Absolution (36 page)

‘Maybe. Being a Roman Catholic, she felt he was more approachable than myself. She’d reached a turning point in her life. She was doing her best… But she is in God’s hands now, and we can comfort ourselves with that.’

Costello felt like pointing out that far from being in God’s hands, Arlene was on a slab in the mortuary, cold as stone, sewn up the midline. She said, ‘But the minute she got on the right road she was murdered. She was found lying next to a rubbish skip, half naked on the coldest night of the year, ripped open, left to bleed to death. How could you not let that test your faith?’

‘My faith is uncompromised. Miss Costello, I have no crisis of faith. My own brother left his faith, and he died in very tragic circumstances.’ He put his hands in front of him, palm to palm. He was a man of great control. ‘If faith could get me through that, then believe me, I can face Armageddon and not have my faith shaken.’

‘Very difficult to lose a close family member, something we both come across all too frequently in our jobs – unfortunately. DCI McAlpine went through a similar experience to your own.’ Costello paused, but there was no reaction from Leask. ‘Tragic, wouldn’t you say?’ she continued. Then paused again, inviting a response.

‘Very tragic,’ said Leask, nodding slowly, his eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion, but he did not elucidate.

Costello leaned forward, softening her voice a little. ‘Mr Leask, could you help us out here? I don’t like listening to rumours, so could you clarify for us the circumstances of your brother’s death? I know you touched on it with DCI McAlpine, I know it’s unfortunate, but we do have to cover all the angles.’

Leask stroked the side of his face slowly before answering. ‘There’s no great mystery, DS Costello. He took his own life while the balance of his mind was disturbed, that’s the correct phrase, I believe.’ The stroking stopped. ‘Tragic, as you said, but that’s all.’

‘Thanks,’ Costello said, as she smiled her sweet smile. ‘None of that will go any further than it has to.’

Leask nodded gratefully.

‘And, while we’re here, could you tell us if you recognize this phone number?’ She held out the number they had found on Arlene’s phone.

‘That’s the one in this office,’ the minister said carefully. ‘This phone.’

‘And that one?’ She held out the number taken from Elizabeth Jane’s phone bill.

‘Where did you get that?’ His voice flickered a little. It was the first sign of weakness Costello had picked up.

‘Never mind. We know it’s registered to a phone in here. Which one?’

‘That’s Tom’s private line.’ Then adding, realizing the implication of what he had said, ‘Well, not
private
exactly. It’s the one we phone him on – the staff, I mean.’

‘Do you think Elizabeth Jane might have been attracted to Father O’Keefe in some way?’

The question unnerved Leask. ‘I can’t really say.’

‘Between us,’ said Costello, leaning forward, ‘she was a single girl. Thomas O’Keefe is a young and attractive priest. Do you think something could have been going on there? Some kind of crush, maybe?’

‘No.’

‘Not even on her part only? You seem very sure.’

‘I am.’

‘Nothing’s more attractive in a man than being unobtainable. You never got the impression that Father O’Keefe felt some resentment towards her? After all, she wasn’t exactly using the place for the greater good, was she? All that fuss about the wedding, for instance.’

‘I can’t really say,’ repeated Leask.

‘And can you say, Mr Leask, whether Arlene spent more time with you or with Father O’Keefe?’

‘Him. As I said, she was of the same faith.’

‘And would you say, Mr Leask, that Elizabeth Jane spent more time with you or with Father O’Keefe?’

Leask looked around, as if he wanted the floor to open up. ‘Him probably, but only because she hardly spoke to me. Please don’t be under the impression I knew the family well. I only went round to see her parents because I was representing Andrew Shand, representing the Church. The family are Church of Scotland; you know that.’

‘But not the same Church as yours?’

‘What’s that expression you use in Glasgow? We kicked with the same foot.’ He smiled again. ‘Why are you asking me all this?’

‘Because Elizabeth Jane’s parents never set eyes on Tom O’Keefe. We have no corroborative evidence as to who “Tom” actually is. And nobody can tell us who Arlene’s priest was.’

‘Oh – meaning they could be the same person? I’m going
to paraphrase myself.’ He said, with genuine distaste, ‘I’m glad I do my job. And I’ll leave you to yours. I will pray for you.’

