No Sorrow To Die

by Gillian Galbraith

  ‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ The DCI spun round, glaring at the young man.

  ‘But the boy’s right, of course,’ the professor said, magisterially. ‘Your average thieving ned, robber and so on, doesn’t cut throats, does he? If disturbed or whatever, he, or they, just grab the nearest weapon…’ He hesitated, looking round the room. ‘Something like that lamp over there or… or the carafe, even. They beat the person to a pulp, don’t they? Beat them about the head. They don’t come, like a surgeon, prepared with a knife.’

  ‘These ones didn’t come prepared either,’ Elaine Bell interjected. ‘They just used what they could find.’

  ‘Even so…’

  ‘And they took stuff, quite a lot of stuff.’

  ‘Could be mementoes of the killing or something like that − who knows?’

  ‘Mementoes! A wallet, a computer, a jewellery box? I don’t think so.’

  ‘All I’m saying,’ the professor answered, gazing at the corpse, ‘is that you’d best keep an open mind, Elaine, hadn’t you? Remember what happened last time? Of course, this might well be the handiwork of an opportunist thief or thieves. But it might, just might, be that of a cold-blooded murderer. I wouldn’t exclude that possibility quite yet.’

  3

  In the interview room at St Leonard’s Police Station shortly before noon, Heather Brodie closed her eyes and tried to gather her wayward thoughts, to concentrate, ensure that she did not speak nonsense or worse. Lying was not easy at the best of times, and this would need to be a good performance. So much depended on it. Below the table, unconsciously, she was rubbing her hands together, washing them in accordance with her nurse training, linking her fingers at the knuckles, locking them and moving them from side to side, engaging her thumbs and then releasing them before starting the endless cycle once more. It was a nervous habit, like the clicking noise her tongue made on the roof of her mouth when she was over-anxious but pretending to be carefree.

  She picked up her cup and took a gulp of tepid tea, trying to focus on her surroundings and the people with her. The stuff was so watery, it could have been China or Indian, it was impossible to tell from the taste.

  ‘Mrs Brodie,’ DCI Bell repeated irritably, trying for a second time to gain her attention. The woman had not appeared to hear a word of the policewoman’s earlier set speech, the routine one apologising for ‘intruding at such a time’, her mind clearly elsewhere.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘As I said before, you left your husband at 4.30 p.m.?’

  ‘No,’ the woman corrected her, forcing her mind to engage. ‘I didn’t leave him then. I last saw him then. I left our flat at more like 6.30 p.m., I think.’

  The Inspector nodded and then looked enquiringly into Heather Brodie’s eyes as if to nudge her into divulging more information. In particular, where she had gone when she left the flat.

  ‘Well,’ Heather Brodie continued, ‘I had plans… had arranged, in fact, to meet up with my sister. We’d intended to go out for a meal, then on to the theatre, and I was going to spend the night with her, but I changed my mind and came home.’

  ‘So what did you do instead?’ the DCI asked, tapping her yellow biro on her cheekbone as she spoke.

  ‘No, that’s what I did do. We went shopping, had a meal and then went on to see the play. But, for some reason, I changed my mind about staying with her, and I came back here instead.’

  ‘Getting home at?’

  ‘At… about 11.30 p.m., I think.’

  ‘Then I expect you looked in on your husband, him being an invalid and all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. Why not?’ The question was posed in a puzzled tone, with an air of false concern.

  ‘I put my head round the door, but I didn’t see him. It was too dark.’

  ‘You could have put a lamp on or something, surely?’ The DCI’s brows were knitted and the speed of her cheek-tapping with the biro had increased.

  ‘Yes, but, to be quite honest, I wasn’t in the mood. I’d already said goodnight earlier. I didn’t want to wake him, and the radio hadn’t been left on, as it sometimes is. I was tired and I wanted to get to my bed.’

  She suppressed an impulse to grab the ever-moving pen from her questioner’s hand.

  ‘When did you last lock the back door? Was it before you left, or when you came back, or the day before or when, exactly?’

  ‘I couldn’t really say. I try to remember to do it every night. My daughter, Ella, is always at me to check it, but it’s just part of my routine. So sometimes I do forget. I know I do. I can’t say when I last checked it. All I can say is that I try to remember to do it every night. Was it open or something?’

