Absolution (30 page)

All the seats at the taxi rank were taken, so he turned into the Botanical Gardens and sat down on the first bench he came to, choosing to ignore the homeless man in curled-up occupancy. His cardboard sign was sodden with rain, as was the tartan blanket that covered him. A few pennies lay submerged in the polystyrene McDonald’s burger box at his feet. Unless he was a light sleeper, they wouldn’t be there tomorrow.

McAlpine rested his elbows on his knees as he sat, head down, letting the coffee warm him from the inside. The homeless guy had chosen well; the bench was slightly sheltered from the wind and rain by the glass Kibble palace behind it.

He looked at his watch – it was long past midnight – and pulled his mobile from his pocket. No point trying to call Helena at home; he knew the clever money would be on her being at the gallery. His efforts were rewarded by a steady beep as his phone went from low battery to no battery.

He brushed the rain from his face, cursing loudly, which got him a polite reprimand from the tartan rug.

‘Sorry, mate,’

‘Nae probs, pal.’

‘Here.’ McAlpine stood up, tipping two pound coins into the polystyrene lid. As he set off for home, from the corner of his eye he caught the movement of a hand retrieving the coins to the safety of the soaked blanket.

Even with the windscreen wipers on fast, Helena still had difficulty seeing the road. She had spent all day putting the finishing touches to the exhibition, and when she’d closed the door at 12.35 a.m. and set the alarm, she’d felt pleased. Now it was going on one in the morning. She wasn’t tired, she decided; absolutely bloody knackered was more like it. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday would be a series of temper tantrums involving caterers, artists and moneymen, and she desperately needed her sleep. By the time she pulled up outside Kirklee Terrace, the headache that had started as a minor percussion had become a full rhythm section, with somebody practising the timpani behind her right eye.

She tried to slip the car into reverse, then remembered it wasn’t her car. The Three Series wasn’t automatic, and she tried to think what the man at the garage had shown her. She had to lift the collar, shift down, left and forwards. She tried it, but all that happened was a loud crunch, and she cursed. The rising wind rocked the car gently. She couldn’t find the switch for the internal light. In the end she opened the door slightly to use the courtesy light, and a buzzer sounded as the cold wet wind rushed in.

White lights shimmered towards him on Byres Road, and red tail lights fluttered as the traffic halted at the lights on
its incessant slow crawl into the city. In the distance McAlpine could see the low flat roof of the Beatson, where Helena would be fighting a few battles of her own soon. But she would keep the fight to herself. ‘Oh yes, we mustn’t let the stiff upper lip wobble,’ he muttered bitterly, ‘mustn’t breathe a word about it. I’ll cope with it when I have time to cope with it.’

He stopped walking and looked over to the tower of the Western Infirmary, sure that the room Anna had been in was lit up at that very moment – there was more life in there than in his own home. He sighed and wiped the drizzle from his face, unsure whether it was the rain or a tear, and jogged across into the mêlée of Byres Road and down to Peckham’s Deli for a bottle of good malt before heading back up to Kirklee Terrace. He couldn’t face the accusation of an empty house without it.

By the time Helena had parked, it was gone one O’clock. She got out of the car, the wind immediately whipping her hair against her cheek. She quickly ran round the car to the pavement, pointing the alarm remote control all the time, pressing and pressing, but there was no returning bleep, so she gave up. As she turned, she walked straight into the wheelie bin, still out on the pavement after the weekly rubbish collection; the wind had pushed it up against the railing. She grasped it and tried to wrestle it down the stairs to the basement terrace, its lack of weight making it difficult to manoeuvre in the wind. She spun it round on its wheels and bumped it awkwardly down the wrought-iron spiral steps to the basement, the howl of the wind suddenly dropping in the subterranean shelter, though it still had enough strength to chase the leaves into circles along the corner of the house. Helena wiped the rain from her cheek, trying to
think what was unusual. It was that noise, a metallic
clank clank,
both insistent and inconstant. Somebody’s gate was open. She stood underneath the stairs that led up to her front door, looking left and right, cursing the bin men. All the houses in the terrace shared another terrace below street level, each front door having a bridge of steps up from the pavement. In the tunnel this created, most had fixed hanging baskets, ivy and creepers, and subtle wrought-iron gates, an ornamental separation of one property from its neighbour. The bloody bin men had left the McAlpines’ gate open and, judging by the noise, the two beyond it. Helena left the shelter of the stairs and walked along, past her neighbours’, stopping at the second gate and securing the iron bolt. She turned back to her own basement, walking in the darkness under the arch, then turning slightly to go upstairs. She put her hand on the wrought-iron rail, stopping dead as another hand covered hers.

