Absolution (11 page)

Sean let a smile soften his lips. Soon he would be home;
he would go running every morning, running every night, along the beach from the white cottage under the shadow of the castle, along a beach that went on and on and on… to a beautiful blonde witch, waiting with her familiar.

Miss Peroxide smiled across at him. He smiled back, then looked away, noting the miniskirt, the chunky legs in green ankle boots.

She was far from perfection.

But after three and a half years she didn’t have to bother to look decent. The fact that she was a female with a pulse was enough for him. She would have a comfy bed, clean sheets, a duvet, nice toilet paper.

He looked at her face again, giving her his James Dean smoulder, then let his eyes linger a little longer on her thighs.

‘Aye!’ A thin old woman dumped a plastic shopping bag on the table in front of him, sending a tidal wave of expensive coffee over the rim of his cup, obliterating the Ashton Café logo.

‘Hello, Nan, how are you doing?’ He stood up, planting a kiss on her cold bristled cheek, embarrassed to feel a tear in his eye.

Here was his Nan, miserable as usual, with her thrawn smile. The turquoise butterfly glasses had been changed for small gold rims, but the mole was hairier than ever, standing to attention on her top lip. She pulled her grey crocheted hat further down over her lank straight hair, then, just in case anybody thought she was enjoying herself, she began cursing under her breath about his choice of meeting place, the mole hairs twitching as she muttered.

Miss Peroxide, still watching, still interested, shot him a look of amused sympathy. The pigtailed waitress came over with a cup of tea.

‘I told them you’d get it,’ Nan said.

Sean paid, pushing the waitress’s hand away, telling her to keep the change.

Miss Peroxide twisted her head slightly, the three gold chains round her neck narrowing down her cleavage, and crossed one chunky leg over the other. There was a lot of flesh between the top of her ankle boots and the bottom of her skirt. She raised her cup to her lips, smiled at him again and turned away.

Nan blew her nose on a napkin, giving her nostrils a good clear out. That brought back memories to him, memories of the kids’ home, of paper hankies like steel wool and a hard slap every time he used his sleeve.

‘You’ve lost weight,’ she said. ‘I’ve made you soup.’

‘Oh, ta, what is it?’ Images of home-made Scotch broth boiling away on his Baby Belling.

‘Good for you, that’s what it is. Better than that.’ She pointed at Miss Peroxide. Nan never missed a trick.

‘She’s nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘How are you?’

‘Who listens to me if I complain? Twenty minutes to wait for a train, I’m telling you, ma boy – ’

‘What else’s in the bag?’ He peered in the top.

‘Soup, tablet, chocolate crispies. Where are you staying?’

‘Just up the road.’ He kept it vague.

‘Good, good,’ she said. She wasn’t daft. ‘Is it near Cleopatra’s Disco?’ She said it as though she had been rehearsing it.

‘Everywhere in Partickhill is near Clatty Pat’s.’

‘You should go there.’

‘Should I?’

‘Oh, yes. Sunday night’s good in there. Older folk like you.’ She gave him a hard look, telling him something.

His heart began to thump against his chest. He had been prepared to wait; she wasn’t.

‘You look awfy peaky, you should get out more.’ Only Nan could say that to someone who had been out of jail for a matter of hours.

‘How are things?’ he said, keeping his voice low and steady. It had been four long years since he had hatched the plan, and a faint flicker of doubt passed through his mind for the first time.

Nan nodded. ‘All is fine.’ Uneducated she might have been, but she was shrewd, very shrewd. ‘And business is very well, very smooth,’ she said, opening her palm on to the tabletop and looking down. ‘Paintings are selling well. The staircase is just as you left it. Do you want to see the house?’

He cast his eyes left and right before nodding.

‘I’ve photographs.’

‘Not a painting, then?’

‘Not too old for a slap, son.’ She handed over a Kodak envelope.

He opened it, fanning out the fresh prints. A photograph of a dog, a huge silver husky, its intelligent blue eyes black-rimmed in a white mask.

‘Gelert,’ he said.

‘By name and nature.’

‘The brave and faithful hound. That was always my favourite story, you know. You used to tell it to us – ’

‘In the cleaning cupboard, aye.’ Nan gave him a rare smile. ‘He’s a big dog now.’ She tucked a roll of used twenty-pound notes into his fist with covert skill. ‘Next one shows how far we’ve got with the veranda.’

A whitewashed cottage on a beach, the seaweed scar of the high-tide line black against the sand, big windows, a half-built wooden veranda bleached blond by strong west winds and weak Scottish sun.

