Having answered their question, she leaned back in the leather settee where a small, dark-featured man sat next to her, and returned her attention to her crisps and the television.
‘How do you know he told us that?’ Eric Manson demanded, a complacent smile playing on his lips as he stood, legs apart, towering over the seated girl.
‘Well… he would, wouldn’t he, if you’d asked him.’
‘But how d’you know we asked him anything?’ the inspector shot back. ‘He phoned you, eh? Told you we’d been round. Told you what to say and all.’
‘Funnily enough, “officer”, I didnae come up the Clyde oan a banana boat. Ye’re asking aboot him, aren’t ye? No me, really, no interested in me are ye? I am right aboot that, eh? So, ye’ll have asked him first. That’s how it works, how it aye works. An’ no, fer the record, like, he didnae phone me.’
‘All night? He was here, with you, all night?’ Alice asked, but her voice was drowned out by the sound of excited applause from the studio audience on the TV.
‘You were together all night?’ she repeated loudly.
‘Aye! What dae ye think I am? Think I’d sneak aff in the middle o’ the night tae sleep wi’ somebody else or somethin’? The fuckin’ cheek o’ it!’
‘They botherin’ you, chick?’ the ferrety little man sitting beside the girl asked, raising his eyes from the screen to look menacingly at the two officers.
‘Naw,’ she replied idly, drawing deeply on her cigarette and flicking the snake’s tail of ash into her empty coffee cup.
‘’Cause if they are,’ the man said, putting his arm around her and fixing Eric Manson’s eyes with his own bloodshot gaze, ‘I’ll just ask them to leave… politely like.’
‘Is there anyone who saw you and Billy here, on the Sunday night?’ Alice persisted.
‘Aye,’ the girl answered sarcastically, rolling her eyes at the stupidity of the question.
‘Who?’
‘Him,’ she said, tweaking the fingers of the hand that was resting on her fleshy arm.
‘“Him”? Sorry, but who is “him”? I mean what’s his name?’
‘Him. Meet ma lodger, Mr Ecky… naw, Mr Alistair Cockburn – pronounced “Coburn”,’ she giggled, adding, ‘the cock’s silent, see?’
‘Ma cockle doodle you…’ the ferret guffawed, stroking the girl’s ponytail.
‘You can confirm that Billy Wallace was here all night?’
‘Aye, you’ve ma word oan it… as a gentleman,’ the man replied, laughing, his eyes back on the screen, pressing a button on the remote control and changing channels.
Catching sight of the clock in the Astra in which they were travelling, Alice asked her companion if the time shown was correct. Eric Manson nodded, but said nothing, his mind miles away, thinking of events earlier that day. What was his wife playing at? She had got up before him, dressed, and by the time he had wandered, sleepy-eyed, into the kitchen, she was already on the phone to someone. When she saw him, the smile on her face froze and she whispered, ‘That’s Eric. Got to go.’
When he questioned her she became angry with him, telling him to mind his own business, remarking crossly that she was not one of his suspects. Really, she wasn’t behaving like the Margaret he knew at all. And nowadays she was always out, had some excuse or other for evenings away, jaunts taken here, there and everywhere, but always without him.
‘Bugger!’ Alice said.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said, the concern in her voice interrupting his train of thought.
‘I was supposed to be at the mortuary at twelve with the DCI.’
‘Phone them. Tell them that we’re running late but we’re on our way.’
‘They’ll be all togged up, gloved up… probably left their phones in the changing room. Would you mind putting your foot down, Sir?’
‘No problem, pet, but I reckon it’s past praying for. We can be there in fifteen… no, make that thirteen minutes.’ And so saying, he clamped the blue light onto the roof of the car and pressed down hard on the accelerator. They sped down Ferry Road, overtaking a juggernaut on Inverleith Row before screeching straight over the roundabout at Canonmills, just managing to jump an amber light from Broughton Street onto York Place, siren screaming like a banshee and drawing the attention of all the passers-by. North Bridge passed in a flash, then they jinked eastwards, in short bursts, turning left down the Mile, rumbling over the cobbles down to St Mary’s Street past the Ben Line Building and, finally, entering the sunless corridor of the Cowgate.
