him with Costello. She’ll keep an eye on him,’ suggested Anderson.
‘Of course. I should have thought of that.’ McAlpine sighed.
Anderson retreated round the partitioned wall and sat on the edge of the desk, rolling his empty coffee cup in the palms of his hands, his eyes passing over Lynzi and resting on Elizabeth Jane, looking at the arrangement of their feet, left over right. ‘Sinister over dexter,’ he mused. ‘Do you think there’s a religious thing behind all this? It’s a bit precise, isn’t it, the arrangement of the limbs?’
‘Which means we have a psycho, and...’ McAlpine turned, catching something said just out of earshot. ‘Sorry, Col, I’m wanted on the phone. I’ll take it on the moby and go out for a fag. See you in the office in a minute? Oh, and as I’ve been up since five, I’m going to nip home and have a shower before the briefing.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You can run me back in.’
The fried-egg-and-potato-scone roll with brown sauce still lay on the desk, one bite taken out and the rest untouched. Some habits did not change.
DS Costello caught her toe on the step of Partickhill Police Station, as she had done every working day for the last six years.
‘Enjoy your trip?’ PC Wyngate asked, as he did every time he witnessed it.
Costello rolled her eyes and forced herself to remember that she was actually fond of young Wyngate, whose endless willingness and sheer bloody niceness made up for his not being the brightest. ‘It’s Baltic out there.’ She pulled down the hood of her cream duffel coat, running her fingers through unruly blonde hair, and shivered in the warmth of the station, wishing her shoes didn’t let water in. ‘Briefing at ten?’ she read off the board.
‘Yes. I think that new guy wants you to do something first; you’ve to go up straight away.’ He leaned over the desk. ‘Guess what?’
‘What?’
‘I was there, at the scene. I was on the tape, then I started the door-to-door,’ he said smugly, stirring his tea with deliberation, clinking the spoon repeatedly against the side of his Partick Thistle mug.
‘I thought you were taken off the tape because you were spewing your guts on the pavement? Using the tape to keep yourself upright, in fact.’
‘Oh, who told you?’
‘It’s on the noticeboard, Wingnut. You should be flattered, shows some kind of popularity.’
Wyngate could never quite tell when Costello was joking, so he shrugged. ‘You going upstairs?’
‘Yeah. Main incident room, is it?’
‘You take these up with you, some more stuff about last night. That’s the prelim report from the scene through already. Traill all over again,’ Wyngate stated baldly.
‘The same?’ asked Costello, as she took the envelope of photographs.
‘Exactly.’
‘Oh . . . right,’ said Costello cautiously. She turned round, tapping the envelopes on the counter, feeling them surreptitiously. The report was only one page; the other envelope had the stiff cardboard backing of photographs, the number code telling her these were the second batch to come through. God, how quick had they been with the first? She allowed herself a smile – DCI McAlpine was in charge, things were moving.
‘So who else is up there?’
The stirring resumed. ‘Vik Mulholland’s not in yet.’ Wyngate sniffed the air. ‘You can always tell. No aftershave, therefore no Mulholland. Is he gay, d’you think?’
‘No, but he helps them out if they’re busy. Who else is up there?’
‘A tall fair-haired bloke in a Barbour, polite, looks stressed.’ Wyngate was looking down a list of names. ‘Would that be DI Anderson?’
‘Yeah, Colin Anderson. He’s been dragged back from Edinburgh. Nice guy,’ Costello said, smiling to herself.
Wyngate consulted a piece of paper. ‘Was he not seconded from the L and B?’
‘No, they seconded him from us, and we are having him back. Is McAlpine already here?’
‘DCI McAlpine? Small, dark-haired bloke?’
‘Yip, that’ll be him,’ said Costello, giving him a sweet smile, her sharp features blending into prettiness for the briefest of moments. She looked at the clock: it was going on seven.
‘He wasn’t fast-tracked, was he?’ asked Wyngate.
‘He made DCI at thirty-five. That’s talent, not fast-track,’ Costello whispered, letting him into a secret. ‘He’s good; you should watch and learn.’
‘Yeah, right.’ He dropped another two reports on the top of her pile, spinning round to talk to an old couple and a tartan-coated greyhound that had just walked in. ‘Can I help you?’ he said, tapping a keyboard, happy with his computer.
Seconds later Costello was taking the stairs two at a time up to the incident room. Every murder inquiry McAlpine had been on, he had called for her. Every time she met him again, she hoped she would feel different, that he would somehow be different. The door to the DCI’s office was closed, but she could see them through the window, sitting close together, Anderson talking, McAlpine with his back to her. She took a deep breath, hoping again that time had caught up with Alan McAlpine: that the almond eyes had faded, the burnt umber had dulled to sepia, the beautiful profile had wrinkled with age. That maybe his seductive smile had been softened by the passing years. She felt her stomach twist.
She opened the door, her feet squelching. McAlpine and Anderson were deep in discussion. It was a while before McAlpine turned, flicking his hair from his face before his eyes met hers.
His face was just as it had ever been.
Perfect.
Winifred Prudence Costello had suffered many misfortunes in her life, not least of which was being named after both grandmothers. Another was the ability of her cars, like her men, to let her down just when they were needed. Like at six that morning when she’d been in a hurry, but the Toyota was more impregnable than Alcatraz, leaving her standing in a puddle and making her late for the meeting. The DCI, being his usual self, had got straight to the point.
‘Glad to see you, Costello. Get your skates on and check this out.’ He had handed her a piece of paper with Elizabeth Jane’s neighbour’s statement. There were a few too many vague comments in the initial interview, and he wanted it cleared up before the briefing at ten. The good news was that he trusted her to get the job done properly.
The bad news was she had to take Vik Mulholland with her.
McAlpine had spared her the embarrassment of explaining about her car by ordering Mulholland to take her in his. She was the senior officer, so she should be the one driven. That had gone down like a lead balloon.
She checked her watch. Mulholland had said he would be out in two ticks, and that was ten minutes ago. She began to stamp her feet, the water in her shoes warming nicely to skin temperature. Plunging her hands deep into the pockets of her duffel, she pulled her neck tight into the
