Absolution

by Caro Ramsay

  Left her child.

  McAlpine looked closely at her wound, somebody’s hand pulling the branches of a bush to the side, revealing hatred.

  ‘Hello, DCI McAlpine,’ a girl introduced herself. Her pulled-back tightly clipped hair was a sure sign she was just out of uniform. ‘DC Irvine.’

  ‘You have a first name, Irvine?’

  ‘Gail.’ She smiled, dark eyes twinkling. ‘Professor O’Hare rang through just now. He says the preliminary examination has revealed no obvious forensics at the site. He’s looking for trace evidence, but that will take some time.’

  ‘Did he say anything about the scene-investigation report?’

  ‘On its way, sir.’

  ‘Good, good,’ said McAlpine, looking over her left shoulder. DCI Graham’s room, as such, was gone, and he was trying to figure out where the missing wall had been. The doorway had been moved from the hall to this room, a glass panel in place so the senior officer could survey the troops. The incident room was now twice the size, with a plastic concertinaed door folded to one side at the halfway point. He noticed that one door to the corridor was marked EXIT. So he had walked in through the out door.

  So be it.

  He continued his slow walk round the main room, breathing in the subdued tension, looking at the maps, the statistics, the duty roster. The fluorescent lights were humming exactly a semitone lower than the computers. There was the odd tap of a keyboard but mostly the squad were reading, a steady flick of paper, waiting. Two cops were debating why the coffee always tasted like chlorine.

  McAlpine opened the door to Graham’s old office. There it was again … that memory … Graham’s old office. No, it was DCI Duncan’s office. He shivered slightly; it was his own domain now. The room had two desks, two filing cabinets, one with a drawer missing, the compulsory computer monitor chasing a message from right to left, three dead plants and a memo from Assistant Chief Constable McCabe, asking him for a meeting to discuss the budget, details were on his email. His reputation for ignoring emails, and budgets, had clearly preceded him.

  He reached into his pockets for a biro, finding his Marlboros. Something hard in his jacket pocket jabbed his fingertips. It was a small card, a hand-drawn caricature of himself in a deerstalker with a huge magnifying glass. He opened it.

  Catch him!

  See you when I see you,

  Happy Anniversary,

  All my love,

  H.

  She had slipped it into his pocket as he slept. He raised the card to his lips. It smelled of graphite, turpentine, pencil eraser and a touch of the Penhaligon’s Bluebells he always bought for her. He smiled. The drawing of him was good; she had even been kind enough to remove a few wrinkles. He hadn’t remembered their anniversary. He never did. He thought there was supposed to be a dinner party but couldn’t recall when. He made do with sticking the card up against the computer, obscuring the monitor.

  He gazed out at the main office, then turned his back on his observers, the leather chair squeaking as it swivelled, and tore open the envelope of preliminary photographs. His breathing quickened as he flicked through grotesque images of Elizabeth Jane, the sheen of mesentery covering her exposed bowel, mucosa glistening in the flash of the camera. For a moment he looked closely at it, fascinated by its rich colour and gentle folds, then he remembered what he was looking at and shoved the prints back into their envelope.

  He pulled out the small picture of Elizabeth Jane and held it up. From the corner of his eye he could see Lynzi’s face looking at him through the glass, his eyes moving from short to long focus as he compared them, tapping a biro against his teeth and swinging on his seat, getting into a rhythm. To his untrained eye, it looked as though Elizabeth Jane’s body had suffered the greater injury. Lynzi Traill, thirty-four, dark haired, dark eyed. Elizabeth Jane Fulton, twenty-six, a shy bank teller, slightly overweight, medium-brown hair. Both Ms Average. Both chloroformed, ripped open and left to bleed to death. No forensic evidence found at either site.

  Lucky? Or clever? Efficient and confident use of a knife. O’Hare’s phrase. Not many people could calmly push a blade into soft live flesh till blood ran like warm olive oil.

