Blood in the Water (Alice Rice 1)

by Gillian Galbraith

  ‘Okay. I promise.’

  ‘I’ve answered another ad in the List.’

  ‘No! Alice,’ he said, incredulous, ‘you must be joking!’

  ‘Just desperate. You’ve no idea how hard it is, Anthony. I never meet anyone, at work I only come into contact with policemen and they are all very well in their way but… all my old friends are married and only do things with other married people, the single men I know—and you’re a case in point—are either gay or nothing. Any new man is snapped up by some ever-ready piranha lady long before I become aware of his availability.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘What did what say?’

  ‘The ad! The ad! What else?’

  ‘Mmm. Hard to recall the exact wording. Something like “normal man would like to meet”,’ she laughed. ‘Christ! It’s all too corny and pitiful. Imagine a world where “normal” can be taken as a recommendation. But it’s true. Remember the last one that I met, the bus driver from Bathgate? His claim to fame, success or whatever, was that he’d paid off the hire purchase on his car, and “stocky” turned out to be Sumo fat, but on paper he managed to make himself sound like… well… a catch. Anyway, the die is cast, and we’re to meet tomorrow, somewhere safe in broad daylight. You can afford to laugh, it’s much easier for you, Ant. You can go to clubs and…’

  ‘No,’ he interrupted her. ‘it’s not easier and I hate the club scene, in fact, the whole gay scene. You know that. Apart from Andrew I’m the only straight gay man I know, and I don’t think there are any hang-outs for people like me. Half of my straight friends are camper than me. Talking of answering ads, did I tell you about the one I answered?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m sure I did tell you about it. No? Well, the advertiser was called Jim, I think, Jim or Tim, something like that. It was all hideously embarrassing. He turned out to be a solicitor and we’d even met before, professionally, at a conference on the tax implications of damages. He recognised me immediately, and would like to have scarpered, I could tell from his face, but he didn’t, and we spent an awful hour or so together exchanging inconsequential rubbish in a seedy bar until I gathered up enough courage to leave. Never again! Never again! Too many lies can be told on paper, and I wouldn’t trust myself on one of those voice-mail like things. God, to think I’ve got to join you in the bear pit… Anyway, I have some splendid news. Remember that awful case I told you about, the lady who hoovered up her own nipple?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I know I told you about it. Have you been using aluminium pans again?’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t. It’s not the kind of thing I’d forget.’

  ‘Oh well, I had this case involving a lady who had a mastectomy and woke up, as you do, with only one nipple. In such circumstances, the medical men had come up with three options to “replace” the missing item. You can get artificial ones which you glue on, you’re provided with a box of them apparently, or you can get permanent tattoos or, finally, some kind of skin graft using material “harvested”, as we say, from the inner thigh, as it’s nicely pink. Well, this lady’s hoovering her carpet one morning, her nipple falls off and in a flash it’s up the Dyson…’

  ‘Hang on one minute, Ant. Was she hoovering in the nude or something? How come it didn’t fall off into her bra or blouse or something?’

  ‘You’re so literal. She was—’, he stopped in mid-sentence to answer his mobile phone. As he listened, his expression changed and his voice, when he spoke, was subdued. Alice had little doubt that the speaker was Andrew. She went to get more drinks, and to show his disapproval of women customers, the barman catered for all the men at the bar, latecomers included, before turning his attention to the first-comer, Alice. And once the dinosaurs ruled the earth, she thought to herself, watching him as he slowly attended to her order with undisguised distaste. On her return to the table she found Anthony with his chin cupped in his hands.

  ‘I’ve got to go, darling. I’m sorry. Andrew changed his plans and caught a plane this evening so that we can talk things out properly. Again. I can’t see that it’ll help, but it was good of him to even think about it. He’ll have had a hellish day speaking to all those doctors, and I should think the last thing he wanted was hours of travelling on top of it. He’s at the airport now, and I said I’d get there as soon as possible to pick him up. I’m really sorry to end things so abruptly. Maybe we could have a drink later this week or early next, and I could hear about your date?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Off you go, next week or whenever would be great. There’s only one thing I need to ask you, Ant, it’s my work. I’ll be really quick. Did you know David Pearson?’

