Absolution

by Caro Ramsay

  The rush hour had started, and cars were snaking up to the junction with the Great Western Road, amber and red lights smudging in the rain. Up there too stood the elegant four-storey terraces of Kirklee, one of the most prestigious addresses in Glasgow, a five-minute walk from the police station but socially a million miles distant. The McAlpines had lived there all their married life, in Helena’s family home.

  Still no sign of Mulholland, and Costello was getting impatient. Vik Mulholland was the new kid on the block, still had to prove his worth. The old musketeers were back together again. For the last ten years their careers had crisscrossed each other’s like the weave of a hunting plaid. Costello herself had always been at this station or at Divisional HQ less than a mile away since she graduated from Tulliallan Police College. McAlpine lived at the top of the hill. Anderson had done the rounds of the division like a good detective should as he climbed the career ladder. They all knew this area like they knew their own faces, but Mulholland was a south-sider, and a posh one at that. He might just find himself a fish out of water. The thought pleased her.

  The collie trotted off, a pie crust in its teeth as a prize. Costello began to pace back and forth, counting to ten before each turn. She knew this city and the people in it better than she had known her own mother, and it gave her an edge over the others. Mulholland was welcome to his designer suits and blind ambition. McAlpine had his handsome face, his aggressive genius, his electric charm and his beautiful wife; Anderson had a troubled marriage and two adorable kids … Costello stopped pacing, halted by a thought. Over the years she’d been aware that Anderson had a great fondness for the Boss’s wife. Not that there was anything in it – of course there wasn’t – but Costello had always wondered. Then a sudden gust of rain stung her in the face, putting an end to her romantic notions.

  She gestured impatiently through the door of the station again and breathed deeply as she looked up the street, the centre of the West End, the creative heart of the city, her city. She had an instinct for the place and its people, had always felt safe in its streets. The only move she had made in her life was from the south side of the Clyde to the north. Glasgow had warmth, and the humour of hard-working people. It was an in-your-face kind of city but one with a soft centre. But now her home town was keeping a secret from her, and she didn’t like it.

  Her foot came down in a puddle, and ice-cold water invaded her sock again. She had hoped she wouldn’t still feel the same about McAlpine, but she did. She reminded herself that the way she felt about McAlpine was probably the way Anderson felt about Helena. The McAlpines were a difficult couple to dislike; she was rich and successful with an easy grace that put everybody at ease; he was … well, he was himself, and that was enough.

  The rain didn’t look like giving up, so she pulled her hood right up over her head, tucking her hair underneath in an attempt to keep it dry. The sky in the east was slipping from dark to light grey, but it wasn’t going to clear. A van pulling in to overtake on the inside went right through a puddle, and dark murky water splashed with uncanny accuracy on her cream chinos.

  A black shining Beamer pulled out of Clarence Lane, stopping the traffic. Vik Mulholland leaned over to open the door for her. ‘Don’t get the upholstery wet, will you?’

  ‘I’ll hover in mid-air, will I?’ she said. Mulholland looked very smug in his cashmere Crombie. He always looked immaculate, one of the many things about him that annoyed Costello. She fastened her seatbelt and nodded at his expensive overcoat. ‘Sorry, did I interrupt you working as a body double for Johnny Depp? Or was it a photo shoot for Versace today?’

  ‘Nice, isn’t it?’ he said, smiling imperturbably. ‘So we have another one to add to our workload.’ Mulholland indicated right. The traffic always stopped for the cop cars. ‘He has a bit of a reputation, this McAlpine, but I didn’t think much of him. Seems a bit soft.’

  ‘You reckon? Underestimate him at your peril,’ Costello muttered, pulling her coat beneath her. ‘It should mean something to you that he’s allowed you to stay on the team. What he says goes … or who he says goes.’ She smiled at her own little witticism.

  ‘Really? So why are we doing this routine stuff? Inappropriate use of resources. This is uniform.’

  ‘It means he has a hunch about something.’

  ‘About what?’

  Costello sighed. ‘The Boss isn’t happy about the body being found by somebody looking through a letterbox at three this morning. Wants to know more.’

  ‘Why would anybody be looking through a letterbox at three in the morning?’ asked Mulholland, smoothing his eyebrow in the mirror.

