Dying of the Light (7 page)

Jane Wilson took the news of her only child’s death unnaturally well, Alice thought. She asked few
questions
and seemed neither dismayed nor surprised by the answers. It was as if she had been expecting just such news, had already grieved in expectation of it and had no tears left to shed when the moment actually arrived. She was like those wartime wives and mothers, nerves
constantly
stretched, waiting to read the worst in a telegram from the Front. As Alice spoke, the woman blinked hard and licked the corners of her mouth, shaking her head constantly, as if by disagreeing with what she was being told, she could change it.

While she was leaving the flat in the company of the two sergeants, the little Siamese cat slid through the opening door and strolled across the landing. The first time it
happened
DS Oakley managed to grab the animal and post it back into the flat, but as it came out again, it skittered past him and tiptoed down the stone stairs towards the open tenement door and the busy street outside. The old
woman started to wail, crying out the cat’s name and
hobbling
ineffectually after it. And, miraculously, it stopped and began cleaning itself, licking its immaculate front paws and smoothing its face with them. The overweight policeman waited motionless on the step above it,
breathing
heavily, and then suddenly pounced, two podgy hands clamping around its waist, lifting it high in triumph. His complexion, usually high, was now ruddy with isolated pale patches around the nose and mouth, sweat shining on his brow. Unperturbed by its capture, the cat
continued
to groom itself and allowed itself to be deposited in the hallway, wandering off towards the kitchen, its kinked tail waving sinuously behind it.

Supported on either side at the elbow, Jane Wilson
stumbled
across the mortuary floor, her nostrils flaring in the presence of an unfamiliar, chemical odour. In the
refrigeration
area, the pathologist, Doctor Zenabi, was waiting for them beside a covered trolley and, slowly, the trio made their way towards him. On their arrival, he folded the sheet back, revealing Isobel Wilson’s pale, bloodless head. Alice gazed at it. It was a face in complete repose, all muscles relaxed, giving the middle-aged woman the lineless, unwrinkled appearance of a teenager. The kiss the old woman spontaneously bestowed on her
daughter’s
cheek confirmed the corpse’s identity, and her white hair remained against the cold flesh until Doctor Zenabi, kindly, eased her away, meeting only the slightest
resistance
. As if wishing her daughter farewell, she picked up a lifeless hand and stroked it, coming back time after time to a slight indentation on the ring finger.

‘What is it?’ Alice asked.

‘Someone’s ta’en oaf ma weddin’ ring. I gie’d it tae her an’ she aye wore it. Still, Belle’s at rest the now, eh? Nothin’ mair can hurt her.’

The others nodded, as the tears finally began to flow from the old woman’s cloudy eyes, rolling off her nose and dripping onto the shrouded form of her daughter.

‘So, Alice, loose words cost lives!’ DI Eric Manson said enigmatically, offering her a chocolate digestive and
leaning
across from his chair to hand it to her. Being hungry, she was tempted to accept the biscuit but hesitated, knowing that if she did so she would feel bound to take up his word-bait. Of course, even if she did there was every possibility, on past experience, that he would simply fob her off with another sphinx-like statement instead of an explanation. But, seeing the expectant look on his face, and the lack of any signs of curiosity from the rest of the squad, she decided to take pity on him and play the game.

‘What are you going on about, sir? Whose “loose words”, whose “lives”?’, she said, taking the digestive. The inspector pursed his lips, relishing the suspense he had created, and quite incapable of hiding the fact.

‘Well, since you ask…’ he hesitated for a few seconds, ‘our own Chief Inspector’s.’ Aware that he had not given a satisfactory answer, he then stared intently at his
computer
screen, knitting his brows theatrically, as if reading important news. No time left for idle chatter.

I could, Alice thought, just leave it at that, he’ll crack first on past form. But his ploy had worked, her curiosity was aroused, and she heard herself say, ‘Yes, sir, but what words? And to what effect, exactly?’

‘Mmmm…’ he replied, ponderously. Any delay could only further whet her appetite. ‘The words were “Chance would be a fine thing!” uttered by our very own Elaine Bell in response to a Leith resident’s query as to how she’d feel if she came across a used condom in her
hallway
. A rueful reflection on her own inadequate sex life, I suppose. Now, the effect – you’d like to know that too?’

‘Yes,’ she said evenly.

‘The effect is that a complaint, no less, has been lodged against her and is currently under investigation.’

‘And how exactly do you know about it all?’

‘Sir.’

‘And how exactly, do you know about it all, sir?’

