Blood In The Water

by Gillian Galbraith

  ‘I made it myself, you know. I do pottery though I’m a painter really,’ Cohen volunteered.

  Nature had not been kind to Roderick Cohen. He was pale and plump, and despite his evident middle age, his face was disfigured by a patch of red, angry-looking acne. He had lank, greasy hair and the beginnings of male-pattern baldness, producing in him a high oleaginous forehead terminating in a Draculaesque widow’s peak.

  ‘To business, Mr Cohen,’ Alice said authoritatively. ‘I think that on the evening of Thursday 1st December you had a drink in the Raeburn Inn?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Could you be a little more precise, Mr Cohen? Can you recall whether or not you were there that Thursday evening?’

  ‘I am there most evenings, but, yes, I think that I was probably there that Thursday.’

  ‘Did you see anyone you knew?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Sorry, what do you mean?’

  ‘As I am there most evenings I know most of the staff and regulars.’ He smiled triumphantly.

  ‘Can you recall whether you saw Ian Melville that evening?’ Alice ploughed on.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, you can recall or yes, you saw him?’

  ‘Oh Sergeant, you’re so sharp! Yes, I can recall I saw Ian Melville that evening.’

  ‘He’s a friend of yours?’

  ‘Sort of. He’s a bit of a babe-magnet, so I usually go and see him if he comes in. You know, get the crumbs from his table.’

  ‘Had you arranged to meet that night?’

  ‘No. He came in and I gravitated towards him.’

  ‘Can you recall when he came in?’

  ‘Now, that is difficult. I wasn’t completely plastered, so it’d probably be early evening. Maybe seven or eight.’

  ‘When did he leave?’

  ‘I have no idea. I left before him.’

  ‘When did you leave?’

  ‘At about nine, I think. I went to a club, I remember that alright! Do you ever go clubbing, Sergeant?’ It sounded unpleasantly like an invitation.

  ‘No,’ she responded firmly, noticing with horror that the slight show of authority had, if anything, widened the ever-present grin that seemed to have been tattooed onto his face. The grin vanished only when an old lady shuffled into the kitchen, clad in a bathrobe and slippers, and replaced her mug on one of the units.

  ‘Mother, if I were to say to you, go away, important business is being conducted in here, how would you respond?’ Cohen spat angrily at his parent.

  ‘I’d say bog-off, Roderick,’ the old dear responded cheerily, before exiting in her over-large mules.

  Unflustered by the public rout, Cohen returned his attention to Alice.

  ‘And, Sergeant, if I were to say to you, would you like to see my studio, how would you respond?’

  Alice managed to bite back her immediate, truthful reaction and substituted instead an inoffensive, anodyne one.

  ‘Very kind…’ she lied, ‘…unfortunately, I’ve no time. I’m expected back at the station about now.’

  So saying she rose, and as she did so Cohen did too, somehow effortlessly managing to intrude into her personal space and transfix her with his glassy, fish eyes. The smell of garlic became overpowering. Stepping backwards to recover the distance between them she walked out of the kitchen and down the corridor that led to the exit. An open door on the right revealed Cohen’s studio, and she noticed, to her amazement, that the walls were covered in exquisite seascapes, all of places she knew: Tyninghame beach, Fidra, the Bass Rock, the view seawards from Tantallon, all in delicately executed water colours. A wonderful collection, catching light on water, the movement of the sea and the translucence of shallow waves.

  ‘These are yours?’ she said, unable to hide her surprise.

  ‘Of course, what were you expecting?’

  Out of kindness she lied again, making no reference to the mud-coloured female nudes she’d anticipated, and said only, ‘Oil paintings.’

  Elaine Bell’s office was thick with the odour of Friar’s Balsam, and as Alice entered it the DCI was coughing, like a dying consumptive, down the telephone receiver. As she listened to her caller she wrenched a cough mixture bottle off the sticky ring on her desk to which it was attached, removed the cap with the fingers of one hand and poured out a measure.