  ‘Yes. Does anyone apart from you have keys to the property?’

  ‘Una Reid. My son, Harry, my daughter, Ella, my mother in law… Pippa, my sister, as well. Then they can visit if I’m out. Gavin likes company, needs it, in fact. And I can’t be there all the time, with him always…’ she ended, defensively.

  ‘Your husband’s illness − what was wrong with him?’

  ‘Huntingdon’s Disease. In the old days it used to be called Huntingdon’s Chorea. He’s been virtually bedridden for the last year or so. Hasn’t been able to work for longer than that.’

  ‘What was his work?’

  Silence followed. Heather Brodie did not answer because her attention had drifted once more, she had not heard the question, just as she did not see Thomas Riddell enter the room. Tears were now flowing unchecked down her cheeks, and she had no hankie with her to wipe them away.

  As if aware of the spectacle she was making of herself, she turned her head to the side, humiliated to be seen in such a state by strangers, and pretended to look out of the window. But, with vision blurred, she saw almost nothing of the traffic rattling by on St Leonards Street. Her nose began to run, and just as she was about to break the habits of a lifetime and use the back of her hand, a paper hankie was proffered. Sniffing self consciously, she took it and dabbed her nose and cheeks, alert once more to all the eyes on her. Thomas Riddell removed another hankie from his packet, offered it to her and then changed his mind, passing her the whole packet instead. She blinked her large blue eyes at him to express her gratitude. ‘So, Mrs Brodie,’ the DCI continued. ‘Your husband’s job?’

  ‘He was an accountant. Initially he had his own business in Abercrombie Place. He employed three others. But, well… as the disease progressed things got more and more difficult. In the end it all fell to pieces…’ Her voice tailed off.

  ‘Fell to pieces?’ the Chief Inspector repeated.

  ‘Oh, his concentration went. He was on too many drugs, to stop the movements and so on. One of his clients sued him, something to do with underestimating tax liabilities or something. The woman went bust eventually. She was as mad as a hatter. The insurers handled it all for us, of course, but Gavin took fright. So did I, actually. I thought we’d lose the house, what with the legal expenses and everything.’

  ‘One thing, Mrs Brodie,’ Alice said, as they all rose to go. ‘Why did you change your arrangements, decide not to stay with your sister, I mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind. I just wasn’t in the right mood, I wanted to be back in my own home.’

  At 11 p.m. Alice Rice was still sitting at her desk in the incident room, both hands covering her eyes, feeling almost nauseous with fatigue. She had spent the past few hours staring at her computer screen, reading bulletins on the Scottish Intelligence database. Among the hundreds of opportunist thieves listed on there, only five seemed possible, and only one of those was suspected of having been recently ‘active in the New Town area’ of Edinburgh. He was a nineteen-year-old youth named Billy Wallace, who had rarely seen the inside of his own home, having been in a succession of foster homes, residential schools and penal institutions since the age of eight.

  Tomorrow, she thought, she must become similarly ‘active’, not stealing things but buying th
em. Her lover’s fortieth birthday, and nothing yet in the bag for him, despite his unsubtle reminders and hour upon hour spent in crowded shops seeking, but not finding, inspiration. Time must be made − no, stolen if need be, otherwise Ian would be hurt. A wet suit, maybe or… or what? Too late already to wake him up on his birthday-morning with his present, as she had envisaged.

  Her eye-sockets ached and she was, she knew, no longer thinking clearly. Nonetheless, she turned back to the monitor, ready to try to scan the next page, hoping to achieve something before leaving. As she did so, a bleary-eyed Thomas Riddell returned to the room with DCI Bell bustling behind him, crunching noisily on a barley sugar and almost shooing him onwards with her hands in her impatience to get on. As he was collecting his coat from the back of a chair she said, her mouth still partly full, ‘Alice, did you get the list of Brodie’s prescription drugs from the GP?’

  ‘Yes, it’s on the system now. Plenty of saleable stuff amongst it, too.’

  ‘Right. Any luck with the bulletins yet?’

  ‘Only one real possibility so far, I’m afraid. Someone called Billy Wallace, if that name means anything to you.’

