by David Ashton
‘Throw me in the jile then,’ was the retort accompanied by a defiant glint in the eye. In truth McLevy relished the thrill of tickling ratchets, the moment of consummation and then the compliant click as the lock sprang open.
They had searched the place top to bottom without success, uncovering only a small cache of photographs involving a well-upholstered naked female with what seemed a remarkably versatile, large snake.
Mulholland had identified it as a boa constrictor, male because of its pelvic spurs.
All grist to the mill.
The photos had been replaced in their oilskin wrapping. McLevy continued the exchange.
‘I’ve spent the night calling in favours, Mister Dunwoody. Some folk didnae even wish to make donation, being of a profession that is but one step up from the sewage rat.’
‘Yet once we twisted their tails, they squealed a fine little tune,’ Mulholland added cheerfully.
George said nothing, but carefully lowered himself onto a small stool, as if preparing for the long haul.
‘Should have done this before,’ remarked McLevy genially. ‘But in my defence let it be said I have been somewhat beleaguered.’
‘No-one is perfect, sir, not even yourself.’
The inspector ignored this sage comment from his constable, attention fixed upon the old man, who now sat forward alertly, as if about to receive a commendation of sorts from his betters.
Indeed, there was a curious innocence in his eyes, which McLevy was intent upon demolishing.
‘George Dunwoody. Ye make a wee living, peddling to the papers. A dirty business.’
‘Gossip, hearsay, all kinds of calumny,’ Mulholland threw in.
‘Scandalmonger. Paid informer. Muckraker.’
The old man blinked.
‘These are gey harsh words, inspector.’
‘And I didnae pay a penny for them!’
Indeed, though McLevy had canvassed and coerced the gentlemen of the press, to a certain extent his work had been made easier by the fact that a certain slimy rodent was loathed even amongst his own feral tribe.
‘And an avid buyer of the scurrilous dross you peddle is none other than Sim Carnegie, I am reliably informed.’
George suddenly stuck his thumb into his mouth, chewed on it for a moment, then pulled it out with a pop.
‘Now and again,’ he announced.
‘What?’
‘A wee drap tittle tattle. Peyed buttons maistly.’
‘By Carnegie?’
‘Amangst other folk.’
‘You didn’t mention that,’ Mulholland observed.
‘I forgot.’
‘Forgot what?’ growled McLevy.
‘I knew him, like. Carnegie.’
‘That’s quite forgetful.’
Dunwoody made no response to the constable’s words, while McLevy struggled to contain a mounting ire.
Of course they had earlier, after George’s first visit to the station, checked out the old man in the tavern where he drank and with his neighbours in the wynd, but Dunwoody kept a low profile and other than a fey disposition from time to time, seemed to lead, for Leith, an unassuming and ordinary life. A reliable witness then.
It wasn’t till McLevy started to dig deeper this very night, especially with a possible Carnegie connection in mind, that a certain incriminating sideline had emerged.
But the inspector still blamed himself.
They say never look a gift horse in the mouth, but a good policeman should have been alerted by the teeth alone.
George sat like a jovial elf on the stool, eyes bright and shiny.
‘All right,’ muttered McLevy a trifle heavily, because there was something about eternal cheerfulness that he found very wearing. ‘I’ll lay it out how I think it happened and at the end all you have to do, George – is nod your head.’
‘That’s all I have tae do?’
‘If you agree, that is,’ Mulholland interjected for the sake of even-handedness.
McLevy shot him a look to indicate that further neutrality would not be welcome, and began his dissertation.
‘Sim Carnegie, it is my conjecture, approached you, George Dunwoody, with a plan for a great wee piece o’ mischief, and there’s naethin’ you love more than mischief on the burner, eh sir?’
A nod almost came in response, before George remembered he was only supposed to perform that particular action at the end, and only if in concurrence.
‘Mister Carnegie had already met with one of the suspects, as it were, in the tavern, so he was able to furnish you with a detailed description of the young man; the bad leg, the cane, the time you would have seen him that night.’
Nothing could be gleaned from the old man’s face so far, other than he was enjoying this, as a spectator would a rollicking good play.
‘Carnegie paid you – good money I trust and not buttons, George – to land up at the station and set the cat amongst the pigeons.’
McLevy let out a mirthless guffaw that sounded more like a bull walrus catching sight of a rival, and lest George take alarm, Mulholland sidled in.
‘Great fun to be had watching the police chase their own tails. Great fun!’
‘Only,’ added McLevy with a savage grin, ‘too true. There we were, hammering at this boy, worrying our guts about how Carnegie broke the story, and the answer was simple; he had started it in the first place.’
Dunwoody stuck his thumb back into his mouth.
‘Whit a caper, eh? And you did a grand job, George – ’
‘First class!’ chimed the constable.
‘You could take pride in mission accomplished – is that not so, my mannie?’
There was a long silence. Both McLevy and Mulholland inclined their heads in enquiring but kindly fashion, as if they in turn were genteel spectators at a clever show.
At last George removed the fleshly digit, though for the moment afterwards was frozen in time and space.
‘A chance tae be the hero, eh? Sim Carnegie – all his plan, his doing. But you were the champion.’
