No Spurgeons or MacVies were listed in Macmerry in the phone book. Alice left the motorway at the Tranent turn-off, climbing the slip road to join the old A1 with its wide view of the Firth of Forth shimmering in the weak winter sun. The countryside between the two towns was desolate: flat fields of sodden, yellow-ochre-tinted grass enclosed by windblown hedges, a few huddles of cold sheep sheltering in their lee. An assistant at the Co-op gave her directions to Redbyres Farm Cottage, and the Escort rattled like an old tin can as she drove along the muddy track that led to the edge of the disused opencast site and the cottage. The dwelling appeared to be occupied by some kind of radio ham. A huge mobile mast stood erect in the ill-kempt garden, in amongst two wrecked cars, wheel-less and propped up on bricks.
As she opened her car door a large black rottweiler, thick streams of saliva on his muzzle, jumped up at the chicken wire fence which acted as a stockade for the house. In immediate response to its furious barking a squat woman, with tightly frizzed coal-black hair and pencilled eyebrows, emerged from the cottage and walked to the gate. As the dog continued to growl ferociously, she squeezed herself through the gate, barring the dog’s exit, cooing ineffectually, ‘Doon Donna, doon, good dog, Donna,’ all the while as the brute jumped up, clawing her tight slacks. Alice flashed her identity card and introduced herself.
‘Ah’ve got a TV licence noo,’ the woman said defensively.
‘I’m sure you have, but it’s not my concern. Could you tell me, is this Redbyres Farm Cottage?’ Alice asked.
‘A-ha.’
‘I understand that a Jane MacVie or Ian Spurgeon live at this address. Are you Jane MacVie?’
‘Naw, I’m Rita Ness.’
‘Okay Rita, could you tell me does a Kenneth MacVie, sorry, Kenneth Spurgeon live here with you?’
‘Naw,’ the woman smiled, relief washing across her features, ‘I stay here wi’ my husband, Dennis, Dennis Ness.’
‘Well, thanks for your help, and I’m very sorry that I troubled you. Could you assist me with one further thing before I go? Have you any idea where either Jane MacVie or Ian Spurgeon are living now?’
‘Naw. We used tae git letters addressed tae them but they flitted, mebbe, aboot six year ago… Just aifter the wee boy was killed. We got the cottage then, ken. Dennis works on the fairm and I work in the big hoose fer the Baileys.’
‘No forwarding address was left for MacVie or Spurgeon?’
‘Naw, and I dinnae ken where they stay the noo.’ The woman shook her head to underline her point.
‘One last thing, do you know if Ian Spurgeon’s mother still lives in the village?’
‘Oh aye, she does. She stays in Paton Road. I seen her on her zimmer in the post office sometimes, but she’s not richt noo, never has been richt since wee Daniel’s death. Mind, it was her blame onyway, a wee boy like that. I couldnae live wi’ masel if I’d done it, she as good as killed him hersel. Nae wonder her nerves are playing up. She should never hae let him go to the van himsel, she should hae gone wi’ him…’ The woman shook her head vigorously again before continuing.
‘Are you a detective, hen? Need to be clever, eh, fer that job?’
‘I am a detective, yes.’
‘Then how come ye didnae ken that I wisnae Jane McWhitever? Ayebody here kens me.’
The heat in No. 4 Paton Road was stifling. The flames of a coal-effect fire were flickering away in the ceramic grate and two large radiators in the tiny sitting room were set at maximum. The old lady eased herself slowly back into an armchair and directed Alice to take a seat in the one opposite it. The television was on and orange-faced people were jumping up and down, participating in some kind of game show, supervised by a girl dressed in a chicken suit and harangued by an unseen audience. Alice attempted to speak, but was unable to make herself heard above the racket coming from the set and, exasperated, turned it off, surprising herself with her own impatience. She was about to apologise, but noticed that Mrs Spurgeon’s gaze had not moved from the television, her eyes were still focused on the blank screen.
‘I’ve just been to Redbyres Farm Cottage looking for your son and Miss MacVie,’ Alice said loudly, hoping to get the old woman’s attention.
‘There’s nae need to bawl, pet,’ came back the cool reply.
