Blood In The Water

by Gillian Galbraith

  ‘Donny?’

  ‘Her brother, Donny, Donald Mair. He’s her only brother, only faimily, in fact. Donny said she should take a break, he’d look aifter the kids fer her an’ she could hae a few days to hersel’. He’d aye helped her oot, but aifter Sammy scarpered he wis never awa’ from her hoose. I’m no’ surprised Marie threw Donny oot, I’d hae daen the same, he wis never there. Nothing wis too much trouble fer him where Teresa, Davie an’ the kids were concerned.’

  ‘Who found Teresa?’

  ‘He did. Donny. Came in here tae phone the polis an’ he wis as white as a sheet, he’d been sick, ken. Kept saying o’er an’ o’er that she shouldnae hae daen it. He wis shaky, like. I got him some tea an’ the kids spent that night here wi’ me.’

  ‘Where are the kids?’ Alice asked.

  ‘The Bradley yins, Joanne, Kelsie, Shane and Lexie an’ a’ went tae their dad in Glasgow. He used tae visit regular-like an’ sometimes they’d stay wi’ him in Whiteinch. Davie’s gone tae foster parents in Musselburgh. I spoke tae the social worker who picked him up an’ she said they’d be trying to find a permanent hame fer him, but she wisnae too hopeful, said disabled children were difficult tae place.’

  ‘Was the child’s father, Sammy, not considered?’

  ‘I dae ken. Donny telt me that Sammy had been asked tae take the boy but had refused. It wouldnae surprise me, aifter he left he never came back tae see the kiddie, his own kiddie, even the yince. Donny said he’d shacked up wi’ a new wuman somewhere in Granton. He’d have been useless onyway, he never lifted a finger fer Davie even when he wis aboot, an’…’

  Alice interrupted, ‘What about Donny then, why didn’t he take Davie?’

  ‘Oh, he tried,’ Mrs Girvan replied, ‘he daen everything he could tae get the Social Work to let him care for a’ the kids, including Davie, but they wis having none o’ it. He wanted tae keep them all togither like, but he hadnae a hope, didnae even hae a hame o’ his ain, as Marie had thrown him oot by then. I think he wis sleeping oan a friend’s floor most o’ the time. Onyway, he blew it. I heard him bawlin’ at they social workers, crying them a’ the names on God’s earth, even wi’ the kiddies aboot. They should hae let him hae Davie though, ’cause he really did want tae look aifter him an’ he kenned mair than onyone jist whit wis involved. He’d hae done onything fer the boy. It didnae seem tae matter tae him that Davie couldnae understand or dae onything, he jist adored him jist the way he wis, an’ Davie seemed tae ken it. He wis such a lovely looking wee thing tae. I’ve got a photy, would you’se like tae see it?’

  She produced a colour photo showing a smiling woman holding aloft a laughing child. Teresa Mair may have carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, but in the picture a carefree mother was showing off her beloved boy. And what a boy. Endowed with heavenly looks, eyes as blue as borage, beneath a mass of wavy, golden hair. Alice was taken aback, appalled at herself as she realised that since reading the judgement she had imagined some drooling, malformed little thing, the antithesis of the comely image now before her eyes. In a single, shameful instant the child’s tragedy had become more real, and with it that of his mother.

  ‘Do you have an address for Donny?’ she asked, handing the print back.

  ‘Aye. I’ve got a note of Marie’s address. I dae ken if he’s gone back tae her, mind. He gave it tae me as it wis the only permanent yin he had and I’d asked him fer it. I wanted to ken hoo Davie wis getting oan and a’. I used tae sit wi’ him, you ken, sometimes if Teresa had tae go oot. Daen it ever since he wis a babby. All they kids cried me Granny Annie. Joanne an’ Kelsie used to play wi’ my older grandkids aifter they came back fae the school. Joanne loved wee Amy, my youngest yin,’ the woman looked fondly at the child at her side, ‘liked to be ma wee helper…’

  Stenhouse Lane was a few minutes’ drive, but half a world away. No.14 had been painted a sweet, ice-cream pink, and the new Georgian-style fanlight above the door was flanked by a couple of shining carriage lamps. The rest of the houses in the lane had also been prettified by their owners, and the small enclave stood as a rebuke to the council houses surrounding them with their grey harl and uniformly drab appearance.

