‘Well, a wheelchair’s not like a fridge or a washing machine is it? It moves about the place with its owner, or at least he moves about with it. So, Brodie and his wheelchair go to the day-centre that Clerk goes to as well. All he needs to do is claim that he sometimes helped push people about or some such thing, then the prints are worthless or near worthless. And maybe it’s true, maybe he’s not our man. He left traces of himself all over his first victim’s flat. Ron Anderson’s too. He doesn’t take trouble. So, why just one set of prints in Brodie’s place, on the wheelchair?’
‘And the book?’ Elaine Bell said, hotly. ‘That’s a bit more difficult for him – for you – to explain away, I think you’d agree.’
‘Mmm,’ Alice said, hesitating, conscious that her next piece of information would cause further consternation, ‘not really. I asked Mrs Brodie if her husband had disposed of that Jeffrey Archer, and she said she wasn’t sure but that it was quite likely. Apparently, as he got worse and worse, they had to bring in aids to help with him, rails, commodes, hoists and so on. Extra space was needed. They had a clear out to make room for all the equipment. She said that he loved “airport reading”, as she called it, had a huge collection of paperbacks. She sold the bookshelves and got rid of the A-M section in one of the charity shops in Stockbridge. Archer was one of his favourites, along with Dan Brown. Their system wasn’t perfectly alphabetical, she said, but not bad. The book was an odd thing for Clerk to keep, too, having thrown away a wallet, jewellery and all that.’
‘And the remarkably similar M.O.?’
‘Cutting the throats of invalids? It’s a remarkable coincidence if Brodie happened to overdose himself on the very night that someone else had chosen to kill him, don’t you think? I’d say it’s much more likely that one individual did both, even if we don’t yet know why. I know we’ve charged Clerk, but as things currently stand I don’t think we’ll get a conviction. Not with what we’ve got at present, will we, Ma’am?’
‘Alright, alright, you’ve made your point. Find out who the merry widow’s having it away with, eh? Don’t ask her, go and see that carer woman at the Abbey Park Lodge. Let’s see what Mrs Brodie was actually up to. But, for Christ’s sake, don’t let her know we’re onto her.’
9
Bustling angrily from the room, like a hen forcibly deprived of a tasty scrap, the DCI was now thinking hard, trying to work out in her own mind how she could best describe the latest development to the ACC, ensuring that it did not sound like a setback. Her colleagues, both weary after a long day’s work, remained seated, each now reluctant, although for different reasons, to go home. Alice was dreading a confrontation with Ian and its result, and Manson, though too fearful to risk a confrontation with Margaret, was unable to bear the uncertainty of the status quo.
‘Alice?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
He hesitated, trying to work out the best way, the most innocuous way, of introducing the subject, alerting no one. That Margaret should no longer love him was bad enough, but he was not, yet, the butt of office jokes, the object of ill-concealed sniggers, or worse still, sympathy.
‘I wondered,’ he continued ‘you know how Mrs Brodie, the old one, told me that Heather was, how should I put it… on the pull? That she had a “fancy” man,’ he added with distaste. Usually, his manner on discussing this kind of thing would be bantering, lewd and jocular, so Alice looked at him, her attention caught by his uncharacteristic diffidence, but he did not follow it up, sinking into silence. She rose, stretched, and lifted her coat from the back of her chair. Infidelity was not a subject she wanted to discuss with him now.
‘If she was unfaithful, how would you know?’ he enquired, after a long pause.
‘How d’you mean, Sir? How would you know? You’ve just told us that the old lady told you that Mrs Brodie was unfaithful.’
‘Yes,’ he hesitated again. ‘Yes, I did… but it’s only an inference drawn by her, by a mother-in-law, you understand. She doesn’t actually know, she hasn’t seen the man, or caught them together or anything. What I’m thinking is, is she – is she right? In the inference she’s drawing, I mean. About her daughter-in-law. You’re a woman, Alice, aren’t you?’
‘To the best of my knowledge. Of course, I haven’t been subject to any tests,’ she replied acidly.
‘Exactly. So, as a woman, what would make you draw the inference that another woman, a married woman, was having an affair?’
‘A number of things, I suppose,’ Alice said, her interest briefly kindled, finding herself entering the discussion almost against her will. ‘I suppose she might dress better, take more care with her appearance generally – her underwear in particular. Her mood, her behaviour might be different too, depending on things like her attitude to the adultery…’
‘Like what?’ the Inspector shot back, sounding anxious, then rephrasing the question in an attempt to sound less concerned. ‘Um… what d’you have in mind?’
‘It all depends. If the woman was in love, too, then she might be radiant, feel she’s walking on air, be unusually happy. On the other hand she could be tortured, as well, racked with guilt, unsure how to resolve things and more irritable as a result. She might be kinder to everyone, feeling benign, content with the world and her place in it, or she might appear to lose interest in things that had previously held her attention – things like their home, old hobbies shared with her husband… I don’t know, Sir. Perhaps you’re asking the wrong person!’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest…’ he began, briefly apologetic before adding, dismissively, ‘you’re not married anyway,’ as if sexual fidelity outside wedlock had no significance.
‘True,’ she answered, putting on her coat and starting to walk towards the door. She wanted no more of this discussion. It was far too close to the bone.
‘If she had started cooking dishes she particularly knew that her husband liked, fancy ones – ones she hadn’t cooked for years, then that could be indicative of her adultery, of a guilty conscience, you think?’
‘It could be.’ Alice shrugged her shoulders. ‘She might be compensating in some way, her new “interest” making her kinder, making her even pity her husband…’ Jesus, did Ian pity her?
‘Pity!’ he snorted, then nodded sagely to himself, muttering, ‘Pity… yes, I can see that.’
‘Or it might just mean that she loved him. Really loved him,’ she added quickly, a sudden doubt assailing her. How could she have been so slow in the uptake? It was obvious that his interest in the topic of adultery went far deeper than was required for the job. Glancing at his tired face, at his slumped posture, she knew what was worrying him, and felt nothing but sympathy for him. He must be on the rack, too. They were sparring partners of old, and more often than not his jabs irritated or annoyed her, but she took no pleasure seeing her old adversary like this. Off-balance, dancing on the canvas no more, supporting himself on the ropes and unable to conceal his injuries. She only hoped that her own had been better hidden.
Alice sat in the kitchen of their flat, a second glass of white wine by her hand. She had already consumed one to give her courage, stiffen her spine. Beside her on the floor Quill lay peacefully asleep, snoring gently, sated after his second dinner.
Throughout the entire journey home she had been rehearsing in her head what she would say, imagining Ian’s likely responses, sometimes scaring herself half to death. Now she could feel butterflies fluttering about in her stomach, she was anticipating the worst and trying to prepare herself to deal with it, or, at the very least, accept it. She looked down at the newspaper again but her eyes glided over the print, taking in nothing. Soon she found herself in the business section, where she finally gave up.