Just before midnight, Ian woke her, trying to slide silently under the covers beside her, and she said sleepily, ‘Where on earth have you been?’
‘In my studio,’ he answered, snuggling up against her curved back, ‘finishing things off for the exhibition.’
7
Wednesday
Sipping her coffee in the interview room, waiting for the others to arrive, Alice tried to mull things over, work out what was going on. Nothing had been said between them that morning. She had left the flat at a godless hour, with him sleeping like a baby as she crept out of the door. She must not jump to conclusions, she thought, but it was proving difficult not to. He had said that he had been in his studio, and his exact words had been, ‘finishing off things for the exhibition.’ Well, he could have been nowhere else if that was genuinely what he had been doing, because all his work was there plus all the equipment he needed to complete it. But, but… she could not get away from it, he had not been in his studio when she had called there.
And he could not just have popped out for something, returning later, because that woman had said that there had been a power cut, with no electric light available until the next day. Could he have worked in the place by torchlight, by candlelight? A preposterous idea. There would be insufficient illumination for anything and the place would be as cold as the grave, too cold to hold a paintbrush steady. So he must have lied to her, but why?
Another thought struck her, and it filled her heart with fear. If this time he had not been where he had said he had been, then it was perfectly possible that on other occasions the same thing had happened. On his birthday, for example, when through her inefficiency she had managed to cover most of the surfaces in their flat in candle-wax, burn the food and set off the fire alarm.
No, no, she could relax. It was all right, because then he had paint on his fingers, bright red paint which had coloured their bathwater. But thinking about it again, that might mean nothing. The paint could have got onto his hands at 10.30 in the morning. Because without trust, anything was possible, and the very ground beneath her feet no longer felt solid.
‘Did you say something, Alice?’ Elaine Bell said, putting down her papers and a mug of tea on the table.
‘No, Ma’am. Why?’ She had not noticed her boss entering the room.
‘Because your lips were moving. Like a lunatic,’ the DCI answered dismissively, glancing down at the front page of her newspaper.
Alice nodded and stared out of the window, as blind to the view as if the panes had been painted over, and in seconds her mind had returned to Ian. Maybe he had had enough of her, no longer loved her but was unable to summon up the courage to break the bad news? Yes, that could well be it. Because, gradually, by degrees and almost unconsciously, their lives had become linked, entwined together, and such ties, without love, would feel suffocating, terrifying. How could she have been so stupid? They had both been sleepwalking towards some kind of unacknowledged state of permanence, and he must suddenly have woken up, or been woken up, from it. Perhaps that was it? Perhaps, not only did he no longer love her, but he had also found somebody else, or been found by somebody else.
And his birthday had been worse than a fiasco. But she had had to leave him then, not wanting to, with her body longing for his. But that was the deal, part of the bloody job. And he knew that. He should be able to understand.
‘Is the tape machine ready?’ Elaine Bell asked, her hand hovering over the phone ready to contact the cells.
‘Not yet,’ Alice said, rising to attend to it as if in a dream, still preoccupied, trying to work out what to do. Tonight she would sort things out. No, it would have to be tomorrow. He was spending the night with his mother. On Thursday night she would find out exactly where she stood. Ask him a single straightforward question, allowing him no rope with which to hang himself, because the thought that he might lie to her again made her feel physically sick. And maybe, just maybe, everything would be alright, there would be a perfectly innocent explanation for it all.
On his own in his cell, sitting waiting for an escort to take him upstairs for the interview, Norman Clerk patted his mouth with the tips of his fingers, taking off the little grains of sugar from his breakfast, then licking his lips to clean the rest away. Frosties always needed more sugar, whatever the packet said. Sugar Puffs, of course, too. And they were supposed to have honey on them. A likely story.
He was bored, unable to make out the turnkeys’ hushed conversation, keen for something, almost anything, to happen. Idly, he rapped his knuckles on the wall of the cell. Immediately, a response came rat-tat-tatting back and so, delighted, he tried again. This time he tried a longer sequence of knocks, though completely meaningless to him. A thundering reply followed and so he banged excitedly again, one long tap, two short, and one long again.
