Absolution by Caro Ramsay

Author:Caro Ramsay [Ramsay, Caro]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141918853
Publisher: Penguin Publishing
Published: 2007-11-17T11:00:00+00:00

Wednesday, 4 October

It was raining again, cold, constant, dark, dirty, Glaswegian rain. McAlpine stood in the queue of late-night drunks and taxi drivers at the Tardis Kiosk, soaked through, his cotton shirt glued to his shoulders. He glanced at his watch: the gold hands told him that it was ten past midnight. He was too wired to sleep tonight. He ordered a bagel and a double-shot Americana. The caffeine wouldn’t make any difference.

All the seats at the taxi rank were taken, so he turned into the Botanical Gardens and sat down on the first bench he came to, choosing to ignore the homeless man in curled-up occupancy. His cardboard sign was sodden with rain, as was the tartan blanket that covered him. A few pennies lay submerged in the polystyrene McDonald’s burger box at his feet. Unless he was a light sleeper, they wouldn’t be there tomorrow.

McAlpine rested his elbows on his knees as he sat, head down, letting the coffee warm him from the inside. The homeless guy had chosen well; the bench was slightly sheltered from the wind and rain by the glass Kibble palace behind it.

He looked at his watch – it was long past midnight – and pulled his mobile from his pocket. No point trying to call Helena at home; he knew the clever money would be on her being at the gallery. His efforts were rewarded by a steady beep as his phone went from low battery to no battery.

He brushed the rain from his face, cursing loudly, which got him a polite reprimand from the tartan rug.

‘Sorry, mate,’

‘Nae probs, pal.’

‘Here.’ McAlpine stood up, tipping two pound coins into the polystyrene lid. As he set off for home, from the corner of his eye he caught the movement of a hand retrieving the coins to the safety of the soaked blanket.

Even with the windscreen wipers on fast, Helena still had difficulty seeing the road. She had spent all day putting the finishing touches to the exhibition, and when she’d closed the door at 12.35 a.m. and set the alarm, she’d felt pleased. Now it was going on one in the morning. She wasn’t tired, she decided; absolutely bloody knackered was more like it. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday would be a series of temper tantrums involving caterers, artists and moneymen, and she desperately needed her sleep. By the time she pulled up outside Kirklee Terrace, the headache that had started as a minor percussion had become a full rhythm section, with somebody practising the timpani behind her right eye.

She tried to slip the car into reverse, then remembered it wasn’t her car. The Three Series wasn’t automatic, and she tried to think what the man at the garage had shown her. She had to lift the collar, shift down, left and forwards. She tried it, but all that happened was a loud crunch, and she cursed. The rising wind rocked the car gently. She couldn’t find the switch for the internal light. In the end

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