This could not be happening to him, he thought morosely. Not to him. To others, obviously, but to him? No. It was not that Margaret was plain – on the contrary, taking into account her age and so on, she had fared really quite well – but she had no interest in other men, surely? Years and years ago she must have ceased to look at them in that way. But maybe they continued to look at her in that way? Impossible! She had ‘happily married woman’ stamped all over her, every inch of her, she was positively matronly. She would never give anyone the glad eye, or make a spectacle of herself. Well, not that he had witnessed, anyway, although on reflection, she wouldn’t do it if he was watching her, now, would she? But it was ridiculous! Margaret must be… was, above suspicion.
On the other hand, perhaps that was part of the problem? Complacency. It could make the clearly visible, invisible, and prevent you from seeing what was right in front of your nose. And maybe he had taken her for granted. A bit. But not Margaret. Sweet Jesus!
He groaned, looked round to see if anyone had heard the sound, and then cleared his throat noisily to disguise it. The possibility, and that was all it was, must be faced, would have to be taken seriously. The evidence had to be considered and a conclusion reached. ‘Feeling’ or ‘intuition’ or other nonsense of that sort could not be relied upon. He would not be cuckood… cuckolded, or whatever the hell it was called.
His mobile rang and he snatched it up, annoyed at the intrusion into his thoughts.
‘Yes,’ he said sharply.
‘Eric, Eric, love, it’s me…’ the words were meant to be soothing, but the characteristic discordant squawk, instantly identifying the caller, had the opposite effect. The female journalist at the other end, unaware of the Inspector’s irritation, added in a rasping tone, ‘What’ve you got for me today, darling?’
Had Manson been standing beside her he would almost certainly have softened, as he usually did, on seeing her blonde good looks and inhaling her expensive scent. And he would have imparted information to her, whether confidential or not, before he had even realised what he was doing. But the ugliness of that disembodied voice still ringing in his ear had a very different effect, one unlikely to make him compliant. The assumption implicit in her question positively annoyed him.
‘Em… I’m in the office the now, Marie, and nothin’s doin’. I gave you your wee titbit about the Brodie murder yesterday, and it’s all I’ve got.’
‘Come on, Eric, sweetheart. You’re the man. You can do better than that.’
Again, if he had seen the words spoken by her full lips he would have found them flirtatious, heard some magical double-entendre, but when she was not there in the flesh they were open to a very different interpretation. To his preoccupied, troubled mind they had a nagging or goading sound. Did the woman imagine that he was her pet or something?
‘Em… I’ve got to go, Marie. Somethin’ urgent’s just… eh, breaking.’
So saying, he shoved his mobile back into his pocket, regretting instantly his use of the word ‘urgent’. It was bound to make her reporter’s ears prick up, and she would re-double her efforts. Never mind, she had been fobbed off for the present and reminded of her place.
Anyway, he thought, crossly, what had he ever got from her apart from a few come-ons ending in brush-offs? She was like some kind of mirage in the desert, shimmering and beautiful from afar, but turning out on closer inspection to be a mere illusion. No more than a puff of hot air. Not that, as a married man, he would have ever been led astray by her, obviously, even if he had had the chance, but to date she had not offered him the chance. The chance to refuse. Oh, no, she appeared to believe, he fumed, that he could be led by the nose endlessly like… like… a circus pony or a bull or something, never actually receiving a reward but still traipsing endlessly after her. A reward he would decline when, and if, she offered it. Even though it was long overdue.
He opened his desk drawer, intending to remove a couple of biscuits from the packet inside it, and noticed under his digestives a framed photograph of his wife. He picked it up, tipping off stale crumbs as he did so, and studied it. There she was, smiling at him, wearing a large navy boater and her favourite cream dress, the one with navy embroidery on the collars. Her ‘going away’ outfit. He had taken the picture on the first day of their honeymoon. Tucked into the frame was a more recent image, snapped less than a year ago. Staring at it, he became anxious once more. It reminded him that she had worn well for fifty-five, a little on the matronly side nowadays maybe, but she could still be described as ‘attractive’. And if he thought so, after over thirty years of marriage, then other men might well do so too. Christ Almighty!
But, he comforted himself, it was all right, everything was all right, because she would not be interested in the unscrupulous swine anyway. On the other hand, if that were true, then why had she taken to dressing so much more snappily of late? Her neckline had plunged lower than ever before, even he had noticed that, and her clothes were more clinging, more… He paused, trying to think of the appropriate word. ‘Sexy’. Christ, that was it. They were more sexy, she was looking sexier. And why, in heaven’s name, would she be doing that? Unless there was another man.
While he had been daydreaming, thinking about his wife, the DCI had come into the room to talk to him. And, now she was standing beside him, watching in disbelief as he frittered away valuable time, staring fixedly out of the window, his jaw loose, his mouth hanging open. She had already taken in the fact that the papers in front of him remained unread. A second earlier she had swept her hand across his line of vision, but, in his absorption, he had seen nothing.
‘Eric!’ she said, impatient to get his attention.
‘Ma’am,’ he answered automatically, coming to and becoming aware once more of his surroundings.
‘So, what do you think?’
‘Mmm…’ Having no idea what she was talking about, he played for time, quickly deciding to try and bounce the question back to her.
‘I’m just not sure what to think, really. What do you think, Ma’am?’
‘You haven’t read it, have you?’
‘I’ve made a start, but not very thoroughly, no…’
‘Well, to speed things up a bit – the toxicology report suggests that Brodie may have been poisoned before he had his throat slit, doesn’t it?’
‘Shit! Poisoned… you’re joking.’
‘I knew you hadn’t read it. Perhaps you’d like me to read it to you?’
‘No, Ma’am.’
‘Have you looked at the lab report?’
‘Not as such’
‘Well, if you had you would know that Clerk’s prints are on the handles of Brodie’s wheelchair in India Street. And there’s some other, so far unidentified, DNA in the house – which is, perhaps, not surprising really.’
Eric Manson cocked his head to one side, unsure quite what to think, but keen to look thoughtful.
‘Anyway, I’ve spoken to the fiscal and he agrees that with the prints and the book we’ve got more than enough now to charge Clerk with Gavin Brodie’s murder. We’ll interview him first thing tomorrow. But, in the meanwhile, I need to find out more about the poisoning, overdose or whatever. McConnachie’s quite clear that it wasn’t the cause of death, but we still need to know, in case his defence makes something out of it, as I’m sure they’ll try. And we don’t want him to get off, do we?’