‘Fuckin’ stop that!’ his neighbour shouted, tired of the game before it had even begun.
‘Keep your hair on,’ he whispered, unwilling to get into conversation with the raging beast caged next to him.
He wandered over to the lavatory, examining his distorted reflection in the metal bowl, sticking his tongue out and flattening his nose. Not a good day: his sparse, grey locks looked matted, almost untidy, and his ears seemed to have grown overnight.
‘Think you look good?’ the voice in his head asked, sounding louder and more distinct than last night.
Hearing the crunching noise made by a couple of pairs of tackety boots clumping along the corridor, he rushed to his door, standing on his tip-toes to look out of the window. He watched as a drunk man, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, was hauled into the cell opposite him. Once the drunk was inside he heard one of the turnkeys say, ‘D’you think we should get the doctor?’
‘Yes,’ Clerk bawled back, ‘you should!’ and laughed uproariously to himself as he saw their annoyed expressions. Then he added, hoping to vex them further, ‘Well, you did ask.’
Still chortling, he returned to his bench, intent now on combing his hair with his fingers, but heard the lock in his own door turn and looked, expectantly, at the two men detailed to escort him.
Recognising Eric Manson as he entered the interview room, Clerk sighed inwardly. He had wanted this to be an all-female affair, that would have been cosier and more relaxing all round. His ribs were still smarting from the end of the man’s boot, the ‘tap’ administered as he lay on the floor of his brother’s flat to persuade him to get to his feet. Following behind the detective was a man he recognised but could not place, a face from his past perhaps, a shabby creature with an over-large suit concertina-ed in wrinkles about his ankles. The fellow deposited his briefcase on the table and clicked its locks open, exposing a pigskin interior. All he could see inside was a packet of oatcakes.
‘Your solicitor,’ the inspector said, and he and the two women retreated, talking in hushed tones, leaving the pair of them alone.
‘I’m here, Mr Clerk,’ the man began, ‘to make sure that no questions are asked about your entry into Mr Anderson’s flat and the assault. You’ve been charged with both of them now, so they’re out of bounds for the officers, so to speak.’ Then he held out his hand for his client to shake. But Norman Clerk simply rolled his tongue along his cheek, making no attempt to respond, sitting still where he was and looking the solicitor up and down. The voice in his head had just murmured a caution, warning him that this man was not what he seemed to be at all. Oh yes, he was pretending to be on his side, a friend, an ally, but in reality he had a very different agenda. So far, no damage had been done by him, but actually touching him might be risky and was best avoided. This man must not be made angry, must be kept calm at all costs. He was dangerous.
Obeying the voice’s advice and now feeling frightened, Norman Clerk smiled graciously at the stranger but said nothing.
‘OK?’ the solicitor asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied in a cheerful voice, looking straight out of the window, trying to evade the man’s attention.
‘I’m from Campbell & Martin SSC. My name’s Mr Nicholl. My firm represented you the first time… before, but I was just a trainee then. Now I’m a partner. Starting yesterday, I’m in charge of our Court Department. But you probably won’t remember me.’
‘Oh, yes I do, I certainly do,’ Clerk lied, trying to imbue his voice with the same warm tone, to get across to the man that he would never dream of forgetting him, that the pleasure of their first encounter was etched forever on his memory. For what seemed like an eternity the lawyer droned on, but his client heard little of it, distracted by continuous mutterings from the voice in his head, a whispered commentary which undermined all the professional advice he was being given out loud.
The sound of the door opening and closing warned him that they were no longer alone, and three familiar figures came in, taking their seats opposite him. He continued to look straight ahead, not focusing on them, deliberately registering nothing.
After some kind of formal recitation, the DCI turned her attention to him and said, ‘Mr Clerk, you told us that you did not know Gavin Brodie, that you hadn’t ever come across him or met him. Is that still your position?’
‘Yes,’ was all that he could manage. He glanced at the solicitor to see if the answer was satisfactory, and was relieved to be given a nod of encouragement. So far, he was keeping him happy.
