Absolution (12 page)

‘And did you know Elizabeth?’ asked Costello, pulling a plate from the rack and drying it very slowly. ‘Know her well, I mean?’

‘I certainly knew her well enough not to call her Elizabeth. She was always Elizabeth Jane.’ Mrs Cohen added in a whisper, ‘She was a bit funny that way. She was that type. Even from a wee girl, she was that type.’

‘What type, Mrs Cohen?’ Costello softened the intrusive question. ‘You’ve known her a long time, then?’

‘Oh, yes, she and my Sophie are much of an age; they used to play together. Elizabeth Jane was a lovely girl, of course, but… stubborn. Very stubborn.’ She dried her hands on a towel, twiddling the cloth round her wedding ring. ‘She was to be a bridesmaid, you know. I wonder what will happen now.’

‘The wedding – ?’

‘Yes, Paula. She’ll want to go ahead with it, I don’t doubt. She’s as stubborn as Elizabeth Jane – cousins, you see. Like peas out a pod. And that’ll upset Jim and Betty, I can see it coming.’ Isabel Cohen nodded as though she was rather looking forward to the prospect.

‘When’s the wedding? I saw the invite on the mantelpiece – ’

‘Three weeks. Oh, they’ve all been up to high doh about it. There was a fair bit of friction between the girls…’ Then she added in a whisper, ‘But that’s families for you. You’re better putting a ladder at the window and letting them elope.’

‘You seem very close to the family, Mrs Cohen?’

She sniffed, folding the towel back on itself. ‘The same dressmaker who did Sophie’s dress is doing Paula’s. No problem with the bride’s dress, but Elizabethjane’s dress was causing trouble. Oh, it was going to be such a happy occasion…’

Costello didn’t think it sounded as if it was going to be happy at all. ‘And where will I find Paula?’ she asked, her hand on the door as if to open it, but letting it linger until Mrs Cohen answered.

Brown’s Gym was busy. The deep thud of an aerobics class somewhere in the building echoed over the pool, and the noise of Lycra-clad bodies in constant motion was everywhere, with bottles of water clutched in sweaty little hands.
It reminded Costello of Fritz Lang’s
Metropolis.
It was her idea of hell.

‘Judging from what DCI McAlpine got from the parents, Elizabeth Jane was a cross between Maria von Trapp and Mother Teresa. The next-door neighbour had a slightly different take on her, though.’

‘She didn’t sound like a walk in the park at the briefing,’ Irvine agreed.

‘The neighbour said the cousins were like peas in a pod, so she should be easy to spot,’ Costello said, her eyes scanning the line of bobbing heads on the running machines.

It was easy to find Paula Fulton. She did indeed bear a close resemblance to her cousin, with the same plain face, the same brown curls, the incipient double chin. But, judging from the sweat on her face and neck, she worked much harder at keeping the weight off. She didn’t look surprised when Costello and Irvine showed her their cards.

‘Hang on a mo,’ she said, getting off the running machine. She bent down and pulled a sweatshirt over her head.

‘Can we talk somewhere, quietly?’ Costello asked.

Paula didn’t have to ask the gym attendant. News had got round. The attendant pointed them in the direction of the first-aid room. Costello gestured that the other two should have a seat.

Irvine seemed lost for words, and Costello was about to prompt her when Paula suddenly started chattering. ‘I bet you think I’m terrible, being here.’

‘Not at all,’ said Costello.

‘Couldn’t stand it at home. Had to get out. They’ve already started talking about cancelling the wedding, and I’m not having it.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll not.’

‘I quite agree with you,’ said Costello. ‘Don’t you, Gail?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Irvine, finding her tongue. ‘Elizabeth Jane was going to be your bridesmaid?’

‘Yeah.’ Paula grimaced. ‘I didn’t want her, but we’re cousins, and Dad insisted. Families – you know how it is.’

The conversation stalled, and Irvine lost her train of thought.

‘Paula,’ said Costello, taking over. ‘We need to know a bit about the victim, about Elizabeth Jane. It can be really difficult for the police when all you get is sweetness and light about the deceased. What was she like, really?’

‘Impossible,’ said Paula with no hesitation whatever. ‘Oh, I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but she always had to be the centre of attention. Only she did it in a quiet kind of way. She was always allergic to stuff, and couldn’t do this and couldn’t do that. I mean, I’d invite her round and I’d take the trouble to cook something nice, and she’d say, “I don’t want to make a fuss, but I couldn’t possibly eat that.” You know the type.’

