She had been quietly, and politely, brushed off. ‘Mario and me? Row? No way: he wouldn’t dare. We’re fine, I’m fine. But how about you? What about Griff the friendly detective?’ Subject closed, and not too subtly.
‘Him?’ she had lied. ‘Let’s just say I’m still thinking over your advice.’
‘What’s holding you back?’
‘I don’t want to spoil a nice friendship. You know the trouble with hunks: they have so much expectation to live up to, usually too much.’
Paula had smiled, normal service resumed. ‘Usually, but not always. I used to have a simple philosophy with guys like that. I thought of them as very expensive sports cars, sitting on their lacquered tyres, gleaming in the showroom. You know what I mean: the running costs might be prohibitive but you can always take them for a test drive.’
‘The Ferrari syndrome? Nice one, Ms Viareggio. I wonder if men think about women like that?’
‘Are you kidding? They invented the game. But the great thing is that nowadays, as often as not, the players are women like us. Role reversal at its finest.’
Alex smiled as she finished the report; she dictated it on to the same tape as the earlier document, filled in her time-sheet on her desktop computer, then took the micro-cassette along to the secretarial area. Pippa was absent; coffee break, she guessed. She checked her watch and decided that she too could afford five minutes for a break.
She walked along the corridor to the professional staff rest room, bought herself a diet drink from the dispenser, and picked up a copy of the first edition Evening News from the table, nodding to Grey Bauld, another associate who was the only other person in the room. He was sitting crouched over The Times, concentrating on a sudoku game.
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.’