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?’
‘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 tight 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,
