by Mairi Chong
‘I’m just wandering,’ she confessed. ‘I’m a bit lost today. I was going to head down to Betty’s.’
‘Oh, I’ll come. I was only on the lookout for numbers today anyway,’ he said obscurely, and feeling as if she had been coerced into the situation through her own penitence, they set off together.
‘Police been questioning you, then?’ Thomas asked.
Holly was acutely aware of his bag, which he insisted on dragging behind him. It made the most awful noise as he scraped it along the ground.
‘Yes. They’ve spoken to all of us. I don’t think they’re much further forward though. They were talking about it being suicide, but I can’t see how it could be.’
‘Marie doesn’t think that,’ Thomas said. ‘I was talking to her about it, and she would know too.’
‘Oh?’ Holly asked. ‘How would she know?’ She didn’t even know who Marie was, to be honest, but her name had been mentioned by Thomas several times in the past when he had been in the shop, and she assumed that she was one of his fellow learning disabled friends or one of his carers.
‘Well, she’d know because it’s Marie,’ he said. His breath was bitter, a mixture of tobacco and vinegar. She couldn’t help but grimace.
By now, they were nearing the end of the high street and the turn leading up to Betty’s cul-de-sac.
‘Who called the police anyway, I wonder?’ Holly said suddenly as they rounded the corner to the start to Betty’s street.
‘Marie. That’s what I told you,’ Thomas said with exasperation. Holly stood still and he continued ahead, trailing his horrible bag like an accessory limb.
‘You didn’t say that at all,’ she told him.
He turned and grinned his awful, yellow assortment of pegs and hooks at her. ‘Come on, we’ll go in for a news with her. She’ll have biscuits. She always has.’
Only then did Holly understand. Marie was, of course, Betty’s neighbour. No doubt the police had already spoken with her, but perhaps she might have seen something unusual.
Marie opened the door almost before they were down her front path. She had obviously been watching from her window and must have seen the odd pairing trudging down her drive. Her house was similar to Betty’s in external appearance, and Marie herself was not unlike the woman who had died. However, if Betty had possessed some of the spark and witticism that Holly suspected, Marie had no such thing, it seemed.
‘Aye, aye,’ Thomas called out enthusiastically before Marie could speak. He was clearly proud as punch of his acquaintance and couldn’t wait to show her off.
The flurried, elderly woman waved, and as they drew closer, she called out. Her voice was a frail soprano. ‘What, not again, Thomas? What’s the matter with you today? You’re at sixes and sevens, up and down this street, aren’t you? Have you been hunting for numbers again?’
She obviously had a soft spot for the pathetic creature. Holly wondered if perhaps she had no children of her own, or none that came to visit anyway. Maybe she had taken him on, like some bedraggled stray.
‘Aye,’ he said again, and now that they were at the top of the drive, he stopped, abandoning his bag, presumably because he thought he was on safe ground. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously.
‘You’re not misbehaving again?’ Marie asked, and then turning to Holly, she smiled. ‘He’s always up to mischief.’
‘Any news?’ Thomas asked her, ignoring this. ‘Have they been back again then, the pigs?’
Marie’s brow furrowed. ‘I told you not to call them that, Thomas. They’re doing …’
‘I know, I know. You’re telling me off again, aren’t you? But you know what I mean.’ He twisted his head suddenly, jerking his neck, and then leapt sideways onto Marie’s lawn as if something had just passed him unexpectedly. Holly couldn’t see what had made him do it. Even having known Thomas, albeit superficially, for a good number of months, this behaviour was rather disconcerting.
‘Eh?’ he shouted, and then embarrassed, he returned to normal, well as normal as he ever was. ‘No nothing,’ he said, ‘I was just thinking about something.’
It was like some kind of slapstick comedy sketch. Holly was feeling more than a little awkward what with all of his dramatics going on. Standing right at the door of a stranger, she felt that she really should say something.
‘Thomas said you alerted the police?’ she decided on, and then to Marie’s slightly dubious reaction, she explained: ‘I work at the charity shop.’
‘Of course, you do. I thought I knew your face.’
