LITMIR.BIZ

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eyes across the squad and the ruffle of noise was silenced. People shifted in their seats to get a better view. There was an air of expectation.

      Vik Mulholland handed McAlpine a piece of paper and went to the back, looking around for a spare seat. Finding none, he wiped a desktop beside Anderson with the palm of his hand, tugged at the knees of his Versace trousers, then sat down.

      McAlpine read the note, twice, his eyes narrowing before he looked up and settled on Mulholland. ‘What the fuck does that mean – System’s gone down?’

      ‘If it’s too busy, it collapses. It’s done it four times so far.’

      McAlpine dropped his forehead into his hands. The squad waited for a vitriolic eruption. It never came.

      ‘Sir?’ Costello spoke quietly, raising a tentative hand.

      He opened his eyes and looked at her, tired already. ‘Yes?’

      ‘Wyngate, sir, he has a degree in IT. If it’s true that upstairs aren’t going to shell out for an expert, maybe we should use what we have. He’s not much use at anything else, sir,’ she added, with an affectionate grin at Wyngate.

      McAlpine had to nip a smile, searching for the name. ‘Wyngate? Gordon, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’ PC Wyngate pulled on his over-large ears, more nervous than he looked.

      ‘You recovered from last night?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Fancy the job?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Get to it. I’m not having that heap of shite jeopardizing the investigation.’ McAlpine turned at a sudden draught and asked for the window to be closed. Ostentatiously, from the back of the room, Mulholland started fanning with an empty file. ‘What do you need?’ McAlpine asked Wyngate.

      ‘More bandwidth. The system’s slowing down.’ Wyngate spoke directly to McAlpine, keeping his voice low and respectful. ‘We’ll be in trouble if it crashes completely.’

      McAlpine turned to look at the volume of paper, his face impassive. ‘We have no budget for it. Do the best you can.’

      ‘Well, maybe you could ask them not to pour coffee over the keyboards,’ DC Irvine interjected.

      ‘It’s all our coffee’s good for,’ muttered Anderson, passing the paper cup under his nose, trying to identify the contents.

      Wyngate turned to walk away, twisting around DS Littlewood, who was blocking his path between two desks. As he went past, Littlewood pulled on his own ears, like a schoolboy impersonating Dumbo. The smatter of laughter died at the DCI’s expression.

      ‘For those that don’t know, I get called many things but my actual name is Detective Chief Inspector Alan McAlpine, and I’m in charge. DCI Duncan is doing well; he thanks you for your kind thoughts and the presents. He can’t think of a use for the blow-up woman yet, but give him time.’ A ripple of applause went round the room.

      Anderson watched his boss carefully, hardly listening to what he said. He saw tension in the corner of McAlpine’s lip, a nervousness in the fingers as they rippled his hair, the same edginess he had noticed that morning. Not quite the same old confident guv he knew.

      McAlpine said, ‘Stepping into another’s shoes is never easy, but we just get on with it. Reviewing a case always implies criticism. But let’s think of it as a chance to explore areas previously unexplored.’

      ‘You think DCI Duncan was wrong?’ asked Littlewood, chin up, arms folded, the challenge in his posture unmistakable.

      Costello and Anderson exchanged glances: if he carried on like that, DS John Littlewood would be issuing parking tickets in Blythswood Square before nightfall.

      ‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer now,’ McAlpine emphasized calmly. ‘And I don’t think Duncan was wrong. End of story. As you know, our friend struck again last night. The press had already christened him the Crucifixion Killer after Traill. Nice. We could do without it, but it happened.’ He got up, perching on the side of his desk. ‘We’ll give you the latest on Fulton, and by the end of today I want the name of the guy who found his way into her flat. She was an ultra-careful woman, but she wasn’t surprised when her doorbell went. So who was he?’ He tapped the desk with his fingertip. ‘Somebody offered Lynzi Traill a run home, and she took it. Two sensible women. Two dead women. Forensics are drawing a blank, so we need to review the circumstantial.’ McAlpine rubbed his chin. ‘By five this evening I want both their lives, inside out, upside down. Something will – must – connect one with the other.’ He turned to Costello. ‘So what was the script at three this morning? Why was somebody looking through Elizabeth Jane Fulton’s letterbox?’

      ‘To see if her cat was there.’ Costello tucked her hair behind her ears.

      ‘Cat?’ asked Littlewood.

      ‘Little black guy with a white chest?’ McAlpine nodded to himself. ‘Go on.’

      ‘Kirsty Dougall looked through the letterbox of Elizabeth Jane’s flat at three o’clock this morning to see if Mowgli the cat was there,’ said Costello slowly, as if speaking to a simple child. ‘The cat had been causing aggro. Well, Mowgli was fine. Kirsty told the officers at the scene that it was Elizabeth Jane who was causing the aggro, trapping the cat in her flat and then complaining.’

      ‘She had catnip treats in her cupboard,’ said McAlpine. ‘Was she causing trouble deliberately?’

      ‘It would seem so. The neighbours said a similar thing. And I expect we’ll hear more of the same when we interview them properly. I’ve already rung her employers at the bank, and it seems she could be awkward at work too. She was the type who’d clype on her colleague for using the office printer to print a personal letter, for being five minutes late back from lunch –’

      ‘For farting without permission. I know the type,’ said Littlewood. He shot a look at Costello, who fired it back again.

      ‘She was described as a narrow-minded perfectionist by someone who said they liked her and as a petty-minded bitch by someone I’d say didn’t. Not a popular girl. So,’ Costello went on, ‘when Kirsty looked through the letterbox, she saw Elizabeth Jane’s hand on the floor, and she dialled 999. Lights out, please!’

      On cue, darkness fell, and the glare from a single spotlight dropped from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows on the wall. Costello pinned up pictures as she spoke. The photographs showed a young woman, her face running to fat already, her smile framed for eternity in brown curls and pearls. She had made an effort to look nice.

      Costello spoke. ‘Elizabeth Jane – she didn’t like being called Liz – aged twenty-six, single, bank teller for the Bank of Scotland, living up in Fortrose Street, no boyfriends we have discovered, kept herself to herself, non-smoker, non-drinker, went to church a lot, sang in the choir. Elizabeth Jane’s cousin Paula is getting married soon, and apparently she asked the girl next to her in the choir to go to the wedding meal with her, so maybe she had no really close female friends either. Her idea of a great night out was an evening class in accounting, which raises the question: who was it at the door?’ Costello’s hand, ghostly in the projected light, smoothed down another photograph. There was a ripple of movement as the team shifted to view the obscene image: Elizabeth Jane lying, arms out, legs crossed, dressed in her work uniform, her abdomen ripped open like a ripe fruit. ‘Her mobile was a new one, and the phone records are being checked. We’re waiting for a call back.’

      ‘But all this . . . all that’ – Anderson pointed at the photograph of the room – ‘suggests preparation, a method, organization. He turned up at that flat knowing exactly what he was going to do. He let her make him a cup of coffee, but he didn’t touch it. He didn’t touch anything.’

      ‘There’s no doubt he knows what he’s doing,’ said Costello, as she checked her notes. ‘O’Hare has done the prelim, puts death at around

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