LITMIR.BIZ

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sun. It was quiet in here. He could almost hear the sea in the photograph, taste the salt on his lips. She was walking over his grave; he could feel that kiss, the soft brush of her lips against his. A smile that had never quite...

      The door behind him bumped, and he closed his eyes, killing the memory.

      ‘Roll, fried egg, potato scone, no butter, brown sauce, one coffee, no milk. Did I get it right?’ Detective Inspector Colin Anderson tried to elbow the door open holding two brown-paper bags and balancing a cardboard tray with two cups. ‘How many sugars?’

      ‘Three.’

      ‘But I didn’t stir it. I know you don’t like it sweet.’

      ‘The old jokes are the best. Good to have you back, Colin. DI Anderson now, I believe. Two years without me holding you back and you’re promoted. Well, well. Congratulations.’ McAlpine slapped him on the arm. ‘How was life in the frozen east?’

      Anderson grimaced. ‘Thanks for the reference; it helped me get the job. But – well, it wasn’t quite the job I expected.’

      ‘Yeah, but you had to do it to find out, or you would have spent the rest of your career wondering otherwise. I debated whether to call you in on this, but I thought, what the hell – six months into a two-year secondment? You’ll be pissed off with the driving already.’

      ‘I was pissed off the first morning it took me forty minutes to get through the Newbridge Roundabout.’ Anderson held out the roll, double-wrapped in a napkin. ‘Eat it while it’s hot, it’s straight from the University Café.’ He took a bite out of his own white roll – sausage, tomato sauce – and proceeded to talk with his mouth full with such relish McAlpine presumed he got a row for doing it at home. ‘Edinburgh was shite; the office was too warm. After years of 23-hour shifts you think a nine-to-five will be fun.’ He downed a mouthful of hot coffee. ‘But it’s boring. I couldn’t settle. I’m glad to be back. Edinburgh’s full of traffic lights and tourists. Bunch of chancers.’ He pulled a face. ‘The potato scones are iffy. There’s a hill with a castle on it, a high street with no lamp-posts, and that’s about it.’

      ‘I can tell you were impressed. My mum always said you get more fun at a Glasgow stabbing than an Edinburgh wedding. Complaints and Investigations, wasn’t it?’

      ‘Yeah, but it’s not real police work,’ Anderson swirled his coffee. ‘And I missed this, I really missed it. So how do we come to be here?’

      ‘There were rumours DCI Duncan was struggling, then I was pulled into the office to be told he’s in a high-dependency unit, and I’m being transferred to take over the Traill case. And they wanted it to be run from here.’

      ‘You worked out of this place before?’ Anderson looked round, staring at the ceiling. ‘Small, isn’t it?’

      ‘Years ago, as a cadet,’ McAlpine said bluntly. ‘Anyway, next thing I know, I’m being dragged out of bed at five in the morning for victim number two.’

      ‘Any ideas about what’s behind all this?’

      McAlpine looked round to see who was listening. ‘None that go anywhere,’ he said quietly. ‘Colin, I’m a bit uneasy about this, and I’m not sure why.’

      Anderson stuck the last bit of roll in his mouth. ‘You’ve a hundred per cent record. Why shouldn’t you get the case? Surely it was down to you or DCI Quinn. I tell you, if she’d been on the case, I’d have stayed in Edinburgh.’ He sensed further disquiet. ‘What’s up?’

      As McAlpine took his cigarette packet from his pocket, Anderson noticed the tremor in his hand. Sharp resolution came back to his voice. ‘It’s a difficult situation for us all. It’s a tight squad; they know each other much better than they know me. Or you.’

      ‘But Costello’s been on the team right from the start, hasn’t she? Has she any ideas?’

      ‘I phoned her from the scene this morning. I wanted her here before the others. But the lock’s jammed on her car, she says, and she can’t get into it. She’ll be here soon.’ McAlpine was walking up and down, looking at the photographs, like a sergeant major inspecting his troops. He stopped in front of Lynzi’s face.

      Anderson followed discreetly and took another mouthful of his coffee. ‘How’s Costello doing?’

      ‘Sounded her usual self.’ McAlpine inhaled deeply. ‘Breathing fire and brimstone, champing at the bit. Relieved it wasn’t Quinn taking over. You know a chap called Viktor Mulholland?’ he asked sharply. ‘That’s Viktor with a k? He’s being wished upon us from on high.’

      Anderson shook his head. ‘He a fast-track?’

      ‘Talented, seemingly. But I’m out of touch, I don’t know about him. A case like this, he’ll sink or swim.’

      ‘Pair him with Costello. She’ll keep an eye on him,’ suggested Anderson.

      ‘Of course. I should have thought of that.’ McAlpine sighed.

      Anderson retreated round the partitioned wall and sat on the edge of the desk, rolling his empty coffee cup in the palms of his hands, his eyes passing over Lynzi and resting on Elizabeth Jane, looking at the arrangement of their feet, left over right. ‘Sinister over dexter,’ he mused. ‘Do you think there’s a religious thing behind all this? It’s a bit precise, isn’t it, the arrangement of the limbs?’

      ‘Which means we have a psycho, and...’ McAlpine turned, catching something said just out of earshot. ‘Sorry, Col, I’m wanted on the phone. I’ll take it on the moby and go out for a fag. See you in the office in a minute? Oh, and as I’ve been up since five, I’m going to nip home and have a shower before the briefing.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You can run me back in.’

      The fried-egg-and-potato-scone roll with brown sauce still lay on the desk, one bite taken out and the rest untouched. Some habits did not change.

      DS Costello caught her toe on the step of Partickhill Police Station, as she had done every working day for the last six years.

      ‘Enjoy your trip?’ PC Wyngate asked, as he did every time he witnessed it.

      Costello rolled her eyes and forced herself to remember that she was actually fond of young Wyngate, whose endless willingness and sheer bloody niceness made up for his not being the brightest. ‘It’s Baltic out there.’ She pulled down the hood of her cream duffel coat, running her fingers through unruly blonde hair, and shivered in the warmth of the station, wishing her shoes didn’t let water in. ‘Briefing at ten?’ she read off the board.

      ‘Yes. I think that new guy wants you to do something first; you’ve to go up straight away.’ He leaned over the desk. ‘Guess what?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I was there, at the scene. I was on the tape, then I started the door-to-door,’ he said smugly, stirring his tea with deliberation, clinking the spoon repeatedly against the side of his Partick Thistle mug.

      ‘I thought you were taken off the tape because you were spewing your guts on the pavement? Using the tape to keep yourself upright, in fact.’

      ‘Oh, who told you?’

      ‘It’s on the noticeboard, Wingnut. You should be flattered, shows some kind of popularity.’

      Wyngate could never quite tell when Costello was joking, so he shrugged. ‘You going upstairs?’

      ‘Yeah. Main incident room, is it?’

      ‘You take these up with you, some more stuff about last night. That’s the prelim report from the scene through already. Traill all over again,’ Wyngate stated baldly.

      ‘The same?’ asked Costello, as she took the envelope of photographs.

      ‘Exactly.’

      ‘Oh . . . right,’ said Costello cautiously. She turned round, tapping the envelopes

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