would not have liked Elizabeth Jane Fulton.
McAlpine lingered for a long time over his last cigarette in the car park at the back of Partickhill Police Station, leaning against a battered old Corsa, letting the nicotine soothe his lungs. It had been six months since the Scottish Executive had banned smoking in all public buildings, and standing in the rain had become a popular pastime on the basis thatpneumonia killed quicker than lung cancer. The police station was a long-lost friend he wasn’t sure he wanted to know again. Working out of Stewart Street, he’d been able to pick and choose what station within the Glasgow Central and West Division he wanted to run an investigation from, and there were always a hundred and one perfectly valid reasons for it not to be Partickhill. Built in a gap in the tenements created by the Luftwaffe, it had come about by chance, not design. It fitted the space but was too small to do the job; the canteen was a joke, the car park was tiny, the lane too narrow for the meat wagon to get up. But the powers that be had decreed that what DCI Duncan had started, DCI McAlpine would continue. So here he was. How could he argue? He lived less than five minutes from the place.
He sighed and stubbed his cigarette out underfoot. Taking a deep breath, he closed his mind to the memories and walked up the hill to the entrance.
He nodded at the desk constable on his way past but kept moving, getting it over with. He went up the stairs of Partickhill Station for the first time in twenty-two years, wiping cold sweat from his upper lip, images best forgotten already flashing in his mind. The stairs were carpeted now. The window was new but still draughty; the filing cabinet had gone but a photocopier was parked in its place. A curled Post-it note was stuck to it, dated two years before.
He walked quickly through the doors of the main incident room, glancing up at the clock. That was new too but still told the wrong time. He checked his own watch, his gold-faced Cartier. It was ten to seven, ten minutes before he would know the first outcome of the silent conversation between O’Hare and Elizabeth Jane at the mortuary. He hoped it had been fruitful.
He strolled round the CID suite, watching the squad assemble. Some had been pulled from their beds; others had been here all night. Some wiped sleep from their eyes; others were chewing gum to stay awake. As he walked past a bank of computer screens, familiar faces looked up at him, arms stretched out to say hello and welcome, and there were a few pats on the back, a show of faith. McAlpine nodded back, saying hello here and there, nice to work with you again; glad you’re on the team. He took his time to familiarize himself with twenty-odd years of change. The incident room still smelled the same: stale sweat and yesterday’s coffee.
Memories were already stretching and yawning, uncoiling from sleep, memories of things he had never known, a voice he had never heard, a smile unfurling from lips he had never gazed at. Had never kissed.
A beauty he had never seen.
But it still felt like a reunion; even through the reek of staleness he could smell her in the air, in the scent of bluebells. The scent of her.
He closed his mind to the past and concentrated on the present.
The main room was a sea of desks and printers. He kicked a few cables with his toe on the way past; he would get them taped down. Dead coffee cups were piled up in pyramids; intrays and out-trays spilled over with printouts. DS Littlewood’s tattered leather jacket was lying over his desk, and the early edition of the News of the World was open at Page Three. His tray was topped with the remnants of yesterday’s bacon sandwich. McAlpine had met burglars who were tidier.
He stopped at the cork-board displaying the scene-of-crime pictures and pulled a piece of luminous orange card saying wall of death, crushing it with one fist and throwing it across the room. He didn’t look round; he
McAlpine lingered for a long time over his last cigarette in the car park at the back of Partickhill Police Station, leaning against a battered old Corsa, letting the nicotine soothe his lungs. It had been six months since the Scottish Executive had banned smoking in all public buildings, and standing in the rain had become a popular pastime on the basis thatpneumonia killed quicker than lung cancer. The police station was a long-lost friend he wasn’t sure he wanted to know again. Working out of Stewart Street, he’d been able to pick and choose what station within the Glasgow Central and West Division he wanted to run an investigation from, and there were always a hundred and one perfectly valid reasons for it not to be Partickhill. Built in a gap in the tenements created by the Luftwaffe, it had come about by chance, not design. It fitted the space but was too small to do the job; the canteen was a joke, the car park was tiny, the lane too narrow for the meat wagon to get up. But the powers that be had decreed that what DCI Duncan had started, DCI McAlpine would continue. So here he was. How could he argue? He lived less than five minutes from the place.
He sighed and stubbed his cigarette out underfoot. Taking a deep breath, he closed his mind to the memories and walked up the hill to the entrance.
He nodded at the desk constable on his way past but kept moving, getting it over with. He went up the stairs of Partickhill Station for the first time in twenty-two years, wiping cold sweat from his upper lip, images best forgotten already flashing in his mind. The stairs were carpeted now. The window was new but still draughty; the filing cabinet had gone but a photocopier was parked in its place. A curled Post-it note was stuck to it, dated two years before.
He walked quickly through the doors of the main incident room, glancing up at the clock. That was new too but still told the wrong time. He checked his own watch, his gold-faced Cartier. It was ten to seven, ten minutes before he would know the first outcome of the silent conversation between O’Hare and Elizabeth Jane at the mortuary. He hoped it had been fruitful.
He strolled round the CID suite, watching the squad assemble. Some had been pulled from their beds; others had been here all night. Some wiped sleep from their eyes; others were chewing gum to stay awake. As he walked past a bank of computer screens, familiar faces looked up at him, arms stretched out to say hello and welcome, and there were a few pats on the back, a show of faith. McAlpine nodded back, saying hello here and there, nice to work with you again; glad you’re on the team. He took his time to familiarize himself with twenty-odd years of change. The incident room still smelled the same: stale sweat and yesterday’s coffee.
Memories were already stretching and yawning, uncoiling from sleep, memories of things he had never known, a voice he had never heard, a smile unfurling from lips he had never gazed at. Had never kissed.
A beauty he had never seen.
But it still felt like a reunion; even through the reek of staleness he could smell her in the air, in the scent of bluebells. The scent of her.
He closed his mind to the past and concentrated on the present.
The main room was a sea of desks and printers. He kicked a few cables with his toe on the way past; he would get them taped down. Dead coffee cups were piled up in pyramids; intrays and out-trays spilled over with printouts. DS Littlewood’s tattered leather jacket was lying over his desk, and the early edition of the News of the World was open at Page Three. His tray was topped with the remnants of yesterday’s bacon sandwich. McAlpine had met burglars who were tidier.
He stopped at the cork-board displaying the scene-of-crime pictures and pulled a piece of luminous orange card saying wall of death, crushing it with one fist and throwing it across the room. He didn’t look round; he
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