Had it not been for her and her stupid, small-minded dislike of Celia, he would still have been alive. It was inescapable, but also too painful to bear. And now she knew that he had spoken to Celia about their row, confided in her, confided in that bloody reptile.
Alice stood up, determined to do something, anything, any activity which would disrupt this agonising train of thought. Work would keep her sane. Alex Higgins must be found. She would go now, this very minute.
Walking out of the door, she almost collided with DC Cairns who was dawdling in the doorway, glancing at her newspaper while eating a sugar-covered doughnut.
‘So, does our friend Taff have a record?’
‘No. I checked him out last night. The shelter are going to let me know when he leaves, and where he’s going.’
‘What about Higgins? Has he a record?’
‘I need his real name.’
‘Are you off to see him now?’
‘Higgins, you mean?’
‘Yes. If so, I’m to come with you. The DCI phoned when I was on my way up the stairs. Where does he live?’
‘According to Taff, in the hostel on Ferry Road.’
‘“The Lifehouse”, you mean.’
For over ten minutes they waited in the secretary’s office, the dreary hum and click of the photocopier breaking the silence which reigned in the stuffy room. Occasionally, a phone would ring but, from an eavesdropper’s perspective, such calls were dull listening; one concerned a consignment of bed-linen and the other was answered by a single, offended ‘No!’
After reading everything on the noticeboard, DC Cairns passed the remaining time staring out of the window. There was an extensive gravel-covered turning area and a grove of trees screening the building from the traffic on the road, the only excitement being the emergence from the undergrowth of a couple of illicit smokers. Concluding that the place must be worth millions, she turned her attention back to its interior, noting again the elegant plasterwork on the ceiling and the wooden panelling on its walls. Without its clutter of filing cabinets, desks and computer screens, the room could hold its own against many put on show by the National Trust.
As she was examining the large marble fireplace, its hearth filled with boxes of paper, an unexpected scent tickled her nose.
‘What do you think they’re having for lunch?’ she whispered to her companion.
‘Mmm.’ Alice sniffed the air. ‘I don’t know. Maybe French onion soup or, if it’s a good day, steak and onions?’
‘Lucky buggers! I think I’ll declare myself homeless and come and live here.’
Alice, preoccupied, mulling over Celia’s words again, did not reply.
‘Think about it, Sarge. In lots of ways it would be a good life. No bills or hassle of that kind. Three meals a day, all cooked for you. A lovely Victorian house like this to stay in. No horrible flat in Portobello with a cracked basin. And nothing to do here all day except play ping-pong or snooker or, if you’re bored, watch the TV.’
‘No alcohol, though, Liz? Do you think you could manage without that?’ Alice asked.
Before her companion had time to answer, the manager strode in. Tucked under one arm was a thick, brown file and in her right hand she held a long-spouted watering can. The woman had the air of a small sergeant-major, commanding obedience from her troops wherever she went.
‘You take that, Nettie. Snow White’s needing a drink,’ she ordered the nearest secretary, holding out the can and gesturing at a white cyclamen plant on her desk.
‘I’ll give Red Riding Hood a wee pickle after that,’ the typist replied. She left her keyboard and pulled a dead leaf off the poinsettia by her computer.
‘DS Rice? I understand you’d like to speak to me,’ the manager said, looking up at the police sergeant.
‘We’d like to talk to one of your service-users, Alex Higgins,’ Alice said, automatically stepping forward slightly as if on parade.
‘Alex Higgins?’ The woman sounded alarmed.
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know who you spoke to on the phone, but I’m surprised they didn’t tell you. I’m afraid you can’t speak to him. He’s no longer with us.’ She looked accusingly at her colleagues. Nettie appeared to be busy watering the pot-plant and the other woman was feeding paper into the printer. Neither of them glanced up to catch their boss’s eye.
‘Not here! Where the hell has he gone?’ DC Cairns exclaimed.
