Absolution

by Caro Ramsay

  He cast his eyes left and right before nodding.

  ‘I’ve photographs.’

  ‘Not a painting, then?’

  ‘Not too old for a slap, son.’ She handed over a Kodak envelope.

  He opened it, fanning out the fresh prints. A photograph of a dog, a huge silver husky, its intelligent blue eyes black-rimmed in a white mask.

  ‘Gelert,’ he said.

  ‘By name and nature.’

  ‘The brave and faithful hound. That was always my favourite story, you know. You used to tell it to us – ’

  ‘In the cleaning cupboard, aye.’ Nan gave him a rare smile. ‘He’s a big dog now.’ She tucked a roll of used twenty-pound notes into his fist with covert skill. ‘Next one shows how far we’ve got with the veranda.’

  A whitewashed cottage on a beach, the seaweed scar of the high-tide line black against the sand, big windows, a half-built wooden veranda bleached blond by strong west winds and weak Scottish sun.

  The house looked exactly the same; so did the beach and the castle. Only the husky lying on the front step had grown.

  He stared at the picture for a long time, aware that Nan was waving her fingers at him, wanting the photographs back. Two minutes and a quick trip to the toilet later, the money had been folded into his shoe.

  ‘I’ll see you around.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’ Suddenly he wanted her to stay. ‘Pass on my … regards.’

  ‘Get that soup in you.’ She ruffled his hair with her hand; she had been doing that since he was four years old, and she used to check him for lice. And then she was away, the photographs leaving with her.

  He lifted his cup, looking at the milk separate on the top of the coffee. He leaned back, relaxing. It was all so close. He was happy. Miss Peroxide said something. Maybe if he closed his eyes …

  ‘Excuse me,’ Miss Peroxide repeated, ‘do you have the time?’

  Prettier with her mouth shut. He looked across to her table. Her Betty Boop watch was gone.

  Fair enough. He thought about his nice new bedsit, with its hot running water and crisp white sheets. He’d done enough time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. He wanted some of his own now.

  McAlpine hated doing this. I’m sorry, it’s about your daughter. ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  Costello had been checking out the street. Affluent, middle class. She had no problem placing Elizabeth Jane here. ‘Ready,’ she agreed.

  The door was opened by a squat gargoyle of a woman, blazing with anger, gold chains on her wrists rattling as she waved them away. ‘Enough, I’ve told you. Enough already!’ The closing door halted as she caught sight of two warrant cards. ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ she said, her eyes darting from one to the other. ‘We’ve had reporters, knocking at the door, standing in the drive. No respect, some people.’

  ‘It’s a very difficult time,’ Costello agreed, smiling her charming smile.

  The gargoyle nodded, smiling too now. Not the mother, then. ‘Oh, it’s been a terrible day,’ she said with thinly disguised relish. ‘A terrible day. I mean – you never think, do you? Not someone you know, not in their own home. Do come in.’

  They followed her into a large hall, terracotta-tiled floor, a winding staircase overhead. Elizabeth Jane’s parents were not short of a bob or two.

  ‘Betty and Jim are in there. The minister is with them.’ She looked at her watch, a copper-brown fingernail tapping the face as if she was timing the visit. ‘He hasn’t been in very long.’ She seemed reluctant to interrupt them.

  ‘And you are?’ asked Costello, sensing McAlpine’s impatience.

  ‘Isabel Cohen. I live next door. Twenty years I’ve known that girl, twenty years … since she was knee-high to a grasshopper.’

  ‘It must be very difficult for you, Isabel. Do you mind if we …’ Costello opened the door without waiting for an answer and then stood to one side, letting Mrs Cohen go through first. A smile passed between the two women. Clearly there was plenty Mrs Cohen could say, but she was too well brought up to say it.

  ‘Betty?’ she inquired quietly round the door. ‘Some more police, detectives. They want a word.’

