LITMIR.BIZ

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of the many things about him that annoyed Costello. She fastened her seatbelt and nodded at his expensive overcoat. ‘Sorry, did I interrupt you working as a body double for Johnny Depp? Or was it a photo shoot for Versace today?’

      ‘Nice, isn’t it?’ he said, smiling imperturbably. ‘So we have another one to add to our workload.’ Mulholland indicated right. The traffic always stopped for the cop cars. ‘He has a bit of a reputation, this McAlpine, but I didn’t think much of him. Seems a bit soft.’

      ‘You reckon? Underestimate him at your peril,’ Costello muttered, pulling her coat beneath her. ‘It should mean something to you that he’s allowed you to stay on the team. What he says goes . . . or who he says goes.’ She smiled at her own little witticism.

      ‘Really? So why are we doing this routine stuff? Inappropriate use of resources. This is uniform.’

      ‘It means he has a hunch about something.’

      ‘About what?’

      Costello sighed. ‘The Boss isn’t happy about the body being found by somebody looking through a letterbox at three this morning. Wants to know more.’

      ‘Why would anybody be looking through a letterbox at three in the morning?’ asked Mulholland, smoothing his eyebrow in the mirror.

      ‘Exactly.’ She leaned forward, sticking a Post-it note with the address on the dashboard and turning off some operatic warbling from his CD player. ‘Take a left when you can.’ She started scribbling in her notebook. ‘I’ve phoned ahead; they’re not going out till we speak to them.’

      ‘But why are we doing it?’

      ‘Because,’ Costello said, with consummate patience, ‘it’s our job.’

      ‘Can I give you a hand with that?’

      Helena McAlpine was trying to manoeuvre a flat wooden crate out through the front door of the house in Kirklee Terrace. ‘My God, that’s a rarity – a policeman when you need one. How are you, Colin?’ She smiled at Anderson. Her arms outstretched, leaning on My Brother in Palestine, she gave him a hug and a light kiss. Then she sideshifted a swathe of red hair from her face and smiled mischievously. ‘How was Edinburgh?’

      ‘Best forgotten. Do you need a hand with that?’

      ‘It got delivered here last night, rather than to the gallery, and I have to be there to open up.’

      Anderson twisted his wrist and looked at his watch. ‘You’re supposed to open at nine?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You’d better get a move on, then.’

      ‘My lord and master has been getting in my way since he came back. Can you lift that end?’

      ‘This has a dent in it,’ Anderson observed, lifting the crate and carrying it easily down the steps, reassured to feel needed in these days of equality.

      ‘Yeah, your boss gave it a kicking when he eventually came home from the office last night. He said it was because it was blocking the hall, but I think it was more of a comment on the state of modern art. It’s only worth about twelve grand.’

      Anderson automatically tightened his grip. ‘I’ll just drop it here,’ he told her and lowered the painting delicately to the pavement. ‘We need the keys . . . to open the boot...’

      Helena looked at him, hands on hips. ‘Keys . . . yes, they would help, wouldn’t they? Can you give me a clue where that cantankerous old bastard I married might have put them?’

      ‘He had on his leather jacket earlier this morning, the black one, over a dark blue suit, if that’s any help.’

      Anderson watched as Helena dashed up the stairs, her lion-red hair cascading down the back of a huge black jumper he was sure was one of Alan’s.

      She reappeared, keys in hand. ‘Got them: leather jacket, just as you said. I told him you were here. He’s on the phone, swearing at some poor minion. Does ‘‘effing profilers’’ mean anything to you?’ She rolled her eyes and sighed as she opened the boot of the Five Series BMW.

      Anderson smiled and hoisted the crate on to the bumper, watching Helena’s fingers as they wrapped white cloth round the corners. Long strong fingers, a single wedding band and the light catching the single blue diamond above it.

      ‘How are the kids?’ she asked.

      He winced as a splinter jammed in the skin of his thumb. ‘Bloody skelf!’ He lifted it to his mouth and sucked the blood. ‘Expensive, cheeky. But not at the devious lying stage – yet.’

      ‘Wait till Clare’s out at night with unsuitable men. Sleepless nights for you then.’

      ‘I’ll be working. At the moment I’m psyching myself up to sit and watch two hours of six-year-olds doing ballet without falling asleep.’

      ‘Tough,’ agreed Helena. ‘You’ll come to the exhibition, you and Brenda? I know it’s not your thing but . . . Alan...’

      ‘Free champers and raw fish. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m going to sell you some of wee Peter’s paintings, people with big heads and no keeping within the lines.’

      ‘You’ve been peeking at My Brother in Palestine,’ she teased, tapping the crate. ‘It’s by a Canadian artist, very experimental.’ She eased the boot shut and flicked her hair back, making the sun spark on the copper. That flirtatious smile again, looking at him as if he was the only person that mattered. ‘God! It’s cold!’

      Alan McAlpine appeared at the door, and Helena’s expression softened a little, as if she had warmed as she looked towards the house. Then McAlpine disappeared again, having forgotten something.

      Helena turned back to Anderson. ‘He’s had about two hours’ sleep, so you’re working with Mr Grumpy today.’

      ‘No change there, then. It’ll get worse before it gets better.’

      ‘Look after him, will you? Somebody has to.’ Helena’s head tilted to one side, her love for her husband silent on the upturn of her lips.

      ‘Do you want us to follow you to the gallery and take this out for you? We’ll have time before the briefing.’

      ‘No, we won’t,’ said a voice behind them. ‘Goodbye, dear.’ McAlpine kissed his wife on the cheek. Anderson watched her incline her head towards him, eyes closed. More a promise than a kiss.

      ‘You don’t have time, apparently,’ said Helena sweetly.

      ‘Well, if you need a hand, let me know.’

      ‘Ta! It’s good to use other people’s husbands. Mine’s useless. Remind him he has a date with his wife tonight.’

      ‘Got you.’ Anderson tapped the side of his head as McAlpine got into the car and slammed the door.

      ‘See you, Helena.’

      ‘Bye, Colin. Thanks.’

      Anderson pulled into the street, and in the driving mirror watched the wind blow fire into her hair as she waved.

      Anderson walked into the chaos of the murder room, keeping four paces behind the Boss. By the time the clock had wound itself round to ten, thirty-three officers were busy chatting, reliving old glories and mistakes. They sat, they stood, they leaned against monitor screens and filing cabinets, they drummed fingers along the sides of polystyrene cups, they tapped pens off the top of clipboards, they paced the floor like condemned men.

      Coffee cup in hand, Anderson picked his way through them to the back, aware that he was regarded as McAlpine’s golden boy, conscious of not wanting to step on any toes, physically or metaphorically. He caught their whispers as he passed . . . maybe we’ll get something moving now – should have been on the case from the start. It was natural; they wanted a second chance and new lines of investigation,

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