Dying of the Light (18 page)

‘Best get help, dear,’ Bill Keane said. ‘I don’t think we’ll manage…’

‘Aha. Nae dosh in ma phone, but I’ll gae tae Ma Aitken’s, eh? I’ll get us an ambulance frae there. You be a’right?’

‘Fine… maybe sense to get the police, too?’

‘Aye.’

She eased herself away from him, and then lowered his head gently back onto the ground. Shivering, she removed her thin jacket, intending to make a pillow for him from it, but ashamed of its squalid state she turned it inside-out before rolling it up, raising the old man’s head and carefully placing it underneath.

At half past eight the next morning, Alice pushed open the door of the Ladies and was momentarily disconcerted to find herself confronted by her old adversary, the cleaner, Mrs McClaren. The woman was polishing the mirror in large circular strokes, crooning ‘Little Bubbles’ tunelessly
to her own reflection as she did so. Never mind, Alice thought, nothing to fear nowadays. She was no longer a man-free zone, an easy target.

‘Still got yer boyfriend, eh, dear?’

Alice nodded. Speech might result in her accidentally entering the joust again, and she was unwilling to risk that, even if she did now have some armour.

‘Ah says, still got yer boyfriend, eh?’ the cleaner repeated at increased volume, as if the policewoman might be deaf.

‘Yes, thanks.’ Safer to scotch that rumour, too.

‘How long hae ye managed tae keep this wan then?’ The cheek of it.

‘I’m not sure exactly. We’ve been together about nine months, something like that.’

‘Ye’ll need tae get a move on, mind, hen.’

‘Sorry? I’m not with you.’

‘Kiddies. Or ye’ll miss the bus, man or nae man,’ she laughed croakily, ‘otherwise ye’ll need one of thae… eh… donor kebabs.’

Determined to avoid any further chat, Alice nodded again, squeezing past the woman and her trolley
contraption
to get to the nearest cubicle.

‘An’ ah had five by the time ah wis thirty!’ Complacent cow.

‘If ye lose yer man, right, dinnae touch that Oakley boy, mind, eh?’

Alice’s curiosity was momentarily aroused and she waited, the door still ajar.

‘Why not?’

‘Cause he’s crackers, ken. Want to watch yersel’ wi’ him, even if yer desperate. I’d no’ trust him further than I could throw him. Telt me I’d lost ma job, a new company
hud got the contract. I nearly got the sack fer no’
turning
up the next day, thanks to him. Laughed hisself silly when I gave him a piece o’ my mind, but he’ll no’ dae that again.’ She smiled wickedly. ‘I spat on his hob-nobs, an’ I’ll tell him once he’s scoffed the lot.’

A cautionary tale, Alice decided, finally finding
sanctuary
in the cubicle. Mrs McClaren should not be crossed.

With the cleaner now clanging about outside, careless of her presence and pressing need, Alice sat down, praying for her speedy exit. Eventually, Mrs McClaren departed in her own good time, ‘Little Bubbles’ still tripping from her lips. Alone at last, Alice looked at her appointment letter, an anodyne missive simply requesting her presence at the Infirmary for a blood check. No more than a
formality
, of course.

The lady at the main reception desk in Little France was deep in conversation with her neighbour, something about her son’s infatuation with a female parasite and him blowing all his college money on pieces of hair, hair
extensions
if you please, for her. And for his birthday all the girl had managed had been a bottle of cheap aftershave and a packet of Maltesers. Unwilling to interrupt, but
conscious
that she might appear to be eavesdropping as she was, Alice managed to catch the speaker’s eye and was directed wordlessly to a seating area in close proximity to the chattering staff. Before she had reached the middle pages of a vintage
Heat
magazine, a female doctor called her name and she traipsed after her through a labyrinth of corridors to a small, unassuming office.

As her flesh was being swabbed she felt the need to talk, conscious of the incongruity of being manhandled
by a complete stranger in silence, so she said, ‘I was much relieved that the victim proved clean – so this should be just a formality, eh?’

‘Assuming the needle belonged to the victim, aye.’

Seven words, stating the obvious, but until they had been said it had not seemed so to her. Of course, the woman had been a junkie, and needles were often shared.

‘I could have caught something from someone else’s blood on the needle?’

Now concentrating on the task of siphoning blood from her arm, the medic said, ‘Aye, but it’s unlikely. She’d been dead for days, after all, and she’ll have got the thing before she died. The virus itself dies quite quickly. It’s a tiny risk, but we can’t take that chance, eh?’

No. We certainly can’t, Alice thought, praying that
Isobel
Wilson used the needle exchange, and telling herself that worrying would alter nothing, other than to add a few more grey hairs to her scalp. Oh, but ignorance had been bliss.