  McAlpine looked at his watch. Three hours to the main briefing. He needed something to give them. And he needed nicotine and caffeine. Decent caffeine. He wondered where Anderson was … he needed somebody to talk to. He looked at the photographs again. The direct comparison told him the attack on Elizabeth Jane had been more ferocious than that on Lynzi. Instinct told him that was not a good sign. Two post-mortem shots, a close-up of each wound with O’Hare’s gloved hand in the frame, holding a rule, a scale to show how long, how deep, how brutal. Through the glass he could see Irvine bisecting the wall with a piece of orange gaffer tape, a half-legible case number on the second half. He could hear her chattering away about the previous night’s Coronation Street. McAlpine scribbled on a piece of A4 paper and went out to hand it to Irvine.

  ‘Type that out and put it up there. Her name was Elizabeth Jane Fulton, that’s her date of birth and that’s the date of her death. She is not a number.’

  McAlpine walked on, not waiting for an answer. One step through the folded doors and he was back to 1984, memories crowding round him. He pulled the doors closed behind him. Alone, he stood, feeling the chill in the air, looking at the wall covered with a mosaic of pictures: Lynzi, her husband, her boyfriend, her son, the Glasgow Central train timetable, Victoria Gardens, a close-up of a single brass key. But all he could see was a black-and-white photograph of a blonde woman on a beach, her head flung back, smiling at the sun. It was quiet in here. He could almost hear the sea in the photograph, taste the salt on his lips. She was walking over his grave; he could feel that kiss, the soft brush of her lips against his. A smile that had never quite …

  The door behind him bumped, and he closed his eyes, killing the memory.

  ‘Roll, fried egg, potato scone, no butter, brown sauce, one coffee, no milk. Did I get it right?’ Detective Inspector Colin Anderson tried to elbow the door open holding two brown-paper bags and balancing a cardboard tray with two cups. ‘How many sugars?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘But I didn’t stir it. I know you don’t like it sweet.’

  ‘The old jokes are the best. Good to have you back, Colin. DI Anderson now, I believe. Two years without me holding you back and you’re promoted. Well, well. Congratulations.’ McAlpine slapped him on the arm. ‘How was life in the frozen east?’

  Anderson grimaced. ‘Thanks for the reference; it helped me get the job. But – well, it wasn’t quite the job I expected.’

  ‘Yeah, but you had to do it to find out, or you would have spent the rest of your career wondering otherwise. I debated whether to call you in on this, but I thought, what the hell – six months into a two-year secondment? You’ll be pissed off with the driving already.’

  ‘I was pissed off the first morning it took me forty minutes to get through the Newbridge Roundabout.’ Anderson held out the roll, double-wrapped in a napkin. ‘Eat it while it’s hot, it’s straight from the University Café.’ He took a bite out of his own white roll – sausage, tomato sauce – and proceeded to talk with his mouth full with such relish McAlpine presumed he got a row for doing it at home. ‘Edinburgh was shite; the office was too warm. After years of 23-hour shifts you think a nine-to-five will be fun.’ He downed a mouthful of hot coffee. ‘But it’s boring. I couldn’t settle. I’m glad to be back. Edinburgh’s full of traffic lights and tourists. Bunch of chancers.’ He pulled a face. ‘The potato scones are iffy. There’s a hill with a castle on it, a high street with no lamp-posts, and that’s about it.’

  ‘I can tell you were impressed. My mum always said you get more fun at a Glasgow stabbing than an Edinburgh wedding. Complaints and Investigations, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s not real police work,’ Anderson swirled his coffee. ‘And I missed this, I really missed it. So how do we come to be here?’

&nb
sp; ‘There were rumours DCI Duncan was struggling, then I was pulled into the office to be told he’s in a high-dependency unit, and I’m being transferred to take over the Traill case. And they wanted it to be run from here.’

  ‘You worked out of this place before?’ Anderson looked round, staring at the ceiling. ‘Small, isn’t it?’

  ‘Years ago, as a cadet,’ McAlpine said bluntly. ‘Anyway, next thing I know, I’m being dragged out of bed at five in the morning for victim number two.’

  ‘Any ideas about what’s behind all this?’

  McAlpine looked round to see who was listening. ‘None that go anywhere,’ he said quietly. ‘Colin, I’m a bit uneasy about this, and I’m not sure why.’

  Anderson stuck the last bit of roll in his mouth. ‘You’ve a hundred per cent record. Why shouldn’t you get the case? Surely it was down to you or DCI Quinn. I tell you, if she’d been on the case, I’d have stayed in Edinburgh.’ He sensed further disquiet. ‘What’s up?’

