Mid-river, a pair of police divers were on all fours, feeling their way along the bottom with their gloved hands. Near them, a colleague periodically immersed himself in a deeper pool, only to surface every so often with a hub-cap, a slime-covered milk-crate or other detritus consigned to the river by the litter louts of the capital.
Breaking the water again, his black wet-suit glinting like sealskin in the weak winter sun, the upright diver said, ‘I think I’ve got something, Inspector.’
Amid the roar of the river his voice was lost. Realising that he had not been heard, he tried again, shouting this time: ‘I’ve got something, Sir.’
‘So what is it?’ Eric Manson bellowed back, then cupped his hand over his mouth, sheltering his match from the icy breeze so that he could light his cigar. The diver, standing waist-deep in the water and shivering visibly in the cold, continued examining a muddy rectangular box clutched between his gloves.
‘Eh…’ the man said, pushing his mask onto this head to get a clearer view, ‘seems to be…’ He hesitated again, ducking the object back into the water to wash it. ‘Em… I think it’s a t… t… trinket box, boss. Yup, it’s like a w… w… wee box for valuables.’
‘Big deal,’ Ally Livingstone thought, watching the diver wading heavy-legged towards the bank, and taking a deep draw on his cigarette. They were all supposed to be looking for the fucking wallet, weren’t they? That was what this circus was supposed to be about. And, obviously, if they looked hard enough in the water, they would find it. He exhaled the smoke onto his linked hands, relishing the feel of warm breath on his chilled fingers, and allowed his mind to wander.
Their child would be a boy, he thought, a son. And the wee man would not be afraid of mice or snakes or any other creatures, including polismen. No, he’d handle them fearlessly, just like his dad.
Christ! A sudden thought struck him. It was freezing, the pale winter sun too weak to take the chill from the air, and with him having been banged up overnight, Armageddon would still be loose on the floor of the unheated Nissan. The snake would have become torpid, might even have died, and he had not had his tea, never mind any breakfast. And for sure, Frankie would not have been able to face lifting him out, the very idea likely to bring on a miscarriage.
As he was racking his brains, trying to think how to solve the problem, one of the divers in the shallows stood up, waving something above his head. The cold air had made his eyes water and Ally Livingstone screwed them up, trying to make out what had been found, and then gave a long, low whistle. The object was a long-bladed knife, and the sight of it held aloft made him shudder inwardly, banishing all thoughts of Armageddon, of Frankie, of the unborn baby even. And he cursed his stupidity. He should have said nothing as usual, no comment to everything, but it was too late for that now. Instead, he had brought them to this place as surely as a sniffer dog following a scent, but this time the hound had been following its own trail, tracking itself and condemning itself as it wagged its stupid tail. Now, he would not be holding Frankie’s hand as she cried out while their son was born. No, at this rate, he would be lucky to know the child at all.
‘So, Livingstone, what’s with the knife?’ the inspector asked, jerking his head in the direction of the water.
‘Em… I’ll have ma lawyer now, thanks. I dinnae ken nothin’ about any knife.’
‘What about the box, know anything about that?’
‘Aha. I threw it in the river aifter I’d taken the jewellery from it, the necklace an’ stuff an’ the big pearly ring,’ he answered, taking a draw on his cigarette and blowing a couple of smoke rings in the air.
‘You never mentioned the jewellery or the box before.’
‘Naw, and ye never asked us yesterday either, ’cause ye were in a dream most o’ the time! How am I s’pose’d tae ken what ye want tae ken, eh, less ye ask us? Is that no’ yer job? I found the jewellery box in the bushes an a’, an’ the computer, an old photy frame too… empty,’ Ally retorted crossly, jangling the loose change in his pocket.
‘Now, you tell us. What did you do with the computer?’
‘Eh, I took it to ma work, checked over the case, put the rubbish from it, like, in the bin, sold the computer to one of the Parky boys.’
‘And the drugs, medicines, morphine and so on?’
‘Eh?’
‘Don’t “eh” me! What did you do with the drugs?’
‘I found a bag o’ bottles – that what ye mean?’
‘Funny, isn’t it, the way you know about pretty well everything – everything except the knife.’
‘They wis empty, and it’s no’ funny tae me. Expect I’ll get the blame fer a’ the shoppin’ trolleys an’ a’? Oh, aye, that wis Ally, ye’ll a’ say – he’s the wan spends his days chuckin’ stuff in the river – knives, forks, spoons, prams, the lot. It’s his hobby.’
Alistair Watt stifled a yawn and looked around the room, surveying the assembly of pale, weary faces in it. Beside him, Alice was leaning back on her chair, her eyes closed, arms crossed over her chest. Black bruising encircled her left eye-socket and she, too, looked exhausted.
‘A domestic? Or too much of the sauce followed by a collision with a door, perhaps?’
‘Clerk attacked me, since you ask.’
‘What did you do to him?’
‘Not nearly enough…’ she began, but stopped abruptly as Elaine Bell took her place at the front of the room and the murmur of quiet chatter died away. Eric Manson, his lips blue with cold, shuffled towards the only remaining vacant chair.
‘Good news. I’ve just heard that Clerk was refused bail…’ the DCI began.
A spontaneous ripple of applause filled the air, reaching a crescendo when, acknowledging it, she took a bow and pointed at all of them as a conductor might at an orchestra.
‘But…’ she continued, ‘I also heard that he’s appealing the decision. So we may have only a few days before he’s back out again. Eric, how did you get on?’
‘The stuff was just where Livingstone said it would be. And we’ve got the weapon, I reckon. One of the divers fished a knife, looked like a kitchen knife, out of the river.’
‘D’you think he’s involved in any of this?’
‘Livingstone? No, no way. I was watching him. He looked horrified when he saw the blade, started gibbering away. I think he was telling the truth, saying that he found the stuff, I mean. It’s given him the fright of his life. Serves the bastard right.’
‘OK. Alice, how did you get on with the carer woman, Una… Una Reid?’
‘She told me what Brodie last ate and I phoned the lab with the information, for what it’s worth. Oh, and she didn’t leave him until eight, eight-ten or so.’
‘Ma’am,’ DC Littlewood said, ‘you’re sure Clerk done Brodie, that he’s our man, aren’t you, eh?’
She nodded, a half-smile playing about her lips, and he, emboldened by her apparent good humour, continued. ‘Me too. Looks like he preys on the disabled as easy meat, you could say. Can’t be chance, can it? A knife, a disabled person. Each time.’
‘Easy meat?’ the DCI said, repeating his phrase with an expression of extreme distaste on her face.
‘Em… the vulnerable, then,’ the Constable said, blushing.
‘If it was him, why did he chuck away the jewellery box and so on that he’d filched? Did he do that with the old woman’s stuff?’ Alice asked.
‘No, I checked that out earlier this morning,’ the DCI replied. ‘He didn’t, but don’t forget that over fifteen years have passed since his last crime. M.o.’s change – maybe just a little bit here and there, but they do change – perhaps he liked the old lady’s stuff, wanted to keep it, but not Brodie’s. He took what he wanted and threw away the rest. Who knows? Let’s leave that for his defence.’