The Blood of Crows (5 page)

‘Any ideas?’

O’Hare said, ‘Maybe. It was somebody he knew, somebody he trusted – and he wouldn’t have trusted many. I’ve seen the victims of these drug dealers, shot in the eye, in the back of the knees, or just through the head. Off the record, I don’t think you’ve managed to nail him for any murders, have you?’

‘No, but I don’t doubt he was responsible. Though it was never him who took the fall, was it? Anyway, Fiona Morrison raised the possibility that Biggart might have been restrained to some degree. Can we address that?’ Anderson said brusquely. ‘I mean, he didn’t get up and get out. He just lay there and burned. Why?’

‘First things first. Here’s your man.’ O’Hare walked to the further examination table, where the white cover concealed an obviously large man. He pulled it back. The body of William Stuart Biggart had been burned to a crisp.

Wyngate turned green.

‘You can go up to the viewing gallery if you want,’ O’Hare said kindly, offering Wyngate an easy way to back out if he needed it. ‘In fact, Health and Safety prefer it that way.’

‘No, I’m fine,’ said Wyngate, taking a deep breath and then regretting it.

‘Well, there were no
visible
bindings,’ O’Hare began carefully. ‘He had on a shell suit which you can still see fused to his skin in places. On first examination it looks – though I’ll
have to confirm it – as though he had some sort of tattoos on his arms. His blood was clean, no drugs, so there’s no obvious reason why he didn’t get up and go, unless he was slipped something we don’t know about. A new drug that we wouldn’t know to test for,’ he corrected himself.

‘Like what?’ asked Anderson.

‘I’ll come to that later.’ O’Hare smiled slightly. ‘But I’ll take epithelial samples at his wrists and his ankles, see if there’s any trace of a binding that has been burned off. In either case, you have a dangerous arsonist to catch.’

‘So, this is how it ends. Forty-eight-year-old Billy Biggart, “The Bastard” to his friends and worse to those who weren’t.’ Anderson looked at the blackened fingertips, marvelling at O’Hare’s confidence in finding traces of anything in the charred and splintered bone.

‘And killed less than a week after the Balfron boys were shot in the head. The drug war is keeping the mortuary busy. Do we have a new king rising?’

‘Or a vigilante? Somebody set on revenge? Biggart was a big-time dealer, red heroin was left at the scene at Balfron … it has the ring of revenge about it.’

‘And the victims all neatly lined up. The scene was staged for effect, I would have said.’

‘Of course, you were there.’ Anderson rubbed his face. ‘The person who did this must be
connected
, as they say. Biggart has – had – a lot of connections, and very few of them will be happy to speak to us.’

‘That’s their lookout. They might be running scared now.’

The pathologist glanced over at Wyngate, who was trying not to look ill – and failing.

‘He’ll do. We don’t let him out much,’ muttered Anderson, ignoring the vibration of his mobile phone. His mind drifted to the bed in the other flat, and the strange holes in the ceiling, and he turned to look at the small figure lying under a white plastic sheet on the slab behind him, illuminated by low bright lights suspended over her.

O’Hare followed the line of his gaze. ‘Do you want to talk about her? Jo, I think DC Wyngate would be relieved to be taken for a coffee. Wouldn’t you, Wyngate?’

O’Hare very pointedly waited until they were alone before he said, ‘I want to tell you a few things, for your ears only.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Your young friend had a few stories to tell. Very young, pubescent but only just. Evidence of sexual abuse.’ O’Hare turned away to sign something, and Anderson felt that familiar kick to his stomach; but it was O’Hare who said it, putting the clipboard down on the side table. ‘I’m sure she would have been a delight to gentlemen of certain tastes. She’s unidentified as yet. We didn’t expect to get any trace evidence from her, since immersing a body in water is a really good way to do forensic cleansing, but surprisingly she might have held on to something for us.’

‘And it is –’

‘At the lab. The samples have been picked up by Matilda McQueen. She’s the new forensic scientist. Looks about twelve and the height of nothing, but she’s very good and she’s been assigned to this case’

‘Case?’ Anderson caught O’Hare’s eye, sensing an unspoken message, but O’Hare only pursed his lips as if he knew something he wasn’t saying.

