Can you give me a clue where that cantankerous old bastard I married might have put them?’
‘He had on his leather jacket earlier this morning, the black one, over a dark blue suit, if that’s any help.’
Anderson watched as Helena dashed up the stairs, her lion-red hair cascading down the back of a huge black jumper he was sure was one of Alan’s.
She reappeared, keys in hand. ‘Got them: leather jacket, just as you said. I told him you were here. He’s on the phone, swearing at some poor minion. Does ‘‘effing profilers’’ mean anything to you?’ She rolled her eyes and sighed as she opened the boot of the Five Series BMW.
Anderson smiled and hoisted the crate on to the bumper, watching Helena’s fingers as they wrapped white cloth round the corners. Long strong fingers, a single wedding band and the light catching the single blue diamond above it.
‘How are the kids?’ she asked.
He winced as a splinter jammed in the skin of his thumb. ‘Bloody skelf!’ He lifted it to his mouth and sucked the blood. ‘Expensive, cheeky. But not at the devious lying stage – yet.’
‘Wait till Clare’s out at night with unsuitable men. Sleepless nights for you then.’
‘I’ll be working. At the moment I’m psyching myself up to sit and watch two hours of six-year-olds doing ballet without falling asleep.’
‘Tough,’ agreed Helena. ‘You’ll come to the exhibition, you and Brenda? I know it’s not your thing but . . . Alan...’
‘Free champers and raw fish. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m going to sell you some of wee Peter’s paintings, people with big heads and no keeping within the lines.’
‘You’ve been peeking at My Brother in Palestine,’ she teased, tapping the crate. ‘It’s by a Canadian artist, very experimental.’ She eased the boot shut and flicked her hair back, making the sun spark on the copper. That flirtatious smile again, looking at him as if he was the only person that mattered. ‘God! It’s cold!’
Alan McAlpine appeared at the door, and Helena’s expression softened a little, as if she had warmed as she looked towards the house. Then McAlpine disappeared again, having forgotten something.
Helena turned back to Anderson. ‘He’s had about two hours’ sleep, so you’re working with Mr Grumpy today.’
‘No change there, then. It’ll get worse before it gets better.’
‘Look after him, will you? Somebody has to.’ Helena’s head tilted to one side, her love for her husband silent on the upturn of her lips.
‘Do you want us to follow you to the gallery and take this out for you? We’ll have time before the briefing.’
‘No, we won’t,’ said a voice behind them. ‘Goodbye, dear.’ McAlpine kissed his wife on the cheek. Anderson watched her incline her head towards him, eyes closed. More a promise than a kiss.
‘You don’t have time, apparently,’ said Helena sweetly.
‘Well, if you need a hand, let me know.’
‘Ta! It’s good to use other people’s husbands. Mine’s useless. Remind him he has a date with his wife tonight.’
‘Got you.’ Anderson tapped the side of his head as McAlpine got into the car and slammed the door.
‘See you, Helena.’
‘Bye, Colin. Thanks.’
Anderson pulled into the street, and in the driving mirror watched the wind blow fire into her hair as she waved.
Anderson walked into the chaos of the murder room, keeping four paces behind the Boss. By the time the clock had wound itself round to ten, thirty-three officers were busy chatting, reliving old glories and mistakes. They sat, they stood, they leaned against monitor screens and filing cabinets, they drummed fingers along the sides of polystyrene cups, they tapped pens off the top of clipboards, they paced the floor like condemned men.
Coffee cup in hand, Anderson picked his way through them to the back, aware that he was regarded as McAlpine’s golden boy, conscious of not wanting to step on any toes, physically or metaphorically. He caught their whispers as he passed . . . maybe we’ll get something moving now – should have been on the case from the start. It was natural; they wanted a second chance and new lines of investigation, something a fresh eye, a younger eye, could bring to the case.
McAlpine walked to the front. Everyone turned to look, conversations halted in mid sentence. The DCI was the smallest man in the room, but one flash of his almond-shaped eyes across the squad and the ruffle of noise was silenced. People shifted in their seats to get a better view. There was an air of expectation.
Vik Mulholland handed McAlpine a piece of paper and went to the back, looking around for a spare seat. Finding none, he wiped a desktop beside Anderson with the palm of his hand, tugged at the knees of his Versace trousers, then sat down.
McAlpine read the note, twice, his eyes narrowing before he looked up and settled on Mulholland. ‘What the fuck does that mean – System’s gone down?’
‘If it’s too busy, it collapses. It’s done it four times so far.’
McAlpine dropped his forehead into his hands. The squad waited for a vitriolic eruption. It never came.
‘Sir?’ Costello spoke quietly, raising a tentative hand.
He opened his eyes and looked at her, tired already. ‘Yes?’
‘Wyngate, sir, he has a degree in IT. If it’s true that upstairs aren’t going to shell out for an expert, maybe we should use what we have. He’s not much use at anything else, sir,’ she added, with an affectionate grin at Wyngate.
McAlpine had to nip a smile, searching for the name. ‘Wyngate? Gordon, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’ PC Wyngate pulled on his over-large ears, more nervous than he looked.
‘You recovered from last night?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Fancy the job?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Get to it. I’m not having that heap of shite jeopardizing the investigation.’ McAlpine turned at a sudden draught and asked for the window to be closed. Ostentatiously, from the back of the room, Mulholland started fanning with an empty file. ‘What do you need?’ McAlpine asked Wyngate.
‘More bandwidth. The system’s slowing down.’ Wyngate spoke directly to McAlpine, keeping his voice low and respectful. ‘We’ll be in trouble if it crashes completely.’
McAlpine turned to look at the volume of paper, his face impassive. ‘We have no budget for it. Do the best you can.’
‘Well, maybe you could ask them not to pour coffee over the keyboards,’ DC Irvine interjected.
‘It’s all our coffee’s good for,’