  ‘No, please just tell them we’re saying nothing, we’ve nothing to say, they’ll get all the information they’re going to get at the press conference.’

  She looked up at Alice while listening to the response, and then finished the call. ‘Over and out, Charlie. I repeat, please tell them just to be there, because they are getting nothing from any of us, on the record or off the record.’ Stopping only to down the cough mixture she immediately turned her attention to her Detective Sergeant.

  ‘Alice. Good. I needed to see you. A press conference at Fettes has been arranged for four pm and I’m supposed to produce the first draft of the statement, for revision by the press office, and I’ve not the time at the moment. Anyway, you’re a graduate, so you’ll be good at this kind of thing, and the one you did for the Muirhouse rape was excellent. The brass are desperate to make it sound as if we’re making progress, though God knows we’re not. I think you should attend the press conference too. The Assistant Chief Constable’s in the hot seat this time instead of me, thankfully. Charlie at HQ wants a statement as soon as possible, and I’ve got to brief the boss on any development so that he’s not eaten alive. How did you get on with the QC’s widow?’

  ‘A lot of useful stuff. In particular, it seems that the victims, Clarke and Pearson, did know each other…’ Alice’s speech was interrupted by another telephone call, and the DCI picked up the receiver while handing her a sheaf of notes and gesturing towards the door. She left willingly, her eyes now beginning to water from the pungent vapour, glad to return to her desk.

  The draft release was, in its way, a masterpiece, containing lots of material but no real information. No reference could be made to the identical modus operandi or the presence of the scraps of paper in case special knowledge was needed at the trial or any copycats were spawned. Reference could be made to the existence of a suspect, but the fact that he roamed free and had not been arrested betrayed the lack of any confidence that he was responsible for the killings. In the absence of further investigations nothing could be said about any connection between any of the victims, and the fingerprint evidence had proved unhelpful so far. Consequently, only its existence, as opposed to its usefulness, could be mentioned.

  Thus, Assistant Chief Constable Body was sent naked into battle or, at least, to swim with sharks. The creatures had already smelt the blood, seen the dancing trail of flesh particles and were intent upon finding the source and ripping out great mouthfuls of meat. Elaine Bell would have survived the ordeal; she had a world-weary charm that most of the press understood and appreciated, and was an acknowledged mistress of the non-offensive stonewall. She could do it beautifully, and the journalists seemed to accept that it was a legitimate stroke in their game, sanctioned by the rules and executed by a professional. She would have flannelled on about positive continuing investigations, the fact that a suspect existed, the need for co-operation and the assistance of the public and, crucially, it being ‘early days’. Her pale face and hoarse voice might even have elicited sympathy in the few who had retained some human feeling. All her limbs and appendages would have been intact on leaving the water, even if nightmares followed the experience.

  Laurence Body functioned well within a hierarchy, where everyone knows their place and deference is due to those above from those below, and where gold braid rather than brains can end an argument. But he was quite unable to cope with the free-for-all that the press conference became. He read his prepared statement in a monotone and then, looking anxiously at the faces assembled before him, invited questions. The first blow was struck by the giantess.

  ‘So, at present, no real leads and no sound suspe
cts?’

  Body, brows furrowed, attempted to explain that this was simply an absurd summary of the information provided, as she would appreciate on re-reading the copy statement supplied. Mitchell then lunged for the jugular with an enquiry about any connection between the killings, or the absence of any connection, and the possibility that a serial murderer was on the loose in Scotland’s capital, free to slay again. The large conference room was hushed as the Assistant Chief Constable responded.

  ‘A connection between the killings has not been ruled out at this stage or… er… ruled in. Whilst, obviously, multiple victims are involved, there is nothing to suggest that a serial killer is… er… on the loose.’

  And so it went on, with Body blustering away at one minute, reduced to silence the next, until, to the relief of those who disliked blood sports, the coup de grâce was administered by a confident operator from The Times.

