The Red Red Snow, page 3
As she waited for a few folk she knew to gather in the drive outside the crematorium, Costello watched an early snowflake settle on the back of her glove, then soften and disappear. How many of Pippa’s friends had drifted away like that, caught in a breeze, and blown elsewhere?
The whole thing was unbearably sad. Costello stepped between the trees, waiting to see who was coming and going, who had paid their respects, who couldn’t be arsed to attend.
The chill in the wind was rising, making her head hurt so much she could have believed she still had an open wound there. Cold air had an uncanny knack of homing in on her old scars and fractures, her whole head a mass of stabbing pains. She should have worn a warmer hat.
She was watching in fascination, an absorbed spectator, when a tap on her shoulder brought her up short. She turned, expecting it to be Colin coming to see how she was, asking her to come back to her old job. She had her happy face ready.
No such luck.
It was Valerie Abernethy, Archie’s niece in all but DNA.
‘Hi, Costello, how are you?’ Valerie opened her arms and hugged her. ‘It’s been a long time. Let’s go back to the hotel and have a lovely chat. I haven’t seen you since the Taverner case.’
‘There’s a talk show on Channel Four for folk like you,’ said Costello, turning away. ‘It was a year ago, it’s best forgotten.’
‘Do you know what happened to the wife? Moira?’
‘Morna,’ corrected Costello. ‘No idea. Colin will know. He loves charging to the aid of damsels in distress, and Morna has that tragic red-headed heroine thing that he can’t resist. Christ, I hope they never meet again. Thank God she’s a hundred miles away.’
‘Well,’ said Valerie, ‘she wasn’t to know her husband was a serial rapist, drug dealer and adulterer. She never suspected. She had never seen any of the money – a busy young mum with a career and a husband who was away a lot. Just as I had never guessed.’
They watched Brenda Anderson being driven away, boyfriend at the wheel as her husband chatted to some police colleagues Costello recognized but couldn’t recall the names of.
‘You wonder about them, don’t you, the law-abiding masses?’
Costello knew exactly what she meant. They both walked on the dark side of the street, and now they were scanning the mourners, knowing that among them would be well-dressed child abusers, wife beaters, control freaks, liars, cheats, thieves and scoundrels. Everybody was guilty of something.
‘So, what now?’ Costello asked, pushing herself off the tree, a signal that the cosy chat was over.
‘I’m doing advocacy work, for the domestic violence unit. Giving something back, and I’m staying with Archie for a while. He talks about you a lot.’
‘I bet he swears about me a lot.’
‘Not as much as he swears about me, leaving a crumb in the toaster, not folding the towels three times when stacking them. He goes quietly ballistic. It’s hysterical.’
They stood in silence, watching the line break up. ‘He has mourned Pippa for a long time – must be about six or seven years since she was really herself – so he had lost her like sand through his fingers. This is just the final …’
‘Nail in the coffin?’ suggested Costello, making Valerie wince.
‘What about you? Workwise?’
‘Much the same as you – doing some case work in the domestic violence unit. I get the feeling I’m being kept quiet, after the head injury.’
‘Maybe that’s for the best.’
They watched Archie walk back to a black Merc, on his own.
‘I guess some things never change.’
‘Nope, I think we’ll always be busy.’
‘I’m serious, Costello. I never want to lose the friendship we have, so please stay in touch.’ Valerie gave her a hug.
‘Of course I will,’ said Costello, making a mental note to give Valerie Abernethy a wide berth.
‘Lovely service,’ Anderson said, just for something to say to the old man edging into his own personal space.
‘Yes, very fitting,’ the man replied, removing his hat and shaking off raindrops that only he could see.
Anderson took a step back, attempting to extricate himself from the conversation of funeral niceties that he sensed was coming forth, but his new companion closed in again, making it clear that he wanted to talk, and wanted to talk to him specifically.
