Absolution

by Caro Ramsay

  ‘Where have all her other flowers gone?’

  ‘She won’t have any other flowers.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That was tactless.’

  ‘Your mother’s got plenty.’

  ‘Yes, but no one walked the length of Byres Road to find tulips in July.’

  He looked at her in her black suit, purchased the day before. ‘You know, I preferred you in your dungarees.’

  ‘I had to buy this. I had nothing else to wear.’ She turned to look out at the hills. ‘It’s a funny place to have a cemetery, up here, with all that … I think I’d need to be buried facing that way. To the hills.’

  ‘To the hills, indeed.’ He looked down at the tulips. ‘Now, if I was really organized, I’d have bought something to put these in.’

  ‘Hang on a mo.’ Helena walked over to her mother’s grave, now bearing a resemblance to the Chelsea Flower Show, and returned a few moments later with a conical aluminium flask discreetly up her sleeve. ‘They didn’t notice,’ she whispered. ‘There’s even water in it.’ She bent down to screw the cone into the earth. ‘Will that do?’

  She stood back to let him put the flowers in himself, but his hands were shaking, and he handed them to her. She noticed how nicotine-stained his fingers were.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘What do you think of that?’

  ‘Fine. Just fine.’

  Rubbing the diamond ring in his pocket like a talisman, he turned back to the unmarked grave and laid a single red rose on it, just where he imagined her heart might be.

  Alan

  Glasgow, 2006

  Saturday, 30 September

  Elizabeth Jane Fulton had not been beautiful in life.

  Death did her no favours either.

  Detective Chief Inspector Alan McAlpine paused as he entered her sitting room, letting a thin stream of rainwater finish its meandering path down his back. He knew it was going to be bad, so he crossed himself and said a quick prayer.

  Elizabeth Jane lay on her back, crucified against the soft scarlet wool of her living-room carpet, the deeper stain of her blood sinuously shadowing the curve of her body. She lay with her legs together, stockinged feet crossed at the ankle, arms outstretched, hands palm upward and fingers slightly curved in cadaveric spasm, the index finger of her left hand pointing, her head tilting, the roll of dead eyes looking at the door as if watching for Nemesis.

  In the harsh light the skin of her face was waxy and blue, and McAlpine recognized the blistering of chloroform round the mouth and nose.

  He wiped wet hair from his forehead, taking a closer look at her uniform: navy blue skirt, the matching neckerchief still round her neck. He couldn’t quite place where he had seen it before. Bank? Hotel? The anonymous uniform of the professionally uninterested. The skirt had been pulled down to straighten the pleats, tan-coloured tights shrouding her legs, the toes stained blue with dye from her shoes. All the clothes over her stomach had been ripped apart as the knife ploughed its indecent path through skin and soft tissue. The leather of the thin belt had held, dragged upward, framing the dark epicentre of the gaping wound. A fine dark line ran down from her sternum, opening out where the viscera nestled in the gentle arc of her hipbone. McAlpine couldn’t help looking, trying not to breathe in the heavy mineral stench of blood.

  The SOCO with the video camera stopped filming as Professor O’Hare stepped forward. He sideshifted his grey fringe with the back of his forearm, a dark smear of blood visible on his protective gloves, before he spoke. ‘That’s part of her intestine, DCI McAlpine. Little trick of Jack the Ripper, that one. Except he used to put them over the victim’s right shoulder.’

  ‘Thanks. I really needed to know that, Professor.’ McAlpine glanced at the dead woman’s left hand. The fingers were bare.

  ‘In this case, I’m not sure it was intentional. I think he just cut the mesentery.’ O’Hare tutted. ‘I’ll let you know ASAP. I heard last night you’d been put in charge; glad to have you on board.’ O’Hare smiled slightly as he recoiled from the body, pulled the gloves from his hands, turned them inside out and placed them in a plastic bag. ‘Don’t drip on anything. Here.’ He handed McAlpine a paper towel. ‘How is DCI Duncan?’

  ‘The bronchitis turned out to be chronic heart failure. He’s stable, but that’s all they’re saying. At least he’s not suffering the stress of this any more. I guess that’s my job now.’

  ‘He looked dreadful last time I saw him. When did you get the call to take over?’ asked O’Hare.