  McAlpine and Costello walked into a room that was as sterile as an operating theatre, three brilliant white walls, the fireplace wall a deep cobalt blue. Only one picture broke the colour, a professional portrait of Elizabeth Jane above the fireplace. On the mantelpiece below it an array of photographs of her throughout her life was lined up with regimental precision, a shrine to an only child. In the middle sat a gold anniversary clock, its weights spinning this way and that. Incongruously, behind it, McAlpine noticed, someone had propped up an invitation to a wedding. He was sure it was the same one that Elizabeth Jane had had; it bore the same stylized Mackintosh rose. He inclined his head to read covertly inside: Mr and Mrs Vincent Fulton …

  Costello eased past him, further into the room. Three people were sitting at the dining table in the conservatory. The older man, white as a sheet, was stroking the tablecloth with the palm of his hand, comforting himself. The woman looked as though she had no tears left. The younger man – small, slender, early thirties – was the minister, she presumed. His fawn hair was neatly cut, a few stray strands curling on the collar of his Guernsey. As if aware of her scrutiny, he turned, his eyes meeting hers; there was a brief flicker of acknowledgement. The table showed evidence of recent cups of tea. Somebody had nibbled the crust from a slice of toast and left the rest.

  Mrs Cohen stopped behind Betty Fulton’s chair, placing her hands on the thin shoulders, bending to whisper in her ear. Betty placed her hands over Isabel’s and gave them a gentle squeeze. Words of comfort that Costello could not hear passed between them. The minister got up, dusting crumbs from his jumper with slight feminine hands, and walked into the living room, into Costello’s line of vision. She could see the dog collar now, a fine line piping the neck of his Guernsey. A good-looking man, thin-faced, older than she had first thought, closer to forty than thirty, his skin finely lined, faint shadows under the eyes. Those eyes did not belong to one who had had an easy life. He raised his head, aware of her scrutiny, and looked at her with eyes as blue as the wallpaper behind him.

  ‘If we hadn’t let her move out …’ Jim Fulton came towards the fire, shaking his head.

  ‘All ifs and buts. She wanted her freedom.’ Costello caught the lilt of a Highland accent as the minister turned to Elizabeth Jane’s father. ‘I’ll leave you now. Let me know when you’re ready to make arrangements, any time … I’ll be in touch with Reverend Shand, to pass on the sad news. I know he would want to know as soon as possible.’

  ‘And you will tell Tom?’ Jim Fulton asked. ‘It’s difficult for me – my generation – that kind of thing.’

  ‘No problem at all. I’ll see to it. Don’t you go concerning yourself with that. You’ve got enough on your plate now.’ A double handshake, four hands clasped together.

  Costello gave them both her concerned professional smile and committed ‘Tom’ to memory.

  The minister drew his eyes briefly over her and looked away. ‘They are in need of comfort,’ he said, speaking directly to McAlpine. Costello saw the DCI narrow his eyes slightly, as if trying to place some vague recognition. ‘I’m George Least.’

  ‘DCI McAlpine. And my colleague is DS Costello.’

  The minister shook McAlpine’s hand, then shook hers, but when he spoke it was directly to McAlpine. ‘You’ll be here for Elizabeth Jane. I shall leave you to continue with your sad business.’ He turned and again clasped Mr Fulton’s rheumatic hand with both of his. ‘I’m so sorry, Jim; there are so many victims in this. I’ll be back home this afternoon if you need me. You have my number, so if you need anything, any time, please don’t hesitate to call me.’

  The older man nodded numbly.

  ‘I’ve written it down,’ said Mrs Cohen self-importantly. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Good bye, God bless.’

  ‘And where can we find you, if necessary?’ Cost
ello chipped in sweetly, stopping the minister as he made to leave.

  He smiled directly at her, blue eyes heavy with pain. His red lips moved as if to say something, but he checked himself and sighed. ‘Beaumont Street Church. Or at the Phoenix Refuge. A terrible business, yet again.’

  ‘Again?’ she asked.

  Leask started talking, the rhythm of his Highland brogue making it sound like sweet poetry. ‘You’ll be familiar with Ian Livingstone? He is my next-door neighbour, a good friend. If you’ll excuse me, I think I need to speak to him, tell him it looks as if Lynzi’s killer has struck again, before he hears of it from …’ He paused, the hint of something pejorative about the police on his lips. ‘Before he hears of it from some other source.’

  ‘Of course,’ Costello said, her smile still in place as she stepped aside to allow him to pass.

  Wait a second,’ McAlpine cut in. ‘Did you know her – Lynzi Traill?’

  ‘No, I never met her. It’s Ian I know.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the police about him?’

