Now deep in thought, he closed his jaws on the biro, accidentally biting into it and splitting its plastic casing into smithereens in his mouth. He tried to spit the tiny fragments out, but a few obstinate ones stuck to his tongue. As he attempted to remove them with his fingers, the young policewoman entered the room and sat down opposite him, catching him in the act. A couple of seconds later, the middle-aged man joined them, muttering gruffly as he sat down, ‘On you go, Alice, love…’
‘Can you tell me where you were from about six o’clock onwards last Saturday, the day before yesterday, Mr Livingstone?’ the woman asked, watching him as he wiped his sticky fingers on the shoulders of his leather jacket.
‘Eh?’ he answered, still trying to remove a stray splinter from his mouth and genuinely taken aback by the question. This was not one that he had expected, and he had no answer planned for it. She repeated it, her eyes on his fingers as he examined them for bits of pen.
‘Em… I was at home with ma wife, Frankie – I think.’ That would have to do for now.
‘Have you ever been to the house of a Mr Gavin Brodie in India Street?’
‘Naw.’
‘Have you ever met that man, Gavin Brodie?’
‘Naw.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Naw.’
‘Then can you tell me how you got hold of his Royal Bank card?’
At last the fight could begin, he thought, feeling the inside of his cheek with his tongue, unpleasantly aware of another piece of plastic. Then another thought crossed his mind – perhaps the biro had belonged to a junkie? Christ! He could get Aids from it!
‘I dinnae ken whit you’re oan about, hen… you’ve got the wrong man this time, hen,’ he said, spitting forcefully onto the floor and ridding his mouth of the final splinter.
‘Don’t do that!’ Inspector Manson said, shaking his head, his lips pursed in disdain.
‘And it’s Detective Sergeant Rice, Mr Livingstone, not “hen”, thanks,’ the woman corrected him, looking down at the gob of spittle. ‘We have CCTV footage of the ATM machine on Corstorphine Road, taken yesterday between 3 pm and 4 pm, and it quite clearly shows you using Mr Brodie’s card. You withdrew £200 from his account on that occasion, and I understand that today you drew out another £200.’
Fucking spies in the sky were everywhere nowadays, Ally Livingstone thought to himself, desperately trying to work out if there was a way out of this trap, or if, somehow, it could be avoided entirely. Well, the old ones were the best ones, he decided. So he scratched his head as if in puzzlement, and then said, ‘Em… no, miss, it disnae show me. It cannae show me. Must be somewan who looks like me, ken, but isnae me at a’. I was wi’ Frankie yesterday at Asdas, we were buyin’ stuff for the wee yin. Well, for when he’s born, like. It must be somebody else in the pictures. Somewan who looks like me but isnae me.’
He picked up the split biro and began twirling it between his fingers like a tiny baton, surreptitiously glancing up at the policewoman’s face to see how she was reacting to his story. Then, remembering that it might be contaminated, he dropped the pen. As he did so, their eyes met. Holding his gaze, she said, ‘I’ve now seen the footage myself, Mr Livingstone, and others have identified you from it personally. It was you. Gavin Brodie, the owner of the card, was murdered late on Saturday… as I’m sure you know.’
‘Eh?’ Ally Livingstone said, pushing the biro off the table, and noting in passing that his fingers were now stained blue with ink.
‘I said, the owner of…’
‘I heard you,’ he interrupted, ‘and I’ve nothing tae dae wi’ any o’ that, hen. I’ve no’ hurt nobody.’
‘Fine,’ she replied coolly. ‘Then, perhaps, you could explain to me how the murdered man’s bank card ended up in your hands?’
‘I wull, but you’ll no’ believe me. I found the caird, OK? In a wallet.’
‘And how did you get the pin number?’
‘It wis in there an a’, in the wallet. Oan a wee piece of paper. I tried it an’ it worked first time. Ye’d think folk wid be more careful.’
‘Where did you find the wallet?’
‘I found it oan the ground, ken, on the path under the big, high bridge. Yesterday.’
‘You seriously expect us to believe that, son?’ the inspector said. ‘You’ll be telling us next that you’ve turned over a new leaf – gone respectable, going straight!’
