‘Then could you tell us?’ the policewoman asked tartly.
‘Don’t turn your head,’ the voice inside him ordered. ‘Whatever you do, don’t look at her.’
Continuing to look dead ahead, as if she had said nothing, he replied, ‘I collect books and things. Maybe it was one I got from the Oxfam shop or something.’
‘Perhaps, for the tape, we should know the title of the book. It’s Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less by Jeffrey Archer,’ Eric Manson said.
Catching sight of the cover out of the corner of his eye, Clerk recognised it and said, ‘Indeed it is. That is one of mine. My brother Robert gave it to me for my birthday.’
‘Your brother, the man who had the stroke? The one who can’t move or speak?’ asked Alice Rice.
‘Yes, good old Bob, he got it for me before… before his stroke.’
‘That’s funny,’ the DCI observed. ‘Brodie’s murdered and his things turn up in your flat.’
‘Funny…’ Norman Clerk repeated, keeping his eye on the solicitor and noting, with concern, that he now looked very annoyed, his brow furrowing. His frown deepened and then suddenly he struck out, swatting a fly on his elbow. As he did so, Clerk ducked.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Mr Nicholl said, appalled at his client’s reaction.
‘Not at all… er, my mistake,’ Clerk replied, bobbing up from below the table. His head had begun to hurt and he felt frazzled, unsure how to placate the solicitor and keep himself safe. How could you survive when enemies pretended to be friends, friends pretended to be enemies?
The lawyer, satisfied that none of the police officers had strayed onto either of the prohibited subjects, was now deep in thought, wondering whether to opt for a fixed price Chinese meal for lunch or to go for the all-day breakfast. As a result he did not notice his client’s increasing pallor or the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead.
‘You’ve never been to Gavin Brodie’s flat in India Street, you say?’ the DCI continued.
‘Indeed not. Like I said, I don’t know the man.’
‘Don’t use the word “I” again. It’s too dangerous,’ the voice in his head hissed.
‘Then can you tell us how your fingerprints got onto the wheelchair in his flat?’
‘No,’ began Clerk, ‘… can’t do that. Don’t know why. I can’t…’ He stopped, putting his hands to his cheeks, a look of acute distress contorting his fleshy features. His lengthy hesitation made the Chief Inspector look at him, and she noticed, for the first time, his pale face and clammy-looking skin.
‘You alright?’ she asked, quite kindly. ‘You look a little peely-wally.’
Only his mother used the expression ‘Peely-wally’, and hearing what sounded like genuine concern in the woman’s voice, he weakened, was almost tempted to tell her the truth. He wanted to say, ‘No, I feel awful, terrified of something – something I’ve done or not done. Maybe I have killed a man, skinned a cat, raped a woman. Any of these things, all of them… but who knows?’
Instead, remembering in the nick of time that he must not say the word ‘I’, he nodded his head mutely, stealing another glance at the solicitor and catching, to his relief, a wide smile from him. ‘Well done,’ the voice said, congratulating him on fooling all the people all the time, reminding him that they were blind and would never see. He alone saw it all, understood it all.
Outside in the main hall after the interview had finished, the DCI asked Mr Nicholl what the likely course of the case would be, given the psychiatrist’s opinion that the prisoner had been fit to interview. Was it likely to proceed as normal or what?
‘Oh, no,’ the solicitor replied, collecting his dark blue Crombie from the coat-stand. ‘Early days, but I doubt it very much. Of course, we haven’t consulted with Counsel yet but I expect there’s a very good chance that we’ll be going for a plea in bar of trial.’
‘So, surprise me, what’s it likely to be this time?’ she asked, already sure of the answer.
‘Insanity, of course. I spoke to our consulting partner before I left this morning, and he reckons it’ll be the ticket. I’m seeing two eminent shrinks next week, and we’ll get them to examine him too. Both treated him in Carstairs, so they’ll know him well already.’
‘The very ones who decided he was safe to let out, I expect,’ she remarked dryly. The solicitor, not having heard what she said, nodded politely, keen to get away and sample some dim sum.
‘I’m already running twenty-five minutes late,’ Doctor Colin Paxton thought, ‘and now it’s bloody Mrs Gurney, and she’ll ensure that I get no break at all. Well, we’ll see about that. And what in heaven’s name are the receptionists thinking about, letting her past their defences again? What else are they being paid for?’
Clutching a bulging carrier in each hand, the widow lowered her massive behind onto the chair, very, very slowly, as if her buttocks were made of glass and likely to shatter on contact. Once she had made a safe landing she put both of her bags on the floor. Immediately, the room filled with the scent of eucalyptus.
‘It’s ma back,’ she sighed, bending forwards towards the doctor and rubbing her spine with one hand as if to ease the pain. It was her usual opening gambit.
‘Yes,’ he answered impassively.
‘Is there anything you can give me for it?’
She must, he mused, know the answer to that one. Week after week she re-appeared with exactly the same complaint, all consultants long ago having given up on her. Every week she wanted him to adjust the dosage of her medication or, occasionally, alter it altogether, but whatever he did always had exactly the same result. No effect whatsoever. Maybe she was lonely, needed company, was desperate for someone to talk to? Fat chance. Her pupils were like pinpricks, and her manner radiated hostility, the pursuit of some kind of undeclared vendetta or battle of wills. No. She did not like him, simply wanted to ensure that her symptoms were recorded with a view to being signed off again.
‘Well,’ he said evenly, ‘we upped your co codamol last week, didn’t we? So perhaps we should give it a proper chance, see if it works?’
‘Yes, but it’s shifted, the pain’s shifted.’
Just as he was about to give his usual reply at this stage in their combat, ‘shifting’ being one of the pain’s recurring characteristics, his telephone rang.
‘Yes?’ he answered. ‘Ah, Mr Tyler,’ he added quickly, recognising the strong South African drawl of the surgeon.
‘Mr Tyler! Mr Tyler!’ Mrs Gurney broke in excitedly, ‘he’s one of the ones I’ve seen. Tell him about my back, Doctor, see what he says.’
Unable to think straight because of the competing voices, Paxton waved at the woman to try to quieten her down, simultaneously attempting to record the results of a bladder capacity test for a patient no longer even under his care. As he put the receiver down, Mrs Gurney said, petulantly, ‘You could at least have asked him…’
‘No,’ Doctor Paxton replied, looking at his watch, ‘I could not. You’ve seen Mr Taylor and Mr Titler, both orthopaedic surgeons, not Mr Tyler, the urological specialist.’
‘He might be able to help me though,’ she replied reproachfully, beetling her thick brows.
‘No. Incontinence is not your problem, not bladder incontinence anyway. Now, was there anything else?’
Thwarted once more, she decided on one final gambit: ‘Yes, there is. My ears need skooshing. I cannae hear a thing.’
Thinking of his coffee, and clutching for a lifeline, he said, ‘Have you been softening the wax – putting almond oil in?’
‘Eh?’ she said, cupping her ear.
After he had shouted the question once more, she shook her head, finally conceding defeat.