of them could. He looked round behind him, checking whether somebody was following him. Too tired to think, he walked on, the heavy warmth of the night air making his breathing labour a little on the upward slope.