‘I know limbo-dancers that couldn’t go as low as you.’
‘Your mate Rebus said much the same thing.’
‘Great minds think alike.’
‘But, come on, you must...’ He broke off as he backed into her car, losing his balance and falling into the road. Siobhan got in and started the engine before he could climb to his feet again. He was brushing himself down as she reversed down the street. He made to pick up his biro, but noticed that she’d crushed it under her wheels.
She didn’t drive far, just to the junction with Main Street and across it. Found the Jardines’ house easily enough. Both were at home, and ushered her inside.
‘You’ve heard?’ she said.
They nodded, looking neither pleased nor displeased.
‘Who could have done it?’ Mrs Jardine asked.
‘Just about anyone,’ her husband replied. His eyes were on Siobhan. ‘Nobody in Banehall wanted him back, not even his own family.’
Which explained why Cruikshank had lived alone.
‘Is there any news?’ Alice Jardine asked, trying to press Siobhan’s hands between her own. It was as if she’d already dismissed the murder from her mind.
‘We went to the club,’ Siobhan admitted. ‘Nobody seemed to know Ishbel. Still no word from her?’
‘You’re the first person we’d tell,’ John Jardine assured her. ‘But we’re forgetting our manners — you’ll take a cup of tea?’
‘I really don’t have time.’ Siobhan paused. ‘Something I did want, though...’
‘Yes?’
‘A sample of Ishbel’s handwriting.’
Alice Jardine’s eyes widened. ‘What for?’
‘It’s nothing really... might just come in handy later on.’
‘I’ll see what I can find,’ John Jardine said. He went upstairs, leaving the two women alone. Siobhan had pushed her hands into her pockets, safe from Alice.
‘You don’t think we’ll find her, do you?’
‘She’ll let herself be found... when she’s ready,’ Siobhan said.
‘You don’t think anything’s happened to her?’
‘Do you?’
‘I’m guilty of thinking the worst,’ Alice Jardine said, rubbing her hands together as though washing them clean of something.
‘You know we’ll want to interview you?’ Siobhan spoke softly. ‘There’ll be questions about Cruikshank... about how he died.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You’ll be asked about Ishbel, too.’
‘Gracious me, they can’t think...?’ The woman’s voice had risen.
‘It’s just something that has to be done.’
‘And will it be you asking the questions, Siobhan?’
Siobhan shook her head. ‘I’m too close. It might be a man called Young. He seems okay.’
‘Well, if you say so...’
Her husband was returning. ‘There’s not much, to be honest,’ he said, handing over an address book. It listed names and phone numbers, most of them in green felt-tip. Inside the cover, Ishbel had written her own name and address.
‘Might do it,’ Siobhan said. ‘I’ll bring it back when I’m finished.’
Alice Jardine had grabbed her husband’s elbow. ‘Siobhan says the police will want to talk to us about...’ She couldn’t bring herself to use his name. ‘About him.’
‘Will they?’ Mr Jardine turned to Siobhan.
‘It’s routine,’ she said. ‘Turning the victim’s life into a pattern...’
‘Yes, I see.’ Though he sounded unsure. ‘But they can’t... they won’t think Ishbel had anything to do with it?’
‘Don’t be so stupid, John!’ his wife hissed. ‘Ishbel wouldn’t do something like that!’
Maybe not, Siobhan thought, but then Ishbel was by no means the only member of the family who’d be regarded as a suspect...
Tea was offered again, and politely refused. She managed to get out of the door, escaping to her car. As she drove off, she looked in her rearview mirror and saw Steve Holly striding along the pavement, checking house numbers. For a moment, she considered stopping — heading back and warning him off. But that sort of thing would only pique his curiosity. However he acted, whatever he asked, the Jardines would have to survive without her help.
She turned along Main Street and stopped outside the Salon. Inside, the place smelled of perms and hairspray. Two customers sat beneath driers. They had magazines open on their laps, but were busy talking, voices raised above the machines.
‘... and the best of British luck to them, I say.’
‘No great loss, that’s for sure...’
‘It’s Sergeant Clarke, isn’t it?’ This last came from Angie. She spoke even more loudly than her clients, and they heeded her warning, falling silent, eyes on Siobhan.
‘What can we do for you?’ Angie said.
‘It’s Susie I want to see.’ Siobhan smiled at the young assistant.
‘Why? What’ve I done?’ Susie protested. She was taking a cup of instant cappuccino to one of the women beneath the driers.
‘Nothing,’ Siobhan reassured her. ‘Unless, of course, you murdered Donny Cruikshank.’
The four women looked horrified. Siobhan held up her hands. ‘Bad joke,’ she said.
‘No shortage of suspects,’ Angie admitted, lighting a cigarette for herself. Her nails were painted blue today, with tiny spots of yellow, like stars in the sky.
‘Care to name your favourites?’ Siobhan asked, trying to make light of the question.
‘Look around you, sweetheart.’ Angie blew smoke ceilingwards. Susie was taking another drink over to the driers — a glass of water this time.
‘It’s one thing to think about doing someone in,’ she said.
Angie nodded. ‘It’s like an angel heard us and decided for once to do the right thing.’
‘An avenging angel?’ Siobhan ventured.
‘Read your Bible, sweetheart: they weren’t all just feathers and haloes.’ The women under the driers shared a smile at this. ‘You expect us to help you put whoever did that behind bars? It’s the patience of Job you’ll be needing.’
‘Sounds like you know your Bible, which means you also know murder’s a sin against God.’
‘Depends on your God, I suppose.’ Angie took a step closer. ‘You’re a friend of the Jardines — I know, they’ve told me. So come on now, you tell me straight out...’
‘Tell you what?’
‘Tell me you’re not glad the bastard’s dead.’
‘I’m not.’ She held the hairdresser’s gaze.
‘Then you’re not an angel, you’re a saint.’ Angie went to check how the women’s hair was progressing. Siobhan seized the chance to talk to Susie.
‘It’s really just that I could do with your details.’
‘My details?’
‘Your vital statistics, Susie,’ Angie said, the two customers laughing with her.
Siobhan managed to smile. ‘Just your full name and address, maybe your phone number. In case I need to write up a report.’
‘Oh, right...’ Susie looked flustered. She went to the till, found a notepad next to it, started writing. She tore off the sheet and handed it to Siobhan. The writing was in capitals, but that didn’t worry Siobhan: so was most of the graffiti in the Bane’s ladies’ lavatory.
‘Thanks, Susie,’ she said, slipping the note into her pocket, next to Ishbel’s address book.
There were a few more drinkers in the Bane than on her previous visit. They moved aside to give her some room at the bar. The barman recognised her, nodded something that could have been either a greeting or an apology for Cruikshank’s behaviour last time round.
She ordered a soft drink.
‘On the house,’ he said.
‘Aye, aye,’ said one of the drinkers, ‘Malky’s trying some foreplay for a change.’