Blood In The Water

by Gillian Galbraith

  As Alice and Alastair were glancing at the pictures, Melville appeared through the rent in the sheet dividers and his previously untroubled expression changed, momentarily, to one of alarm on recognising his interrogators from earlier. As if he had not seen them he turned his back and crossed the room to a kettle, now boiling, and made himself a mug of Bovril. He was trying to keep the cold at bay in a thick jacket with some kind of fisherman’s jersey beneath it and his hands were protected by fingerless gloves, their wool spattered with droplets of brightly-coloured paint. Still ignoring his visitors, he carried his mug to a junkyard sofa and began to drink, expelling puffs of white breath between sips.

  ‘We want to talk to you about your whereabouts on the night that Sammy McBryde was killed.’ Alice fired the opening salvo.

  ‘You know where I was,’ Melville sighed, ‘I’ve already told you. I was here until about eight, and then I met Roddy Cohen for a drink. I was in the Raeburn Inn till ten, and then I went home.’

  ‘Had you pre-arranged the meeting with Cohen?’ Alice asked, knowing he had not done so.

  ‘No. I came in and he was there. Either I joined him or he joined me, I can’t remember which.’

  ‘He’s a friend of yours?’

  ‘Not exactly. A drinking pal, at highest. Roddy usually attaches himself, like a limpet, to anyone in the pub that’s in the company of a woman, in the hope of stealing her or becoming acquainted with any female friends in her trail. He sits and slavers and is, I suppose, rather gross, but he makes me laugh with his bizarre chat up lines and beseeching eyes. He’s also about the best painter I know. He wouldn’t perjure himself for me, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Was he still in the pub when you left?’ Alastair asked.

  ‘No. I think he’d gone earlier, so you’ll have to take my word that I left at ten.’

  ‘Did you go to Granton Medway at any time that evening?’

  ‘No. I would have told you if I had,’ Melville replied. He enunciated each word carefully, as if speaking to a particularly stupid child.

  ‘You didn’t tell us that you’d visited Elizabeth Clarke’s flat on the night of her murder, until you were confronted with forensic evidence that made any denial useless,’ Alice reminded him.

  He smiled ruefully. ‘That’s true, and it was stupid of me. Maybe if you’re ever in a situation like mine you’ll find yourself behaving irrationally. The fear of being convicted of a murder you didn’t commit does funny things to a person. All I can say is, I don’t usually lie and I’m not lying now…’

  Alastair broke in. ‘A man answering your description was seen in Granton Medway on the night that Sammy McBryde was killed.’

  As her partner was speaking Alice watched Ian Melville’s face. The fear in his eyes was unmistakable, but fear of what? Being imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit, or for one he did commit? Somehow, he managed to keep his nerve, and his voice was strong, defiant even, when he replied.

  ‘What am I supposed to say? I’ve already told you that I didn’t know Sammy McBryde and that I haven’t been anywhere near Granton Medway. I was at home watching the television when that man was killed. I know that as far as Elizabeth’s death is concerned it looks like I had the opportunity to kill her and, in many minds, the motive too, but truly, Sammy McBryde is a complete stranger to me. Why on earth would I want to kill him?’ He paused for a moment, looked his questioners straight in the eye and then went on the offensive, fuelled by anger. ‘The papers seem to be suggesting that there’s a serial killer on the loose. I am not a single killer, never mind a fucking serial killer. I wouldn’t know McBryde, or Pearson for that matter, if they came up and shook my hand. You’re wasting your time with me.’

  A tall, dark man beside Melville in the line-up in the identity parade was sweating profusely; water glistened in the bright light on his forehead and neck, and he looked as if he might pass out with heat. Or guilt. Good, Melville thought, standing up straight, erect, shoulders back, chin up. The pose of an upright citizen with nothing to fear from the law, nothing to hide, the sort of person who co-operates with the police to the extent of assisting in line-ups to help them identify the guilty party. He willed himself to look straight ahead in an effort to catch the eye of his invisible accuser, to reassure the witness of his innocence and deflect him from choosing him.