  ‘Exactly.’ She leaned forward, sticking a Post-it note with the address on the dashboard and turning off some operatic warbling from his CD player. ‘Take a left when you can.’ She started scribbling in her notebook. ‘I’ve phoned ahead; they’re not going out till we speak to them.’

  ‘But why are we doing it?’

  ‘Because,’ Costello said, with consummate patience, ‘it’s our job.’

  ‘Can I give you a hand with that?’

  Helena McAlpine was trying to manoeuvre a flat wooden crate out through the front door of the house in Kirklee Terrace. ‘My God, that’s a rarity – a policeman when you need one. How are you, Colin?’ She smiled at Anderson. Her arms outstretched, leaning on My Brother in Palestine, she gave him a hug and a light kiss. Then she sideshifted a swathe of red hair from her face and smiled mischievously. ‘How was Edinburgh?’

  ‘Best forgotten. Do you need a hand with that?’

  ‘It got delivered here last night, rather than to the gallery, and I have to be there to open up.’

  Anderson twisted his wrist and looked at his watch. ‘You’re supposed to open at nine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’d better get a move on, then.’

  ‘My lord and master has been getting in my way since he came back. Can you lift that end?’

  ‘This has a dent in it,’ Anderson observed, lifting the crate and carrying it easily down the steps, reassured to feel needed in these days of equality.

  ‘Yeah, your boss gave it a kicking when he eventually came home from the office last night. He said it was because it was blocking the hall, but I think it was more of a comment on the state of modern art. It’s only worth about twelve grand.’

  Anderson automatically tightened his grip. ‘I’ll just drop it here,’ he told her and lowered the painting delicately to the pavement. ‘We need the keys … to open the boot …’

  Helena looked at him, hands on hips. ‘Keys … yes, they would help, wouldn’t they? Can you give me a clue where that cantankerous old bastard I married might have put them?’

  ‘He had on his leather jacket earlier this morning, the black one, over a dark blue suit, if that’s any help.’

  Anderson watched as Helena dashed up the stairs, her lion-red hair cascading down the back of a huge black jumper he was sure was one of Alan’s.

  She reappeared, keys in hand. ‘Got them: leather jacket, just as you said. I told him you were here. He’s on the phone, swearing at some poor minion. Does “effing profilers” mean anything to you?’ She rolled her eyes and sighed as she opened the boot of the Five Series BMW.

  Anderson smiled and hoisted the crate on to the bumper, watching Helena’s fingers as they wrapped white cloth round the corners. Long strong fingers, a single wedding band and the light catching the single blue diamond above it.

  ‘How are the kids?’ she asked.

  He winced as a splinter jammed in the skin of his thumb. ‘Bloody skelf!’ He lifted it to his mouth and sucked the blood. ‘Expensive, cheeky. But not at the devious lying stage – yet.’

  ‘Wait till Clare’s out at night with unsuitable men. Sleepless nights for you then.’

  ‘I’ll be working. At the moment I’m psyching myself up to sit and watch two hours of six-year-olds doing ballet without falling asleep.’

  ‘Tough,’ agreed Helena. ‘You’ll
come to the exhibition, you and Brenda? I know it’s not your thing but … Alan …’

  ‘Free champers and raw fish. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m going to sell you some of wee Peter’s paintings, people with big heads and no keeping within the lines.’

  ‘You’ve been peeking at My Brother in Palestine,’ she teased, tapping the crate. ‘It’s by a Canadian artist, very experimental.’ She eased the boot shut and flicked her hair back, making the sun spark on the copper. That flirtatious smile again, looking at him as if he was the only person that mattered. ‘God! It’s cold!’

  Alan McAlpine appeared at the door, and Helena’s expression softened a little, as if she had warmed as she looked towards the house. Then McAlpine disappeared again, having forgotten something.

  Helena turned back to Anderson. ‘He’s had about two hours’ sleep, so you’re working with Mr Grumpy today.’

  ‘No change there, then. It’ll get worse before it gets better.’

  ‘Look after him, will you? Somebody has to.’ Helena’s head tilted to one side, her love for her husband silent on the upturn of her lips.

  ‘Do you want us to follow you to the gallery and take this out for you? We’ll have time before the briefing.’

