investigation: lights, cameras, cases, everything covered in clear polythene. The two SOCOs, still in their plastic-coated paper suits, were packing up.
McAlpine opened the bathroom door. The ventilator purred into life with the light switch, wafting the scent of lavender through the air. All was pink. Wrapping his fingers in a piece of pink toilet roll, he opened the cabinet. One tube of toothpaste: Macleans’ fluoride. One deodorant spray: Marks & Spencer’s Peaches & Cream. One folded face cloth: pink. One shampoo: anti-dandruff. One conditioner: for dry, fine, flyaway hair. One Marks & Spencer body lotion, Peaches & Cream again. Not much else.
No contraceptives. No headache tablets. No hangover cure. He shut the cabinet door.
The bedroom was the same nauseating pink-with-a-hint-of-vomit. Even the teddy bear on the pillow was two-tonepink. McAlpine opened a few drawers, his fingers still curled in the tissue. The top drawer was full of very sensible underwear. Either Elizabeth Jane had no sex life or she went to hospital a lot. On a pink satin chair was a pile of clothes folded with army precision, blouses with sleeves tucked in, a jumper and cardigan to match her uniform. The few prints on the wall were from the same Marks & Spencer colour coordinated range as the wallpaper, the bed linen, the dressing gown and the teddy. More camouflage than coordination.
McAlpine turned back to the pristine white kitchen. Only Nescafe and the kettle on the worktop. The cupboard revealed a range of tins, all stacked label-side out, most of them WeightWatchers’. An open sachet of cat treats, carefully folded at the top, sat to one side. He looked for a water dish or litter tray, but couldn’t see any. So – no resident cat. He opened the fridge: low-fat spread, skimmed milk, plenty of fruit and veg that all seemed fresh. He flipped open the bin. The only thing in it was the white bin liner.
The SOCOs said their goodbyes, wedging the door open as they left with their equipment. McAlpine saw a small black cat with a white kipper tie shivering with fear behind the cheese plant on the landing, its fur glittering with rainwater. McAlpine walked out into the hall and picked it up. ‘Hello, little fella. I don’t think you live here.’ The cat regarded him with saucer eyes, then stared back at the white-suited men walking about his domain. ‘Anybody know where this wee guy belongs?’ asked McAlpine. Without waiting for a reply he put the cat into the hands of a SOCO who was coming up the stairs. ‘Find out and give him back, will you?’
The SOCO took the cat in an outstretched arm as if it were a bomb. ‘It lives in the next-door flat, I think. She’sterrified it’ll get out and run over by a police car. Wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Make sure she keeps him locked up.’
We’ve handed it in twice already; it escapes every time the nosy cow opens her door.’
Well, tell her to lock him in the bathroom.’ The DCI glanced at his watch. ‘For the next twelve hours at least.’
McAlpine shivered himself in the draught that raced up the stairwell and bit at his legs. He entered the comparative warmth of the flat again, and went back into the kitchen for a look at the cork noticeboard and the plans for a future life that would never be: a wedding invitation with the ubiquitous Rennie Mackintosh rose motif and, clipped to it, a card with a date for a dress fitting. He opened the invitation with the tip of his pen. Mr and Mrs Vincent Fulton request the pleasure… That was a request for deaf ears now. Below it was a folded registration card for a Samsung 200 mobile purchased two days before; he made a note of the number. There were two more phone numbers written in the same neat disciplined hand, a list of three complaints about the flat and a note to phone the factors about a joiner.
McAlpine started opening and shutting cupboard doors again, searching.
He found no cigarettes, no alcohol, no chocolate.
He decided he
McAlpine opened the bathroom door. The ventilator purred into life with the light switch, wafting the scent of lavender through the air. All was pink. Wrapping his fingers in a piece of pink toilet roll, he opened the cabinet. One tube of toothpaste: Macleans’ fluoride. One deodorant spray: Marks & Spencer’s Peaches & Cream. One folded face cloth: pink. One shampoo: anti-dandruff. One conditioner: for dry, fine, flyaway hair. One Marks & Spencer body lotion, Peaches & Cream again. Not much else.
No contraceptives. No headache tablets. No hangover cure. He shut the cabinet door.
The bedroom was the same nauseating pink-with-a-hint-of-vomit. Even the teddy bear on the pillow was two-tonepink. McAlpine opened a few drawers, his fingers still curled in the tissue. The top drawer was full of very sensible underwear. Either Elizabeth Jane had no sex life or she went to hospital a lot. On a pink satin chair was a pile of clothes folded with army precision, blouses with sleeves tucked in, a jumper and cardigan to match her uniform. The few prints on the wall were from the same Marks & Spencer colour coordinated range as the wallpaper, the bed linen, the dressing gown and the teddy. More camouflage than coordination.
McAlpine turned back to the pristine white kitchen. Only Nescafe and the kettle on the worktop. The cupboard revealed a range of tins, all stacked label-side out, most of them WeightWatchers’. An open sachet of cat treats, carefully folded at the top, sat to one side. He looked for a water dish or litter tray, but couldn’t see any. So – no resident cat. He opened the fridge: low-fat spread, skimmed milk, plenty of fruit and veg that all seemed fresh. He flipped open the bin. The only thing in it was the white bin liner.
The SOCOs said their goodbyes, wedging the door open as they left with their equipment. McAlpine saw a small black cat with a white kipper tie shivering with fear behind the cheese plant on the landing, its fur glittering with rainwater. McAlpine walked out into the hall and picked it up. ‘Hello, little fella. I don’t think you live here.’ The cat regarded him with saucer eyes, then stared back at the white-suited men walking about his domain. ‘Anybody know where this wee guy belongs?’ asked McAlpine. Without waiting for a reply he put the cat into the hands of a SOCO who was coming up the stairs. ‘Find out and give him back, will you?’
The SOCO took the cat in an outstretched arm as if it were a bomb. ‘It lives in the next-door flat, I think. She’sterrified it’ll get out and run over by a police car. Wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Make sure she keeps him locked up.’
We’ve handed it in twice already; it escapes every time the nosy cow opens her door.’
Well, tell her to lock him in the bathroom.’ The DCI glanced at his watch. ‘For the next twelve hours at least.’
McAlpine shivered himself in the draught that raced up the stairwell and bit at his legs. He entered the comparative warmth of the flat again, and went back into the kitchen for a look at the cork noticeboard and the plans for a future life that would never be: a wedding invitation with the ubiquitous Rennie Mackintosh rose motif and, clipped to it, a card with a date for a dress fitting. He opened the invitation with the tip of his pen. Mr and Mrs Vincent Fulton request the pleasure… That was a request for deaf ears now. Below it was a folded registration card for a Samsung 200 mobile purchased two days before; he made a note of the number. There were two more phone numbers written in the same neat disciplined hand, a list of three complaints about the flat and a note to phone the factors about a joiner.
McAlpine started opening and shutting cupboard doors again, searching.
He found no cigarettes, no alcohol, no chocolate.
He decided he
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