  ‘“Braveheart”? Or “Softheid”, as I prefer to call him.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Mmm. He’s a regular − a junkie,’ she nodded. ‘Anyway, you’d best get home now. You and Eric can see our hero first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Suppose, ma’am, it’s not a thief, like the Prof said,’ Thomas Riddell asked, yawning uncontrollably. ‘Are we any further on, with the loony brigade, I mean?’

  ‘No,’ Bell replied, hesitating as she swallowed the remains of her sweet, ‘we are not. Light-fingered bastards are two a penny, aren’t they? Whereas, fortunately for all of us, your cold-blooded killer’s a much rarer bird. Have you heard whether anything interesting’s turned up from the door to doors in India Street?’

  The large man shook his head and then, with old-fashioned gallantry, held up Alice’s coat for her to put her arms into. Then he lumbered wearily towards the door, putting his hand to his mouth to conceal another huge yawn.

  As soon as he had gone, the DCI asked, ‘D’you know him, Alice? Ever worked with him before?’

  ‘No. Why?’ Alice replied, shaking her head.

  ‘Isn’t he the one that was following Susan Burton around − remember the one she couldn’t shake off, until she managed to wangle a transfer to Fettes?’

  ‘Gollum?’

  ‘I think so. So watch yourself.’

  Monday

  The boy they had come to see was standing behind the bar, drying a white china water jug on a stained dishcloth and whistling to himself. Billy Wallace looked up on their approach, taking them for customers, and a winning smile transformed his sallow face.

  ‘What can I get youse?’ he asked, hanging the cloth over his shoulder, his hand already hovering playfully over the beer taps.

  ‘Nothin’, son,’ DI Eric Manson replied. ‘We just need to speak to you… get a wee bit of information off you.’

  ‘Polis!’ the boy hissed, sounding disgusted ‘I’ve nothin’ tae say tae youse. I dinnae hae tae speak tae youse neither, ye cannae make me,’ and he deliberately turned his back on them and began stacking glasses noisily on a shelf, his sharp, boyish elbows visible below the sleeves of his short-sleeved green shirt.

  ‘Oh?’ Eric Manson said, and his intonation of the single syllable made it quite plain that he thought they could make him.

  ‘Billy! Billy!’ A loud female voice called through a doorway, above which was tacked a sign stating ‘Kitchen Staff Only’

  The boy turned; then, as if he had heard nothing, continued his stacking. Now he speeded up as if he was in a competition, or racing against the clock. A few seconds later, a dumpy woman with dyed plum-coloured hair and a bust straining to escape from a purple and black tartan waistcoat, marched through the doorway, nodded at the two plain-clothes police officers and tapped the boy’s shoulder.

  ‘Billy, did you no’ hear me shoutin’ oan you?’

  ‘Em… no, Elsie,’ he answered her, a look of injured innocence on his face. He continued with his job, studiously ignoring the sceptical expressions directed at him. His lie sounded completely convincing.

  ‘Enjoyin’ yer work tae much, eh, son?’ she laughed good-naturedly. ‘You’ll need tae get oan an serve they customers, eh? Rab says aifter you’ve finished in here you’re tae come an’ help us in the kitchen. There’s a party of fifteen comin’ in fer bar lunches, an office outin’ or somethin’. You’ll be needed tae help wi’ makin’ the soup.’

  The boy nodded, and pinching his cheek affectionately between her fingers and thumb, the woman bustled towards the doorway and disappeared once more.

  ‘So, Billy,’ Eric Manson said, ‘better help us out the now. Right now. We wouldn’t want to have to follow you about the place asking questions as you’re busy chopping the carrots up, eh? Might look a wee bit strange. I wonder if Elsie, or whatever she’s called, knows about you? Your record, I mean, your wee brushes with the law? I bet she’s not aware that you’re a thief, a druggie with a string of previous convictions long enough to hang your boxers on? Or that you’re handy with knives, too – but slicing up people, not veg.’

  Recognising that he was beaten, Billy Wallace looked the Inspector in the face, folded his arms defensively across his narrow chest and said, in a low, desperate voice, ‘Naebody here kens, OK? So dae us a favour an’ make this quick.’