‘Sorry,’ Alice said. ‘We need to speak to him and Miss MacVie.’
‘Is he in trouble again?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Where would I find him?’
‘I dae ken. He’s jist got oot o’ Saughton. Ask the prison, they’ll hae an address. He’ll hae probably gone back to the wee bitch in Windygoul, but I’ve no’ heard from him. He never even wrote me when he was inside.’
‘Could I have… er… the wee bitch’s address?’ Alice asked tentatively. The woman moved her large bulk in her seat, finally shifting her gaze from the television and onto her visitor.
‘I dae ken it exactly, like, but she stays in the East Windygoul estate in Tranent,’ she replied.
‘And… could I have… er… the wee bitch’s name?’
‘Sharon Calder.’
‘And Jane MacVie, any idea of an address for her?’
‘Oh aye, she sent us a Christmas caird. Mair than Sharon’s aye done. It’ll be on the mantle…’, Mrs Spurgeon pointed to the collection of cards above the fireplace. ‘I think she put her address in it. Just grab the lot o’ they cairds and bring them here.’
Alice obediently gathered up the fifteen or so Christmas cards from the shelf and deposited them in the old lady’s lap. She worked methodically through them, before extracting one depicting a crudely-drawn, swaddled Christ child smiling wanly at the world from a pink background. Glitter had been dropped inexpertly onto patches of translucent glue on the card in an attempt to spell ‘A Merry Xmas’, but only every second letter seemed to have been hit by the silver rain. Inside it, in large childish writing, was inscribed ‘Crist’s blessings be with you, Gran, at Christmastide and forever. Love Jane.’ The dots above each ‘i’ were circles, and at the top right-hand corner there was an address, ‘Helives, 22 York Place, Kinross.’ As Alice was noting it down, the door of the sitting room was flung open and a little girl came skipping into it, singing at the top of her voice, followed by a woman pushing a buggy containing a toddler. On seeing Alice the child in the buggy began to wail loudly as if confronted by a ghost, and his sister, now stationary, cowered behind the television set. Alice collected her bag and left.
Tranent is less than three miles from Macmerry, and East Windygoul was not hard to find. The estate was a cold slap of a place, pebble-dashed houses set on meat-red brick foundations, with tiny gardens and old crisp packets and sheets of soggy newspaper instead of flowers. The first person Alice stopped to ask where Sharon Calder lived turned out to be deaf, and the second was, as she somehow expected, a stranger to the area. When, finally, she found the house, the electric door-bell was hanging off the wall and her knocking brought no response. She moved on to the neighbouring house and rang the bell, being pleasantly surprised to be greeted by a smiling man.
‘What can I do for you, bonny lass?’ asked the pensioner in a strong Newcastle accent.
‘I’m looking for Sharon Calder,’ she replied.
‘She’s away at her work. She’ll not be back until… oh maybe… ten or so this evening. She’s a barmaid. You’d get her tomorrow, though, it’s her day off.’
‘Is Ian about?’ Alice asked. The old Geordie’s expression changed immediately.
‘That bugger… he’ll not be returning here, I doubt. No better than a fucking animal, that one. Should be kept caged up forever.’
The Christmas lights of Kinross were a largely token affair. On every fourth lamppost a tiny white light guttered shyly as if ashamed to draw attention to itself, and spread across the High Street was a festive holly chain with one red berry and a centrepiece composed of a green parrot, flapping morosely from side to side in the wind. The local supermarket roof sported a collection of bulbs that flashed
at random, spelling out nothing in particular. York Place formed part of a new development that straggled through Sandport down to the shores of Loch Leven, housing the executives who commuted daily to Edinburgh or Glasgow. Every door had a brass number attached to it, and above No. 22 was printed ‘HE LIVES’ in capitals, the house name. As Alice stood at the open door a voice from inside shouted ‘Enter’, and, mechanically, she obeyed, passing through an unlit corridor to the source of the voice in the kitchen. At a round table two people were seated, a bearded man and a middle-aged woman with grey hair scraped into a bun, from which thin wisps escaped. Bubbling on the stove was a huge vat of some kind of stew; great big orange squares of turnip rotated in a sea of grease, and tide-marks of brown gunge were visible on the ladle protruding from the pan.