  The minister frowned. ‘No. I doubt there’d be anything I could tell them.’

  ‘There might be – ’

  Costello interrupted McAlpine with a discreet cough and an imperceptible shake of her head in the direction of the stunned and grieving Fultons.

  Leask bowed slightly at Costello, then hesitantly shook McAlpine’s hand again and left.

  Costello backed up to the fire and stood warming her legs, watching the minister go down the chipped driveway and get into a red Fiat Punto. He had the same arrogant walk as the DCI. Both were handsome men, intelligent men. She stopped thinking about McAlpine just in time to get the plate number and commit it to memory as the car turned out of the driveway and vanished from sight.

  McAlpine turned to the Fultons. ‘So,’ he said. ‘I know this is a difficult time, but I need to ask a few questions for now, and then we’ll leave you alone.’

  The Fultons nodded in unison, and Betty lifted her cup and saucer to Mrs Cohen’s proffered hand. Costello opened the kitchen door for Mrs Cohen and followed her in, and the door closed on McAlpine’s voice.

  ‘How are they coping?’ Costello asked conversationally.

  ‘It hasn’t hit them yet.’ Mrs Cohen busied herself, rinsing the teacups and dusting crumbs from the plates into the flip-top bin. She obviously felt at home in this kitchen. ‘Like I said, you never expect this, on your own doorstep, do you? Not somebody you know.’

  ‘And did you know Elizabeth?’ asked Costello, pulling a plate from the rack and drying it very slowly. ‘Know her well, I mean?’

  ‘I certainly knew her well enough not to call her Elizabeth. She was always Elizabeth Jane.’ Mrs Cohen added in a whisper, ‘She was a bit funny that way. She was that type. Even from a wee girl, she was that type.’

  ‘What type, Mrs Cohen?’ Costello softened the intrusive question. ‘You’ve known her a long time, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes, she and my Sophie are much of an age; they used to play together. Elizabeth Jane was a lovely girl, of course, but … stubborn. Very stubborn.’ She dried her hands on a towel, twiddling the cloth round her wedding ring. ‘She was to be a bridesmaid, you know. I wonder what will happen now.’

  ‘The wedding – ?’

  ‘Yes, Paula. She’ll want to go ahead with it, I don’t doubt. She’s as stubborn as Elizabeth Jane – cousins, you see. Like peas out a pod. And that’ll upset Jim and Betty, I can see it coming.’ Isabel Cohen nodded as though she was rather looking forward to the prospect.

  ‘When’s the wedding? I saw the invite on the mantelpiece – ’

  ‘Three weeks. Oh, they’ve all been up to high doh about it. There was a fair bit of friction between the girls …’ Then she added in a whisper, ‘But that’s families for you. You’re better putting a ladder at the window and letting them elope.’

  ‘You seem very close to the family, Mrs Cohen?’

  She sniffed, folding the towel back on itself. ‘The same dressmaker who did Sophie’s dress is doing Paula’s. No problem with the bride’s dress, but Elizabeth Jane’s dress was causing trouble. Oh, it was going to be such a happy occasion …’

  Costello didn’t think it sounded as if it was going to be happy at all. ‘And where will I find Paula?’ she asked, her hand on the door as if to open it, but letting it linger until Mrs Cohen answered.

  Brown’s Gym was busy. The deep thud of an aerobics class somewhere in the building echoed over the pool, and the noise of Lycra-clad bodies in constant motion was everywhere, with bottles of water clutched in sweaty little hands. It reminded Costello of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis. It was her idea of hell.

  ‘Judging from what DCI McAlpine got from the parents, Elizabeth Jane was a cross between Maria von Trapp and Mother Teresa. The next-door neighbour had a slightly different take on her, though.’

  ‘She didn’t sound like a walk in the park at the briefing,’ Irvine agreed.

  ‘The neighbour said the cousins were like peas in a pod, so she should be easy to spot,’ Costello said, her eyes scanning the line of bobbing heads on the running machines.

  It was easy to find Paula Fulton. She did indeed bear a close resemblance to her cousin, with the same plain face, the same brown curls, the incipient double chin. But, judging from the sweat on her face and neck, she worked much harder at keeping the weight off. She didn’t look surprised when Costello and Irvine showed her their cards.

