McBride finally removed his feet from the window ledge and rose from the high-backed seat where he occasionally also slept. Other things entered his mind. Whether he would dine at home, which was distinctly unlikely since he had only ever mastered the preparation of three different dishes – chilli, fried steak and pasta, all of which he had consumed in the last week – or visit the upstairs restaurant of the Ship Inn half a mile away. That option would give him the excuse of dropping in to The Fort on the way back. He might even find company there – perhaps not as appetising as the delightful Petra but also not the kind who would be looking for a lifetime commitment.
His whimsical deliberations were interrupted abruptly by a sound he did not immediately recognise. It was only when he heard it for the second time that he identified it as the doorbell. It was the first time it had rung since he had moved into the Esplanade flat. Although it had not sounded previously, he knew instinctively that the caller was female. It was not an aggressive or impatient ring. The touch was light, polite, almost apologetic.
His instincts did not let him down. When he pulled the door open, he looked into the face of DI Petra Novak and a smile that was simultaneously innocent and sensual. The sweatshirt of the morning had been replaced by an outfit that exuded chic. She stood before him in a short, simply cut black jacket and matching skirt that stopped two inches above the knee. She looked taller because her black leather shoes had three-inch heels. Her white blouse had an upturned collar and her legs were sheathed in black opaque nylon that, on anybody else, would have looked prudish. On her, they made him wonder about the colour and nature of her underwear.
He cleared his blocked throat as he cursed the discomfort he felt at being caught wearing the same shorts he’d had on that morning. But despite this, he couldn’t hide his pleasure at her unexpected arrival. He did not even think to ask how she knew where he lived.
She was first to speak. ‘Sorry to burst in on you,’ she said, foolishly believing an apology was necessary. ‘It’s just that I was on my way past and I thought I’d update you on our conversation this morning.’
McBride threw the door wide, extending a welcoming arm and gesticulating towards the stairs. ‘Please, come in, please. I was just thinking about you.’
She continued to explain her unannounced arrival. ‘I’m on my way home. It’s better than using the phone.’
McBride nodded. Inwardly he smiled. All police officers are pathologically suspicious, especially about the use of phones – hardly surprising since most calls in and out of headquarters are routinely recorded. Petra might have been being disarmingly open but she was also healthily cautious. By the time she gained another pip on her shoulder, she would be satisfactorily cynical as well.
They climbed the stairs to the sitting room where McBride had been exercising his mind. He began picking up discarded clothing and magazines and tried to put her at ease, forgetting that the room was in almost complete darkness.
‘Grab a seat,’ he said, waving into the gloom.
Her lips parted in a girlish grin. She stretched a hand over her eyebrows, theatrically peering towards the black recesses of the room. ‘OK – just give me a clue about direction.’
They both laughed.
‘Sorry, sorry.’ McBride dashed around, switching on every lamp and stumbling into the corner of a low table. He swore silently again at her ability to make him clumsy.
She dropped on to a sofa and went straight to the point. ‘Right. Answers to your questions – though God knows why I’m providing them. I need my head examined. First, there was beer in Alison Brown’s flat – four cans, two lager, two export – in the fridge. The tie she was strangled with was black, and fairly well worn. The wine was white and, according to the photographs taken of the interiors at the time, the label on the bottle indicated it was a Chardonnay. I checked and it would have cost around six or seven quid a bottle. Don’t know about you but that makes it expensive in my book. Last, and probably least, there didn’t seem to be any music that night. The CD player was switched on but no one had bothered to put a disc in.’ She watched his face, waiting for a reaction to her revelations.
McBride rose quickly from his seat opposite. He did not shout, ‘Yesssss!’ but clapped his hands once. In his excitement, he neglected to say anything by way of thanks.
‘What did I tell you? I knew there would be beer in the flat. A black tie – why black? Morbid bastard …’ McBride was no longer addressing his visitor but conversing with himself.
He rushed a question and without waiting for a reply followed it with another. ‘The photograph – where was the wine bottle? Was it on the table beside Alison Brown’s or her killer’s glass?’
Petra closed her eyes, conjuring up a memory of the photograph. After five seconds, she said, ‘The bottle was at the far end of the table beside the other glass – not Alison’s. What’s the difference?’ She looked baffled.
‘Plenty. If it was down the table, he did the pouring. And, if he did the pouring, the odds are that he brought the wine with him. Just imagine for a moment that Bryan Gilzean was not the killer. Alison Brown is expecting a visitor and is dolled up in high heels and flashy dress. Her caller arrives, bringing wine. Because he brought it, he pours. You’re hardly likely to help yourself in someone else’s house. And the bastard brought something else along as well – a black tie to throttle her with. If Bryan Gilzean had done the strangling and wanted to use a tie, he would have taken off the one he might have been wearing or another one that had been in the house. Either way, there’s little chance it would be a black one – Christ, nobody wears a black tie unless they’re at a funeral. That night it was Alison’s. And whoever attended it was warped enough to bring along the appropriate neckwear. A right sicko.’
Petra had listened in silence, nodding two or three times but waiting for him to finish. ‘Before you ask, the wine bottle had been wiped clean,’ she said finally. ‘No fingerprints, no sweat to take DNA from.’
