The Blood of Crows (47 page)

Authors: Caro Ramsay

Costello was right that Libby had played the moral card, and Anderson couldn’t help letting it colour his thoughts about her. Libby had known she would have to
solve the Marchetti mystery to allow the families’ history to settle before the new generation could rebuild their empire. So, she and her mysterious ‘help’ had searched all those tunnels in a race against time before they were recommissioned. They had found the tiny skeleton, but had left the evidence untouched, so forensics would prove once and for all who was at the bottom of it. Then they had quite literally sat Costello down face to face with that evidence.

Anderson had been told there would be no public enquiry, that the security risk was too high. It wasn’t his decision, so he wasn’t going to think about it. He wasn’t going to think about how much Howlett actually knew about Morosov right at the start, and yet had been content to let the team take all the risks in order to track down the nuts and bolts of the operation. Howlett had known about Moffat. Following Moffat’s electronic footprint would have led him eventually to Morosov, and that might have sparked the memory of that game of golf. What happened then was open to conjecture.

Did Morosov, with his veneer of total respectability, send his daughter to this country in order to forge the link to the recently recruited MacFadyeans? It sounded a lot of trouble – until he recalled that five million pounds was at stake. It was a good investment. And the only day Howlett could guarantee that Morosov would be in the country was his daughter’s leaving day. Anderson wondered what had forced Howlett’s hand. Saskia’s leaving day? The recommissioning of the shaft? Or his fatal prognosis?

On reflection, it might after all be better to leave it to somebody younger – someone like Libby. Let Special
Branch monitor the movement of small aircraft dropping suspicious-looking packages on the east coast. The Strathclyde police service would sit in their offices, only venturing out to arrest shoplifters.

And what was he going to do?

He had no idea.

His mind turned to happier things. Mary had moved to a rented flat in the city and from all accounts was slowly getting her life back together. She was visiting her sister daily at the hospital, where Rene was being assessed at the memory clinic. Without her, they might never have got Moffat – he simply never saw an old dear who was practically gaga as a threat.

He turned round at a hard clapping sound behind him. Two crows were joined on a rocky outcrop by a third. They all looked at him, tilting their heads slightly. Studying him.

Then a fourth cawed loudly and settled, regarding him, its beak open as if half smiling.

Four wee craws.

They all four seemed happy, coming home to roost.

12.10 P.M.

Anderson turned off the engine of the Jazz outside his house, and sat for a few minutes listening to it ticking as it cooled. The side gate was closed, which meant Nesbitt at least was in the garden. He opened the window to get some fresh air, scenting the heavy peaty smell of a rain-soaked garden.

It all signalled a new beginning. The horror of the last week was over. Everything, from here on in, would be a decision made by somebody else.

Except for that one decision he had to make himself. He lifted his mobile from its cradle and rang Helena.

She sounded tired, but pleased to hear from him. ‘Sorry, I’ve had a bit of a sleepless night. How are you?’

‘I’m OK, considering. There’s a lot going on, and it’s all a bit up in the air …’

He ran out of words. ‘You’ve got lots of opera CDs, haven’t you?’ he asked, awkwardly.

‘Loads,’ she answered. ‘Why – have you suddenly been seized with a passion for Wagner or Puccini?’

‘There’s something I really need to listen to,’ he said. ‘I thought you might know it.’

She didn’t ask any searching questions. ‘Tell me.’

‘It’s by Dvořák.’ He pronounced it as he’d seen it written.

‘Dvorzhak.’ She yawned.

Somehow, he didn’t mind being corrected – not by Helena.

‘Which one?’

‘Rusalka,’ he said.

He heard a slight smile in her voice as she said sleepily, ‘Yes, I’ve got it. Do you want to borrow it? Or would you like to come round and listen to it here?’

‘Why don’t we meet for a coffee, and you can tell me the plot.’

‘It’s not that complicated.’

‘It’s always complicated,’ he said. And by the following silence, he knew she had got the subtle message.

‘OK, let’s meet for a coffee, then.’ And she rang off.

Anderson closed the window and saw through the gate that Nesbitt was wagging his tail, watching. He picked up the ‘Discover Australia’ travel brochure that was lying on the passenger seat – a vague idea of the holiday budget had already formed in his mind.

He had never thought about surfing. But there was a first time for everything.

Epilogue

MONDAY, 12 JULY 2010

It was five past midnight as the young woman walked up the path. Her straight black skirt stopped at the knee, and the peplum of the tailored jacket swished from side to side as she moved. Her bare legs were salon tanned, and above her red stilettos a small silver anklet glistened as it caught the moonlight. She walked purposefully, with conviction. A small leather handbag bounced slightly on her hip, her jet-black hair was cropped smartly.

She could have been any successful young woman going about her business.

But she was Elizabeth McGregor, and she was in control.

She strode across the lawn, ignoring the Keep Off signs, up to the front door of the St Boswell’s Care Home. She had told the driver to keep the car at the front entrance, engine running; she would only be a minute.

Auld Archie O’Donnell was in his wheelchair, his handmade shoes resting on the footplate, cardigan folded and ready. He had been waiting. Her intense brown eyes met his, pale blue like a cornflower faded by the sun. She could see in them the respect due from an O’Donnell to a McGregor.

‘How is he? My boy?’ The old man’s voice was a growl.

‘He’s going to be fine. They let his dad help him, your son. All will be well.’

‘So, all is well? Like I said to Richie-boy, nothing wrong in sleeping with the enemy, as long as you stay wide awake.’ The words were quietly spoken but had the strength of certainty about them. The old man’s bottom lip quivered a little, and he gave a slight nod of the head, as if assuring himself that all he had hoped for had come to pass. ‘Well done, hen. You’re a credit to those McGregor bastards.’

She smiled at him while he pulled his collar closed a little, as if he wanted to look smart. She wondered just how handsome he had been in his day. Too handsome, no doubt. She could still see a young Richie in there somewhere, half a century ago. She pushed him out of the door and down the path to the waiting Jag. This was exactly what Richie had promised his grandfather, on the very first day he had come to work in the care home.

The driver got out of the car to open the door for him. The boot was open ready to take the chair.

‘This is Mr Pettigrew, our chauffeur for the evening,’ she said.

She looked away as the two men embraced slightly, the way old friends do, holding on to each other for a wee bit too long as Pettigrew assisted Auld Archie into the car.

‘Don’t take me home yet. Give me a wee drive around ma city.’ Archie’s voice was strong from the back.

‘Our city,’ corrected Libby.

Author’s Note

The Blood of Crows
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used entirely fictitiously.

Acknowledgements

A good book is always a team effort. I’d like to thank everybody on my ‘team’, especially all at Gregory and Co. and at Penguin for being so supportive throughout the process. The Stephanies deserve a special mention for their endless patience. Also big thanks to everybody at work – who allow me to skive out of clinics and get on with the writing. As usual, special mentions for Annette, Liz and Karen who take up the slack. Special thanks this time to my esteemed colleague Vadim Kolganov who has tried, with no success whatsoever, to teach me the basics of the Russian language. It all ended up sounding like a Monty Python sketch.

A wee thank you for ‘Wee John’ and his expertise on all military matters, which were discussed at length over a good curry. And a big thank you to ‘Big John’ and the other members of the mighty JWG for their weekly ‘no holds barred’ edits. Much gratitude to R. Kerr and J. Manson, the legal beagles, for keeping me right on all issues of disclosure and Scots law, and to Dr John Clark for his expertise on forensic pathology.

And of course, a big thanks to the home team: the parents, Emily and Pi, and to Alan for the endless supply of black coffee and Pringles.

Caro

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