  ‘So, the probability is that the killer remains at large. One who has struck three times in the last ten days. No one has come forward as a witness to any of the crimes. No useful forensic leads currently exist. No suspects have been arrested. Would that be an accurate summary of the state of the investigation to date? If not, perhaps, you would like to take this opportunity to correct it.’

  Body made no response. Instead he ostentatiously collected his papers, switched off his microphone and acted, to all intents and purposes, as if no question had been asked. Following a whispered conference with his neighbour, an underling was despatched to switch the microphone back on and announce, to the stunned gathering, that the time allocated for the question session had now expired.

  9

  Monday, 12th December

  The report from Stratheden was nowhere to be found. Elaine Bell’s hand scrabbled through the chaotic sheets of paper on her desk, searching frantically for it. Before jamming the phone between her head and her shoulder, she unclipped one sheet from another, read the lower one to herself and, sighing with relief, picked up the phone again, ready to speak.

  ‘I’ve got it now, Sir. I have to say that neither of the DCs who went to the hospital gained the impression from the staff that they considered Peter Bennett to be capable of the crimes we’re concerned with, despite his past record with knives. However, I do accept that he was out at the time of the McBryde killing. They say he suffers from…’, she looked down at the sheet of paper and then continued, ‘…“severe personality disorder”, and about ten years ago attempted to cut a woman’s throat. Since then he’s been on a high dose of tranquillising drugs, shuttling between Fife and Carstairs and receiving “cognitive and behavioural therapies”, whatever they are. The doctors seem to think that he’s safe now, at least as far as others are concerned. The worst thing he’s done of late is to pour a bowl of his own bodily fluids over a fellow inmate. The shrink in charge is a Dr Nicholson. I’ll get the number for you from Holmes and fax on the report he…’ She stopped, listening to a lecture from the other end, and then finished her sentence ‘…sent to me, to you at HQ. Of course, I’ll accord this part of the investigation top priority, Sir.’

  Putting down the phone she held her head in her hands, closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. Everyone was working flat out, every stone was being turned and now, somehow, men had to be found to traipse back over the Forth Bridge to check up on a loony who could not possibly be responsible for the Clarke or Pearson deaths, even if his M.O. did include throat-slitting. Thy will be done, anything to keep the brass off her back. She picked up a packet of paracetamol and looked at her watch. Another fifty minutes to go before any relief from the next duo of tablets, fever or no fever.

  Alice knocked on the Chief Inspector’s door and edged in without waiting for a summons.

  ‘Yes?’ Bell said wearily, looking up at her.

  ‘I have some news that could be described as good, I think, Ma’am.’

  ‘Go on, Alice.’

  ‘Well, as I said before, Alastair and I visited Laura Pearson and got some useful stuff. She was in a bit of a state, so we didn’t get that much from her directly, but she gave us the name of a good friend of her husband, Alan Duncan, a Silk. He was extremely helpful, telling us that about five or six years ago Pearson and Clarke were lovers and were both involved in a road traffic accident which resulted in the death of a child. It seems to me that the parents of the child might want their blood, mightn’t they? Duncan also said that Laura Pearson must have known about the affair between Clarke and her husband, but she told us, point blank, that her husband didn’t know Elizabeth Clarke. To be fair, she was pretty emotional at the time, but we’ll have to go back and see what’s going on.’

  ‘I agree, Alice, but you’ll have to tread very carefully. I’ve already had my ear bent as a result of a complaint from Pearson’s mother-in-law to the Assistant Chief Constable. She says that you treated her daughter as a suspect and harried her. All we need now is an official one…’

  ‘But it’s bollocks! Complete bollocks. If that’s how Mrs Winter imagines suspects are treated then she can’t have read a book, been to a film or watched television for decades. The spoilt old witch…’

  ‘Alright, Sergeant, alright. Calm down, I believe you,’ Elaine Bell pacified her subordinate. ‘Just remember, please, that we’re treading on eggshells as far as the Pearsons are concerned. I’ve got enough on my plate without thunderbolts from on high directed at us by the old… dear. There are some in the force, as you know, whose day, no, whose week, would be made if that kind of cock-up were to occur, and I, for one, would rather not find myself teaching road sense to under fives or comforting battered wives again. Now, I think you and Alastair should go to Fettes to check up on the road traffic accident. OK?’