As she passed the cafeteria the scent of coffee tickled her nose and she followed it, having had no breakfast and determined to remedy the omission before
returning
to the hurly-burly of St Leonard’s. She took a seat by the window looking out onto a sky so dark it seemed undecided whether or not morning had broken. Earlier it had not seemed so bleak, but gathering above the new horizon were lead-coloured snow clouds, filled with the promise of blizzards to come.

‘Alice!’

She glanced up, surprised to see Professor
McConnachie
slipping his large frame into the seat opposite her, clear-eyed and without a trace of the mortuary pallor for which he was renowned.

‘Didn’t expect to see you here!’ he continued,
beaming
widely with all his gap-toothed charm and putting his tray onto her table.

‘No, I’m just here for a test… a blood test.’

‘Of course,’ he replied brightly. ‘In connection with that needle-stick injury, I suppose?’

She did not want to talk to him about it, she was still trying to reconcile herself to the news she had received and its implications. Best, she decided, to try to shift the conversation onto him and his recent spell as an
inpatient
.

‘How are you, Prof? Jock told me you lost a lot of blood. Have you been discharged now?’

‘Mmm,’ he replied, sipping his coffee and immediately spilling some of it into his saucer. As he poured the slops back into his cup he continued. ‘I’ve been for a check-up today, restored with the blood of others. They pumped five pints into me, I gather. I wonder who is circulating in me now?’

‘Sorry?’ Her mind was still somewhere else.

‘Blood donors, Alice. Are you one? You know, tinker, tailor, soldier, spy, policewoman… all or any of them could be circulating in me now.’ Having re-filled his cup, he took a noisy slurp and then spoke again. ‘Mind you, just as well it wasn’t an organ I suppose,’ his voice tailing off in thought.

‘Why?’

‘Something I read not so long ago. Apparently, if you have a bone marrow transplant, and your own marrow is irradiated, then your blood will contain cells bearing the donor’s DNA indefinitely. Maybe kidney transplants have the same effect, for all I know.’

She nodded her head, trying to concentrate on what
he had said and succeeding until her phone rang. Its
strident
tone made her jump.

‘Alice, where the hell are you?’ It was Elaine Bell, direct as ever and with real urgency in her voice.

‘Er… fairly close by. Little France, so I could be back in the station by, say –’

‘Set off right now. Something’s happened, and either we’ve got the wrong man inside or a copycat’s been spawned and is on the rampage in Leith. I need you now. We’re short-handed, Tom’s on a course and Simon’s been laid low by a stomach bug. I want you here to help Eric with Lena Stirling, to talk to some of the Leith residents again – that Keane man for a start. By the way, did you have any joy with Guy Bayley?’

‘Not much. He only seems to have seen the Russian prostitute we’ve spoken to already, no punters.’

‘He was at the bloody locus on both nights, he must have seen something. You’ll need to chase him up, too

Glancing through the glass window into the interview room, Alice saw Eric Manson and he appeared
uncharacteristically
relaxed, leaning back on his chair, his hands linked on his belly, favouring Lena Stirling with a charming smile. The prostitute, in contrast, sat hunched, evidently tense, biting the fingernails on her right hand. As the policewoman came into the room their heads turned simultaneously to look at her, but, immediately, they turned back, their conversation continuing as if no interruption had taken place.

‘He was called… eh, Billy, no, Robbie – I’m right, eh?’ the DCI said, still beaming at the girl.

‘Aye. He’s called Robbie,’ she assented quickly.

‘And he’d have been in the year above me, so that makes him about fifty-two or so, that right?’

‘Aha. He’s fifty-two this April.’

‘What does he do, what’s his job?’

‘The now?’ she enquired.

‘Aye. The now.’

‘Em… he’s a plumber. He wis in social work… worked wi’ the Council fer years ‘n’ years. Then he decided he needed a change, took up plumbing.’

‘Does he know about you,’ the DI pursed his lips, ‘about your job, I mean?’

‘Naw,’ she shook her head dolefully, ‘…thinks I work for BT, in sales, ken.’

Alice pulled out a chair, its legs screeching on the bare floor as she did so, the girl wincing at the sound.

‘And your father, Robbie,’ the inspector continued, his curiosity not yet sated. ‘He used to go out with a lassie in my class. Susan… Susan… Susan… Susan something or other. Went out together since they were, must have been… fourteen, fifteen. Did they stay together?’

‘Aha… Burn. Susan Burn. She’s ma mum.’

‘And what does she do the now?’

‘Her job, like? Eh, she’s a classroom assistant –
remedial
teaching, ken, oot Dumbiedykes way.’

‘Isn’t it amazing!’ Eric Manson said, turning to face his sergeant. ‘I know both of Lena’s parents. We were at school together, secondary school. I think that’s incredible!’ Lena Stirling looked singularly unimpressed, despite his exclamations. It seemed neither remarkable nor unbelievable to her that a policeman should, once, have known either of her parents. Why shouldn’t he?