  Alice took her arm off the thin shoulder of the little skateboarder. He was shaking his head vigorously, eyes still fixed on the line-up of men before him from behind the smoked glass screen.

  ‘Naw, naw, none o’ they men, Miss. He’s nae there.’

  ‘Certain?’

  ‘Absolutely positive, Miss. The yin I seen… naw, naw, he’s nae there.’

  12

  Thursday 15th December

  As she looked disconsolately through her wardrobe, Alice downed another gulp of the Chardonnay. It would help, give her courage, confidence, perhaps even bestow the gift of the gab on her or at least loosen her tongue. Taking a black pencil skirt from its hanger, she brushed off the few dog hairs clinging to it and tried it on in front of the mirror. She smiled at her own reflection, not because it pleased her, but rather in an attempt to lighten herself up. It would be important, her friends had told her, to look ‘fun-loving’ and ‘up-for-it’, but the effort required to maintain a carefree expression was too much, and she watched as her brows recovered their normal furrow and her mouth relaxed out of its obvious upward curve. She did not feel fun-loving or up-for-it, and her face would not lie, it reflected her preoccupation with the murder enquiry. She should be back in the office with all the others, leave or no leave.

  The clock in the lobby of The Dome struck one o’clock, and people began moving lazily towards the dining area. The letter in her hand begged to be read again: ‘You can’t miss me. I am tall and will be wearing red boots. See you at one pm…’ What had she been thinking of? What kind of freaky man wears red boots? What kind of woman wants to meet such a man? Her mind answered the question instantly and truthfully. A desperate one. The thought made her laugh, inwardly, at herself, and switching rapidly from panic and self pity to a sort of masochistic enjoyment, she imagined herself describing her rendezvous to Anthony. He would want to know every tiny detail, from the colour of her lipstick to the exit strategy she adopted. So she would have to observe everything, note everything, go through with it all, if for no other reason than to be able to tell him. Revived by this thought she felt herself smiling, an amused observer rather than a sweaty participant.

  In an armchair at the other end of the hall another woman was seated. Clad elegantly in a simple grey suit, her long legs were placed gracefully to the side, revealing expensive, black stilettos. As Alice watched she noticed how nervous the woman was: her legs, always together, were switched from one side of the chair to the other and then back again, and her right hand was held close to her mouth as if the nails might be bitten at any moment. Every so often her lips moved, as if she was reciting something silently.

  One-twenty pm. He was late, too bloody late, time to go. Alice rose and moved towards the doors. As she was doing so, she saw a man wearing red baseball boots making his way through the revolving doors. He caught her eye, and she knew from his smile that he had also recognised her. In order to leave she had to move towards him, and as she did so he began to extend his arms in greeting, robbing her of any opportunity to depart unobtrusively. Suddenly the woman in the grey suit appeared by his side, and put her arm proprietorially round his waist. He blushed, but made no attempt to disengage himself from the embrace.

  ‘Up to your old vices again, Charles?’ the woman said loudly, her eyes resting on Alice. The man shrugged; he appeared unable to move, like a fly trussed up by a spider. Alice did not know what to do. The man must be her date-how many men in Edinburgh would be wearing red boots in the very hotel where they were supposed to meet at the approximate time arranged? But who was the woman? Maybe an old flame, now a stalker, keen to embarrass her former love, in
which case she could only feel sorry for him and, possibly, afraid of her. The man’s looks were even within the bounds of acceptability, on first impression at least. The woman in the grey suit, seeing Alice’s confusion, took control.

  ‘No doubt you’re responding to this chap’s ad?’

  Alice nodded, bemused.

