‘So…’
‘So, I’m leaving it to you and Alice to find out what was going on, to dig about the place. I want an explanation, so just read the bloody reports, will you?’
He nodded, but said nothing.
‘Begin by seeing the man’s doctor, Colin Paxton. It may be Brodie took the stuff himself, that he was suicidal and there’s an innocent explanation for all of it. And if so, good, that’ll be an end of it. So, we need to find out if he could have done that, if there was enough in the bottles for the overdose – you get the picture. And Eric…’ she added unnecessarily, peeved that she still did not appear to have his full attention, ‘you’ll catch flies if you keep your maw open like that.’
Picking up the phone on her desk Alice immediately recognised Mrs Foscetti’s bird-like warble. ‘Alice, dear, Ian was supposed to collect Quill by six o’clock but he’s not been. And it’s nearly eight, and we’re supposed to be going out.’
But before Alice had said a word, begun to apologise, she heard a loud scuffling noise at the other end of the line, and then, in the background, Miss Spinnell’s irritated tones, followed by a brief, heated exchange between the sisters.
‘What are you doing, Annabelle?’ Miss Spinnell hissed. ‘It’s only the spiritualists, a Blue Lodge meeting.’
‘But I thought you wanted to go to it! You used to go, before I came.’
‘Yes, but I’ve found you haven’t I? It is you, isn’t it? I only joined to speak to you, when I thought you were dead. I wasn’t looking for company, for any old soul you know. Goodness me, you’re not the only one to have friends, dear! Tell Ali… Alice… that we’ll keep the dog, all night, if necessary. He can sleep on my bed… someone seems to have taken his.’
Reaching the entrance to Broughton Place, Alice looked up at the windows of the flat to see if any lights were on, but it was in darkness. Rather than spend time at home alone she carried on to the bottom of Broughton Street, over the roundabout at Mansefield Place and down towards Canonmills and Inverleith Row. As she walked, she kept her eyes peeled in case Ian was scurrying home, coming in the opposite direction, eager to get into the warmth and call it a day.
As she passed the terrace in the Colonies, drops of rain began to fall, getting bigger every second, until what had started as a light shower became an icy downpour. Soon streams were cascading off the pavements and setting the gutters awash with mud-coloured water. Everyone but her seemed to have had some kind of early warning of the deluge and had taken shelter. Opposite Reid Terrace, the usually sluggish Water of Leith was being transformed, its mild babbling turning into the roar of a gathering torrent.
Crossing the low bridge by the turn-off to Arboretum Avenue, she put her head down and began to run, heading for St Bernard’s Row. Suddenly the sky was lit by a flash of lightning and in seconds the boom of thunder followed it. Turning into Henderson Row and wondering if she would be struck by the next bolt, she tried the handle of the studio door, rattling it to no effect until she noticed the large padlock on the high latch.
Now soaked to the skin, she turned to leave, but saw a young woman, whom she recognised as a studio-mate of Ian’s, standing in a doorway opposite the dilapidated building. Desperate to get out of the ceaseless rain, she ran across the road and stood beside her, shivering, cursing herself for losing every umbrella she had ever possessed.
‘Ian’s not still in there is he?’ she said through chattering teeth, hoping against hope.
The woman, taking a final draw from her cigarette, said, ‘No, the place’s deserted. Everyone went hours ago. There’s a power-cut, and it’ll not be put right until tomorrow morning.’ Then she snatched up the rucksack at her feet and plunged out on to the pavement, clattering along it with an uncoordinated pigeon-toed gait, her bag swinging from side to side with each heavy footstep like Quasimodo’s hump.
Watching her as she disappeared, Alice wondered if, for once, Ian had taken a different route home and was now sitting in the light, enjoying the warmth of their flat. That was it – he, too, must have gone home by the Henderson Row route for a change. But what a night to choose.
With her hair and clothes drenched, water streaming down her face, she trudged back eastwards, keeping herself going with the thought of the hot bath and drink that would be waiting for her at the other end. It was his turn to do make the supper, so there would be some food, too, with luck. But the stone stairs up to their flat were as dry as ever, the odd puff of dust rising under her feet as she climbed, and no light was visible in the glass panel above their front door. Neither Ian nor Quill were there to welcome her in her dripping state, and the flat was cold. Where on earth was he?
An hour later, and having found something to eat, she tried to read the paper but found that she could not concentrate, flitting from one world disaster to the next, unmoved by them all. When she phoned him again she got his messaging service once more. Why had he switched his phone off? What was he playing at? If he had been in an accident surely she would have heard by now?
Perhaps he had just gone to the pub, was there still and had lost all track of time, having a few jars too many. He could have bloody contacted her though, she thought crossly. Then, hearing the sound of his footsteps on the stair, she rose to greet him, running to the door to open it. But she got there only to hear a bout of consumptive coughing, and the footsteps carrying on up the stairs to the next landing. Nothing more than the signature noises of another of their neighbours, Jim the Vicar, on his way to bed.
Just before midnight, Ian woke her, trying to slide silently under the covers beside her, and she said sleepily, ‘Where on earth have you been?’
‘In my studio,’ he answered, snuggling up against her curved back, ‘finishing things off for the exhibition.’
7
Wednesday
Sipping her coffee in the interview room, waiting for the others to arrive, Alice tried to mull things over, work out what was going on. Nothing had been said between them that morning. She had left the flat at a godless hour, with him sleeping like a baby as she crept out of the door. She must not jump to conclusions, she thought, but it was proving difficult not to. He had said that he had been in his studio, and his exact words had been, ‘finishing off things for the exhibition.’ Well, he could have been nowhere else if that was genuinely what he had been doing, because all his work was there plus all the equipment he needed to complete it. But, but… she could not get away from it, he had not been in his studio when she had called there.
And he could not just have popped out for something, returning later, because that woman had said that there had been a power cut, with no electric light available until the next day. Could he have worked in the place by torchlight, by candlelight? A preposterous idea. There would be insufficient illumination for anything and the place would be as cold as the grave, too cold to hold a paintbrush steady. So he must have lied to her, but why?
Another thought struck her, and it filled her heart with fear. If this time he had not been where he had said he had been, then it was perfectly possible that on other occasions the same thing had happened. On his birthday, for example, when through her inefficiency she had managed to cover most of the surfaces in their flat in candle-wax, burn the food and set off the fire alarm.
No, no, she could relax. It was all right, because then he had paint on his fingers, bright red paint which had coloured their bathwater. But thinking about it again, that might mean nothing. The paint could have got onto his hands at 10.30 in the morning. Because without trust, anything was possible, and the very ground beneath her feet no longer felt solid.