‘Yesterday evening and yesterday night I was here on my own. I went shopping at about ten this morning, in Bruntsfield, other than that I’ve been here, on my own.’
‘Do you know anyone called Flora Erskine?’
‘No.’ No pause. No flicker of recognition.
‘Did your husband know Flora Erskine?’ Alastair persisted.
‘Well, it’s a bit like Samuel McBryde. I don’t think he did, but I can’t be sure. He certainly never mentioned her name to me.’
Alice caught Alastair’s eye. They needed a reaction. Alan Duncan had said that Laura Pearson was a very clever woman. Possibly she had lied to them before about her husband and Dr Clarke, although her explanation today for the lie would have been good enough to convince most juries. If she was ice-cool, then the ice would have to be broken.
‘Flora Erskine was found murdered in her house, a little over an hour ago. Her throat had been cut,’ Alice said, looking steadily at Laura Pearson.
The woman appeared puzzled, as if following a train of thought still being formed. ‘And you think this killing is connected with the murders of my husband and Elizabeth Clarke…?’ She stopped mid-sentence, panic in her eyes. It looked as if realisation was beginning to dawn.
‘The connection… Flora Erskine and David were lovers?’ she asked, a desperate hope for denial apparent on her face.
‘We think so.’
‘Dear God!’ She hesitated, taking the information in before following inexorably the chain of logic leading back to herself. ‘And you think that I am involved in their deaths?’
She looked up at Alice, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on the policewoman.
‘I don’t know,’ Alice admitted. It was no more than the truth. Laura Pearson rose from her armchair, moved to the telephone, bent to pick up the receiver and then stopped. Without a word she returned to her seat, sat down and addressed her two visitors.
‘As I am now a suspect in this case I was going to call a friend of mine, a solicitor, and I am going to do just that. But before I do, there are a few things you should know. After David’s affair with that Clarke woman, he promised me that there would be no more-no more women, I mean. I chose to believe him. Our marriage could not have continued if I had not. That marriage produced three children and two grandchildren with one more on the way. I had to believe that David would not endanger that fine achievement, my only achievement, again. Now, you tell me that I was wrong, that he was having an affair with Flora Erskine, whoever she may be. All I can say, whether you care to believe me or not, is that I trusted my husband, accepted his assurance, and he gave me no reason to doubt him. I knew nothing of any affair with anyone and, as far as I am concerned, I still don’t. I’ll never get a chance to hear David’s side of things, and there is no substitute, you two are no substitute. However, even if such an affair existed and I had become aware of it, I wouldn’t have killed him, or Elizabeth Clarke or any other lover. I’d have divorced him, just like the majority of women do when they discover that they are lumbered with an unfaithful, lying spouse.’
After they had gone, Laura Pearson went into the kitchen and made herself some tea. As she raised the cup to her mouth her hand began to tremble, spilling the hot liquid onto the oilcloth covering the kitchen table. She lowered her hand carefully and replaced the cup in its saucer before cradling her head in both her hands and groaning. In countless situations when her nerve had been tested before, her sang-froid had never deserted her, and she would not allow it to do so this time. In every way we reap what we have sown, she thought, picking up her tea cup by the fragile bone-handle to take a sip and marshalling her thoughts for the conversation she was anticipating. In a matter of minutes she knew exactly what she would say, how she would respond to the likely questions, and what impression she would convey. She was now a suspect in a murder inquiry. Not just a suspect, the suspect, the prime suspect. Who, in truth, would be likely to have a more compelling motive? No, there was no shortage there. The police were bound to be back, and she must prepare. She must call Paul and enlist his sympathies, retain his services, ensure that all her armour had been donned; but first she’d have to collect Anna from nursery school and take her home.
‘Can you hold, please?’
Before Alice had time to say no, the disembodied voice disappeared and was replaced by a tinny instrumental which she recognised, with growing horror, as ‘O Isis und Osiris’ from The Magic Flute. The piece had not only been shorn of the human voice but also speeded up, and her involuntary exposure to it, coupled with the unexplained delay, infuriated her. When the receptionist finally returned to the line, she could not have missed her caller’s pent-up anger.
‘Faculty of Advocates, how can I help you?’
‘I need to speak to Anthony Hardy. Now.’
‘Please hold while we try to find him.’
Again Alice seethed impotently as another few minutes passed. Finally, the chirpy voice reappeared. ‘I’m afraid he’s not responding to his pager.’
‘Can you take a message for him, please?’
‘Well, I’m not really supposed…’
‘Thank you…’, Alice cut in, ignoring the woman’s protestations. ‘Please tell him that Alice Rice called to ask, firstly, that he add the names Flora Erskine and Sammy McBryde to the computer search and, secondly, that he fax a copy of any details he can find about a case known as “The Mair Case”.’
‘I’ll try and pass that on, but I’ve not got a pen and I’m only supposed to…’
‘I am most grateful,’ Alice said, and put the phone down.
Manson’s smile alerted Alice to the problem long before he had opened his mouth. The smile remained, fixed and mirthless on his face as she swept past him towards the photocopier.
‘Our good lady’s baying for blood, Alice,’ he said sweetly.
‘No doubt we’re all to be donors, Sir.’
‘Nope,’ he grinned in triumph, ‘just blood groups Rice and Watt. I overheard her being savaged by the ACC, and your names and the words “out of control” and “serious repercussions” all appeared in the same sentence. Mrs Pearson’s got Paul Wilkinson representing her, so she’ll be bloody untouchable from now onwards, and that Winter woman, her mother, has been bending the Chief Constable’s ear about your visit. You’ve certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest. Anyway, dear, the DCI’s just phoned to say she wants to see your good selves in her office now.’
The atmosphere in the room where the squad had assembled was heavy. Everyone looked tired and dispirited, and there was little of the chatter that normally accompanied such a gathering. Alice sat by herself looking out of the window, her eyes fixed, unseeing, on Arthur’s Seat. She felt bruised. Maybe they had, as Elaine Bell had described it, ‘galumphed in’ like ‘bulls on thin ice’. Maybe they should have been more cautious, more circumspect, in their dealings with the QC’s wife, but their approach had paid dividends. Unless Mrs Pearson was an Oscar-winning actress, she could not have manufactured the look of surprise or despair that Alice had clearly seen on her face on hearing of Flora Erskine’s murder and her husband’s adultery. Alice had seen true emotion, not a simulation of it. The fact that the woman had understood so quickly the implications of the latest killing, the finger of suspicion now pointing at her, was, surely, a testament to her intelligence, not an indication of guilt. No doubt about it, Mrs Pearson was not the killer, but then who the hell was? The ACC entered the room followed by DCI Bell. As awareness of Body’s entrance spread, the muted hum died down until there was complete silence. The DCI began her briefing: