The Blood of Crows (42 page)

‘He’s away … phoning somebody.’ Costello paused, suspecting it was Helena he was phoning.

‘They’re over there, moving away from us at speed. Two o’clock.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Costello, who could hear nothing but the noise of the garden party behind them, and see nothing but the shadows of the trees.

‘What did I say about not talking?’ As he went ahead of her, she couldn’t help but notice the precise cut of his jacket, which looked smart without being close-fitting. She knew he had a gun.

They moved through the trees, crossing a path every now and again. Occasionally she caught the chit-chat of voices ahead, and Pettigrew would slow, put one finger up, stopping her, then they would move off again. He signalled, tapping his eye, holding up two fingers. But all
Costello wanted to know was where they were going, and who he thought the Russians were going to meet.

Suddenly, he stopped and signalled to her to be quiet. The Russians seemed to be discussing something, and one of them was not happy. Moving slowly, almost imperceptibly, Pettigrew pulled himself back into the trees, his hand on his right hip. The Russians continued to argue for a minute, then took off again almost at a run along a gap in the trees, before cutting sideways off the path. Pettigrew waited until they were well out of sight and walked up to where they had disappeared down a narrow disused path that seemed to go deep into the forest.

‘This is recent.’ He pointed at the broken end of a twig. ‘And these have been broken, these ones bent, over the last few days.’ He spoke in a low voice, avoiding the harsh sibilants of a whisper. ‘Somebody has been coming along here a lot recently.’

‘Who?’

‘Did I tell you you could speak?’

8.30 P.M.

Anderson felt a tap on the shoulder. It was Howlett, looking more shrunken than ever inside a good linen suit he obviously hadn’t worn since he became ill.

The ACC gazed over the assembled company, then up at the sky, as if willing it to rain. ‘I was just wondering where DS Costello had got to.’

‘She was here a minute ago.’ Anderson looked around. ‘But I don’t see her, and I don’t see Pettigrew, so I
presume they’re together somewhere. Why are you here, if you don’t mind me asking?’

Howlett almost growled. ‘I want to look that bastard in the eye. That’s all. One look and I’ll know if it’s him.’

‘I’m not sure if I want it to be Morosov or not.’ Anderson glanced at his phone. ‘But I’d be a lot happier if there was a decent phone signal here.’

‘Grand place, isn’t it? A bit run-down now, but still a fine building.’ He glanced down at the phone in the palm of his hand, with a subtle movement. ‘Have you been down to the river at all, Colin?’

‘Are you joking? Not with these midges!’

But there was more than the spoken question there. ‘It would be nice to go for a walk, though, don’t you think?’ There was more than a mere suggestion of a stroll.

‘I think the weather’s going to break,’ Anderson observed.

‘And I think you’re right. But there are much worse things in this world than getting wet.’ Yet Howlett didn’t seem keen to move. He was looking at the sky, watching the rain clouds roll over the hills from the north. It was going to get nasty.

The crowd was mostly indoors or under the cover of the gazebos which had been erected. But guests were still chatting, and the champagne was still flowing.

‘We’ll go for that walk in a little while,’ said Howlett. ‘Humour me, I am not a well man.’

‘I kind of gathered that.’ There was no point in polite denials.

‘I’m about to retire soon,’ the ACC sighed. ‘I don’t know which I shall retire from first – life or the job – but
I will soon be elsewhere.’ He looked down at his phone again.

Anderson noticed a slight nod; something had pleased him.

‘I thought I’d better leave a mark, achieve something before I go.’

8.40 P.M.

The air was heavy, like warm water. Costello was covered in sweat, and dead midges were stuck to her skin. They had been walking for thirty minutes, making slow progress through dense trees, and her face was smarting where twigs had scratched her.

And she was nervous.

Pettigrew had changed. He was wary, almost apprehensive. He had no idea where they were, she thought – the path seemed to go in circles. They were moving forward silently now, their feet making no sound on the carpet of pine needles. She really wanted to know
where she was; she wanted to know a lot of things. She knew they must be skirting round the far edge of the Forestry Commission land, and she tried to visualize the map, trying to judge how far they had actually come. The old forest must start again soon.

