The picture jumped out at her from the front page. There was something odd about it, something strange about the face, its lack of expression, perhaps. Yes, that was it: the eyes, they were vacant, emotionless. ‘My God,’ she whispered ‘she’s . . .’
She began to read the story below, to confirm her realisation. ‘Police investigating the murder of a young woman,’ she murmured aloud, ‘whose body was found on an East Lothian beach yesterday afternoon, admitted today that they are no nearer identifying her. Releasing an artistically improved photograph of the victim, media spokesman Alan Royston said, “We are appealing for the public’s help in identifying this unfortunate girl. Anyone who thinks they know her should . . .”
‘Artistically improved.’ Alex snorted. ‘She’s bloody dead.’ Although the background was a hazy blue colour, giving nothing away, she would have bet that the shot had been taken on a mortuary table, and retouched later using computer software to make the subject look as lifelike as possible. But nothing can truly restore life, once its light has been extinguished.
She stared at the page, not realising that she was frowning, until Bauld, frustrated once again by his puzzle, called out to her, ‘What’s up? Did your team lose?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ she replied. ‘I don’t have a team.’ She held up the paper. ‘It’s this photograph; this murdered girl. I can’t put my finger on it, but I have this weird feeling that I know her.’
Eight
‘I’m very impressed,’ said Louise McIlhenney.
‘Oh, yeah?’ said her husband, rising to the bait.
‘Yes, it’s Wednesday, you’ve been at home for three days, and not once have you picked up the phone to check on what’s happening at work.’
‘That’s the deal. That’s why they call it leave. You go away and you forget about it.’
‘Fine. That’s for normal people, but this is you. I’d expected you to be a fidgety bear by now, especially after that burst of shop last night with your pal Mario.’
Neil smiled at her. ‘You want the truth?’ he asked, looking down at her as she cradled Louis. ‘What’s happening in this house right now is the focal point of my life. It’s more important than any crime, any investigation; at least it is for the next week and a half. He’s just wonderful, you’re just wonderful, and it’s a huge privilege to be able to spend this time with you.’
She gazed up at him. ‘You really mean that, don’t you?’
‘Every word of it.’ He paused. ‘Hey, what about Paula last night? Did she get misty-eyed or what when she was holding the wee chap? Amazing: she’d never held a baby before in her life.’
‘Yes, I did notice how she was. I wonder if Mario did.’
‘If I get your drift, it’s academic,’ said Neil. ‘McGuire’s tadpoles don’t work. You know that.’
‘I only know what you told me: that Mario had a test when he was married to Maggie, and they found that he had a low sperm count. That doesn’t mean they don’t work: it means that there aren’t enough of them to give a realistic chance of one getting through to base camp . . . and that’s all it takes, just one. Did he ever tell you if they suggested a cause of the problem?’
‘No. We didn’t discuss it at length, love. He told me, I said, “Tough luck, mate,” and he shrugged his shoulders as if he wasn’t all that bothered.’
‘Did he ever have a follow-up test?’
‘What would be the point? You either make enough or you don’t.’
‘I’ve heard that occasionally it can be a short-term thing, stress-related. I suppose being shot might do it. But even if it isn’t, the sperm that are produced can be used in IVF.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘My first husband,’ she said. ‘He had that problem . . . not that I encouraged him to look for a cure, mind you.’
‘Ah.’ Neil chuckled. ‘So based on that, and based on Paula going all teary for a minute or so, you’re packing the pair of them off to the test-tube doctors.’
‘No, I’m just saying that if they wanted kids, they might be able to.’
‘Maybe, but they’d both have to want them . . . Except,’ he scratched his chin, ‘maybe not. The truth is that Mario would give Paula the Crown Jewels if she asked for them. If she really did want a baby, he’d probably go along with it, regardless.’
‘That would be great.’
‘Maybe yes, maybe no. McGuire’s a great godfather, he takes it very seriously, but I’m not so sure that he’s one of nature’s dads. I could see him being too hard on a son of his own, demanding achievement beyond the kid’s capabilities, yet going completely in the opposite direction with a daughter.’
‘But Paula would be around to counter that; she’d probably behave in the opposite way, so there would be a balance between them.’
‘My darling,’ said Neil, ‘I have news for you. Parenting does not work on the basis of good cop, bad cop. Done right, it’s a partnership: you show a united front to your kids in every respect.’
‘You mean that “Wait till your father gets home” is not the thing to say?’
‘Exactly. Whether it’s correction or encouragement, it has to be done at the appropriate moment, in a consistent way.’
Louise took his hand and kissed it. ‘I bow to your experience.’ She looked down at the sleeping baby in her arms. ‘Although I can’t imagine this little chap ever needing correction, can you?’
‘Oh, he will, and much sooner than you think . . . that’s if his brother was anything to go by.’
‘Not his sister?’
‘Lauren? From an early age she was correcting me; still is, as you’ll have noticed.’
‘There you are: you’re doing just what you said Mario would, being hard on one and soft on the other.’
‘Not true. I’m an equally soft touch for both of them, as you well know.’
‘I had noticed that, I admit.’ She moved in her chair. ‘Take this one, will you? He should go into his cot for a while, till he needs his next feed.’
Gently, Neil took the baby from her and carried him upstairs to the nursery. When he returned, he found her in the kitchen, scooping coffee into the basin of a percolator. ‘I wonder how Mario’s doing with his murder inquiry?’ she murmured absent-mindedly.
‘You mean how Stevie’s getting on? With a bit of luck, he’ll have an identification of the second victim by now.’
‘And if not?’
‘He’ll keep trying.’
‘The first victim, Stacey, the girl we were talking about last night: would you think I was ghoulish if I told you I’d like to see her work?’
‘No, I wouldn’t, because having seen it myself, I know it’s the kind of thing you like. She’s dead, but her paintings aren’t.’
‘Would it be possible?’
‘No, I’m afraid not; not for a while, at least. Her parents withdrew all her unsold stuff from the galleries a couple of days after her death. Russ, the dad, told me that they wanted to keep everything that was hers close to them, for a while at least. He said that at some point they might hold a memorial exhibition and auction some of them for charity, but that’s in the future.’
‘What about her pad? You said last night that when she walked her dog she was in the habit of stopping to sketch things. So when you found her, you must have found her pad. Maybe I could look at that . . . or did you give that back to the parents, too?’
She broke off as she realised that he was staring at her. ‘You know, love,’ he said slowly, ‘sometimes I wonder how the hell I functioned as a detective before I met you.’
He picked up the phone, dialled the Leith divisional office and asked for CID. ‘This is Superintendent McIlhenney,’ she heard him say. ‘I want you to get hold of DI Steele, wherever he is, and have him call me at my
