Somebody had closed all the windows in the toilet, the doors to the cubicles were shut, and the main door had also been closed before Costello opened it, yet the toilet was freezing. Irvine, trying to get her body temperature above zero, was huddled up against the radiator, with her arms drawn up inside the sleeves of her police uniform jumper, rolling them into mitts that enveloped her hands as she cradled her cheeks with the rough wool.
Costello had half expected a few handwritten notes to be left on her desk. It wasn’t like Irvine to go in for subterfuge and clandestine meetings. But just the look on Irvine’s face was enough to tell Costello that there was more to it. ‘I take it you’ve something up your sleeve – apart from your hands, that is.’
‘Before we get to the good stuff, can I just tell you first that Kate Lewis is a cow?’ said Irvine. ‘A complete cow.’
‘OK, so I promise not to buy her a Christmas present. What do you have for me?’
Folded under Irvine’s arm were a few pieces of A4 paper, some of them just taken off a fax machine. She shuffled along the radiator. ‘I got a lot further than I thought I would, really quickly. We have a fair number of leads to follow up. Three unexplained, in inverted commas, deaths and one near miss.’
Costello stood still for a minute. She didn’t know what to say. She and Anderson had made a deal in a quick conversation outside Interview Room Two: he was going to follow that lead, she was going after the cyanide, and he would present both to Quinn.
‘I want to do the follow-up,’ said Irvine, her voice hard with an undercurrent Costello could not place.
‘Why shouldn’t you?’
‘The thing is, I’m fed up of getting shat on for the mistakes of my superiors.’
‘Is that directed at me?’ asked Costello.
‘No.’
‘So, we’ll get this sorted first. Have you really come up with something?’
‘Something big. But I won’t get any thanks for it. You and DI Anderson get to bomb about while I get to roll on a shitty carpet and do your typing. And Lewis swans about like the Queen of the New Year. She is so up herself.’
It dropped on Costello with the subtlety of a mallet. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Gail, I’ll see you get credit for this, whatever it is. I’m taking it to DI Anderson; you know he’s fair.’
Gail Irvine’s face fell. When Anderson found out about Peter…
‘So, come on, Gail. Out with it.’
‘John Campbell was poisoned before he burned to death. His daughter was poisoned as well, though not fatally.’
‘She’s still in the High Dependency unit, though,’ Costello said. ‘What else do you have?’
‘Well, a woman called Nessie Faulkner, aged sixty-two, collapsed and died last Wednesday at the bowling club up by Hyndland Road. It was thought to be a heart attack but there was no evidence of it on PM. Cause of death was undetermined, but it’s being reviewed on the advice of the Poison Unit. They think there might be a whole chain of…’
They were interrupted by the sound of rushing water as a toilet flushed. Irvine looked horrified, and Costello tapped her ear, indicating that the person in the loo must have heard everything. It came as no surprise when the door opened accompanied by the sound of clippity heels and Kate Lewis came out, swinging her handbag over her shoulder, smiling broadly like a cat. ‘Does the dishy DI know all that?’ she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
‘Who?’ asked Costello amicably, turning to wash her hands.
‘DI Anderson – Colin, isn’t it? He seems rather distracted; I think he and the Mrs are having a few problems. It’s a shame, he’s so nice. Does he know about all this cyanide stuff? Are you two on to something?’
So, she had been listening – and wasn’t so stupid as to deny it.
‘We have a few unexplained deaths to look into,’ said Irvine, holding out under the pressure of seniority.
‘We know nothing for definite yet, and DI Anderson will know as soon as we do.’ Costello tried to change the subject. ‘And who wouldn’t have problems at home? The hours we’re putting in at the moment, his two wee kids will see more of Santa than him this Christmas.’
‘I’m so lucky with Stuart. He understands what it’s like.’ Lewis looked unbearably smug as she checked her make-up in the mirror.
‘Working five hundred miles away probably helps.’
‘Well, I think DI Colin Anderson should be at home, nicely wrapped up in bed. Now there’s a thought!’ Lewis ran damp fingers through her hair, and her brown curls immediately revitalized and sorted themselves the way Costello’s never did. She shook her head violently as if proving that the curls would stay there.
‘Anderson? Colin? You don’t have the hots for him, do you?’ asked Costello.
Lewis pursed her lips. ‘He’s a good-looking man. Must be nice to have a man who knows where the towels are kept and who can put a load of washing on for you. Stuart has no idea about anything; the only thing in his fridge is beer… and more beer. He sends all his clothes to the launderette. Have you never… you know… with Colin?’
Costello looked at Lewis in the mirror, wondering how she managed to look like that after a twelve-hour shift. ‘He’s my boss,’ she said simply.
