McAlpine smiled and put the file down on the table. ‘My work is done when it’s done.’
‘Don’t you ever go home?’
‘My wife is very busy these days; she hardly notices whether I’m there or not. Gives me a chance to catch up with the paper-chasing. So what can I do for you?’
‘There’s something I think I should tell you, in case it’s relevant. I got a phone call from Ian Livingstone’s mother this morning. He’s in hospital, an overdose of sleeping pills.’
It was McAlpine’s turn to look at the floor, the lino burned through with old cigarette dowts. There had been no harassment. Just three interviews, and exhaustive checking of Lynzi’s boyfriend’s alibi. ‘How is he?’
‘He’ll make it. Naturally, he was very upset over Lynzi. He had his stomach pumped. Though to be honest, it was so mild they think it might have been accidental. He’d been put on some medication to help him sleep, he was in such a state. And he maybe lost track of how much he was taking.’ Leask placed his hands outstretched on the table; he seemed to be concentrating on how far he could span his fingers before relaxing. ‘I’m obviously very sensitive to such things, losing Alasdair the way I did.’
McAlpine nodded in understanding. Would you like a coffee?’
‘No, I’m not taking up any more of your valuable time. The hospital’s keeping Ian for a day or two, just in case. I’m going to phone his mother tonight, so it would be nice if I could put his mind at rest. It would be… appropriate. He seems to think that he is still a suspect, when I know, as I’m sure you do, that there is no way he could have done such a thing. Not to Lynzi, not to anybody. The man who’s doing this is an animal – ’
Our profiler tells us to focus on the fact that he’s a human being,’ McAlpine interrupted, his hands flat on the Christopher Robin file. ‘Not an animal, not a demon.’
Leask’s eyes followed the DCI’s hands. ‘A human being haunted by demons, certainly,’ he said carefully. He put his hand on the file that lay between them, his fingertip tracing the doodled writing. ‘Christopher Robin? What a picture of innocence.’
McAlpine smiled. ‘Depends on which Christopher Robin. But you can tell Livingstone his alibi’s been checked, again and again. Of course he couldn’t be in two places at once. He’s not an active line of inquiry. But, as I said to you on Sunday, we’ll need to interview him again as a witness.’
‘And, as I told you, he has been through this again and again.’
‘But he may unwittingly know something that could be of help to us. If he wants to stay where he is, we can send somebody down.’
‘Thanks. I’ll pass that on to him.’
‘George, did Elizabeth Jane give you the impression she knew Tom well?’
Leask looked stunned. ‘Oh.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve since learned that Elizabeth Jane had a habit of – ’
‘Exaggerating?’
‘Exactly… the extent of her friendships with men. I thought at the time she was a bit forward in the way she spoke about him, him being a priest. The way her parents said she spoke about him with them sounded to me more involved than it should be. But now I know it was just her way. I’ve never actually seen them together. If that clarifies the matter for you.’ Then Leask straightened in his chair, the change in his manner subtly altering the balance between them. ‘There was something else I wanted to say. Something personal.’
‘Go ahead.’ Half defensive, McAlpine knew he was being seduced by that voice, the delicate almost-soporific Highland accent filling the room with a slow-paced musical cadence as the man spoke.
Leask looked a little uncomfortable. He spoke carefully. ‘I see many things in my line of work, many men driven so far that they don’t see what they risk losing.’
‘Losing?’
Leask held his hand up. ‘Just look at the hours you work: it’s starting to take you over. It’s commendable, such devotion to duty, but there are many victims in this. Marriage is a sacred thing, a union before God. This man, this killer, has claimed three victims. Don’t let your marriage be another. You have a choice, Mr McAlpine, as a detective that you do not have as a husband. The ego that drives you to catch this man must be quelled. I’m not stupid; I know the hours you work. My advice? Go home, see your wife. It’ll make things better in the long run. You can’t have two mistresses.’
‘You have the Church.’