‘I do indeed,’ said Costello.
So Elizabeth Jane was the passive-aggressive type, was she?

‘I had my colour scheme for the wedding all planned,’ Paula went on, clearly getting rid of a certain amount of aggression of her own. That suited Costello just fine. ‘I wanted scarlet for her dress, because I was going to have all red flowers, and it would suit our colouring. Then, at the final fitting, she says she doesn’t think the red suits her and she wants turquoise instead. I said no, and she burst into tears, and, before I know it, it’s “Oh, poor Elizabeth Jane!”’ She spanned her hands in frustration. ‘Like, the wedding’s three weeks away, and I need to reorder the flowers. I mean –
turquoise!
The dressmaker threw a hissy fit and charged us double to do another dress so quickly. Then, as if she hasn’t caused us enough upset, Elizabeth Jane goes and has her hair
cut so the headdress won’t fit. And puts blonde highlights in! Oh, she made a real freak of herself! Even her parents, who thought the sun shone out of her arse, were angry with her. I was ready for strangling her.’ Paula put her hands to her mouth. Oh, I didn’t mean that! Anyway, she changed the colour of her hair back again. But she stuck to her guns about the dress.’

Costello kept her face expressionless as Paula unscrewed the top off a plastic water bottle and took a few swigs.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ she said. ‘You’ll probably think badly of me for saying it, but I’m glad she’s not going to be my bridesmaid. And I’m not cancelling my wedding for anyone.’

Costello smiled. ‘I don’t think you should. The best advice I can give you is that it’s your day, and those who love you will want it to be your day. Those who complain can go and organize their own weddings and leave you to yours. Life is too short… as your cousin found out, unfortunately.’

Paula smiled. ‘Thanks.’ She rubbed her face with her sleeve.

‘Had she ever had a boyfriend? Elizabeth Jane?’ asked Irvine.

Paula paused, the rubbing stopped.

‘Come on, Paula,’ Costello prompted. ‘Anything might be a help.’

‘Well, my fiancé is not a stupid man, he doesn’t imagine things or make things up, but he said Elizabeth Jane was trying to cause trouble between us.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Oh, she’d say things to him about me. Not really putting me down, but – ’

‘A put-down all the same?’ Irvine said.

Paula nodded. ‘And she seemed to be trying to flirt with
him all the time. Trouble was, she’d no idea how to do it. He said it was just embarrassing.’

‘Did she ever mention somebody called Tom?’

‘Not that I remember. And if she did have somebody, I would have been the first to hear about it. I would have had to rearrange the seating plan to make him guest of honour.’

‘Thanks. That’s all for now. You’d better go and have a shower before you get chilled.’

Paula thanked them and walked back into the gym, looking happier with her lot.

‘Well, I’d say we had a potential murderer right there,’ Irvine said.

‘From the sound of what Paula says, potential murderers would have to form an orderly queue.’

‘Three–nil is a bit of an insult,’ said McAlpine, closing the sports page of the
Evening Times
and flinging the paper into the rear seat of Anderson’s Astra, where it joined a litter of empty Ribena cartons and a green Tweenie. It was late on Saturday night, and his head was thumping. He had spent all day chasing the ghost of Elizabeth Jane Fulton – a woman with few enemies and even fewer friends – and had got absolutely nowhere. He put his hand on the car-door handle but made no move to get out. ‘We’d better get a break tomorrow,’ he said to nobody in particular.

‘It’s early days yet.’ Anderson pulled on the handbrake and pointed at the Volvo in front. ‘Helena got friends in? LLB 11, nice plate, worth more than the car.’

McAlpine looked at the number plate and the National Trust badge on the back bumper, vaguely recognizing the vehicle; he couldn’t recall who drove it, but he knew he didn’t like them. He just couldn’t remember who it was.

He checked his watch. Then he began slowly and deliberately to slap his forehead with the palm of his hand. Saturday night, eleven thirty. ‘She’s having a dinner party. They’ll be well into the liqueurs by now.’

‘Shit,’ said Anderson with feeling. Were you supposed to be there?’

‘Our anniversary. I am – was – indeed supposed to be there. I was at the wedding, after all.’

‘Shit,’ said Anderson again. Was I supposed to remind you?’

‘Yeah, it’s your fault.’

‘At least I remembered to phone my mother-in-law, least I got the kids covered…’

‘I didn’t phone.’ Suddenly McAlpine sounded very tired. ‘Didn’t even remember to forget. She’s been planning this for ages.’