  Marie Mair was killing time. At 11.30 am she intended to catch the bus to ‘The Upper Cut’ in Gorgie High Street and have her black roots bleached and a trim. In the meanwhile, the minutes were ticking away nicely with the help of day-time TV, her constant companion. What sort of man would sleep with his sister-in-law if she looked like that, she wondered, concluding, on seeing Melvin, the sort that no one else much would deign to have sex with. The crisps were stale, so she put them back in the packet and took a sip of her coffee, listening intently as Melvin was harangued by the show’s outspoken hostess, and then informed by his angry wife, now hugging her grossly-obese sister, that she was going to divorce him. Serves the bastard right, she thought, two-timing slimeball, and the studio, at one with her, booed loudly as Melvin exited right. The high Westminster chimes of her front doorbell interrupted another woman’s confession of her lesbian longing for her boss, and Marie Mair switched the TV off to go and answer her door. It would be the news soon anyway, and she did not want the woes of the world gaining entry into her cosy nest.

  She displayed little concern when shown the police identity cards, leading her two visitors into her sitting room as if such guests routinely appeared. Even when they began asking questions about her husband, no anxiety was apparent, and her tone conveyed no sense of involvement. They might have been enquiring about the milkman or the postman. Occasionally, she would interrupt to tell them how much she enjoyed The Bill or to confess that before she decided on dog grooming she had considered a job in the force, like that Prime Suspect woman.

  ‘So, Donny moved out in about July of this year?’ Alice ploughed on.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m sorry but I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Mrs Girvan thought, perhaps, he’d gone to stay with a friend.’

  ‘You mean Billy?’

  ‘Maybe. Can you give us Billy’s address?’

  ‘He stays in Tranent. 14 Kirk Wynd.’

  ‘Why did your husband move out?’

  ‘I think I’ll not answer that one, if you don’t mind.’ She smiled politely, as if they were holding a social conversation and she had signalled that this topic was, regrettably, out of bounds.

  ‘I’m afraid I do mind,’ Alice said ‘We need to know. So could you tell us why your husband moved out?’

  ‘Do I have to tell you?’

  Alice nodded, amazed that the woman did not appear to have realised that she was involved in a murder investigation, rather than simply engaged in a friendly chat.

  ‘Cause he was more interested in his sister, Teresa, and Davie and the rest of them than me. He might as well have been her husband. After Sammy left it got worse, he spent more time up at her house than in ours. I couldn’t get him as much as to change a light bulb here, but he was shopping, cleaning and babysitting all hours up at Bright Park. In the end I threw him out. I’d found someone else, someone interested in me for a change.’

  ‘You said you and Donny were living together when Davie’s court case was on?’

  ‘In June. Aye,’ she nodded.

  ‘Did he talk much about it?’

  ‘He never stopped talking about it,’ she said tartly. ‘He was up at the court in the High Street every day, every single day it was on, and in the evenings he’d rave about it to me. I didn’t want to know. I had my own life.’

  ‘Did he ever mention a Dr Clarke?’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘Dr Elizabeth Clarke. She was one of Teresa’s doctors for the birth. You might have seen in the papers…’

  ‘I don’t read the newspapers. But there was doctor he was mad at. Said the judge had the hots for her, maybe that was the lady doctor. Imagine that, eh, a judge and all.’

  ‘And David Pearson, QC, did he mention him?�
��

  ‘He mentioned a QC, alright. He was forever going on about him, up his own arse he said. Tore Teresa and her witnesses to shreds in the witness box.’

  ‘Did he mention Flora Erskine?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Flora Erskine. She was in the case too, with the QC.’

  ‘I don’t remember him mentioning that name, but he did talk about Pearson’s helpers. He said he reckoned Pearson was showing off in the court half the time to impress all the other lawyers, like.’

  ‘Have you seen your husband since Teresa died?’

  ‘Just the once. He came to collect the rest of his clothes, and anything else he’d left behind. It was after Davie got taken away to Musselburgh.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘What you mean?’

  ‘What impression did you form of his state of mind?’

  ‘He seemed fine. He was a bit concerned having nowhere to stay, and that, and when I said that he couldn’t take the photo album he lost his rag. Otherwise, he took the break-up well. I don’t think he was that bothered about us splitting up or nothing, then I’d hardly seen anything of him or him, me. I’ve got someone else, maybe he has too, poor bitch. Why are you all interested in him anyway?’