McBride did not speak for a few moments. Then, almost as much to himself as Petra, he said softly, ‘No music … the CD player on …’ He paused again. ‘Clever guy.’
Petra looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to expand. ‘So?’ she said.
‘So, he brought his own disc,’ McBride said. ‘And it didn’t contain music. I’ll give you top odds it was something he’d recorded himself. Off one of the TV soaps.’
She still looked baffled.
‘He needed the neighbours to think Alison and Bryan Gilzean had argued so he invented it. All he had to do was wait for a soap couple to fall out – which they do all the time – then record it. Played back at the right volume, it would sound exactly like the occupants of a nearby flat having a row. Neighbours never hear the actual words in these situations – just the angry voices.’
Petra looked impressed. ‘OK, it all fits,’ she said, ‘except for his semen, hair and prints …’
‘Jesus, Petra, we’ve been there. You know there could be an explanation for all that,’ he protested, ignoring that he could not satisfactorily provide it.
She shrugged. ‘The theory’s not bad – I’ll give you that – but that’s all it is. Find the proof.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to work on it.’
McBride remembered his manners at last. ‘I’m sorry.’ He spread his hands, seeking forgiveness. ‘I haven’t even thanked you for all that. You’ve been fantastic.’ He hesitated. ‘Look, I was thinking about eating. Can I buy you a meal to show my appreciation?’ He looked at her expectantly.
‘I’d love to but not tonight, I’m afraid – I’m due back on duty in just over an hour.’
She moved towards the door leading to the stairs. It was her turn to hesitate. ‘If you really want to show your gratitude, you can give me a few running tips sometime. I’m running a half marathon in twelve weeks and need all the help I can get. They tell me you’re an expert. True?’
McBride smirked in satisfaction. ‘You’re addressing a sub-three
-hour marathon man,’ he responded too quickly. It was one of his proudest achievements.
‘So, any chance?’ She looked at him hopefully.
‘You’re on,’ he said, knowing it would not be a chore.
On reaching downstairs, he walked with her to her car. McBride did not know what she drove but headed towards a silver Volkswagen parked on the opposite side of the road. It just fitted – stylish, dependable, classy. Petra stopped beside it.
When she opened the driver’s door, she did not immediately enter the vehicle but paused, turning towards him with an expression that said she was not sure how she would phrase what she was about to say. ‘Look, Campbell,’ she began, picking her words, ‘I can’t be seen to be getting involved in any reinvestigation of the Brown case. Without any kind of evidence, it’s a non-starter as far as we’re concerned. Any interference from me would go down like a lead balloon so you’re on your own. But, for what it’s worth, one of our guys heard a bit later, after the trial, that Alison Brown might not have been the Mother Teresa some folk made her out to be.’
McBride raised his eyebrows but said nothing, waiting for her to expand.
Petra hesitated again. ‘I’m not saying she was a tart but, from what I gather, she was said to discreetly put it about a little bit. Nothing too regular – but, by all accounts, she was happy enough to have a touch of variety from time to time. That doesn’t make her Public Enemy Number One but it might help explain a couple of things.’
McBride nodded. ‘Such as?’
‘Such as the reason she and Bryan Gilzean had argued before she died.’
‘Sure, but it might explain something else as well,’ McBride said.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes. That she had one of her “discreet” friends to visit that night. And that “friend” was the one who choked the life out of her.’
Petra slowly moved her head up and down. ‘I know. It’s a possibility. It’s also a possibility that it gave Bryan Gilzean the motive to do what they convicted him of.’
McBride looked at her intently. ‘You don’t sound too convinced.’
She did not reply but sat in the car and turned the key in the ignition. The engine of the Volkswagen burst softly to life, waiting to be kicked to a louder response. The attractive woman behind the wheel obliged, stabbing the accelerator pedal twice and moving the gear stick into first. But she did not complete the procedure to engage the engine. Instead, she slid the stick back to neutral.
She looked up at McBride. Once more she spoke with something approaching reluctance. ‘OK, naturally we checked out the “other man” theory before the trial and it didn’t produce any kind of lead. But – and I’m not a hundred per cent on this – I get the distinct impression we may not have been quite as energetic on that aspect of the investigation as we could have been. Minds were probably closed because we thought we had the bloke responsible locked up.’ Her expression was apologetic, as though the oversight had been hers. ‘There’s something else,’ she continued.
McBride waited.
‘Adam Gilzean was aware of Alison Brown’s occasional infidelities.’
‘What?’
‘He seemed pretty clued-up according to a statement he gave us. He came to see us to say he’d learned that there had been at least one other man in Alison Brown’s life at some unknown time and wanted us to reopen the case.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. His son had been found guilty and there wasn’t a shred of evidence putting someone else in the frame. We had better things to do.’
McBride’s mind weighed the new information. ‘Why wouldn’t he have told me that?’ he said. It wasn’t a question to Petra but himself.
She shrugged.
He spoke again to himself. ‘Why not tell me?’