  DI Manson smiled, stretched across the bar and took a bag of peanuts. He made no attempt to pay for them, opened them and then, in a leisurely fashion, trawled his fingers through the bag before picking up a handful and putting it into his mouth. Crunching noisily, he dipped in for more and slowly began feeding himself individual nuts.

  Watching him, the boy looked frantic.

  ‘Where were you on Saturday night, Billy?’ Alice asked, taking pity on him.

  ‘Ma nicht aff, Saturdays,’ he answered immediately, sniffing loudly and wiping his nose with the side of his hand. ‘I’m always aff Saturday nichts.’

  ‘What did you do on your night off?’

  ‘A little light housebreaking, perhaps?’ Eric Manson interjected, his voice slurred with masticated peanuts. Ignoring the remark, the boy continued. ‘Eh… I wis in ma ain hoose, playin’ oan ma gameboy ’n’ that, then I watched a couple o’ DVDs.’

  A man with glazed eyes and skin as dry as paper slumped onto the bar stool at Alice’s elbow, and crooked a nicotine-stained finger at Billy several times. Getting no response, he thumped the bar with his fist. As he did so, little snowflakes of dandruff sprinkled on his shoulders, a few cascading down his greasy, orange anorak and landing on his fleshless thighs.

  ‘Billy!’ he shouted ‘Shift yer airse. Ah’m wantin’ a drink ower here.’

  First catching Alice’s eye, the boy moved along the bar until he was directly opposite the new customer and pulled him a pint of Tartan Special, then set it in front of him. No sooner had the glass made contact with the coaster than it was raised to the drinker’s mouth. Kissing its edge theatrically, he began to pour it down his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down rhythmically as he did so. As Billy turned back towards the police officers, his young face now contorted with anxiety, the man took a breath and said crossly, ‘An’ ma chaser son – mind ma chaser.’

  Billy placed the measure of Bells next to the half-empty beer glass and the customer rose unsteadily from his stool, a drink in either hand, and set out for a table, drawn to an old copy of the Daily Record lying on it.

  ‘All evening – you spent the whole night in?’ Alice asked the boy.

  ‘Aye.’ He sniffed again.

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Naw’

  ‘Who was with you?’

  ‘Ma girlfriend, Tracey.’

  ‘Tracey what? Where does she live?’

  ‘Wi’ me… in ma flat in Drylaw. She’s there the now. She wis washin’ her hair.�
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  ‘Maybe that’s what she’ll say,’ Eric Manson cut in, shaking his head in disbelief, and adding in a loud voice, ‘she’ll say that you were with her. But know what I think? I think it’s all rubbish. I think you cannae kick the habit, that you’ve been up to your old tricks lately, Billy boy.’

  Grinning now with false bonhomie, he helped himself to a stray bowl of last night’s Bombay mix and chewed a mouthful slowly, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the boy. Never shifting his gaze, he took another handful and inadvertently put a used matchstick into his mouth, crunched it, then grabbed a paper napkin and spat the mouthful onto it.

  ‘Naw, I’ve not,’ the boy answered, his face contorted with disgust at Manson’s eating habits, forgetting to pretend that he did not know what his old tricks might be.

  ‘I heard,’ the inspector continued, wiping saliva from the edge of his lips with the soiled napkin, ‘that you nipped into a flat in St Stephen’s Street a couple of weeks ago – you and one of your wee pals, maybe?’

  ‘Nah,’ the boy began, shaking his head. ‘I’m clean. I’ve a job now. I dinnae need tae knock oaf other folk’s stu…’ but he never completed his sentence, stopping the instant he caught sight of the manageress’s burly figure bearing down on him, a scowl on her face.

  ‘No’ finished in here yet, son?’ she asked. Then tipping her head in the direction of the two police officers, she added, ‘Who’re they? They pals of yours or somethin’? They’re no’ drinkin’. They holdin’ you up?’

  Billy Wallace threw a pleading glance at the officers, begging them to remain silent. Eric Manson winked at him, as if to say he had got the message, then replied to the woman, ‘No, we’re not pals of his, dear. And we can’t take a drink… not whilst we’re on duty, you understand.’

  In Wallace’s spotless council flat in Wester Drylaw Avenue, Tracey nodded her slick, black ponytail up and down and said: ‘He was wi’ me – like what he said.’