  ‘I can. Alastair can’t as he’s off ill, mild flu or something, but he should be back tomorrow with luck.’

  ‘Go with Sandy Moray then.’

  ‘He’s off too, Ma’am. Flu.’

  The clerk from the records department at Fettes deposited a large pink file on the desk, apologising as she did so that the computers were still down, and explaining that the IT department had it in hand. Alice leafed through the file, extracting black and white photographs of the accident locus and a hand-drawn plan showing the locations of the vehicles from a bird’s eye view. A black cross marked the impact site, the spot where the child had fallen, and the cars involved were represented as rectangles. Stapled to the front was a typed statement, date-stamped 3rd June 2000, given by David Pearson:

  ‘Statement by David Pearson, Advocate, ‘Drumlyon’, Merchiston Place, Edinburgh, given to PC Jay No. 5220. On 3rd June 2000 I was a passenger in a BMW car, registration no. PSG 555, driven by Dr Elizabeth Clarke and heading from Gullane to Edinburgh. At about four pm in the afternoon we entered Macmerry on the old A1 road. As we approached a stationary ice-cream van, parked opposite a 30-mph sign, a child ran out from the front of the vehicle. Dr Clarke immediately braked and swerved towards the centre of the road, but she was unable to avoid colliding with the child. We got out of the car and Dr Clarke attempted to minister to the child. The boy was unconscious and lying on the road. I believe that immediately prior to impact, and after applying her brakes, Dr Clarke was travelling at about 20 mph or so. Visibility was then good and the road conditions were dry. Before he emerged from the front of the van the child was not visible.’

  A statement from Dr Clarke was attached to it, couched in similar bland police prose, although the consultant provided a fuller description of the circumstances of the accident, noting:

  ‘…I saw the stationary ice-cream van from quite a distance away and was aware of the potential risk to children on a main road. Accordingly, I reduced my speed to about 15 mph. Just before I reached the midway point of the van I noticed a child running from the bonnet area across my path. I immediately applied my brakes and swerved to the right but I was unable to avoid striking the boy. I stopped the car and ran to the child. He was lying face upwards and was unconscious. I was unable to feel any pul
se and noted a large contusion on the child’s forehead. A haematoma had already begun to appear in that area and I formed the view that he had probably suffered a skull fracture. I ensured that he was not moved until the ambulance arrived…’

  The date stamp was also 3rd June 2000. Two additional accounts were contained in a brown envelope, one given by the driver of the ice-cream van, a Mr Royston, another from a woman who had been walking her dog at the scene, a Mrs McIntyre. Both witnesses stressed that, in their opinions, the driver of the car was not going too fast, estimating her speed at about 15-20 mph, and emphasising that she stood no chance of taking avoiding action. Mrs McIntyre stated that she blamed the boy’s parents and that children of his age should not be allowed out unaccompanied to cross roads. Mr Royston described the boy as ‘just a wee laddie’, noting that he was ‘too young to be out alone’.

  The accident investigation form revealed that the child had been aged five and was called Daniel David Spurgeon. His parents were listed as Ian Spurgeon and Jane MacVie, and an address at ‘Redbyres Farm Cottage, Macmerry’ was provided. In the middle of the file was a typewritten statement by Elizabeth Spurgeon of No. 4, Paton Road, Macmerry. She described herself as the dead boy’s ‘gran’, and said that Daniel had been staying with her following some sort of row between his parents. She had been responsible for her grandson on the day of his death, and he had been crossing the road with his ice cream in order to return to her home. On the back of the file was stamped, in black ink, ‘No prosecution’, and as Alice was returning it to the counter clerk, a photograph fell out of it onto the floor. It showed a little boy, auburn-haired, freckled, smiling widely at the camera and exposing his crooked little milk teeth. She picked it up, dusted it and slipped it back into the folder, wishing she had never seen it.