Troubled Waters (24 page)

‘Yes, thanks, but white, that would be good. We want to talk to you about a neighbour on the stair, Miranda Stimms.’

‘Randy Mandy? Is she in trouble or something?’ Maisie asked, taking the milk bottle from the boot and pouring some into a teacup, then, tutting at her own ineptitude, transferring it into a little milk jug. Her head bent forwards, the double crown of her spiky, peroxided hair was visible. She seemed, Alice thought, more like a bear than a human being, her immense hips merging into saddlebags making her resemble Yogi or Balloo’s spouse. Some cartoon character, for sure. As she lumbered about, peering in the fridge and then searching in a cupboard, she
hummed unselfconsciously to herself in a low monotone as if she was on her own.

‘Biccies!’ she exclaimed, turning round and beaming widely, a packet of custard creams now clasped in her oversized paw. ‘And what about Miranda?’ she asked, biting the packet open with her teeth.

‘I’m afraid she’s dead. We think she was murdered, that was why we wanted to speak to you,’ Alice replied. At the word ‘dead’, the woman stopped in front of her, a single custard cream on her outstretched, calloused palm as if offering it to a horse, looking at her in frank astonishment.

‘Christ on a bike!’ she exclaimed, handing over the biscuit and then shuffling off to her own chair. ‘If you’d said that she’d flitted without paying the rent, or been shoplifting or something like that – but
dead
!
Murdered
! You know, when I got your message I knew there must be something wrong. But Mandy – that would be like strangling a kitten! What happened? I didn’t do it, by the way, I can assure you of that. Do I need a lawyer or something?’

‘No. You’re not a suspect. We’re still investigating everything, asking everyone questions, trying to work out what happened to her on the Monday night.’

‘Well, thank God for that,’ Maisie sighed, lowering herself carefully onto her seat. ‘That’s me in the clear, then. Because I left on Monday afternoon, at four p.m. precisely. Caught the train to Kings Cross and spent the night in London with Katie. She’ll vouch for me. I’ll even have the ticket somewhere, in my money belt. On holiday I always wear one, then you don’t need to worry, do you? Even at night, in the tent, in the bag, I keep it on. It’ll be there, the ticket, I mean. D’you want me to get it?’

‘Not at the moment, thanks. I need to learn about Mandy. Did you know her well?’

‘Dead! That’s awful! She only moved in, what, a month ago – a couple of months ago? You don’t really see your neighbours that much, do you? I saw her a few times, said hello, went into her flat even, but just the once. It’s not as big as this one. Furnished, unlike here, furnished with crap from a skip, courtesy of the lovely Mr Dowdall. Our landlord. Chosen by touch, I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s blind, you see. I brought my own stuff, apart from the white goods. Dead! It’s unbelievable! Like another biscuit, dear?’

‘Not at the moment, thanks. What sort of person was she? Randy Mandy as you called her?’

Mouth full, crunching a custard cream, Maisie answered as best as she could, holding a hand over her mouth to prevent any spray of crumbs.

‘Timid. What else can you say? I was being sarcastic before. She was more Doris Day than randy anything. The poor little thing. She wouldn’t say boo to a goose, and certainly not to a gander. I went to see her because some git on the stair had shoved her mail into my letterbox. I was shoving it through hers but she caught me at it, opened the door. She gave me a cup of tea.’

‘Did you ever meet her boyfriend, Hamish Evans?’ Alice asked, looking at the open packet of biscuits and stretching her hand towards it, having changed her mind. They were as good a breakfast as any.

‘On you go,’ Maisie said, ‘take two, three. They’re that small. No, but she told me about him. To be honest, you’d think men were buzzing about her like flies, the way she was going on. Fighting over her, or so she’d have it. Sam something, then this Hamish guy. The slightest attention turned her head. She was naïve . . . that’s how it seemed to me, anyhow.’

The telephone rang and she rose, slowly and unsteadily, and lumbered towards it.

‘Hello, Maisie Lavery. Monumental stonemason,’ she said, hand on her hip, looking the policewoman in the eye as if she was addressing her.

Hearing the name of her caller, a broad smile spread over her face and she turned round, facing one of the steamed-up windows.

‘Terry, my boy, you got home OK! Me, too, I can hardly keep my eyes open. Yeah, don’t worry, we’ll settle up later. Got to go . . . no, really got to go. Yeah, someone with me. No, I can’t, the police. Tell you later. Byeee!’

