Nosing inside the fridge, he saw with alarm that a raspberry mousse appeared to have been made for him. Half-heartedly he dipped a finger into it, licked it, and as he did so the telephone rang. Picking up the receiver and, still in work mode, he said gruffly ‘DI Eric Manson, here’. Instantly, and with an ominous click, the phone went dead.
It must have been Him, the Other Man, the Bastard, now intruding into his home! His own home! He threw down the instrument as if it had been contaminated and, had the house been empty, would have howled out loud in his anguish like a wolf. Instead, he sat at the table with his head in his hands, hiding from the world, and sighed involuntarily.
Covering his eyes, he repeated to himself over and over that this should not be happening to him, him of all people. And not now, in the middle of a murder investigation, when all his time, all his thoughts, had to be devoted to the job of tracking down that poor, sick bugger’s killer. What the fuck had he ever done to deserve this? But he could not talk to Margaret, or have it out with her, because he did not know where to begin, or where it would all end. Heavens above, she might actually admit to playing away, and what would he do then? The awful nightmare would have become reality. And Margaret would no longer be Margaret, and who, no, what, would he be without her?
‘You alright, Eric?’ It was sour Helen’s voice, so he rubbed his hands up and down over his face as if to refresh himself, and replied as brightly as he was able, ‘Yes, just fine, thanks, love. Rarely better’. Then Margaret herself swept in, and seeing him, asked tenderly, ‘Tired, pet?’ Catching her eye and forgetting what he had just said, he nodded mutely and watched, speechless, as she took his supper out of the oven for him, laid it before him and departed to return to the gaggle of women. A dish of beef olives, prettily garnished with a handful of freshly chopped parsley.
His phone went again. He threw down his fork and shouted down the mobile, ‘If that’s you, again, you fuckin’, fuckin’, fuckin’…’
‘Sir! Sir, it’s me, Alice. I was just calling to let you know what I have found out, in case you wanted to speak to the DCI.’ The man sounded possessed.
‘OK. Right. Get on with it.’
‘It’s not really what we were expecting, but it may be significant,’ she continued, slightly breathlessly, still taken aback by the unexpected tirade. ‘There’s a life insurance policy in Gavin Brodie’s name. His widow was to get a payout on his death, as long as he died prior to the 10th of February next year. Are you alright, Sir?’
‘Aye. Fine. How much?’
‘Two hundred thousand pounds. I didn’t think people like him would be able to get that kind of insurance. But it looks as if you can if you’re prepared to pay an extra whack each month. Maybe they exclude death from the disease or something, I don’t know…’
‘Right,’ he said, cutting her off and sounding uninterested.
‘And there were some court documents, too.’
‘Yeah. Well, tell the boss tomorrow, eh? We’re already well on the way with things. Paxton gave me a right load of porkies as far as I can see. Said he was at his health club until late, but nobody there seems to have seen him, his usual day’s Wednesday anyway. Said he went on to the pub, then home. Lying fucker. The pub was closed all day as they had a pipe burst in the night, it didn’t open again until the Tuesday. I’ve already spoken to the boss. We’re going to bring him into the station, first thing tomorrow morning, straight from his morning surgery. Marked police car, blue light and everything. That’ll make the toy boy sweat.’
10
Saturday
‘So, Doctor,’ Elaine Bell began, feeling tense already, knowing that the man might be a difficult interviewee with his university degrees and the ease, the self confidence, which came from his position in the community. But some bloody pillar of it he was – pillock, more like – and she would get the better of him. The lying toad. Fortunately, he looked rattled now, his dark eyes looking anxiously into hers, sweat shining on his upper lip, and all before she had even begun. The ride in the marked police car seemed to have done the trick.
‘I understand from the Inspector that on last Saturday night you were at your health club, Triton, until about 10 pm or so, is that correct?’ Let him assent, and hang himself here and now. A firm ‘yes’ would leave him no room for pleas of error or forgetfulness later.
As she had hoped, he did say yes, glancing nervously at Eric Manson’s well-built figure as he was doing so. In American cop programmes they beat people up, but not here, surely? If only he had watched The Bill or Taggart, anything, then he would have had an idea.
‘And after that you went on to the Geordie in Rose Street?’
He nodded, adding quietly, ‘Yes, that’s where I went.’
‘Sure about that?’
He nodded once more, crossing his legs and fingering the cleft in his chin.
‘Funny, then, that nobody at Triton, your club, saw you?’
‘Not really, Chief Inspector,’ he replied. His voice sounded hoarse, so he cleared his throat and repeated, ‘Not really funny. It’s a big place, lots of machines, a swimming pool, showers. Not a difficult place to hide… if you wanted to.’
‘OK, I follow that. Maybe the Geordie was the same. Lots of people, busy, jolly Christmas crowd, that sort of thing?’ Please God, another ‘yes’.
‘Exactly. That’s exactly what it was like. Still, I’m surprised that no one could remember me being there, if that’s what you’re going to suggest to me. Not even Brian?’
‘Brian?’ she replied, inviting him to enlighten her.
‘Brian. Irish Brian. He’s one of the barmen. I could have sworn he served me with at least one pint. He’ll probably remember me.’
‘That would be a bloody miracle,’ Eric Manson growled, looking hard at the doctor.
‘It would be a little… odd,’ the DCI said, in a slightly perplexed tone, ‘since the Geordie was closed on Saturday night. There’d been a flood, you see. So, “Irish Brian”, and everyone else, now that I think about it, would be elsewhere.’
‘So, “Doctor”,’ Eric Manson said, raising crooked fingers on either hand to put inverted commas around the man’s title, and leaning closer towards him, ‘where the fuck were you?’
All the remaining colour drained from Colin Paxton’s face and he said, in an apologetic tone, ‘I’m sorry, sorry, I think I’m about to be sick.’ No sooner had he said the words than he bent forward and threw up onto the table, copiously, splashing himself and the nearby Inspector.
‘Bloody Hell!’ Manson shouted, leaping to his feet, his chair tumbling to the ground behind him.
Later, in a different interview room, the same group reassembled. Paxton seemed somehow smaller, dressed in borrowed clothes, his head bowed and licking his lips incessantly as if he had just crossed a desert.
The DCI looked quizzically at him, inviting him to begin but saying nothing herself.
‘I wasn’t at the club… or the pub. I was seeing Heather,’ the doctor said, head bowed.
‘That’ll be Heather Brodie, your patient’s wife, eh?’ Eric Manson said, as if helpfully clarifying matters.
‘Yes,’ the man replied, in a low voice, closing his eyes briefly as if unable to face them.
‘So, tell us,’ Elaine Bell said, ‘what exactly did happen on Saturday night?’
Slowly, the story of the evening at Il Gattopardo and in his flat emerged, he having to be prodded occasionally to ensure that his narrative did not dry up. When he had finished Eric Manson leant across and snarled, ‘So, you’re knockin’ off a sick man’s wife, right? No, sorry, correction, a dying man’s wife… then, after that…’