‘He hasn’t gone anywhere, dear. Well, nowhere you’ll be able to visit. He’s dead, I’m sorry to say. He’d been inhaling lighter gas up near the old Royal Infirmary, and under the influence, as you might put it, he wandered into the middle of the road. He was hit by a council lorry. It was fairly instantaneous, thank the Lord.’
‘Christ!’ DC Cairns said, instantly provoking hostile glances from the staff plus a single shocked intake of breath from the manager.
‘When did it happen?’ Alice asked, conscious as she spoke that the temperature in the room had gone down several degrees. The mild distrust that the caring professions felt for the police had now bubbled to the surface.
‘Two days ago.’
‘Was Taff still living here then?’
‘On the day Alex died? Yes. He left the next evening, after another of our service-users, Vinnie, had joined us. They don’t get on, you see. There’s a long history between them, and they fight like cat and dog. We tried to persuade Taff to stay, but he was having none of it, so he packed up his stuff and went.’
‘What was Alex Higgins’s real name?’
‘Alex Higgins was his real name.’
The two policewomen followed the manager as she huffed and puffed her way up to the second floor and into the room that the man had occupied. Although it had been tidied up, it still contained his possessions, but now it had an unoccupied air, like student accommodation before term has begun. A cleaner was busy inside, hoovering the blue carpet.
‘It’s a good size,’ DC Cairns said admiringly, gliding over to the window and looking out. ‘Nice outlook over the garden, too.’
She caught sight of a small pile of clothes and a pair of trainers on a nearby table. Beside them was what appeared to be a bundle of dark-red feathers. DC Cairns picked it up and asked the manager, in a puzzled tone, ‘What’s this? A wee feather-duster or something?’
‘What d’you say?’ the manager replied, unable to make out a word above the racket made by the vacuum cleaner.
‘I said . . . is this a fairy feather-duster or something?’
‘No, dear,’ the woman answered, no longer concealing her distate for the visitors, ‘it’s not. It’s a red hackle, if you must know.’
‘What’s a hackle?’
‘The feathers that the Black Watch boys wear in their bonnets. Alex was one of them, a corporal, up until two years ago. He’d been in Helmand and places like that. Came back as damaged goods. You know, PTSD and everything. So, no, it’s not a fairy feather-duster.’
‘That sodding man!’ Alice said angrily, once they were back in the squad car.
‘How do you mean? I don’t suppose he wanted to die. Certainly not by being hit by a council lorry,’ DC Cairns said, pulling the passenger door shut.
‘Not Alex Higgins. Taff.’
‘Why are you angry with him?’
‘Because when he told me where to find Higgins, he knew the man was already dead. But he didn’t mention it. We’d be more likely to find Higgins in the fridge in the mortuary than in that hostel.’
‘Well, that’s where I’m to go next, the mortuary,’ DC Cairns said, unconcernedly. ‘So if you could just drop me either there or at the station I’d be most grateful, Sarge.’
‘What’s on?’
‘Duncan McPhee’s post mortem, and I’m looking forward to it. Are you going to go and see Taff now?’
‘I certainly am. All roads nowadays seem to lead straight back to him. Let me know how you get on.’
17
Taff, when Alice caught up
with him, was eating his lunch in the Grassmarket Project on the corner of Candlemaker Row. The dining-room was full, almost exclusively of men, and the sound of their muted chatter was like the low rumble of thunder. She walked up and down between the tables looking for him, dodging the diners as they pulled out their chairs. A few of them looked up as she passed by, but most continued eating, eyes fixed on their plates like hungry dogs. Spotting Taff, she sat down opposite him, meeting his eye just as he raised his final spoonful of jam roly-poly and custard to his lips.
‘Sergeant Rice?’ he said, putting down his spoon and looking at her expectantly.
‘Taff – you sent me on a fool’s errand.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘When we spoke last time, you knew perfectly well that Alex Higgins was already dead.’
‘So?’
‘You told me I’d find him at the hostel on Ferry Road.’
‘No, I told you that was where he lived. And that is where he lived. The rest is up to you.’