‘That’s my pal, Terry. The one I went to France with.’ She slumped back into her chair, helping herself to another biscuit.

‘Now, this’ll be my last one,’ she continued, rubbing her eyes. ‘What was I was telling you about? Mmm. Mandy’s boyfriend, wasn’t I? She showed me a photo. He was dark-haired, good-looking in a boyish kind of way. That’s all I can remember . . . Sorry, but my brain’s not really functioning.’

‘What did she say about Sam?’

‘Sam, Sam, Samity, a monster of depravity, according to her.’

‘Did you meet Anna?’

‘Anna? Was that her name? Her sister, d’you mean her sister, the one living with her?’

‘I didn’t know she had a sister. I thought she was her girlfriend,’ Alice said. ‘That’s what we’ve been told, anyway. Did you meet her, the one living with her?’

‘Her girlfriend? No. But her sister was in the flat when Miranda invited me in. She was there, but I went into the kitchen with Miranda. She was in the sitting room,
watching the telly. Bloody loud, at that. I never actually saw her. More coffee?’

Alice shook her head. ‘What makes you think they were sisters?’

‘What makes you think they were girlfriends, more like? If you’d seen her going on, so pleased, about boys after her. Yeah, they were sisters, I’m almost sure of it. I don’t know why I think that, though. Maybe she told me . . . she must have. Why else would I be so sure? Flatmates, maybe? No, sisters, she must have told me that they were sisters, that her sister was living with her. You’ve got me doubting myself!’

‘Did many people, as far as you’re aware, call on Miranda?’

‘Visitors, you mean? Gentlemen callers? I haven’t a clue. I’m never here anyway. I’m sorry, constable. I really am,’ Maisie said, briefly covering her face with her hands, ‘but I’ve got to get to my bed. I’ve been up for over twenty-four hours. My head’s spinning. I’ll be sick, I could barf for Britain right now. Come back, anytime – here or at my studio up Leith Walk – but I’ve got to get some sleep.’

The drive to Starbank Terrace took less than a quarter of an hour. For another five minutes Alice sat in her car a little distance from the Stimms’ house, thinking, working out the best way to approach Mrs Stimms, devising the best strategy. It was all very odd. The woman had said nothing at all about any other daughter, never mind one that had been, supposedly, living with the dead girl. Why not? Surely some reference to her would have been natural, because she, too, would have lost a loved one? And if the daughters had been living together, why hadn’t the remaining one reported her sister’s absence? Perhaps she
had witnessed her sister’s death, could even describe her killer? Then why hadn’t she come forward? Surely Hamish could not be jealous of the attention his girlfriend gave to her sister? Hearing of Miranda’s death, would her mother not also, immediately, be concerned for the safety of her other daughter? In the circumstances, the woman’s reaction seemed abnormal, difficult to comprehend. What the hell had been going on?

For a moment, her eyes drifted across to the sea, over its calm, grey surface to where it merged into a milk-white sky. She rolled down her window, inhaling the salt air, calming herself and preparing for her confrontation. There must be some explanation for this, and to get at the truth she must keep her wits about her. Mrs Stimms might seem like a shy, retiring person, a slightly inadequate one, but she had, for some reason, in extraordinary circumstances, managed to keep her self-possession, and quite possibly her secrets with it.

Outside the door Alice looked along the terrace of six houses, wondering whether all of them were occupied by members of the Elect. How did they first establish a bridgehead, without becoming polluted in the process? Maybe, years earlier, the whole terrace had been empty, had been bought up by them and thereafter only sold to their co-religionists. How else could they ensure that no walls were shared with ‘worldlies’ like her? To anyone passing it in ignorance, in a car or on foot, the street looked like many others in the neighbourhood. A row of stone-built, slate-roofed Victorian villas without gardens, fronting onto the pavement, and the public road beyond that. The only exceptional thing about the terrace was the magnificent sea view they all shared. And there were no spires, no crosses, no overtly religious signs or symbols,
nothing to alert the sleepy, secular world to their presence, or to advertise their chosen form of apartheid.

The door opened and a man’s head peeped out, the security chain still in place.

‘Mr Stimms?’ she said.

‘Aye?’ He had a high, light voice and sounded surprised by his own answer, meeting her question with a question.

‘May I come in? I’m Inspector Rice. I’ve come to talk about your daughter, Miranda. I came before, as you’ll know, I spoke to your wife. I was hoping to speak to her again.’

