While she was preoccupied, fretting about the victim’s vulnerability to the elements, she busied herself attempting to reattach a sheet of awning to the makeshift screen it had freed itself from. DC Ruth Littlewood came to assist, and together they managed to subdue the billowing canvas and tether it to the frame, finally creating some kind of temporary refuge from the weather for themselves and the body at their feet. Ruth wiped the rainwater from her eyes with a tissue, and then passed an opaque little polythene bag, sealed at the neck, to her superior.
‘Another note?’ Alice asked, knowing the answer already.
‘Yup. Found it in the bloke’s left hand pocket. Blue biro this time, and the word’s “misleading”. It’s on stiff paper, more like card or something.’
‘Who found the body?’
‘A girl, a student at the University. She’s called Jane Drummond. I’ll go and get her for you shall I?’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Sheltering by the pavilion. DC Porter’s with her.’
‘I’ll go there. The photographers will need this space soon and the presence of the body won’t help the witnesses’ concentration.’
Under the eaves of the boarded-up pavilion a girl was standing, shivering with cold, trying unsuccessfully to light a cigarette despite the wind and lashing rain. She looked up on Alice’s approach and started to return the damp cigarette to its packet, but her hand was shaking violently, making the manoeuvre unusually difficult. Tears were falling down her already wet face.
‘Jane, there are just a few matters I need to talk to you about, can you manage?’ Alice enquired.
‘Yes,’ the girl answered in a whisper.
‘I’ve been told that you were coming from the Meadow Place side of the park and heading towards the old Royal Infirmary when you came across the body, is that right?’
‘Yes,’ another faint reply.
‘Can you tell me when that was?’
The student sniffed, cleaning her eyes with her fists like a small child, before composing herself and answering in a near-normal voice, ‘I think it would’ve been at about a quarter past nine. I looked at my watch when I was waiting for the ambulance, the police, and it was about twenty past then. I found him and phoned almost immediately.’
‘When you found him, was he already dead?’
‘As far as I could tell, yes,’ she gulped, ‘not moving, with that huge slash on his throat. He didn’t say anything, his eyes were shut, blood everywhere. I didn’t take his pulse, if that’s what you mean. Should I have?’
‘No, no, don’t worry,’ Alice reassured her. ‘There was nothing you could have done. Truly. Before you found him, did you see anyone else in the area?’
‘No. I had my head down because of the rain. I wanted to get back to the flat as quickly as possible. I only saw the poor guy because I practically tripped over his bike. It was lying right across my path and there he was, right next to it. If I’d been a few feet further to the left or right I would have missed him completely.’
‘When you were phoning or waiting with the body did you see anyone?’
The girl hesitated, before responding, ‘I think there was a cyclist… Sorry not to be sure, but I got such a shock… It’s difficult to recall… I just keep seeing that awful cut…’
‘A cyclist?’
‘Yes, going across the grass on the right-hand side… A good distance from me, though. I couldn’t even say if it was a man or a woman. Whoever it was had their head down and their bum high off the saddle, like, trying to get out of the wet.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Certain?’
‘Certain as I can be, but I wasn’t looking. I was just standing by that poor man, praying for the ambulance, the police, anyone to come and help. His head was practically off…’ The sentence remained unfinished, as the witness suddenly covered her mouth with her hand, before doubling up and vomiting copiously onto the tarmac at her feet.
Alice left the pavilion and returned to the body of David Pearson. In the little crowd assembling behind the boundary tape, she recognised a couple of unwelcome faces, James Mitchell from the Scotsman, unmissable as ever in his black fedora hat, and the red-lipsticked giantess from the Evening News. Wherever blood had been spilt they were to be found, like sharks, honed by evolution for their unsavoury task, single-minded and transfixed by the newest death. Mitchell, spying her, tipped the brim of his hat and she managed to smile at him. In the past he had helped her, and maybe would again. No point in alienating an ally, particularly a ruthless predator like him.
Manson, raincoat flapping open and belt whipping his sides, approached the giantess. Another of the strange symbiotic relationships created as a result of a murder, she thought. Sheltering beneath the policeman’s umbrella, the journalist appeared rapt by whatever information she was receiving, apparently memorising everything, notebook closed in her hand. Manson would, no doubt, be favouring her with his drugs theory, imparted earlier to Alice on the phone and as quickly dismissed by her. Dr Clarke, a medical practitioner, would have access to drugs and might have gone ‘rotten’; Sammy McBryde could hardly have lived where he did and not been a user, possibly even a dealer; and Pearson, a Queen’s Counsel, would know half of the drugs barons in central Scotland, no doubt having saved their poxy skins and earned their undying gratitude.
Thursday 8th December
The squad meeting, held at nine am precisely, was packed. Detective Superintendent Brunson was seated beside DCI Bell and Charlie Whyte, the press officer from HQ at Fettes, was standing, coffee cup in hand, by the door. As soon as DCI Bell rose the chatter in the room ceased, replaced by an attentive silence, as all eyes focused upon her. Her voice was still husky, unnaturally low, and any address would have to be given without frills or she’d be reduced to a whispering wreck again.
‘All of you will be aware, by now, that our killer has struck again. Identical M.O., knife or whatever across the throat, and another little piece of paper. The word this time is “misleading”, and it was found in one of the victim’s trouser pockets, the left one. Different paper, unlined, and different ink, blue on this occasion. The locus of the killing was the Meadows. The victim, David Pearson QC, was crossing them some time between about eight-forty-five pm and nine-fifteen pm. We know he left the Faculty of Advocates in the High Street at eight-forty-five pm as he clocked out then and filled in their register. He was found dead by a witness, Jane Drummond, some time around nine-fifteen pm. Uniforms are already doing further door-to-doors around Bankes Crescent, Learmonth Terrace and the Medway, and we’ve added all addresses about the Meadows onto their list. The post mortem on Pearson is at twelve today and I want Alastair and Alice to attend. I need Sandy and Ruth to oversee the search of the Meadows and its surroundings and DCs Irwin and Sinclair can assist the Dog Section.’