Most of the cooker hood was now a bright, post-box red and Alastair climbed down the ladder to admire his handiwork, paintbrush and paint pot in hand. Stepping a few paces backwards towards the fridge to get a better view, he thought how much better the red looked than the dull grey which covered the rest of the kitchen. The sound of the door opening alerted him to his wife’s approach. Ellen came and stood beside him, looked at the wall and then at him enquiringly.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked, knowing in advance the likely reply.
‘What do you think?’ she fenced, unsmiling.
He scratched his head. ‘No?’
Before Ellen had a chance to answer, Alice entered the room. She sensed immediately the discord between the married couple and the reason for it was staring her in the face. Alastair smiled weakly at her.
‘Well, Alice, a great improvement wouldn’t you say?’ but she was too canny to be drawn into their dispute, answering non-committally that both the dove grey and the pillar-box red had their charms, equal and opposite. She knew who would win in the tussle anyway; Ellen always emerged triumphant; their marital history was a chronicle of her victories. As Alastair hammered down the lid of the paint can, Ellen calmly made a pot of tea and exited the room carrying her copy of The Times.
‘You read the judgement?’ Alice asked, as her friend cleaned the paint off his hands.
‘Yes, all of it. I think we’d better go and see DCI Bell. She’s still in her office. I phoned earlier and Ruth said she’s taken to practically living in her room.’
‘Okay, but tell me what you think first?’
‘I don’t know exactly what to think. The killings must be connected in some way to this case, but how exactly is still a bit of a mystery. I suppose that the mother, Davie’s mother, might have had a grudge against the lawyers. They represented the hospital and won the case for it. Also she blamed Dr Clarke for the state of her son. All we know about Sammy McBryde is that he left her in the lurch, to cope on her own. Maybe she’s the killer… I don’t know… perhaps her brother? And what about Dr Ferguson and the judge? You’d think they’d be on her list…’
As they were talking Ellen re-entered the kitchen. She was frowning and pointing to the baby monitor on top of one of the kitchen units. She demanded, ‘Is that on?’
Getting no answer from her husband, she picked it up and examined the controls on the side. ‘Yes, it’s on. On bloody mute mode,’ she answered herself. ‘So even though Gavin’s been crying his eyes out you’ll have heard nothing. You put him to bed again without a nappy and he’s soaking, he must have been crying for ages…’
No lights were visible through the gaps around DCI Bell’s office door; the room appeared to be in total darkness, unoccupied. Tentative knocking elicited a resigned ‘Come in,’ and as they pushed open the door a lamp was switched on. DCI Bell was in the process of raising herself from the desk on which she had been slumped. As she did so, her substitute blanket, a jacket, slid off her and onto the floor. She had a red line running down one side of her face, a deep crease made by her makeshift pillow of a scarf. The remains of her supper-sandwiches and a yoghurt-lay in a cardboard box on her desk beside an empty bottle of cranberry juice. Three files were piled up next to her, the contents of the top one spewed all over the floor.
‘I should have gone home,’ she said wearily.
‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ Alice replied, handing over, as she spoke, a copy of the Mair Judgement and beginning to provide a hurried précis. Unable to read and listen simultaneously, Elaine Bell pushed it impatiently to one side, giving Alice her full attention, stopping her only if she went too quickly or to get clarification. At the end of the summary she told them both to sit down, and they listened as she phoned DI Manson to arrange protection for Lord Campbell-Smyth and Dr Ferguson. Having done this, she smiled broadly at her two Detective Sergeants.
‘Tomorrow, the pair of you will go and see Ms Mair. Have you got an address for her yet?’
‘6D Bright Park, Sighthill,’ Alice replied. ‘It’s in the judgement.’