Pettigrew stopped, checking more broken ends of twigs at shoulder height, and the pine needles that had been freshly disturbed. Then they moved on, tracking the way the Russians had gone, into the old forest. The cover was less dense here but it was shadowy, so she couldn’t see where she was putting her feet. Twice she stumbled, and Pettigrew signalled to her to be quiet. Ten minutes into the old forest, she was starting to be scared – scared of the thought of the Russian mafia up ahead, and of the idea that whoever had covered her with a blanket and bundled her down a hole was still out there, was watching her now.

But if she looked around, all she could see were the ever-present crows.

Pettigrew stopped behind a big elm tree, and she pulled herself in behind him. He poked his head out cautiously for a few seconds, then indicated that she too should look but say nothing.

She wiped the sweat from her eyes and looked, letting her vision adjust to the twilight. Down the slope a little grey fairy-tale cottage lay in a bowl-shaped hollow, totally encircled by trees. She could see no road in or out, and certainly the track that they had just come along was not in long-term use.

There was the noise of birds screeching. A door slammed, then Morosov and the other man came running out of the house, and hurried away through the trees at the far side.

Pettigrew swore. ‘They’re heading up to the high road.’ He looked up along the line of the hills, trying to get his bearings. ‘I confess I’m a bit lost. Should have brought a compass.’

‘How can you be lost?’ Costello argued.

‘Happens to the best of us.’

Now Costello was convinced he was lying. He really knew exactly where he was – he was just unsure about what to do next.

Then Pettigrew pulled out a small gun. ‘Just insurance. Three safety catches, all of them on.’

She nodded, and followed him down the slope towards the cottage, noticing that the darkness was nothing to do with the time of night.

There were black clouds rolling in.

9.00 P.M.

Ella looked out of the window, listening to the thunder crash above the garden of the nursing home, waiting for the lightning. ‘So, how’s the old bugger tonight?’

‘Grumpy as ever.’ Agnes walked over to the window to join her, a mug of Horlicks clasped in her hands. ‘He had a visitor today. I’m not sure it cheered him up at all.’

‘Who was it? Do you know?’

‘No idea. A Mr Pettigrew he called himself. Not a relation, probably a lawyer. Though he didn’t look like a lawyer. He was a fit wee man, whistled a lot. Might be an old gangster pal of his.’ Ella sat down and turned over a couple of pages of the
Daily Record.
‘As long as the auld bugger doesn’t take a contract out on us. He’s enough of an evil-tempered old scrote to do that.’ She continued scanning the paper, taking crisps from a packet one by one and using her fingers like tweezers. ‘Phew – you just can’t get your breath in this heat, can you?’

Agnes sipped her Horlicks. ‘It’ll break soon, then it’ll be peeing down. And then you’ll be moaning.’ The night sky was grey and louring, and there was thunder in the air – she could sense it. She heard a distant roll, far away.

She walked out of the staff room, taking her Horlicks with her, and went along to the reception area. On the patio, outside the French windows, she stood and looked to the north of the city. Something that may or may not have been a flash was there and gone before she could register it. More thunder came growling across the sky. The storm was moving this way. She closed her eyes and felt the first kiss of rain on her face, then bigger drops coming down – spit, spit, spit. The weather had broken, at last! Lightning flashed, electrifying the whole garden in a blaze of silver, and she counted. Then another grumble, rolling down from the hills above Loch Lomond, clapped deafeningly, and the heavens opened with a vengeance.

‘My God,’ she said out loud. ‘Just listen to that!’

‘That,’ said a voice behind her, growling along with the thunder, ‘is the sound of the end of days.’

9.20 P.M.

As the door swung open, Costello recognized the smell. She had encountered it often enough. Somewhere in here was a body, a dead body in a state of rank decomposition.

Suddenly a squawking black demon shot out of the dark, and she yelped and ducked. Then she straightened up, her heart hammering, to see the crow glide into the trees. Was it her imagination, or was –
something
– dangling from its beak? She stood in the doorway, her face turned to the open air, and took a few deep breaths, waiting for the panic to die down. Whatever she would find in there, it was going to be bad.

In the dim front room, she could see a bed, with something covered with a sheet.

Pettigrew was still outside, checking round the back. Costello let her eyes adjust to the gloom, and saw a small computer desk on wheels, a laptop with an extension cable, and several stacks of boxes. Carefully, she flipped a lid open with the point of a pen; the box was full of computer disks, new, unused. Another box with a commercial printer’s label was full of cards.

