‘And what did he say?’
‘Nothing. His teeth were chattering that much, maybe he couldn’t speak. But he’d showed no remorse, so neither did I. He was afraid of the comb that he thought was a knife, particularly once he was in his birthday suit. I took his watch and the ring off him too. Why not? I had more use for them than him, and I couldn’t see him going to the police about it. As I was throwing the stuff I didn’t need into a bin on the corner of Willowbrae Road I laughed myself sick thinking about him racing naked through the streets on his way home, trying to explain himself to people, to anyone he met. Mighty vulnerable, he’d feel. Let him experience what humiliation, real humiliation, feels like – get a bucketful of it. She knew all about that. Me, too. We’re experts in that.’
‘That’s not what happened though – him running naked through the streets, I mean.’
‘No?’
‘No. He didn’t make it. He died right there in the Dean Gardens . . . of cold, as far as I know.’
‘Did he now? I never knew that.’ He paused for a little while, continuing in his hoarse voice, ‘But, so be it. He had a chance. He was alive and kicking when I left him. She had no chance whatsoever. But, supposedly, nobody killed her, did they? Just being alone in that cold place did it. Anyway, thinking about it, his death seems like poetic justice to me.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘I told you. Because someone should know. And there won’t be a trial,’ he added, ‘even if he did die like that. So it might never come out.’
‘How can you be so sure that there won’t be a trial?’ she asked, surprised by the certainty in his voice.
‘Take a good look at me, Sergeant,’ he replied, stretching out his bony arms as if to invite a full inspection. He did, indeed, make a pitiful spectacle. His clothes hung on his fleshless body as loosely as a shroud on a corpse, and his eyes were dull, as if the spark of life had long since departed.
‘How long have you got?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. A matter of weeks, probably. A month at most. They want me to go into hospital, but I’ve refused. What’s the point? They can’t do anything, after all. I’d rather stay out and about for as long as I can. I won’t plead guilty to anything, if you take me in. No one was found guilty of Moira’s death. McPhee certainly felt no guilt, so, I can assure you, I feel none either. Even after you telling me that he died. It’s happening to us all.’
They both looked up as a man, dressed in blue overalls, came into the room. Mrs Farrell followed behind him and Terry, like a pet dog, pattered along a few paces behind her.
‘You still here?’ she said cheerily to Taff as she walked by, but then, suddenly, she stopped dead and turned to face him.
The other two, meantime, set to their task, cursing as they battled to move the washing machine away from the wall. When they failed, the little man squeezed himself behind it to act as a human jack and lever it away from the wall with his legs.
‘You’ve done it again, haven’t you?’ Mrs Farrell said to Taff. Her narrowed eyes drilled into his.
‘What?’ He sounded quite innocent.
‘You’ve turned off the bloody switch!’ she said. Without waiting for him to answer, she turned round and ordered the two men to stop.
Terry and his companion looked up in surprise as the manager strode over to the nearby socket and turned the switch back on.
‘Do that again, Taff . . .’ she said, threateningly, leaving her sentence unfinished.
‘Or you’ll . . . ?’ he replied, his expression eloquently informing her that he did not care what she did.
‘I’ll . . .’ she hesitated.
‘Throw you out, you bastard,’ Terry chimed in, standing as before behind her protective bulk.
‘And I’ll . . . I’ll kiss you!’ she added, laughing, puckering her lips into a grotesque pout and bending towards Taff as if to carry out her threat.
‘On you go, love,’ Taff said insouciantly, offering his thin cheek to her and closing his eyes as if in expectation of bliss.
‘I will!’
While, to Terry’s unconcealed distaste, they continued bantering, Alice’s phone went. It was DC Cairns.
‘Just to let you know the results of the post mortem on McPhee, Sarge . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘He died of a heart attack. All his coronary arteries were furred right up. Hypothermia may have played a minor part. There were no signs of any injury and the Prof found those Wenceslas ulcers again. No evidence of anything else – no cuts, bruising or anything that couldn’t be explained away innocently. He’s told the DCI that he doesn’t think it was a suspicious death. So we’re to stand down.’