‘Thanks,’ she said lightly. ‘I need all the help I can get.’

‘Just one more thing,’ said Mulholland. ‘Do you know where we can find Sean McTiernan? Is he around?’

Leask visibly relaxed at the question. Costello wondered how much strain he had been under while he was talking; lying was stressful. ‘No, I thought he would have been in today. He hasn’t been seen since yesterday, not that he is obliged, of course. His social worker has been on the phone to Leeza.’ The phone went again, and Costello raised her hand to say goodbye and half dragged Mulholland into the hall.

‘Right, you hang about here. O’Keefe will be arriving in a minute.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Outside to phone the station, I’ll be back in a mo. Keep an eye on Leask and don’t let him out of your sight. I’ve a couple of phone calls to make about Messrs McTiernan and Leask.’

‘Leask? Why him?’

‘You don’t think I believed all that twaddle about his brother, do you?’

After five minutes of pacing up and down the hall, the dust irritating his sinuses, Mulholland felt his mobile vibrate.

‘It’s me. My battery’s low. McTiernan’s done a runner, cleaned out his bedsit, the lot. I think I know where he is. Stay put, Anderson’s on his way. Tell him to expect a call from – ’ The phone cut off.

‘No bloody option but to stay put, have I? Silly cow.’

It was just gone two o’clock when Costello pulled the car into the lay-by at the Electric Brae and took a sip of her
bottled water, enjoying the silence. The weather was clear, bright and sunny, but the wind bit with a grip that foretold winter round the corner. Ailsa Craig sat like a tea cosy in a sea of watercolour blue. Ireland lay low behind, sleepy and indistinct.

She remembered this road as a child, and its strange phenomenon: a parked car runs uphill if the handbrake is slipped. People who knew about such things said it was all to do with the lie of the land, an optical illusion. Costello preferred the theory of the Electric Brae, a strange force that pulled cars against the force of gravity. She turned off the engine and gently slipped the handbrake off, and the Toyota, imperceptibly at first, began to roll up the hill. As it gained speed, Costello pressed her foot on the brake. She smiled to herself: physical proof that the world was just that little bit crazy.

She put on the handbrake and got out the OS map. The estate agent at Mauchline had been very helpful. Mr Laidlaw had made her a cup of Earl Grey and explained that he could say nothing about who
had
bought the two houses. But he could say plenty about who
had not.
He had pointed out the location of the two cheap rundown cottages and had let slip that he’d had to drive to Ayr to get the purchaser to sign, because
she
wouldn’t leave her flat.

Costello looked down at the bay. This was where the cottages, and the answers, should be. If she wanted to hide from the world, she couldn’t think of a more beautiful place than this.

She pulled the car out on to the road and went along to the next lay-by, which had a lane running off it down to the shore. She looked at the map again. This was the closest the headland road got to the shore, though it was still a good half-mile from the beach. She drove on, slowing to look at
a stall selling watercolour pictures of the castle and the sea beyond. She was searching for another lane closer to the beach, looking for a house close to the water, out of sight of the road.

To her left, Culzean Castle shone burnished gold in the strange light, the hills behind purple, fading to lavender. It was so beautiful, she wanted to fill her eyes with the rich colours. Scotland was a country coloured with an autumn palette. She noticed the castle drifting on the skyline; the road was swinging inland. She had gone too far.

She did a U-turn on a long straight stretch and headed back the way she had come. She looked again at the stall she had passed on the way out. Profitable in the summer, she thought: this scenery was so picturesque, so near the castle. Yet it was October now and freezing cold. How profitable could it be?

No tax. No VAT. And, she supposed, a wee backhander to the tourist coaches that ploughed up and down this road. It would be on the itinerary for every McKay’s Tour doing the West Coast.

She indicated and pulled in. They would know how many houses were on the beach: from the look of it, they had painted the place often enough. A woman was sitting behind the table on a folding chair, reading the
People’s Friend,
a knitted bunnet pulled over her head and a tartan rug wrapped round her legs. Behind the range of watercolours on the table was a red tartan flask. She would need it.

‘Hello, dear,’ said the woman, looking up from her story, her eyes framed by steel-rimmed glasses, the bristles on her mole twitching.

Costello felt a tingle of adrenalin. ‘These are lovely.’

The woman nodded, totally off guard.