Sleep was not elusive, it came quickly, overpowered her within minutes of her head touching the pillow. But with it did not come peace; quite the reverse, a nightmare. She was the crucial witness in a murder trial, and the killer’s conviction would depend upon the impression she conveyed to the jury. They must perceive her as trustworthy, reliable, thoroughly competent. Entering the courtroom, preceded by the Court Officer, she walked in a dignified fashion towards the witness box, sensing a chill in the room. As she was about to step up into the box she became aware that she was wearing neither skirt nor shoes, although her pants and tights were on, thank God. She glanced at the jurors, a group of irate baboons, chattering and baring their teeth at each other, apparently oblivious to her presence, and turned round and retraced her steps to the door.
Having left the court, she raced to the witness room in search of her missing clothes; and there, on a trestle table, were heaps of ladies’ garments such as might be found on a chaotic second-hand stall in a market. Feverishly she tore into the first pile, unearthing discoloured underwear, knitted leggings, nylon pyjamas and, finally, a skirt. In her desperation its gingham pattern could be overlooked, but it had no zip or other fasteners, and billowed down to her ankles as soon as she let go of the waistband. Redoubling her efforts she attacked the second pile, throwing aside bibs, petticoats and slacks, until she unearthed another skirt, black and with the zip intact. Having got it on, she swivelled it round to the front, only to discover a vast white stain extending from thigh to thigh, but it would have to do. Time was of the essence, and with every second that ticked past, the trial was being held up due to her non-appearance.
Sprinting through the courtroom door she saw the Court Officer. He was frowning and gesticulating theatrically with his hands to tell her to slow down. She obeyed and padded across the floor towards him, realising as she was doing so that she still had no shoes on. Disdain at her shoeless state was written across his face, and she knew, with complete certainty, that without footwear her evidence would be valueless, so much chaff, and the accused would get off. The eyes of the Advocate-Depute questioning her did not meet her own, but returned, time after time, to her breasts, until she allowed her own eyes to glance downwards at her front. Three slices of buttered toast were peeking, incongruously, out of her bra. The voice in her head told that the answer was to eat them, so she started to crunch her way through the first one.
‘All along you have maintained that the first, and best, way to extricate oneself from such an extraordinary meeting, might be to utilise the known, tried and tested methods?’ the Advocate-Depute said, leaning towards her and then plunging his hands into his pockets in a highly mannered fashion.
‘Wash sthat a quessstionsh…?’ Alice replied, mouth full of toast, spattering crumbs as she spoke, and noticing that one had adhered to her inquisitor’s upper lip.
‘Today, as every day, there can be little, if any, doubt of the overall tenacity of the proposition advanced in terms of, if nothing else, its validity and inherent coherence, not to mention its internal consistency in the face of multiple challenges?’
He might as well be speaking Chinese. Alice watched, with horror, the advocate lick his lips in anticipation of her answer and then chew the stray particle he had found.
‘Er… I’m not entirely sure that I have understood the question,’ she said, noticing out of the corner of her eye that one of the baboons in the jury was attempting to get the judge’s attention by waggling its blue hindquarters out of the jury box.
Alice’s dream anxiety ended when she was woken by a sharp rapping noise and Quill’s demented barking. Still drowsy with sleep, she edged her legs over the side of the bed and sat, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Another loud knock immediately restored her senses. Christ! This must be what happened to Flora Erskine, she thought. The girl opened her front door and found behind it her nemesis, knife poised to strike. A cold shiver ran down Alice�
�s spine. If she were to survive she would need a weapon. She tiptoed into the kitchen, inadvertently releasing the excited dog, and grabbed a bottle of wine from the rack. Her heart began to race and she leant back against the work-top, breathing in and out slowly, trying to calm herself and control the panic that she could feel rising within her.
Advancing into the corridor she was surprised to see Quill, tail wagging from side to side, whining piteously and scratching a corner of the front door. He appeared to know the killer. With her right hand raised behind her head, she yanked open the door, readying herself to smash the stranger’s skull as he launched his attack. But standing on the doormat was the tiny, chittering figure of Miss Spinnell, blinking rapidly, completely oblivious to her near-death experience.