  ‘Slightly. Not a friend of mine or anything, but I know exactly who you mean and we’ve chatted occasionally in the gown room. Are you working on that case?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll tell you about it later, when we’ve time. What was he like?’

  ‘Seemed pleasant enough. A womaniser, I think, but not prone to discussing his conquests in anatomical detail unlike some of the others up there. I heard, in the Faculty rumour factory, that he was having it away with some fairly newly called female. I’m afraid I can’t remember her name. But you know how unreliable the gossip there is.’

  ‘Ant, is there any computer programme in the Faculty which can produce the names of cases involving particular expert witnesses and Counsel?’

  ‘Yes. You can get that information quite easily.’

  ‘Would you do me a favour and provide me with the names of any cases featuring Dr Elizabeth Clarke and David Pearson?’

  ‘I could do better than that. I’ll get copies of any judgements in any cases in which they were both involved. Would that help?’

  ‘Sounds perfect. Could you let me know as soon as you’ve had a chance to look? Would you also find out the name of Pearson’s latest conquest? It might just be useful.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll aim to do both things tomorrow. Life’s a bit busy at the moment, so I can’t guarantee it, but I’ll do my very best. Got to go—Andrew will be waiting, and I don’t want to make things worse than they already are by being any later than I have to.’

  On her own, Alice nursed her glass of wine, taking occasional small sips and enjoying the warmth of the fire. It would be interesting to see those judgements, if there were any. She would learn a bit more about Elizabeth Clarke, if nothing else. Nothing on Sammy McBryde, though, he would still be the odd man out. Perhaps she should have asked for the search to include him, but, she thought, he had no connection with the courts, with the law, a long shot to put it mildly. Nothing lost by it, though. For a minute she considered phoning Anthony to add McBryde’s name to the list, but picturing his perilous domestic situation she decided to wait until tomorrow. The rest of the evening, now it had been handed back to her, could be spent in Granton Medway. Maybe DCI Bell would think it a waste of time, but it was her time to waste.

  At the first house she rang the doorbell in vain. Light was visible from between twitching curtains and a TV was on, but no-one was answering the door, or not to her, at least. The second house was inhabited, the door opened and a little child peered round the edge of it, joined in seconds by a teenage girl with a towel wrapped like a turban around her wet hair. As the girl explained that her mother was out at the bingo, a male voice from behind her shouted out that ‘the whole fucking CID’ had already been round, and that ‘cunts’ like Alice should be out catching the serial killer, not wasting decent people’s time.

  And so it went on, quiet hostility at best, vocal abuse at worst. At ten pm she decided to call it a day and walked back to her car, cursing the hubris which had made her revisit such a depressing hellhole, when she already knew that the solid industry of all the uniforms had produced nothing. On impulse she stopped to watch a skinny little boy as he skateboarded under a streetlight on the icy pavement. He had made a course out of a series of little wooden ramps, and flew over them, time after time, in a breathtaking display of aerobati
c grace. He seemed unaware of the presence of his audience, absorbed in his own elegant performance. Landing for the last time, he packed his board under his arm and seemed about to leave. Alice clapped and he looked up, conscious for the first time of his onlooker and pleased to have his skill recognised.

  On impulse, she spoke. ‘You didn’t happen to see anyone you hadn’t seen before at Sammy McBryde’s house on the night that he was murdered, did you?’

  ‘Mm. Aye,’ he nodded his head.

  ‘You did see someone there?’ Surprise had made her slow.

  ‘I jist said so, didn’t I?’

  ‘Can you tell me what the person looked like?’

  ‘It wis a man. He wis dark, I think. He had dark hair like and he wis carrying a polybag.’

  ‘How tall?’

  ‘He wis a big guy, a tall guy, bigger than my dad.’

  ‘How tall’s your dad?’

  ‘He’s a right big man.’

  ‘Was the guy fat or thin or just in between?’

  ‘In between.’

  ‘Was he white or black?’

  ‘White.’

  ‘Can you remember what the time was when you saw him?’

  ‘I dae ken. I wis in ma room, we stay opposite Sammy and Shona’s hoose. I wis watching the TV. That programme wis oan, the yin wi’ the burds what decorate yer hoose. It must hae been after seven. I wis just looking oot o’ the curtains.’

