‘Did you say something, Alice?’ Elaine Bell said, putting down her papers and a mug of tea on the table.
‘No, Ma’am. Why?’ She had not noticed her boss entering the room.
‘Because your lips were moving. Like a lunatic,’ the DCI answered dismissively, glancing down at the front page of her newspaper.
Alice nodded and stared out of the window, as blind to the view as if the panes had been painted over, and in seconds her mind had returned to Ian. Maybe he had had enough of her, no longer loved her but was unable to summon up the courage to break the bad news? Yes, that could well be it. Because, gradually, by degrees and almost unconsciously, their lives had become linked, entwined together, and such ties, without love, would feel suffocating, terrifying. How could she have been so stupid? They had both been sleepwalking towards some kind of unacknowledged state of permanence, and he must suddenly have woken up, or been woken up, from it. Perhaps that was it? Perhaps, not only did he no longer love her, but he had also found somebody else, or been found by somebody else.
And his birthday had been worse than a fiasco. But she had had to leave him then, not wanting to, with her body longing for his. But that was the deal, part of the bloody job. And he knew that. He should be able to understand.
‘Is the tape machine ready?’ Elaine Bell asked, her hand hovering over the phone ready to contact the cells.
‘Not yet,’ Alice said, rising to attend to it as if in a dream, still preoccupied, trying to work out what to do. Tonight she would sort things out. No, it would have to be tomorrow. He was spending the night with his mother. On Thursday night she would find out exactly where she stood. Ask him a single straightforward question, allowing him no rope with which to hang himself, because the thought that he might lie to her again made her feel physically sick. And maybe, just maybe, everything would be alright, there would be a perfectly innocent explanation for it all.
On his own in his cell, sitting waiting for an escort to take him upstairs for the interview, Norman Clerk patted his mouth with the tips of his fingers, taking off the little grains of sugar from his breakfast, then licking his lips to clean the rest away. Frosties always needed more sugar, whatever the packet said. Sugar Puffs, of course, too. And they were supposed to have honey on them. A likely story.
He was bored, unable to make out the turnkeys’ hushed conversation, keen for something, almost anything, to happen. Idly, he rapped his knuckles on the wall of the cell. Immediately, a response came rat-tat-tatting back and so, delighted, he tried again. This time he tried a longer sequence of knocks, though completely meaningless to him. A thundering reply followed and so he banged excitedly again, one long tap, two short, and one long again.
‘Fuckin’ stop that!’ his neighbour shouted, tired of the game before it had even begun.
‘Keep your hair on,’ he whispered, unwilling to get into conversation with the raging beast caged next to him.
He wandered over to the lavatory, examining his distorted reflection in the metal bowl, sticking his tongue out and flattening his nose. Not a good day: his sparse, grey locks looked matted, almost untidy, and his ears seemed to have grown overnight.
‘Think you look good?’ the voice in his head asked, sounding louder and more distinct than last night.
Hearing the crunching noise made by a couple of pairs of tackety boots clumping along the corridor, he rushed to his door, standing on his tip-toes to look out of the window. He watched as a drunk man, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, was hauled into the cell opposite him. Once the drunk was inside he heard one of the turnkeys say, ‘D’you think we should get the doctor?’
‘Yes,’ Clerk bawled back, ‘you should!’ and laughed uproariously to himself as he saw their annoyed expressions. Then he added, hoping to vex them further, ‘Well, you did ask.’
Still chortling, he returned to his bench, intent now on combing his hair with his fingers, but heard the lock in his own door turn and looked, expectantly, at the two men detailed to escort him.
Recognising Eric Manson as he entered the interview room, Clerk sighed inwardly. He had wanted this to be an all-female affair, that would have been cosier and more relaxing all round. His ribs were still smarting from the end of the man’s boot, the ‘tap’ administered as he lay on the floor of his brother’s flat to persuade him to get to his feet. Following behind the detective was a man he recognised but could not place, a face from his past perhaps, a shabby creature with an over-large suit concertina-ed in wrinkles about his ankles. The fellow deposited his briefcase on the table and clicked its locks open, exposing a pigskin interior. All he could see inside was a packet of oatcakes.
‘Your solicitor,’ the inspector said, and he and the two women retreated, talking in hushed tones, leaving the pair of them alone.
‘I’m here, Mr Clerk,’ the man began, ‘to make sure that no questions are asked about your entry into Mr Anderson’s flat and the assault. You’ve been charged with both of them now, so they’re out of bounds for the officers, so to speak.’ Then he held out his hand for his client to shake. But Norman Clerk simply rolled his tongue along his cheek, making no attempt to respond, sitting still where he was and looking the solicitor up and down. The voice in his head had just murmured a caution, warning him that this man was not what he seemed to be at all. Oh yes, he was pretending to be on his side, a friend, an ally, but in reality he had a very different agenda. So far, no damage had been done by him, but actually touching him might be risky and was best avoided. This man must not be made angry, must be kept calm at all costs. He was dangerous.
Obeying the voice’s advice and now feeling frightened, Norman Clerk smiled graciously at the stranger but said nothing.
‘OK?’ the solicitor asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied in a cheerful voice, looking straight out of the window, trying to evade the man’s attention.
‘I’m from Campbell & Martin SSC. My name’s Mr Nicholl. My firm represented you the first time… before, but I was just a trainee then. Now I’m a partner. Starting yesterday, I’m in charge of our Court Department. But you probably won’t remember me.’
‘Oh, yes I do, I certainly do,’ Clerk lied, trying to imbue his voice with the same warm tone, to get across to the man that he would never dream of forgetting him, that the pleasure of their first encounter was etched forever on his memory. For what seemed like an eternity the lawyer droned on, but his client heard little of it, distracted by continuous mutterings from the voice in his head, a whispered commentary which undermined all the professional advice he was being given out loud.
The sound of the door opening and closing warned him that they were no longer alone, and three familiar figures came in, taking their seats opposite him. He continued to look straight ahead, not focusing on them, deliberately registering nothing.
After some kind of formal recitation, the DCI turned her attention to him and said, ‘Mr Clerk, you told us that you did not know Gavin Brodie, that you hadn’t ever come across him or met him. Is that still your position?’
‘Yes,’ was all that he could manage. He glanced at the solicitor to see if the answer was satisfactory, and was relieved to be given a nod of encouragement. So far, he was keeping him happy.
‘So you’ve never seen the man or been to his house. No connection between the two of you whatsoever?’
‘Yes. No… no connection.’
‘Then can you explain,’ the DCI asked, looking hard at him, ‘how it is that a book belonging to Gavin Brodie was found in your flat, amongst your own books?’ She held it up in front of him.
‘Yes,’ he said, his tone almost expressionless once more. That answer seemed to be alright too. The solicitor did not appear displeased and nodded once more.