Exhaling loudly, and silently cursing the ancient pensioner, Alice deposited her weapon on the stone tenement floor and escorted the old lady into her kitchen. No doubt there would be some explanation for the unexpected night visit, even if none seemed to be anticipated from her by her visitor, despite her makeshift club. Miss Spinell fixed her neighbour with her bloodshot eyes, each orb disconcertingly having an independent life of its own.
‘They’ve come back,’ she whispered dramatically.
‘Who?’ Alice whispered in response.
‘The thieves. They’ve gone too far this time. They crept into my room, while I was sleeping, and took my spectacles. Removed them from my bedside table. God knows they may have taken more, but I can’t see to tell. It’s a miracle they didn’t hurt me as I slept. They may still be in the flat… for all I know.’
‘Would you like me to go and see?’
‘For heavens sake! I’m telling you that there are intruders in my home… There could be more than one of them. Phone the police,’ the old woman demanded angrily.
‘Miss Spinnell, I am the police, remember…’
‘You’re just a chit of a girl. There may be men. Big men. We need a constable, at least.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll just do a quick preliminary check and I’ll take Quill with me. He’ll be sure to warn me if any of them are left.’
‘No!’ Miss Spinell shrieked, ‘Don’t take Quill. He might get hurt!’
So Alice set off on her own, unprotected but unconcerned, and her neighbour sat with Quill at her side, sipping the only restorative that she would accept, cherry brandy. The furniture in Miss Spinell’s bedroom consisted of a narrow, single bed and a bedside table. On the floor, by the table, lay the missing glasses as if they had been knocked off in the search for them, a scrabbling hand sending them flying spacewards. Alice picked them up and inspected them. They were unbroken, frame and lenses intact. The rest of the flat bore no signs of any intruders, but Miss Spinell remained unconvinced, despite Alice’s account of her search.
‘The men must have dropped them,’ the old lady explained patiently.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ Alice said gingerly, ‘maybe they were never there. After all, why of all the items in your flat would they home in on your spectacles?’
‘What better way to disable me than to rob me of my spectacles?’ the old lady said impatiently. Alice said nothing. It would only scare the poor woman more if she was to point out the obvious, that age and infirmity had disabled her long ago, blind or sighted, and that a child of six would be capable of putting up more effective resistance. For a few seconds she debated with herself-should she explain to Miss Spinell that she had never, at any stage, been in peril from any intruders, or should she go along with the old lady’s version of events, allow her the satisfaction of being right at the price of letting her remain prey to the thought that strange men could enter her stronghold at will? She opted for the latter; familiarity with her neighbour had taught her that nothing upset the old lady more than evidence of her own confusion. She would be comforted by the false vindication, however odd its logical consequences might be.
‘I’m sure you’re right, Miss Spinell. Now would you like to take Quill down to spend the rest of the night with you?’ Alice offered.
The strange eyes twinkled with joy, a broad smile transformed the sunken mouth, and a look of pure pleasure swept across the aged face.
‘Oh thank you, dear. It possibly would make sense.’
They walked downstairs together, Quill trotting ahead, and Alice waited until all the locks had been rammed home before returning to her bed. Four-forty-five am, and she would have to be up by seven at the latest if the dog was to get even a half decent walk. Back under the covers, she flicked anxiously through the judgement again as if simply touching the paper might, in some inexplicable way, provide more enlightenment. Her eyes fell, at random, on the word ‘unreliable’, and she continued reading the paragraph, unearthing ‘misleading’, ‘untrustworthy’ and ‘worthless’ as she did so. She would have to remember to tell the Boss tomorrow. Desperate for sleep, she forced herself to think of Druimindarroch, a real place and as close to heaven as she could imagine, a bay where the sea is always still, its unrippled surface more like glass than water. A late summer evening, the sun still in the sky, windless, and she would take the boat out beyond the island. But she never reached it, sleep always coming before she passed the old stone and slate boathouse guarding the entrance to the bay.