‘The bold boy!’
Mulholland’s Irish blue eyes were filled with admiration; the inspector winked in high regard.
The old man smiled at such approbation and then – nodded. Firmly. A man of mettle. A champion.
Neither by movement nor glance did either policeman indicate the importance of that inclination.
‘Sim Carnegie is a clever chiel,’ said McLevy. ‘But you George, you went intae the lion’s den.’
‘It didnae feel like that,’ replied the old man. ‘It felt . . . righteous.’
Best not to quibble too directly with that; strike a solicitous note.
‘But if you’d stood up in court, George. Sworn on the bible, eh?’
‘Wouldnae have gone that far, inspector.’
Silence. McLevy took a deep breath.
‘Tell me a wee thing more.’
‘If it got anywhere near tae trial, Carnegie tellt me I was tae alter course before. Change of mind. Wisnae sure. Bleary auld eyes, dark night, rain in my face – a clever chiel, eh?’
The old fellow let out a peal of laughter, more of a dry, cackling sound, teeth up and down like a drawbridge.
Worried McLevy might revert to type, tear the man’s head off and throw it out the nearest window, Mulholland made a more sobering contribution.
‘Do you not think – it might have been – a little on the questionable side?’
‘How so?’
‘False witness.’
‘No’ exactly false. Sim was certain sure the boy had done it!’
‘Was he now?’ muttered McLevy.
‘Certain sure. Whit he told me. Whit he desired wis that once startit, ye would find out the bona fide truth.’
‘That’s why he did it, eh?’
‘Vengeance. His poor mother was dead. Every man loves his mother!’
The inspector could have cited at least ten murder cases contradicting that last assertion, but at least
they had got what they wanted.
Or had they?
Carnegie would deny everything.
It would be George’s word against his and the old man would, with a little skilful questioning, cut a dislocated figure in the witness box.
They could prosecute Dunwoody for perjury, but would Roach wish to dive into that particular midden?
He would not.
The lieutenant would gladly settle for official release, because the only witness now vouchsafed he was no longer able to point the finger.
That’s what Roach would tell the lawyers, and conveniently forget to mention the fact the police had the wool pulled over their eyes.
Perhaps the law could confiscate the photos of the woman and the snake?
But that would just be evil-minded.
So they had everything and nothing.
Like so much in life.
Chapter 34
It is impossible to love and be wise.
Bacon, Essays, ‘Of Love’
The weather was unchanged, the gazebo held to its elegant lines, the peacocks wailed, Cupid took everlasting aim, the woman was unyielding – only the man had altered.
Jean Brash studied McLevy as he sooked noisily through his moustache at the best Lebanese coffee undulating in her delicate, porcelain cups.
He aye had problems getting his stubby fingers through the space between the handle and its rounded body. No doubt the man would prefer a large, tin mug, where his customary six lumps of sugar could dissolve with room to spare.
From McLevy’s vantage, he would liked to have spent the rest of the day drinking this fine coffee, even with Jean’s beady eyes upon him.
The inspector had a lot on his mind, most of it in a whirling storm.
His surmise about events had proved correct. Next day, in fact this very one that stretched before him, having been informed about everything except the boa constrictor, Lieutenant Roach had been undoubtedly relieved to set Daniel Drummond free, with adjusted and official explanation to the sharp-nosed lawyers.
Alan Grant had also been released, though there seemed to be an air of some restraint between the two students.
Plus the decision whether to prosecute George Dunwoody had been deferred, though the inspector wouldn’t have bet his next black pudding on a positive verdict.
Another thorn in the side was that though in fact McLevy had brought the chicanery of identification into the open, his lieutenant, as is the habit of superiors, appeared to blame him for not spotting it in the first place.
‘I seem to remember,’ remarked Roach, with a mean cast to his eye, as they surveyed an emptying station, ‘that you, inspector, made promise that you would cut Carnegie down. Or did my ears deceive me?’
‘I will eventually.’
‘Well you may recommence the process this very day.’
So he and Mulholland had been dispatched to trudge the damp streets and confront Carnegie in his newspaper office. As feared, they had been met with denial and disdain.
The man did not dispute knowing Dunwoody, but this was only as a contributor of insubstantial tittle-tattle, and most certainly not as a conspirator in supposedly manufacturing headlines.
But now, thanks to the police, Carnegie had another.
‘SUSPECT RELEASED. WILL MY MOTHER’S KILLER EVER BE BROUGHT TO JUSTICE?’
McLevy noted the fellow’s skin seemed dry-flaked, and there was a strong smell of last night’s whisky, but that aside, there was little hint of fallibility.
The inspector also remarked a white shirt and damask waist– coat.
‘Ye’re gey well attired these days. Have ye come intae money?’ he asked.
Carnegie seemed to find this very amusing.
‘Not yet,’ was the answer, a sneer never far from that long upper lip. ‘Not yet, but my legacy is within reach.’
He held out his hand as if to grasp something and closed it into a triumphant fist.
