Free Absolution by Caro Ramsay Page B

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 Toyotawas 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 littlequicker, 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