‘So you’ve never seen the man or been to his house. No connection between the two of you whatsoever?’
‘Yes. No… no connection.’
‘Then can you explain,’ the DCI asked, looking hard at him, ‘how it is that a book belonging to Gavin Brodie was found in your flat, amongst your own books?’ She held it up in front of him.
‘Yes,’ he said, his tone almost expressionless once more. That answer seemed to be alright too. The solicitor did not appear displeased and nodded once more.
‘Then could you tell us?’ the policewoman asked tartly.
‘Don’t turn your head,’ the voice inside him ordered. ‘Whatever you do, don’t look at her.’
Continuing to look dead ahead, as if she had said nothing, he replied, ‘I collect books and things. Maybe it was one I got from the Oxfam shop or something.’
‘Perhaps, for the tape, we should know the title of the book. It’s Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less by Jeffrey Archer,’ Eric Manson said.
Catching sight of the cover out of the corner of his eye, Clerk recognised it and said, ‘Indeed it is. That is one of mine. My brother Robert gave it to me for my birthday.’
‘Your brother, the man who had the stroke? The one who can’t move or speak?’ asked Alice Rice.
‘Yes, good old Bob, he got it for me before… before his stroke.’
‘That’s funny,’ the DCI observed. ‘Brodie’s murdered and his things turn up in your flat.’
‘Funny…’ Norman Clerk repeated, keeping his eye on the solicitor and noting, with concern, that he now looked very annoyed, his brow furrowing. His frown deepened and then suddenly he struck out, swatting a fly on his elbow. As he did so, Clerk ducked.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Mr Nicholl said, appalled at his client’s reaction.
‘Not at all… er, my mistake,’ Clerk replied, bobbing up from below the table. His head had begun to hurt and he felt frazzled, unsure how to placate the solicitor and keep himself safe. How could you survive when enemies pretended to be friends, friends pretended to be enemies?
The lawyer, satisfied that none of the police officers had strayed onto either of the prohibited subjects, was now deep in thought, wondering whether to opt for a fixed price Chinese meal for lunch or to go for the all-day breakfast. As a result he did not notice his client’s increasing pallor or the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead.
‘You’ve never been to Gavin Brodie’s flat in India Street, you say?’ the DCI continued.
‘Indeed not. Like I said, I don’t know the man.’
‘Don’t use the word “I” again. It’s too dangerous,’ the voice in his head hissed.
‘Then can you tell us how your fingerprints got onto the wheelchair in his flat?’
‘No,’ began Clerk, ‘… can’t do that. Don’t know why. I can’t…’ He stopped, putting his hands to his cheeks, a look of acute distress contorting his fleshy features. His lengthy hesitation made the Chief Inspector look at him, and she noticed, for the first time, his pale face and clammy-looking skin.
‘You alright?’ she asked, quite kindly. ‘You look a little peely-wally.’
Only his mother used the expression ‘Peely-wally’, and hearing what sounded like genuine concern in the woman’s voice, he weakened, was almost tempted to tell her the truth. He wanted to say, ‘No, I feel awful, terrified of something – something I’ve done or not done. Maybe I have killed a man, skinned a cat, raped a woman. Any of these things, all of them… but who knows?’
Instead, remembering in the nick of time that he must not say the word ‘I’, he nodded his head mutely, stealing another glance at the solicitor and catching, to his relief, a wide smile from him. ‘Well done,’ the voice said, congratulating him on fooling all the people all the time, reminding him that they were blind and would never see. He alone saw it all, understood it all.
Outside in the main hall after the interview had finished, the DCI asked Mr Nicholl what the likely course of the case would be, given the psychiatrist’s opinion that the prisoner had been fit to interview. Was it likely to proceed as normal or what?
‘Oh, no,’ the solicitor replied, collecting his dark blue Crombie from the coat-stand. ‘Early days, but I doubt it very much. Of course, we haven’t consulted with Counsel yet but I expect there’s a very good chance that we’ll be going for a plea in bar of trial.’
‘So, surprise me, what’s it likely to be this time?’ she asked, already sure of the answer.