‘So, on this table we have a victim, and on that table we have a drug dealer and pedlar of dodgy DVDs. Do you think she was used for that? Kiddie porn?’ pushed Anderson.

‘It’s not a huge leap career wise,’ O’Hare agreed gently. ‘Maybe you can get on to it now and prove it.’

‘Bit difficult if it’s not my case.’

1.10 P.M.

It was almost time for lunch by the time Costello crawled out of the shower and got dressed in an old black trouser suit, sticking a pin in the loose waistband. She was still in two minds about going to the funeral but took some comfort that there would be few people there she knew. Or so she hoped. She’d stand at the back and pay her last respects to a nice old copper who had shown her the ropes as a rookie. She remembered how ‘Top Cat’ Carruthers had gently elbowed her away at the scene of her first fatality. She had been holding the head of a dying woman, keeping her hair from her eyes, encouraging her to keep breathing no matter what. She recalled the way she had held the woman. She had felt the victim’s baby kick, a weird sensation. He’d told her to get out the way and find something bloody useful to do. So she had stood and stopped traffic entering the car park for three hours in the freezing cold.

She draped the towel over the cold metal radiator. The central heating had been off for a fortnight now, but it was still hot in the flat – an uncomfortable, airless, stuffy heat. Her riverside flat, laughingly called a penthouse by an
estate agent high on aftershave and low on vocabulary, had a huge feature window overlooking the Clyde that turned her front room into an oven. Not a common occurrence in Glasgow, she had to admit, but she felt like a butterfly under a magnifying glass. Her carpet was streaked with track marks where she had dragged the sofa round following the passage of the sun yesterday, trying to watch crap daytime TV without the glare clouding the screen.

Tired from the effort of dressing, she slumped now on to the sofa, not caring if her wet hair left a damp patch. After the ‘accident’ they had had to shave her scalp, and her hair had grown back in a strange light mousy brown that she had not seen for years. Now, when bored, she would sit at the mirror, pulling her hair this way and that, checking the still-visible scar. Then her fingers would feel the bone of her cheek, where the mesh was. Putting it in had been a late decision by the surgeon once the swelling had gone, and the web of tiny hairline fractures began to appear on X-ray. Cosmetic, he said, not really necessary, but her cheekbone would heal flat unless they slipped some mesh in to give the new bone growth a frame. Now, every time she looked at it, she noticed it. Sometimes, she dreamed the mesh was growing right through her skin, turning her face into a mask of blood. Waking, she would probe it obsessively. ‘Just leave it alone,’ the doctor told her, ‘and it’ll be fine.’

‘Do you feel your face is actually your own face?’ Dr McBride had asked her.

What was she supposed to say?

She had stopped taking her antidepressant now – she
didn’t need it, although the doctor said she did with everything she’d been through.
Blah, blah, blah.
At least now she could sleep – and sleep was a very welcome thing because being awake meant she had time to think, and thinking took her head to a dark place she did not want to visit, no matter how much Dr McBride wanted to take her by the hand and lead her there. The fact that there was nothing there, just a huge dark nothing, was the scariest thing of all. And the only thing that would take that away was work. She needed to get back. The funeral was a big test for her; she had to get out and socialize. She had to get signed off and back to work. The new Chief Constable had a view that cops were either fit to work or they were not. And if not, they were off the force. All she needed was a chance to prove herself.

Last night she had seen the activity on the river, but had been too far away to make anything out. The early Scottish news had reported:
News just coming in of the body of an unidentified female found in the Clyde. The police are treating the death as suspicious
 …

Her old colleagues were all working out of Partick Central at the moment, as the small station at Partickhill was still closed while they removed the asbestos. It might never reopen. In fact, she didn’t think they would ever work together again, and felt a twinge of loss at the thought. She even missed Vik Mulholland being an irritating opinionated bullshitter.

God, she must be ill.

And Anderson was busy, watching his back now as well as his career. He was still only a DI; the bastards hadn’t even promoted him yet. She knew Brenda wanted to take
him to Australia, and couldn’t bear to think of life without him. It would be like losing a brother.

She heard the letter box rattle; a noisier flutter of pages and paper than usual meant the neighbours had stuck the newspaper through the door. They thought it helped her stay in touch. She slid off the sofa and wandered into the hall. The
Daily Record
was lying tattered and fanned on the carpet. She went to the kitchen and boiled the kettle, paper under her arm, then back to the sofa to read the headline.

