Absolution (27 page)

‘Fucking journalists! I’d like to take every single copy of this paper and stick it up – ’

‘Alternatively, you could phone Helena right away,’ Anderson ventured. ‘The press will be – ’

‘Get out.’

Anderson took a deep breath. ‘I think you should let her know that – ’

‘Out!’

‘It’s half four, and you’ve a press conference to go to…
sir?

‘Out!’

Anderson squeezed a breath through clenched teeth and left McAlpine’s office, shutting the door with precision, showing just how much he would like to slam it.

Costello watched him go, his concern for the Boss’s wife duly noted.

McAlpine slammed himself into the seat so hard the wheels bounced with the recoil. He seemed to be muttering every single swear word he knew, and a few Costello didn’t.
She stood her ground, leaning back on the low filing cabinet, waiting for his rage to pass.

Through the glass screen she could see Anderson, gesturing that the press were queuing up outside and they needed a decision fast. It was up to her to bring the Boss round.

‘Fuckin’ media! Fuckin’ sharks!’

‘Yes, but the bite these sharks want is a soundbite. Something that’ll sound good on the telly.’

‘Fucking vultures!’ he muttered.

Anderson was gesturing wildly now. The gentlemen of the press were not happy.

‘Boss, you were just lucky they didn’t do this before.’

McAlpine turned on her, counting points on his fingertips. ‘One, I’ve got three unsolved murders and not a single lead on the biggest fucking psycho since Bible John. Two, my team have worked for a solid week with mostly unpaid overtime.’

‘I have noticed that one,’ said Costello with feeling.

McAlpine was already on to point three. ‘And I’ve dislocated my fucking shoulder.’

Costello stayed calm. ‘Boss, they strapped your shoulder up just fine. And I’ve paracetamol in my bag if you – ’

‘Fuck your bloody paracetamol! We have the ACC as well as his entire office – most of Pitt Street, in fact – the First Minister, and a room full of irate,
sober
journalists, if that’s not an oxymoron – ’

‘No doubt. So why not just make a written statement, dish out the usual platitudes… and maybe send Mulholland with the media liaison officer to the press conference? He looks the part, nice smile, big ego, big suit. Your face would frighten children at the moment, sir,’ she said, smiling encouragingly.

McAlpine jumped to his feet, suddenly back to his old
self. Costello retracted herself as far into the wall as she could. ‘I have a bloody murder inquiry to run, so I am not – fucking –
going?

‘So, that’s a no, then.’

‘That’s a no.’ He sat back down again. Costello caught Anderson’s eye through the glass, jerking her head in Mulholland’s direction, mouthing the words ‘conference room’. Anderson cottoned on and walked away, shaking his head, practising a few swear words of his own.

McAlpine had switched off one argument and turned on to another. ‘How did you get on with finding out about McTiernan?’ He tipped the dregs of yesterday’s coffee out of his mug. ‘Put some coffee in that, will you?’

Costello flicked the switch on the kettle behind her. The kettle started to bubble; he must have had it boiled before all this started.

‘McTiernan did his apprenticeship with White’s.’

‘The joiners?’

‘Hugh White offered to put up bail when he was arrested, and they’ve given him his job back.’

‘Really?’ He was rubbing the bruises on his face again.

‘White’s do the maintenance at the Phoenix,’ Costello continued. ‘And Sean was sent to fix a leaking skylight at Elizabeth Jane Fulton’s address. So we have him potentially connected to two of the three victims. And if he works at the Phoenix…

We might find a connection with Lynzi. But so far only one of those connections is certain. The waitress Littlewood spoke to at the Ashton Café was pretty sure he left with Arlene. Eyewitnesses place both of them later at the disco, the beat coppers saw him running down the street, and…’

She suddenly thought about the other girl, the girl he was
up the lane with, petite and pretty. She bit her lip. Take away the black hair…

‘And what?’

Costello backtracked. ‘Arlene might have pissed off McTiernan in the disco. But, sir, I’m wondering if it’s all just one coincidence too many.’

There was a knock at the door. DC Irvine stood there, too nervous to come in. ‘Somebody to see you, sir.’ She read the name from a piece of paper. ‘A Reverend Leask.’