‘That’s never stopped me in the past… quite the reverse, in fact,’ Lewis said, flicking the back of her hands on to her cheekbones to give her skin a healthy glow. ‘Cheaper than blusher,’ she explained.
‘It’ll burst the blood vessels in your face and you’ll look like a Halloween cake by the time you’re forty,’ said Costello.
‘Long way to go then. So, why was he answering your mobile?’ Lewis asked coquettishly.
‘I was being sick in his car at the time.’
Lewis shot her a gleeful look. ‘Ah, the old sick-in-the-car routine.’ She whisked a lipstick round her mouth then started pulling faces, pressing her lips against each other, before returning to her favourite subject. ‘Stuart would go nuts if you threw up in his car; he drives a Lexus.’
‘Obviously very well paid for his nine-to-five in the Met,’ said Costello, shooting a look at Irvine.
‘Not really.’ Lewis looked at herself full length in the mirror and straightened her skirt. She sighed. ‘He has other business interests.’ She started spraying perfume over her long unlined neck. ‘So, what are you two doing at Christmas?’ she enquired.
‘Oh, I always work over Christmas. I prefer it,’ said Costello, finding Kate Lewis as sweetly irritating as a grain of sand to an oyster.
‘Prefer it to being on your own?’
‘Well, the TV’s been rotten these last few years.’
‘What about you, Gail?’
‘Boyfriend’s parents, deaf grannies, somebody having a punch-up, the usual happy family Christmas.’
Lewis shrugged with glee as her phone rang. That bloody ‘Sex Bomb’ ring tone was doing Costello’s head in.
At first she tried to ignore Lewis’s inane mutterings down the phone, then the words penetrated her brain, ‘… and Costello has a really good lead on this cyanide stuff. The Poison Unit has come up with a whole lot of new information.’ She nodded at Costello. ‘I’ll be back the minute I’ve finished this call; you can give me the gossip then.’ Still on the phone, she headed out of the door. ‘I think…’ What she thought was lost as the toilet door closed slowly on its retaining arm. She hoped Lewis was talking to her boyfriend; indiscreet as that was, it would be criminal if it had been anybody else.
Gail Irvine’s face was ashen with realization. ‘I can’t believe she heard me call her a cow.’
‘And you said she was up herself! But think of it this way – the truth will out.’
‘I think DI Anderson is going to be very angry when he finds out we lost Peter at Joozy Jackpot.’ Irvine looked at the floor. ‘Lewis has told me to keep it quiet. Ordered me to keep quiet. But we couldn’t find him for a good eight or nine minutes. It was DCI McAlpine’s wife who found him.’
‘Helena?’ Costello smiled a tight smile. ‘If it was Helena Farrell who found him, then Lewis’s goose will be cooked. Colin and she are good friends. She’ll tell him, or Peter will, and then the shit will hit the fan. But if I were you, I’d get my version in first. If Brenda finds out, she’ll disembowel him – slowly.’
‘How well do they know each other? The DI and the DCI’s widow? I mean, Kate’s right, isn’t she? Just because we think he’s Mr B&Q doesn’t mean he’s not an attractive guy.’
Costello shrugged non-committally. Her mind was elsewhere. ‘Whose fault was it Peter got lost?’
‘Lewis. She was being chatted up by that reporter Dave Ripley.’
‘He’s a right sleaze.’
Irvine pulled her jumper down, smartening herself up. ‘Right, I’ll speak to DI Anderson but I’ll need a coffee first.’ Irvine thrust some papers into Costello’s hand. ‘I’ve scribbled on them. You might want to talk to this Dr Robert Garrett; he’s a nice guy.’ And she went off in search of caffeine to steady her nerves.
Costello perched her backside on the edge of the sink and glanced through the notes Irvine had made, her handwriting all over the place as she scribbled on her knee with her phone in the other hand. Four names, four doctors. She copied them on to a Post-it note and stuck it in her shoulder bag next to her yellow notebook. She looked at the four names again – three fatalities – Moira McCulloch, Barbara Cummings, Duncan Thompson. A Lars Lundeberg had survived, but only just. Underneath Irvine had scrawled Costello – they’ll fax details through to you. She had very formally signed and dated it, making her point – she wanted credit where credit was due.
Did they have a serial poisoner on their hands? Was something leaking into some factory plant somewhere, silent but fatal? Costello felt her heart begin to race. Not this, not with two missing children – the squad couldn’t cope with it. Not at Christmas. Costello looked again at the list of names, tried to focus on Lars Lundeberg. He didn’t sound local. He couldn’t have had much in common with the others. But he had survived. So, he was potentially a walking witness. She tried to focus on the letters as they blurred then separated.
She was shocked when the cold hard sink hit her on the back of the head.