The house looked exactly the same; so did the beach and the castle. Only the husky lying on the front step had grown.

He stared at the picture for a long time, aware that Nan was waving her fingers at him, wanting the photographs back. Two minutes and a quick trip to the toilet later, the money had been folded into his shoe.

‘I’ll see you around.’

‘I’m sure you will.’ Suddenly he wanted her to stay. ‘Pass on my… regards.’

‘Get that soup in you.’ She ruffled his hair with her hand; she had been doing that since he was four years old, and she used to check him for lice. And then she was away, the photographs leaving with her.

He lifted his cup, looking at the milk separate on the top of the coffee. He leaned back, relaxing. It was all so close. He was happy. Miss Peroxide said something. Maybe if he closed his eyes…

‘Excuse me,’ Miss Peroxide repeated, ‘do you have the time?’

Prettier with her mouth shut. He looked across to her table. Her Betty Boop watch was gone.

Fair enough. He thought about his nice new bedsit, with its hot running water and crisp white sheets. He’d done enough time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. He wanted some of his own now.

McAlpine hated doing this.
I’m sorry, it’s about your daughter.
‘Ready?’ he asked.

Costello had been checking out the street. Affluent, middle class. She had no problem placing Elizabeth Jane here. ‘Ready,’ she agreed.

The door was opened by a squat gargoyle of a woman, blazing with anger, gold chains on her wrists rattling as she
waved them away. ‘Enough, I’ve told you. Enough already!’ The closing door halted as she caught sight of two warrant cards. ‘Oh, I
am
sorry,’ she said, her eyes darting from one to the other. ‘We’ve had reporters, knocking at the door, standing in the drive. No respect, some people.’

‘It’s a very difficult time,’ Costello agreed, smiling her charming smile.

The gargoyle nodded, smiling too now. Not the mother, then. ‘Oh, it’s been a terrible day,’ she said with thinly disguised relish. ‘A terrible day. I mean – you never think, do you? Not someone you know, not in their own home. Do come in.’

They followed her into a large hall, terracotta-tiled floor, a winding staircase overhead. Elizabeth Jane’s parents were not short of a bob or two.

‘Betty and Jim are in there. The minister is with them.’ She looked at her watch, a copper-brown fingernail tapping the face as if she was timing the visit. ‘He hasn’t been in very long.’ She seemed reluctant to interrupt them.

‘And you are?’ asked Costello, sensing McAlpine’s impatience.

‘Isabel Cohen. I live next door. Twenty years I’ve known that girl, twenty years… since she was knee-high to a grasshopper.’

‘It must be very difficult for you, Isabel. Do you mind if we…’ Costello opened the door without waiting for an answer and then stood to one side, letting Mrs Cohen go through first. A smile passed between the two women. Clearly there was plenty Mrs Cohen could say, but she was too well brought up to say it.

‘Betty?’ she inquired quietly round the door. ‘Some more police, detectives. They want a word.’

McAlpine and Costello walked into a room that was as
sterile as an operating theatre, three brilliant white walls, the fireplace wall a deep cobalt blue. Only one picture broke the colour, a professional portrait of Elizabeth Jane above the fireplace. On the mantelpiece below it an array of photographs of her throughout her life was lined up with regimental precision, a shrine to an only child. In the middle sat a gold anniversary clock, its weights spinning this way and that. Incongruously, behind it, McAlpine noticed, someone had propped up an invitation to a wedding. He was sure it was the same one that Elizabeth Jane had had; it bore the same stylized Mackintosh rose. He inclined his head to read covertly inside:
Mr and Mrs Vincent Fulton
…

Costello eased past him, further into the room. Three people were sitting at the dining table in the conservatory. The older man, white as a sheet, was stroking the tablecloth with the palm of his hand, comforting himself. The woman looked as though she had no tears left. The younger man – small, slender, early thirties – was the minister, she presumed. His fawn hair was neatly cut, a few stray strands curling on the collar of his Guernsey. As if aware of her scrutiny, he turned, his eyes meeting hers; there was a brief flicker of acknowledgement. The table showed evidence of recent cups of tea. Somebody had nibbled the crust from a slice of toast and left the rest.