‘Aye. I expect youse tae believe us.’
‘The big, high bridge?’ Alice picked up the thread once more.
‘Aha. The wan o’er the Water o’ Leith.’
‘The Dean Bridge, is that the one you mean?’
‘Maybe… Aha.’
‘Where exactly under that bridge did you find it?’
‘Under the bridge,’ he repeated impatiently, ‘by some bushes just as you go under it.’
‘On which side?’
‘Em…’ he racked his brain, trying to think of something further to identify the location. ‘Em… on the Princes Street side. I could take you there, tae the place.’
‘Why were you there?’
‘Why no’? It’s for the public, isn’t it? I’m the public. I was taking my pal’s wee dug for a walk in the morning. It’s a bull terrier pup, if you need tae ken. No’ wan o’ they dangerous dogs neither.’
‘Where is it – the wallet, I mean?’
‘In the Water o’ Leith, I chucked it in there.’
‘After you’d taken out what from it?’
‘Em… now let me think. Em… a’ the cairds, a’ the notes and the change, the wee bit o’ paper… and a driver’s licence. That’s a’.’
‘And where is the card now?’
Ally fingered its thin plastic edge in his pocket. Frankie would not want the police in their flat, dirtying the carpets with their mucky boots and pulling everything out of their drawers. Well, he thought to himself, the policewoman had asked for it, so she could have it. Slowly, he pulled a clear plastic sachet from his trouser pocket, containing a single, white, half-frozen mouse, which he laid on the table. Then he extracted the card and carefully slid it below the tiny corpse.
‘What on earth is that?’ Alice asked, peering at the little corpse but making no attempt to take the card on which it lay.
‘Em… that’s Armageddon’s tea. I’ve been thawing it oot fer him,’ he answered, smiling broadly. ‘You no’ like mice then, hen?’ he added.
DI Manson, who had been sitting back from the table with his arms crossed, pulled in his chair and leant over to take a look. Seeing the card sticking out from below the dead rodent, he pulled his jacket sleeve over his hand as a glove and nudged the mouse off it.
The door opened and DC Littlewood’s head appeared. Looking at Alice, he said, ‘Sorry to interrupt, but the DCI’s just heard that Una Reid’s been traced. She says that you’ve to go and see her, Sarge. She’s at her work, at the Abbey Park Lodge, that home in Comely Bank.’
‘This very minute?’ Alice said, looking at her watch, feeling suddenly tired. Five o’ clock, and still she had not found time to buy a present for Ian’s birthday. It was past praying for now.
‘Aye. Pronto.’
‘Off you go, Alice,’ the Inspector said faintly, waving for her to leave. ‘I’ll finish off this…’ he pointed at Livingstone, ‘wee, sleekit, cowran, tim’rous… shitie.’
But Eric Manson did not want to take over the interview. He had stopped listening to Livingstone’s words early on, had allowed his thoughts free range, and as always, of late, they had returned home to Margaret. His preoccupation. What was going on? Why did she no longer have any time for him, why was she always out and about, too busy to sit with him, talk to him even? Something must be happening to her, to them.
But, for the moment, he would have to try and concentrate on the matter in hand. So, the wee shitie would just have to begin all over again. Teach him for gobbing on the station floor, anyway.
5
Two things struck
Alice Rice as she walked through the doors of the Abbey Park Lodge in search of Una Reid. The first was the unnatural warmth of the place, enveloping her like a soft blanket, and the second was the institutional smell. Her nose told her that it was composed of a blend of yesterday’s mince, floral air freshener and stale human urine, and in the competition between the three ingredients the last emerged as a clear victor. Initially, she attempted to make the supply of fresh air in her lungs last unnaturally long, but by the time she reached the bottom of the main stair they were crying out for oxygen and she had no alternative but to breathe in and inhale the place’s foetid atmosphere.
Entering the residents’ lounge, she almost walked into a paper banner which hung loosely from one side of the room to the other, proclaiming in huge, multi-coloured letters, ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RHONA’. As she stood in front of it, a female resident sidled up to her, looked timidly into her eyes, and then, unexpectedly, grasped her hand and began pulling her towards the Formica-topped table at one end of the room.