Holly didn’t much like this, to be fair. She counted herself as pretty non-descript in appearance, and whenever she felt that she was beginning to be accepted as part of a group or community, she became twitchy and ended up doing something to ostracise herself.
‘So, you’ve had a rather eventful couple of days,’ Holly said, hoping to move things back on track.
Thomas was pacing up and down the lawn now and exaggeratedly sniffing the air. Both Marie and she ignored him. A ginger and white cat came wandering over and joined them. The animal came right up to Marie and the old woman bent down and picked it up.
‘Betty’s,’ she said in explanation. ‘But he always preferred it over at mine anyway, didn’t you, ‘Marmalade?’ I’ve been feeding him for years,’ she chuckled. ‘Poor old Betty. Doted on her cat. Dreadful, the whole thing, and you’ll be upset yourself having worked alongside her, I imagine. And so unexpected, especially in this town. Who would have thought that we harboured a murderer?’
‘Oh, do you think that there was foul play?’ Holly asked, surprised. ‘The police said they still weren’t sure and they were doing a postmortem. They’ve just been in questioning all of us.’
The cat was scrabbling to get down, and Marie leaned forward, allowing him to jump to the ground. ‘It wasn’t suicide. That I’m sure of,’ she said.
‘Thomas said it was you who called the police. He was the one who came in right at the start and told us at the shop, as it happens. That was the first we heard of it,’ Holly said.
Marie shook her head and tutted. ‘He’s not good at keeping things to himself,’ she said. ‘Betty and I weren’t close by any means. But I’d never wish ill of her. I was concerned, you see? First thing in the morning. She was always up, you understand? But the curtains, well, the top ones hadn’t been pulled shut at all. I noticed when I did my own the night before. I thought it was odd. But then I thought she might be staying up to watch something on the television. That new period drama nonsense was starting, I seem to remember, and I think I must have wondered if it was the sort of thing she might watch. Not my taste at all,’ Marie said, ‘and on far too late to bother with anyway.’ She smiled as Thomas now planted himself down on the grass, his legs cocked out oddly at the wrong angle. ‘Comfy there?’ she asked him, and then turning to Holly; ‘he’ll catch his death sitting on that cold ground, but he’ll not listen. Do you want to come in? I’ve got biscuits.’ At this, Holly almost laughed because Thomas evidently overheard and began getting up.
‘I’ll leave my bag outside,’ he said reassuringly and marched in past them.
That settled it, and Holly followed, along with the ginger and white cat.
Marie had chosen pink as her main colour scheme and had bought near enough every damn thing in a rose-hue. It made Holly feel nauseous. The old dear fussed around getting the biscuit box to keep Thomas quiet, and he established himself at the far end of the room on, clearly, a favourite stool.
‘Do you like her?’ he asked in an audible whisper and nodded towards Marie.
Holly smiled. This seemed to satisfied him, and he sat almost entirely silent for the rest of their visit, munching his way through an assortment of custard creams, digestives and rich tea biscuits. Holly waived the proffered box, having seen the state of Thomas’s hands. She didn’t want to consume anything he might have picked up and rejected.
Marie sat down. She leant forward, making herself gasp wi
th the exertion, and flicked a switch on her heater. The bar illuminated within seconds, a glow of fierce orange.
‘Yes, so as I was saying,’ the old lady said. ‘I knew the night before, and I’ll forever regret not doing anything. Poor Betty had lain like that all night alone. Who knows, if I had called someone, they might have been able to save her.’
‘I don’t think …’ Holly started.
‘No, but you never know,’ Marie said briskly as if to silence any commiseration. ‘But the next morning, the curtains were still all wrong, so I went over. The door was pulled shut though. They lock, you know if you pull them from the outside. I’ve done it a couple of times myself by accident.’
Holly nodded, not wanting to interrupt again.
‘So, knowing it wasn’t right, I phoned, then and there, and of course, you know the rest. Sirens, blue lights, people running about. Dreadful.’
‘Dead,’ Thomas stated unfeelingly from the corner of the room, spitting biscuit crumbs across the carpet.
‘Quite,’ Marie said, her lips tightly pursed. ‘It didn’t take them long to find her. A man walking his dog … Dreadful.’