Colin Anderson was sitting in the old Astra, so old its seat had moulded to his body, thus achieving perfect comfort. He sipped his hot coffee and reread the newspaper that he’d spread across the steering wheel. He had received a message on his mobile from his mother-in-law to say she would stay the night if he was working. He had texted back his grateful thanks, wondering where Brenda had got to but glad he didn’t have to explain why he was easier in his mind sitting in McDonald’s car park, concentrating on his growing feeling of unease. The digital clock on the dashboard clicked round to zero one zero zero, but that didn’t mean much; Peter was always sticking things in the reset button. Anderson sighed and flicked his mobile open. He phoned Helena’s gallery and got the answer service. He phoned the McAlpines’ home number; ditto. He switched on the radio,
quietly… Don McLean singing about Vincent on a night with better weather than this one. He sipped his coffee again, slowly wiping the condensation it had left on the windscreen with his other hand. His sense of unease had erased any hope of sleep. He folded the newspaper in front of him, collapsing the image of Helena’s face over on itself. It was no use: he would have to take a drive up to the terrace, just to make sure.

Helena’s first reaction was to wonder why her neighbour hadn’t just said ‘hello’. She first felt fear when the gloved hand gripped her wrist tightly and pulled it into her own stomach, trapping her between his forearm in front and his body weight behind, pushing the breath from her. She tried to sidestep as the grasp slackened slightly, then tightened again, with more power, crushing her lower lungs.

She pulled her head back, then forward, trying to free her face, trying to inhale enough air to call out, to scream, and for a moment they were both perfectly still, caught in a deadly embrace. Her eyes went blank, little arrows danced in front of her, and she could feel a needling numbness in her lungs. She was going to pass out… Then the pressure eased, allowing her to take a single deep breath.

Of chloroform.

Don’t breathe, don’t breathe, was all Helena could think. Don’t breathe it in. She pressed her tongue into the back of her teeth concentrating, her heart hammered at her chest wall. She tried to locate him precisely, where his body weight was, looking for a way to break free. She tried to relax, to surrender, wanting him to think he had won. She breathed out a long, slow breath, her mind working hard. One hand covered her mouth, his elbow was clenched into her sternum; the other arm was tight on her waist with a powerful
grip that did not yield. Her head pounded as she felt herself drop, letting her body weight be pushed by his, waiting for the flitting second when her weight would force him to step forward. She slumped even more, her brain willing him to lose balance, just for a nanosecond. Then she felt the slow, painless pressure of the knife in her stomach.

Anderson sat five cars back at the traffic lights on Great Western Road, the queue of traffic sitting in the outside lane by force of habit, leaving the bus lane empty. He looked to his right, across the grass, up on to Kirklee Terrace, sitting high but parallel to the road… he was staring straight at the McAlpines’ house, dark, lifeless. Nobody home.

Helena heard a scream echo round her head, a primordial cry that shattered her eardrums. She gathered every ounce of energy she had from her body; she was dying, she knew it now. The noise penetrated her brain; she thought about nothing but falling on to that knife. It was her own screaming. A light flickered somewhere above, something changed. She raised one shoulder half an inch, an inch? Something kicked her hard in her stomach, but the pressure round her chest slackened, then was gone. She could see nothing; she could still feel the knife against her skin, the blade working its way; she tried to fall sideways on to the steps. She felt the wet concrete kiss her forehead, she felt the grit on her face, then nothing.