Skelpie bloody Fairbairn was back walking the streets.

She felt sick, sicker than sick.

Fuck! She picked up her mobile and phoned the Partickhill number from sheer habit; it was redirected. Partick Central answered. She asked for Colin Anderson and was told he was busy. She rang off and dialled his mobile, but it went straight to voicemail. She didn’t bother to leave a message, but snapped her phone shut and tapped it against her chin, thinking, trying to calm herself. She stood up and smoothed down her suit. All she had to do was walk out the door, take it one step at a time. Stay busy.

Then the phone rang, making her jump. She didn’t recognize the number.

‘DS Costello?’ asked a female voice. ‘This is the Assistant Chief Constable of Crime Howlett’s secretary. He’d like you to come in for a meeting. When would suit you?’

1.20 P.M.

‘Not your case?’ O’Hare folded the sheet neatly at her collarbone. ‘But you
were
there.’

‘She died in my arms. And I didn’t even notice it happening.’ The words caught in Anderson’s throat. The girl lay between them, her face grey but perfect, unblemished, framed by dark hair, dry and tidily combed. Her lips hung slightly open, showing the little gap in her front teeth. ‘How old was she?’ he asked, the words difficult to form in his cotton-dry mouth.

O’Hare leaned on the side of the slab, arms outstretched, looking at her. ‘Ten or so. She’s slightly malnourished. And look at her skin – when was the last time you think she saw the sun?’ He moved away from the central table. ‘OK, so if this is not your case, this is off the record.’

Anderson nodded.

O’Hare fired the question at him. ‘When you and Lambie were on the ladder, how was she?’

‘Cold, terrified, naked. Seeing death coming straight at her with every wave. How would you expect her to be?’

‘I would expect her to be hysterical with fear, but did she scream? Did she cry?’

‘She was too busy just breathing.’

O’Hare nodded, as if this was useful information. ‘Did she react at all? Did she look at you?’

Anderson thought for a minute and then shook his head. ‘No, she was just making this little sound, like a tired baby. I thought she looked at me but there was no focus, no reaction. Then she muttered something, then … just stopped.’

‘Nobody reported any screams along the embankment. And she didn’t cry out when the boat passed – I know the people on the boat heard nothing. Her image was only picked up by a high-spec phone,’ said O’Hare.

Anderson shook his head. ‘But she hadn’t the energy. She was blue with cold. She was … numb in every way.’

‘It was more than that, Colin. Something flagged up in her blood sample, so I asked them to do a full screen, given her age. At first I thought it was Rohypnol.’

‘The date rape drug?’

‘Close to it, but not exactly. Rohypnol leaves no traces, no metabolites, after a period of anything from one hour to eight hours max. The stuff I found works even faster, but she stopped metabolizing it when she died. Which means she was put there very shortly before you got to her, possibly less than thirty minutes earlier. We don’t know exactly what this stuff is. At the moment we’re calling it R2. I’ve told the tox lab, so you can speak to them. But you might be dealing with a fast-acting compliance drug, which leaves no trace. We’ve only seen it since the turn of the year, but now that we know it’s out there we can test for it. I requested a full tox analysis. However, Matilda McQueen had that thought before me and requested a further list of samples when I do my full PM – liver, brain, spleen, the lot.’ O’Hare shrugged a little. ‘Usually that’s my choice, but a request is a request. She’s being very thorough – and she was perfectly right.’

‘Or she had a good idea beforehand about what she was going to find. She knew the results of a PM you hadn’t yet done. I know she’s good, but that’s bloody marvellous. The logical conclusion is that she has seen it before.’

O’Hare raised his eyebrow but didn’t answer the non-question. ‘Well, R2 very probably contributed to the girl’s death in this case. There was river water in her mouth, but no froth in her airway, and no diatoms in her blood, so
I’m pretty sure she didn’t drown in the normal sense of the word. I’d say it was reflex respiratory arrest – true dry-drowning, if you like. So there was nothing you could have done to save her.’

‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better?’

O’Hare shrugged. ‘What might make you feel better is that possibly somebody gave Biggart the same stuff. But there’s no trace because he lived long enough to metabolize it. Not easy to control a big man like that otherwise.’