  ‘Thursday night. Duncan wasn’t going to let go until they dragged him away in an ambulance … and in the end that’s exactly what happened.’

  ‘That’s what the job does to you. Pass on my regards if you see him.’

  ‘Will do.’ McAlpine mopped the water from his hair, looking directly at Elizabeth Jane’s open wound. ‘Oh, the mess of her. Fucking bastard.’

  They stood in silence, hands on hips, listening to the drumming of the rain on the window, and staring at Elizabeth Jane, who lay on the floor between them like some recalcitrant child exhausted at the end of a tantrum.

  ‘Can we move her now?’ the SOCO asked.

  The pathologist and McAlpine stood back as the body was lifted, ready to be turned on to the white plastic sheet. A gloved hand steadied the loose intestine as the body moved. The camera clicked, catching everything, the bloodstained underskirt slipping over Elizabeth Jane’s thigh to reveal fresh carpet underneath. The smell intensified as the body rolled, and McAlpine turned away, holding the paper towel to his nose, grimacing and cursing like a trooper.

  The SOCOs held her, half turned, one leg balanced on the other, their plastic slippers crunching on plastic sheeting as they moved closer. Elizabeth Jane answered them with a slow exhalation, like a deflating tyre. Nobody spoke.

  O’Hare bent to check her back, looking at the bruising. Then he nodded, the bodybag was zipped, and Elizabeth Jane disappeared.

  ‘Same as Lynzi Traill?’ McAlpine knew the answer before he asked.

  ‘The pose, the cutting, the chloroform burns on the face? The wound’s a bit deeper, but apart from that it’s a carbon copy.’

  McAlpine sighed. ‘I’m only twelve hours into the Traill case, and this happens. What about chloroform – how easy is that to get hold of?’

  ‘DCI Duncan asked the same question. It’s a controlled substance. I know he had a check done, and none had been reported stolen recently; that was the last I heard. But I’ll say to you exactly what I said to DCI Duncan about the Traill murder: efficient and confident use of a knife. This guy knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘Wish I did,’ McAlpine sighed, looking at the exposed carpet outlined by the tidemark of drying blood. ‘Nothing tasty about the knife?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But the same one?’

  ‘Nothing tells me it’s different,’ O’Hare answered cautiously. ‘Best of luck.’ He touched the smaller man on the shoulder on his way past.

  McAlpine wound the paper towel round his knuckles, tearing it as he flexed his fingers; it was damp but comforting. He scanned the walls around him. The TV, small and functional, a DVD player underneath, its clock reading 5.17, the figures flashing at him and reminding him how tired he was. He picked up a couple of family photographs from the wooden unit. One of the deceased at some grand function, grinning in glad rags and clutching champagne, her mother on one side, her dad on the other, their smiles broad for the camera. The other was of Elizabeth Jane with another girl, a sister or cousin from the look of her, with the same dark-rimmed eyes and serious expression. He put the photographs down, scanning the bookcase: DVDs of David Copperfield, Upstairs Downstairs and the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice. The books were all much of a muchness: Steel, Vincenzi, Taylor Bradford. A pile of magazines was stacked near by on the bottom shelf, topped by two sudoku booklets, one open with a pen attached.

  One china coffee mug, half empty, sat on the pine mantelpiece; its partner was on the small table beside t
he sofa. He kneeled down. The second cup was still full, with a white and greasy film of floating milk.

  McAlpine was thoughtful. Her number was ex-directory, and the name plate downstairs simply said FULTON, no Miss, no Mrs. The front door said E. J. FULTON. The car had a Stoplock and a gear lock on it. She was a careful woman … as the previous victim, Lynzi Traill, had been, from the accounts he had read. He walked to the window, pulling the curtain back slightly, looking through the net.

  Elizabeth Jane Fulton had known her killer.

  ‘Prof?’ he called.

  A reluctant shadow appeared at the door.

  ‘What’s the parking like out there?’ McAlpine asked, flicking the net and wiping the condensation from the glass. A hive of activity in the dead of night, two police cars blocking Fortrose Street, another three up on the pavement. He watched as an officer, clipboard over his head to protect him from the rain, directed two others up the street, while another, half hidden behind the car, was bending over retching up the contents of his stomach, clearly finding the whole thing a trial by fire. Squad car 13 reversed to park between them, yellow light oscillating, highlighting the double curve of the digit 3 with every turn.