‘When you next see them, eh, tell them I was asking after them, eh?’ Eric Manson said warmly.

‘How’d I dae that then,’ the prostitute said,
sarcastically
. ‘Mum, ken, the last time I wis in the polis station, well, this Inspector telt me… somethin’ like that, dae ye think?’

‘No. No, of course, I’m sorry. I see the difficulty,’ Manson replied, deflated and embarrassed, his naivety exposed.

‘Now, Lena,’ Alice interjected, keen to start the
interview
, ‘we need a description of the man that attacked you last night?’

‘Yeah,’ the girl said dully.

‘So, what did he look like? Could you tell us that?’

‘Am I allowed tae hae a fag in this place?’ the prostitute
asked, cigarette packet already open in her hand, ready to take one out and light up.

‘Sorry. No can do,’ Eric Manson said. ‘One puff and all the alarms in the station would go off. But if you’re desperate we could go outside to the car park, there’s a smoking area out there. I’ll have one with you an’…’

‘Nah… I’ll nae bother then,’ Lena Stirling replied, putting her Silk Cut back into her anorak pocket.

‘So,’ Alice began again, ‘the man who attacked you. What did he look like?’

‘Big. He was big. Fat an’ a’.’

‘How big? How tall would you say he was?’

‘Gey tall.’

‘Taller than me?’ Alice asked, standing up.

‘Naw. Yer height – mebbe a couple o’ inches bigger. Nae much though.’

‘And was he actually fat, obese or just well-made,
heavily
built or what exactly?’

‘Eh… he was solid, like. No’ blubbery, just solid.’

‘And what colour was his hair?’ Eric Manson asked, confidence returning.

‘Em…’ she thought, ‘he’d fair hair, plenty of fair hair.’

‘His eye colour?’

‘Aha.’

‘What colour were his eyes?’ Alice Rice tried again.

‘I wis thinkin’!’ Lena scowled, ‘I dae ken. Hardly seen his face. I only did at the end when he took his balaclava hat oaf…’ and sensing their growing curiosity at her words she added, ‘and afore yous ask, it was woollen. Grey wool kind of stuff.’

‘What did he sound like?’ Alice asked.

‘How d’you mean?’ The girl looked perplexed, her forehead now corrugated in consternation.

‘His voice, his accent?’ Alice explained. ‘Did he sound local or foreign or English or what?’

‘He’s local, I think. But he hardly said nothin’. Jist the odd wurd, ken… like he didnae want tae speak. He wis pointin’, mind, tae show us where tae go an’ all.’ She pointed with her index finger, imitating her attacker’s gesture.

‘I recognised him,’ she added, as if providing some inconsequential detail.

‘His face?’ Alice enquired immediately.

‘Aye, but I cannae mind where I seen him before. I recognised his voice an’ a’… but I cannae think how I kent him.’

‘Maybe he was a regular, er… been with you before?’ Eric Manson asked delicately.

‘Naw, I dinnae think so. But I ken him frae
somewhere
… I seen and heard him before. Mebbe he wis wi’ me before.’

‘Lena, have you come across a man called Guy
Bayley
, he’s the leader of –’ Alice began, but was interrupted immediately.

‘Oh, aye. Snowflake, we cry him. It wisnae him, though.’

‘Snowflake?’

‘Ken, wi’ all that skin flyin’ aroond. Whit aboot him?’

‘Did you see him out and about on the night that either Belle or Annie was killed?’

‘Want tae ken something really funny?’ Lena said, her question directed at Eric Manson.

‘Aye, on you go,’ the inspector said indulgently.

‘A couple of years before a’ the residents got tegither, like, tae get us, Snowflake wanted a turn wi’ me, but I couldnae face it cause I wisnae feelin’ richt, been throwin’
up an’ everythin’, so I says naw. He went mad, ravin’ mad, bawlin’ at me in his plummy voice, “It’s not catching, you know!”. Ever since I wished I had done it, keep him oaf all oor backs. I telt the wumman frae the
Record
an a’, but she didnae believe me, never put it in, like.’

‘But did you see him out on either of the nights?’ Alice asked again.

‘Em… I might hae seen him oan the nicht that Belle an me fell oot wi’ each other, aye. He wis in his green vest. I waited in Carron Place till he’d gone, moved oan.’

‘And on the night Annie was killed?’

‘Naw, I dinnae mind, hen. Could’ve been there, he’s aye on the prowl.’

‘Does that get us any further, Sergeant?’ Eric Manson said, covering his eyes with his right hand and then
stroking
his eyelids ‘Lena’s already said that he was not the one who attacked her.’

DC Lindsay popped her head round the door, noted the temporary silence, and announced, ‘That’s the
photofit
team here now, sir.’

‘Like on the telly?’ Lena enquired eagerly of the stranger, excited at the prospect.