‘And only the Church. I could not give a hundred per cent to both Church and wife. Wives need looking after; they need attention. When I had to make the choice, I chose the Church, as did Thomas O’Keefe. Your place is with your wife, not here.’ He stood up and walked round the table, placing his hand on McAlpine’s shoulder.
∗
Mulholland had parked in Byres Road at about half past seven; he and Costello were sitting in his BMW watching the door of the Whistler’s Mother pub and the small huddle of smokers gathered at the mouth of Whistler’s Lane. It was busy for a Tuesday night; a karaoke competition had just started at Babinski’s Balloon and the drunken strains of ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin” were echoing down the street. Mulholland, as usual, had the heater on, and the windows were steaming up; Costello wiped them from the inside and tried not to keep count as Mulholland sighed for the tenth time.
‘She’s not going to turn up, is she?’
‘She’d better, otherwise the Boss will put out a warrant. And I’ll personally frogmarch her in. I’d a list of things to do today and I haven’t done any of them.’
‘But tomorrow is another day.’
‘Some sleep would be nice too.’ Costello suddenly sat upright. ‘Look, that’s her, if I’m not mistaken.’ She rubbed the side window with her gloves. ‘There, in the white skirt. And remember to try not to act like the polis.’
The girl stopped walking and leaned against the wall of the Whistler’s Mother, her foot up on the bricks behind her, her face petulant. She was bored already. Tracey was a pretty girl, much younger than Costello had imagined, with long straight black hair that was clean and shiny. She wore a black leather jacket and a white peasant skirt, the bottom of it already heavy with rain. Costello noticed her feet were cased in black dancing pumps, entirely unsuitable for the weather. She looked very naive for a prostitute.
Her face brightened as Mulholland got out of the car. She ignored Costello but smiled sweetly at him. Mulholland had the audacity to smile back. Costello stepped in front of him. ‘DS Costello. DC Mulholland. Tracey Witherspoon?’
‘Yeah.’ She managed to answer Costello while keeping her eyes on Mulholland. Costello had to admit she was impressed. She could feel Mulholland’s ego being flattered.
Want to go inside? Better than getting soaked out here.’
‘If you’re buying,’ said Tracey, peeling herself away from the wall.
The Whistler’s Mother was half empty. The usual crowd were at the bar like beasts round a watering hole, but most of the tables were free. As Costello headed towards a table, she noticed the manager gesticulating that Tracey should either put her cigarette out or get out herself.
‘Get three Cokes, Vik, and show him your warrant card. Ask him how many times he’s put her out of here for soliciting. We’ll be over by the window.’
‘You want to talk to me about Arlene?’ Tracey arranged herself on the seat, automatically pouting.
‘Yes.’
‘She was an idiot.’
‘That’s not a crime.’
‘But in this game it can be dangerous.’
Mulholland arrived with the drinks. She thanked him with some sincerity. ‘No chance of getting a vodka in that?’ She was well spoken, a well-educated girl.
‘No,’ said Costello.
‘It might loosen my tongue a bit,’ she suggested, running her tongue over her lips to prove the point. Mulholland had the decency to look away.
‘Oh, get on with it or we’ll take you down the station,’ Costello snapped. ‘I don’t have all day.’
‘Yeah, but it happened to Arlene. She was a good friend of yours,’ said Mulholland, moving into the good-cop role.
Tracey shook her head, her hair moving like a curtain. ‘She wasn’t a friend of mine. Who told you that?’
‘You were out together, celebrating.’
“We had a night off. We went out for a drink, about six of us, and three of us went up to Clatty Pat’s afterwards.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all there was to it.’
‘All?’ said Costello. ‘Don’t think so, Tracey. Try again.’
‘Well, I think she wanted to be me,’ Tracey said with no trace of modesty.
‘She wanted to be you?’ asked Costello.
‘Yeah, you deaf?’
‘No, just confused.’
‘Look, I’m eighteen. I’m going to stay on the game until I’m thirty, and that will be me set for life. I have a plan. This is a career for me.’
‘Do you know how many times I’ve heard that?’ said Costello wearily.