Seated at it were five elderly women, three of them fast asleep with their chins resting on their bony chests, another one apparently awake but staring blankly into the middle distance. The last was cleaning her paintbrush by sucking it in her toothless mouth. A male care assistant was busily engaged in painting a giant birthday card, dipping his brush in and out of the paint pots, apparently oblivious to the fact that most of his helpers had dozed off. Assuming she was related to the resident clasping her hand, he gave Alice a friendly nod and began sprinkling glitter on the lettering of the homemade card.
‘Excuse me,’ Alice began, ‘but I’ve come to see Una Reid, could you tell me where I’d find her?’ As she spoke, she tried to free herself from her captor, but the bony hand was immovable.
‘Aye,’ answered the attendant, blowing away loose sparkles before turning his attention to the stranger, ‘she’s… ah,’ he hesitated as the last specks flew off the table and onto the floor, ‘she’s giving Miss Swire her tea.’
Thanking him, Alice turned to leave the group, but found that she was unable to do so, the old lady still firmly attached to her and leaning back on her heels, straining to prevent any escape. Seeing Alice’s discomfort and realising his own mistake, the assistant said, ‘Come on now, Betty, let the nice lady go.’
Betty, however, had no intention of releasing her new friend, and making her defiance plain, simply clamped her other hand over Alice’s already entrapped one.
‘Maybe she could just go with you as far as Miss Swire’s door?’ the assistant asked tentatively. His attention was now divided, as he busied himself doing up the buttons on the blouse of his nearest neighbour, as she resolutely and as quickly unbuttoned them.
‘Aye, I’ll just come along to Miss Swire’s ro…’ Betty declared, ready to go, but before she had finished her sentence, an over-vigorous movement on the part of the yellow-lipped painter sent the paint-water jar crashing on its side, flooding the table and ruining the card. Within seconds, the thin khaki liquid began to drip over the edge of the Formica onto the laps of those sitting at it.
Alice silently nodded to the assistant. After all, he only had one pair of hands and the air was now filled with shrill cries of horror, as the three sleepers were woken by the cold water pouring onto their sunken laps. One of them, her hair scraped back into a sparse bun, began shouting, over and over, ‘Stop it! Stop it now! Stop it! Stop it now!’ staring at the water, ordering it to cease flowing and stand still.
Edging together along the low corridor, Betty’s tottering gait dictating their speed, Alice and her companion finally reached Miss Swire’s bedroom door. Pinned onto it, as a reminder that the past had been different, were a couple of photographs of the resident in her youth. The largest one showed her wielding a golf club and beaming happily at the camera, and in a smaller picture she was in an academic gown, distributing prizes at the school she had been headmistress of for almost quarter of a century. As Alice was examining it, at the same time trying to work out the best way to free herself, Betty pushed the door open with her forehead and, still hand in hand with her victim, began to walk into the room jerking her reluctant companion with her.
‘Betty! Who’ve you got wi’ you now?’ an exasperated female voice asked, and as Alice stumbled into the room, she saw another care assistant, a stout, sandy blonde with a pitted complexion, standing beside the bed, tilting a spoon into the bloodless lips of its occupant, Miss Swire. The old schoolteacher herself registered nothing on the entrance of the uninvited pair, continuing to chew mechanically while looking beseechingly into her feeder’s eyes, like a nestling begging a worm from its parent. Gently catching a drip that had begun to weave its way down from Miss Swire’s puckered mouth, Una Reid shook her head fondly at Betty and asked Alice, in a nicotine-ravaged voice, if she had come to see Miss Swire.
‘No,’ Alice began. ‘You. I was looking for you, if you’re Una Reid?’
‘Aha, I am, yes,’ the woman croaked back, now patting the resident’s bluish lips with a napkin, cleaning off a tidemark of tomato soup.
‘Could I talk to you? I’m from Lothian & Borders Police, Detective Alice Rice. I’d like to ask you some questions about Gavin Brodie.’
‘Aha,’ Una replied, sounding slightly distracted. After offering a fork full of potato to Miss Swire, she added, ‘It’ll hae tae be in here, mind. We’re short-staffed the day, an’ I’ve another three ladies tae give their teas before seven o’ clock.’