‘Helena’ll understand. Brenda would go apeshit.’

‘Yeah,’ said McAlpine, more cheery. ‘It could be worse. I could be married to your wife.’

‘Cheers for that, Boss,’ Anderson muttered sourly as the DCI walked away through the dark drizzle.

The dining-room door was open, and McAlpine was immediately assaulted by the smells of coffee and garlic, the voices of adult, clever debate. He could hear Terry Gilfillan making some tedious speech about the Scottish Parliament and the Arts Council, could hear Denise Gilfillan answering wittily in her advocate’s voice. He felt like a kid spying on grown-up fun as he sneaked past the door, hoping to get in unseen, steal ten minutes in a hot shower and then slip under a duvet for some wonderful, uninterrupted sleep. Small talk had never been one of his fortes and certainly not after a day like this. He needed to de-stress, stop the
chattering in his head and think. He needed to forget Elizabeth Jane and her immaculately sterile flat, forget Lynzi and her double life. One woman with no life, the other with two.

But the dead were not always silenced by sleep.

A burst of laughter filled the hall, a response to some witticism, as McAlpine slipped into the sitting room and closed the door. He kicked off his shoes, slipped his jacket off and dropped it on the floor. He lay full length on the sofa, half pulling the throw over him, listening to the easy hum of conversation drifting from the dining room, punctuated with laughter, against a background of Diana Krall crying a river over somebody. The music lulled him as images of Elizabeth Jane and Lynzi chased each other across his mind, his subconscious juggling random thoughts, searching for coincidence and serendipity. Suddenly he thought of the minister, George Leask. He knew that face from somewhere. But where?

McAlpine slipped into a dreamful sleep –
the dead woman lying with arms outstretched, her thin elegant wrists, the leather strap of her watch
… not Elizabeth Jane’s, not Lynzi Traill’s, but Anna’s. As she accepted his kiss with her wide sunshine smile, enveloping him with the rapturous scent of bluebells, she woke, and he heard somebody say, ‘Hello, honey.’

‘Hello? Hello, sleepyhead,’ Helena said. She kissed her husband on the forehead; he smelled of whisky, cigarettes and apple shampoo. More often than not she would find him unconscious on the sofa when he was on a big case; he ate nothing, drank more and slept less, living on adrenalin and fresh air.

‘You ruin every suit by doing this,’ she murmured, turning
up the thermostat on the radiator and turning down the dimmer switch. As the light faded, she paused, studying his face, almost childlike in sleep, the handsome profile she had painted a hundred times in her mind. She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his lips. Just as she was pulling the throw over his feet, a triangle of light ghosted across the carpet.

She turned to find Denise Gilfillan standing at the door. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Yeah, fine.’

Why doesn’t he go to bed?’

‘It’s a genius thing. He thinks better on the sofa.’ She pulled the door closed behind her, forcing Denise back into the hall.

‘Do you want me to get the coffee? The Robertsons don’t look like shifting,’ she asked. She was holding three empty wine glasses in her hand, ready for the dishwasher.

She took them from her. ‘No, Denise, it’s fine. I have it all ready.’

Denise followed her into the brightness of the kitchen. ‘How are you keeping?’

‘I’m fine. How was the cheese? It seemed very strong. I wasn’t aware there was a difference between vegetarian cheese and carnivorous cheese.’ She poured boiling water into the cafetière and, conscious of her best friend watching her back, wiped its bronze lid.

‘Depends on the rennet. Are you sure you don’t need a hand?’ Denise stood with her hands outstretched.

Helena looked at her reflection, pale, a smudge of mascara under her left eye. She licked the pad of her thumb and rubbed at it. ‘You can get the cream out of the fridge if you want.’ She knew where this conversation was going.

‘The cheese was excellent, my favourite.’ She would say that. ‘You know what I mean – how
are
you? You can’t avoid the question.’

Helena bit back her annoyance. ‘You told Terry, didn’t you? I spotted all those
poor Helena
looks over the goat’s cheese tartlets.’

‘They were lovely goat’s cheese tartlets.’ Denise patted her on the shoulder. ‘But, Helena, we think of you as part of the family. We worry about you.’

‘Well, don’t. There’s nothing to worry about.’

‘But I saw a letter from the Beatson on the hall table. Unopened. Is that the results of the mammogram?’

‘If you’re that observant, you should be in the force along with him on the sofa.’