By Caro Ramsay
It's been two decades because Police Detective Alan McAlpine has set foot in Patrickhill Station-and greater than 20 years because he fell without end in love with the mute, faceless lady he referred to as Anna as she lay demise in Glasgow's Western Infirmary. day-by-day, he'd watched over her, they usually had started to speak with one another, she by means of relocating her wounded palms. Her hands couldn't inform the sorrowful, unseasoned police cadet her identify, notwithstanding, or identify for him the daddy of her child female descendant or establish the assailants who had flung the acid in her as soon as incomparably attractive face. Or inform him how she'd smuggled a cache of uncut diamonds into Scotland.
Now McAlpine is again in Patrickhill, the place he is been summoned to go up the research of a demanding homicide case. women-their palms outstretched, their legs jointly and ft crossed on the ankle-have already died by the hands of a guy the clicking has tagged the Crucifixion Killer. extra gruesomely, the 3rd sufferer also will were violently disfigured while her physique turns up in Whistler's Lane, coincidentally (perhaps) the scene of an both brutal homicide 4 years past.
The face of one other girl, though-a strikingly appealing younger lady, blonde-has taken carry of McAlpine's awareness, and shortly the results of a case chilly for 2 a long time are commanding-and dangerously thwarting-the process his team's present, already determined research.
As crimes within the current intersect with iniquities dedicated long ago, the secret during this steely, piercing, mental mystery is as gripping as its twists are brilliant. And absolution proves to be severe.
Caro Ramsay was once born and knowledgeable in Glasgow. She has been writing tales considering that she used to be 5 years outdated, constructing a willing curiosity in crime fiction and a keenness for the style that lead her to write down Absolution, her first novel.
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I’m glad you’re sitting down, Alan. There’s something we’ve found out, and you’ll have to know. We think we know who she is. 76 metres tall. ’ He flicked the page over. ‘Fingerprints have been lifted from the bedsit but none to compare… obviously. ’ Graham turned over another page on the file and sighed. ‘Yip, degree in fine art and a ballet injury when she was twelve. ’ The DCI took a deep breath and pressed on. ‘This is going to be hard. ’ He passed over another photograph. A young man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Steve McQueen had his arms round a dark-haired man and a beautiful blonde woman who was leaning lovingly towards him, obscuring the name of the yacht moored behind them.
He couldn’t place her in this room at all; it was all wrong. The smell was getting to him. He opened the door of the fridge and closed it again quickly. The meter had run out, the fridge had stopped chilling, and mould had launched biological warfare. He took a deep breath, opened it again and had a closer look. Nothing he could identify, but the botanical garden where the salad tray used to be suggested a healthy diet. Another thing that didn’t add up. Under the sink he found bleach, cloths, pan scourers, washing-up liquid and a rolled-up pair of rubber gloves.
How dare he? It was just police talk; he was a human being and she needed him. She needed him. Or did he need her? He stopped at the sign for the Intensive Care Unit. The red-headed nurse went past, ignoring him. A uniform he didn’t know was sitting in his seat, watching Anna’s room. He was reading the Sun, his legs crossed, his foot bobbing up and down as he hummed to some secret melody. McAlpine paused as the uniform glanced up and down the empty corridor before going back to Page Three. A door clicked, and another uniform cop appeared with two cups of tea, settling into the seat opposite his mate.