By the time they bumped to a halt, Alice was feeling thoroughly shaken up and on edge, expecting a bollocking from the DCI for her lateness and still seeing in her mind’s eye the face of the startled pedestrian who was brushed by their car mirror at a zebra crossing. But adrenalin was coursing through her driver’s veins, making him bubble with excitement and goodwill, his earlier anxieties temporarily banished by the rush. Eleven minutes!
Shouting her thanks, she dashed from the car, only to find herself blocked at the entry-phone. There she waited for a few more precious minutes, stamping her feet impatiently on the greasy tarmac, the urgency in her voice insufficient to persuade the man on the door to adopt anything other than his usual sloth’s pace. He knew her, of course, and could see her on the CCTV monitor, but there were procedures to be followed, otherwise any Tom, Dick or Harry might gain access to the place. She caught the DI’s eye as he sat, engine revving intermittently to warm the air, waiting for her in case she had missed the show completely. Watching her, he shook his head slowly in disbelief at her treatment.
When, finally, the heavy black door opened, Elaine Bell came striding out, pulling on her coat as she walked. Seeing Alice she said tersely, ‘Fat lot of use you are now. The party’s over. The parcel’s open, the cake’s been cut. So, where the hell have you been?’
‘Billy Wallace had an alibi – his girlfriend. We had to check it out.’
‘And my calls? Why didn’t you answer them?’
An angry red line encircled Elaine Bell’s brow from the over-tight paper cap she had worn in the mortuary, and as she spoke, she distractedly fingered its contour with the tips of her fingers.
‘I never got any calls, there can’t have been any reception. I’m sorry, Ma’am.’
‘You didn’t have to go to check it out there and then, you could have waited until after the P.M., couldn’t you?’
‘Seemed safer to follow it up. Wallace told us that she was in the flat, if we’d waited she might have gone out.’
‘Alright, alright. Fine. What did she have to say?’
‘She said that he was with her, but I’m not convinced. I’ve checked with Alistair and she’s got form too. A junkie, in and out of Cornton Vale like a yo-yo, so she knows the ropes. She might say almost anything. How did you get on with the Professor?’
‘Never mind that now. Is that Eric, sitting wasting time, twiddling his thumbs in the car?’ asked the DCI, looking up at the grey sky and holding out her palms to catch the first few drops of rain.
‘Mmm.’
‘Good. He can take us back to the station. I want to speak to the whole squad – before lunch.’
Elaine Bell paced up and down while addressing her team, her notebook open and held at arm’s length as she squinted at it with her longsighted eyes.
‘Let me see… well, McConnachie wasn’t prepared to stick his neck out, as bloody usual, so we’ve a window of nine hours at the moment. Time of death sometime between 4.30 pm, when the victim was last seen alive, and 2 or 3 am.’
‘Why such a long period?’ Alistair Watt asked, crossing his long legs.
‘“Little rigor mortis, but a very thin corpse”, it says here. God only knows.’
‘And the cause of death?’ DI Manson asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
‘Cause is… “exsanguination”. The poor bastard bled to death, hence his colourless appearance – and the spray-paint on the walls, of course.’
She turned over the page and stared
hard at it, screwing up her eyes and trying to make out her own brief notes, then mumbled, ‘He said “wound inflicted from front… starting on left”, so the attacker’s probably left-handed… “complete transaction” – sorry, “transection of right jugular and common carotid”.’
‘The missing kitchen-knife?’ Alice asked, her tummy rumbling in anticipation of lunch.
‘He said “a sharp-ended thing”, which I think’s his usual code for a knife. Toxicology’s to follow, but even that’s going to be problematic, apparently, because there was so little blood left in the man’s system. So, they’ll have to analyse bits of the heart and liver as well,’ she added, closing her notebook decisively with a businesslike snap.
‘That’s it?’ DI Manson said, in a tone of disbelief.
‘That’s it, yes, all we’ve got. They may be able to firm up on the time of death after they’ve done a stomach contents. Otherwise, that’s it for now at least.’
‘So, Wallace’s got an alibi then has he?’ DC Littlewood mused, leaning back on his seat, his hands clasped over his rounded belly, and looking enquiringly at Alice.