‘Friends in high places,’ he smiled, unwrapping another packet of biscuits and decanting them into a tin.

‘Or, as you’ve just been in the boss’s office,’ she shot back, ‘a dramatic improvement in your already excellent upside-down reading skills, eh?’

‘Sir.’

‘Eh, sir?’

‘No comment,’ he answered, crunching another digestive.

Cursing the rain, Lena stepped gingerly towards the very edge of the kerb, unable to see properly through her streaked spectacles and blinded by the passing headlights. The first car to draw up contained three men and she knew better than to attract their attention, someone else can take the risk, she thought to herself, slipping back into the shadows. The second, a Volvo, seemed possible. But it drew close only to speed up in the flooded gutter,
deliberately
showering her with filthy water. She shook herself
like a soaked dog, knowing as she was doing so that it was futile, rain having begun to cascade down, bouncing up off the pavement and splattering her bare legs.

Another vehicle slowed down and she peered,
shortsightedly
, into it, catching a glimpse of a male and female occupant. No dice. But the man tapped on his window to attract her attention and she sidled over, only to find a police identity card flashed in her face.

With ill grace, she climbed into the back seat,
belligerent
already, determined to get out as soon as possible. Time in the car was time wasted, and she needed a fix. Life had to go on, murder or no murder.

Shivering uncontrollably in her damp clothes, her impatience on display, she told the police officers the truth. That she and Isobel had been partners, looking out for each other, keeping tabs with their mobiles, ready to raise the alarm should the need arise. But last night, she paused for a second, they had fallen out. Over money, if they must know. So she had not kept watch and, yes, she was well aware that the woman was now dead. Got the
Evening News
like everyone else. The last she had seen of Isobel had been at about seven p.m. on the Tuesday night, the cow had nabbed her pitch at the Leith end of Salamander Street. She nodded her head on being shown the picture of Eddie Christie, swearing at the very sight, and confirming that Isobel had been assaulted by him, just as she had. All she knew was that he worked as a teacher at Talman Secondary. French,
s’il-vous plait
.

Unbidden, the prostitute opened the car door,
feeling
claustrophobic in its steamed-up interior, just as the sturdy police sergeant was lobbing another question at her. Looking in the mirror at the big blondie, she
considered
giving him a wink. He seemed vaguely familiar, and
anyway, he was just another man, just another policeman, and they were no different under their clothes, plain or otherwise. Actually, there was nothing to pick between the lot of them, from the unemployed to the Members of the Scottish Parliament, except that politicians got a thrill from the risk of getting caught. Unlike those on the dole.

‘Lena,’ the policewoman said, ‘we don’t know who murdered Isobel. Whoever it is is still at large, might kill again. May even be on the lookout for prostitutes. Who are you working with tonight?’

‘I’m nae workin at a’,’ the prostitute lied.

‘Fine,’ Alice replied. ‘You’re not working, simply enjoying a stroll in the pouring rain where you would be working, if you were working. Anyway, should you
consider
returning to work, if you must, please don’t unless you’ve got yourself another partner? Ideally, keep off the street altogether until we’ve caught this nutter.’

‘Aye. But a’m nae workin’, see?’

She stepped out of the car, back into the downpour, her mind focussed on one thing and one thing alone. Smack. And until the needle had been plunged into the vein, and released its longed-for load, she could think of nothing else.

Lying contentedly in her bed that night, Alice began to look at the newspaper. The whole of the front page was again taken up with coverage of the abduction of a little boy, a huge colour photograph of the child staring back at her. Inside, three more pages were devoted to him, and the entire editorial. The story was considered from every possible angle: the nature of the police investigations and
the particular difficulties encountered by them, profiles of any likely suspects, the precise circumstances leading up to the boy’s disappearance and so on. Even the
psychological
effects of the loss of a brother on a younger sister merited comment by a well-known child psychologist. Alice read it all, appalled, sympathising with the parents’ plight, recognising their utter desperation but deliberately choosing not to imagine herself precisely in their shoes. It would be a painful yet completely pointless exercise. Her heartache would assist no-one, remedy nothing. Below the rambling leader, her eyes were caught by a short
paragraph
headed ‘Yangtse River Dolphin Now Extinct’.

‘A rare river dolphin, the baiji, is now thought to be extinct. The species was the only remaining member of the
Lipotidae
, an ancient mammal family that separated from other marine mammals, including whales, dolphins and porpoises, about twenty-five million years ago. The baiji’s extinction is attributable to unregulated
finishing
, dam construction and boat collisions. The species’ incidental mortality results from massive-scale human environmental impact.’