‘I can imagine, but I’m clever. I don’t do drugs, I smoke only ten a day, and I don’t drink often. I have my regular clients. I’m saving for a deposit on a flat, then I’ll be up the property ladder and within five years I’ll be working in the city centre, around Princes Square. That’s where the money is.’
‘Claiming what as a profession? Don’t tell me – exotic dancer.’ Costello sighed wearily. ‘Everybody knows what that means.’
Tracey sighed with impatience. ‘Look, I can talk in company, I don’t let people down. I can behave. I’m going for escort work. That’s where the money is.’ She realized she had repeated herself. ‘I’m expensive, but I’m good. It’s a business. I work hard at it.’
‘And Arlene?’
Was just a streetwalker. She turned tricks up a lane. She had a kid, and it ruined her body. I told her losing weight and going blonde would bring in more money. I was being ironic, but she believed me. She took everything I said as gospel. She wasn’t the brightest. She drinks – drank – too much, she used to have a drug habit. She wasn’t going anywhere. I was on the way up, she was on the way down, so she latched on to me. She was a good laugh, sometimes. End of story.’
Was she on a course of self-improvement?’
Tracey snorted, choking slightly on her Coke. ‘Sorry, that went down the wrong way.’ She cleared her throat. ‘She was an idiot, but she had this idea that if she got a better flat she could earn more money. She didn’t have her boy – Ryan, is it? – living with her because her flat was so damp and he’s asthmatic, apart from everything else. To stand a chance of getting a new flat, she had to get on some sort of training programme and show a change of profession; then she could apply for the return of her son. She needed a sponsor, somebody who’d give good references to her change of character.’
Was any of this genuine?’
‘I don’t think so.’ She reconsidered. ‘No, it wasn’t. She was just jumping through hoops for what she could get. I tell you, she had those muppets at the refuge eating out her hand. And good for her.’
‘Who, at the Phoenix? Who was her contact?’
Tracey shook her head. ‘He was kinda cute, nice voice. He was there for the taking, she said. No names.’ Tracey wriggled in her seat a little. ‘Can we go out for a ciggie?’ she asked Mulholland.
‘He doesn’t smoke,’ said Costello. What does “there for the taking” mean?’
‘Guys like that can be naive. You can say they tried something on, blackmail them. Not for much, but most guys would give you money just to make you go away. It’s a game, isn’t it? No harm done.’
‘I think somebody was playing another game, where harm was done.’
Tracey shrugged again. ‘Look, I do know she had some photographs taken, and she took them to one of those computer-print places to get postcards made up.’
‘What kind of postcards?’
‘Oh, her dressed as a schoolgirl in black suspenders, that kind of thing. As if men are interested in that nowadays. She thought it would bring in a better class of punter, that’s how stupid she was. Anybody can pick up that type of thing.’
Costello resisted looking at Mulholland.
‘What did she intend doing with them? Phone boxes?’
‘That kind of thing, yeah.’
‘Very upmarket.’
Tracey laughed. ‘I had some quality shots done at a studio, and she thought she was doing the same thing.’
‘Either way it’s a good way to get yourself killed.’ Costello stood up. ‘Do us a favour, Tracey. Stay off the streets just now, we’re busy. I don’t want to be looking at your battered face on a slab, OK? Take care,’ she added cheerfully. ‘Come on, Vik.’
‘Yeah, go on, Vik. Bye.’ Tracey rippled her fingers at him.
Costello looked heavenwards and sighed.
At exactly eight O’clock on Tuesday evening, the Reverend Shand returned Anderson’s phone call from a small hotel in rural Minorca. The voice on the phone was the voice of a minister who had been in Glasgow all his life and had seen and heard everything. He didn’t sound surprised that they had tracked him down – he had, after all, left the phone number with his daughter. He seemed more interested in telling Anderson about that day’s birdwatching. Anderson found himself scribbling it all down, wondering what it was with men of the cloth and their avian friends.