‘An alibi worth doodly squat, or, as we might say, fuck all,’ Eric Manson butted in. ‘It consists of Tracey’s word, backed up by the boy’s favourite partner in crime.’
‘True enough,’ the DCI said wearily, ‘it’s not worth much, but for the moment he’s our only lead. No report back from the lab as yet. And you’ve still got nothing from the door-to-doors, eh, Alistair?’
DS Alistair Watt shook his head. ‘Nothing so far. Saturday was a pretty hellish night, weather-wise, everybody seems to have been tucked up indoors with their tellies. Uniforms are re-doing the whole area in case they manage to catch someone new in, but so far, nothing. The dogs have been all round India Street, the Jamaica Street lanes and Gloucester Lane and Terrace, but they’ve drawn a blank too.’
‘What about Una Reid, the man’s carer, has she been tracked down? Until we find her, we don’t even know when, precisely, he was last seen alive.’
‘Nope,’ the sergeant shook his head. ‘Her flat’s deserted, apparently she’s away for a few days – somewhere in the Aberdeen area. But her work have no idea where exactly, and nor does Heather Brodie.’
Back in her office, Elaine Bell gazed out of her window, her attention caught briefly by a man on Arthur’s Seat trailing a kite behind him, its tail writhing sinuous as a snake while it rose slowly heavenwards, caught by a gust of wind. Sighing, she moved back to her desk. She had already passed such news as there was on to the Superintendent, desperately trying to dress up the truth to make it sound less feeble.
But when he heard the update, unimpressive despite her best efforts, her superior had sounded positively pleased. Of course, it made perfect sense. Disliking her as heartily as he did, and due to retire in less than five months, news like this was music to his oversized ears. After all, what would be more likely to stymie her prospects of promotion to his post than an unsuccessful murder investigation?
Thinking about him and his malevolence towards her, the findings of the review team on the Dyce killing came to mind, and as she reflected on them she unconsciously started to chew her bottom lip. Yes, she had missed one line of enquiry on it, that was undeniable, but it had made no difference whatsoever to the end result. They had still got their man, hadn’t they? And the brass knew that too, and would put it down on her tab. But, she thought, a sudden, uncharacteristic doubt assailing her, maybe I am losing my touch. Perhaps I’m not as sharp as I was, and Chief Inspector is my limit – my ceiling. Perhaps this is it, as far as I can go.
D.C. Littlewood put his head round the door and waggled a long brown envelope at her. ‘A present from the Super,’ he said brightly, as he handed it over. The second he left the room she tore it open. Her eyes scanned the first page of her annual appraisal hungrily, but halfway down it, a feeling of dread had begun to overwhelm her, making her stomach churn and her mouth feel dry. But by the time she had worked her way to the end of the document, her mood had changed again and she was incensed, almost trembling with fury. It was outrageous. The bastard had finally done it, shown his true colours, and well and truly shafted her in the process.
‘Fuck!’ she said out loud, throwing the papers onto her desk in disgust. The report was late, as always, but had not been prepared in haste. Its author had carefully chosen his words in order to produce the perfect hatchet-job. The appraisal narrated dutifully all that she had accomplished, conscientiously listed all her responsibilities and skills, and made it plain that she had achieved only what was asked of her, and not a jot more. It told everyone that there was nothing exceptional about her, that she had no outstanding qualities, and that she fulfilled only the most basic requirements of a Chief Inspector’s post. And by its excessive restraint, its glaring omissions, it trumpeted to the world her professional inadequacy. The promotion board would likely take one glance at it and then drop it on the ‘Not to Be Interviewed’ pile.
Thinking of the fight ahead of her, of all the time she would have to spend trying to overturn his conclusions, Elaine covered her face with her hands. Every second was precious, needed for the investigation in hand, and her energy was in short supply. And he knew that too.
‘Ma’am?’ Alice said, stopping by the open door but, on seeing the distraught figure, reluctant to enter.
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve just heard that a man called Norman Clerk was released from Carstairs about a month ago. He was in for slitting the throat of an old lady. He comes from Edinburgh and his victim lived in the city too.’
‘Why was he put in the bin rather than the jail?’ Elaine Bell asked, her face still hidden.
