The Road to Hell (14 page)

‘“He’d had more than enough” was what she actually said. She also reported that he pretty well launched himself onto the road without looking properly.’

‘Not Ian. I don’t believe it. He held his drink well. He wasn’t stupid or mad. What exactly are you trying to tell me?’ Alice asked, suddenly distraught, looking her
superior directly in the eye.

‘I’m telling you – that it was a hit and run, we know that, but . . . he may have been partially responsible for –’

‘You said there was a witness?’ Alice demanded.

‘Yes. A witness.’

‘Who? How many have we found?’

‘Only one, so far. I’m not sure I can tell you the name off-hand – but Celia Something or other . . . We’re still looking for the other two. They’re on holiday
together somewhere in Ireland.’

‘There must have been plenty of people in the pub?’

‘There were.’

‘Do they say that? That he launched himself – without looking?’

‘No,’ Elaine Bell said, now trying to pacify her, ‘they don’t say that, but they weren’t there. Only Celia and the other two actually witnessed the accident.
I’m only telling you because . . . you need to know that it has been suggested. If you’re coming back here – well, you should know that. That’s why I’m telling you
now. You can see her statement, if you like.’ The DCI frowned, annoyed with herself for weakening, attempting to justify herself.

‘I do. She didn’t say that to me when we met up.’

‘I didn’t know you’d spoken to her. All I can say is that’s in her statement. Maybe, talking face to face with you, she wanted to spare you any un . . .’

‘Unlikely,’ Alice retorted, cutting in. ‘Anyway, the toxicology report will settle it.’

‘It will give us his blood-alcohol count, certainly.’

‘Thank you, Ma’am,’ Alice said stiffly. ‘I’ll start first thing tomorrow, if that’s OK with you?’

‘That is OK with me,’ Elaine Bell said, keeping her eyes on her subordinate’s face. ‘One other thing . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Just before you went off, they released Brian Riley. I only got the news today.’

‘Riley?’ she said in disbelief.

‘Riley.’

Alice shook her head, stunned by the information. The name was only too familiar to her, the man too. A vicious-looking face, freckled as a bird’s egg and topped with carrot-coloured hair.
Riley seemed to function in life without conscience or empathy, and twice she had helped to ensure that he was returned to prison in Saughton. He was also responsible for a recurring nightmare of
hers. It had been triggered by her discovery of his last victim, his own wife, in horrific circumstances. Less than six months earlier, she had found the woman on the floor of their kitchen in
Muirhouse, still curled in the foetal position to protect herself from further attack by him, with dark, arterial blood spurting from a knife wound in her thigh. More was flowing freely from a gash
to the stomach. A carving knife lay beside her.

While waiting for the ambulance, Alice had made a makeshift tourniquet from her own scarf but it had come loose. Fastening it a second time she had gone to look for the ambulance, and in her
absence Mrs Riley, herself, had undone it. By the time she returned, the woman had lost consciousness, and lay, like an island, surrounded by a sea of her own blood. In the dream, Riley stood
laughing beside her, pointing at the dead woman and guffawing, inviting her to appreciate the joke. Looking at him and then at the knife, she heard herself, in the dream, beginning to chuckle.

‘He’s back home in Muirhouse,’ DCI Bell said.

‘How did that happen?’ Alice asked. ‘The jury found him guilty, they were unanimous. With his record, he should have been put away forever.’

‘I know. But, unfortunately, in the judge’s charge to the jury he went over the top in hinting at Riley’s guilt. So, he’s out again, thanks to the appeal court and
silvery tongue of Mr Thriepland QC. Frankly, I don’t know how some of them sleep at night.’

Back in Broughton Place, Alice unpacked her rucksack. Quill was to remain with her sister for a couple of weeks, enjoying himself in the country and in the company of another
dog, and the flat felt unnaturally empty, unnaturally quiet. Everywhere she looked there were reminders of Ian. Each one hurt. His toothbrush sat next to hers in a mug in the bathroom, his dirty
socks were on the chair by the bedroom window and his favourite cup, unwashed and with a rim of coffee, had been stacked by the sink. With all his belongings there, it was as if he had walked out
of the flat to buy a bottle of wine and would be returning in ten minutes. But ten minutes passed, and the next ten minutes and then the next until it was midnight.

As she got into bed, the familiar scent of his body arose from the warmed sheets and she wept, exhausted, feeling anew the rawness of it all, the impossibility of solid flesh and bone and the
life within him disappearing into nothingness. One minute there had been a man, one like no other, talking, laughing and loving; and the next, simply cold, meaningless, indistinguishable matter.
Lifeless flesh. It was impossible to take in.

And Elaine Bell’s news went round and round in her head, tormenting her. Suppose he had ‘launched’ himself into the oncoming traffic, was it because he had been unhappy,
heedless of what might happen to him, or because he was drunk and did not know what he was doing? But why would he have been so drunk? He normally took no more than he could handle, two or three
pints at most, so why should he have drunk so much more on this occasion? Could it be because of their stupid row, when she had been so cold and unrelenting towards him, annoyed by his
forgetfulness, jealous of Cici? But she had kissed him the next morning, and there had seemed to be all the time in the world to make peace.