  ‘It’s busy. Permit parking only. A strange car might have been noticed, heard. Might be worth a shot,’ O’Hare answered.

  McAlpine looked up Fortrose Street, at the trees at the Wickets Hotel, the lights in the upper rooms making comets in the rain. Up the hill, turn right, ten minutes’ walk, five if you hurried, and there was Victoria Gardens, where they had found Lynzi Traill. So close.

  ‘Time of death?’ he asked.

  ‘At this stage, I’d plump for early last night. One of those mugs was half empty, so if it was hers, the coffee will still be in her stomach … if the stomach wall hasn’t been punctured and leaked the – ’

  ‘Spare me, please.’

  O’Hare smiled; he liked seeing hard-bitten detectives go green. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Helena sent me an invite to the exhibition, so I’ll see you there if not before.’

  It took McAlpine a little while to think what he was talking about. ‘Yes, of course. It’s sometime at the end of the week – Friday, isn’t it?’

  ‘Saturday,’ corrected O’Hare.

  The Professor departed, dipping his head by force of habit as he went out of the door. McAlpine stood in the perfectly square entrance hall, with its floor of cheap laminate, every door white-stained colonial. The only slash of colour was the mock-Persian rug, now littered with the machinery of investigation: lights, cameras, cases, everything covered in clear polythene. The two SOCOs, still in their plastic-coated paper suits, were packing up.

  McAlpine opened the bathroom door. The ventilator purred into life with the light switch, wafting the scent of lavender through the air. All was pink. Wrapping his fingers in a piece of pink toilet roll, he opened the cabinet. One tube of toothpaste: Macleans’ fluoride. One deodorant spray: Marks & Spencer’s Peaches & Cream. One folded face cloth: pink. One shampoo: anti-dandruff. One conditioner: for dry, fine, flyaway hair. One Marks & Spencer body lotion, Peaches & Cream again. Not much else.

  No contraceptives. No headache tablets. No hangover cure. He shut the cabinet door.

  The bedroom was the same nauseating pink-with-a-hint-of-vomit. Even the teddy bear on the pillow was two-tone pink. McAlpine opened a few drawers, his fingers still curled in the tissue. The top drawer was full of very sensible underwear. Either Elizabeth Jane had no sex life or she went to hospital a lot. On a pink satin chair was a pile of clothes folded with army precision, blouses with sleeves tucked in, a jumper and cardigan to match her uniform. The few prints on the wall were from the same Marks & Spencer colour coordinated range as the wallpaper, the bed linen, the dressing gown and the teddy. More camouflage than coordination.

  McAlpine turned back to the pristine white kitchen. Only Nescafe and the kettle on the worktop. The cupboard revealed a range of tins, all stacked label-side out, most of them WeightWatchers’. An open sachet of cat treats, carefully folded at the top, sat to one side. He looked for a water dish or litter tray, but couldn’t see any. So – no resident cat. He opened the fridge: low-fat spread, skimmed milk, plenty of fruit and veg that all seemed fresh. He flipped open the bin. The only thing in it was the white bin liner.

  The SOCOs said their goodbyes, wedging the door open as they left with their equipment. McAlpine saw a small black cat with a white kipper tie shivering with fear behind the cheese plant on the landing, its fur glittering with rainwater. McAlpine walked out into the hall and picked it up. ‘Hello, little fella. I don’t think you live here.’ The cat regarded him with saucer eyes, then stared back at the white-suited men walking about his domain. ‘Anybody know where this wee guy belongs?’ asked McAlpine. Without waiting for a reply he put the cat into the hands of a SOCO who was coming up the stairs. ‘Find out and give him back, will you?’

  The SOCO took the cat in an outstretched arm as if it were a bomb. ‘It lives in the next-door flat, I think. She’s terrified it’ll get out and run over by a police car. Wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘Make sure she keeps him locked up.’

  We’ve handed it in twice already; it escapes every time the nosy cow opens her door.’

  Well, tell her to lock him in the bathroom.’ The DCI glanced at his watch. ‘For the next twelve hours at least.’