As they looked at each other in silence, the sounds he made as he struggled for breath became audible and she noticed the exaggerated rise and fall of his chest. After taking a few deep gulps of air he lit a cigarette, his hand shaking as he did so.
‘That signet ring you got from Alex. Where did he get it from?’
‘Look,’ he said, exhaling a short puff of smoke, ‘I don’t know, love. Why would I? I gave him the bottle that I had and he gave me the ring. A swap. It was as simple as that.’
‘Taff, are you going to eat your bread?’ a Polish voice asked. A man was hovering close by, pointing with his fork at the roll left on Taff’s side plate.
‘No. You take it, Marek.’
Nodding, and winking at Alice, the man removed the roll and returned to his place further down the long table.
As Alice’s attention was momentarily distracted, a woman pushed her way towards them, gesturing at a piece of paper tacked to the wall. Written on it in large black capital letters were the words ‘NO DRINKS. NO DRUGS. NO CIGARETTES.’
‘Put that out now, Taff,’ she said crossly, wagging her finger at him. ‘You know you’re not allowed. You’ll get us all into trouble.’
‘Oh, with who?’ he replied. Then, grinning at her annoyance, he took another drag.
‘With the law . . . public health, I don’t know.’ She stood beside him with an irritated expression, her arms crossed tightly over her apron as if to stop herself from snatching the cigarette.
Finally, sensing that she would not budge until he had extinguished it, Taff relented. ‘No problem,’ he said, dunking it in his cup and adding sweetly, ‘Rules is rules, eh. No sheep and goats here. I know that.’
‘Well, if you know it, why don’t you take any notice of my rules, eh?’ the woman demanded, not so easily mollified.
Alice’s phone went. She recognised the SART number but, unable to hear the voice at the other end of the line, she moved away from the arguing pair towards an unoccupied table and leant against it. Pressing the mobile to her ear, she tried to make out what Donny was saying.
‘She’s up there now,’ he continued. ‘She’s waiting at the Cash 4 U in Lauriston Place.’
‘Who is? I couldn’t make out what you said earlier.’
‘The woman, the one who was trying to flog the minister’s watch.’
‘You’ve got his watch? How do you know it’s his?’
‘Alice, how can you ask? I’m disappointed in you. We’re the experts, remember? It’s got his initials, DJM, engraved on the back of it, together with his birthdate and the children’s initials. A Rolex. I don’t think it’s likely there’ll be more than one of those doing the rounds, do you?’
‘No, of course. Sorry. Does the woman know I’m coming?’
‘Not exactly. The owner, a Mr Khan, has persuaded her to wait. He told her he had a particular customer in mind, a local, who would like to come and see it. The clever so-and-so said that this customer was a collector and would pay over the odds if the watch took her fancy. Little Miss Light-Fingers, or Dorothy Drummond as she’s calling herself, fell for it, so she’s waiting for you up there now.’
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Taff edging his way between the diners towards the door.
‘I’ll head there now. Sorry, Donny, I’ve got to dash.’
Catching up with Taff as he was pulling his greasy woollen bonnet onto his head prior to stepping out onto the street, she exclaimed, ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Why?’ It was clear from his expression that he was not pleased to be asked.
‘In case I need to speak to you again.’
‘If it’s still a free country, I’ll be found at the drop-in centre in Cromarty Street . . . unless I change my mind. You’ve not charged me so I’m not under arrest, am I? Planning to detain me instead?’
‘No.’ Her bluff had been called.
‘Good. I’ll be on my way, then, Sergeant.’
Mr Khan seemed pleased to see her. He had been waiting outside in the cold, stamping his feet like a guardsman on the icy pavement, and surreptitiously examining each pedestrian as they passed in the hope that it might be the policewoman.
As she entered his office, Alice saw a mousy woman seated in a chair, looking out of the window and with a rolled-up magazine in one hand. The overriding impression that she gave was of someone downtrodden and defeated, someone whose will rarely prevailed in the battle of life. On Alice’s approach she rose, stuffed the magazine into her shopping bag and came towards her, asking excitedly, ‘You the collector?’ Her hand was touching the flap of her green leather satchel, ready to display her wares.