‘Insanity, of course. I spoke to our consulting partner before I left this morning, and he reckons it’ll be the ticket. I’m seeing two eminent shrinks next week, and we’ll get them to examine him too. Both treated him in Carstairs, so they’ll know him well already.’
‘The very ones who decided he was safe to let out, I expect,’ she remarked dryly. The solicitor, not having heard what she said, nodded politely, keen to get away and sample some dim sum.
‘I’m already running twenty-five minutes late,’ Doctor Colin Paxton thought, ‘and now it’s bloody Mrs Gurney, and she’ll ensure that I get no break at all. Well, we’ll see about that. And what in heaven’s name are the receptionists thinking about, letting her past their defences again? What else are they being paid for?’
Clutching a bulging carrier in each hand, the widow lowered her massive behind onto the chair, very, very slowly, as if her buttocks were made of glass and likely to shatter on contact. Once she had made a safe landing she put both of her bags on the floor. Immediately, the room filled with the scent of eucalyptus.
‘It’s ma back,’ she sighed, bending forwards towards the doctor and rubbing her spine with one hand as if to ease the pain. It was her usual opening gambit.
‘Yes,’ he answered impassively.
‘Is there anything you can give me for it?’
She must, he mused, know the answer to that one. Week after week she re-appeared with exactly the same complaint, all consultants long ago having given up on her. Every week she wanted him to adjust the dosage of her medication or, occasionally, alter it altogether, but whatever he did always had exactly the same result. No effect whatsoever. Maybe she was lonely, needed company, was desperate for someone to talk to? Fat chance. Her pupils were like pinpricks, and her manner radiated hostility, the pursuit of some kind of undeclared vendetta or battle of wills. No. She did not like him, simply wanted to ensure that her symptoms were recorded with a view to being signed off again.
‘Well,’ he said evenly, ‘we upped your co codamol last week, didn’t we? So perhaps we should give it a proper chance, see if it works?’
‘Yes, but it’s shifted, the
pain’s shifted.’
Just as he was about to give his usual reply at this stage in their combat, ‘shifting’ being one of the pain’s recurring characteristics, his telephone rang.
‘Yes?’ he answered. ‘Ah, Mr Tyler,’ he added quickly, recognising the strong South African drawl of the surgeon.
‘Mr Tyler! Mr Tyler!’ Mrs Gurney broke in excitedly, ‘he’s one of the ones I’ve seen. Tell him about my back, Doctor, see what he says.’
Unable to think straight because of the competing voices, Paxton waved at the woman to try to quieten her down, simultaneously attempting to record the results of a bladder capacity test for a patient no longer even under his care. As he put the receiver down, Mrs Gurney said, petulantly, ‘You could at least have asked him…’
‘No,’ Doctor Paxton replied, looking at his watch, ‘I could not. You’ve seen Mr Taylor and Mr Titler, both orthopaedic surgeons, not Mr Tyler, the urological specialist.’
‘He might be able to help me though,’ she replied reproachfully, beetling her thick brows.
‘No. Incontinence is not your problem, not bladder incontinence anyway. Now, was there anything else?’
Thwarted once more, she decided on one final gambit: ‘Yes, there is. My ears need skooshing. I cannae hear a thing.’
Thinking of his coffee, and clutching for a lifeline, he said, ‘Have you been softening the wax – putting almond oil in?’
‘Eh?’ she said, cupping her ear.
After he had shouted the question once more, she shook her head, finally conceding defeat.
‘Fine,’ he said calmly. ‘You’ll need to do that for a few days before your ears can be syringed.’ Checkmate.
‘OK, doc. See you next week, or maybe earlier.’ And from her lips it sounded like a threat.
Alice, accompanied by Eric Manson, scanned the waiting room looking for a safe seat. Most of the chairs were occupied by pallid, handkerchief-wielding adults, each exhaling lungfuls of germs, in dire need of medical help to cure them of their recurring bouts of flu. The warm air would be thick with seasonal viruses and possibly, God forbid, even swine flu or whatever latest deadly pandemic was going the rounds.
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