  As McAlpine took his cigarette packet from his pocket, Anderson noticed the tremor in his hand. Sharp resolution came back to his voice. ‘It’s a difficult situation for us all. It’s a big squad; they know each other much better than they know me. Or you.’

  ‘But Costello’s been on the team right from the start, hasn’t she? Has she any ideas?’

  ‘I phoned her from the scene this morning. I wanted her here before the others. But the lock’s jammed on her car, she says, and she can’t get into it. She’ll be here soon.’ McAlpine was walking up and down, looking at the photographs, like a sergeant major inspecting his troops. He stopped in front of Lynzi’s face.

  Anderson followed discreetly and took another mouthful of his coffee. ‘How’s Costello doing?’

  ‘Sounded her usual self.’ McAlpine inhaled deeply. ‘Breathing fire and brimstone, champing at the bit. Relieved it wasn’t Quinn taking over. You know a chap called Viktor Mulholland?’ he asked sharply. ‘That’s Viktor with a k? He’s being wished upon us from on high.’

  Anderson shook his head. ‘He a fast-track?’

  ‘Talented, seemingly. But I’m out of touch, I don’t know about him. A case like this, he’ll sink or swim.’

  ‘Pair him with Costello. She’ll keep an eye on him,’ suggested Anderson.

  ‘Of course. I should have thought of that.’ McAlpine sighed.

  Anderson retreated round the partitioned wall and sat on the edge of the desk, rolling his empty coffee cup in the palms of his hands, his eyes passing over Lynzi and resting on Elizabeth Jane, looking at the arrangement of their feet, left over right. ‘Sinister over dexter,’ he mused. ‘Do you think there’s a religious thing behind all this? It’s a bit precise, isn’t it, the arrangement of the limbs?’

  ‘Which means we have a psycho, and …’ McAlpine turned, catching something said just out of earshot. ‘Sorry, Col, I’m wanted on the phone. I’ll take it on the moby and go out for a fag. See you in the office in a minute? Oh, and as I’ve been up since five, I’m going to nip home and have a shower before the briefing.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You can run me back in.’

  The fried-egg-and-potato-scone roll with brown sauce still lay on the desk, one bite taken out and the rest untouched. Some habits did not change.

  DS Costello caught her toe on the step of Partickhill Police Station, as she had done every working day for the last six years.

  ‘Enjoy your trip?’ PC Wyngate asked, as he did every time he witnessed it.

  Costello rolled her eyes and forced herself to remember that she was actually fond of young Wyngate, whose endless willingness and sheer bloody niceness made up for his not being the brightest. ‘It’s Baltic out there.’ She pulled down the hood of her cream duffel coat, running her fingers through unruly blonde hair, and shivered in the warmth of the station, wishing her shoes didn’t let water in. ‘Briefing at ten?’ she read off the board.

  Yes. I think that new guy wants you to do something first; you’ve to go up straight away.’ He leaned over the desk. ‘Guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was there, at the scene. I was on the tape, then I started the door-to-door,’ he said smugly, stirring his tea with deliberation, clinking the spoon repeatedly against the side of his Partick Thistle mug.

  ‘I thought you were taken off the tape because you were spewing your guts on the pavement? Using the tape to keep yourself upright, in fact.’

  ‘Oh, who told you?’

  ‘It’s on the noticeboard, Wingnut. You should be flattered, shows some kind of popularity.’

  Wyngate could never quite tell when Costello was joking, so he shrugged. ‘You going upstairs?’

  ‘Yeah. Main incident room, is it?’

  ‘You take these up with you, some more stuff about last night. That’s the prelim report from the scene through already. Traill all over again,’ Wyngate stated baldly.

  ‘The same?’ asked Costello, as she took the envelope of photographs.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Oh … right,’ said Costello cautiously. She turned round, tapping the envelopes on the counter, feeling them surreptitiously. The report was only one page; the other envelope had the stiff cardboard backing of photographs, the number code telling her these were the second batch to come through. God, how quick had they been with the first? She allowed herself a smile – DCI McAlpine was in charge, things were moving.

  ‘So who else is up there?’

  The stirring resumed. ‘Vik Mulholland’s not in yet.’ Wyngate sniffed the air. ‘You can always tell. No aftershave, therefore no Mulholland. Is he gay, d’you think?’