Anderson looked into the face that was inches away from his: kind, soft features with eyes the colour of honeybees, a waxy jaundice to his skin. His smile was wide and genuine, but concentrated. He was well dressed, dapper, a small neat knot in his black tie. The shortness of the lapels of his collar spoke of how old the shirt was, but he had kept it pristine white. He freed his fingers from a leather glove revealing liver-spotted skin. The crinkled palm was dry as it slid, uninvited, into Anderson’s hand.
The handshake, when it came, was firm.
‘This is when the difficult bit starts,’ the old man said, the grey hair of his eyebrows growing over his glasses.
Anderson wondered how many funerals that black tie had seen, how many memories it had forgotten. Anderson tried to pull his hand away, but the older man didn’t let go easily. Their eyes met; Anderson’s bright blue and the man’s like honeybees, clear for someone so old, but the police officer could see something in there that went beyond tears for an old friend.
‘You don’t recognize me, Mr Anderson, do you?’ The old man blinked, his gloved hand came up, cupped Anderson’s upper arm, guiding him to the side. Brenda had already left with Rodger, so Anderson allowed himself to drift with the bony, firm fingers.
‘You look familiar, but I can’t quite place you.’ Anderson smiled, hoping he had not caused offence, but this old guy did not look as if he would take offence easily.
‘Gerald Sixsmith,’ the old man nodded. Now they were walking, their feet crunching the gravel in unison. Anderson played for time. The name was there, hiding at the back of his recall. Not an angry memory, but an unhappy one.
‘Well, I remember you perfectly, Mr Anderson. You brought my daughter back to me. What was left of her. Three months she had been out there …’ He shook his head. ‘I could bury her then. You found my daughter, and you found her killer. You gave me the ability to sleep at night.’ He smiled again. ‘I just wanted to thank you. Thank you that I will lie on my death bed a peaceful man, not still wondering what happened to Sharon.’
‘Sharon Sixsmith? Yes, I recall reading the reports … awful,’ he said, letting the words be heard out loud. ‘But it wasn’t me. We knew there were more victims and …’ He murmured something about it being a team effort and he was glad he had brought some comfort, studying the man’s face and trying to see something of the young woman in the father’s features.
He failed.
All he could see was Morna Taverner and the way she was forced to live by the man she had married.
Anderson said, ‘I’d better go and offer my condolences.’
The old man proffered his hand again. Anderson shook it, but the hand was now reptilian and cold.
TWO
Florence glanced at her watch, wondering when she could go for her lunch. Not soon, by the look of it. She adjusted her name badge, the skirt of her uniform and her smile. The two old codgers coming through the door of the car rental office looked a right pair – well, the two old codgers trying to get through the door. The weather warnings were making her day very difficult, and these two weren’t going to make it easier. They looked older than fungus.
Florence’s smile was rictus; the old couple were still not making any headway. The woman, the spritely granny type, was dragging a luggage trolley piled high with cases and camera bags. A few boxes marked ‘Fragile’ or ‘Samples’ were perched precariously on the top, and swinging on the front was a rounded leather case that looked as though it contained a musical instrument. Two laptop bags dangled on the handrail.
Florence’s smile morphed to empathetic as the woman wrestled with a trolley three times her weight, but she manoeuvred her load with strength and vigour, while her companion, a ball of cord trousers and Tyrolean jumper, was still outside the door, listing like a yacht in a hurricane. As he slowly came into full view, the white cast on his left leg was revealed by his rolled-up trouser leg, a worn blue sock crumpled round his toes. He was using a crutch on one side, waddling, his plastered leg swinging out with each stride and making him look seriously unsteady.
Florence was guessing Austrian, maybe Swiss. She asked, ‘Can I get you a chair?’
The reply, in English, was perfect in grammar but accented like a Nazi in an Indiana Jones film. ‘Yes, I would like very much to sit. I have two bones broken in my ankle. Two bones.’
