The sergeants were greeted like old friends by the Jehovah’s Witnesses at the nearby Kingdom Hall. Followers appeared from nowhere, men and women, old and young, all smiling kindly at them and one bearing refreshments. They were led, superflous mugs of tea in hand, to a comfortable seating area, a space reserved for leather-covered armchairs and long, low tables covered in brightly coloured little books and pamphlets. Their escorts mysteriously drifted away, but one old lady remained with them, sipping her tea companionably and radiating a benign contentment at their appearance. Alice, realising that the Witnesses believed that their visit was due to a desire for conversion or, at the very least, further information leading to conversion, drew her identity card from her pocket and showed it to their hostess. The effect was immediate, and the old lady’s expression changed into one of anxiety.
‘How can we help you, Officers?’ she said.
‘We would like to speak, if possible, to any of the three Witnesses who were in Lennox Street last Thursday evening,’ Alice replied.
The old lady blinked nervously, and then bellowed, with surprising vigour, ‘Eva! Eva! Come out here.’
The mousy woman who had distributed the tea emerged from behind a partially open door and joined them in the seating area. A lifetime of knocking on strangers’ doors and being met with abuse had prepared her for any ordeal, and an interview with the police was as nothing compared to one night’s evangelising in the rougher parts of Midlothian, places where gobs of spittle often accompanied the slamming of doors. In response to their polite inquiries she explained that neither she, nor either of the others, had seen anything unusual that evening. They had, indeed, called at No. 1 Bankes Crescent. It was the last house they’d tried before thankfully abandoning their night’s chore and returning to the hall, weighed down with as many leaflets as they’d set out with. It had been a bad shift, with little kindness from any quarter, and they were all too disheartened to continue trying to spread the word any longer. She reckoned that they’d been at Dr Clarke’s front door at about nine pm and had got no response from any of the three flats.
As Eva began to describe their cool reception earlier that evening in Lennox Street, Alice’s mind drifted back to the information they’d already obtained, automatically assessing its import. The trio had been in and out of other people’s houses throughout the evening, so they could easily have missed all, or any, significant movements for the whole time. However, Dr Clarke had not responded when they had pressed her bell. She would not have been able to see who was at the front door from her flat, and medics couldn’t ignore callers as their services might be needed. Anyway, Dr Clarke was probably too polite, or too curious, to allow a doorbell to ring without responding to it in some way. So by nine pm she was probably dead.
DI Eric Manson had a gift, an unusual one, a gift for annoying Alice beyond endurance, and since he had discovered this particular accomplishment he had enjoyed exercising it to the full.
‘Ian Melville killed Dr Clarke, mark my words, Alice. He was turned down by her again and couldn’t accept it.’
‘No, Sir, I don’t think so,’ she replied in measured tones.
‘Face it, love, he had a motive and he had the opportunity. She’d spurned him, killed his kid, for Christ’s sake, what more do you want? Just because he’s good-looking, maybe even available…’ The caress of the flame on the blue touchpaper had been too close, and Alice’s response was immediate and heated.
‘His good looks, as you call them, Sir, have nothing to do with anything. Everyone who ends a relationship isn’t killed, everyone who refuses to re-ignite a relationship doesn’t have their throat slit. Abortions are performed every day and the mothers don’t end up in the mortuary. What we have on Melville, at the moment, all that we have, is his historic relationship with Dr Clarke, the proximity of their addresses and the absence of any alibi for the time at which she was probably killed.’
‘That’s what you think,’ Manson said provocatively, adding, with mock disbelief, ‘and as if that’s not enough!’
Alice and Alastair exchanged glances. Manson was well known for preferring to play with his own hand-picked team, and neither of them were under any illusion that they’d figure even as reserves if he had his way. It would not be the first time that he had been deliberately slow in exchanging intelligence crucial to the team as a whole. Fortunately, he was deprived of the opportunity of flourishing his additional information to maximum dramatic effect by the entry of DC Lindsay, announcing that a squad meeting had been called.
While surveying those assembled in the room DCI Bell crunched her cough sweet, menthol fumes invading her sinuses and making her blink repeatedly. Her voice was hoarse from a heavy cold, and she still looked colourless and panda-eyed. She should have been tucked up in bed asleep, not addressing her troops.
‘Listen up, please, as they say in the movies. We need to consider where we are in this investigation and where we’re going. Considering first Dr Clarke. We’ve just heard from the fingerprint boys that prints, matching those of Ian Melville, have been found on a glass taken from Dr Clarke’s kitchen.’ Alice became aware that Manson was smirking at her, so she continued to stare impassively at her boss.
‘We know he had a motive for the killing,’ Elaine Bell rasped painfully on, ‘and there’s no one to vouch for his whereabouts on the night in question. He made no mention to Alice or Alastair of any recent visit to Dr Clarke, so I want him questioned again.’ The DCI looked at her two sergeants to check that her orders had been understood, before continuing, ‘So far the doctor’s neighbours have been of little help, but the stuff provided by the Jehovah’s Witnesses may suggest that by nine pm or thereabouts she was already dead. That would accord, roughly, with the pathologist’s opinion about the time of death. We’re no further on in relation to the scraps of paper, and we’ve still no murder weapon. Eric’s got nothing so far from his extended interviews with the doctor’s colleagues…’.
‘I’m due to see Dr Ferguson about now, Ma’am,’ Manson interjected, rising as he spoke.
‘Off you go then, Eric,’ Bell whispered. She cleared her throat, tried to speak and then cleared it again, making her voice no more audible.
‘We’ve got a set of matching prints from Dr Clarke’s flat,’ she croaked, ‘and Granton Medway. A set over and above those left by Melville in Dr Clarke’s flat. The unidentified ones are no real surprise given the killer’s calling cards. McBryde’s neighbours haven’t provided anything useful and the search is still on around the Medway for the weapon.’ DCI Bell’s voice tailed off completely. She made one more attempt to speak before whispering ‘I’m sorry, I can’t go on. Can you allocate everyone else their duties, Sandy?’
‘Aye.’ DS Moray assented.
Back in the office Alastair phoned Ian Melville’s home number and got a woman’s voice, upper class and assured. It told him that Melville was away in London. No, she didn’t know where. No, she couldn’t contact him on his mobile as he’d bought a new one and she didn’t have the number. All she could tell them was that he was supposed to be coming back to the flat on Thursday evening. If they wanted to see him again they would have to wait until then.
6
Wednesday 7th December
Cycling up the Mound in winter was a bad idea. The chilly inhaled air hurt the lungs, and the heavy tweed overcoat meant added weight. David Pearson QC climbed off his large black lady’s bicycle and began to push it. Honour had been satisfied, he’d managed to stay in the saddle and propel the thing until he was opposite the Playfair Steps. On reaching Parliament House he rested it against one of the pillars flanking the entrance to Court No. 11 and entered the building via the men’s gown room. He changed into his court dress, noticing, as he did so, a grimy stain on his fall, and made a mental note to get another one from the laundry next week. How efficient he had been, buying one of his wife’s Christmas presents, a huge bottle of Jo Malone Grapefruit bath oil, and all before his court day had even begun. She’d be touched that he’d remembered her favourite essence.