‘Right, yes, she told me about you. Come in then, Inspector. She’s out at the moment, seeing her brother in Glasgow – maybe I could be of help? I’m glad to meet you. I wanted to thank you, anyway, for your kindness – about our loss. I know you were very kind to her. I appreciate that, I really appreciate that.’

He opened the door fully, moved back into the hallway and indicated with a wave of his hand that she could come in. Following him, she walked into the spotless sitting-room once more. The man took a seat opposite her and, for the first time, she took in his appearance. Like his wife, he was well-dressed, wearing a dark pin-striped suit, his shoes gleaming as if newly polished. This little person, she thought, was not a bear but, rather, a mouse. It was partly his bright black eyes, partly his quick, jerky movements, and partly something intangible, indefinable, but unmistakeably rodent-like in quality. His whiskery moustache, perhaps? If he had twitched his nose then and there she would not have been surprised. But she must stop this; he was a man, not a mouse. Maisie Lavery was not a bear.

‘So,’ he said, overturning her mental image by taking the initiative, ‘how can I help you, Inspector?’

‘As I said, it’s about your daughter, Miranda, I heard . . .’

Before she had a chance to finish her sentence he cut in, saying quietly, but firmly, ‘I have no daughter, Miranda. She embraced wickedness . . . embraced unnatural relations, so I have no daughter called Miranda.’

‘As you will. But you have another daughter . . .’

At her words, he leant towards her, looking puzzled, all his attention focused on her, concentrating fully, his dark eyes unblinking.

‘I do.’

‘And she lived with Miranda,’ she continued.

‘Aye, she did,’ he said, ‘for a wee while, for a holiday. Why are you asking about her? ‘

‘In the flat in Casselbank Street?’

‘Yes. What’s the mystery?’

‘When did she stop living there?’

‘She never lived there. Like I said, she just went to stay with her sister for a wee holiday. I brought her home, back here, myself.’

‘When did her holiday end?’

‘I don’t know the exact date but I could find it out for you, if you need it. It’ll be in my diary, I put everything in there.’

‘Was she still staying there last Monday?’

‘No. I must have taken her home a good week, ten days, before that.’ He looked at the policewoman and added, ‘She’d had her holiday, a wee holiday, with her big sister. It was the end of her Christmas holidays. You see, they were close, very close. And with Miranda no longer . . . well, not being part of the family any more.’

‘You didn’t mind her going there? To stay with Miranda?’

‘They’re still sisters, aren’t they? Family. It would be wrong to keep them apart.’ He looked at his interrogator, smiled ruefully, and added, ‘Have you a sister?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you’ll know what it means then – to have a sister. Me, too, I’ve got one. I wouldn’t harm their relationship, it’s way too important, too special for that.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘Diana? She’s upstairs, in her bed. The doctor was here only an hour or so ago. She’s not well at all. She’s got the measles, a high temperature. Her mother said she was on fire. The curtains are shut and everything. She’s very precious to us, that’s why I’m staying home with her. Extra precious now. As I’m sure you understand.’

‘Of course, and I’m sorry she’s not well. And that’s that particular mystery solved, although we’ve still got the other woman unaccounted for – unless they’re the same person. You see, I was told that your daughter, that Miranda was living with another woman. I’ve been trying to find her in case she knew anything about, or was even involved in, your daughter’s death.’

‘But she was living with a woman. Miranda was unnatural, homosexual, I told you. That’s exactly why I had to go and pick the wee one up. I picked her up early, after she’d phoned me. I learnt about it on the phone. I was horrified . . .’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Diana told me about . . . that woman, that she’d moved back in. I couldn’t have that. I had thought – well, that Miranda wouldn’t have the woman there – not when her wee sister was there too, but she did. I couldn’t have that, nobody could tolerate that.’

‘Anna? Did she ever mention the name Anna?’

‘Anna?’

‘That’s what the woman who lived with your daughter was called, I believe. I need to speak to her, your daughter I mean, to get a description of the woman, Anna. We’re trying to find her. I’ll have to come back as soon as she’s better, and get a description then.’

‘Do you,’ Mr Stimms asked, his voice breaking, ‘think she did it then? Do you think this Anna person killed my darling – killed my Miranda?’ Tears had begun to form in the man’s eyes, and he turned his face away for a second, with a quick movement brushing them dry with his sleeve.