Moving towards an empty seat, and gesturing for Betty to sit on it, Alice said, ‘As you’ll know, Gavin Brodie was murdered on Saturday night, and I understand that you saw him on that date. You may, in fact, have been the last person to see him alive.’
‘Is that right?’ Una cut in, apparently unperturbed by the thought.
‘Can you tell me what you did for him, on the Saturday?’
‘Just the same as I always done. I gi’ed him his tea at aboot seven, then I gi’ed him a wee bed bath an’ changed his PJs.’
‘When exactly did you leave him?’
‘Eight o’ clock, mebbe, ten past eight, somethin’ like that.’
‘Which door did you leave by?’
‘The front.’
‘Did you check that the back door was locked before you left?’
‘Naw, I never. I never done, that wasnae pairt o’ ma job. Why would I?’
‘How did Mr Brodie seem when you left him?’
‘Like he always done. Moanin’ awa’ tae himsel’. He wis unhappy, cross… greetin’ tae himsel’.’
‘When you were with him, did anyone else come to see him or phone him?’
‘Naw,’ the assistant said, putting the fork back on the plate in recognition of defeat. Miss Swire’s tightly closed teeth had barred its passage.
‘Are you aware whether anyone else saw him after you left?’
‘D’ye mean Mrs Brodie?’
‘Anyone at all.’
‘Well, she will hae, won’t she, whenever she got in. She wis the wan who left a message tae tell me that I neednae come in, oan the Sunday morning like. That’s how I wis able to see my friends in Aberdeen early.’
‘One last thing, Mrs Reid. Can you tell me what you gave Mr Brodie for his tea on the Saturday night?’
‘Aha.’
‘Could you tell me what it was?’
‘Why do youse need tae ken?’ the woman asked, pulling the foil lid from a chocolate mousse pot and then licking it herself.
‘Because we do.’
‘Yes, but why?’ The policewoman’s answer had not been good enough.
‘Because… because we just do,’ Alice snapped, suddenly feeling impatient in the stifling, smelly heat, with Betty’s arthritic fingers gripping her own tightly. She was longing to get back into the fresh air, back into life and away from the place. And as if sensing her tension, Betty began gently stroking her captive’s hand as if comforting a frightened bird.
‘Aha, but why?’ Una Reid repeated, unpersuaded,
wafting a teaspoon of the mousse to and fro below Miss Swire’s nose, as if the scent of chocolate might tempt her to open her mouth.
‘Because we just do, alright? For the purposes of our investigation into the man’s murder.’
‘Okay doaky, doll. It wis Heinz’s lentil soup. Just a wee pickle, all he’d ever take.’ Una tried one final time to tempt the old lady to eat, and, defeated, put the dripping spoon into her own mouth.
As Alice moved towards the door, Betty began to move with her until the policewoman stopped and, looking into the old lady’s eyes, gently tried to prize one of the gnarled fingers free from her own. Instantly the grip tightened once more and Betty began to shake with the effort of maintaining it. Seeing Alice’s unsuccessful attempt and look of despair, Una Reid grinned at her, then clapped her red hands loudly and said ‘BINGO!’ Instantly, Betty released her hold, glanced at her wrist-watch, then sped out of the door in the direction of the residents’ lounge.
‘Why didn’t you do that earlier – when we came in?’ Alice asked, mildly amused at the strategy and massaging her freed fingers.
‘Because it wasnae 6.30, dear. The game doesnae start until 6.30.’
Once back home in her flat in Broughton Place for the night, Alice picked up her dog, Quill, from her neighbours. Mrs Foscetti and Miss Spinnell were a pair of octogenarian twins. The younger by a few minutes, Miss Spinnell, suffered from Alzheimer’s, but was utterly devoted to the mongrel, and the pair of them were his day-time keepers.
Having first fed Quill, Alice set to work at speed, expecting Ian to return at any minute, putting his favourite food in the oven and running a bath. A birthday dip with him would have been perfect, had been her plan all along. But as time wore on and he failed to appear, she had it herself, the water now tepid, downing a couple of glasses of wine to keep her spirits up. Before she knew it half of the bottle had gone.
No Sorrow To Die Page 6