She turned back towards the bed, holding her breath, feeling for the sheet, and pulled gently. A cloud of flies swarmed up out of the dark into her face, and she screamed.

Pettigrew slammed in through the door, gun in hand. ‘What the fuck … ?’

Hands clamped over her mouth, unable to breathe or speak, Costello nodded at the bed. Lying on it was the huge mass of a dead woman, crawling with maggots. The bed was stained with faeces, and the stench in the small room was unbearable. For a long moment, all Costello could hear over her own pounding heart was the flies dashing themselves frantically against the closed windows.

Pettigrew put his gun away, and pulled at her elbow. ‘Out,’ he said. ‘You need to breathe.’

But she shook her head mutely. She risked moving one hand from her mouth and nose to reach over to a pile of red envelopes shaped like pillar boxes. She held one up for Pettigrew to see. It was a sleeve for a DVD, addressed to PillarBoxFlix.

Pettigrew just said, ‘Oh, right.’ He sounded almost relieved. But he didn’t seem surprised. ‘You, out,’ he said again.

Costello hovered in the doorway, within reach of some fresher air, and watched as Pettigrew switched on the laptop, slightly shifting the trolley it stood on, and looked at the neat cables to see if they would stretch to the bed.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘My job,’ he said, tapping away at the keys.

Intrigued, Costello put a handkerchief over her mouth and came closer to look over his shoulder. The screen was a mass of unintelligible words. ‘What is it?’

Pettigrew was following the text with a fingertip. ‘It’s in code. But I bet it’s the plan to take out Richie Spence.’

Her stomach lurched. She was going to be sick. ‘How do you know that?’ she forced herself to ask.

‘It’s dated the 26th, two days before he was taken.’

It wasn’t only the smell and the shock that was making Costello feel ill. Pettigrew had no way of knowing when Richie had been taken. She muttered an excuse and bolted out into the cool, refreshing rain. And then was violently sick. Once she straightened up, she realized Pettigrew had followed her out.

‘I’d better go back to the school.’

‘I don’t think so.’ And then he pointed the gun at her.

9.30 P.M.

Anderson was beginning to wonder where Costello and Pettigrew had got to. He knew that Howlett was taking him somewhere, but had no idea where. And there was no sign of the backup the ACC had supposedly organized for them. As they trekked through the Forestry
Commission planting, the strangely warm refreshing rain began to bucket down. Big drops came pattering like tears through the pine needles, and the little sky that could be seen was rapidly darkening.

‘What’s that?’ Anderson asked, halting. Through the trees he could hear a strange high-pitched mewling, the sound of a human being in distress. Disturbingly, it reminded him of the sound Rusalka had made as he held her on the ladder. He had no idea where the noise was coming from, but it didn’t seem to be close by.

‘We’ll walk on a bit,’ was all Howlett said.

But Anderson was reluctant to move. ‘I think that noise is coming from over there, so we need to go through here.’

‘Humour me. We have better things to do.’ Howlett stepped aside as if exhausted, letting Anderson move ahead of him into a clearing, where a group of people were waiting for them.

‘Hello, DCI Anderson,’ Cameron Fairbairn said, grinning like a jackal. ‘Nice to meet you again. I don’t know your colleague, but I’m sure we’ll become acquainted. Briefly,’ he added. He looked at his watch, twisting the gun he was holding slightly. ‘You came the quick way through the trees – unlike your friend here, who went the long way round.’

He flicked the gun casually to the side where Costello was standing rooted to the spot, pale and terrified, blood streaks across her face. Pettigrew stood behind her, preventing her from retreating. On a pile of logs, casually smoking, sat the fat girl from the school. Her heavy mascara had run in the rain and was drizzling down her cheeks. She wiped at it impatiently.

Anderson noticed too late that Howlett, his soaked linen suit clinging to every bone, had moved in behind him. He and Costello were trapped, totally. The ground was rusty with fallen pine needles, the smell of it warm and earthy in the long-awaited rain. The sky rumbled and for a moment the scene lit up, making Libby Hamilton look like a Hammer Horror zombie. And all the while that ghostly keening emanated from somewhere. But where?