And, surely to God, she had not been that cold towards him, that bad? It had only been a trivial falling out, not some kind of cataclysmic break-up with harsh, unforgettable words exchanged. And
he had drunk the bloody stuff, she had not made him do it. It was not her fault. That way lay madness. Work alone would keep it at bay, fill her mind with a million other things and leave no room
for grief. Concentrating on the job would keep her sane, it would be her salvation, she could lose herself in it.

The next morning she was the last to arrive in the office.

‘Hello, Alice,’ Eric Manson said, pulling out her chair for her to sit on. It was something he had never done before; she knew it was his way of showing his sympathy for her, and
extraordinarily eloquent in its way.

Today, everyone was reacting differently to her. As she had climbed the stairs to the Murder Suite, a couple of constables she knew, thought of as friends rather than simply colleagues, had
passed by her, saying nothing, averting their eyes from her in their embarrassment, unable to think what to say. But one man, a civilian employee, only recently stationed at St Leonard’s,
stopped her in the corridor and immediately expressed his sorrow at her ‘sad bereavement’. Facing him, she found herself temporarily lost for words, worried that she might loose
control, but she managed to mumble something about her gratitude for his ‘kind words’. In her own ears, her answer sounded odd, artificial and clichéd, but she meant what she
said, and his directness of approach had given her some slight comfort. Best of all, now they both knew where they were.

At lunchtime DC Littlewood appeared at her desk. In one hand he held his own meal, sushi followed by a fresh fruit salad, and in the other he held the food he had, unasked, chosen for her. A
small Scotch pie, a packet of crisps and a can of Irn-Bru. Handing them over to her, he nodded shyly and said, ‘Comfort food, Sarge. I know your tastes,’ before continuing to his own
desk.

She spent the early hours of the afternoon familiarising herself with everything that had happened in her absence, and occasionally DC Cairns or one of the other members of the squad would
explain something, often correcting each other, occasionally arguing passionately.

‘I see we had a call from a bus driver, Derek Burnett, doing the Braid Hills route. Why have we not followed him up?’ Alice asked no one in particular.

‘Because, Sarge,’ DC Gallagher said patiently from his desk at the back of the room, having responded to a few of her earlier inquiries, ‘the woman was found in the Hermitage,
mind? The bus doesn’t go anywhere near that place – there’s not a stop anywhere near it.’

‘So what? She could have walked there. She could have walked some distance from a stop.’

‘Aye,’ he said, thinking as he spoke, ‘aye, sure enough, she could have, I suppose, but no bus ticket was found on her.’

‘Quite. But no bag was found on her either, no wallet, no keys, nothing. The absence of a ticket, alongside the absence of all those other things, is hardly conclusive. I’m going to
arrange to see the man, he might have something to tell us.’

The bus driver, an unshaven, fleshy man with forearms like hams, was watching television when Alice and DC Elizabeth Cairns entered his living room. He did not turn it off and
kept half an eye on the screen. On it a football match was being shown, although, in their honour, the volume had been slightly turned down.

‘This woman, the one you called us about, what was she wearing?’ Alice asked him. His wife, who had shown them in, resumed her seat, picked up her newspaper and retired behind it as
if it might make her invisible.

‘I cannae mind now, but like what they said in the paper. She was dressed that way. A wee bit shabby-like.’ He glanced in the direction of the two policewomen and then his eye moved
on, looking for somewhere to put his plate and the remains of his pizza.

‘Where did she get off, which stop?’ Alice asked him, trying to catch his eye, prevent it from returning to the screen.

‘No bloody stop. I threw her off.’ He hesitated and then bawled at the TV, ‘Come on! Come on, wee man, get it into the back of the net!’

‘Why did you throw her off?’ DC Cairns asked, the excitement in his voice drawing her eyes to the match too.

‘Eh?’ Having risen half out of his seat, he appeared not to have heard the question. After a second he sat down again heavily.

‘Why did you throw her off the bus?’ she repeated.

‘Goal! It’s a goal! One–nil and only another minute to go!’ he shouted, jumping up from his chair, ecstatic. ‘See that? Did you see that?’

Lowering her paper, his wife looked at him, and shook her head slowly, muttering under her breath, ‘Big bairns, men, the lot o’ them.’

The instant he returned her gaze, annoyance on his face, she dipped back behind the paper again.

‘Mr Burnet,’ Alice said, raising her voice to get his attention, ‘can you tell us why you threw the woman off your bus?’

‘Oh aye,’ he said, taking a sip from his can of lager, ‘I threw her off because she was annoyin’ everybody, greetin’ away tae herself. She called me names an’
all. Then she done it.’

‘She done it?’

‘She wet herself on my bus. The filthy bitch.’

‘Whereabouts did you throw her off?’

‘Eh . . . somewhere at the end of Morningside Road, before it changes into Comiston. I dae ken exactly, see I made a special stop for her, like. Tae get her off.’