LITMIR.BIZ

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chloroform doesn’t knock you out instantly,’ said Anderson. ‘So why no struggle? No disruption?’

      ‘He’s bigger? He can hold them until it takes effect?’ suggested Costello. ‘They were both – what? – under ten stone? Probably lighter than he is . . . but they were short, which means he gains a totally controllable victim.’ She folded her arms, her point made. ‘Who was checking up on the chloroform?’

      ‘Me,’ said Mulholland. ‘I’ve rechecked all the sources listed locally; no reported loss or theft. I’ve alerted HOLMES for a nation-wide check, but all registered sources have come up with a big zero.’

      ‘Exactly what DCI Duncan found,’ muttered McAlpine. ‘Damn!’

      The soft Hebridean accent of DC Donald Burns came through the darkness. ‘That one single cut, right up the front, no messing around – there’s strength in that.’ The quiet lilting voice was authoritative. ‘The leather belt has been nicked by the blade, and that takes a strong knife, moving with control and strength. And a bloody sharp blade.’

      ‘And he knows how to use it, where to use it,’ said Anderson. ‘Do we have a field for that in the system?’

      ‘I don’t know. I’ll see what I can do,’ Wyngate said, scribbling it down.

      ‘Get it in: people who are good with knives. Butchers?’ said McAlpine.

      ‘Surgeons?’

      ‘Farmers? Slaughtermen? Chefs, I suppose,’ offered Costello.

      McAlpine’s voice cut through the dark. ‘I want that flat vacuumed and the dust gone through. We need some physical evidence of whoever she let in. If there’s so much as a speck of dandruff, I want it. And try to think like Elizabeth Jane. Think precise, think pernickety, and then think who you would open your door to. Knives, small-minded women, sensible knickers . . . you get my drift.’ McAlpine went to stand up, then paused. ‘Tell us about Traill now.’

      Costello looked round. ‘Me?’

      McAlpine nodded. ‘Just to make sure Anderson, Mulholland and I are up to speed.’

      ‘Lynzi Traill, as I understand her...’ Costello idled, then closed her eyes as she clarified her thoughts. ‘Aged thirty-four, housewife, body found in Victoria Gardens.’ She indicated the location on the map with the point of a pencil. ‘The gardens are kept locked. Ian Livingstone’s house – he’s the boyfriend – is here, in Victoria Crescent, overlooking the gardens. The fence is too high to punt the body over without leaving traces, and she was hidden in the bushes, so her killer must have had a key. And all known keys were accounted for?’ Her voice faded on the query.

      ‘Yes,’ said Littlewood wearily. ‘You know we spent days on that.’

      ‘Yes, I do know.’ Costello paused, recalling. ‘Anyway, the distance between the two sites isn’t much. Wyngate timed it as seven minutes’ walk. Lynzi was last seen at eleven o’clock on Saturday, the 16th. Here she is, caught on a CCTV camera at Glasgow Central after a visit to the theatre with her friends.’ The spotlight moved to a grainy coloured image of a crowd of people, Lynzi Traill just visible among them, her head turned animatedly to one side. Whoever she was talking to was obscured by a much taller man. ‘They told us they were all going to travel back to Paisley Gilmour Street together. They said somebody – they assumed it was a man, but the station was busy, and they didn’t see who it was – called to Lynzi, and Lynzi disappeared off to talk to him, while they waited. A minute or two later she waved across to her friends to indicate that they should go on without her; they assumed she was getting a lift.’ Costello pointed at the peppered image. ‘This friend –’

      ‘Annette Rafferty?’ asked Mulholland, flicking through a sheaf of papers.

      ‘That’s right. Annette says she knew that Lynzi was having an affair – the only other person who did know, by all accounts – so she thought Lynzi had bumped into the boyfriend and decided to stay, and persuaded the others it was OK. But it wasn’t OK. A local resident walking her dog found Lynzi’s body in the early hours of Sunday, the 17th, chloroformed, ripped from pubis to sternum.’ Costello asked to have the spotlight moved to a picture of Traill’s wound. In black and white, the carnage was highlighted by the brightness of the flash. ‘Same injuries, same pattern as Elizabeth Jane Fulton, but not so severe. Lynzi was posed, as Elizabeth Jane was. Exactly. O’Hare says she was alive when her killer left her. He . . . just left her to die in the rhodies.’

      Someone muttered, ‘Where she gave the old dear and her Westie the fright of their wee lives.’

      Costello continued, ‘Lynzi would probably have had you believe she was happily married. Her parents and her sister, all her friends except for Annette, believed – or wanted to believe – that she and hubby were still together, but that she’d just moved out for a rest, because she was finding it so difficult to cope. She was living in a flat in Paisley.’ Costello tucked her hair behind her ears, a sure sign she was anxious about something. ‘Stuart Traill apparently went along with this, thinking she was having an early mid-life crisis. Their little boy, Barry, was told his mum was looking after a sick friend. Lynzi was there when the wee lad went to school in the morning; she was there when he came home. But in between times, despite telling people she was working at the charity shop and looking after a sick friend, she was having an affair. And she was totally oblivious to the fact that the neighbours were amusing themselves with her comings and goings at all hours of the day and night.’

      A question was fired at her from the darkness: ‘So what were the mechanics of that?’

      ‘She kept her mobile phone switched off; she did a voluntary job with no pay and no regular hours; Annette may have fibbed for her . . . It’s not that difficult. Lynzi’s parents, sister, brother, the hubby’s family, they all swear they had no idea what was going on. But I can’t believe that...’ Costello ran out of steam.

      ‘So where is the boyfriend in all this?’ asked McAlpine, pointing at the map.

      ‘As I said, Ian Livingstone lives here, in Victoria Crescent. But both he and Mr Traill have been turned inside out. Clean.’

      ‘Are we satisfied with that?’ asked McAlpine.

      ‘We’ve checked them again and again,’ Costello insisted. ‘Triple-checked. Neither was alone for a minute between the time Lynzi was recorded at Glasgow Central Station and the time her body was found.’

      ‘And Livingstone was really upset, absolutely devastated,’ said Burns.

      ‘Guilty,’ muttered Littlewood.

      ‘Nobody could have faked that. He asked for the minister to come from next door.’ Burns shook his head. ‘They even said a prayer together.’

      ‘Definitely guilty, then.’

      ‘He’s been nothing but cooperative,’ Irvine volunteered. ‘And he seems a nice guy. Well, that’s my opinion . . . for what it’s worth.’

      ‘So what about the husband?’ asked Littlewood.

      ‘At work. He worked nights, and his shift covered both ends of the time scale.’

      ‘Bloody convenient. Check it again,’ McAlpine persisted. Costello sighed inwardly.

      ‘The son? Wee Barry?’ Littlewood again.

      ‘Home alone. And not for the first time.’ Costello’s tone of voice indicated exactly what she thought of that.

      ‘There’s that element of trust again, though, isn’t there?’ said Anderson. ‘Elizabeth Jane let someone into her flat, someone she knew and trusted. And Lynzi left Glasgow Central, at night, again with somebody she knew and trusted, but not the husband, not the boyfriend.’

      McAlpine stood up, his hand on Costello’s shoulder. ‘So we keep digging. This second killing means the location is important.’ He paused and looked round the room again. ‘Lynzi lived in Paisley, but she spent a lot of time here in the West End. The

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