  ‘Did you tell the constables this when they came round?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Naebody asked me. I telt ma mum after the polis had gone, but she said it wis too late. They’d already told the polis they’d not seen nothing.’

  ‘What was the man wearing?’

  ‘Cannae mind. It wis dark. Jeans, I think, jeans and a jacket.’

  ‘What was the man doing?’

  ‘Calling on Sammy.’

  ‘Did the man go in?’

  ‘Aye. He went in and then Sammy shut the door.’

  ‘Did you see anything after that? Did you see him leave?’

  ‘Naw. I watched the TV and then I went to ma bed.’

  Alice could have hugged the child, kissed his pale cheek. It was something, not a lot, but something. The killer was a man, a tall, dark-haired man. She would like to have rewarded her assistant in a currency he would appreciate, a new skateboard, new kneepads, new helmet, but she had nothing to give, nothing except further praise for his virtuoso performance, and she heaped it on, until she sensed that he had begun to think that she might be a nutter. Despite the late hour, when she got home she e-mailed Alastair.

  ‘Went to Granton Medway tonight. Spoke to a boy who the uniforms missed. An eyewitness. Seems our killer is male, dark-haired and probably over six foot tall. Remind you of anyone on our books? I wondered whether we should go and see Ian Melville again. What do you think? We could go first thing tomorrow. See you there at nine am?’

  An answer came back almost immediately.

  ‘What are you on? Don’t you ever give up? Anyway, well done. See you at St Bernard’s Row at nine am. We’d better let DCI Bell know what we’re up to, so I’ll go to the station first thing. Have a good sleep, Sherlock.’

  11

  Wednesday, 14th December

  Flora Erskine woke and with consciousness came, again, the feeling of dread, a sensation of acute anxiety which she felt would never be allayed, would be with her for always. How simple and easy things had been before David’s murder. Every day must have been accompanied by hope, only she hadn’t recognised, or valued, it at the time, but its absence was unmistakable, making everything that was colourful, colourless, and everything vital, dead. She lowered herself out of bed slowly, feeling as fragile as if she had a hangover. She found her white silk blouse and black jacket and skirt without difficulty, and rummaging in her tights drawers she pulled out holed pair after holed pair before settling on one that had nothing more than a slight gash in the underside of one sole. She’d see to it later. Already the familiar pain behind her eyes had arrived, as if the effort of keeping back the tears was too much for them, the pressure building up inexorably and unbearably. Today was going to be even worse than yesterday. She was scheduled to appear in court, and every appearance was still nerve-racking, an ordeal from start to finish, even when she felt at her most equable.

  When she first began devilling she had carefully sketched on a piece of paper the positions she had to adopt at the Bar, standing on the right-hand side for the pursuer and on the left-hand side for the defender. Any mistake and inexperience was apparent, vulnerability exposed. She had tried to master the tortuous terminology used before the Bench, with all its subtleties, euphemisms and codes. So important to prefix things known with ‘As I understand it…’, in order to prepare for the revelation that the supposed fact was, in fact, incorrect. Crucial to remember to ‘be obliged’ to the judge for any assistance rendered by him, or for any order granted or even refused by him, even though in the case of refusal the words had a sarcastic ring. Fundamental always to substitute ‘I regret that I am unable to assist my Lord any further’ for ‘I don’t know’—any admission of ignorance, legitimate or otherwise, being as unprofessional as the wearing of a pink wig. No doubt, one day, she would be able to speak the arcane language effortlessly and expertly and exchange ‘If my Lord is so minded’ and the rest of the flowery nonsense with the best of them, but, just now, the use of such such unnatural and confusing terms required unbroken concentration. She didn’t feel like breakfast. A cup of coffee with four sugars would have to do.

  She left the house to walk to work. The sun was out and the wet pavements shone in the bright light like mirrors; all of yesterday’s snow had melted in the overnight rain and the sky was a deep, clear blue. The day could not have been more beautiful. She recognised its magnificence, but felt none of the elation that such beauty normally evoked in her. The interminable inner monologue that she now conducted involuntarily with herself occupied her until she reached Parliament House. Had she told him that she loved him? He could have been in no doubt. Would it have mattered to him anyway? Yes, because it would have mattered to her. She had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she had not been aware of leaving the New Town, climbing the Mound or crossing the busy High Street.