  McAlpine shivered himself in the draught that raced up the stairwell and bit at his legs. He entered the comparative warmth of the flat again, and went back into the kitchen for a look at the cork noticeboard and the plans for a future life that would never be: a wedding invitation with the ubiquitous Rennie Mackintosh rose motif and, clipped to it, a card with a date for a dress fitting. He opened the invitation with the tip of his pen. Mr and Mrs Vincent Fulton request the pleasure … That was a request for deaf ears now. Below it was a folded registration card for a Samsung 200 mobile purchased two days before; he made a note of the number. There were two more phone numbers written in the same neat disciplined hand, a list of three complaints about the flat and a note to phone the factors about a joiner.

  McAlpine started opening and shutting cupboard doors again, searching.

  He found no cigarettes, no alcohol, no chocolate.

  He decided he would not have liked Elizabeth Jane Fulton.

  McAlpine lingered for a long time over his last cigarette in the car park at the back of Partickhill Police Station, leaning against a battered old Corsa, letting the nicotine soothe his lungs. It had been six months since the Scottish Executive had banned smoking in all public buildings, and standing in the rain had become a popular pastime on the basis that pneumonia killed quicker than lung cancer. The police station was a long-lost friend he wasn’t sure he wanted to know again. Working out of Stewart Street, he’d been able to pick and choose what station within the Glasgow Central and West Division he wanted to run an investigation from, and there were always a hundred and one perfectly valid reasons for it not to be Partickhill. Built in a gap in the tenements created by the Luftwaffe, it had come about by chance, not design. It fitted the space but was too small to do the job; the canteen was a joke, the car park was tiny, the lane too narrow for the meat wagon to get up. But the powers that be had decreed that what DCI Duncan had started, DCI McAlpine would continue. So here he was. How could he argue? He lived less than five minutes from the place.

  He sighed and stubbed his cigarette out underfoot. Taking a deep breath, he closed his mind to the memories and walked up the hill to the entrance.

  He nodded at the desk constable on his way past but kept moving, getting it over with. He went up the stairs of Partickhill Station for the first time in twenty-two years, wiping cold sweat from his upper lip, images best forgotten already flashing in his mind. The stairs were carpeted now. The window was new but still draughty; the filing cabinet had gone but a photocopier was parked in its place. A curled Post-it note was stuck to it, dated two years before.

  He walked q
uickly through the doors of the main incident room, glancing up at the clock. That was new too but still told the wrong time. He checked his own watch, his gold-faced Cartier. It was ten to seven, ten minutes before he would know the first outcome of the silent conversation between O’Hare and Elizabeth Jane at the mortuary. He hoped it had been fruitful.

  He strolled round the CID suite, watching the squad assemble. Some had been pulled from their beds; others had been here all night. Some wiped sleep from their eyes; others were chewing gum to stay awake. As he walked past a bank of computer screens, familiar faces looked up at him, arms stretched out to say hello and welcome, and there were a few pats on the back, a show of faith. McAlpine nodded back, saying hello here and there, nice to work with you again; glad you’re on the team. He took his time to familiarize himself with twenty-odd years of change. The incident room still smelled the same: stale sweat and yesterday’s coffee.

  Memories were already stretching and yawning, uncoiling from sleep, memories of things he had never known, a voice he had never heard, a smile unfurling from lips he had never gazed at. Had never kissed.

  A beauty he had never seen.

  But it still felt like a reunion; even through the reek of staleness he could smell her in the air, in the scent of bluebells. The scent of her.

  He closed his mind to the past and concentrated on the present.

  The main room was a sea of desks and printers. He kicked a few cables with his toe on the way past; he would get them taped down. Dead coffee cups were piled up in pyramids; intrays and out-trays spilled over with printouts. DS Littlewood’s tattered leather jacket was lying over his desk, and the early edition of the News of the World was open at Page Three. His tray was topped with the remnants of yesterday’s bacon sandwich. McAlpine had met burglars who were tidier.

  He stopped at the cork-board displaying the scene-of-crime pictures and pulled a piece of luminous orange card saying wall of death, crushing it with one fist and throwing it across the room. He didn’t look round; he didn’t want to know who had written it. He detested victims being treated with disrespect. He looked at Lynzi Traill, killed fourteen days before. Not a particularly attractive woman, with her round tanned face and eyebrows plucked to extinction, but there was nothing particularly unattractive about her either. She was neither fat nor thin, tall nor short; she worked part time in a charity shop; she had a lover. She had left her boring semidetached, left her boring hubby and left her child.