Mrs Cohen stopped behind Betty Fulton’s chair, placing her hands on the thin shoulders, bending to whisper in her ear. Betty placed her hands over Isabel’s and gave them a gentle squeeze. Words of comfort that Costello could not hear passed between them. The minister got up, dusting crumbs from his jumper with slight feminine hands, and walked into the living room, into Costello’s line of vision. She could see the dog collar now, a fine line piping the neck
of his Guernsey. A good-looking man, thin-faced, older than she had first thought, closer to forty than thirty, his skin finely lined, faint shadows under the eyes. Those eyes did not belong to one who had had an easy life. He raised his head, aware of her scrutiny, and looked at her with eyes as blue as the wallpaper behind him.

‘If we hadn’t let her move out…’ Jim Fulton came towards the fire, shaking his head.

‘All ifs and buts. She wanted her freedom.’ Costello caught the lilt of a Highland accent as the minister turned to Elizabeth Jane’s father. ‘I’ll leave you now. Let me know when you’re ready to make arrangements, any time… I’ll be in touch with Reverend Shand, to pass on the sad news. I know he would want to know as soon as possible.’

‘And you will tell Tom?’ Jim Fulton asked. ‘It’s difficult for me – my generation – that kind of thing.’

‘No problem at all. I’ll see to it. Don’t you go concerning yourself with that. You’ve got enough on your plate now.’ A double handshake, four hands clasped together.

Costello gave them both her concerned professional smile and committed ‘Tom’ to memory.

The minister drew his eyes briefly over her and looked away. ‘They are in need of comfort,’ he said, speaking directly to McAlpine. Costello saw the DCI narrow his eyes slightly, as if trying to place some vague recognition. ‘I’m George Least.’

‘DCI McAlpine. And my colleague is DS Costello.’

The minister shook McAlpine’s hand, then shook hers, but when he spoke it was directly to McAlpine. ‘You’ll be here for Elizabeth Jane. I shall leave you to continue with your sad business.’ He turned and again clasped Mr Fulton’s rheumatic hand with both of his. ‘I’m so sorry, Jim; there
are so many victims in this. I’ll be back home this afternoon if you need me. You have my number, so if you need anything, any time, please don’t hesitate to call me.’

The older man nodded numbly.

‘I’ve written it down,’ said Mrs Cohen self-importantly. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘Good bye, God bless.’

‘And where can
we
find you, if necessary?’ Costello chipped in sweetly, stopping the minister as he made to leave.

He smiled directly at her, blue eyes heavy with pain. His red lips moved as if to say something, but he checked himself and sighed. ‘Beaumont Street Church. Or at the Phoenix Refuge. A terrible business, yet again.’

‘Again?’ she asked.

Leask started talking, the rhythm of his Highland brogue making it sound like sweet poetry. ‘You’ll be familiar with Ian Livingstone? He is my next-door neighbour, a good friend. If you’ll excuse me, I think I need to speak to him, tell him it looks as if Lynzi’s killer has struck again, before he hears of it from…’ He paused, the hint of something pejorative about the police on his lips. ‘Before he hears of it from some other source.’

‘Of course,’ Costello said, her smile still in place as she stepped aside to allow him to pass.

Wait a second,’ McAlpine cut in. ‘Did you know her – Lynzi Traill?’

‘No, I never met her. It’s Ian I know.’

‘Have you spoken to the police about him?’

The minister frowned. ‘No. I doubt there’d be anything I could tell them.’

‘There might be – ’

Costello interrupted McAlpine with a discreet cough and
an imperceptible shake of her head in the direction of the stunned and grieving Fultons.

Leask bowed slightly at Costello, then hesitantly shook McAlpine’s hand again and left.

Costello backed up to the fire and stood warming her legs, watching the minister go down the chipped driveway and get into a red Fiat Punto. He had the same arrogant walk as the DCI. Both were handsome men, intelligent men. She stopped thinking about McAlpine just in time to get the plate number and commit it to memory as the car turned out of the driveway and vanished from sight.

McAlpine turned to the Fultons. ‘So,’ he said. ‘I know this is a difficult time, but I need to ask a few questions for now, and then we’ll leave you alone.’

The Fultons nodded in unison, and Betty lifted her cup and saucer to Mrs Cohen’s proffered hand. Costello opened the kitchen door for Mrs Cohen and followed her in, and the door closed on McAlpine’s voice.

‘How are they coping?’ Costello asked conversationally.

‘It hasn’t hit them yet.’ Mrs Cohen busied herself, rinsing the teacups and dusting crumbs from the plates into the flip-top bin. She obviously felt at home in this kitchen. ‘Like I said, you never expect this, on your own doorstep, do you? Not somebody you know.’