  The ladies’ gown room was surprisingly full for a Wednesday morning. At least eight members were searching for their wigs, adjusting their gowns and jostling for a view of the only two mirrors. Mrs Shaw, the gown room assistant, was busily sewing on a missing blouse button and, for once, her CD player was silent. As if to compensate for the loss, she was humming ‘Shall we dance’ in a loud, mechanical drone, her head bent over as her needle and thread worked their way through the white material.

  Flora knew that she had been the subject of gossip; she was conscious that her affair with David Pearson had been considered state of the art tittle-tattle, replacing even the fevered speculation about the sexuality of the latest judicial appointment. Maria had told her that the cat was out of the bag after attending her last stable dinner. At the gathering her friend had been quizzed by at least three of their male colleagues, in various states of intoxication, about Flora’s ‘affair’. Each had adopted a different approach; the first, and boldest, had spoken of it as a fact, daring Maria to deny it if it was untrue. The second had inquired, in tones of sympathy, how Flora had become entangled with such a rake, no doubt hoping that Maria would not recognise the assumption, implicit in the question, of the existence of the affair, and would inadvertently confirm it. The third, unmistakably rat-arsed, simply propositioned Maria, suggesting that with ‘Flora and David’ they’d make a fine foursome.

  As Flora knew that she had not breathed a word to anyone apart from Maria, upon whom she could rely, David must have been indiscreet, maybe even boastful, and the thought made her cringe as she began to envisage what he might have said, who he might have told. She was as sure as she could be that no one had seen them together in an
y circumstances other than those which could be satisfactorily explained by work. But her fellow members were observant, fluent in body language and with memories like elephants for any smut doing the rounds. It was not as if she had not been aware of his reputation before they appeared together in the Mair case. That knowledge should have forewarned her, but, in some strange way, it had disarmed her because he had behaved so differently from the stereotypical philanderer she had imagined. She had anticipated arrogance, flirtatiousness and, on refusal, unpleasantness. Instead, he’d seemed diffident, shy even, and had appeared genuinely disappointed when she had turned down his first tentative invitation to dinner.

  She walked purposefully to her locker, extracted her white wig from the black and gold box in which it was kept, unhooked her gown from its hanger and then waited patiently for Marianne Edgecombe to finish her toilet in front of the mirror. As usual the woman carefully collected all the unruly strands of red-gold hair from beneath her wig to pin them up, before, as if there was all the time in the world, reapplying, to her already immaculate make-up, more mascara and more lipstick. While she was carelessly hogging the mirror, others attempted to straighten their wigs in the little reflecting glass left. After two minutes Flora gave up waiting for the endless retouching exercise to be completed, and went instead to use the mirrors in the loo. Remembering her holed tights, she searched in the cupboard below the sink for a spare black pair, and on finding an unopened packet she quickly changed into them, disposing of the damaged ones in the wastepaper basket. As she left the loo she checked her wig. It was fine, sitting straight at mid-forehead level and, so far so good, no tears. Yesterday her eyes had been permanently bloodshot, and she had muttered, in response to the few discreet enquiries their state had elicited, something about the itch and irritation caused by her conjunctivitis.

  In the library she collected Burn-Murdoch on Interdict, Robinson’s The Law of Interdict and the annotated volume of the Rules of the Court of Session. She then went out to the hall to perch on the fender by the great fireplace, to wait for the tannoy to announce her case and to watch her colleagues striding up and down as they gossiped or discussed their business. Just as her thoughts had involuntarily begun to drift back to David, she heard over the tannoy ‘Court 6. Interim Interdict before Lord Lawford: Agents—Wright, Elgin and Brown.’ She returned to the law room, grabbed her papers and books and ran to the modern courtroom. Disliking an audience, she was pleased to see that only one member of the public was present, a black-haired man who glanced furtively at her as she entered the room and then, as if displeased by what he had seen, immediately turned his head away, crossing his legs and facing the wall.