didn’t want toknow who had written it. He detested victims being treated with disrespect. He looked at Lynzi Traill, killed fourteen days before. Not a particularly attractive woman, with her round tanned face and eyebrows plucked to extinction, but there was nothing particularly unattractive about her either. She was neither fat nor thin, tall nor short; she worked part time in a charity shop; she had a lover. She had left her boring semidetached, left her boring hubby and left her child.
Left her child.
McAlpine looked closely at her wound, somebody’s hand pulling the branches of a bush to the side, revealing hatred.
‘Hello, DCI McAlpine,’ a girl introduced herself. Her pulled-back tightly clipped hair was a sure sign she was just out of uniform. ‘DC Irvine.’
‘You have a first name, Irvine?’
‘Gail.’ She smiled, dark eyes twinkling. ‘Professor O’Hare rang through just now. He says the preliminary examination has revealed no obvious forensics at the site. He’s looking for trace evidence, but that will take some time.’
‘Did he say anything about the scene-investigation report?’
‘On its way, sir.’
‘Good, good,’ said McAlpine, looking over her left shoulder. DCI Graham’s room, as such, was gone, and he was trying to figure out where the missing wall had been. The doorway had been moved from the hall to this room, a glass panel in place so the senior officer could survey the troops. The incident room was now twice the size, with a plastic concertinaed door folded to one side at the halfway point. He noticed that one door to the corridor was marked EXIT. So he had walked in through the out door.
So be it.
He continued his slow walk round the main room, breathing in the subdued tension, looking at the maps, the statistics, the duty roster. The fluorescent lights were humming exactly a semitone lower than the computers. There was the odd tap of a keyboard but mostly the squad were reading, a steady flick of paper, waiting. Two cops were debating why the coffee always tasted like chlorine.
McAlpine opened the door to Graham’s old office. There it was again… that memory… Graham’s old office. No, it was DCI Duncan’s office. He shivered slightly; it was his own domain now. The room had two desks, two filing cabinets, one with a drawer missing, the compulsory computer monitor chasing a message from right to left, three dead plants and a memo from Assistant Chief Constable McCabe, asking him for a meeting to discuss the budget, details were on his email. His reputation for ignoring emails, and budgets, had clearly preceded him.
He reached into his pockets for a biro, finding his Marlboros. Something hard in his jacket pocket jabbed his fingertips. It was a small card, a hand-drawn caricature of himself in a deerstalker with a huge magnifying glass. He opened it.
Catch him!
See you when I see you,
Happy Anniversary,
All my love,
H.
She had slipped it into his pocket as he slept. He raised the card to his lips. It smelled of graphite, turpentine, pencil eraser and a touch of the Penhaligon’s Bluebells he always bought for her. He smiled. The drawing of him was good;she had even been kind enough to remove a few wrinkles. He hadn’t remembered their anniversary. He never did. He thought there was supposed to be a dinner party but couldn’t recall when. He made do with sticking the card up against the computer, obscuring the monitor.
He gazed out at the main office, then turned his back on his observers, the leather chair squeaking as it swivelled, and tore open the envelope of preliminary photographs. His breathing quickened as he flicked through grotesque images of Elizabeth Jane, the sheen of mesentery covering her exposed bowel, mucosa glistening in the flash of the camera. For a moment he looked closely at it, fascinated by its rich colour and gentle folds, then he remembered what he was looking at and shoved the prints back into their envelope.
He pulled out the
Left her child.
McAlpine looked closely at her wound, somebody’s hand pulling the branches of a bush to the side, revealing hatred.
‘Hello, DCI McAlpine,’ a girl introduced herself. Her pulled-back tightly clipped hair was a sure sign she was just out of uniform. ‘DC Irvine.’
‘You have a first name, Irvine?’
‘Gail.’ She smiled, dark eyes twinkling. ‘Professor O’Hare rang through just now. He says the preliminary examination has revealed no obvious forensics at the site. He’s looking for trace evidence, but that will take some time.’
‘Did he say anything about the scene-investigation report?’
‘On its way, sir.’
‘Good, good,’ said McAlpine, looking over her left shoulder. DCI Graham’s room, as such, was gone, and he was trying to figure out where the missing wall had been. The doorway had been moved from the hall to this room, a glass panel in place so the senior officer could survey the troops. The incident room was now twice the size, with a plastic concertinaed door folded to one side at the halfway point. He noticed that one door to the corridor was marked EXIT. So he had walked in through the out door.
So be it.
He continued his slow walk round the main room, breathing in the subdued tension, looking at the maps, the statistics, the duty roster. The fluorescent lights were humming exactly a semitone lower than the computers. There was the odd tap of a keyboard but mostly the squad were reading, a steady flick of paper, waiting. Two cops were debating why the coffee always tasted like chlorine.
McAlpine opened the door to Graham’s old office. There it was again… that memory… Graham’s old office. No, it was DCI Duncan’s office. He shivered slightly; it was his own domain now. The room had two desks, two filing cabinets, one with a drawer missing, the compulsory computer monitor chasing a message from right to left, three dead plants and a memo from Assistant Chief Constable McCabe, asking him for a meeting to discuss the budget, details were on his email. His reputation for ignoring emails, and budgets, had clearly preceded him.
He reached into his pockets for a biro, finding his Marlboros. Something hard in his jacket pocket jabbed his fingertips. It was a small card, a hand-drawn caricature of himself in a deerstalker with a huge magnifying glass. He opened it.
Catch him!
See you when I see you,
Happy Anniversary,
All my love,
H.
She had slipped it into his pocket as he slept. He raised the card to his lips. It smelled of graphite, turpentine, pencil eraser and a touch of the Penhaligon’s Bluebells he always bought for her. He smiled. The drawing of him was good;she had even been kind enough to remove a few wrinkles. He hadn’t remembered their anniversary. He never did. He thought there was supposed to be a dinner party but couldn’t recall when. He made do with sticking the card up against the computer, obscuring the monitor.
He gazed out at the main office, then turned his back on his observers, the leather chair squeaking as it swivelled, and tore open the envelope of preliminary photographs. His breathing quickened as he flicked through grotesque images of Elizabeth Jane, the sheen of mesentery covering her exposed bowel, mucosa glistening in the flash of the camera. For a moment he looked closely at it, fascinated by its rich colour and gentle folds, then he remembered what he was looking at and shoved the prints back into their envelope.
He pulled out the
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