carpet outlined by the tidemark of drying blood. ‘Nothing tasty about the knife?’
‘Not yet.’
‘But the same one?’
‘Nothing tells me it’s different,’ O’Hare answered cautiously. ‘Best of luck.’ He touched the smaller man on the shoulder on his way past.
McAlpine wound the paper towel round his knuckles, tearing it as he flexed his fingers; it was damp but comforting. He scanned the walls around him. The TV, small and functional, a DVD player underneath, its clock reading 5.17, the figures flashing at him and reminding him how tired he was. He picked up a couple of family photographs from the wooden unit. One of the deceased at some grand function, grinning in glad rags and clutching champagne, her mother on one side, her dad on the other, their smiles broad for the camera. The other was of Elizabeth Jane with another girl, a sister or cousin from the look of her, with the same dark-rimmed eyes and serious expression. He put the photographs down, scanning the bookcase: DVDs of David Copperfield, Upstairs Downstairs and the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice. The books were all much of a muchness: Steel, Vincenzi, Taylor Bradford. A pile of magazines was stacked near by on the bottom shelf, topped by two sudoku booklets, one open with a pen attached.
One china coffee mug, half empty, sat on the pine mantelpiece;its partner was on the small table beside the sofa. He kneeled down. The second cup was still full, with a white and greasy film of floating milk.
McAlpine was thoughtful. Her number was ex-directory, and the name plate downstairs simply said FULTON, no Miss, no Mrs. The front door said E. J. FULTON. The car had a Stoplock and a gear lock on it. She was a careful woman… as the previous victim, Lynzi Traill, had been, from the accounts he had read. He walked to the window, pulling the curtain back slightly, looking through the net.
Elizabeth Jane Fulton had known her killer.
‘Prof?’ he called.
A reluctant shadow appeared at the door.
‘What’s the parking like out there?’ McAlpine asked, flicking the net and wiping the condensation from the glass. A hive of activity in the dead of night, two police cars blocking Fortrose Street, another three up on the pavement. He watched as an officer, clipboard over his head to protect him from the rain, directed two others up the street, while another, half hidden behind the car, was bending over retching up the contents of his stomach, clearly finding the whole thing a trial by fire. Squad car 13 reversed to park between them, yellow light oscillating, highlighting the double curve of the digit 3 with every turn.
‘It’s busy. Permit parking only. A strange car might have been noticed, heard. Might be worth a shot,’ O’Hare answered.
McAlpine looked up Fortrose Street, at the trees at the Wickets Hotel, the lights in the upper rooms making comets in the rain. Up the hill, turn right, ten minutes’ walk, five if you hurried, and there was Victoria Gardens, where they had found Lynzi Traill. So close.
‘Time of death?’ he asked.
‘At this stage, I’d plump for early last night. One of those mugs was half empty, so if it was hers, the coffee will still be in her stomach… if the stomach wall hasn’t been punctured and leaked the –’
‘Spare me, please.’
O’Hare smiled; he liked seeing hard-bitten detectives go green. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Helena sent me an invite to the exhibition, so I’ll see you there if not before.’
It took McAlpine a little while to think what he was talking about. ‘Yes, of course. It’s sometime at the end of the week – Friday, isn’t it?’
‘Saturday,’ corrected O’Hare.
The Professor departed, dipping his head by force of habit as he went out of the door. McAlpine stood in the perfectly square entrance hall, with its floor of cheap laminate, every door white-stained colonial. The only slash of colour was the mock-Persian rug, now littered with the machinery of
‘Not yet.’
‘But the same one?’
‘Nothing tells me it’s different,’ O’Hare answered cautiously. ‘Best of luck.’ He touched the smaller man on the shoulder on his way past.
McAlpine wound the paper towel round his knuckles, tearing it as he flexed his fingers; it was damp but comforting. He scanned the walls around him. The TV, small and functional, a DVD player underneath, its clock reading 5.17, the figures flashing at him and reminding him how tired he was. He picked up a couple of family photographs from the wooden unit. One of the deceased at some grand function, grinning in glad rags and clutching champagne, her mother on one side, her dad on the other, their smiles broad for the camera. The other was of Elizabeth Jane with another girl, a sister or cousin from the look of her, with the same dark-rimmed eyes and serious expression. He put the photographs down, scanning the bookcase: DVDs of David Copperfield, Upstairs Downstairs and the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice. The books were all much of a muchness: Steel, Vincenzi, Taylor Bradford. A pile of magazines was stacked near by on the bottom shelf, topped by two sudoku booklets, one open with a pen attached.
One china coffee mug, half empty, sat on the pine mantelpiece;its partner was on the small table beside the sofa. He kneeled down. The second cup was still full, with a white and greasy film of floating milk.
McAlpine was thoughtful. Her number was ex-directory, and the name plate downstairs simply said FULTON, no Miss, no Mrs. The front door said E. J. FULTON. The car had a Stoplock and a gear lock on it. She was a careful woman… as the previous victim, Lynzi Traill, had been, from the accounts he had read. He walked to the window, pulling the curtain back slightly, looking through the net.
Elizabeth Jane Fulton had known her killer.
‘Prof?’ he called.
A reluctant shadow appeared at the door.
‘What’s the parking like out there?’ McAlpine asked, flicking the net and wiping the condensation from the glass. A hive of activity in the dead of night, two police cars blocking Fortrose Street, another three up on the pavement. He watched as an officer, clipboard over his head to protect him from the rain, directed two others up the street, while another, half hidden behind the car, was bending over retching up the contents of his stomach, clearly finding the whole thing a trial by fire. Squad car 13 reversed to park between them, yellow light oscillating, highlighting the double curve of the digit 3 with every turn.
‘It’s busy. Permit parking only. A strange car might have been noticed, heard. Might be worth a shot,’ O’Hare answered.
McAlpine looked up Fortrose Street, at the trees at the Wickets Hotel, the lights in the upper rooms making comets in the rain. Up the hill, turn right, ten minutes’ walk, five if you hurried, and there was Victoria Gardens, where they had found Lynzi Traill. So close.
‘Time of death?’ he asked.
‘At this stage, I’d plump for early last night. One of those mugs was half empty, so if it was hers, the coffee will still be in her stomach… if the stomach wall hasn’t been punctured and leaked the –’
‘Spare me, please.’
O’Hare smiled; he liked seeing hard-bitten detectives go green. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Helena sent me an invite to the exhibition, so I’ll see you there if not before.’
It took McAlpine a little while to think what he was talking about. ‘Yes, of course. It’s sometime at the end of the week – Friday, isn’t it?’
‘Saturday,’ corrected O’Hare.
The Professor departed, dipping his head by force of habit as he went out of the door. McAlpine stood in the perfectly square entrance hall, with its floor of cheap laminate, every door white-stained colonial. The only slash of colour was the mock-Persian rug, now littered with the machinery of
Similar Books