‘Here, have a seat.’ Florence came out from behind her desk, indicating the chairs, strewn with old copies of the Metro and empty water bottles. She cleared two seats, then helped the woman to park the recalcitrant trolley, steadying the pyramid of luggage. ‘Mr and Mrs Korder?’ Florence went back behind the desk and checked the names on the screen. ‘You are here to collect a Renault Clio?’ Her tone drifted up into a question. They’d never fit in.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Korder, ‘but we think that we may need a change because we have an injury. Because of the injury we could not fly, so we have travelled on the sleeper train.’
Florence nodded.
‘But we now need a bigger car for the weather.’ The woman gave a brief nod, then opened the leather satchel that hung over her shoulder. Her cold, bony fingers dug around, flicking through plastic folders of tickets and health insurance documents, looking for the car hire paperwork.
They spoke to each other in German. Florence didn’t need her language skills to follow the conversation; it was very familiar to her. Did you put it in here? It was in the pink folder. There isn’t a pink folder. It’s that one there behind the green one. That’s purple, not pink … Every language, in every airport, every country, every car hire office, the conversation was the same.
Florence’s smile was fixed as her head rotated left and right as if she was watching a good rally at Wimbledon. She clasped her hands, pleasant and waiting. The old dear fumbled deeper in her bag, then plucked a folder out with a sense of triumph. The old man shook his head, muttering something, his hand out, flicking his fingers, demanding to see it, sure it was the wrong one. Then they started arguing over the bag itself. He was saying that he put it in there and she was arguing that obviously he didn’t as it wasn’t there now.
‘We have been working in London now for almost eight months, so we think we shall enjoy being in the north of Scotland.’ Mrs Korder smiled at Florence, who nodded back in the conspiratorial way of women who have to put up with men. ‘For our Christmas and your Hog-mon-nay.’
‘I’m sure you will enjoy it,’ and then felt compelled to add, ‘And welcome to Scotland.’ Florence studied her, creating a background, a habit she had developed to pass the time while keeping an interested look on her face. Mrs Elise Korder was the kind who enjoyed the outdoor life, hiking and standing on the top of mountains doing yoga. She had that very slim build that belied a lot of strength.
Henning Korder looked as if he drank too much and enjoyed it.
He’d pulled out the correct documents and handed them over. Florence typed in that the named driver had his leg in plaster, and that they would need a different vehicle. The woman asked her to change their booking to an all-terrain vehicle, a phrase that came out so perfectly that Florence knew it had been rehearsed.
As she typed, they were chatting, moving bags around, looking for a driving licence and a medical certificate in English. They rattled things in the flight bag, plastic bottles of medication, back and forth, reminding her of her granddad and that wee woman from the bowling club he used to hang about with.
‘Where are you going today?’ asked Florence, smiling sweetly with a quick glance at the clock. Time was moving on and the weather was closing in.
Elise Korder nodded and placed a leaflet on the desk. ‘Glen Riske.’
‘Lovely,’ said Florence. ‘They filmed the James Bond film near there, you know. Skyfall.’
Elise Korder nodded.
‘The car has satnav, but I will print you a map off the computer,’ offered Florence, typing into Google maps. She had seen the forecast. These two needed to get a move on before the snow got any worse.
DI Costello hurried along the corridor of the Queen Elizabeth, desperate to get home and take the funeral suit off. These long airless walkways of the hospital never changed – always on the grey side of white, air heavy with the smell of boiled potatoes and floor cleaner. She nodded at the nurses at the station, showing them her warrant card while searching the whiteboard for Kathy’s room number. The patient had been moved further along the corridor: not a sign that she was getting better, but more like the state of her face could have frightened any kids walking past now that the little buggers were off school for the Christmas holidays.
Kathy was in her bed, propped up on three pillows, sipping tea from a lipped plastic mug. The drip had been removed, the dressings were smaller, and she looked as if she could get her lips over the wires on her top teeth. On the beside unit was a pile of magazines, Take a Break on the top, with a jar of Nutella and a dirty spoon next to a half full bottle of Irn-Bru. At the back was a picture of the perfect Hopper family: mum and dad with the two blonde daughters, Holly and Lucy. On her lap was True Crime magazine, its cover monochrome apart from the blood dripping from the model’s huge head wound.