Anderson was still looking out the side window of the Astra, his vision speared by the javelins of water, but he saw a figure, dark and indistinct, jog down the pathway, quickly. Too quickly. Something about the figure struck him… the clothes too bulky for a jogger. Anderson quickly reversed
enough to pull out and get past the car in front, spilling the coffee from the consol as the Astra took off. He raced up the wrong side of the road and turned the hairpin into the terrace while the lights were on red. The McAlpine house was still in darkness, but both neighbouring houses were ablaze with light. He slammed his brakes on.

Helena was lying, curled against the wall of the spiral stairs, her head at an angle, where it rested on cold hard brick. Anderson could hardly see, but the dark trickle from the corner of her mouth was easily visible against the pallor of her face; a perfect tick of blood marked her forehead, catching her hair.

‘Helena, Helena? Can you hear me?’ There was no answer. He slipped his hand into the exposed contour of her neck: the pulse was weak but fading with every beat. A man in a tartan dressing gown appeared at the top of the stairs and stopped, shouting for somebody to call the police.

‘I am the police, get an ambulance,’ Anderson commanded. ‘Now,’ he added, fumbling for his warrant card, as the neighbour hesitated.

‘We heard her screaming from upstairs. Is she OK?’

‘No, she’s not. She needs an ambulance. Now.’

Anderson was aware of a small congregation at the top of the stairs, murmurings of concern, then an authoritative voice saying the ambulance was already on its way.

The tartan dressing gown was now at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Don’t move her, son. Irene!’ he shouted, his hands moving confidently to check her pulse. ‘Get towels. And a blanket.’

Irene was already halfway down the staircase and simply about-turned, the revolving orange light of a squad car making
her shadow dance. A torch appeared over the terrace railing.

‘Get along the main road, look out for any single males, get it radioed out there – Christopher Robin,’ Anderson snapped tersely.

The torch beam flicked away, and crackling radios chattered to each other. Another squad car appeared. In the little island of darkness he asked, ‘Did he hurt her?’

‘Yes,’ answered Helena weakly, stirring to consciousness. ‘It’s bloody sore, God, my side hurts.’

‘Don’t try to talk, Helena, we need to get you to hospital,’ said the neighbour, shaking his head, frowning. Slowly Anderson raised his hand, blood running slowly from his palm, and then he looked down and realized the rainwater he was kneeling in was warm.

At the bottom of Kirklee Terrace, McAlpine took a slug of malt from the bottle, then stuffed it back into his coat pocket. Illumined windows shone like fairy lights through the roadside trees, lighting up the row of white four-storey Adam-style town houses that climbed up the hill away from the city centre and the river.

Except for his own house, which sat sulking in its own darkness.

Well, there was nobody to turn the lights on, was there?

Two police cars passed him, heading into the city centre. Going home, he thought. Lucky them. He opened the little gate that would take him up the garden path to the terrace above, wondering why so many houses had their lights on at this ungodly hour of the morning.

Anderson knocked quietly on the door before entering. Helena was lying on the hospital bed, still wet from her
shower, wrapped and double wrapped in a white towelling robe. Her wet hair was pulled from her face, her hands clasped across her abdomen.

He sat down on the bed beside her. ‘How are you feeling?’ He wanted to touch her, comfort her, but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

‘Better, much better. I got burned when I pulled his hands away from my face. I touched something soft and wet.’ She looked at her palms, studying them. ‘I think that might blister. They said I might have cracked a rib, and I needed ten stitches but none of them internal, thank God. At least I’ll have a nice scar to illustrate the story. I was a bit upset there was such a lot of blood and only a small hole.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘A little, but I’ve a bumful of morphine. I feel better now.’ She opened her eyes, looking directly at him. ‘It was him, wasn’t it? Your Crucifixion Killer? You nearly caught him. Were you there already?’ She was still looking at her hands, avoiding his eyes.

‘I was driving past, that’s all.’ Anderson tried to make light of it. ‘Saw somebody running away – copper’s instinct. And whoever it was, he fairly legged it. They should sign him up for the Rangers’ defence. He must have run the full length of the terrace and down on to the road in five seconds flat.’

‘He was lying in wait for me.’ Helena screwed her face up. ‘I don’t understand it.’

‘Well, Christopher Robin, the Crucifixion Killer to you, kills immoral women, or women he thinks are immoral. Maybe that piece in the
Gazette
means that’s how he sees you,’ said Anderson.