‘You all know,’ she began, her voice loud, confident and cold-free, ‘that we now have a good suspect. His name is Donald Mair. He is aged forty. Photographs of him, aged twenty-four, have been distributed and we are presently working on the computer to see what noticeable changes, if any, the additional years may have made. On the only occasion on which he was seen by an eyewitness he was wearing jeans and a jacket, a dark jacket, and carrying a poly bag. He comes from Edinburgh and knows the city and East Lothian well. The last known address for him was 14 Kirk Wynd, Tranent. We think that he may be responsible for the deaths of Dr Clarke and David Pearson. He seems to think that they screwed up the life of his sister, Teresa, resulting in her eventual suicide. He may have had a grudge against McBryde and Flora Erskine, too. He probably has other targets in his sights. In particular, another doctor, Paul Ferguson, and a Court of Session judge, Matthew Campbell-Smythe. Lord Campbell-Smythe to you lot, to us.
Eric Manson has already made contact with Dr Ferguson and we’ve got a watch over his home in Veitch Park, Haddington, and his workplace at Roodlands Hospital. Campbell-Smythe’s a big fish. His home, in Drummond Place, is being watched and he’s got protection at the Court of Session, beyond the norm. Half of the Forensics team are combing Mair’s house in Stenhouse Lane at the moment, and the other half are on their way to his last known address in Tranent, a local authority flat tenanted by a Billy Gannon. Uniforms picked Gannon up at his work on the industrial estate in Macmerry and they’re bringing him here. They should arrive within the next ten minutes or so, and he may be able to give us some clue, as a minimum, where Mair has been living for the last few weeks.
More copies of the suspect’s photo are being produced so that we can circulate them to the press when the time comes. What we know about him so far is that he has no previous convictions or form of any kind but, if it’s him, he’s a highly effective killer. Whilst it’s not difficult to see how he could gain access to Sammy McBryde-they were effectively brothers-in-law after all-he must have managed to talk his way into Dr Clarke’s house and Flora Erskine’s. Certainly, there were no witnesses to any scuffles or disturbances or anything like that. He’s probably strong. It’s likely he was able to overpower McBryde and Pearson, albeit that he had a weapon, and the element of surprise was on his side. Also, he seems well organised. The poly bag he was seen carrying in Granton Medway likely contained his bloody clothes. Forensics have always been clear that his handiwork resulted in a virtual bloodbath-most of you have seen its effects at first hand-so he’d have needed a change of togs. The bag probably also contained his weapon of choice, most likely a knife. No trace of any weapon has been found despite exhaustive searching, and the guesstimate is that the same blade, or whatever, seems to have been involved in all the killings.
His wife’s being questioned again by Sandy Murray to find out as much about Mair as we can, including his friends, acquaintances, usual haunts, etc. DSs Travers and Carter are on their way to Blyths, the butchers on Gorgie Road, to speak to any employees there. Mair worked with them up until March this year-’, DCI Bell stopped her speech to answer her phone. She put it back in her pocket and caught Alice’s eye.
‘That’s the boy in. Could you and Alastair go and speak to him now?’
Gannon wanted to light up, felt the need of a smoke, but knew he was not allowed to do so. Instead, as he spoke, he folded and re-folded the silver paper from the packet over and over again, oblivious to the irritation his incessant activity was causing. Within minutes the nature of his involvement with Donald Mair became clear, and it was minimal. Gannon was an innocent, a pond-skater never breaking the surface tension of the water to see what lay below, content with appearance, aware of no other reality. He had got to know Donald Mair through a shared passion for snooker and their friendship extended no further, but on that basis he had allowed his homeless friend to kip occasionally on his floor until his own girlfriend, Angela, had kicked up about it. He had no idea where the man was now, and if pressed to guess, thought Donny might be living, or at least sleeping, in his car. He had done it before and the vehicle was crammed with clothes, blankets and black bags full of stuff. He might park anywhere.
Dr Clarke and the other victims, including Samuel McBryde, meant nothing to the man except as names in the paper, and he had never heard of Davie or Teresa unless, maybe, Teresa was Donny’s sister? His pal often left his work to see his sister, although he had no idea why.
Alice became aware, as Billy Gannon answered their questions, that despite their references to Dr Clarke and the others, the witness seemed to have made no connection between his friend and the killings. He had received more than enough information for most people to work out the thrust of their enquiries but had failed to do so. She looked at his face, noting how unlined it was. Perhaps little penetrated his skull sufficiently to cause him any anxiety, perhaps he led a charmed life. He certainly appeared to have supped regularly with the devil, emerging unscathed from their encounters.
Billy Gannon left the interview room no wiser than he had entered it. When his supervisor, at his new place of work, asked him about his trip to the police station he stated, blandly, that they had needed information about someone he used to work with. He had not gossiped; he had nothing to gossip about.
‘You can’t hide a car for very long,’ Inspector Manson said, nodding to himself sagely before concluding authoritatively, ‘We’ll get him that way if no other.’
‘I don’t know,’ Alastair chipped in, sipping his coffee and helping himself from the open packet of biscuits on his desk. ‘He could easily discard it, live rough for a while, or maybe he’s got more than one friend, more than one floor he can doss on…’
‘He’d freeze to death living rough, it was minus three degrees last night. It’s nearly Christmas,’ Manson replied thickly, his mouth half-full of Alice’s shortbread.
‘Down and outs survive, year in year out, they can go to Jericho House or one of the other shelters. They make special provision at this time of year,’ Alastair persisted, careless of persuading his colleague but keen to annoy. It couldn’t all go the one way.
Alice slipped unnoticed into an alcove at the back of Court 8 and was surprised by the strange, soft, cinema-like appearance of the seats. The witness box was familiar to her, but she had rarely enjoyed the luxury of attending court as a spectator. DCI Bell would have a fit if she knew I was here, she thought, settling down into her chair, determined to see Lord Campbell-Smythe for herself. After all, his judgement had triggered Teresa Mair’s suicide and exonerated Doctors Clarke and Ferguson. He had a central role in their drama; little would be lost by her concealed presence and much might be gained by it.
A female witness was attempting to explain to the court, in a low voice, what her employment as a box-packer required her to do. She was inarticulate and continually used hand gestures to show the movements she required to make, unable to describe them verbally. Every time she did so she was rebuked by the Judge, initially courteously but with signs of increasing impatience. Alice noticed that on two occasions Campbell-Smythe’s eyes met those of the opposing Advocate, before rolling heavenwards to signal his exasperation. The demeanour of the woman’s Counsel changed when he sensed the shared contempt of the Judge and his opponent, becoming flustered and reeling off another muddled question. His lack of confidence communicated itself to the witness, who stopped speaking in mid-sentence, keen to escape her predicament.