  ‘Well, to put you out of your misery, I can tell you that he’s my husband. When he considers married life too dull he advertises himself, puffing himself beyond recognition I might add, and some poor sap usually falls for it. This time it’s you. If it’s any comfort, that’s how we met. I replied to his ad, only then he was single…’

  Cocooned in the back of the taxi Alice began to weep. The extent of her humiliation appalled her: to be all dolled-up to meet a sleazy adulterer, to be warned off by the wife, to be so needy in the first place as to look at a lonely hearts advertisement, never mind answer it. Tears fell, unchecked, down her cheeks. All she was trying to achieve was what the rest of humanity seemed to take for granted: a mate, a companion, someone to love. Through the tinted glass she watched as the married paraded themselves, in pairs, along George Street. Couples were arm-in-arm wherever one looked, not necessarily happy, but always together. Was it so much to ask that someone out there should have been made for her? She was shaken out of the deepening spiral of self-pity into which she was sinking by the jangling note of her mobile. It was Alastair.

  ‘The fucker’s struck again. All leave’s cancelled and we’re to go to the scene. DS Travers and some of the others are already there. Where are you?’

  ‘In a taxi on George Street, heading home.’

  ‘I’ll meet you at your place. I’ll leave the station now and see you there in about fifteen minutes. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Do we know anything about the victim, who is it, who’s been killed?’

  ‘A female advocate, her name’s Flora Erskine. Got to go. See you in Broughton Place shortly.’

  Flora’s friend, Maria Russell, had no criminal practice, had never had any criminal practice. The books of grotesque photographs routinely handed round in criminal trials involving violence were unseen by her and she had never read a single post mortem report describing the horrific injuries that one human being can inflict on another. Her field was consistorial law, matrimonial disputes involving children and, more often than not, money. Sitting on her friend’s bed, out of the way of the forensic people below, she felt sick. The awful smell of blood had permeated the upper storey of the house, polluted it. And her mind would not let go of the image of Flora, throat severed, flesh gaping, her mouth hanging open as if in horror. How could any human being contain so much blood? How could such a thought have leapt into her mind? She wanted to curl up in the foetal position, close her eyes and block out the world, to pretend that the day had not started and begin it again. I must do something or I will start screaming and never stop.

  She looked around and spotted a wallet of photographs on the bedside table and picked it up, letting the snaps fall onto the bed in a heap. She should have known, every one was of David Pearson, like a fashion shoot for a male model, except for the last, which depicted Flora and her lover standing, hand in hand, outside a hotel. She had taken that one, being complicit in their deceit, enjoyed vicariously their happiness. Feeling a desperate need to talk to someone, she picked up the phone and dialled her mother.

  ‘Mum, it’s me. I’m at Flora’s house.’ Her voice sounded dull, tired, on the edge of tears.

  ‘Are you alright, Maria? You sound upset. What is it?’ Her mother had, as she knew she would, immediately picked up her abnormal tone.

  ‘Flora’s dead. I found her this morning, she’s been murdered. The police are here now, and I have to stay to speak to them…’. As she was talking, the door of the bedroom opened and Alice entered. ‘In fact, I’ll phone you later, I think they need to talk to me now…’ She replaced the receiver.

  ‘I thought you’d have a WPC with you,’ Alice said, surprised to find a witness alone.

  ‘I did. She had to go, they said someone else would be coming.’

  ‘Have you had any tea?’

  ‘I couldn’t face it, thanks.’

  ‘I’m sorry you were left on your own at all, it shouldn’t have happened. I have to ask, Maria, can you tell me when you found Flora?’ Alice asked.

  ‘About… an hour ago.’ The young woman’s eyes were red, swollen with tears.

  ‘What happened exactly?’

  ‘I share a clerk with Flora, we’re both advocates. Sheila, our clerk, phoned to tell me about a consultation fixed for tomorrow and said, in passing, that Flora hadn’t shown up for a Summar Roll hearing, answered her phone or responded to her pager. That’s very uncharacteristic of her, so I said I’d look in on her on my way up to the Faculty. I pass her door. So that’s what I did.’

  ‘The front door was open?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘You walked in and found her, as she now is, in the sitting room?’

  ‘Mmm.’ She blinked, trying to hold back more tears.

