‘Are you still working nights at the taxi rank?’ she asked eventually. ‘Mum never really says but that was the last I knew.’
‘Yes, still there. It keeps me in beer money.’
‘Do you not get a bit fed up with all the madness out there at night?’
‘Am I not too old for that, you mean?’
‘No. Well, yes. Maybe I meant that a bit too. But the town is just full of nutters, especially at taxi o’clock.’
‘You okay when you go out? Safe, I mean.’
He got another little burn of flame from her eyes – not as much as before, though, just a mild singeing. ‘I’m fine. Built-in self-preservation sense. If I get too out of it, the homing signal kicks in and I head back to Mum’s.’
‘That’s good. It’s a very handy skill to have. Listen, Chloe, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you were growing up.’
He half expected her eyes to flash angry again but they didn’t.
‘It’s okay. You don’t need to apologise.’
‘I’m not. I’m saying that I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I wish I had been.’
She nodded. ‘Okay. I know it wasn’t your choice. You going to tell me why Mum’s so mad at you?’
‘No. Not today. It’s too long a story. Let’s just say she had her reasons and I’m not blaming her for being like that.’
Chloe looked at him for a while, maybe working out if it would be worth trying to get him to talk about it.
‘Okay, not today. Does that mean we’ll meet again?’
‘Yes. If you want to.’
‘Yeah. Okay.’
‘Good.’
Back out on a damp, springlike Dumbarton Road, they prepared to go their separate ways, a palpable awkwardness between them at how to say goodbye being finally settled by a clumsy hug.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he said.
‘I told you, you don’t need to thank me. Anyway, I enjoyed it.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Me too. Listen . . . there’s something else I wanted to say. You know these murders that happened in the city centre? Well . . . I know I don’t have much right to lecture you after all these years but . . . it’s dangerous out there. Just be careful, will you?’
She wrinkled her nose at him, obviously amused, then leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Okay, Papa. I will.’
Chapter 23
Tuesday afternoon
Walking down the SPSA corridor to the chemist lab, DI Derek Addison was aware of a feeling that he was almost completely unfamiliar with. Dredging his memory banks, he realised that it was probably something that other people called nervousness. Given the length of time since he’d last experienced this phenomenon, he wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with it.
What he did know was that the source of his nerves was waiting at the end of the corridor. Sam Guthrie had left a message saying that she had completed the lipstick analysis and asking him to drop into the lab for the results. She’d also added that she could contact DCI Kelbie if he preferred . . .
He was bothered less by the suggestion that she might call Kelbie than by the fact that she so clearly knew that she could wind him up by saying it. He’d never quite understood the attraction other guys had for confident, intelligent women. Give him vulnerable and vacuous any day of the week. Guthrie was annoyingly sharp, self-assured and intellectual, but he could have just about coped with all of that if she hadn’t been so bloody good-looking as well.
He’d asked around about her, purely for professional reasons. She was originally from farming stock near Stonehaven and had gone to university in Edinburgh, gaining two degrees and seemingly being a stellar student. She was twenty-six and had been in the SPSA in Glasgow for two years. She was single.
Addison paused just as he was about to push open the door into the lab, seeing her through the glass panel, head down over a piece of equipment. That weird sensation flushed through him again and he knew he didn’t like it. It was time to adopt the Addison persona. It never failed.
He shoved the door back wider than was necessary and strode through without the courtesy of a knock or the politeness of a hello, his hands thrust into his pockets and an uninterested look fastened to his face. Guthrie didn’t look up but instead made a show of sniffing at the air.
‘Sounds like testosterone. Smells like testosterone. It must be DI Addison. Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.’
He stopped mid-stride and mid-attitude. ‘Look, I don’t have time to—’
‘Yes, you do. Sit down and try not to break anything.’
Addison’s mouth opened and closed before turning into a disgruntled frown. There was a chair in front of the desk near Guthrie and he dropped himself into it, crossing his lanky legs in a show of pique.
‘And don’t pout,’ she called to him, still not having taken her eyes off the machinery in front of her. ‘It’s not very macho, is it?’
He fretted for a bit before having another stab at asserting himself. ‘You said you had the results of the lipstick analysis.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And that you would let me have it.’
She looked up for the first time, eyebrows raised enquiringly. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘I meant the results,’ he gabbled, aware that he was losing.
‘Of course you meant the results. What on earth else could you have meant?’
‘I . . . never mind. Do you have the results and will you kindly tell me what they entail?’
Guthrie sighed. ‘I do and I will. Hadn’t we established that? Okay, Detective Inspector, walk this way.’
The scientist rose elegantly from her chair, her long legs taking her to the rear of the lab in just a few strides, leading him to the shelf where the array of lipsticks had been on his previous visit. In their place were just three tubes of the stuff and three printed charts. Guthrie turned so her back was against the edge of the worktop, her ankles crossing neatly in front of her and her arms folding across her chest, looking at him the way she might look at something unusual at the bottom of one of her test tubes.
‘You look tired, Detective Inspector. Tough case? Not sleeping much?’
‘Um . . . busy time.’
‘I can see that it must be. You look as if you’re in need of some TLC.’