And so they left Sim in all his glory. And outside the newspaper offices, while the dull rain of May fell alike on saint and sinner, Mulholland, who had remained silent during the exchange, on account of his intense dislike of Carnegie and the man’s connection to a certain Gash Mitchell, was instructed to scour the taverns once more, and hunt up any of Mary Dougan’s drinking cronies they may have missed first time around.
The second murder had been neglected and overtaken by the rapid events surrounding the first, but surely somewhere in the woman’s past there must be cause for her vicious slaughter.
McLevy himself, niggled by the acid words of his lieutenant, had gone scouting round his financial contacts in the lower regions, but without success.
Carnegie’s boasting to Roach had put the inspector onto the track regarding George Dunwoody, and he had wondered if the same might apply again with the new clothes and money to burn – not yet the man had said, about his legacy.
So what was the source of this largesse?
He had had no luck, however, and McLevy felt badly in need of a wee breather.
He had hardly slept the previous night, tormented by unsettling images of Jessica Drummond, hair tumbling down, deep dark eyes, white teeth biting into russet skin; all this provoked a churning welter of feelings.
A younger, more vulnerable self had appeared, and this scared him more than any homicidal maniac.
Was he awake or was he asleep?
He hoped to God he would not do something daft, as men in love were wont to do.
But he was not in love, was he? Jist – short of sleep and besieged by pictures.
Only in one place could a man find respite and response.
The Just Land. A bawdy-hoose.
Only with one person, acceptance despite all.
Jean Brash. A bawdy-hoose keeper.
Only with one taste, manna untainted.
The purest coffee. From the fragrant Lebanon.
So here he was in the garden. Peace on the cards.
But for how long?
‘I had a visitor,’ Jean remarked with an air of innocence.
‘Oh?’
‘An acquaintance of yours.’
‘Such as?’
‘A teller of tales.’
The gleam in her eye was indication enough.
‘Stevenson?’
‘None other.’
‘That mannie travels near and far.’
Still not having quite forgiven him for the contretemps at the tarred gates, though this was mitigated by the fact that the tethered peacocks and small-fire had rid her of the students, Jean sowed a snap more mischief.
‘A real will o’ the wisp. Charming as ye like.’
McLevy’s hand had once more found its way to the plate of sugar biscuits and he bit off a near half, before making an indistinct reply.
‘Uhuh?’
There was definitely something on his mind; usually Jean could rely on the mere mention of an interloper to provoke a nippy retort, but the only further reaction was the disappearance of the remnant of the sugar biscuit.
‘Robert told me you have a second murder on hand.’
‘He didnae lie.’
‘Mary Dougan. Puir soul.’
‘You would know her?’
‘She was once a sweet kittie. Fell amangst thieves.’
‘Certainly did. Onything ye can say of her?’
‘Her best love was him. He left. She declined. For close to a year, no-one saw her.’
‘Put not your trust in writers.’
An edge there right enough, then his head came up, eyes fierce. No matter what had turned him inwards, a case would always bring out the wolf.
‘You will keep this second murder to yourself.’
‘I keep everything to myself.’
As they stared each other out, Hannah Semple stuck her head from one of the upstairs windows.
‘Mistress,’ she bawled. ‘The horse has collapsed in the cellar. Wan o’ the struts. Rough usage nae doubt.’
‘Horse?’
/> For a moment McLevy was lost, before remembering that the Berkeley Horse was a piece of apparatus that was used for flagellation purposes, in the lower regions of the Just Land.
He knew it merely by name and wished no further acquaintance.
Jean had more intimate cognition, but the actual spread-eagling of clients, whipping and squeezing of hanging flesh, utilisation of cane plus thistle, then nettle in season and omnipresent leather with an edge to cut steel, was left to Lily Baxter and Maisie Powers. The big girl being new to the job, however, hefty, and occasionally over-enthusiastic, must have put too much strain on the device.
‘All right, Hannah!’ Jean bawled back. ‘I’ll be in directly.’
‘Ye better. I’m no’ a joiner.’
The window shut, though Hannah managed a ritual glower in McLevy’s direction, as if he had been somehow responsible for the equipment malfunction, while Jean rose to her feet.
In a way she was oddly discomfited. Of course she was proud of her profession and the inspector, if not from a personal experience, realised fine well the inner workings of a bawdy-hoose. Yet at this moment, for some reason she could not identify, she felt strangely exposed.
As if under foreign scrutiny.
‘Whit was Stevenson doing here anyway?’ McLevy asked suddenly.
‘I told you. A visit. Like yourself. On the scrounge.’
‘For what?’
‘Information.’
He frowned.
‘I have a favour tae ask.’
‘I might have known.’
The request was made and involved Jean’s superior contacts with a squalid profession in the nether reaches of Leith’s financial strata.
She nodded acceptance, but wondered if there might come a day when a man came to see her off his own bat.
Every woman born has thought this at some point.
What every man born thinks is a different matter.
‘I’ll see whit comes out the woodwork,’ she announced as she turned to go, brushing stray crumbs from her dress. ‘Goodbye, James.’
Then he shot out a question that stopped her in motion.
‘Jean – have ye ever been in love?’
Cupid was now a staging post for various garden birds of late, and despite a regular morning scrub, had developed a streaked, worn-out appearance as if the job was getting too much for one demigod.
