“It’s also the name Knuckles Nancy mentioned,” Billings chipped in. “I think we should try and locate this woman. It’s the only lead we have.”
“I don’t think we should do anything, Detective Sergeant Billings.” Thwaite sat upright, crossed his arms and looked straight into Billings’eyes. “I am leading this investigation. You’re still suspended, remember? As far as I’m concerned, you’re still a suspect.”
Billings frowned but didn’t say anything.
“The seance was just a pointless charade.” Thwaite got up from the table and buttoned up his jacket. “All seances are. And this Bovlatchky woman, or whatever her fecking name might be, was just another silly charlatan. I’m not going to reopen the case based on such superstitious nonsense, so I’m going back to work. I thank you, gentlemen, for your advice, but in the future, will you please refrain from summoning me away from my work unless you have some credible new evidence!” He stormed out the door.
As Thwaite exited, the other detectives heard him bumping into Mary in the corridor.
“Oh, what pretty flowers,” they heard him say.
Mary entered soon afterwards, carrying large bunches of flowers and giggling coyly. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said. “I thought I’d bring some flowers into your makeshift office and brighten the place up a bit.”
“Are those Miss LeFevre’s flowers?” Flynt asked.
“Yes. She didn’t want them in her room, so I thought I’d bring them down here.”
Billings watched as she placed the flowers on the display cabinet, took some vases out of the cupboard and started arranging the bouquets. She was smiling and humming to herself.
“So what do we do now?” Clarkson asked Flynt.
“There’s nothing we can do.” Flynt took a tobacco case out of his breast pocket, withdrew a cigarette and popped it in his mouth. “The Edinburgh Police are leading this investigation. We are only here to advise, and if they don’t want to take our advice, then…” He shrugged and began lighting his cigarette.
Clarkson turned towards Billings. “What do you think?” he asked him.
Billings wasn’t listening. He was still watching Mary arrange the flowers. He noticed how Mary seemed to become increasingly confident and radiant the more LeFevre became dependent on her. She had come into her own. She was no longer the frustrated understudy or LeFevre’s dogsbody. She was now the person everyone addressed when they wanted to know something about the great actress. She was in charge now.
“Ouch!” Mary suddenly pricked her finger on a thorn and dropped a single rose on the floor. “A rose!” she exclaimed, looking at the flowers on the cabinet, looking for the bunch it had fallen out of. “Where did that come from?”
“Well?” Clarkson was still waiting for an answer.
Billings didn’t answer and stared at the rose. Suddenly he remembered something. He jumped up from the table. “Are we done here?” he asked.
“I think we are,” Flynt replied, blowing a ring of smoke in the air.
Billings rushed to the door and stormed out.
Clarkson called after him. “Hey! Where are you off to?”
“Nowhere!” Billings called back and ran down the corridor.
Billings rushed out of the hotel and crossed the street to where a barefooted flower girl was sitting on the pavement, her basket of roses beside her on the ground.
“Will ye buy a rose off me, sir?” the girl said as she watched Billings approach.
“I will,” Billings took some coins out of his pocket. “Tell me, do you sell many of these roses?” He took the rose and placed the coins on the girl’s palm.
“I sell most in the evening, sir, when people go out dining.”
“Did you sell any this morning?”
“A few.”
“I’m a police officer.” Billings took the badge out of his pocket and showed it to the girl.
The girl looked alarmed. “I ain’t done nothing wrong, sir. I sell flowers, that’s all.”
“I’m sure you haven’t.” Billings squatted down before the girl and smiled. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“I don’t know nothing, sir. I’m just a poor flower girl trying to make some money.”
“There’s an actress staying in that hotel.” He pointed at the hotel across the road. “A famous American actress whose daughter got killed.”
“It weren’t me, sir!” the girl protested. “I had nothing to do with it!”
Billings smiled. “I know it wasn’t you. But there are some ladies who gather at the hotel every morning to offer flowers to the grieving actress. I was wondering if any of them have ever bought flowers from you.”
“There is one who does. Buys one flower off me every morning. Gives me a ha’penny for it.”
“What does she look like?”
“A grey old lady with a very kind face. Aggie is her name. Aggie Campbell.”
“You know her?”
“Aye. She lives in Newington. Close to where my nanna used to live.”
“Thank you.” Billings stood up and reached in his pocket for another coin. “You have been very helpful.” He handed the girl the extra coin.
As he crossed the road back to the hotel, Billings felt his hand begin to tremble again, and a feeling of nausea suddenly crept over him. He had been restricting himself to a single dose of morphine every night, and with things having calmed down for him after the initial horror of Kitty’s murder and the fact that he was no longer burdened with guarding Miss LeFevre, this had been going well. But the trembling, the nausea and the palpitations had now suddenly restarted, and he didn’t know why.
Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as he stumbled into the hotel lobby. He was looking for Clarkson and scanned the various cigar-smoking, newspaper-reading gentlemen seated in the armchairs. He found his colleague sitting in a corner. His face was hidden behind a newspaper, his feet were resting on a coffee table and a pipe was dangling from his bottom lip. Flynt was sitting directly behind him, also reading a newspaper and smoking a cigar. Wiping the sweat from his brow and clenching his trembling fist, Billings made his way to Clarkson and sat down beside him.
“Clarkson,” he whispered. “I need to have a word with you.”
Clearly, he had whispered too softly, because his colleague hadn’t heard him.
“Clarkson!” he repeated, reaching out towards the newspaper and pushing it down.
Clarkson looked up, confused. “Good lord, Billings, are you all right?”
Clarkson’s concerned outcry had been a little louder than Billings would have wanted, and several of the gentlemen sitting in the lobby, including Flynt, turned their heads to look at them.
“I’m fine, Clarkson.” Billings wiped the sweat from his brow again and forced a smile onto his face. “How are you?”
Flynt and the other gentlemen turned their attention back to their newspapers.
“What happened to you?” Clarkson asked, now in a softer, more tactful voice. “You look awful!”
“Come with me to the lavatory,” Billings whispered and got up from his chair.
“Why?”
“Come on!”
Billings walked towards the lavatory and Clarkson followed him reluctantly.
He was standing at the sink, splashing water on his face, when Clarkson entered.
“What’s the matter with you, Billings?” he asked.
“I need you to do something for me.” Billings held some coins out to the lavatory assistant and took a towel from him. “I need you to accompany me to Newington. I have a new lead.” He brought the towel to his face and rubbed it dry. When he put the towel down, he saw Clarkson looking down at his trembling hand.
“What’s wrong with your hand?” he asked.
“I’m trying to quit the morphine.” Billings reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a morphine ampoule. “I only take one dose before going to sleep, but this should help stop the trembling and the sweating.” He pu
lled the cork out of the ampoule, put the ampoule against his nostril and sniffed the fumes.
“Why are you trying to quit?”
Billings paused before answering. He wondered, for a brief moment, whether he should tell Clarkson exactly what had happened. What the morphine had led him to do that night with Westbrook when Kitty died. Would he understand, this gentle, wholesome man who had probably never had a dirty thought in his whole life? Would he look at him differently if he knew about his sordid behaviour? His secret, unnatural desires?
“Because it’s a nuisance,” he said, emptying the morphine into the sink and throwing the ampoule away. “I keep having to buy new ampoules at the chemist, and it’s costing me a fortune. But what I wanted to tell you is that I have found out who she is.”
“Who?”
“The woman who accosted Miss LeFevre this morning. Her name is Aggie Campbell and she lives in Newington.”
Clarkson frowned. “We’re not supposed to interfere with Inspector Thwaite’s investigation.”
“Well, Thwaite is wrong. The woman knows something. We must speak to her.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in clairvoyants.”
“I don’t. But I could see it in the woman’s face when she talked to Miss LeFevre. She knows something, Clarkson. We must at least talk to her. And when she has told us something useful, we can report it back to Thwaite and he can pick it up from there. Come on, Clarkson. You have to come with me. You can see what state I’m in. I can’t do this alone.”
Aggie Campbell lived in an apartment in one of the large orange brick terraces in Salisbury Place. A pleasant, quiet neighbourhood, far removed from the stench and tumult of the Old Town but also far enough from the elegant Georgian buildings and pretty green squares of the New Town. Newington was a middle-class suburb. The windows of the buildings here were not adorned with ornamental masonry. Large, grandiose steps did not lead to the front doors. Wealthy merchants and aristocrats did not set foot here. This was the home of bank clerks, civil servants and shop keepers. The buildings were spacious and practical, but dull.
Billings and Clarkson were standing on the doorstep, waiting for the doorbell to be answered. They heard slow footsteps descend the staircase.
“Who is it?” a small, frail voice asked from within the building.
“Mrs Campbell? I’m Detective Sergeant Billings from…”
Suddenly, the door creaked open and an old woman with locks of grey hair hanging over her face peeped at the detective through the crack. “I meant no harm,” she said.
“I know you didn’t. But we’d like to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“May we come in?”
The woman hesitated. “I’m ill.” She was still holding tightly to the door and peeping at the detective through the crack. “You got me out of bed.”
“It won’t take long.”
“What do you want to talk to me about?”
“Let us in, please, Mrs Campbell.”
Billings’ sudden change of tone had the desired effect. The woman opened the door and stepped aside to let the detectives in.
“I don’t know what you’d want to talk to me about,” she said, tightening her dressing gown around her waist. “I don’t know nothing.”
“Could you take us up to your apartment, please.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to have this conversation with you in the hallway.”
“What conversation?”
“I want to ask you about some things you said to Miss LeFevre this morning.”
“I told you, I meant no harm.”
“Take us to your apartment, please, Mrs Campbell.”
