past, Littlewood pulled on his own ears, like a schoolboy impersonating Dumbo. The smatter of laughter died at the DCI’s expression.
‘For those that don’t know, I get called many things but my actual name is Detective Chief Inspector Alan McAlpine, and I’m in charge. DCI Duncan is doing well; he thanks you for your kind thoughts and the presents. He can’t think of a use for the blow-up woman yet, but give him time.’ A ripple of applause went round the room.
Anderson watched his boss carefully, hardly listening to what he said. He saw tension in the corner of McAlpine’s lip, a nervousness in the fingers as they rippled his hair, the same edginess he had noticed that morning. Not quite the same old confident guv he knew.
McAlpine said, ‘Stepping into another’s shoes is never easy, but we just get on with it. Reviewing a case always implies criticism. But let’s think of it as a chance to explore areas previously unexplored.’
‘You think DCI Duncan was wrong?’ asked Littlewood, chin up, arms folded, the challenge in his posture unmistakable.
Costello and Anderson exchanged glances: if he carried on like that, DS John Littlewood would be issuing parking tickets in Blythswood Square before nightfall.
‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer now,’ McAlpine emphasized calmly. ‘And I don’t think Duncan was wrong. End of story. As you know, our friend struck again last night. The press had already christened him the Crucifixion Killer after Traill. Nice. We could do without it, but it happened.’ He got up, perching on the side of his desk. ‘We’ll give you the latest on Fulton, and by the end of today I want the name of the guy who found his way into her flat. She was an ultra-careful woman, but she wasn’t surprised when her doorbell went. So who was he?’ He tapped the desk with his fingertip. ‘Somebody offered Lynzi Traill a run home, and she took it. Two sensible women. Two dead women. Forensics are drawing a blank, so we need to review the circumstantial.’ McAlpine rubbed his chin. ‘By five this evening I want both their lives, inside out, upside down. Something will – must – connect one with the other.’ He turned to Costello. ‘So what was the script at three this morning? Why was somebody looking through Elizabeth Jane Fulton’s letterbox?’
‘To see if her cat was there.’ Costello tucked her hair behind her ears.
‘Cat?’ asked Littlewood.
‘Little black guy with a white chest?’ McAlpine nodded to himself. ‘Go on.’
‘Kirsty Dougall looked through the letterbox of Elizabeth Jane’s flat at three o’clock this morning to see if Mowgli the cat was there,’ said Costello slowly, as if speaking to a simple child. ‘The cat had been causing aggro. Well, Mowgli was fine. Kirsty told the officers at the scene that it was Elizabeth Jane who was causing the aggro, trapping the cat in her flat and then complaining.’
‘She had catnip treats in her cupboard,’ said McAlpine. ‘Was she causing trouble deliberately?’
‘It would seem so. The neighbours said a similar thing. And I expect we’ll hear more of the same when we interview them properly. I’ve already rung her employers at the bank, and it seems she could be awkward at work too. She was the type who’d clype on her colleague for using the office printer to print a personal letter, for being five minutes late back from lunch –’
‘For farting without permission. I know the type,’ said Littlewood. He shot a look at Costello, who fired it back again.
‘She was described as a narrow-minded perfectionist by someone who said they liked her and as a petty-minded bitch by someone I’d say didn’t. Not a popular girl. So,’ Costello went on, ‘when Kirsty looked through the letterbox, she saw Elizabeth Jane’s hand on the floor, and she dialled 999. Lights out, please!’
On cue, darkness fell, and the glare from a single spotlight dropped from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows on the wall. Costello pinned up pictures as she spoke. The photographs showed a young woman, her face running to fat already, her smile framed for eternity in brown curls and pearls. She had made an effort to look nice.
Costello spoke. ‘Elizabeth Jane – she didn’t like being called Liz – aged twenty-six, single, bank teller for the Bank of Scotland, living up in Fortrose Street, no boyfriends we have discovered, kept herself to herself, non-smoker, non-drinker, went to church a lot, sang in the choir. Elizabeth Jane’s cousin Paula is getting married soon, and apparently she asked the girl next to her in the choir to go to the wedding meal with her, so maybe she had no really close female friends either. Her idea of a great night out was an evening class in accounting, which raises the question: who was it at the door?’ Costello’s hand, ghostly in the projected light, smoothed down another photograph. There was a ripple of movement as the team shifted to view the obscene image: Elizabeth Jane lying, arms out, legs crossed, dressed in her work uniform, her abdomen ripped open like a ripe fruit. ‘Her mobile was a new one, and the phone records are being checked. We’re waiting for a call back.’
‘But all this . . . all that’ – Anderson pointed at the photograph of the room – ‘suggests preparation, a method, organization. He turned up at that flat knowing exactly what he was going to do. He let her make him a cup of coffee, but he didn’t touch it. He didn’t touch anything.’
‘There’s no doubt he knows what he’s doing,’ said Costello, as she checked her notes. ‘O’Hare has done the prelim, puts death at around eight last night. We know she was alive at quarter to six, because she was helping with cashing up at the bank. But there was no answer when her mother phoned her at her flat just before nine. Same MO as Lynzi Traill: chloroformed, from behind, no struggle.’
‘I’ve heard that chloroform doesn’t knock you out instantly,’ said Anderson. ‘So why no struggle? No disruption?’
‘He’s bigger? He can hold them until it takes effect?’ suggested Costello. ‘They were both – what? – under ten stone? Probably lighter than he is . . . but they were short, which means he gains a totally controllable victim.’ She folded her arms, her point made. ‘Who was checking up on the chloroform?’
‘Me,’ said Mulholland. ‘I’ve rechecked all the sources listed locally; no reported loss or theft. I’ve alerted HOLMES for a nation-wide check, but all registered sources have come up with a big zero.’
‘Exactly what DCI Duncan found,’ muttered McAlpine. ‘Damn!’
The soft Hebridean accent of DC Donald Burns came through the darkness. ‘That one single cut, right up the front, no messing around – there’s strength in that.’ The quiet lilting voice was authoritative. ‘The leather belt has been nicked by the blade, and that takes a strong knife, moving with control and strength. And a bloody sharp blade.’
‘And he knows how to use it, where to use it,’ said Anderson. ‘Do we have a field for that in the system?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll see what I can do,’ Wyngate said, scribbling it down.
‘Get it in: people who are good with knives. Butchers?’ said McAlpine.
‘Surgeons?’
‘Farmers? Slaughtermen? Chefs, I suppose,’ offered Costello.
McAlpine’s voice cut through the dark. ‘I want that flat vacuumed and the dust gone through. We need some physical evidence of whoever she let in. If there’s so much as a speck of dandruff, I want it. And try to think like Elizabeth Jane. Think precise, think pernickety, and
