Blood In The Water

by Gillian Galbraith

  ‘We also asked you about Sammy McBryde. Did your husband know him?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t think so. I can’t guarantee it. I don’t know exactly who he knew and who he didn’t. All I can safely say is that if he did know him, he never mentioned anything about him to me.’

  ‘And you. Did you know him?’

  ‘No. I told you before that I didn’t.’

  ‘Can you tell us what you were doing between five pm and nine pm on Thursday 1st of December?’

  ‘I don’t know offhand. Can I look at my diary?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Laura Pearson went over to a low, walnut bookcase and extracted a small pocketbook from a red leather bag resting on it. She returned to her seat, flicking through the diary pages before answering.

  ‘I must have been here. I can’t have been out anywhere, as my diary’s blank and I’m meticulous about filling in any appointments, engagements and so on.’

  ‘Would anyone have been here with you?’

  ‘David, probably, unless he was still working at the library. No-one else. Our children visit occasionally but I don’t remember any visit from them then. Mum was still away. She was on holiday in Sicily until the fourth of December.’

  Alice broke in. ‘Can you tell us where you were on Monday the fifth of December, between four-thirty pm and eleven-fifty pm?’

  She looked in the diary again, found an entry, and responded. ‘Well, for some of the time I was at a candlelit concert in Rosslyn Chapel-carols, given by a singing group called Rudsambee. It began at eight pm and finished at nine-fifteen pm.’

  ‘Was anyone with you?’ Alice continued.

  ‘My mother, who you met, and my eldest daughter, Sara.’

  ‘And before the concert?’

  ‘They both came to tea, probably at about four-thirty pm or so. We had supper here before we left for Roslin.’

  ‘What did you do when the concert finished?’

  ‘We were all travelling together in the same car, my car. I dropped off my daughter in Liberton, then I took Mum to her house in the Grange and after that I came on here. I probably got back home at about ten-fifteen.’

  ‘Was there anyone here with you from then onwards?’

  ‘David was at home. I remember talking to him about one of the carols, “Il Est Né, Le Divin Enfant”. He was particularly fond of it, and you don’t often hear it sung nowadays.’

  On the evening of your husband’s murder you were here on your own. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where were you yesterday evening and this morning?’

  ‘Between any particular times?’ she enquired.

  ‘Say, between seven pm yesterday evening and one o’clock this afternoon,’ Alastair answered smoothly.

  ‘Yesterday evening and yesterday night I was here on my own. I went shopping at about ten this morning, in Bruntsfield, other than that I’ve been here, on my own.’

  ‘Do you know anyone called Flora Erskine?’

  ‘No.’ No pause. No flicker of recognition.

  ‘Did your husband know Flora Erskine?’ Alastair persisted.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit like Samuel McBryde. I don’t think he did, but I can’t be sure. He certainly never mentioned her name to me.’

  Alice caught Alastair’s eye. They needed a reaction. Alan Duncan had said that Laura Pearson was a very clever woman. Possibly she had lied to them before about her husband and Dr Clarke, although her explanation today for the lie would have been good enough to convince most juries. If she was ice-cool, then the ice would have to be broken.

  ‘Flora Erskine was found murdered in her house, a little over an hour ago. Her throat had been cut,’ Alice said, looking steadily at Laura Pearson.

  The woman appeared puzzled, as if following a train of thought still being formed. ‘And you think this killing is connected with the murders of my husband and Elizabeth Clarke…?’ She stopped mid-sentence, panic in her eyes. It looked as if realisation was beginning to dawn.

  ‘The connection… Flora Erskine and David were lovers?’ she asked, a desperate hope for denial apparent on her face.

  ‘We think so.’

  ‘Dear God!’ She hesitated, taking the information in before following inexorably the chain of logic leading back to herself. ‘And you think that I am involved in their deaths?’

  She looked up at Alice, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on the policewoman.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Alice admitted. It was no more than the truth. Laura Pearson rose from her armchair, moved to the telephone, bent to pick up the receiver and then stopped. Without a word she returned to her seat, sat down and addressed her two visitors.

