'Detective Constables Irvine and Fathy,' she said sharply, commanding the girl's attention, her warrant card up close so the girl could read it if she wanted to. 'We're here to see Miss Donnelly in connection with the death of Mr Kenneth Scott.'
'Oh,' Ponytail gasped, one perfectly manicured hand covering her mouth for a moment. 'That was so awful, wasn't it?' she whispered, her eyes sliding back to Fathy, her voice so breathless and solemn that it made Irvine want to put a couple of fingers down her throat. The sympathy was so obviously fake. She probably didn't even remember what Ken Scott had looked like.
'Frances Donnelly?' Irvine reminded her.
'Oh, yes,' she gasped, wrenching her gaze away from DC Fathy as though it were something of an effort. 'I'll just call up and let them know you're here. Someone will be down in a minute. If you'd like to take a seat…?' Ponytail gestured to a row of seats upholstered in a bland grey fabric.
'Maybe you should do the talking after all,' Irvine whispered to her neighbour.
Omar Fathy laughed. 'Work some of my dusky charm, you mean?' he gave her a nudge with his elbow, dark eyes glinting with mirth. Irvine grinned back suddenly feeling loads better.
As the lift door sighed open both Irvine and Fathy stood up.
Despite the fact that Frances Donnelly had obviously clocked them the moment she stepped into the reception area her eyes were everywhere but on the two police officers, betraying her nervousness. Irvine's first impression was of an attractive girl, taller than average, dark red hair (not out of a bottle, the detective constable surmised) but with the air of someone who didn't know how nice looking she really was.
'Frances Donnelly,' she said, extending her hand to Irvine with a smile hovering hesitantly around her wide-lipped mouth. `DC Irvine. We spoke on the phone,' Irvine told her, `My colleague, Detective Constable Fathy.'
'Hello,' Frances smiled shyly at Omar Fathy who gave her his customary little bow.
Irvine suppressed a grin. She was becoming used to the young man's courtesies now and it was amusing to see their effect on other women.
'Is there somewhere we can go and talk that's a little more private than here?' Irvine asked, making an almost imperceptible nod towards the receptionist who was probably ear-wigging like mad.
'Not really, it's all open plan upstairs,' Frances began. 'Could we maybe just go out somewhere?'
'Got anywhere in mind?' Irvine asked.
'There's a wee coffee bar I know near Elderpark. It's just a few minutes' drive from here. It should be fairly quiet this time of day,' Frances told them, her eyes darting from one to the other as though she were being a little too bold in offering her advice.
'Okay. We can talk on the way as well. Just a chat,' Irvine gave the girl her best smile, willing her to drop the shoulders that were up around her ears with tension. It couldn't be very nice for this girl, though, could it? she reminded herself. Having to see two complete strangers and talk about your dead boyfriend.
Frances Donnelly glanced at DC Irvine, a flustered expression on her face, as Fathy opened the main door, stepping back with a flourish to allow the two women to leave before him.
'Egyptian manners,' Irvine whispered to the girl. 'We call him Omar Sharif back at the ranch.'
Frances Donnelly gave a silent giggle and Irvine was gratified to see her relax as they walked across to the pool car, Fathy quickening his pace to do his chauffeur impression.
'He's new to Glasgow,' Irvine confided. 'We've all got bets on that this sort of stuff won't last the month.'
She was glad to see her colleague opening the front passenger door for Frances, edging himself into the rear seat so that the women could talk more easily.
'Suppose you're all pretty shocked about Mr Scott,' Irvine began.
'Oh, yes. I mean, things like that just don't happen to ordinary people, do they? His friend, Paul, the one who.. Frances bit her lip, not able to complete the sentence; the one who found him.
'The guy who car shared with him?' Irvine offered helpfully.
'Aye, Paul. He reckons it was a case of mistaken identity. You know he might be right,' Frances continued in a rush of words. 'I knew this couple who were away on holiday and came back to find their cars had been covered with paint stripper. Police said it was the action of someone who held a grudge. But the couple thought it must be a mistake. There was this bent lawyer lived behind them; same sort of position in the next cul-de-sac. Probably meant for him. It cost them a fortune to get their cars fixed as well.'
Irvine let her rattle on. Get the nerves away with a load of blethering and she'd maybe be calm enough to answer the questions that were really important.
The Ritz Cafe was on Govan Road, just a stone's throw from Elder Park and diagonally across from the massive fortress-like buildings that comprised the old Fairfield's shipyard. The cafe had seen better days, like the yards that must have given it trade in the past, but it was clean enough and as Frances had said, it was quiet. The two women slipped into a booth, sliding along the red leatherette benches.
'What would you like, ladies?' Fathy asked.
'Large decaf latte for me,' Irvine replied cheerfully as though they were on a wee outing.
'Cappuccino, please,' Frances replied. 'I can pay..
Fathy shook his head. 'No need, ma'am. Our treat.'
'Aye, we'll get it off expenses, Frances. Nae worries,' Irvine grinned.
The girl removed her grey linen jacket and pushed it aside wedging it into the angle of the booth.
'We need to ask you things about Ken,' Irvine told her quietly.
'Is that what you called him? Ken?'
Frances nodded.
'See, thing is, we don't have an awful lot of information about Ken's background and we would like to contact any family he might have. You know? Rotten for folk to find out stuff like this from the newspapers,' she added, appealing to the girl's sense of fair play.
'So, what can you tell us about him? Family, friends, his ex wife, that sort of thing.'
Frances Donnelly opened her mouth for a moment as though to speak then closed it again, looking away.
So, something she didn't want to say? Irvine thought. Interesting.
'Did he talk much about his ex-wife?' she ventured again.
The woman opposite heaved a sigh. 'No,' she said at last. 'I got the impression he still had feelings for her, though. He was.. she bit her lip as though to prevent any adverse comment being aired. It didn't do to speak ill of the dead, so many Glasgow worthies were apt to say. And it was a habit that had stuck with the younger generation as well. So why did DC Irvine have the distinct impression that this was exactly what was bugging Ken Scott's girlfriend? 'I don't know how to put this,' Frances continued, 'but any time he mentioned her he was angry and sad at the same time.
Like she'd hurt him but he still couldn't get her off his mind.'
'Who brought the subject up. You or him?'
'Funny you asking that,' Frances said, 'it was always Ken who began talking about her. He'd see a woman in the street, maybe, and say, she's like Marianne. Then he'd go dead quiet. I don't think he wanted to talk about her but somehow I felt that he couldn't stop thinking about her either.'
'A bit obsessed, was he?' Irvine laughed as though to make a light-hearted joke about it though the words were in fact completely serious.
The redhead nodded. 'I think so. In fact,' she frowned suddenly, 'I sometimes wondered if he was still seeing her.'