  ‘No, but he helps them out if they’re busy. Who else is up there?’

  ‘A tall fair-haired bloke in a Barbour, polite, looks stressed.’ Wyngate was looking down a list of names. ‘Would that be DI Anderson?’

  ‘Yeah, Colin Anderson. He’s been dragged back from Edinburgh. Nice guy,’ Costello said, smiling to herself.

  Wyngate consulted a piece of paper. ‘Was he not seconded from the L and B?’

  ‘No, they seconded him from us, and we are having him back. Is McAlpine already here?’

  ‘DCI McAlpine? Small, dark-haired bloke?’

  ‘Yip, that’ll be him,’ said Costello, giving him a sweet smile, her sharp features blending into prettiness for the briefest of moments. She looked at the clock: it was going on seven.

  ‘He wasn’t fast-tracked, was he?’ asked Wyngate.

  ‘He made DCI at thirty-five. That’s talent, not fast-track,’ Costello whispered, letting him into a secret. ‘He’s good; you should watch and learn.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ He dropped another two reports on the top of her pile, spinning round to talk to an old couple and a tartan-coated greyhound that had just walked in. ‘Can I help you?’ he said, tapping a keyboard, happy with his computer.

  Seconds later Costello was taking the stairs two at a time up to the incident room. Every murder inquiry McAlpine had been on, he had called for her. Every time she met him again, she hoped she would feel different, that he would somehow be different. The door to the DCI’s office was closed, but she could see them through the window, sitting close together, Anderson talking, McAlpine with his back to her. She took a deep breath, hoping again that time had caught up with Alan McAlpine: that the almond eyes had faded, the burnt umber had dulled to sepia, the beautiful profile had wrinkled with age. That maybe his seductive smile had been softened by the passing years. She felt her stomach twist.

  She opened the door, her feet squelching. McAlpine and Anderson were deep in discussion. It was a while before McAlpine turned, flicking his hair from his face before his eyes met hers.

  His face was just as it had ever been.

  Perfect.

  Winifred Prudence Costello had suffered many misfortunes in her life, not least of which was being named after both grandmothers. Another was the ability of her cars, like her men, to let her down just when they were needed. Like at six that morning when she�
��d been in a hurry, but the Toyota was more impregnable than Alcatraz, leaving her standing in a puddle and making her late for the meeting. The DCI, being his usual self, had got straight to the point.

  ‘Glad to see you, Costello. Get your skates on and check this out.’ He had handed her a piece of paper with Elizabeth Jane’s neighbour’s statement. There were a few too many vague comments in the initial interview, and he wanted it cleared up before the briefing at ten. The good news was that he trusted her to get the job done properly.

  The bad news was she had to take Vik Mulholland with her.

  McAlpine had spared her the embarrassment of explaining about her car by ordering Mulholland to take her in his. She was the senior officer, so she should be the one driven. That had gone down like a lead balloon.

  She checked her watch. Mulholland had said he would be out in two ticks, and that was ten minutes ago. She began to stamp her feet, the water in her shoes warming nicely to skin temperature. Plunging her hands deep into the pockets of her duffel, she pulled her neck tight into the collar, humming ‘A Policeman’s Lot is Not a Happy One’ to herself. All the time her fingers caressed the soft leather of her warrant card, the evidence of her promotion, to Detective Sergeant Winifred Prudence Costello.

  She gestured through the doors of the station, tapping her fingertip on the face of her watch. Wyngate shrugged his shoulders at her; Mulholland was nowhere to be seen. Costello sniffled and looked up Hyndland Road. Brenda Muir was having an autumn sale, 50 per cent off. There was a dark green cocktail dress in the window, the colour of avocado skin. Who was she kidding? She never went anywhere, except work. If she wore good clothes, she looked as though she’d stolen them. She stamped her feet a little quicker, watching a piebald collie investigate a wheelie bin. She looked at its feathered tail rippling in the wind, letting her mind run. First Lynzi, now the Fulton girl. She shivered, nothing to do with the chill of the morning. The collie teased a chip paper from the bin and began to worry it, pinning it to the pavement and taking great delight in ripping the newspaper to shreds, which the wind promptly dumped in the gutter.