  ‘As I am now a suspect in this case I was going to call a friend of mine, a solicitor, and I am going to do just that. But before I do, there are a few things you should know. After David’s affair with that Clarke woman, he promised me that there would be no more-no more women, I mean. I chose to believe him. Our marriage could not have continued if I had not. That marriage produced three children and two grandchildren with one more on the way. I had to believe that David would not endanger that fine achievement, my only achievement, again. Now, you tell me that I was wrong, that he was having an affair with Flora Erskine, whoever she may be. All I can say, whether you care to believe me or not, is that I trusted my husband, accepted his assurance, and he gave me no reason to doubt him. I knew nothing of any affair with anyone and, as far as I am concerned, I still don’t. I’ll never get a chance to hear David’s side of things, and there is no substitute, you two are no substitute. However, even if such an affair existed and I had become aware of it, I wouldn’t have killed him, or Elizabeth Clarke or any other lover. I’d have divorced him, just like the majority of women do when they discover that they are lumbered with an unfaithful, lying spouse.’

  After they had gone, Laura Pearson went into the kitchen and made herself some tea. As she raised the cup to her mouth her hand began to tremble, spilling the hot liquid onto the oilcloth covering the kitchen table. She lowered her hand carefully and replaced the cup in its saucer before cradling her head in both her hands and groaning. In countless situations when her nerve had been tested before, her sang-froid had never deserted her, and she would not allow it to do so this time. In every way we reap what we have sown, she thought, picking up her tea cup by the fragile bone-handle to take a sip and marshalling her thoughts for the conversation she was anticipating. In a matter of minutes she knew exactly what she would say, how she would respond to the likely questions, and what impression she would convey. She was now a suspect in a murder inquiry. Not just a suspect, the suspect, the prime suspect. Who, in truth, would be likely to have a more compelling motive? No, there was no shortage there. The police were bound to be back, and she must prepare. She must call Paul and enlist his sympathies, retain his services, ensure that all her armour had been donned; but first she’d have to collect Anna from nursery school and take her home.

  ‘Can you hold, please?’

  Before Alice had time to say no, the disembodied voice disappeared and was replaced by a tinny instrumental which she recognised, with growing horror, as ‘O Isis und Osiris’ from The Magic Flute. The piece had not only been shorn of the human voice but also speeded up, and her involuntary exposure to it, coupled with the unexplained delay, infuriated her. When the receptionist finally returned to the line, she could not have missed her caller’s pent-up anger.

  ‘Faculty of Advocates, how can I help you?’

  ‘I need to speak to Anthony Hardy. Now.’

  ‘Please hold while we try to find him.’

  Again Alice seethed impotently as another few minutes passed. Finally, the chirpy voice reappeared. ‘I’m afraid he’s not responding to his pager.’

  ‘Can you take a message for him, please?’

  ‘Well, I’m not really supposed…’

  ‘Thank you…’, Alice cut in, ignoring the woman’s protestations. ‘Please tell him
that Alice Rice called to ask, firstly, that he add the names Flora Erskine and Sammy McBryde to the computer search and, secondly, that he fax a copy of any details he can find about a case known as “The Mair Case”.’

  ‘I’ll try and pass that on, but I’ve not got a pen and I’m only supposed to…’

  ‘I am most grateful,’ Alice said, and put the phone down.

  Manson’s smile alerted Alice to the problem long before he had opened his mouth. The smile remained, fixed and mirthless on his face as she swept past him towards the photocopier.

  ‘Our good lady’s baying for blood, Alice,’ he said sweetly.

  ‘No doubt we’re all to be donors, Sir.’

  ‘Nope,’ he grinned in triumph, ‘just blood groups Rice and Watt. I overheard her being savaged by the ACC, and your names and the words “out of control” and “serious repercussions” all appeared in the same sentence. Mrs Pearson’s got Paul Wilkinson representing her, so she’ll be bloody untouchable from now onwards, and that Winter woman, her mother, has been bending the Chief Constable’s ear about your visit. You’ve certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest. Anyway, dear, the DCI’s just phoned to say she wants to see your good selves in her office now.’