‘Not exactly,’ Alice replied. ‘I’m from the police. I need to speak to you about the watch you’re trying to sell.’
Now looking terrified, the woman said, ‘There must have been some mistake. I’m not selling anything, and I’ll need to be away home now.’
She moved quickly towards the door, her hand stretched towards the handle.
‘Not quite yet,’ Alice said, remaining where she was and blocking the woman’s only exit.
‘The man you tried to sell the watch to, Mr Khan, contacted us and, if necessary, I’ll bring him in here to repeat his version of events to you. I know you have the watch, so you can either tell the truth and talk to me here about it, or accompany me back to the station at St Leonard’s. It’s up to you.’
For a moment, the woman remained silent and then, looking even more forlorn, she said, ‘OK, you win. What’d you like to know? I’ve not got much time. I’ve got to collect my wee boy from school.’
‘Could I have it, please?’
Obediently, the woman fished inside her satchel and handed it over.
‘Where did you get it?’
‘Em . . . I got it at Christmas from my husband.’
‘This Christmas present that you’re now trying to sell, it’s a man’s watch isn’t it? Do you normally wear men’s watches, then?’
‘Aha. I like a big face. Easier to see the numbers, eh?’ the woman replied, smiling timidly at Alice as if to charm her.
‘The initials on the back – whose are they?’
‘Mine.’
‘Dorothy Drummond? DD?’
‘No, sorry, I forgot. It was secondhand, see. My husband said not to worry about them so . . .’
‘What are the initials on your watch? No doubt you’ll remember that, since you’ve had it since Christmas.’
‘Em . . . I’ll need to see,’ she replied.
‘I’ll read them to you,’ Alice said, ‘DJM.’
‘Em . . . em . . . my dad’s name. Donald . . . Jane . . .’
Running out of patience with such half-witted lies, Alice cut in. ‘Stop wasting my time, please, Mrs Drummond. Up until about six days ago this watch was around the wrist of the Reverend Duncan McPhee. He was found dead on the ninth of February. Do you understand? It was not for sale, in any shop, secondhand or otherwise, prior to that date.’
&
nbsp; ‘It must have been. Alan bought it for me.’
‘We are pursuing an investigation into Duncan McPhee’s death,’ Alice continued, ‘because he may have been murdered. Do you understand that? You may be in possession of the watch of a recently murdered man. It is worth thousands of pounds. Bearing that in mind, shall we start again?’
‘Right,’ the woman said, twisting her hands together and nodding, having finally grasped the implications of the police officer’s speech.
‘So where did you get it?’
The woman opened her mouth but nothing came out. Trying again, she said in a low voice, ‘In one of the rooms, one of the service-users’ rooms. In the hostel for the homeless, the one on Ferry Road. I work there as a care worker.’
‘Did you take it from there?’ Initially the woman said nothing, then she nodded her head and looked into Alice’s eyes imploringly. ‘You’ll not tell my employers, eh? I need that job. I’ve never done it in my life before and, honest, I’ll never do it again. I can’t afford to lose my job. I’ve learnt my lesson, I really have. Please, please don’t tell them, eh?’
‘You took the watch from someone’s room in the hostel. When?’
‘Em . . . it’ll have been on the morning of the eleventh.’
‘Whose room was it? Alex Higgins’?’
‘No. If I tell you, will you promise not to tell them?’ she wheedled.
‘No, I can’t promise that. But I need to know whose room you took the watch from.’
‘OK, but I’m trusting you . . . not to tell them, I mean. I’m trusting you, mind. I got it from another bloke’s room, the one called Taff. I don’t know his surname, truly. I really don’t know it. Nobody does. You speak to the manager or the Reverend Davis. Nobody knows.’
Hatless, and in the absence of his large, padded anorak and the many layers of jerseys worn beneath it, Taff seemed to have shrunk. Sitting on the hard wooden bench of the drop-in centre, he was now dressed only in a collarless white shirt, a black jacket and worn jeans.
The Road to Hell Page 22