He hesitated. ‘Thin-layer chromatography?’
Guthrie tilted her head to the side in curiosity, but her eyes were laughing. ‘Why on earth would you need thin-layer chromatography to help with a lack of sleep? Tender loving care, Detective Inspector, that’s what you need.’
His nerves had been justified. The woman was a nightmare.
‘The scientific TLC does have its uses, however.’ She pushed herself gently from the worktop and picked up the charts behind her. ‘I have a positive identification on your lipstick. Do you remember the chromatograms I showed you on your previous visit?’ She didn’t get an answer. ‘The little red lines and the little green lines?’
‘Yes, of course. I just didn’t know that it was called . . . Jesus, will you just tell me what you’ve found?’
‘Tut-tut. Impatient and intemperate. Hardly desirable qualities in a profession such as yours, Detective Inspector. Okay, you see the overlay in this chart?’ The red and green peaks rose together but the heights varied very slightly. ‘That shows that they are almost certainly made by the same manufacturer. Whereas this chart’ – in the second, the coloured peaks were completely in alignment – ‘indicates that we have a winner.’
‘Okay, I can see that. Definitely the same lipstick? Do you not need to check with the . . . er, GCSE?’
Guthrie sighed. ‘It is, as I suspect you well know, GC–MS. And, yes, surprisingly enough, you are correct. As well as having analysed the colouring agents with the TLC, I also studied the organic components with GC–MS. And, as you can see from the final chart’ – she held it in front of him – ‘it confirms it. It is, scientifically and unequivocally, the same l
ipstick.’
‘Which is?’
‘Hollywood by Ava Duvall. It’s a real old lady’s lippy. It used to be very popular in the seventies and eighties much in the same way as something like Old Spice aftershave was for men. But tastes change and it just went out of fashion. Duvall doesn’t even make lipstick any more. They just make fragrances these days.’
‘So when would this have been bought then?’
‘Well, I checked that out with them and they say they stopped production in 1995, but there was probably still some stock being sold into the late nineties. It means, obviously enough, that there is no chance of tracking down a stockist or time and place of purchase. However, it’s not all bad news. I’d suggest that you could reasonably postulate that—’
‘That someone who has access to a fifteen-year-old lipstick is less worried about fashion and more about some sentimental attachment to it. It perhaps belongs to a mother or grandmother. Then again, maybe it was just found in an old box of make-up. Either way, it looks highly unlikely that it belonged to Kirsty McAndrew.’
Guthrie nodded thoughtfully. ‘And you interrupted me because I’d moved from a scientific analysis to an investigative one. My apologies for treading on your toes, Detective Inspector.’
‘No, that’s, um . . . Sorry for, um . . . interrupting. Is there anything else you can tell me about this?’
The chemist smiled and Addison ducked internally, wondering what she was going to throw at him next. ‘Not about the lipstick, no. However, I’ve also been involved in processing the trace evidence found on the ground adjacent to the Caledonia Road church and can tell you that we believe we have successfully extracted DNA from it. It’s not the quality we’d wish for but it’s there.’
Addison blinked at her, his nerves and awkwardness disappearing like snow off a dyke. ‘What the bloody hell didn’t you tell me that for? What have you got? Jesus H. Christ, woman, you’re blabbering on about an out-of-date lipstick and don’t bother to mention that you’ve got fucking DNA that probably comes from a double murderer?’
Guthrie didn’t bat an eye but she did let her eyebrows rise far enough to show amused disapproval. ‘I wouldn’t go as far as probable, Detective Inspector. Such premature decision-making doesn’t bode well at all. Perhaps I’d be better contacting Detective Chief Inspector Kelbie if and when we get a match to the DNA.’
‘What? You really don’t want to do that. Premature? Kelbie shoots his bolt quicker than an ADHD kid with a crossbow. Look, Ms . . . Sam. I’d very much appreciate it if you made a point of conta—’
‘Ask me out for dinner.’
‘What?’
‘Ask me out for dinner and I’ll make sure you are the first point of contact once the results of the DNA tests are delivered.’
‘I . . . uh . . . now look . . . um . . . Okay. Would you like to go out for dinner with me sometime?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘What? You said—’
‘I said I wanted you to ask. I didn’t say I’d accept. That’s the bargain upheld, though, and I’ll let you know as soon as we get something positive.’
‘Yeah but . . . okay . . . when do you think you’ll get something?’
‘Soon. And you’ll be the first to know.’
Addison needed a drink after his second round with the Guthrie woman. Truth was, he would have gone for a pint or two anyway but he certainly felt as if he deserved it after her dicking him around like that. Not dicking around – bad choice of words. Any expressions relating to the male sexual organs had to be avoided when he was thinking about her. Avoided like the bloody plague.
He’d walked over to the Station Bar, twice texting Winter en route but not getting an answer. A pity, but it would hardly be the first time that he’d drunk alone, nor the last. Maybe his own company would be better, anyway. The last thing he wanted was Winter blabbering on about either Sam Guthrie or Kelbie.
He was passing the Piping Centre opposite the top of Hope Street, just a couple of hundred yards from the pub, when his mobile rang. Winter.
