‘You’re quite sure about that?’ Alice enquired, ‘because this is where a neighbour told us she works.’
‘Yes.’
‘Any other Agneses employed here?’ Alice asked doubtfully, with little expectation of a useful reply.
‘Two. Agnes Cauld and Agnes Leckie. They’re both on bed-making duty in the Drumsheugh Wing, or at least they should be. If they’re not there, then try the lifts, they may be cleaning them out.’
As Alice entered the first room after the fire doors, Agnes Cauld’s large posterior greeted her as the nurse bent over a resident’s bed, smoothing the covers for him. Unaware of the policewoman’s presence, she began to swing it playfully from side to side, singing as she did so, all to the evident delight of the hairless old fellow below her who began excitedly clapping out a calypso rhythm, determined to keep his jolly nurse’s company for as long as possible. Amused, Alice watched them for a few seconds, then cleared her throat loudly to alert them to her arrival.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said, turning round to face the policewoman and smiling broadly, her bright smile remaining undimmed as Alice asked her name and about the likely whereabouts of her namesake.
‘Agnes? Easy. Agnes will be smokin’…’
Then she added in singsong voice, ‘A-smokin’ or a-shakin’. Agnes is always a-smokin’ or a-shakin’. A-shakin’ or a-smokin’.’
The designated staff smoking area for the home amounted to no more than a corner of tarmac in the yard, minimal shelter being afforded by a ragged piece of corrugated iron over the triangular piece of ground. Standing in the corner, her head sunk low into her shoulders to prevent it from touching the edge of the roof, was the woman Alice was looking for. She was absorbed in her own thoughts, inhaling deeply from her cigarette, then watching the stream of smoke as she exhaled it forcefully through pale and pursed lips. On either side of her were piles of bloated rubbish bags, overspills from the nearby dustbins, and the air was rank with the stink of rotten cabbage and bad fish. By her feet were dozens of small blue polythene bags, most of which appeared balloon-like, inflated to near-bursting point with some kind of self-generated noxious gas. But she appeared oblivious to it all, to the awful odour, to the light rain falling all around her, and to the approach of the stranger, because all her attention was focused on one thing and one thing alone, her cigarette.
The woman was unusually short and almost spherical in shape, her elasticated tracksuit bottoms encircling the globe of her waist and clinging to it, cruelly outlining her vast, protuberant belly. Beneath it, and in its shade, her little feet were shod in scuffed white trainers, both of which had their pink laces undone. A pair of raisin eyes peered out from behind her fleshy cheeks, and her mouth, when not occupied in exhaling smoke, moved incessantly as if she was talking to herself.
‘Agnes Leckie?’ Alice asked, approaching the woman, trying to work out the wind-direction, to ensure that she would not be downwind of the rubbish pile.
‘Aye,’ answered Agnes, looking at the stranger with little curiosity, her trembling hand raised to her mouth, ready for another draw. ‘Who are you?’
If Alice had said that she was from the refuse department the woman could not have shown less interest in her answer, and when asked if she had ever used ‘Hart’ as a surname, she nodded, showing no curiosity whatsoever as to how this police officer could know such a thing or why she would wish to meet her.
‘And you knew Gavin Brodie, didn’t you?’ the Sergeant continued, ‘when you were still called Hart, I mean. I need to speak to you about him.’
‘Gavin Brodie? Oh aye, fire away,’ she replied, wrinkling her adipose features in disgust, ‘I’ve no’ forgotten him… No’ likely tae forget him.’
‘Before I ask you about him,’ Alice said, ‘can you tell me where you were on Saturday night, last Saturday night?’
‘This is like oan the telly, eh! Me ’n’ Gareth went to see his friend. Then I went back to ma ain flat. Whit’s all o’ this tae dae wi’ Gavin Brodie?’
‘On your own – were you at home on your own?’
‘Aye,’ she said rubbing her stomach round and round as if to polish it, ‘well, almost oan ma ain. After the wee wan’s born me ’n’ Gareth will move in tegither. I’ve taken his name already, “Leckie” for the wee wan’s sake. Like I said, whit’s all o’ this tae dae wi’ Gavin Brodie?’
‘You know who I’m talking about? The Gavin Brodie who lived in India Street?’
‘Aye, there’s only the wan fer me,’ she said, drawing deeply on her cigarette. ‘I ken him, but what’s a’ this tae dae wi’ me? He’s the wan you should be interested in – wrecked ma business, broke up ma marriage, made me ill. That wis a crime! You wouldnae believe it, but when I wis at college I used to be petite, I wis only seven stone. I could fit, nae bother, into a size eight. I’m oan a diet now, no crisps or chocolate, like, jist fags.’
‘How did he wreck everything for you?’
‘Because it wis his job tae keep me right, see? He kept the accounts for ma business. I’d a wee sandwich shop oan Henderson Row, below ma flat. Thanks tae him, all ma tax wis wrong, he got it a’ wrong, an’ the next thing the taxman wis aifter me. I got letter aifter letter, but I couldnae pay ’cause I didnae have the money. So the tax people made me bankrupt an’ then I lost the lease of the shop, then my man dumped me because he wis stressed to bits.’
She stopped speaking, dropped her cigarette butt onto the tarmac and ground it up with the heel of her trainer, then added, ‘Still, he got his come-uppance, didn’t he?’
‘His “come-uppance”?’ Alice repeated, her voice sounding nasal, a sudden whiff of bad eggs making her clamp her nostrils between her fingers. But Agnes Leckie did not respond, too busy attempting to prise another fag from the foil-covering within the packet.
‘How do you mean, “got his come-uppance”? Who did he get his “come-uppance” from?’ Alice said more loudly, moving towards the care assistant, eager to inhale the cigarette smoke now drifting about her head. The little woman took another draw, threw away her match and said, smugly, ‘God, hersel’. By givin’ him that disease.’
‘Have you been back, recently, to India Street, or anywhere near Gavin Brodie?
‘Me? Em… em, naw.’
‘Sure about that?’
‘I never done, naw, I never done that. I’d be put inside if I’d done that.’ Agnes sounded agitated, and she began scratching a rough, inflamed area on her forehead.
‘Aggie… Aggie,’ cried an anxious voice in the distance, and a little later Una Reid’s solid figure appeared, running towards the shelter with a newspaper held over her head, to protect it from the persistent rain.
‘You’ll hae tae make the last three beds…’ she began breathlessly on her arrival, ‘I done the rest of the Drumsheugh wans but I cannae dae it all mysel’. I’m supposed to be helpin’ the residents wi’ their breakfasts now.’
Agnes Leckie glanced at the newcomer, nodding her head several times in response, but she made no move to leave the shelter. Instead, she returned her gaze to Alice as if expecting the interview to continue.
‘Come oan, Aggie!’ Una Reid said excitedly. ‘Mrs Drayton kens that you’re here. She saw you leavin’ the dining hall, an’ she’s been watchin’ you ever since frae her office.’
‘Mrs Hart – er, Ms Leckie, stay here, please. There are a few other things I need to know,’ Alice began, but she was quickly interrupted by Agnes Leckie who, as if she hadn’t spoken, squealed in a high voice, ‘Mrs Drayton? She’s no’ seen me, has she, Mum?’
‘Aye. Mrs Drayton, the manageress. So get a move oan, eh, Aggie.’
‘I never went nowhere… nowhere near Gavin Brodie,’ Agnes said, her face now scarlet and tears rolling down her fat cheeks.