LITMIR.BIZ

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of photographs, the number code telling her these were the second batch to come through. God, how quick had they been with the first? She allowed herself a smile – DCI McAlpine was in charge, things were moving.

      ‘So who else is up there?’

      The stirring resumed. ‘Vik Mulholland’s not in yet.’ Wyngate sniffed the air. ‘You can always tell. No aftershave, therefore no Mulholland. Is he gay, d’you think?’

      ‘No, but he helps them out if they’re busy. Who else is up there?’

      ‘A tall fair-haired bloke in a Barbour, polite, looks stressed.’ Wyngate was looking down a list of names. ‘Would that be DI Anderson?’

      ‘Yeah, Colin Anderson. He’s been dragged back from Edinburgh. Nice guy,’ Costello said, smiling to herself.

      Wyngate consulted a piece of paper. ‘Was he not seconded from the L and B?’

      ‘No, they seconded him from us, and we are having him back. Is McAlpine already here?’

      ‘DCI McAlpine? Small, dark-haired bloke?’

      ‘Yip, that’ll be him,’ said Costello, giving him a sweet smile, her sharp features blending into prettiness for the briefest of moments. She looked at the clock: it was going on seven.

      ‘He wasn’t fast-tracked, was he?’ asked Wyngate.

      ‘He made DCI at thirty-five. That’s talent, not fast-track,’ Costello whispered, letting him into a secret. ‘He’s good; you should watch and learn.’

      ‘Yeah, right.’ He dropped another two reports on the top of her pile, spinning round to talk to an old couple and a tartan-coated greyhound that had just walked in. ‘Can I help you?’ he said, tapping a keyboard, happy with his computer.

      Seconds later Costello was taking the stairs two at a time up to the incident room. Every murder inquiry McAlpine had been on, he had called for her. Every time she met him again, she hoped she would feel different, that he would somehow be different. The door to the DCI’s office was closed, but she could see them through the window, sitting close together, Anderson talking, McAlpine with his back to her. She took a deep breath, hoping again that time had caught up with Alan McAlpine: that the almond eyes had faded, the burnt umber had dulled to sepia, the beautiful profile had wrinkled with age. That maybe his seductive smile had been softened by the passing years. She felt her stomach twist.

      She opened the door, her feet squelching. McAlpine and Anderson were deep in discussion. It was a while before McAlpine turned, flicking his hair from his face before his eyes met hers.

      His face was just as it had ever been.

      Perfect.

      Winifred Prudence Costello had suffered many misfortunes in her life, not least of which was being named after both grandmothers. Another was the ability of her cars, like her men, to let her down just when they were needed. Like at six that morning when she’d been in a hurry, but the Toyota was more impregnable than Alcatraz, leaving her standing in a puddle and making her late for the meeting. The DCI, being his usual self, had got straight to the point.

      ‘Glad to see you, Costello. Get your skates on and check this out.’ He had handed her a piece of paper with Elizabeth Jane’s neighbour’s statement. There were a few too many vague comments in the initial interview, and he wanted it cleared up before the briefing at ten. The good news was that he trusted her to get the job done properly.

      The bad news was she had to take Vik Mulholland with her.

      McAlpine had spared her the embarrassment of explaining about her car by ordering Mulholland to take her in his. She was the senior officer, so she should be the one driven. That had gone down like a lead balloon.

      She checked her watch. Mulholland had said he would be out in two ticks, and that was ten minutes ago. She began to stamp her feet, the water in her shoes warming nicely to skin temperature. Plunging her hands deep into the pockets of her duffel, she pulled her neck tight into the collar, humming ‘A Policeman’s Lot is Not a Happy One’ to herself. All the time her fingers caressed the soft leather of her warrant card, the evidence of her promotion, to Detective Sergeant Winifred Prudence Costello.

      She gestured through the doors of the station, tapping her fingertip on the face of her watch. Wyngate shrugged his shoulders at her; Mulholland was nowhere to be seen. Costello sniffled and looked up Hyndland Road. Brenda Muir was having an autumn sale, 50 per cent off. There was a dark green cocktail dress in the window, the colour of avocado skin. Who was she kidding? She never went anywhere, except work. If she wore good clothes, she looked as though she’d stolen them. She stamped her feet a little quicker, watching a piebald collie investigate a wheelie bin. She looked at its feathered tail rippling in the wind, letting her mind run. First Lynzi, now the Fulton girl. She shivered, nothing to do with the chill of the morning. The collie teased a chip paper from the bin and began to worry it, pinning it to the pavement and taking great delight in ripping the newspaper to shreds, which the wind promptly dumped in the gutter.

      The rush hour had started, and cars were snaking up to the junction with the Great Western Road, amber and red lights smudging in the rain. Up there too stood the elegant four-storey terraces of Kirklee, one of the most prestigious addresses in Glasgow, a five-minute walk from the police station but socially a million miles distant. The McAlpines had lived there all their married life, in Helena’s family home.

      Still no sign of Mulholland, and Costello was getting impatient. Vik Mulholland was the new kid on the block, still had to prove his worth. The old musketeers were back together again. For the last ten years their careers had crisscrossed each other’s like the weave of a hunting plaid. Costello herself had always been at this station or at Divisional HQ less than a mile away since she graduated from Tulliallan Police College. McAlpine lived at the top of the hill. Anderson had done the rounds of the division like a good detective should as he climbed the career ladder. They all knew this area like they knew their own faces, but Mulholland was a south-sider, and a posh one at that. He might just find himself a fish out of water. The thought pleased her.

      The collie trotted off, a pie crust in its teeth as a prize. Costello began to pace back and forth, counting to ten before each turn. She knew this city and the people in it better than she had known her own mother, and it gave her an edge over the others. Mulholland was welcome to his designer suits and blind ambition. McAlpine had his handsome face, his aggressive genius, his electric charm and his beautiful wife; Anderson had a troubled marriage and two adorable kids . . . Costello stopped pacing, halted by a thought. Over the years she’d been aware that Anderson had a great fondness for the Boss’s wife. Not that there was anything in it – of course there wasn’t – but Costello had always wondered. Then a sudden gust of rain stung her in the face, putting an end to her romantic notions.

      She gestured impatiently through the door of the station again and breathed deeply as she looked up the street, the centre of the West End, the creative heart of the city, her city. She had an instinct for the place and its people, had always felt safe in its streets. The only move she had made in her life was from the south side of the Clyde to the north. Glasgow had warmth, and the humour of hard-working people. It was an in-your-face kind of city but one with a soft centre. But now her home town was keeping a secret from her, and she didn’t like it.

      Her foot came down in a puddle, and ice-cold water invaded her sock again. She had hoped she wouldn’t still feel the same about McAlpine, but she did. She reminded herself that the way she felt about McAlpine was probably the way Anderson felt about Helena. The McAlpines were a difficult couple to dislike; she was rich and successful with an easy grace that put everybody at ease; he was . . . well, he was himself, and that was enough.

      The rain didn’t look like giving up, so she pulled her hood right up over her head, tucking her hair underneath in an attempt to keep it dry. The sky in the east was slipping from dark to light grey, but it wasn’t going to clear. A van pulling in to overtake on the inside went right through a puddle, and dark murky water splashed with uncanny accuracy on her cream chinos.

      A black shining Beamer

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