‘Awrite, wee man? What’s happening?’
‘Hi, Addy. Don’t think I’m going to make it for a pint. Got a man to see about a dog.’
‘Aye, very good. You go chasing dogs and just leave me to drink on my own. It’s good to know who your friends are. What you been up to, anyway?’
‘Och, just this and that. Getting some routine stuff processed. Did I hear you were back down in the chemist lab today?’
‘Who told you that?’
Neither of them could miss the defensiveness in his answer.
‘Keep your hair on, Addy. Paul Burke saw you going down there. Did the lovely Ms Guthrie have anything interesting for you?’
‘Piss off and don’t start on me.’
‘Oh, sore point, is it?’
‘I said piss off.’
‘Calm down, man. And anyway that wasn’t what I meant. I meant did Sam have anything interesting about the case? Did she have the results of the lipstick analysis?’
Addison hesitated, still unsure whether Winter was taking the piss. ‘Yeah, she did. Turns out it’s some old-fashioned lippy that you can’t buy any more. The company stopped making it years ago.’
‘What was it called?’
‘Eh? Hollywood by Ava Duvall. What difference does it make?’
‘Just wondered. What else are they working on down there? They got results back from the Cathcart Road site?’
‘What is this? You’re giving me more hassle than Shirley. Glad you’re no’ my boss. Naw, she’s not got anything on it yet. Next couple of days with a bit of luck. Think I’ve persuaded her to come to me with the info as well rather than that wee shite Kelbie.’
‘Aye? How did you manage that, then? The old Addison charm?’
‘I told you not to start on me about that. If you’re not coming out for a drink, then you’ve lost the right to wind me up.’
‘Calm down, big stuff. I was only pulling your— Hello? Hello? Addy?’
Addison’s phone was back in his pocket and he began the march on the Station Bar in earnest. Drinking alone had become a lot more preferable to drinking with someone who wanted to ask questions.
Chapter 24
Tuesday evening
Outside Hillhead underground station, Winter tucked away his mobile and the conversation with Addison that had disappeared in a huff of smoke. The stress in the DI’s voice was obvious and Winter suffered a wrench of guilt for having wound him up, but it faded fast. He had his own problems to deal with.
Across the other side of Byres Road, he saw the corner of Highburgh Road, knowing Rachel’s flat was just yards beyond it. It had been only a month since he’d last been there but so much had happened in between that it seemed an age ago. Hell, so much had happened since they’d tried to meet for breakfast the day before. The rescheduled ‘catch-up’ was on her home turf.
A group of four young women passed in the other direction as Winter made his way down Ashton Lane’s cobbled access. One of them, a tall, attractive blonde, made eyes at him as they went by. Winter blanked her, as much out of confusion as to what he was supposed to do as anything else.
He climbed the stairs into the Grosvenor Cafe, picking out a booth in the corner and ordering a couple of drinks: a bottle of beer for himself and a glass of white wine for Rachel, putting them together on the table in front of him. He hadn’t seen her all day and had only her text from that lunchtime suggesting the meeting. He’d heard whispers through the forensic grapevine that something had been found on the route near the Southern Necropolis killing, but no one seemed to know if it had amounted to much. Ten minutes later, almost on time for her, she arrived, looking tired and grouchy.
‘Bad day?’
‘Long day,’ she sighed, rubbing at her eyes.
‘I took a chance and got you a glass of wine.’
She looked at it doubtfully – just what she needed and the last thing she should have. ‘Thanks.’
‘Are you . . .’
‘What happened with . . .’
‘Sorry, you go first.’
‘No it’s okay. You.’
They both hesitated, words stuck, and reached for their drinks instead, their hands brushing against the other’s. His hand recoiled slowly, hers as if it had been electrocuted.
‘You go first.’ It was more of an order than an invitation.
He took a mouthful of his beer, buying time and drinking her in over the rim of the glass. Tired or not, she still looked good. He fought the need to tell her.
‘So how’s your dad today?’
Rachel sat forward and her hands flew to her head. ‘Oh, shit, no. With everything that was going on, I forgot to call the home.’ She looked at her watch, but one glance told her that it was far too late to phone him. ‘Shit.’
The symptoms of her dad’s Alzheimer’s had begun to emerge the year before and had, inevitably, got worse as the months had passed. Rachel’s guilt at his being in the nursing home never left her but she did phone or visit every day. Or at least she tried to. With her mum having died six years earlier, it was down to Rachel to be there for him, but her job didn’t exactly make that easy.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, trying to sympathise. ‘It’s not as if . . .’ – he faltered – ‘he wouldn’t understand the pressures of your job.’ Her dad had been a cop too but Winter knew it wasn’t a good enough save to stop her from working out the pause.
‘It’s not as if he would remember that I called, anyway? Is that what you were going to say? It’s not the bloody point and you know it. And he had a really good day yesterday, if you must know. He knew who I was as soon as he answered the phone. Do you know how good that makes me feel? If he’d been the same today . . .’
She wavered, her hands covering her face, then pushing back through her hair, fatigue and remorse making her look older. She pulled the wineglass to her lips but pushed it away again and rested it back on the table.
Witness the Dead Page 16