‘They botherin’ you, chick?’ the ferrety little man sitting beside the girl asked, raising his eyes from the screen to look menacingly at the two officers.
‘Naw,’ she replied idly, drawing deeply on her cigarette and flicking the snake’s tail of ash into her empty coffee cup.
‘’Cause if they are,’ the man said, putting his arm around her and fixing Eric Manson’s eyes with his own bloodshot gaze, ‘I’ll just ask them to leave… politely like.’
‘Is there anyone who saw you and Billy here, on the Sunday night?’ Alice persisted.
‘Aye,’ the girl answered sarcastically, rolling her eyes at the stupidity of the question.
‘Who?’
‘Him,’ she said, tweaking the fingers of the hand that was resting on her fleshy arm.
‘“Him”? Sorry, but who is “him”? I mean what’s his name?’
‘Him. Meet ma lodger, Mr Ecky… naw, Mr Alistair Cockburn – pronounced “Coburn”,’ she giggled, adding, ‘the cock’s silent, see?’
‘Ma cockle doodle you…’ the ferret guffawed, stroking the girl’s ponytail.
‘You can confirm that Billy Wallace was here all night?’
‘Aye, you’ve ma word oan it… as a gentleman,’ the man replied, laughing, his eyes back on the screen, pressing a button on the remote control and changing channels.
Catching sight of the clock in the Astra in which they were travelling, Alice asked her companion if the time shown was correct. Eric Manson nodded, but said nothing, his mind miles away, thinking of events earlier that day. What was his wife playing at? She had got up before him, dressed, and by the time he had wandered, sleepy-eyed, into the kitchen, she was already on the phone to someone. When she saw him, the smile on her face froze and she whispered, ‘That’s Eric. Got to go.’
When he questioned her she became angry with him, telling him to mind his own business, remarking crossly that she was not one of his suspects. Really, she wasn’t behaving like the Margaret he knew at all. And nowadays she was always out, had some excuse or other for evenings away, jaunts taken here, there and everywhere, but always without him.
‘Bugger!’ Alice said.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said, the concern in her voice interrupting his train of thought.
‘I was supposed to be at the mortuary at twelve with the DCI.’
‘Phone them. Tell them that we’re running late but we’re on our way.’
‘They’ll be all togged up, gloved up… probably left their phones in the changing room. Would you mind putting your foot down, Sir?’
‘No problem, pet, but I reckon it’s past praying for. We can be there in fifteen… no, make that thirteen minutes.’ And so saying, he clamped the blue light onto the roof of the car and pressed down hard on the accelerator. They sped down Ferry Road, overtaking a juggernaut on Inverleith Row before screeching straight over the roundabout at Canonmills, just managing to jump an amber light from Broughton Street onto York Place, siren screaming like a banshee and drawing the attention of all the passers-by. North Bridge passed in a flash, then they jinked eastwards, in short bursts, turning left down the Mile, rumbling over the cobbles down to St Mary’s Street past the Ben Line Building and, finally, entering the sunless corridor of the Cowgate.
By the time they bumped to a halt, Alice was feeling thoroughly shaken up and on edge, expecting a bollocking from the DCI for her lateness and still seeing in her mind’s eye the face of the startled pedestrian who was brushed by their car mirror at a zebra crossing. But adrenalin was coursing through her driver’s veins, making him bubble with excitement and goodwill, his earlier anxieties temporarily banished by the rush. Eleven minutes!
Shouting her thanks, she dashed from the car, only to find herself blocked at the entry-phone. There she waited for a few more precious minutes, stamping her feet impatiently on the greasy tarmac, the urgency in her voice insufficient to persuade the man on the door to adopt anything other than his usual sloth’s pace. He knew her, of course, and could see her on the CCTV monitor, but there were procedures to be followed, otherwise any Tom, Dick or Harry might gain access to the place. She caught the DI’s eye as he sat, engine revving intermittently to warm the air, waiting for her in case she had missed the show completely. Watching her, he shook his head slowly in disbelief at her treatment.
When, finally, the heavy black door opened, Elaine Bell came striding out, pulling on her coat as she walked. Seeing Alice she said tersely, ‘Fat lot of use you are now. The party’s over. The parcel’s open, the cake’s been cut. So, where the hell have you been?’
‘Billy Wallace had an alibi – his girlfriend. We had to check it out.’
‘And my calls? Why didn’t you answer them?’
An angry red line encircled Elaine Bell’s brow from the over-tight paper cap she had worn in the mortuary, and as she spoke, she distractedly fingered its contour with the tips of her fingers.
‘I never got any calls, there can’t have been any reception. I’m sorry, Ma’am.’
‘You didn’t have to go to check it out there and then, you could have waited until after the P.M., couldn’t you?’
‘Seemed safer to follow it up. Wallace told us that she was in the flat, if we’d waited she might have gone out.’
‘Alright, alright. Fine. What did she have to say?’
‘She said that he was with her, but I’m not convinced. I’ve checked with Alistair and she’s got form too. A junkie, in and out of Cornton Vale like a yo-yo, so she knows the ropes. She might say almost anything. How did you get on with the Professor?’
‘Never mind that now. Is that Eric, sitting wasting time, twiddling his thumbs in the car?’ asked the DCI, looking up at the grey sky and holding out her palms to catch the first few drops of rain.
‘Mmm.’
‘Good. He can take us back to the station. I want to speak to the whole squad – before lunch.’
Elaine Bell paced up and down while addressing her team, her notebook open and held at arm’s length as she squinted at it with her longsighted eyes.
‘Let me see… well, McConnachie wasn’t prepared to stick his neck out, as bloody usual, so we’ve a window of nine hours at the moment. Time of death sometime between 4.30 pm, when the victim was last seen alive, and 2 or 3 am.’
‘Why such a long period?’ Alistair Watt asked, crossing his long legs.
‘“Little rigor mortis, but a very thin corpse”, it says here. God only knows.’
‘And the cause of death?’ DI Manson asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
‘Cause is… “exsanguination”. The poor bastard bled to death, hence his colourless appearance – and the spray-paint on the walls, of course.’
She turned over the page and stared hard at it, screwing up her eyes and trying to make out her own brief notes, then mumbled, ‘He said “wound inflicted from front… starting on left”, so the attacker’s probably left-handed… “complete transaction” – sorry, “transection of right jugular and common carotid”.’
‘The missing kitchen-knife?’ Alice asked, her tummy rumbling in anticipation of lunch.
‘He said “a sharp-ended thing”, which I think’s his usual code for a knife. Toxicology’s to follow, but even that’s going to be problematic, apparently, because there was so little blood left in the man’s system. So, they’ll have to analyse bits of the heart and liver as well,’ she added, closing her notebook decisively with a businesslike snap.
‘That’s it?’ DI Manson said, in a tone of disbelief.
‘That’s it, yes, all we’ve got. They may be able to firm up on the time of death after they’ve done a stomach contents. Otherwise, that’s it for now at least.’
‘So, Wallace’s got an alibi then has he?’ DC Littlewood mused, leaning back on his seat, his hands clasped over his rounded belly, and looking enquiringly at Alice.