‘Good!’ He stood up, picking up the file from his desk. ‘I’m going to see Leask for a civilized chat, get his version of the goings-on at the Phoenix, find out whether somebody’s telling porkies about Tom and Elizabeth Jane. Next time you’re there, see what you can get out of Leeza about O’Keefe and Co. and we’ll compare notes. You can tell the bosses at HQ to go to hell, or refer them to… whoever. After that you can reinterview Arlene’s friend from Clatty Pat’s. I notice nobody’s got around to that yet.’

‘Tracey? We have it arranged for tomorrow. The thing is, sir, we’re run off our feet, and it’s a second interview. It went on the back burner,’ she added lamely.

Well, arrange it for today, then. Just get some decent answers out of her. And focus on Sean. He’s ticking all Batten’s boxes.’

All except the box marked ‘Religion’, Costello thought.

They had put Leask in Interview Room 4B. He sat quietly, dressed in an old anorak, head bowed, clasping and unclasping his hands between his knees, deep in thought. He looked exhausted. There was a greenish tinge around his blue eyes, a yellowness to his lips; the tone of his skin did not take tiredness well.

‘How are you doing, George?’ McAlpine put out his hand and was greeted by a febrile handshake.

‘Not so good. Sorry to disturb you at work, though I didn’t honestly think you would be here. It’s nearly six, after all.’

McAlpine smiled and put the file down on the table. ‘My work is done when it’s done.’

‘Don’t you ever go home?’

‘My wife is very busy these days; she hardly notices whether I’m there or not. Gives me a chance to catch up with the paper-chasing. So what can I do for you?’

‘There’s something I think I should tell you, in case it’s relevant. I got a phone call from Ian Livingstone’s mother this morning. He’s in hospital, an overdose of sleeping pills.’

It was McAlpine’s turn to look at the floor, the lino burned through with old cigarette dowts. There had been no harassment. Just three interviews, and exhaustive checking of Lynzi’s boyfriend’s alibi. ‘How is he?’

‘He’ll make it. Naturally, he was very upset over Lynzi. He had his stomach pumped. Though to be honest, it was so mild they think it might have been accidental. He’d been put on some medication to help him sleep, he was in such a state. And he maybe lost track of how much he was taking.’ Leask placed his hands outstretched on the table; he seemed to be concentrating on how far he could span his fingers before relaxing. ‘I’m obviously very sensitive to such things, losing Alasdair the way I did.’

McAlpine nodded in understanding. Would you like a coffee?’

‘No, I’m not taking up any more of your valuable time. The hospital’s keeping Ian for a day or two, just in case. I’m going to phone his mother tonight, so it would be nice if I could put his mind at rest. It would be… appropriate.
He seems to think that he is still a suspect, when I know, as I’m sure you do, that there is no way he could have done such a thing. Not to Lynzi, not to anybody. The man who’s doing this is an animal – ’

Our profiler tells us to focus on the fact that he’s a human being,’ McAlpine interrupted, his hands flat on the Christopher Robin file. ‘Not an animal, not a demon.’

Leask’s eyes followed the DCI’s hands. ‘A human being
haunted
by demons, certainly,’ he said carefully. He put his hand on the file that lay between them, his fingertip tracing the doodled writing. ‘Christopher Robin? What a picture of innocence.’

McAlpine smiled. ‘Depends on which Christopher Robin. But you can tell Livingstone his alibi’s been checked, again and again. Of course he couldn’t be in two places at once. He’s not an active line of inquiry. But, as I said to you on Sunday, we’ll need to interview him again as a witness.’

‘And, as I told
you,
he has been through this again and again.’

‘But he may unwittingly know something that could be of help to us. If he wants to stay where he is, we can send somebody down.’

‘Thanks. I’ll pass that on to him.’

‘George, did Elizabeth Jane give you the impression she knew Tom well?’

Leask looked stunned. ‘Oh.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’ve since learned that Elizabeth Jane had a habit of – ’

‘Exaggerating?’

‘Exactly… the extent of her friendships with men. I thought at the time she was a bit forward in the way she spoke about him, him being a priest. The way her parents said she spoke about him with them sounded to me more
involved than it should be. But now I know it was just her way. I’ve never actually seen them together. If that clarifies the matter for you.’ Then Leask straightened in his chair, the change in his manner subtly altering the balance between them. ‘There was something else I wanted to say. Something personal.’

‘Go ahead.’ Half defensive, McAlpine knew he was being seduced by that voice, the delicate almost-soporific Highland accent filling the room with a slow-paced musical cadence as the man spoke.