  ‘You phoned for us?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Immediately on finding her?’

  ‘Mmm. She was dead.’

  ‘Did you see or talk to Flora yesterday?’

  ‘Yes. We spoke on the phone. I didn’t see her.’

  ‘When did you last talk to her?’

  ‘Yesterday evening.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About seven pm. I rang to see if she’d like to go to the cinema with me.’

  ‘When did the call end?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some time around seven-fifteen pm, maybe. We didn’t speak for very long. I only know the time as I’d checked it to see what films we’d be able to catch.’

  ‘And you didn’t see or speak to her after that until you found her this morning?’

  ‘No, that’s right.’

  Maria shifted her position on the bed and the photos on it cascaded onto the floor. Alice picked them up, looking at each one as she did so, and a cold shiver went down her spine. She handed one of David Pearson to the young advocate and asked, ‘Can you tell me who that is?’

  ‘David Pearson. A QC. The one that was murdered.’

  ‘Was she having an affair with him?’ She hardly needed to ask, the photos were confirmation enough.

  Maria hesitated before responding. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Had it been going on for long?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. I think it started soon after they were in the Mair case together. That went ahead in about June this year.’

  ‘Do you know if his wife knew about it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea…’ she paused, and then continued ‘I don’t think she can have. Flora would have told me if that had happened.’

  ‘Did you ever hear Flora mention the names Elizabeth Clarke or Sammy McBryde?’

  ‘No…’ she corrected herself, ‘Yes. I think there was a female doctor called Clarke who was an expert witness, or something, in one of her cases. Maybe the Mair one, I can’t really recall. But I have heard her mention the name, I’m sure. Sammy McBryde, that name’s not familiar, and I’d have a reasonable chance of remembering it, as McBryde’s my mother’s maiden name.’

  On the route to Merchiston Place and ‘Drumlyon’, Alice and Alastair discussed the approach they would adopt. Laura Pearson’s promiscuous husband and his two lovers were now dead, and if anyone had a motive for killing the lot of them, Laura Pearson did. And she had lied about Elizabeth Clarke, denying any connection between the dead woman and her husband, even though she knew that they had been lovers for years. Pressure would have to be applied, could be applied with the kid gloves still on.

  The widow opened the door, and her surprise on seeing the two police officers showed momentarily on her face, but she led them immediately into her living room. The CD of ‘The Messiah’ was taken off and packets of Christmas cards were cleared from the sofa where they were lying, in order to make space for the une
xpected visitors. From her seat Alice studied Laura Pearson. She did not look like any kind of vengeful monster, more like a Carmelite recently released from her enclosed order and as yet unused to the world and its ways. A Reverend Mother, though. Appearances mean little, Alice reminded herself, thinking of the graveyard rapist and his resemblance to the archetypal angelic chorister.

  Alastair began. ‘We saw Alan Dunlop, your husband’s friend. He told us that David had had an affair with Elizabeth Clarke.’

  The woman bit her lip but said nothing, so he continued. ‘When we asked you whether your husband knew Dr Clarke, you denied it.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I just couldn’t talk about it. I’m sorry. I knew who could tell you anything you needed to know and I sent you to him. To Alan, I mean.’

  ‘Alan might not have told us.’

  ‘And the sun might not rise tomorrow. I know Alan, he loved David and he understands me. You needed information to help you find whoever killed Elizabeth Clarke and David, that’s why you were there. I was sure Alan would tell you of their connection, he’d know as much about it as me, quite possibly more. Why would I deny something that was virtually public knowledge?’

  ‘It being virtually public knowledge would mean, for you, virtually public humiliation?’

  She flushed. ‘Yes, and it did. But if you’re suggesting from that statement that I would conceal the affair from you to avoid further such humiliation, it’s nonsense. As I said I just couldn’t, so soon after his murder, speak about that part of our life together. If you’re suggesting that I hated David for humiliating me, you’re right, but I got over it. Plenty of women do.’