If it was a model.
Costello recognized the case. A wife and two daughters who had been beaten to death by the husband; Alaska, Costello remembered. The dad had claimed there wasn’t a lot to do in the long dark days. He had used the priest on his kids, the same baton he used to stun fish. Kathy Hopper reading about a man battering his wife and kids to death? Costello bet she didn’t see the irony.
She tapped the magazine. Kathy looked up, her eyes still ringed in delicate purple. ‘You thinking of selling your story?’
Kathy attempted a smile, putting the cup down, allowing True Crime to slither to the floor in a ruffle of cheap colour print.
Costello retrieved it. The pages had fallen open at a picture of the dead wife: not a model, her face an explosion of bloodied lips, bone and tissue.
‘She still looks better than you,’ Costello said, handing the magazine back to her. ‘How are you feeling, Kathy? The swelling’s gone down a bit.’
‘Oh, yes. I’m feeling a lot better, thank you. The pain management’s great. I get stuff in here that you’d arrest me for outside.’
‘Enjoy it while you can.’
‘How are you?’ Kathy indicated the seat. ‘Shift that bag, get comfy. You still on light duties?’
‘Yeah, God knows how they can think that this is light. I’ve some good news, though. The fiscal is scaling it up from actual to grievous due to the extent of the injuries. It’s good because he could be …’
Kathy put her hand up, stopping Costello mid-sentence, but kept looking straight ahead. ‘He came to see me.’
‘Why did they let him in?’
Kathy smiled and Costello’s heart sank. ‘Oh, we spoke for quite a while. It was nice.’
It wasn’t so much the words that were coming out of Kathy’s swollen, black mouth but the look in her eyes: resignation with just a hint of triumph.
‘He apologized.’
‘I bet he did.’
‘No, give him his due. He apologized.’
‘What did he say? Oh Kathy, I am so sorry for ramming my knee into your face. I should have vacuumed your teeth up quicker. What was it, Kathy? Because I’d really like to hear.’
Kathy turned to look at Costello directly, her eyes still red like the devil. ‘You see, you don’t understand.’
‘You’re bloody right about that.’
‘Well, it was my fault.’
‘Was it? Oh, yes, you’re right, I got that wrong. You rammed your face into his knee and knocked out your own teeth.’
Kathy tried to smile, then thought better of it. ‘What I meant was, I riled him. He had been very busy at work, I was running late. His dinner wasn’t ready. I made a ragu sauce and I put garlic in it. He hates garlic, but I wasn’t concentrating because the kids were making such a bloody noise. He likes the kids to be quiet.’
‘I know. He threw the pan in your face – the sauce was all down the wall. The attending officer thought it was your brains at first. An easy mistake to make as you were lying on the floor, not breathing. But you don’t recall that, do you? I’ve seen the pictures of your kitchen before we picked your teeth up. Do you want to see them?’
‘Costello, I’m grateful for all your help, I really am, but it was an accident, and I’d like to drop the charges.’
‘I don’t think that’s your call now. The legal process goes on.’
‘Without my help, it goes nowhere.’
‘That’s debatable.’ Costello crossed her legs, folded her arms, making the point that she herself was going nowhere. ‘We have the statements from those that attended the scene, those that treated your injuries, those that saved your life.’
Kathy talked slowly, ignoring the memory that was different to what she was about to say. She had been coached in her response. ‘You can’t do much without me as a witness. I won’t comply. He’s apologized for what he did, and I’ve accepted that apology. So now I want to get back home to the girls. It’s Christmas on Wednesday.’
Costello didn’t say anything. She moved the jar of Nutella to one side and looked at the pictures of the girls, tilting her head, catching Kathy’s line of vision. ‘As long as you can be there when he starts on the girls. That’s one way of coping. Putting him behind bars would be better, in case he takes a shovel to your head, so that he has to step over your body to get to Lucy and Holly. You will be lying on the floor bleeding instead of protecting them. Next time your brains will be down the wall, not the ragu. Garlic or no garlic.’
