Looking directly at the police officers, he whispered, ‘Bye, bye, Mum,’ and released her to teeter towards the banister, which she gripped with a bony claw before looking anxiously down at the flights of stone stairs she would have to descend. Keeping his gaze fixed on Alice, Clerk nodded his head in the direction of his flat and said, ‘Come on in. Your Inspector Manson told me the pair of you would be coming.’
A Sidney Devine record was playing on an old-fashioned gramophone. Clerk lowered the volume just enough to produce background music, before sitting down and raising a cloud of talcum powder from the seat of his chair, further scenting the already unsavoury air. Coughing theatrically, he fanned it away with his hands. Looking at them, Alice noticed how pudgy they were, his fingers like large, pale sausages. As he stared at her expectantly, he absent-mindedly conducted the music, jerking his thick forefingers to and fro in time with the beat. He was middle-aged and plump, thick cushions of flesh rippling when he moved, so that he reminded her, in his tight pink pullover, of an oversized marshmallow.
‘Do you know someone called Gavin Brodie?’ she began.
‘No. The dead man, you mean? I don’t know any dead people. You can’t, can you?’ he said, earnestly, his tongue protruding from the side of his mouth.
‘How did you know he was dead?’
‘Indeed, how did I know that he was dead?’ he repeated.
‘Yes. How did you know he was dead?’ Was he deaf as well as schizophrenic, perhaps?
‘I read it in the Evening News, “Accountant Found Murdered”,’ he answered, his tongue protruding once more from the side of his mouth.
‘Did you know him – when he was alive, I mean?’
‘You know what? I am parched, really parched. Dry as a bone,’ he said, ignoring her question and, unexpectedly, rising to his feet and offering to make them both a cup of tea too.
Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared into his kitchenette, murmuring that it would do them good. Within minutes, a tray with three stained floral teacups and a plate of biscuits was placed in front of them and, as if they had accepted his offer, he proceeded to pour out tea and milk for them both, handing it over with a polite nod. When Alice took it and put it to her mouth, he smiled at her as if in encouragement or, perhaps, in recognition of some small victory, a wide grin dimpling his fat cheeks.
Carstairs, he said, sipping daintily from his own cup, had changed him completely, com-plete-ely.
When Alice enquired in what respect, he replied, ‘Fish fingers. I enjoy them now, I didn’t used to, you see. Oh, and I prefer a shower nowadays. I used to like baths, you see.’
‘Anything else of any importance?’ DC Littlewood chipped in sarcastically.
‘I’m alright now, in technical, medical terms, I mean. Like everyone else. Indeed, right as rain. Don’t hear voices in my head any more. Of course, I used to have to take medication for my condition when I was in the Big House, but not now. I stopped them myself a little while ago. I don’t need any pills to keep me right nowadays.’
‘Glad to be out of Carstairs, I expect, on your own again,’ Alice said.
‘Glad to be free of luncheon meat,’ he said vehemently, puckering his lips. ‘Glad to be able to get my teeth into something else. I had so much of that stuff it was coming right out of my ears. But that’s what happens when you lose your human rights, of course. No Coca-Cola either… just Pepsi.’
‘So, did you know Gavin Brodie… in life?’
‘No… in life, no… the after-life? Well, I’m not there yet, heaven or…’
‘Where were you on Saturday night from 5 o’ clock onwards?’ she interrupted him, determined to take hold of their rambling exchange.
Crunching a custard cream, he leant towards her and said excitedly that on that very night, the night she was interested in, the Saturday, he had undergone a life-changing experience. He had gone with a pal from the centre to an evening service in the nearby church, but the minister celebrating it had been a woman, and a fairly young one at that.
‘Imagine that,’ he said brightly to DC Littlewood, smacking his lips. ‘A young woman!’
She had been attractive, too, with long blonde hair and a complexion like Queen Elizabeth’s, all peaches and cream. Oh, she could minister to him anytime, he purred. In fact, the sooner the better. Perhaps, if she heard that he was ‘sick’, he’d get a home visit from her! And he’d been told often enough that he was sick… sick in the head, he giggled, pointing at his temple.
Then, seeing that his visitors were not laughing, he ostentatiously swept his hand from his forehead to his chin, transforming his expression into a deadly serious one as it passed over his face. He muttered out of the side of his mouth to the policeman, ‘Bit of a killjoy, isn’t she?’
‘After the service, where did you go?’ Alice continued.
‘Home Sweet Home. Here.’
‘And you were here throughout the whole of Saturday night?’
‘Indeed no, sweetie. At about eight I went to my brother’s flat. It’s on the ground floor of this building, you see.’
‘So, were you with him for the rest of the night, or did you come back here, or what?’
‘Aha. I was with him.’
‘All night?’
‘All night?’ he repeated, extending his tongue again and adding, ‘Aha. I was with him.’
‘That,’ Alice said, ‘would be your brother Robert, I suppose?’
‘Yes, indeed, Robert. My, you may be no fun but you’ve fairly done your homework, haven’t you?’ he replied, taking a final swig from his cup.
‘The same Robert who was prepared to give you an alibi at your trial for the night the old lady was killed by you?’ DC Littlewood interjected.
‘Yes. Good old Bob,’ Clerk answered, unconcerned, rising from his chair and waiting behind it for them to do the same.
‘One last thing, Mr Clerk. Did the voice, the one in your head, did it tell you to take the stuff from the old lady’s flat – the TV and the little clock?’ Alice asked.
‘Well,’ he said, opening the door for her and stroking his chin in thought, ‘it did, you know. But no one’s ever asked me about that before. The voice said, “Take the TV, Norman. Go on, take the telly.” I heard it ordering me, as clear as a bell. Indeed I did. The clock, too. It was very taken with the clock for some reason or other, even though I said “it’s not particularly valuable”. I argued with it and argued with it, but it won – it always does, you see.’
‘Your brother’s flat. Where is it?’
‘I told you,’ he answered, ‘on the ground floor. Number 3, if you must know. But I’m afraid you can’t speak to him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because,’ he replied, gesturing for them to leave, ‘for one thing, he’s still away at the Day Centre in Raeburn Place. He goes there every day. Well, every day since he got out of the hospital.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He doesn’t talk much any more,’ Norman Clerk answered. ‘In fact, since he had his stroke he’s hardly uttered a single thing, in Queen’s English, anyway. He’s paralysed on the right side too. That’s why I go along and look after him – help feed him, undress him, keep him company. Spend the night in his spare room. Mum used to do it, but, well, she’s way past that now. He’s got a carer, too, but she can’t be there all the time, can she?’
Once they were back out on the street, Alice asked ‘So, what’s the verdict, Tom?’
‘In technical, medical terms?’
‘Indeed.’
‘A mad tosspot of the first order.’