Self-consciously, and with shaking fingers, she tied a bow in the red ribbon round the present and then peered, short-sightedly, about the table in search of the kitchen scissors to snip its end off. They were out of her reach, and the paper would unwrap itself if she let go of it, so, momentarily, she stopped as she tried to figure out what to do next. While she was still thinking, the policeman wordlessly handed the pair to her as if he had read her mind. And this confirmation that she was being watched, observed by him, made her yet more uneasy, so that when, after a brief silence, the next track of Rutter’s carols started up she almost jumped in the air with fright.
The song, ‘Shepherd’s Pipe’ was one of which she was particularly fond, but hearing it now as if through this stranger’s ears, this worldly if not actually world-weary man, it suddenly sounded unbearably sentimental, stickily twee. She felt an overpowering urge to turn it off, but could not summon the courage to make such a decisive move. Instead, she sat through it, increasingly embarrassed by its sweetness, offering another prayer that Heather would appear soon and remove this unwanted limelight from her.
Eric Manson, his mind freewheeling for once, found himself oddly moved by the sight of the childless spinster, spending her time wrapping presents for other people’s offspring. A crib, with cotton-wool snow on the roof of the stable and a plastic baby Jesus in the manger, had been placed on the sideboard, and beside it a Christmas tree stood with white tinsel and fairy lights wound around its evergreen branches. All arranged, no doubt, by those trembling, oversized hands, and for her own lonely pleasure.
Glancing surreptitiously at the woman’s face, he was struck by her quiet dignity, her resolve in going on with her life as if everything was normal, as if everything remained the same when, in fact, chaos had begun to encroach, its cold waters now lapping around her feet. Listening to the music, he wondered what it could be, it was pretty and melodic for sure. Perhaps he would manage to get a glimpse of the cover before he left. Buy a copy of the CD and put it in Margaret’s stocking. Margaret… but before he became lost in thoughts of his wife once more, the telephone rang and the shy schoolteacher rose to answer it.
‘So you’re stuck,’ he heard her say, her voice sounding strained. ‘Don’t worry, love. Yes, I’ll pick you up. At Waverly in two hours. Yes, I’ll be there.’
Putting down the receiver, she turned to him and said wearily; ‘That was Heather. She missed the train she was supposed to catch. So she’ll not be back for another couple of hours, I’m afraid. I have to go out myself in about fifteen minutes. I’m babysitting for Ella while she goes to her art class, and I can’t let her down. Probably best that you come back tomorrow morning?’
Elaine Bell, feeling tense after an afternoon preparing for her appraisal meeting with the Super, strolled into the murder suite. Her labours had renewed her sense of the enormity of the injustice the man was trying to commit, to perpetrate against her. Her record was exemplary, all her appraisals bar his proved it, she deserved the promotion, and if she had to go into battle to achieve her due then she bloody well would. Bring it on. The sooner the better.
‘So, Alice, how did it go?’
The sergeant looked up as the DCI came in and pushed her report to one side, accidentally knocking an all but empty coke can to the floor.
‘Very interesting. I learnt a lot. For one thing…’
At that moment Eric Manson returned, bringing with him the stench of stale cigar smoke, and came over to join them. Seeing the can rolling around the floor he said, petulantly, ‘That was mine.’
‘It’s empty,’ Alice replied.
‘Not quite.’
‘Never mind that,’ Elaine Bell said irritably, moving quickly away from her Inspector, overpowered by the miasma clinging to him. ‘How have you both got on?’
‘Mrs Brodie doesn’t think that her son was capable of taking the stuff herself. So he must have been given it, fed it or whatever,’ Eric Manson said, his arms now tightly crossed against his chest.
‘And young Mrs Brodie, Heather Brodie. What did she say? She should really be the one to know, I suppose? She tended to him, saw him every day after all.’
‘Yes, and she thinks he could have done it by glugging it straight from the bottle. The children don’t, though, but apparently she was the one to give it to him. Not them or old Mrs Brodie. She said that he wanted to die… he told them so every day.’
‘Good. That may be our answer then, if there was enough in the bottles, that he took it himself for some reason. Knowingly or unknowingly. Anything else, Eric?’
‘Aha. The old woman thinks that her daughter-in-law is carrying on with someone. She doesn’t know who, but she’s adamant that the bitch is having an affair.’
‘The “bitch”?’ Elaine Bell said, her surprised tone allowing the inspector to reconsider his choice of words.
‘Mrs Brodie. Heather Brodie.’
‘Maybe that explains it, then,’ Alice said slowly, thinking out loud, ‘what’s going on. Because Heather Brodie’s been lying to us, got her sister to cover for her too. She wasn’t at the theatre on Saturday evening. The actor she claimed to have seen, Martin Jarvis, wasn’t performing on the night she supposedly saw the play. And she was a great fan of his, she told me, so I don’t think she can put it down to some sort of mistaken identity. Perhaps she was with this man or something. Maybe that’s why she was lying.’
‘She’s been lying? Bloody Hell, the stupid, stupid cow! Do we know who he is, yet?’ Elaine Bell demanded.
Eric Manson shook his head. ‘I went there this evening, to Pippa Mitchelson’s house, to ask her, find out who he is, but she’s stuck in Perth. Won’t be back until after ten.’
‘Well, we’ll have to find out what she was actually doing and who she was with. Neither of you have seen Una Reid again, eh? She might be able to help us out. She’ll have seen Heather Brodie and the rest of them at close quarters… unguarded. She’ll know if the woman was up to something and, quite probably, who with too. And, Eric, I don’t want Mrs Brodie to know that we’re interested in her. Not yet.’ She paused, thinking, ‘On the other hand, I’m not sure how much all of this matters. We’ve got Clerk, he’s inside and we’ve plenty of evidence against him, haven’t we? Brodie died at his hands, McConnachie was crystal clear about that. Thank God. In a way this is all just a sideshow really.’
Aware that her contribution would be unwelcome, Alice said tentatively, ‘I don’t think it is, Ma’am – a sideshow, I mean. Apart from anything else, I’m not sure the evidence we’ve got is that good, the evidence against Clerk.’
‘What on earth d’you mean?’ Elaine Bell said, frowning angrily.
‘Well, Gavin Brodie did go to the Raeburn Place Day Centre. We know that.’
‘Yes, yes, I know that too. And your point is?’ the DCI spluttered, interrupting her. ‘That’s probably how Clerk chooses his victims – finds disabled people, chats to them, learns where they live, works out their security and so on. He meets them through Robert, and I bet he came across Brodie that way.’
‘Possibly,’ Alice replied, ‘but it may also leave a big question-mark over the significance of the fingerprint evidence.’
‘What on earth are you going on about?’