By the end of the phone call he had gleaned a few interesting facts about the feathered fauna of the Balearics and many more interesting things about Elizabeth Jane Fulton. Each little bit made some kind of sense, but he could in no way pull it all together. He reached for his notes, claimed the nearest empty keyboard and started to type up a report of the conversation, in the hope that it would all look clearer on paper.
True to form, it was exactly ten O’clock that night when Anderson banged a stapler on the desk for silence. And was ignored. He tried rattling a spoon against the side of a coffee mug, and the room hushed, but only a little.
‘Can you cut it out for a minute?’ He tried to raise his voice over the background noise of phone calls and computer printers, pulling his finger across his throat. The two officers still on the phone wound up their calls, taking numbers and saying they would get back in five minutes. Wyngate, having a better idea of how long this was going to take, was telling the switchboard the inquiry room would be shut for half an hour.
‘Right, boys and girls, just a minute of your time, and then half of you can go home. Christ knows we don’t have much time to spare. We have a couple of definite leads, so there is a lot to do. Littlewood will brief you as to the specifics of today in a minute, but first, a point.’ He placed his hands on his hips, waiting for absolute silence. ‘Everything goes through media liaison. The press are desperate, and they will snap at anything. Batten says the media coverage is feeding Christopher Robin’s ego. It shows we’re under strain, so it gives him a feeling of superiority. He will interpret it as God being on his side. I’m going for a chinwag with the good doctor and Costello. Littlewood, you’re in charge, come and get me if you need me.’
When did the good Dr Batten get so bossy?’ Costello whispered.
‘I would ask why, not when.’
The canteen displayed a sign that said CLOSED FOR CLEANING. However, at least two shifts had passed since the place had been cleaned. From the litter of plates and discarded trays, it looked more like somebody had given the order to evacuate.
‘Great,’ said Batten. ‘No phones, no interruptions, no nothing.’
‘No food,’ muttered Costello.
Batten opened his leather bag and started to put the contents on the table. Costello looked at the clock. Time was slipping past, she had a lot of work to do, and she wanted time to allow her thoughts on Sean McTiernan and Trude to form a cohesive picture. She wanted to morph the girl in the lane into Trude. She had found an ally in Gordon Wyngate, who seemed happy to sit and trawl the c
omputer for anything she wanted. He was now tracing the life of Trude Swann from the registration of her birth as far as he could, and he’d got on with it, no questions asked. He’d come up with only one thing they didn’t already know: her given name was Geertruijde. ‘However you pronounce that.’ But he had found nothing else; some years earlier the girl had ceased to exist. Which intrigued Costello all the more.
‘Wyngate tells me you’ve been chasing somebody called Trude,’ said Batten, reading her thoughts.
‘Only following up the McTiernan lead,’ she replied honestly.
‘Maybe you can enlighten us,’ asked Anderson.
‘But what about this Trude, why does she attract your attention?’ insisted Batten.
‘Trude Swann – two n’s – is an orphan, and at the age of sixteen she walked out of the Good Shepherd Orphanage and off the face of the planet. That’s not an easy thing to do. Wyngate tried the Good Shepherd for the name of the solicitor that looked after Trude’s affairs, but they stonewalled, citing every act and statute you can think of. Wyngate can’t find a name change, an emigration application or a death certificate. A member of staff who was there at the time remembers the connection with the lawyer just led to another lawyer.’
Batten nodded as if it was of some interest, but refused to enlighten his colleagues.
Mulholland arrived, looking fresh-faced and smug, McAlpine glowering behind him.
‘How did the press conference go?’ asked Costello.
‘I dare say he used lots of big words to tell them nothing,’ said McAlpine, his rage having passed. Which was just what you wanted, Boss.
Batten started to shuffle some photographs, keeping them face down. ‘Brainstorming session. We are going to mind-map.’ He looked at McAlpine. ‘All right if I go ahead?’
The Boss nodded, seemingly happy to take a back seat, quiet with his own thoughts, his eyes never straying far from the battered copy of the Evening Gazette on the table.
‘Mind-map? Like joining hands and contacting the dead? We could just ask bloody Arlene who killed her,’ said Mulholland sarcastically.
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