‘But what does she think happened? What about his clothes, the watch and so on?’
‘The DCI’s satisfied that he took them off himself like Moira Fyfe did. Then someone must have come along later, over the railings, and stolen them. Nobody’s sure, they can’t be, but they can’t think of anything else, including the Professor. You tracked down the ring and that led to a dead end, didn’t it?’
‘Alex Higgins, you mean?’
‘Yes, to a dead man. Presumably he’s the one who originally found the corpse and the clothes, and took the lot. He was a down-and-out wasn’t he? He might well have had use for the clothes, not to mention the man’s valuables. The dog might have followed him out, mightn’t it?’
‘It might.’
‘So, the trail’s gone cold. We’re to treat it as death by natural causes.’
‘OK.’
‘Where are you just now – still with Taff? Have you learnt anything from him?’
Alice paused, looking across at the man before answering, ‘No. Nothing important, so far.’
Watching Taff laughing as Mrs Farrell blew him a kiss, Alice tilted her head back against the wall and thought hard. So far, nothing she had done was irrevocable. She could still bring him in, have him charged, tell everyone exactly what he had told her. Tell them what he had done. But it seemed utterly pointless, because she believed every word that he had said. Not least, what he said about his pitifully short lifespan.
Duncan McPhee was already dead, and dragging the existence of his mistress into the spotlight would achieve nothing. Well, nothing worthwhile. Instead, his wife and children would learn for the first time of his adultery, shattering their image of him and, in all probability, destroying otherwise precious memories. The tabloids would fall on the story like vultures on a corpse, picking out its entrails and fighting over them. Their front pages would compete with headlines about ‘Mucky Ministers’ and ‘Randy Reverends’. McPhee’s mistress would probably be pilloried, and the church become the subject of another scandal. And all for what? Taff would be dead before the matter came to trial, and keeping a dying man in custody until his premature death would benefit nobody.
She rose to her feet, conscious that if she did not act now she might weaken, be tempted to play it safe. Protect herself.
‘Taff,’ she said, ‘I’m off.’
He looked at her, puzzlement in his eyes. ‘Am I not to come along with you?’ he asked, gathering the washing on his lap and putting it in its bag.
‘No.’
‘Sure about that? I will come with you, if you want me to.’
‘No. There’s no point. You stay here. Stay in the warmth.’
19
At 9 p.m., and with all her paperwork finally completed, Alice set off from St Leonard’s on foot. It had begun to snow a couple of hours earlier, intermittent showers of small flakes quickly turning into a constant fall of white feathers, and already Edinburgh had been transformed into a new and mysterious city.
Crossing onto the North Bridge, heading in the direction of Princes Street, she looked up the snow-covered expanse of the Royal Mile towards the Castle, and her eyes came to rest on St Giles’ Cathedral. The tracery of its crown spire and the crockets on the finials were now highlighted in white, standing out in vivid contrast to th
e solidity of the rest of the soot-covered structure, lending it an ethereal air. It was a breathtakingly beautiful sight, and she drank it in.
Dragging herself away, she hurried onwards, overtaking several groups of pedestrians shuffling morosely across the North Bridge, all desperate to keep their balance on the slippery pavement. Like cows in a storm they had instinctively clumped together into huddles, as if for mutual shelter. An old fellow in wellingtons trailed behind one of them, his arms going like pistons, but with his small, flat-footed steps, he was still unable to catch up.
As Alice continued down Leith Street a feeling of anxiety washed over her, putting her on edge. Something was not quite right. Some extra sense had come into play, warning her that she was being followed again and, at the thought, a cold shiver ran down her spine.