  ‘Hang on a mo,’ she said, getting off the running machine. She bent down and pulled a sweatshirt over her head.

  ‘Can we talk somewhere, quietly?’ Costello asked.

  Paula didn’t have to ask the gym attendant. News had got round. The attendant pointed them in the direction of the first-aid room. Costello gestured that the other two should have a seat.

  Irvine seemed lost for words, and Costello was about to prompt her when Paula suddenly started chattering. ‘I bet you think I’m terrible, being here.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Costello.

  ‘Couldn’t stand it at home. Had to get out. They’ve already started talking about cancelling the wedding, and I’m not having it.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll not.’

  ‘I quite agree with you,’ said Costello. ‘Don’t you, Gail?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Irvine, finding her tongue. ‘Elizabeth Jane was going to be your bridesmaid?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Paula grimaced. ‘I didn’t want her, but we’re cousins, and Dad insisted. Families – you know how it is.’

  The conversation stalled, and Irvine lost her train of thought.

  ‘Paula,’ said Costello, taking over. ‘We need to know a bit about the victim, about Elizabeth Jane. It can be really difficult for the police when all you get is sweetness and light about the deceased. What was she like, really?’

  ‘Impossible,’ said Paula with no hesitation whatever. ‘Oh, I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but she always had to be the centre of attention. Only she did it in a quiet kind of way. She was always allergic to stuff, and couldn’t do this and couldn’t do that. I mean, I’d invite her round and I’d take the trouble to cook something nice, and she’d say, “I don’t want to make a fuss, but I couldn’t possibly eat that.” You know the type.’

  ‘I do indeed,’ said Costello. So Elizabeth Jane was the passive-aggressive type, was she?

  ‘I had my colour scheme for the wedding all planned,’ Paula went on, clearly getting rid of a certain amount of aggression of her own. That suited Costello just fine. ‘I wanted scarlet for her dress, because I was going to have all red flowers, and it would suit our colouring. Then, at the final fitting, she says she doesn’t think the red suits her and she wants turquoise instead. I said no, and she burst into tears, and, before I know it, it’s “Oh, poor Elizabeth Jane!”’ She spanned her hands in frustration. ‘Like, the wedding’s three weeks away, and I need to reorder the flowers. I mean – turquoise! The dressmaker threw a hissy fit and charged us double to do another dress so quickly.
Then, as if she hasn’t caused us enough upset, Elizabeth Jane goes and has her hair cut so the headdress won’t fit. And puts blonde highlights in! Oh, she made a real freak of herself! Even her parents, who thought the sun shone out of her arse, were angry with her. I was ready for strangling her.’ Paula put her hands to her mouth. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that! Anyway, she changed the colour of her hair back again. But she stuck to her guns about the dress.’

  Costello kept her face expressionless as Paula unscrewed the top off a plastic water bottle and took a few swigs.

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ she said. ‘You’ll probably think badly of me for saying it, but I’m glad she’s not going to be my bridesmaid. And I’m not cancelling my wedding for anyone.’

  Costello smiled. ‘I don’t think you should. The best advice I can give you is that it’s your day, and those who love you will want it to be your day. Those who complain can go and organize their own weddings and leave you to yours. Life is too short … as your cousin found out, unfortunately.’

  Paula smiled. ‘Thanks.’ She rubbed her face with her sleeve.

  ‘Had she ever had a boyfriend? Elizabeth Jane?’ asked Irvine.

  Paula paused, the rubbing stopped.

  ‘Come on, Paula,’ Costello prompted. ‘Anything might be a help.’

  ‘Well, my fiancé is not a stupid man, he doesn’t imagine things or make things up, but he said Elizabeth Jane was trying to cause trouble between us.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘Oh, she’d say things to him about me. Not really putting me down, but – ’

  ‘A put-down all the same?’ Irvine said.

  Paula nodded. ‘And she seemed to be trying to flirt with him all the time. Trouble was, she’d no idea how to do it. He said it was just embarrassing.’

  ‘Did she ever mention somebody called Tom?’

  ‘Not that I remember. And if she did have somebody, I would have been the first to hear about it. I would have had to rearrange the seating plan to make him guest of honour.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s all for now. You’d better go and have a shower before you get chilled.’