‘Just help yourself,’ the woman said, rising to get her visitor a bowl.
‘Thank you very much, but I’ve already eaten,’ Alice said quickly, eyeing the unsavoury hash.
‘I was looking for a Jane MacVie. I understand that she lives at this address?’
The woman looked concerned. ‘Why? Why are you looking for Jane?’ she demanded.
Alice took her identity card from her coat and showed it to the pair. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said ‘I should have explained. I am Detective Sergeant Alice Rice of Lothian and Borders Police, and I need to find Jane MacVie to talk to her.’
As she was speaking, an old man entered the room and sat down at the table. Wordlessly the woman handed the bowl she had got for Alice to him; he ladled some of the greasy sludge into it and began to eat with noisy pleasure.
‘You alright, Jim?’ the bearded man asked. The new entrant nodded, intent on his meal and nothing else. The woman sat down at the table again and said:
‘Ms Rice, we run an open house here, we help anyone that comes to us for help. Our food is their food, and such shelter and warmth as we have, they have too. All for His sake. Jane lives with us now. What do you want with her?’
Alice could feel her anti-Christian hackles rising. Any overt displays of religiosity had this effect on her. She’d met too many whited sepulchres in her time, and her convent education had, inadvertently, transformed her into a die-hard sceptic.
‘I am sorry, I didn’t catch your name…’ she said, by way of a reply.
‘That’s because I didn’t give it. Julia. Julia March.’
No ring visible.
‘Well, Miss March…’
‘Mrs March,’ she was corrected instantly.
‘Well, Mrs March, I need to speak with Miss MacVie in connection with a road traffic accident that occurred in 2000 involving her son, Daniel.’
‘2000 is a long time ago, Sergeant. What can anybody possibly want with Jane on that painful subject after such a long interval of time?’
‘That will be explained to Miss MacVie when I see her,’ Alice said firmly.
The woman’s hostile expression did not change, but she shouted: ‘Janie… Janie, there’s a lady to see you.’
As Alice waited for Janie to appear, she looked around the room. It was anarchic; on the floor along any free wall space there were piles of bedding, and beneath one heap of blankets a pair of white feet protruded. A sleeping bag, apparently occupied, blocked the fridge door, and a pair of worn socks dangled from its handle. Janie, when she arrived, was a pathetic sight. Unwashed fair hair clung to her brow and fell, in chewed strands, over her shoulders. Her face was pale, lardy-white, and her lips seemed bloodless, like those of a corpse. She looked drugged.
‘I think I’ll speak to Miss MacVie on her own. Is there another room available?’ Alice enquired of Mrs March.
Ignoring the thrust of the question, Mrs March enquired of Janie, ‘Janie, do you mind seeing the policewoman on your own?’
Janie shook her head and Alice followed her heavy-footed waddle out of the kitchen to a bedroom, smelling strongly of talcum powder and unwashed feet and littered with clothes. In the absence of chairs the Detective Sergeant and her interviewee sat side by side on the unmade bed.
‘Miss MacVie, I wanted to speak to you about… well… firstly, the accident in 2000.’
‘Yes.’ The reply was strangely toneless.
‘After your little boy died, did you and Mr Spurgeon leave Macmerry?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s when we left.’ She paused, and then corrected herself. ‘No, sorry, that’s not right. That’s when I left. Ian stayed on. I came to Kinross as I had a friend here. Then I found Jesus and He saved me.’
‘So since Daniel’s death you have lived in Kinross?’
‘Yes… I went to the church and I met Julia and Bob. They took me in when my friend lost her house and I’ve lived here since. I help, you know… I make the soup, wash up, things like that.’
‘Do you drive?’
‘No.’
‘Would you mind telling me where you were on the evening of Thursday 1st December between about five pm and nine am the next morning?’
‘I don’t remember, but I’d be here. I’m always here.’
‘What about Monday the 5th December between about four-thirty pm and eleven-fifty pm?’
‘Like I said, I’d be here.’
‘What about Wednesday 7th December…’
Janie cut in impatiently. ‘Here! I’m always here. This is where I stay… I never go anywhere else.’