DS Costello held up her warrant card. ‘I’m looking for Sean McTiernan.’

‘Aye.’ The woman was good. The beady little eyes looked unfriendly behind the glasses, a keen intellect calculating how much to tell, and the only sign of unease a slight shuffle of the fingers over the tartan blanket. ‘I’ve had a few women looking for him in my time. Usually younger than you, though.’

Costello made a note to get her done for unlawful trading. ‘Do you know where he is?’

‘No.’

‘He missed his meeting with his social worker, and he hasn’t been seen at his bedsit,’ said Costello casually.

‘I knew where he was staying in Glasgow, but if he’s not there, he’s not there.’

Costello could not argue with that logic. ‘You saw him in the Ashton Café, last week?’ The narrow face looked blank. ‘A coffee shop in Glasgow, Saturday midday?’

‘Oh, aye, weak tea, uncomfy seats.’

‘And you have no idea where he is?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Do you know where Trude is?’

There was a hesitation. More than that, a look of slight panic. Pain? ‘I’ve no idea where she is. I’ve not seen her for years.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. Goodbye now.’ The old woman opened up her magazine again. It was as effective as slamming a door in Costello’s face. She walked back to her car. A silver BMW, one of those with the quartered wheel-trim, had driven past but was now reversing, as if curious to have a look. Maybe McAlpine should buy Helena one of those,
to make up for ruining hers. She got into her Corolla and drove off, unaware of the look the two men in business suits gave her as she accelerated away.

Mulholland was getting pissed off with waiting. He had been told to wait, and that Anderson was on his way. His instructions were not to speak to O’Keefe alone.

The Irishman had come in, carrying some carrot cake and a takeaway cappuccino. He’d waved the paper cup at Mulholland.

‘Oh, if I’d known we were to be having company I would’ve brought another.’ The familiar keys had jangled as O’Keefe balanced the cake on top of the cup and opened the door.

Mulholland had been tempted to follow him in, have a crack at him on his own, but his career meant more to him than that. He murmured to O’Keefe that he would look around if that was OK, and disappeared down the hall. O’Keefe didn’t answer, already drawn into the room by a ringing phone. Mulholland turned back and listened at the door long enough to know it was a call about a client; he recognized the name of a local GP, spoken informally, as though O’Keefe knew him well. He wandered off towards the laundry, a small room panelled in chipboard and dwarfed by a huge yellow industrial washing machine, and stinking of damp wool and disinfectant. There was a rack of clothes, unsellable stuff from the charity shop, dead men’s clothes. He wondered if Lynzi had brought any of them in. Probably. The smell in here was affecting his sinuses even more. He opened a small door into the yard, his shoes crunching on broken glass, and looked up at the newly fitted glass of the window, still imprinted with puttied fingers. The trestle and the saw were still lying there: the repair had been recent. A
can of Coke, ring-pull up, stood on top of the sandstone wall. He looked into the plastic toolbox. The tools were not new, but they were kept the way Mulholland’s dad had kept his tools, the saw blades wrapped in hessian to protect the teeth. He stepped over the toolbox, the top still propped open, and noticed
SMcT etched
on the lid and then scribbled over repeatedly with ink. He bent down, raking around with the tip of his pen. His eyes rested on the knife, long and strong, beautifully polished. And he blessed his Russian mother, who never used to let him out of the front door without a pristine white handkerchief in his top pocket.

Anderson found the front door of the Phoenix lying on the snib. He opened it cautiously, entering into the darkness and the familiar smell of dust and polish. He paused, then gestured to Wyngate to stay with the car. O’Keefe’s door was open, and Anderson observed him for a moment: the priest looked calm and relaxed. He seemed totally untroubled, happy even, biting into his carrot cake with gusto, his hand cupped underneath to catch the crumbs.

Anderson rattled a knuckle on the side of the door. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’

‘Not at all.’ The priest was expansive. ‘Have a seat.’

‘I just wanted a word about Arlene,’ Anderson said. ‘How well did you know her?’

‘Not well at all.’ The priest shrugged, licking crumbs from his fingertips. ‘A pathetic girl, really. I went to see her mother after she died.’ He pulled a face. ‘An alcoholic, poor woman. A terrible life.’

“We all have our crosses to bear.’