  ‘No, we won’t,’ said a voice behind them. ‘Goodbye, dear.’ McAlpine kissed his wife on the cheek. Anderson watched her incline her head towards him, eyes closed. More a promise than a kiss.

  ‘You don’t have time, apparently,’ said Helena sweetly.

  ‘Well, if you need a hand, let me know.’

  ‘Ta! It’s good to use other people’s husbands. Mine’s useless. Remind him he has a date with his wife tonight.’

  ‘Got you.’ Anderson tapped the side of his head as McAlpine got into the car and slammed the door.

  ‘See you, Helena.’

  ‘Bye, Colin. Thanks.’

  Anderson pulled into the street, and in the driving mirror watched the wind blow fire into her hair as she waved.

  Anderson walked into the chaos of the murder room, keeping four paces behind the Boss. By the time the clock had wound itself round to ten, thirty-three officers were busy chatting, reliving old glories and mistakes. They sat, they stood, they leaned against monitor screens and filing cabinets, they drummed fingers along the sides of polystyrene cups, they tapped pens off the top of clipboards, they paced the floor like condemned men.

  Coffee cup in hand, Anderson picked his way through them to the back, aware that he was regarded as McAlpine’s golden boy, conscious of not wanting to step on any toes, physically or metaphorically. He caught their whispers as he passed … maybe we’ll get something moving now – should have been on the case from the start. It was natural; they wanted a second chance and new lines of investigation, something a fresh eye, a younger eye, could bring to the case.

  McAlpine walked to the front. Everyone turned to look, conversations halted in mid sentence. The DCI was the smallest man in the room, but one flash of his almond-shaped eyes across the squad and the ruffle of noise was silenced. People shifted in their seats to get a better view. There was an air of expectation.

  Vik Mulholland handed McAlpine a piece of paper and went to the back, looking around for a spare seat. Finding none, he wiped a desktop beside Anderson with the palm of his hand, tugged at the knees of his Versace trousers, then sat down.

  McAlpine read the note, twice, his eyes narrowing before he looked up and settled on Mulholland. ‘What the fuck does that mean – System’s gone down?

  ‘If it’s too busy, it collapses. It’s done it four times so far.’

  McAlpine dropped his forehead into his hands. The squad waited for a vitriolic eruption. It never came.

  ‘Sir?’ Costello spoke quietly, raising a tentative hand.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her, tired already. ‘Yes?’

  Wyngate, sir, he has a degree in IT. If it’s true that upstairs aren’t going to shell out for an expert, maybe we should use what we have. He’s not much use at anything else, sir,’ she added, with an affectionate grin at Wyngate.

  McAlpine had to nip a smile, searching for the name. ‘Wyngate? Gordon, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ PC Wyngate pulled on his over-large ears, more nervous than he looked.

  ‘You recovered from last night?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Fancy the job?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Get to it. I’m not having that heap of shite jeopardizing the investigation.’ McAlpine turned at a sudden draught and asked for the window to be closed. Ostentatiously, from the back of the room, Mulholland started fanning with an empty file. What do you need?’ McAlpine asked Wyngate.

  ‘More phone lines. The system’s slowing down.’ Wyngate spoke directly to McAlpine, keeping his voice low and respectful. ‘We’ll be in trouble if it crashes completely.’

  McAlpine turned to look at the volume of paper, his face impassive. ‘We have no budget for it. Do the best you can.’

  ‘Well, maybe you could ask them not to pour coffee over the keyboards,’ DC Irvine interjected.

  ‘It’s all our coffee’s good for,’ muttered Anderson, passing the paper cup under his nose, trying to identify the contents.

  Wyngate turned to walk away, twisting around DS Littlewood, who was blocking his path between two desks. As he went past, Littlewood pulled on his own ears, like a schoolboy impersonating Dumbo. The smatter of laughter died at the DCI’s expression.

  ‘For those that don’t know, I get called many things but my actual name is Detective Chief Inspector Alan McAlpine, and I’m in charge. DCI Duncan is doing well; he thanks you for your kind thoughts and the presents. He can’t think of a use for the blow-up woman yet, but give him time.’ A ripple of applause went round the room.