‘And Sergeant Rice is to go down to Leith and collect the CCTV tapes,’ the DC continued, as if the woman had said nothing. And Lena felt invisible as well as worthless.

At ten o’clock that morning Salamander Street was quiet, few cars using the coast road, and even they seemed to be enjoying the sea breeze, driving at a leisurely pace, showing neither urgency nor impatience. The sound of seagulls filled the air, crying forlornly as they flew over the sunless road to wheel around the docks or perch on
familiar
,
whitened roofs to preen themselves before heading back out to the open sea. Uncertain of the exact location of the Third Training Company, Alice was able, without fear of flashing lights or hooting horns from the drivers behind her, to crawl along examining the buildings on her right hand side, until at last she spotted a sign with the company’s name on it.

Leaving the car she walked towards the entrance of the pebble-dashed building and found its double doors locked, with a notice hanging from one of the handles. In large handwritten capitals, it said ‘CLOSED FOR TRAINING PURPOSES’. Puzzled in the light of the instructions she had received from Elaine Bell after the interview, she wandered around the side of the
building
, periodically raising herself onto her tiptoes to look through the windows. All the offices seemed to be empty, although lights remained on in some, doors were left open and in one a telephone was ringing endlessly. As she approached the last unchecked window, the sound of Dolly Parton’s voice, with accompanying clapping beating out the rhythm, assaulted her ears.

Within the hall area, all the office staff were assembled, tapping their feet energetically and nodding their heads, apparently engaged in a bout of line-dancing. In the middle of the room a bearded man stood on top of a chair
beating
his thigh in time to the music and issuing instructions in a broad American accent. Beside him, a bony woman in overalls controlled a CD player, occasionally adjusting the volume to ensure that the man’s commands could be heard above Dolly’s plaintive tones. Alice watched,
captivated
, as a scrawny teenage boy, clearly broadcasting his reluctance to participate, was manhandled by numerous of his female co-workers to ensure that he completed the
correct steps, in the correct way, at the correct time.
Having
finally done so, he looked around the room, pleased with his own efforts, and accepted with blushing grace a couple of pats on his shoulder from a big bosomed matron on his left.

As soon as Dolly’s song ended, Alice knocked gently on the window, watching as the bearded man almost
toppled
from his chair in surprise, before he sprang from his makeshift podium and gestured for her to meet him at the main entrance. After turning over the ‘staff training’ notice to reveal a timetable of office hours, he held out his hand to her, saying in his natural Highland accent, ‘I’m Ian McRae, Sergeant. We expected you a little later, I must confess. I’ll just tell Michael to get the CCTV tapes for you.’

‘Staff training, eh?’ Alice smiled wryly. ‘I thought you Government departments taught young people how to prepare their CV’s, job applications and so on?’

‘Aye,’ Ian McRae answered, ‘but Tuesday mornings are always quiet. The young people just don’t seem to turn up.’

As they waited together in the manager’s office in an uncomfortable silence, all their small talk used up, the scrawny boy entered empty-handed and looked anxiously at his boss.

‘Did you say you needed the tapes, last night’s tapes Mr McRae?’

‘Aye. From all the cameras, not just those on the east side.’

‘Well,’ the boy shook his head sorrowfully, ‘there’s been a bit of a… mess, you could say. No-one’s changed them, the tapes I mean. So there’s nothing – nothing since the middle of last week actually.’

At her final destination, the next-door warehouse, the supervisor insisted on taking Alice personally to visit their CCTV equipment, as if she might otherwise doubt what he had told her. Crossing the car park he chattered
nervously
, twice bumping her shoulder, apparently having no normal concept of personal space. Suddenly, he stopped and pointed upwards to a severed stalk, the only remaining part of Camera Point One. He explained angrily that some ‘wee bastards’ from Portobello had decapitated it with the aid of a chainsaw and a set of steps. ‘And that one,’ he said, waving at the side of the building, ‘has been done over an’ a’.’ She looked up and saw that the remaining camera had been deliberately re-positioned so that its lens pointed downwards, towards the ground, where someone had painted in white letters, ‘Welcome to Wankerland.’

Had he forgotten or, perhaps, begun to take for granted, the lovely sound of Audrey’s voice, Bill Keane wondered,
relaxing
in bed and listening as she read
David Copperfield
out loud to him. A low, mellow tone, so she would be classified as a contralto and none the worse for that; think Kathleen Ferrier, think… whoever. And it warmed his heart, moved him, the effort that she was putting into the story;
deepening
her voice to reproduce the cold, unfriendly tones of Mr Murdstone, and attempting a rural Suffolk accent in order to become Peggoty, or was it Ham? No matter, he thought, they should do this sort of thing more often together, instead of squabbling about what to watch on the box, cookery or gardening, gardening or cookery.