Who the hell was doing this to her? She had to fight against the urge to break into a run. Finally, trying to allay her fears by proving them groundless, she stopped dead and, like a child, forced herself to turn round, look behind her. She would confront the threat. In the impenetrable white-out she could see almost nothing, but the certainty that someone was tailing her remained undiminished. Now, even more scared, she shielded her eyes and took another hard look. But it was hopeless. Snowflake after snowflake continued to pour from the sky, landing on her cheeks and drifting into her eyes, blinding her. Close by, no one stood out from the crowd or halted on seeing her stop, but only a couple of yards away anything could be happening. A man might be brandishing a knife at her for all she could see.
Walking on at a brisk pace, her heart now thumping in her chest, she told herself she was being silly and childish, near-hysterical. She was overdramatising things. After all, she was in a public place and there were a fair number of pedestrians around. But whatever she told herself, the eerie feeling which had taken possession of her did not dissipate but instead became more fixed with every step she took. The muscles between her shoulderblades began to tense painfully, and a strange prickling feeling rose up her neck until it tickled the base of her skull. Telling herself that it meant nothing and was probably the result of fatigue or anxiety at the decision she had taken about Taff, she scurried onwards. But she could not stop herself from looking back every few minutes to check that no one was creeping up behind her.
With her head bent over against the thickly falling flakes, she crossed the road and entered Broughton Street.
As she passed an alleyway a stranger loomed from its mouth, blocking her path. She tried to bob round him but he grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her roughly into the dark passage from which he had come.
Trying not to panic but momentarily disabled by surprise, she felt his arm encircle her neck and a hand clamp over her mouth. Instinctively, she tried to cry out, kicking at him as hard as she was able and struggling desperately to free herself from his grip. But he seemed untroubled by the blows, increasing the pressure on her windpipe until she was unable to breathe and began gasping hoarsely for air.
Scrabbling with her hands to break his arm-lock, trying to force him to release his grip, she aimed a final kick at his shin and heard a cracking sound as her heel made contact with the bone. Yelling loudly in agony, for a split second her assailant relaxed his hold, and as he did so she wriggled, trying to break free. Before she could escape, he tightened his grip once more and pulled her over backwards, knocking her feet from under her and crashing her down onto the icy ground.
‘Bitch!’ he said, bending over to rub his shin. As she lay dazed on the snow-covered cobbles he began aiming kicks at her body. Instinctively she curled into a ball to protect herself, but in the next second she felt a boot thump into her spine and she cried out in pain. At that instant, she heard a loud crack, like the sound of a cricket bat hitting a ball, and her attacker fell, slumping heavily on top of her.
Someone pulled his dead weight off her and then she heard a familiar, wheezy voice saying, ‘You all right, pet?’
Looking up, she saw Taff crouched above her, panting loudly, his arms outstretched and ready to help her to her feet. Taking both his cold hands in her own, she allowed him to pull her up until they were both standing opposite one another like dance partners.
‘Are you all right?’ he repeated, looking anxiously at her bruised face.
‘Yes, I think so. What happened? Why are you here?’
‘Who’s that mad bastard?’ Taff said, looking at the figure stretched out on the ground.
‘I’ve no idea. He came from nowhere and attacked me. I don’t know why he did it. But what are you doing here? I don’t understand . . .’
For an instant, she thought her legs were going to give way, so she leaned against the wall behind her, propping herself up.
‘I was following you home. I can explain . . . I couldn’t speak to you properly with Mrs Farrell there, and I wanted to thank you for what you did.’
‘You were the one following me?’
‘Yes. I wanted to . . .’
He stopped speaking and bent double, overcome by another coughing fit. Regaining his breath he tried again. ‘I wanted to give you this.’
He dipped into the pocket of his bulky anorak and pulled out a brown leather wallet, offering it to her.
‘What is it?’ she asked, taking it from his hand.
‘It’s Duncan McPhee’s. It’s got his cards, credit, debit or whatever, I never touched them, and a lot of photos. Mainly photos of a wee boy and a wee girl, his children, I suppose. I thought his widow might want to keep them. I spent the money that was in it, you’ll not be surprised to hear. There was hardly any, anyway. Less than a tenner. But I thought she might want to have them back, the photos and that. I’ve no quarrel with her.’