‘You didn’t go to Edinburgh on any of these dates?’
‘No. I told you I’d have been here, in the house.’
‘Were you on your own or with others?’ Alice asked.
‘I’m never on my own now. I can’t be. Julie and Bob are always here, and if they have to go out then someone else comes in to watch me. I can’t be on my own since Danny died. I tried to do away with myself after it happened, got took to hospital and they pumped me out. I think about it, about Danny, all the time. Sometimes I have to cut myself to make it go away.’ She rolled up the sleeve of her tracksuit top to reveal a forearm covered in thin white scars, cut after horizontal cut from wrist to elbow. Then, pulling the cuff down, she continued, ‘They look after me, Julia and Bob and the others and Christ the Lord, my saviour.’
Alice persisted. ‘Mr Spurgeon, Ian, what happened to him?’
‘I don’t know. Before Danny died he liked a drink, but afterwards he was always smashed, drunk out of his mind. He had a go at me a few times, knocked my teeth out.’ She opened her mouth to show a space where her two front teeth should have been. ‘It was just the drink really, I loved him to bits, but I couldn’t cope with that. Gran said he’d nearly killed a boy in a pub in Leith and got took to Saughton for it. It was in all the papers, like, but I never seen it and I never visited him nor nothing.’
‘Gran?’
‘Ian’s mum. She lives in Macmerry with Ian’s sister and the two grandkids.’
Alice decided to change tack. ‘Do you remember the names Elizabeth Clarke or David Pearson?’
‘I’ll never forget them… they’re the ones that ran over Danny. Never prosecuted, like, even though they’d killed my wee boy. Julia told me that they’re both dead, said it was in the papers. She even showed me, but I didn’t read it. I’ve forgiven them anyway, I forgave them when I surrendered myself to Jesus.’
In the kitchen Bob was sitting reading religious pamphlets. He confirmed that Janie had been in the house on the nights that the killer had been at work in Edinburgh, and that it was true, she never left the house and was never alone in it. As Alice rose to leave he handed her a leaflet entitled ‘God: A Brand New Tomorrow’, and asked leave to say a prayer over her. Christ Almighty! she thought, railing against the selfishness of Christians who determined to detain others, however hungry or exhausted those others may be, in order to relieve themselves of their urge to worship. She nodded weakly, and as Bob fell to his knees, self-consciously she did the same.
‘Lord, bless Miss Rice and all her work. Let her dispense her earthly justice with your guidance and grace…’
Thinking the blessing was
over and wonderfully speedily at that, Alice was just about to rise to her feet when the voice resumed: ‘Keep her free from sin in this unclean life, let her turn the other cheek in accordance with your word and let honesty and a love of truth inform her every action.’ Two further minutes of devotion followed, and then, at last, the end: ‘…for Jesus Christ our Saviour’s sake, amen.’
The Indian carry-out in the polythene bag was leaking, dripping pink slime onto the unwashed stairs that led to Alice’s flat. She stopped on Miss Spinell’s floor and waited until the final chain was freed. Contrary to her expectation, Quill was not liberated to run, jumping and barking, to greet her but, instead, she was ushered in. Miss Spinell was annoyed. She explained, strangely cold in manner, that the forces of law and order were failing in their statutory duties, as further thefts from her premises had occurred. On this occasion, things had been removed from her bathroom: yesterday no soap, today no shampoo. Where would it all end? she demanded. With me in the loony bin too, Alice thought, but she bit back her riposte, saying only that she would inform her superiors and that scene of crime officers might attend soon. Usually, the promise of action soothed the addled old lady, but tonight it appeared to cause further irritation. Had Alice forgotten so soon? The thief had already removed Miss Spinell’s Sunday gloves and would, obviously, be wearing them, so scene of crime officers would be a waste of time, as there would be no fingerprints left by the villains. Thinking only of the tandoori chicken and basmati rice in the leaking bag, Alice explained that the force’s new positron intensifier would be used, a machine which could find prints even if gloves were being worn. Miss Spinell was mollified, and as Alice tipped her rice onto her plate she reassured herself that sometimes, just sometimes, dishonesty was the best policy.
Blood in the Water (Alice Rice 1) Page 10
