Alice studied Campbell-Smythe’s face, realising, with surprise, that she recognised it. Glasgow High Court, 2001, the trial of William Head, an ordeal by fire from which she had emerged blistered and burnt. The accused’s Counsel had been Campbell-Smythe, then plain Matthew Campbell-Smythe, QC. He had battered her, harangued her, made her feel so foolish that she had almost conceded that her certainty that she had seen Head at the crime scene had been misplaced. How could she have forgotten, for even an instant, those beetling brows and that projecting jaw, Neanderthal features concealing a piercing intellect. He had even made a pass at her later in the canteen, as if the court room pummelling had never taken place, and been surprised by the vehemence of her refusal. Rebuffed, he had whispered into her ear, ‘It’s just a job’, leaving her feeling gauche and awkward, inexperienced in the real rules of some sophisticated play.
16
Saturday 17th December
The smell coming from the baker’s was irresistible. Without conscious thought Alice found herself at the counter, eye-level with a miniature glass oven laden with hot pies, sausages and bridies, each item surrounded by its own individual pool of grease. At last, an old-fashioned shop immune to the current trend for wraps and lattices or brie-and-bacon baguettes, specialising instead in egg rolls, crisps and Irn Bru. Back at her desk she bit into the Scotch pie, savouring its cardboard pastry and peppery interior. Scanning her list as she ate, she noted with dread that she still had four more refuges left to call in the city, excluding the Salvation Army and Jericho House. Her phone rang. It was DCI Bell. ‘Any results with the hostels, Alice?’
‘No, Ma’am, but I’ve still a number to do. What about the vehicle, has it been found?’
‘Not yet. Every second uniform is out looking for it, but it seems to have vanished into the ether.’
‘By the way, Ma’am, in the judgement, the words “unreliable”, “worthless”…’ She left her sentence unfinished, on hearing the dialling tone.
The supervisor of the Pilton Shelter appeared to be in no hurry to answer. As Alice hung on and on, impatient for a reply, her mind drifted back to Mair himself. What sort of man was he? What precisely did she know about him? His wife had been cool, detatched, living in a bubble of her own creation and unconcerned about the world outside her own door. Little appeared to penetrate the mind of his friend, Gannon, but maybe Mair used him precisely because of his lack of acuity, his lack of curiosity. Then again, perhaps Mair also did not see things too clearly or chose to insulate himself from reality until life no longer let him do so. The unusual thing about their man was the strength of his attachment to his sister and nephew, a love so powerful that he had been prepared to sacrifice his own marriage in order to go on looking after them. He was impulsive, hot-tempered even; Mrs Girvan had said that he had blown any chances he might have had of caring for Davie by swearing at the social worker in Bright Park. If it was me, if I was Mair, she thought, where would I go? What would I do? The job he had set himself was unfinished, four down and two to go, he must be aware that his luck could not go on forever. It was a simple calculation; at best, a lifetime in prison, at worst he’d be killed by the police whilst attempting to complete his self-appointed task. The Bradley children were now all dispersed, and his beloved sister, dead. Only Davie remained nearby and he would know where the boy was, he could still see Davie. That’s what I would do, she mused, get my fill, while I was still able to do so, of those I loved.
Without waiting any longer for the supervisor’s response she replaced the receiver, dialled the City Social Work Department and was able, without the fight she had anticipated, to extract the name, address and telephone number of the child’s foster parents. As she was holding on, waiting for another answer, Alastair returned to the office. He ripped open a packet of sandwiches. ‘Shitey press,’ he said loudly, ignoring her gesture for him to be quiet, ‘they’re all over the place. I had to fight my way back into the station and I got poked in the eye by one of their sodding sound booms. Of course, not as much as an apology from the swine responsible.’
Alice put down the receiver, acknowledging defeat. No reply.
‘Did the skateboarder identify Mair from the photograph?’ she asked.
‘So so… He thinks it could have been the man he saw at McBryde’s place. Who were you trying to speak to?’
‘Davie’s foster parents. Fancy a trip there? I’ve been thinking about Mair’s likely whereabouts and I reckon he’ll base himself somewhere close to them.’
‘Why on earth should he?’
‘Because before he’s caught he’ll want to see as much of the boy as he can. If I’m right, the Hendersons, Davie’s foster parents, may already have seen Mair. It has to be worth checking out. If they have, then it’s odds-on he’ll return and we could have the place watched. What do you think?’
‘What’s the alternative?’
‘Phoning round the rest of the shelters and ensuring that they get copies of the photos.’
‘Why do you think he’ll want to be close to the boy?’
‘Because he loves him. He even wanted to look after the child himself. How many uncles do you know like that? He doesn’t even have a wife in tow to help. Mair will want to be sure that the boy’s in good hands as a minimum.’
‘The boss won’t approve. You’re taking things into your own hands again, Alice. Shouldn’t we check with her first?’
‘No. She might say no. I’m going anyway. Are you coming or not?’
‘Well, anything is better than more phone calls. Let’s leave by the back entrance, avoid the swine.’
Eskside West is a pleasant, cobbled street, leading up to the old bridge and separated only by an area of municipal parkland from the broad, slow-flowing river Esk. The Hendersons’ house, distinctive with its soot-blackened exterior and disabled ramp, was in the middle of an unostentatious Victorian terrace and easy to locate. No one was home. A neighbour, hauling black bags of rubbish to a skip, told them that he had seen the family leave to go shopping about an hour earlier. From the warm interior of the car, Alice gazed idly at the river. Frozen reeds protruded from its banks and the edges of the water had iced over. Seagulls paraded up and down on the grass, and two of the three arches of the bridge were blocked by mounds of branches, straw and an old tree trunk, the remnants of the last spate. In the shallows a mattress lay stranded on a bed of gravel, springs spilling out along with the rest of its entrails.
The indignant wail of a car horn drew her attention towards the traffic lights, and she noticed a family of four making their way towards the car. A man pushing a boy in a wheelchair, on his right a woman, laden with the double burden of the shopping and a baby in a sling. Their progress was slow and Alice stared at them as the boy’s erratic, uncoordinated movements and bright hair proclaimed his identity. While the man wrestled with the catch on the little metal gate leading to their large front garden, the two sergeants approached. A passer-by, eyes fixed on the boy’s lustrous head, bumped into Alice and mumbled an apology. She looked round, catching the stranger’s eyes.