For a few moments Heather Brodie hesitated, aware that if she told the truth the kind auburn-haired policeman might lose his job, remembering how smitten with her he was, how sweet to her he had been right up until the last, and how she had used him. But then all the lies she had told came back to haunt her. Lies to Gavin, to Colin even, to Harry and Ella, the police… the list went on and on, and sometime it had to stop. So, without further thought, she nodded.
When the DCI returned to her office, Eric Manson looked at her enquiringly from his seat by the window.
‘Yes,’ she said shortly, lowering herself heavily into her chair, ‘it was Thomas.’
‘Stupid bastard.’
‘He’s just offered his resignation.’
‘Good. So he should. And the aunt, do we know yet why she drugged the man and cut his throat?’
‘Lost her nerve, apparently, that’s what she said anyway. She wasn’t sure about the drugs, she wasn’t sure they’d be strong enough. She gave him most of the bottle, most of two bottles, in fact. She says he became unconscious quite quickly, but carried on breathing. She knew that Heather hoped to be away until the morning, but might not be. She panicked and used the knife. Once she’d done that, well, it could only be murder. So she took the stuff to draw our attention away, make us think just what we did think. At first anyway.’
Elaine Bell sighed, resting her head on her hands, then adding, ‘I’ve seen it all… or I thought I had, Eric. But nothing like this in all my thirty years. And God alone knows how she’ll fare in prison… it’ll be like putting a sparrow amongst hawks.’
She shook her head, then she added, ‘The poor bloody wretch.’
‘Brodie?’
‘No… well, yes, him too. But her, I really meant her. The whole lot of them, actually. Ever since the Mitchelson woman’s confession and speaking to the child, Ella, I’ve been thinking about it. If it was my dad, if he’d been like that, what would I do? Fucking irony, isn’t it? Keep a dumb animal alive in a state like that, and the RSPCA would be after you for not putting it down. But a person you know, asking to be put… asking for death? It’s an odd, upside-down world we live in.’
‘Aha. And ours is not to reason why,’ the Inspector replied.
Her phone rang and she picked it up, mouthed ‘The Super’ and gestured for Manson to leave.
‘Now, Sir. If that suits you, yes, that’s fine by me,’ she said, trying to sound bright and energetic. ‘I’ll be along at Fettes in, say, twenty minutes.’
Receiving her in his spacious office, the Superintendent looked confident, pleased with himself and, for the moment, with his subordinate too. With this case solved he would go out in a blaze of glory, whatever happened to her.
‘I gather you’ve wrapped it up?’ he said, pulling out a chair for her.
‘We have, Sir. The woman’s speaking to her lawyer now.’
‘A right Lady Macbeth I expect, eh? But it’s the appraisal you’re concerned about, I appreciate that. Of course, we can discuss it, although I have now, as far as I’m concerned, committed my views to paper in their final form. But I can spare you half an hour or so to go over it. Would that do? I’ll explain it, go through the basis for my firmly-held views, but my wife’s due to pick me up in about half an hour or so. We’ll have to stop when she arrives.’
He leant back on his chair, linking his hands behind his great bull-neck, beaming at her, convinced already that she would eventually slink out of his lair, tail down, accepting defeat. On her knee she had the brown envelope containing all the evidence she had compiled to present to him, illustrating why she should be upgraded, documenting her successes, staff improvements, initiatives, skills, everything she could find to persuade him to tell the truth. The truth would do. If he would tell that, then she would have a chance, and a chance was all she needed. Because at interview she would shine. She knew it, but with this appraisal before them, no one would include her on the shortlist.
‘Just so I understand, Sir,’ she said slowly, ‘there’s no question of actually changing it, the appraisal – just “explaining” it?’
He nodded complacently. After all, all the balls were in his court.
‘No change whatsoever?’
‘No change whatsoever, Elaine.’
What the hell, she thought, I’ve nothing to lose. He had no scruples, so why should she hobble herself with them? And he would not know whether it was a bluff or not.
‘Did you enjoy your meal, Sir – the one in Claudio’s on Friday? I know I did. I’ll enjoy hearing your wife’s impression of the place. She certainly seemed to like it, to be enjoying herself. So, we’ve half an hour or so until she arrives, is that right? Unless, of course, we finish earlier.’
For a second the Superintendant was speechless, working out the full import of her words. His complexion now puce, he said, stiffly, ‘Good food, certainly…’ He held out his hand for the envelope. ‘Perhaps… there might be something in there that would help me revise my opinion… a little.’
‘Well, that was a turn up for the books, eh?’ the solicitor said to DC Littlewood as they were walking away from the interview room.
‘How d’you mean?’ the constable asked, opening the corridor door for the solicitor’s portly figure and standing to one side to allow his bulk to pass through.
‘Her confession to killing Gavin Brodie. Jim Nicholl, from my firm, he was the duty solicitor, remember? Only a few days ago when you lot were busy charging our client, Norman Clerk, with exactly the same crime. To be dropped now, I gather.’
‘Oh, aye. And the cannabis, the assault and everything else, are they to be dropped too? I don’t think so,’ DC Littlewood said with grim satisfaction, remembering Alice’s bruised face, ‘so your “client” will be in Saughton for a wee whiley yet.’
‘Nope, you’re wrong there,’ the lawyer replied, lurching down the stairs and raising his voice to ensure it could be heard over the sound of his own heavy footsteps, ‘not anymore. He’s in the Royal now. He wasn’t taking his drugs, you see. He had a psychotic episode and attacked one of the prison officers. Anyway, Jim will have to tell him the good news – as soon as he’s safe to visit again.’
Heather Brodie was standing in the reception area with her son and daughter beside her, all of them waiting patiently for the police lift they had been promised. But, catching sight of the lawyer, Heather rushed over to speak to him. Ella, lifting up her small child, followed behind her. Only Harry remained where he was.
‘Hello? I understand you’re looking after Pippa – my sister, Miss Mitchelson. She will be alright, won’t she?’
‘That’s correct, my firm will be representing her. Not me personally, for various reasons, but don’t you worry, we’ll do our best for her,’ the lawyer said, putting on his overcoat and straining to button it up.
‘But… she will be alright, won’t she? She won’t be kept in prison?’ Ella asked anxiously, her face blotchy, stained by tears, and the little girl in her arms distracting her by fingering her mouth.
‘Hard to say at this juncture,’ the man replied, glancing through the glass door at the rain hammering down and bouncing off the pavement in St Leonard’s Street, unfurling his umbrella in readiness for the dash to his car.
‘How d’you mean?’ the girl exclaimed. Her brother had joined the group and was now standing behind her.
‘Well, looking to the long term, we’ll have to see what the prosecution will accept, won’t we?’ he replied, distracted, having just noticed that two of the spokes of his umbrella were poking through the material. The twins must have been playing spaceships with it again, he would look like a down-and-out or some kind of comic tramp.