  The atmosphere in the room where the squad had assembled was heavy. Everyone looked tired and dispirited, and there was little of the chatter that normally accompanied such a gathering. Alice sat by herself looking out of the window, her eyes fixed, unseeing, on Arthur’s Seat. She felt bruised. Maybe they had, as Elaine Bell had described it, ‘galumphed in’ like ‘bulls on thin ice’. Maybe they should have been more cautious, more circumspect, in their dealings with the QC’s wife, but their approach had paid dividends. Unless Mrs Pearson was an Oscar-winning actress, she could not have manufactured the look of surprise or despair that Alice had clearly seen on her face on hearing of Flora Erskine’s murder and her husband’s adultery. Alice had seen true emotion, not a simulation of it. The fact that the woman had understood so quickly the implications of the latest killing, the finger of suspicion now pointing at her, was, surely, a testament to her intelligence, not an indication of guilt. No doubt about it, Mrs Pearson was not the killer, but then who the hell was? The ACC entered the room followed by DCI Bell. As awareness of Body’s entrance spread, the muted hum died down until there was complete silence. The DCI began her briefing:

  ‘There’s been another murder. It took place in the home of the victim, a girl aged twenty-five called Flora Erskine. She lived in a house in Dean Mews, own front door. Throat cut, again. A piece of paper was, as usual, left. This time the word’s “untrustworthy”, and we’re back to lined paper and green ink. It had been placed by her head. The graphologists have confirmed that it’s the same hand again. She was found dead this afternoon at about one o’clock by a pal, Maria Russell. Miss Russell spoke to the dead girl last night at about seven pm and, so far, it seems that no one saw or spoke to her after that. The same fingerprints have been found at the Mews as were found at Bankes Crescent and Granton Medway. A tall dark-haired man was seen by one of the girl’s neighbours, George Hurst, leaving the Mews at about nine pm. Uniforms are still doing door-to-doors in the area and further information may be forthcoming soon. We’ve got the dog squad searching for a weapon, or anything else, as I speak.

  Importantly, a connection between this victim and the last appears to exist. DCs Rice and Watt have discovered that Flora Erskine and David Pearson were engaged in an affair. Information to this effect came from the witness, Maria Russell, and seems to be confirmed by remarks made by Alan Duncan, Pearson’s friend. Photographs of David Pearson were found by Flora’s bed and their contents would be consistent with such a relationship. We already knew that Pearson and Elizabeth Clarke had, approximately five years ago, an affair. No connection, as yet, has been made between Flora Erskine and Sammy McBryde or either of the two of them and the doctor and the QC.

  Ian Melville was under surveillance last night and this morning, and all his movements are accounted for. I’ve just put a watch on Pearson’s widow. She may have an alibi for the McBryde killing, but she’s got nothing covering the crucial times for her husband, Dr Clarke or Flora. So far, as you know, McBryde’s the real mystery here in amongst all these New Town types. Laura Pearson’s now got a lawyer acting on her behalf and I don’t want anyone, and I mean anyone…’, she looked sternly around the room, ‘…to talk to her from now onwards without my specific permission to do so. The press will go mad once news of the Erskine killing leaks out, and it will, judging by past experience. No one is to say anything to any journalist, whatever favours they have received in the past from any of the dangerous beggars. A press conference with the Chief Constable has been fixed for first thing tomorrow morning. In the meanwhile, I want DS Travers and Carter to attend Flora Erskine’s post mortem. It’s been fixed, provisionally, for five pm this afternoon. The body’s already been ID’d. A full statement will be needed from Maria Russell, DC Littlewood…’

  The briefing went on and on, but Alice’s attention was elsewhere. In her mind she wandered through Flora Erskine’s house in Dean Mews trying to catch a glimpse of the girl’s character, her personality. The rooms had all been tidy, well-ordered, everything seemed to have a place and everything was in its place. Her desk had neat piles of paper on it and a number of different coloured pens were to hand; evidence of their use could be seen on some of the documents. She seemed to have been fond of sport-a tennis racket and hockey stick were in the hall-and also to be a keen cook. Her kitchen displayed a professional-looking array of gleaming knives and pans, and her bookcase was overfilled with recipe books. Alice’s recreation of the young advocate’s home ended when her shoulder was tapped by DC Littlewood. She was wanted in DCI Bell’s office again. Her heart sank. Let her wait, she thought, she wanted to see whether Ant’s fax had come through. On her desk was a sheaf of fax paper with a covering note on Faculty of Advocates’ headed notepaper.