Again, Billings’ commanding tone had the desired effect, and the woman reluctantly started climbing the stairs, beckoning the detectives to follow her. She opened the door to her apartment on the first floor. As soon as she entered, she rushed to the bedroom at the end of the hallway and closed the door, which had been left ajar.
“There’s a nasty draught here,” she said, putting up the collar of her dressing gown and walking back towards the detectives. “Now, what is it you wanted to ask me? Make it quick, please, because I am ill and I need to be in bed.”
“This morning, when you grabbed Miss LeFevre, you mentioned a name. Moira. Who is Moira?”
The woman looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“‘Moira did not deserve such a cruel death’, you said. Who is Moira?”
“Well, it’s Miss LeFevre’s daughter, of course.”
Billings shook his head. “Miss LeFevre’s daughter is called Catherine. Kitty, for short.”
The woman continued to look confused. Her eyes kept darting from Billings to Clarkson. All sorts of thoughts seemed to be rushing through her mind.
“Well?” Billings insisted.
“Well, what?” The woman frowned and shook her head. “So, I was confused. I thought the girl was called Moira. It’s not a crime, is it? To confuse the girl’s name.”
“How did you know about the girl’s death?”
“I read about it in a newspaper.”
“Which newspaper?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t actually buy the paper. I read the headlines on the street.”
“Why do you visit Miss LeFevre every morning at the hotel?”
“Because I feel for her. She’s a guest in this country. She honoured us with her visit and this is how we repay her. By murdering her daughter!”
“How do you know her daughter was murdered?”
Again, the woman looked confused. “Well, she was, wasn’t she?” Her eyes were once more darting all over the place as she reconsidered all she thought she knew. “She was beaten to death in Grindlay Street Court, wasn’t she? At least, that’s what everyone is saying.”
“Why did you think the girl was called Moira?”
“I told you. I was confused.”
“Do you have a daughter called Moira?”
“No.”
“Do you have any children?”
“I have a son.”
She glanced quickly at the room at the end of the hallway as she said this. Billings noticed the fleeting look.
“Where is your son now?” he asked.
“He’s not here. He’s… he’s out.”
“Do you mind if we look around your apartment?”
“Why do you want to look around my apartment?”
“To make sure everything is all right.”
“Of course everything is all right. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You seem nervous and worried.”
“I’m not nervous and worried. I’m ill! I told you that. I need to go back to bed.”
“We’ll just have a quick look around and then we’ll leave you in peace.”
Billings made for the door at the end of the hallway, but the woman grabbed his arm and stopped him.
“You need a warrant if you want to search my home.”
“I don’t want to search your home. I just want to have a look around.”
“You can’t just barge into people’s homes without reason. I know my rights.”
“I did not barge into your home. You invited me in.”
“Well, now I’m asking you to leave.”
“What’s in that room?” Billings pointed at the room at the end of the hallway.
“There’s nothing in there. That’s my son’s room. It’s empty.”
“Where is your son?”
“I told you. He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“None of your business! Now please leave my home.”
“What are you hiding from us?”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“What’s in that room?”
“I told you. There’s nothing in that room.”
“Let me have a look.”
Billings tried pulling his arm away from the woman’s grasp but the woman pulled him back.
“Not without a warrant, you won’t!”
“Clarkson, go see what’s in that room.”
Clarkson headed for the room and the woman rushed to stop him, but she was too late. As soon as Clarkson opened the door, he staggered backwards in shock.
“Good lord, Billings!” He put his hand to his mouth. “Come and take a look at this!”
12. Aggie Campbell
Aggie was sitting at the interview table, her hands cuffed behind her back. She kept staring at her shoes or the cracks of the floor tiles beneath her, avoiding eye contact with Billings and Clarkson, who were sitting on the observer’s bench, waiting for Inspector Thwaite to arrive. The silence in the interview room was almost unbearable. They had been sitting there for nearly half an hour. The only sounds audible were the ticking of Clarkson’s pocket watch and the beating of Billings’ heart. He was nervous. He may well have solved the crime, but the way he had gone about it had been unorthodox, even by his standards. He had no jurisdiction in Edinburgh, he was under suspension and he had explicitly been ordered not to pursue this line of inquiry. Thwaite and Flynt already had it in for him and would now undoubtedly argue that he had jeopardised the whole case. But he knew that he had acted within the law.
Outside footsteps were heard approaching, and the door to the room swung open. Clarkson and Billings sat up. Thwaite appeared in the doorway and took in his surroundings before entering. He saw Aggie Campbell sitting at the table, still staring at the ground. Then he saw Billings and Clarkson sitting on the bench. His brow furrowed.
“What the feck have you gone and done now?” he mumbled as he walked to the table and sat down, daggers shooting from his eyes.
Billings did not reply.
“So what do we have here?” he said, paging through the report in his hands. “Are you Agnes Campbell?”
Aggie did not reply.
“Speak, woman!”
“Yes,” she said, still staring at the ground.
“And you were found holding somebody hostage in your apartment?”
The Campbell Curse Page 13