  Without answering, Alastair picked up a framed photograph which had been lying face down on a coffee table and passed it to Alice. It showed Marie Mair in flowing white wedding gown standing, hand-in-hand, with a tall, dark-haired man dressed in a grey suit.

  ‘Donny?’ Alice enquired.

  ‘Him and me on our wedding day in 1990.’

  ‘Have you got anything more recent?’

  ‘Nope. Donny hated having his photo taken, he was always so self-conscious.’

  The squad meeting fixed for noon was ill-attended, the room barely half full, but this time no bodies were slumped dejectedly in their seats or gazing gloomily out of the windows. The news of a hard suspect had travelled fast and reinvigorated everyone, and the absence of so many of the regulars was attributable to the speed of DCI Bell’s reactions and her conviction that, finally, they might be on the right road. Copies of the photograph of Donald Mair were being circulated and Alice took the opportunity, while waiting for her boss to appear, to inspect the man, to memorise the face of their quarry. The print showed a young man with very short, dark hair, his bride’s hand clasped tightly in his own. Her figure had been cropped, leaving only her hand in his and a small white triangle of her dress. The bridegroom’s gaze was fixed on the ground, oblivious to any loving looks being bestowed upon him by his now invisible wife, seemingly entranced by the shine on his own black shoes. The camera had caught a shy creature, one keen to escape scrutiny, eager to return to the shadows. No wonder his wife had only been able to produce one image of him, a wedding photo, no doubt obtained under some form of sentimental duress. Alice looked up and saw Elaine Bell moving towards the board; glancing again she took in the newly made-up appearance and the spring in her boss’s step.

  ‘You all know,’ she began, her voice loud, confident and cold-free, ‘that we now have a good suspect. His name is Donald Mair. He is aged forty. Photographs of him, aged twenty-four, have been distributed and we are presently working on the computer to see what noticeable changes, if any, the additional years may have made. On the only occasion on which he was seen by an eyewitness he was wearing jeans and a jacket, a dark jacket, and carrying a poly bag. He comes from Edinburgh and knows the city and East Lothian well. The last known address for him was 14 Kirk Wynd, Tranent. We think that he may be responsible for the deaths of Dr Clarke and David Pearson. He seems to think that they screwed up the life of his sister, Teresa, resulting in her eventual suicide. He may have had a grudge against McBryde and Flora Erskine, too. He probably has other targets in his sights. In particular, another doctor, Paul Ferguson, and a Court of Session judge, Matthew Campbell-Smythe. Lord Campbell-Smythe to you lot, to us.

  Eric Manson has already made contact with Dr Ferguson and we’ve got a watch over his home in Veitch Park, Haddington, and his workplace at Roodlands Hospital. Campbell-Smythe’s a big fish. His home, in Drummond Place, is being watched and he’s got protection at the Court of Session, beyond the norm. Half of the Forensics team are combing Mair’s house in Stenhouse Lane at the moment, and the other half are on their way to his last known address in Tranent, a local authority flat tenanted by a Billy Gannon. Uniforms picked Gannon up at his work on the industrial estate in Macmerry and they’re bringing him here. They should arrive within the next ten minutes or so, and he may be able to give us some clue, as a minimum, where Mair has been living for the last few weeks.

  More copies of the suspect’s photo are being produced so that we can circulate them to the press when the time comes. What we know about him so far is that he has no previous convictions or form of any kind but, if it’s him, he’s a highly effective killer. Whilst it’s not difficult to see how he could gain access to Sammy McBryde-they were effectively brothers-in-law after all-he must have managed to talk his way into Dr Clarke’s house and Flora Erskine’s. Certainly, there were no witnesses to any scuffles or disturbances or anything like that. He’s probably strong. It’s likely he was able to overpower McBryde and Pearson, albeit that he had a weapon, and the element of surprise was on his side. Also, he seems well organised. The poly bag he was seen carrying in Granton Medway likely contained his bloody clothes. Forensics have always been clear that his handiwork resulted in a virtual bloodbath-most of you have seen its effects at first hand-so he’d have needed a change of togs. The bag probably also contained his weapon of choice, most likely a knife. No trace of any weapon has been found despite exhaustive searching, and the guesstimate is that the same blade, or whatever, seems to have been involved in all the killings.