  ‘Hi sweetheart, sorry not to be able to speak to you on the phone. I was in court attempting, unsuccessfully, needless to say, to interdict a woman from cutting down a leylandii hedge. I fed Elizabeth Clarke, David Pearson, Flora Erskine and Tommy MacBride into the SLT database and guess what came out? The “Mair case” you mentioned, its official citation is “Mair v Lothian Health Board”. I assume that this is the one you were looking for? No hits for Tommy MacBride, I’m afraid. Let me know if you need anything else. Ant.’

  Alice cursed herself for not spelling out ‘Sammy McBryde’ to the air-headed receptionist.

  As she entered the Chief Inspector’s domain, Elaine Bell still had her briefing notes under one arm and was sitting on the edge of her desk examining the wallet of photographs of David Pearson. She gestured, mutely, for Alice to take a seat and continued to study the prints. The phone rang but she ignored it until, eventually, it silenced itself and she spoke.

  ‘What do you think, Alice?’

  ‘About what exactly, Ma’am?’ she replied cautiously.

  ‘Laura Pearson. You and Alastair have seen more of her than the rest of us put together. Could she have done it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, don’t be coy. Explain, please’

  Alice sighed. ‘No, I don’t think she could have done it. I don’t think she even had a motive. I’d bet my life, well maybe Alistair’s life, that she had no idea who Flora Erskine was, that the girl was dead or that her husband was screwing around with her. When we broke the news it shattered her, or gave every appearance of doing so. If she didn’t know about Flora Erskine she’d have no reason to kill her, and I don’t think she’d have touched Elizabeth Clarke either. She seems to be a very rational character, controlled, not some kind of hot-head…’.

  ‘She’s all we’ve got,’ Elaine Bell said desperately.

  ‘Maybe, but it’s a bit thin. Even if she did have a motive, what else is there? She’s small and two full-grown men were overpowered. One of them was a labourer, she couldn’t have managed tha
t. The prints in Bankes Crescent, the Medway and the Mews are not hers, whoever else’s they may be. Her accomplice? Not a shred of evidence about that, if so. On the other hand she is clever, she knew where all our questions were going and she gives the impression of something, someone, forged by fire, capable of taking much more than most without buckling or breaking.’

  Sensing her boss’s dejection, she continued. ‘One interesting thing has turned up though, Ma’am. Before I came to see you I checked my desk. I’ve been sent a fax by an advocate friend of mine. It’s a case report involving in some way or other Dr Clarke, Pearson and Flora Erskine. It may be nothing, a mirage, but it seems worth following up. I’ll get a copy to you.’

  ‘Yes, you do that Alice,’ the Inspector said wearily. ‘I haven’t time to read it now. Body will be coming in the next few minutes together with the Chief Constable, as somehow the press are going to have to be contained, and the conference tomorrow will be our best opportunity to prevent them from whipping up further hysteria. I’ll be shut up with the pair of them dealing with the draft release for the next hour or so, but if the report’s helpful in any way please let me know. We need every bit of good news that we can get at the moment. I don’t envy the Chief Constable his role tomorrow at the press conference.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Alice began to move towards the door.

  ‘And by the way, Alice’, she smiled almost sheepishly, ‘I’m sorry…’ She stopped herself, rephrased her thought and began again. ‘I may, earlier, have been a bit sharp with you. Mrs Winter rattled the cages of the great apes who hold all our careers in their grimy palms. We could do without Wilkinson’s early involvement too… but the stuff you got from Laura Pearson has been useful, very useful.’