Leask looked a little uncomfortable. He spoke carefully. ‘I see many things in my line of work, many men driven so far that they don’t see what they risk losing.’

‘Losing?’

Leask held his hand up. ‘Just look at the hours you work: it’s starting to take you over. It’s commendable, such devotion to duty, but there are many victims in this. Marriage is a sacred thing, a union before God. This man, this killer, has claimed three victims. Don’t let your marriage be another. You have a choice, Mr McAlpine, as a detective that you do not have as a husband. The ego that drives you to catch this man must be quelled. I’m not stupid; I know the hours you work. My advice? Go home, see your wife. It’ll make things better in the long run. You can’t have two mistresses.’

‘You have the Church.’

‘And only the Church. I could not give a hundred per cent to both Church and wife. Wives need looking after; they need attention. When I had to make the choice, I chose the Church, as did Thomas O’Keefe. Your place is with your wife, not here.’ He stood up and walked round the table, placing his hand on McAlpine’s shoulder.

∗

Mulholland had parked in Byres Road at about half past seven; he and Costello were sitting in his BMW watching the door of the Whistler’s Mother pub and the small huddle of smokers gathered at the mouth of Whistler’s Lane. It was busy for a Tuesday night; a karaoke competition had just started at Babinski’s Balloon and the drunken strains of ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin” were echoing down the street. Mulholland, as usual, had the heater on, and the windows were steaming up; Costello wiped them from the inside and tried not to keep count as Mulholland sighed for the tenth time.

‘She’s not going to turn up, is she?’

‘She’d better, otherwise the Boss will put out a warrant. And I’ll personally frogmarch her in. I’d a list of things to do today and I haven’t done any of them.’

‘But tomorrow is another day.’

‘Some sleep would be nice too.’ Costello suddenly sat upright. ‘Look, that’s her, if I’m not mistaken.’ She rubbed the side window with her gloves. ‘There, in the white skirt. And remember to try not to act like the polis.’

The girl stopped walking and leaned against the wall of the Whistler’s Mother, her foot up on the bricks behind her, her face petulant. She was bored already. Tracey was a pretty girl, much younger than Costello had imagined, with long straight black hair that was clean and shiny. She wore a black leather jacket and a white peasant skirt, the bottom of it already heavy with rain. Costello noticed her feet were cased in black dancing pumps, entirely unsuitable for the weather. She looked very naive for a prostitute.

Her face brightened as Mulholland got out of the car. She ignored Costello but smiled sweetly at him. Mulholland had the audacity to smile back. Costello stepped in front of him. ‘DS Costello. DC Mulholland. Tracey Witherspoon?’

‘Yeah.’ She managed to answer Costello while keeping her eyes on Mulholland. Costello had to admit she was impressed. She could feel Mulholland’s ego being flattered.

Want to go inside? Better than getting soaked out here.’

‘If you’re buying,’ said Tracey, peeling herself away from the wall.

The Whistler’s Mother was half empty. The usual crowd were at the bar like beasts round a watering hole, but most of the tables were free. As Costello headed towards a table, she noticed the manager gesticulating that Tracey should either put her cigarette out or get out herself.

‘Get three Cokes, Vik, and show him your warrant card. Ask him how many times he’s put her out of here for soliciting. We’ll be over by the window.’

‘You want to talk to me about Arlene?’ Tracey arranged herself on the seat, automatically pouting.

‘Yes.’

‘She was an idiot.’

‘That’s not a crime.’

‘But in this game it can be dangerous.’

Mulholland arrived with the drinks. She thanked him with some sincerity. ‘No chance of getting a vodka in that?’ She was well spoken, a well-educated girl.

‘No,’ said Costello.

‘It might loosen my tongue a bit,’ she suggested, running her tongue over her lips to prove the point. Mulholland had the decency to look away.

‘Oh, get on with it or we’ll take you down the station,’ Costello snapped. ‘I don’t have all day.’

‘Look, I’m sorry for what happened to her, but it could happen to anybody.’

‘Yeah, but it happened to Arlene. She was a good friend of yours,’ said Mulholland, moving into the good-cop role.

Tracey shook her head, her hair moving like a curtain. ‘She wasn’t a friend of mine. Who told you that?’

‘You were out together, celebrating.’

“We had a night off. We went out for a drink, about six of us, and three of us went up to Clatty Pat’s afterwards.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all there was to it.’