‘About… an hour ago.’ The young woman’s eyes were red, swollen with tears.
‘What happened exactly?’
‘I share a clerk with Flora, we’re both advocates. Sheila, our clerk, phoned to tell me about a consultation fixed for tomorrow and said, in passing, that Flora hadn’t shown up for a Summar Roll hearing, answered her phone or responded to her pager. That’s very uncharacteristic of her, so I said I’d look in on her on my way up to the Faculty. I pass her door. So that’s what I did.’
‘The front door was open?’
‘Mmm.’
‘You walked in and found her, as she now is, in the sitting room?’
‘Mmm.’ She blinked, trying to hold back more tears.
‘You phoned for us?’
‘Yes.’
‘Immediately on finding her?’
‘Mmm. She was dead.’
‘Did you see or talk to Flora yesterday?’
‘Yes. We spoke on the phone. I didn’t see her.’
‘When did you last talk to her?’
‘Yesterday evening.’
‘When?’
‘About seven pm. I rang to see if she’d like to go to the cinema with me.’
‘When did the call end?’
‘I don’t know. Some time around seven-fifteen pm, maybe. We didn’t speak for very long. I only know the time as I’d checked it to see what films we’d be able to catch.’
‘And you didn’t see or speak to her after that until you found her this morning?’
‘No, that’s right.’
Maria shifted her position on the bed and the photos on it cascaded onto the floor. Alice picked them up, looking at each one as she did so, and a cold shiver went down her spine. She handed one of David Pearson to the young advocate and asked, ‘Can you tell me who that is?’
‘David Pearson. A QC. The one that was murdered.’
‘Was she having an affair with him?’ She hardly needed to ask, the photos were confirmation enough.
Maria hesitated before responding. ‘Yes.’
‘Had it been going on for long?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I think it started soon after they were in the Mair case together. That went ahead in about June this year.’
‘Do you know if his wife knew about it?’
‘I’ve no idea…’ she paused, and then continued ‘I don’t think she can have. Flora would have told me if that had happened.’
‘Did you ever hear Flora mention the names Elizabeth Clarke or Sammy McBryde?’
‘No…’ she corrected herself, ‘Yes. I think there was a female doctor called Clarke who was an expert witness, or something, in one of her cases. Maybe the Mair one, I can’t really recall. But I have heard her mention the name, I’m sure. Sammy McBryde, that name’s not familiar, and I’d have a reasonable chance of remembering it, as McBryde’s my mother’s maiden name.’
On the route to Merchiston Place and ‘Drumlyon’, Alice and Alastair discussed the approach they would adopt. Laura Pearson’s promiscuous husband and his two lovers were now dead, and if anyone had a motive for killing the lot of them, Laura Pearson did. And she had lied about Elizabeth Clarke, denying any connection between the dead woman and her husband, even though she knew that they had been lovers for years. Pressure would have to be applied, could be applied with the kid gloves still on.
The widow opened the door, and her surprise on seeing the two police officers showed momentarily on her face, but she led them immediately into her living room. The CD of ‘The Messiah’ was taken off and packets of Christmas cards were cleared from the sofa where they were lying, in order to make space for the unexpected visitors. From her seat Alice studied Laura Pearson. She did not look like any kind of vengeful monster, more like a Carmelite recently released from her enclosed order and as yet unused to the world and its ways. A Reverend Mother, though. Appearances mean little, Alice reminded herself, thinking of the graveyard rapist and his resemblance to the archetypal angelic chorister.
Alastair began. ‘We saw Alan Dunlop, your husband’s friend. He told us that David had had an affair with Elizabeth Clarke.’
The woman bit her lip but said nothing, so he continued. ‘When we asked you whether your husband knew Dr Clarke, you denied it.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I just couldn’t talk about it. I’m sorry. I knew who could tell you anything you needed to know and I sent you to him. To Alan, I mean.’
‘Alan might not have told us.’
‘And the sun might not rise tomorrow. I know Alan, he loved David and he understands me. You needed information to help you find whoever killed Elizabeth Clarke and David, that’s why you were there. I was sure Alan would tell you of their connection, he’d know as much about it as me, quite possibly more. Why would I deny something that was virtually public knowledge?’
‘It being virtually public knowledge would mean, for you, virtually public humiliation?’
She flushed. ‘Yes, and it did. But if you’re suggesting from that statement that I would conceal the affair from you to avoid further such humiliation, it’s nonsense. As I said I just couldn’t, so soon after his murder, speak about that part of our life together. If you’re suggesting that I hated David for humiliating me, you’re right, but I got over it. Plenty of women do.’
‘We also asked you about Sammy McBryde. Did your husband know him?’
‘I told you, I don’t think so. I can’t guarantee it. I don’t know exactly who he knew and who he didn’t. All I can safely say is that if he did know him, he never mentioned anything about him to me.’
‘And you. Did you know him?’
‘No. I told you before that I didn’t.’
‘Can you tell us what you were doing between five pm and nine pm on Thursday 1st of December?’
‘I don’t know offhand. Can I look at my diary?’
‘Of course.’
Laura Pearson went over to a low, walnut bookcase and extracted a small pocketbook from a red leather bag resting on it. She returned to her seat, flicking through the diary pages before answering.
‘I must have been here. I can’t have been out anywhere, as my diary’s blank and I’m meticulous about filling in any appointments, engagements and so on.’
‘Would anyone have been here with you?’
‘David, probably, unless he was still working at the library. No-one else. Our children visit occasionally but I don’t remember any visit from them then. Mum was still away. She was on holiday in Sicily until the fourth of December.’
Alice broke in. ‘Can you tell us where you were on Monday the fifth of December, between four-thirty pm and eleven-fifty pm?’
She looked in the diary again, found an entry, and responded. ‘Well, for some of the time I was at a candlelit concert in Rosslyn Chapel-carols, given by a singing group called Rudsambee. It began at eight pm and finished at nine-fifteen pm.’
‘Was anyone with you?’ Alice continued.
‘My mother, who you met, and my eldest daughter, Sara.’
‘And before the concert?’
‘They both came to tea, probably at about four-thirty pm or so. We had supper here before we left for Roslin.’
‘What did you do when the concert finished?’
‘We were all travelling together in the same car, my car. I dropped off my daughter in Liberton, then I took Mum to her house in the Grange and after that I came on here. I probably got back home at about ten-fifteen.’
‘Was there anyone here with you from then onwards?’
‘David was at home. I remember talking to him about one of the carols, “Il Est Né, Le Divin Enfant”. He was particularly fond of it, and you don’t often hear it sung nowadays.’
On the evening of your husband’s murder you were here on your own. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where were you yesterday evening and this morning?’
‘Between any particular times?’ she enquired.
‘Say, between seven pm yesterday evening and one o’clock this afternoon,’ Alastair answered smoothly.