‘Supposedly he was schizophrenic. Eric says he remembers the case. Clerk cut the old lady’s throat but claimed that a voice had ordered him to do it or something. He told me all about it.’
‘And he’s cured?’
‘Apparently.’
‘And he’s back in the city now?’ the DCI said, straightening up and uncovering her face.
‘Somewhere in the Haymarket area. Eric’s busy tracking down his address.’
‘Well, we’ve nothing to lose, have we?’ the DCI replied, almost jauntily. ‘Go and see him, talk to him, get a handle on him. This minute. If nothing else, the timing’s right, and it might, it just might, be more than coincidence. Take Tom Littlewood with you.’
4
Chewing on her scotch pie, Alice walked along Morrison Street with the rotund constable trotting beside her, his short, denim-clad legs taking two strides to her every one. He was busily explaining to her how to make the perfect beef madras, unaware that, above the roar of the traffic, she could only catch occasional isolated words like ‘fenugreek’ and then, a little later, ‘scotch bonnet’.
As they crossed the junction with Dewar Place, a gust of chill wind hit her, sending a crumpled sheet of newsprint in the gutter spiralling upwards towards her head, and she dodged it, accidentally dropping her pie onto the pavement. She cursed, but her companion said smugly, ‘Better for you,’ taking his last mouthful of sushi and wiping his lips.
Turning eastwards, they crossed the busy road, dodging between the lanes of speeding traffic, heading for the blackened tenement building on the corner. Once there, they began hunting for ‘Clerk’ among the dozens of names on the doorbells. A young man wheeled his bicycle out of the main door, allowing Alice to walk into the common stair, and she signalled as she did so for her colleague to follow. In the absence of any glimmers of sunlight, the air inside seemed, if possible, colder and damper than that outside on the street, and she shivered, pulling the ends of her coat together and wishing it had not lost all its buttons.
‘Here’s an “R. Clerk” the DC said excitedly, his knuckles raised to knock on the door. She shook her head. ‘Norman Arthur Clerk’, the conviction sheet had said, so they continued upwards, checking every landing until on the third floor she saw a scrap of paper tacked onto the lintel with ‘N
. A. CLERK’ written on it in large, uneven capitals. The door itself had the word ‘Nonce’ hacked into it with the blade of a knife. Standing there, they exchanged glances.
‘What a depressing hole,’ the constable remarked, absentmindedly dropping his empty sushi packet onto the stone floor where it joined the rest of the litter. The air trapped in the tenement smelt of stale, fried food, and flakes of cream paint were peeling off the ancient piping that snaked along its walls. Someone had taken the trouble to splash purple gloss paint onto the ceiling, and a few shiny stalactites hung down from it.
‘If this is him, let’s go in, eh?’ Tom Littlewood said, eager to get on and finish the job, get out of the building and back out into Torphichen Street and daylight.
She nodded again, but said nothing, still trying to gather her thoughts and work out what she would ask the man. This might be their one and only chance. While she was still deep in thought, the door opened and their quarry appeared, his hand on the shoulder of an ancient crone, her spine so crooked that she could see nothing but the floor in front of her.
Looking directly at the police officers, he whispered, ‘Bye, bye, Mum,’ and released her to teeter towards the banister, which she gripped with a bony claw before looking anxiously down at the flights of stone stairs she would have to descend. Keeping his gaze fixed on Alice, Clerk nodded his head in the direction of his flat and said, ‘Come on in. Your Inspector Manson told me the pair of you would be coming.’
A Sidney Devine record was playing on an old-fashioned gramophone. Clerk lowered the volume just enough to produce background music, before sitting down and raising a cloud of talcum powder from the seat of his chair, further scenting the already unsavoury air. Coughing theatrically, he fanned it away with his hands. Looking at them, Alice noticed how pudgy they were, his fingers like large, pale sausages. As he stared at her expectantly, he absent-mindedly conducted the music, jerking his thick forefingers to and fro in time with the beat. He was middle-aged and plump, thick cushions of flesh rippling when he moved, so that he reminded her, in his tight pink pullover, of an oversized marshmallow.
No Sorrow To Die Page 4