‘I didn’t know Betty that well, as a person,’ Holly said. ‘She didn’t talk that much in the shop …’
‘You’re wondering who would do such a thing and why, I’m guessing?’ Marie said, clearly far sharper than Holly had given her credit.
Holly was surprised that the woman was so convinced it was murder.
‘Well, I don’t want to speak ill, but she wasn’t the easiest of women, and that’s not a lie. Difficult, I’d say, and there’ll be a few around these parts who won’t miss her. I’ve not said this to the police of course,’ Marie said, shaking her white, fluffed head. ‘They’d not want to hear that. No. But a few folks have already been saying it, up and down the town, but that’s just gossip, you see? No, but what I can tell you for sure is that Betty’s act of doddering old lady, well, it wasn’t Betty at all. I’ve seen first-hand how ruthless she could be. I suppose it came with the job, back in the day.’
To Holly’s raised eyebrows, Marie explained.
‘Matron, and a pretty fearsome one too by all accounts. Up at the old hospital,’ she went on. ‘Fernibanks. Betty was the matron of the psychiatric hospital. There’s a good few who’d not mind her gone. It’s a wonder it’s taken so long. Murder though, and right on our doorsteps too.’
14
Cathy sat in her consulting room and worried. She felt a great weight of responsibility given that it was she who Betty Scott had chosen to confide in. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that it wasn’t suicide, no matter what the police said. Already, they had dismissed her suggestion of foul play as fanciful. She had been made to feel foolish. She could only hope that the postmortem might reveal something. But what was she meant to do while the police waited, dragging their heels? Could they assume it was suicide? Cathy thought again of the old woman’s look of anguish when they last spoke. Her imploring eyes. ‘Promise me ...’
‘Oh God,’ Cathy sighed. ‘Well, promise you what, Betty? I don’t even know what you meant.’ If only the old woman had said more.
Impulsively, she snatched up the telephone. The police officer who had visited the other day had left his card in case she needed to get in touch with him again and she quickly dialled an outside line and waited.
She didn’t manage to speak to the same man, but instead, a colleague who was at first sympathetic to her concerns, and then increasingly patronising. ‘Yes, Doctor,’ he had said. ‘I’ll be sure to make him aware of your concerns just as soon as he gets back. No, of course, I understand that you get a gut-feeling about these things in your line of work. I suppose we’re similar in that respect. No, if you’ve already told him about your consultation with the old lady, I doubt he’ll need to speak in-depth again, for now, that’s unless something else comes up. I can promise you that we’re very busy making inquiries. Looks very likely that she jumped, poor soul. No, no need, if he has your number. I’ll let him know …’
Cathy had replaced the receiver feeling more frustrated still. Well, how was she to get on with things, knowing that she had been Betty’s sole confidant? The old woman had had something on her mind, something of grave importance. If only she hadn’t been so determined to speak with the other person first.
‘Alright, Dr Moreland?’ Michelle had asked as she passed her door later that morning.
‘Oh, just a bit distracted,’ Cathy confessed, taking the prescription the receptionist held out and signing it absentmindedly.
‘About your old lady?’ Michelle asked. ‘Talking about her with Dr Longmuir earlier. Unbelievable really. I saw the police had been in.’
‘Yes. I spoke on the phone with them again just now. That’s what’s troubling me.’
‘You’re surely not blaming yourself though. But you couldn’t have known,’ Michelle said. ‘My second-cousin did away with himself. Auntie Yvonne didn’t have an inkling. These things happen, I suppose, and if she was dying anyway …’
Cathy looked at the young woman. ‘That’s just it, Michelle. Things like this don’t just happen. Not to an elderly woman. Not when she was dying. No one would choose that way to die. No one.’
Michelle took the paper and shrugged. ‘Will I leave your door ajar?’
But Cathy didn’t answer.
It wasn’t right. None of it. The police were wrong. They were too quick to dismiss it as suicide and if they weren’t taking the thing seriously, Cathy wondered what might be missed during the investigation. Had they even looked at the scene of the crime? In their acceptance of it being a simple death, were they missing half a dozen incriminating clues left behind by the murderer?
