The Blood of Crows by Caro Ramsay Page B

up for kiddie-fiddling. Fairbairn could remember the first time he met McAlpine in the dark stinking corridor at Partickhill Station; as soon as they laid eyes on each other there was a wee flicker, as one liar recognized another. Well, someone had terminated the wee bastard not long after. Good on him.
    Now Skelpie would just have to be a bit more careful.
    He didn’t want to end up back inside.
    But he had choices, and this time he had friends in very low places.
    He flicked through the DVDs from the rental company – Saw , Saw II , Saw III. His all-time favourites. But first he was going to enjoy this really good bit from another film.
    A man hangs in midair, huge metal hooks pulling the flesh of his back into sharp peaks as he winches himself up … to hover above the dead woman – the drowned dead woman – he is about to have sex with …
    Skelpie paused the action, so the drowned woman stared up at him with dead eyes, her short dark hair bordering her face like an ebony frame. He fancied a bit of that, if the truth be known. Not the hooks-through-the-skin bit – he was used to giving pain, not receiving it – but the shagging drowned women. Not drowned too long ago – he wasn’t a pervert – but a wee bit of recently drowned.
    Skelpie picked up a smart red envelope in the shape ofa pillar box, sliding out another DVD, then he ejected the hanging man and the drowned bitch, got up and placed the new DVD into the slot before flopping down again. The camera wavered about a bit before ending up on the figure of a young girl; her company was a little present for him to celebrate his release from jail. He recognized the stupid tartan wallpaper above the bedhead. The camera pulled back, showing his upper forearm with its RFC tattoo and the delicate script of No Surrender underneath. That was bad; that should have been kept out of shot.
    Unconsciously, Skelpie reached for his forearm, scratching the tattoo.
    2.05 P.M.
    Vik Mulholland had been busy while Anderson had been at the hospital and now his constable was coming towards him, notebook in hand, with a focused expression on his face that had been absent since his demotion. Anderson was glad to see it back.
    ‘Colin? The tabloids have been on the phone asking for a comment on the Fairbairn affair.’
    ‘They can piss off,’ answered Anderson automatically.
    ‘And I’ve typed up this statement from Janet Appleby, the girl who –’
    ‘Yes, I know. Just read it out.’
    Mulholland cleared his throat and sat on the side of Anderson’s desk. ‘Name Janet Marion Appleby. Born on the 14th of November 1985, in Glasgow, single, moved into the first available flat in Apollo Court two years ago. Shehas the impression that she was not supposed to buy it, she thought the estate agent had his own ideas for it, but she was a cash buyer so he couldn’t really –’
    Anderson whistled through his teeth. ‘Stop right there. Where does her money come from for a flat like that?’
    ‘Dead granny, it’s legit, I’ve checked. She was in London when the fire happened, she didn’t like Biggart. I quote: “Just the way he looked at me.” He would make remarks about the fit of her uniform. She’s BA cabin crew, long haul. If she knew he was about, she wouldn’t go out into the corridor, she’d wait until he’d gone.’
    ‘But no direct threats or intimidation?’
    ‘Unfortunately no, but there have been a few offers to buy her out. She can’t recall the name of the company but she thinks it’ll be in the paperwork at her flat.’
    ‘So, they didn’t like her being there?’
    ‘Sounds like it. But she just thought he was a perv. She’s a bright girl. She had deduced he didn’t live there. She was always taking deliveries for him, PillarBoxFlix DVDs mostly, that was a pattern she did notice. A few people used to come and go, but not like a drug drop, not in and out. They stayed for hours – quiet partying, she said.’
    ‘Fits in with the findings in the