15
Friday 16th December
Who is responsible for the naming of the new streets, new parks and new estates in a city? Whoever it was in Edinburgh slipped up with ‘Bright Park’, a misnomer so crass as to hint at a sense of humour, albeit one blacker than jet. The expectations that might naturally arise from such a label could include light, airiness, space and, possibly, green leaves, but not eight concrete tower blocks plonked down in a sea of pitted tarmac, a million shards of smashed glass in each pothole, and the unsightly whole encircled by a busy ring road. Two shops, timorous behind shutters and barbed wire, served the residents, and ‘community’ sculptures littered the estate as if ‘art’ might obliterate its ugliness rather than highlight it.
The lift was broken, so the Detective Sergeants had to trudge up the endless stairs to the sixth floor, inhaling the reek of stale ammonia with every step. Flat D lay directly ahead, and sellotaped to its cream-painted front door was a hand-made notice saying ‘Mair’. As Alice knocked it swung open, revealing a windowless hall stripped of furnishings and floor coverings. The place was deserted; the only furniture in it was a three-legged wooden table with an old fishtank perched precariously on top of it. The glass walls of the tank were coated in a greenish scum and a mass of dry, black weed was stuck to its base. On the bottom, with desiccated fronds collapsed over it, was a miniature pink fairytale castle, once the home of angelfish. The sounds of hoovering and Radio 2 could be heard through the door of 6E, and the plastic name-plate spelled out ‘A. Girvan’. An elderly woman carrying a baby answered the door and glanced at their identity cards, pursed her lips and whispered ‘The polis’.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ Alice explained. ‘We were hoping to see Teresa Mair, but she seems to have moved. Do you have an address for her?’
‘Teresa’s got nae address, she’s deid. You’se are too late to see her,’ the woman replied, cradling the child in one elbow and wiping its mouth on its bib with her free hand.
‘When did she die? Can you tell us what happened?’ Alastair asked, impatient for information.
‘Aye, come oan in.’
Once she had started to speak the woman seemed unwilling to stop.
‘Teresa took her ain life. She done it late November. Took an overdose, in the flat wi’ her ain tablets. The kids were split up soon aifter, poor wee things deserved better than that aifter a’ they’d been through. They’d had…’
Alice interrupted the flow. ‘Have you any idea why she killed herself?’
The rejoinder was immediate. ‘Oh aye, I’d bet ma pension oan it. She’d had enough, couldnae take ony mair, naebody much could hae.’ She deposited the now sleeping baby on the corner of the settee on which she was seated, and, light
ing up, carefully turned her head to blow the first puff of smoke away from the child.
‘You ken aboot Davie, her wee boy?’ the woman asked.
‘Yes. We know about him and the court case about him,’ Alice responded.
‘I reckon that the court case wis the final straw, fer her. See, she’d pinned a’ her hopes oan it, fer the faimily like, an’ once she’d heard they’d lost she couldnae cairry oan. Mind, the wee yin wis her life. The other kids never got a look-in, there wisnae time and onyway she wis worn oot. She telt me that the court money would solve a’ their problems, they’d get a wee hoose somewhere nice, the special equipment that Davie needed an’ mebbe even someyin to help noo an’ then. Then Kelsie and the rest of them could be normal kids again an’ she’d hae plenty o’ time for them a’. She even talked aboot taking them on a holiday somewhere, mebbe Arran. Of course, aifter Sammy left…’
‘Sammy, Samuel McBryde?’ Alice enquired.
‘Aye, Sammy McBryde, the wee laddie’s dad. You ken’, the yin that wis killed, it’s been in a’ the papers. Him. Onyway, aifter he left Teresa she wis devastated, she just lived on her nerves. I never seen him do much for the boy, but I suppose he wis in the hoose at least an’ he did help a bit wi’ the other kids, as much of a daddy to them as John Bradley ever wis. Teresa wis suicidal aifter he walked oot, but she kept hangin’ oan, she reckoned that once they got their compensation a’thing would be alright again. Telt me that they lawyers had assured her that she had a guid case, that if it went to court she’d win, but more likely a big offer’d be made to keep it oot o’ the courts. Donny said…’
Blood In The Water Page 17