Well, she was the duty doctor for the day and had a couple of visits to do. One was on that side of Glainkirk. She might easily park up, and take a look for herself. She had every right to do so.
It was a cool morning, and still overcast. Having seen to her visits and checked back with the practice that no others had come in, Cathy parked her car down a side-street near the railway line. Here, she considered the task at hand. She had half expected to see some form of a police presence, at least some blue-and-white tape indicating that they had been in attendance, but there was nothing to show that the area had been witness to a gruesome disturbance the day before.
Although it was mid-morning, there wasn’t a soul in sight. The doctor, unsure of quite where to begin, stepped off the road and onto the grassy bank that edged the railway lines. She wore fur-lined, leather ankle-boots, which was as well, given that the grass was long and damp. In parts, the railway was fenced with sagging barbed wire and the posts, which should have supported this, were rotten and at odd angles. It was hardly surprising that there had been an accident. Although of course, this had not been an accident at all, and she had to find any evidence to prove it. Poor Betty Scott had taken her last breath just here. Cathy paused for a moment and thought of the elderly woman, so ill, and yet so robust and full of character and determination. What a sad end.
She began to step carefully as she looked. She didn’t quite know what she expected to find, but even if the police had tramped back and forth a dozen times recovering Betty’s body, she still felt the exercise worthwhile, even if it was only for her peace of mind.
She came to an area on the verge where it was obvious that a car, if not several, had been stationed. The tyre marks dug deep into the damp ground, and it seemed that the wheels had spun, spraying mud onto the long grass. This, she assumed, must have been where the police had parked. She followed a quite obvious path of flattened grass down to the stony railway siding. Was this the spot? She shivered thinking of the awful discovery and looked up and down the line, in case a train might be approaching. She had no intention of crossing or going anywhere near the rails though.
Cathy felt it unlikely that the police would have missed anything, but given their lackadaisical approach so far, she felt she should ch
eck to be sure. She leaned down and spent some time hunting amongst the flattened grass for anything of note. A good many footprints were visible from people tramping up and down the area. The track was quite muddied in places. For completeness, Cathy continued up the line. Carefully, she stepped over the already collapsed fencing. She looked along the road and saw that if she continued this way, the one parallel with the railway would meet the next side-street. She thought it was Broad Street. If Betty had approached the railway from further up, there might still be something to find there.
Her monotonous work continued. Several times, she paused, seeing litter in amongst the grassy verge, and considered if it might be relevant. It was hard to tell if anyone had walked this way as the ground was quite packed down. Eventually though, nearing the junction that would take her directly in line with Broad Street, and some fifty yards from where the body must have been found, she stopped to consider the undergrowth by the pavement. Here she saw that the grasses had been flattened in a well-demarcated manner. It seemed that the patch of scrubland was compressed in an almost perfect rectangle, the size perhaps of a small suitcase if it had lain on its side. Cathy knelt and touched the grass. A weight had undoubtedly lain there, but the grass was not so indented as to affect the soil beneath, meaning that the object had not been unduly heavy.
Cathy continued to scan the area. She hoped to find some fluff from Betty’s hat or gloves or something equally tangible, but she was disappointed. There was no further trace of the old woman. Opposite Broad Street itself, it seemed that the fence bordering the line was almost flat. Cathy thought that perhaps here might be the easiest place for a person to cross if they had wanted to. Was this the site where Betty Scott had passed on foot? Had the old woman then walked parallel to the line, to finish at her final resting place further along, and if so, why? There certainly appeared to be the general appearance of the admittedly short grass, lying at a flatter angle than the rest.
Standing up once more, Cathy quickly checked her phone in case the surgery had tried to call. No call had come through. As she looked about her, she considered the desolate spot. A dumping ground for litter, and even garden waste. Up above the line, the old psychiatric hospital sat, eerily empty. But what stories might it have told, had the broken and boarded up windows been able to speak? What a dreadful place to die. If she had had her way, Betty Scott would have lived out her time in comfort. Her final days spent in a warm, safe place, not here in some muddy tip, cold and afraid.