A deep, prolonged groan came from the body sprawled face down at their feet, and they both looked at it. The man let out another moaning sound. As if to silence him, Taff aimed a casual kick at his ribs. The noise stopped.
‘How did you manage to knock him out?’ Alice asked, feeling her bruised neck with the tips of her fingers, wincing under the slight pressure.
‘With a vodka bottle,’ Taff said proudly, patting the bulge in the pocket of his anorak. ‘It’s come in useful before, not that particular bottle, obviously, but as something to protect myself with, you understand. Just as well it’s all but full. I’m not as good with my fisticuffs as I used to be. Not a good fighting weight.’
‘How did you find me after I left you at the drop-in centre? I phoned later and you were still there.’
‘Did you now? How did I find you? If you think about it, you’ll appreciate that wouldn’t be too difficult, Detective Sergeant. Well, not for me. After all, you are a policewoman, so you’re likely to be based at a police station and one that has a CID to boot. Also, you mentioned Elaine Bell, so I reckoned it would be St Leonard’s. I know a little about those kinds of things. I’m not a complete idiot. And I wasn’t always on the street, you know.’
‘Yes, but I still don’t understand. How do you know Elaine Bell? You found Duncan McPhee too – tracked him down, plotted his movements and pursued him like a professional.’
‘In another life,’ he cut her short, sounding impatient, ‘when I was an entirely different person, I was a professional, like you. I was a police officer. Satisfied?’
‘You?’
‘Yes, me. Don’t sound so bloody surprised. It can happen, you know. To anybody. Like I said, I wasn’t always like this.’
‘What happened to you?’
‘Does it matter? This isn’t really the time or the place, is it?’
‘No. Sorry . . .’
‘Easy enough to guess, I’d have thought. Alcohol happened, and before too long everyone gave up on me. I don’t blame them. And then I joined them. I gave up on me too.’
‘Elaine Bell?’
‘At Tulliallan, years and years ago, I trained her. Now, what are you going to do about that?’ He tapped the buttock of the prone man with the tip of his boot, before adding, ‘I doubt he�
�ll stay under for much longer.’
‘I’ll phone for help.’
‘Are you all right? D’you want me to stay until they come?’
‘No. You’d better go now. It will just complicate things. Put the spotlight back on you. It would seem an odd coincidence otherwise, you “saving” me, I mean. It would demand an explanation.’
‘True. But you’ll be hard put to take credit for the blow to the back of his head since he had his arm around your neck. He’s left his mark too. He have even have seen me and tell everyone who asks him. Did you consider that?’
‘I can deal with it. I’ll say that you, my good Samaritan, ran off. If you scarper now it will very nearly be true. Can you live with that?’
‘I left the police . . . a lifetime ago. I can live with anything nowadays. But I was wondering, how will you explain away McPhee’s wallet?’
‘Easy. The same way I’ll explain away the watch. I’ll say that you got both from Alex Higgins. I’ll tell them that he said nothing useful to you, and the story died with him.’
‘I told you not to come in today. Have you even had yourself checked out by a doctor?’ DCI Bell said. She put down the report that she had been reading and glared at her sergeant. Then, shaking her head with exasperation and muttering, ‘Look at the bruises on you,’ she added, ‘No, of course not, Alice, because you don’t obey orders, do you? You do your own bloody thing! Go your own bloody way! Sit down. You shouldn’t even be in here. As you didn’t come in this morning I thought perhaps you’d listened to me – a first, I might add – but, oh no, as soon as lunchtime arrives, you arrive with it. Obeying my order would be too much to bloody hope for.’
‘I’m fine, Ma’am. I just wanted to . . .’
But before she had finished her sentence the DCI said angrily, ‘And why didn’t you tell me?’ Her dark brows were furrowed and her mouth set tight as a trap.
The Road to Hell Page 24