  Anderson watched his boss carefully, hardly listening to what he said. He saw tension in the corner of McAlpine’s lip, a nervousness in the fingers as they rippled his hair, the same edginess he had noticed that morning. Not quite the same old confident guv he knew.

  McAlpine said, ‘Stepping into another’s shoes is never easy, but we just get on with it. Reviewing a case always implies criticism. But let’s think of it as a chance to explore areas previously unexplored.’

  ‘You think DCI Duncan was wrong?’ asked Littlewood, chin up, arms folded, the challenge in his posture unmistakable.

  Costello and Anderson exchanged glances: if he carried on like that, DS John Littlewood would be issuing parking tickets in Blythswood Square before nightfall.

  ‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer now,’ McAlpine emphasized calmly. ‘And I don’t think Duncan was wrong. End of story. As you know, our friend struck again last night. The press had already christened him the Crucifixion Killer after Traill. Nice. We could do without it, but it happened.’ He got up, perching on the side of his desk. ‘We’ll give you the latest on Fulton, and by the end of today I want the name of the guy who found his way into her flat. She was an ultra-careful woman, but she wasn’t surprised when her doorbell went. So who was he?’ He tapped the desk with his fingertip. ‘Somebody offered Lynzi Traill a run home, and she took it. Two sensible women. Two dead women. Forensics are drawing a blank, so we need to review the circumstantial.’ McAlpine rubbed his chin. ‘By five this evening I want both their lives, inside out, upside down. Something will – must – connect one with the other.’ He turned to Costello. ‘So what was the script at three this morning? Why was somebody looking through Elizabeth Jane Fulton’s letterbox?’

  ‘To see if her cat was there.’ Costello tucked her hair behind her ears.

  ‘Cat?’ asked Littlewood.

  ‘Little black guy with a white chest?’ McAlpine nodded to himself. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Kirsty Dougall looked through the letterbox of Elizabeth Jane’s flat at three o’clock this morning to see if Mowgli the cat was there,’ said Costello slowly, as if speaking to a simple child. ‘The cat had been causing aggro. Well, Mowgli was fine. Kirsty to
ld the officers at the scene that it was Elizabeth Jane who was causing the aggro, trapping the cat in her flat and then complaining.’

  ‘She had catnip treats in her cupboard,’ said McAlpine. ‘Was she causing trouble deliberately?’

  ‘It would seem so. The neighbours said a similar thing. And I expect we’ll hear more of the same when we interview them properly. I’ve already rung her employers at the bank, and it seems she could be awkward at work too. She was the type who’d clype on her colleague for using the office printer to print a personal letter, for being five minutes late back from lunch – ’

  ‘For farting without permission. I know the type,’ said Littlewood. He shot a look at Costello, who fired it back again.

  ‘She was described as a narrow-minded perfectionist by someone who said they liked her and as a petty-minded bitch by someone I’d say didn’t. Not a popular girl. So,’ Costello went on, ‘when Kirsty looked through the letterbox, she saw Elizabeth Jane’s hand on the floor, and she dialled 999. Lights out, please!’

  On cue, darkness fell, and the glare from a single spotlight dropped from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows on the wall. Costello pinned up pictures as she spoke. The photographs showed a young woman, her face running to fat already, her smile framed for eternity in brown curls and pearls. She had made an effort to look nice.

  Costello spoke. ‘Elizabeth Jane – she didn’t like being called Liz – aged twenty-six, single, bank teller for the Bank of Scotland, living up in Fortrose Street, no boyfriends we have discovered, kept herself to herself, non-smoker, non-drinker, went to church a lot, sang in the choir. Elizabeth Jane’s cousin Paula is getting married soon, and apparently she asked the girl next to her in the choir to go to the wedding meal with her, so maybe she had no really close female friends either. Her idea of a great night out was an evening class in accounting, which raises the question: who was it at the door?’ Costello’s hand, ghostly in the projected light, smoothed down another photograph. There was a ripple of movement as the team shifted to view the obscene image: Elizabeth Jane lying, arms out, legs crossed, dressed in her work uniform, her abdomen ripped open like a ripe fruit. ‘Her mobile was a new one, and the phone records are being checked. We’re waiting for a call back.’