She pulled the car door shut and drove slowly away from the kerb. The Volkswagen was 100 yards away before McBride was aware it had moved off. Belatedly he raised a hand in farewell. Petra watched his embarrassment in her driving mirror. She allowed herself a smile. Without turning she lifted an answering hand.
But McBride did not see it. Inwardly he seethed. Why on earth had the man chosen to stifle information that might have helped eliminate his son as a murderer? Just what was Gilzean up to?
25
Adam Gilzean enjoyed the darkness. He liked to observe without being observed.
He placed a stool beside the object which shared his secret activity and tried to decide what would interest him that night. He moved the telescope several inches to his right, sat on the stool, leaned forward and began to survey the distant, eastern suburbs of Dundee. For a few moments he browsed the diamonds of light spreading white and orange along the lower slopes of the Law. They shone in a broad line, house lights and street lights coming together to form a sparkling necklace round the bottom of the dark hill.
The unseen spectator eased the telescope minimally to either side, each movement opening up a new vista of flickering jewels. After a few moments, he raised the end of the eyepiece an inch, focusing on a panorama of house lights lower on the hill and nearer to him. He adjusted the magnification of the powerful lens again until only a few blocks of flats filled the circle of disclosure which was pressed close to his right eye. He turned the brass ring on the telescope once more so that only a single turret of apartments was in view.
Adam Gilzean knew the scene intimately. He gazed on it, becoming transfixed again by the sight of the flat where Alison Brown had perished.
Campbell McBride absorbed the same display of far-off lights as he drove closer to the home of Adam Gilzean, marvelling at the magnificent spectacle Dundee presented in the darkness. He envied the choice of house of the man he was about to visit. The further up the hill he progressed towards it, the greater his admiration became.
It was only in the dusk that he appreciated the full extent of the land- and seascape that opened up in front of the long bay window of Gilzean’s cottage. Clusters of brightness punctuated the twilight in every direction. Out over the Tay, the glow from St Andrews cast a warm halo over the far edge of the firth. He realised the man he was about to visit would be able to view the ancient town directly, with nothing coming between him and the spires of its university buildings.
The thought of the place reminded McBride that, at some time in her now-expired life, Ginny Williams had probably looked in the opposite direction over towards Dundee and its surrounding countryside. He wondered idly if she had spent much time in the city or if she had visited it at all.
If Adam Gilzean had been startled by McBride’s sudden appearance, he did not show it. He opened the door almost before the sound of the bell had faded, smiled a welcome and invited McBride inside. His politeness continued beyond the point when most other people would have blurted out a request to know why someone had come calling in mid evening unannounced. McBride reflected again that the man beckoning him towards a seat possessed the kind of composure usually found only in a priest or someone incapable of any sort of spontaneous act. He would have been a good witness in a courtroom – or a difficult one if he was on the other side.
Before McBride could explain his presence, Adam Gilzean provided an explanation of his own. ‘You caught me stargazing,’ he said, gesturing in the direction of the telescope and stool at the window. ‘It’s a fascinating pastime, Mr McBride. Have you ever done it? It transports you to another world. An hour can pass before you are aware of it.’
His visitor gave a mumbled response along the lines of, ‘A couple of times, a long time ago.’ McBride was aware that Gilzean invariably took control of conversations. He seemed to be in control of most things. Especially himself – except when he was addressing authors in bookstores.
McBride struggled to claim the initiative he thought his unheralded arrival should have given him. ‘Sorry to drop in out of the blue,’ he said, trying to sound friendly but detached. ‘It’s just that something came up that I needed to ask you about.’ McBride neglected to add t
hat he could have telephoned except he wanted to look into Gilzean’s face when he got his answer.
‘Is there some news?’ His host had become animated.
‘No, nothing new. This is old ground.’
Gilzean said nothing but looked back at him expectantly.
‘It’s about Alison – I need to know about her boyfriends.’
McBride’s decision to be direct wrong-footed the figure seated in front of him. ‘Boyfriends?’ he replied awkwardly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that. What can you tell me about them? I gather Bryan wasn’t her only male acquaintance.’
Gilzean rose from his seat and went to the large window, pulling the curtains and killing the panorama of sparkling lights. It was as though he did not want the outside world to eavesdrop on what he was about to say. ‘I’m not sure I can help all that much, Mr McBride. I don’t know who you’ve been speaking to but, yes, I believe Alison might have had an occasional friend, male, at some time.’
‘You didn’t mention that before.’ McBride made no effort to conceal his irritation. ‘Didn’t you think it might be helpful?’ He was struggling to keep himself in check.
Gilzean looked embarrassed. ‘Perhaps I should have referred to it but there wasn’t really much to say. I didn’t know anything about him – them – or even if there was more than one,’ Gilzean said.
McBride was still irritated. ‘How did you find out about it?’
‘A few weeks after the trial, I received a phone call from a man who wouldn’t identify himself but said he was a police officer. He said he was just passing on some information to be helpful – it was more than his fellow officers were. I took it up with them but they didn’t want to know. As far as they were concerned, Bryan had done it. They saw no need to waste time on what they obviously considered a wild goose chase,’ Gilzean explained.
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