  His wife’s being questioned again by Sandy Murray to find out as much about Mair as we can, including his friends, acquaintances, usual haunts, etc. DSs Travers and Carter are on their way to Blyths, the butchers on Gorgie Road, to speak to any employees there. Mair worked with them up until March this year-’, DCI Bell stopped her speech to answer her phone. She put it back in her pocket and caught Alice’s eye.

  ‘That’s the boy in. Could you and Alastair go and speak to him now?’

  Gannon wanted to light up, felt the need of a smoke, but knew he was not allowed to do so. Instead, as he spoke, he folded and re-folded the silver paper from the packet over and over again, oblivious to the irritation his incessant activity was causing. Within minutes the nature of his involvement with Donald Mair became clear, and it was minimal. Gannon was an innocent, a pond-skater never breaking the surface tension of the water to see what lay below, content with appearance, aware of no other reality. He had got to know Donald Mair through a shared passion for snooker and their friendship extended no further, but on that basis he had allowed his homeless friend to kip occasionally on his floor until his own girlfriend, Angela, had kicked up about it. He had no idea where the man was now, and if pressed to guess, thought Donny might be living, or at least sleeping, in his car. He had done it before and the vehicle was crammed with clothes, blankets and black bags full of stuff. He might park anywhere.

  Dr Clarke and the other victims, including Samuel McBryde, meant nothing to the man except as names in the paper, and he had never heard of Davie or Teresa unless, maybe, Teresa was Donny’s sister? His pal often left his work to see his sister, although he had no idea why.

  Alice became aware, as Billy Gannon answered their questions, that despite their references to Dr Clarke and the others, the witness seemed to have made no connection between his friend and the killings. He had received more than enough information for most people to work out the thrust of their enquiries but had failed to do so. She looked at his face, noting how unlined it was. Perhaps little penetrated his skull sufficiently to cause him any anxiety, perhaps he led a charmed life. He certainly appeared to have supped regularly with the devil, emerging unscathed from their encounters.

  Billy G
annon left the interview room no wiser than he had entered it. When his supervisor, at his new place of work, asked him about his trip to the police station he stated, blandly, that they had needed information about someone he used to work with. He had not gossiped; he had nothing to gossip about.

  ‘You can’t hide a car for very long,’ Inspector Manson said, nodding to himself sagely before concluding authoritatively, ‘We’ll get him that way if no other.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Alastair chipped in, sipping his coffee and helping himself from the open packet of biscuits on his desk. ‘He could easily discard it, live rough for a while, or maybe he’s got more than one friend, more than one floor he can doss on…’

  ‘He’d freeze to death living rough, it was minus three degrees last night. It’s nearly Christmas,’ Manson replied thickly, his mouth half-full of Alice’s shortbread.

  ‘Down and outs survive, year in year out, they can go to Jericho House or one of the other shelters. They make special provision at this time of year,’ Alastair persisted, careless of persuading his colleague but keen to annoy. It couldn’t all go the one way.

  Alice slipped unnoticed into an alcove at the back of Court 8 and was surprised by the strange, soft, cinema-like appearance of the seats. The witness box was familiar to her, but she had rarely enjoyed the luxury of attending court as a spectator. DCI Bell would have a fit if she knew I was here, she thought, settling down into her chair, determined to see Lord Campbell-Smythe for herself. After all, his judgement had triggered Teresa Mair’s suicide and exonerated Doctors Clarke and Ferguson. He had a central role in their drama; little would be lost by her concealed presence and much might be gained by it.

  A female witness was attempting to explain to the court, in a low voice, what her employment as a box-packer required her to do. She was inarticulate and continually used hand gestures to show the movements she required to make, unable to describe them verbally. Every time she did so she was rebuked by the Judge, initially courteously but with signs of increasing impatience. Alice noticed that on two occasions Campbell-Smythe’s eyes met those of the opposing Advocate, before rolling heavenwards to signal his exasperation. The demeanour of the woman’s Counsel changed when he sensed the shared contempt of the Judge and his opponent, becoming flustered and reeling off another muddled question. His lack of confidence communicated itself to the witness, who stopped speaking in mid-sentence, keen to escape her predicament.