‘An alibi worth doodly squat, or, as we might say, fuck all,’ Eric Manson butted in. ‘It consists of Tracey’s word, backed up by the boy’s favourite partner in crime.’
‘True enough,’ the DCI said wearily, ‘it’s not worth much, but for the moment he’s our only lead. No report back from the lab as yet. And you’ve still got nothing from the door-to-doors, eh, Alistair?’
DS Alistair Watt shook his head. ‘Nothing so far. Saturday was a pretty hellish night, weather-wise, everybody seems to have been tucked up indoors with their tellies. Uniforms are re-doing the whole area in case they manage to catch someone new in, but so far, nothing. The dogs have been all round India Street, the Jamaica Street lanes and Gloucester Lane and Terrace, but they’ve drawn a blank too.’
‘What about Una Reid, the man’s carer, has she been tracked down? Until we find her, we don’t even know when, precisely, he was last seen alive.’
‘Nope,’ the sergeant shook his head. ‘Her flat’s deserted, apparently she’s away for a few days – somewhere in the Aberdeen area. But her work have no idea where exactly, and nor does Heather Brodie.’
Back in her office, Elaine Bell gazed out of her window, her attention caught briefly by a man on Arthur’s Seat trailing a kite behind him, its tail writhing sinuous as a snake while it rose slowly heavenwards, caught by a gust of wind. Sighing, she moved back to her desk. She had already passed such news as there was on to the Superintendent, desperately trying to dress up the truth to make it sound less feeble.
But when he heard the update, unimpressive despite her best efforts, her superior had sounded positively pleased. Of course, it made perfect sense. Disliking her as heartily as he did, and due to retire in less than five months, news like this was music to his oversized ears. After all, what would be more likely to stymie her prospects of promotion to his post than an unsuccessful murder investigation?
Thinking about him and his malevolence towards her, the findings of the review team on the Dyce killing came to mind, and as she reflected on them she unconsciously started to chew her bottom lip. Yes, she had missed one line of enquiry on it, that was undeniable, but it had made no difference whatsoever to the end result. They had still got their man, hadn’t they? And the brass knew that too, and would put it down on her tab. But, she thought, a sudden, uncharacteristic doubt assailing her, maybe I am losing my touch. Perhaps I’m not as sharp as I was, and Chief Inspector is my limit – my ceiling. Perhaps this is it, as far as I can go.
D.C. Littlewood put his head round the door and waggled a long brown envelope at her. ‘A present from the Super,’ he said brightly, as he handed it over. The second he left the room she tore it open. Her eyes scanned the first page of her annual appraisal hungrily, but halfway down it, a feeling of dread had begun to overwhelm her, making her stomach churn and her mouth feel dry. But by the time she had worked her way to the end of the document, her mood had changed again and she was incensed, almost trembling with fury. It was outrageous. The bastard had finally done it, shown his true colours, and well and truly shafted her in the process.
‘Fuck!’ she said out loud, throwing the papers onto her desk in disgust. The report was late, as always, but had not been prepared in haste. Its author had carefully chosen his words in order to produce the perfect hatchet-job. The appraisal narrated dutifully all that she had accomplished, conscientiously listed all her responsibilities and skills, and made it plain that she had achieved only what was asked of her, and not a jot more. It told everyone that there was nothing exceptional about her, that she had no outstanding qualities, and that she fulfilled only the most basic requirements of a Chief Inspector’s post. And by its excessive restraint, its glaring omissions, it trumpeted to the world her professional inadequacy. The promotion board would likely take one glance at it and then drop it on the ‘Not to Be Interviewed’ pile.
Thinking of the fight ahead of her, of all the time she would have to spend trying to overturn his conclusions, Elaine covered her face with her hands. Every second was precious, needed for the investigation in hand, and her energy was in short supply. And he knew that too.
‘Ma’am?’ Alice said, stopping by the open door but, on seeing the distraught figure, reluctant to enter.
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve just heard that a man called Norman Clerk was released from Carstairs about a month ago. He was in for slitting the throat of an old lady. He comes from Edinburgh and his victim lived in the city too.’
‘Why was he put in the bin rather than the jail?’ Elaine Bell asked, her face still hidden.
‘Supposedly he was schizophrenic. Eric says he remembers the case. Clerk cut the old lady’s throat but claimed that a voice had ordered him to do it or something. He told me all about it.’
‘And he’s cured?’
‘Apparently.’
‘And he’s back in the city now?’ the DCI said, straightening up and uncovering her face.
‘Somewhere in the Haymarket area. Eric’s busy tracking down his address.’
‘Well, we’ve nothing to lose, have we?’ the DCI replied, almost jauntily. ‘Go and see him, talk to him, get a handle on him. This minute. If nothing else, the timing’s right, and it might, it just might, be more than coincidence. Take Tom Littlewood with you.’
4
Chewing on her scotch pie, Alice walked along Morrison Street with the rotund constable trotting beside her, his short, denim-clad legs taking two strides to her every one. He was busily explaining to her how to make the perfect beef madras, unaware that, above the roar of the traffic, she could only catch occasional isolated words like ‘fenugreek’ and then, a little later, ‘scotch bonnet’.
As they crossed the junction with Dewar Place, a gust of chill wind hit her, sending a crumpled sheet of newsprint in the gutter spiralling upwards towards her head, and she dodged it, accidentally dropping her pie onto the pavement. She cursed, but her companion said smugly, ‘Better for you,’ taking his last mouthful of sushi and wiping his lips.
Turning eastwards, they crossed the busy road, dodging between the lanes of speeding traffic, heading for the blackened tenement building on the corner. Once there, they began hunting for ‘Clerk’ among the dozens of names on the doorbells. A young man wheeled his bicycle out of the main door, allowing Alice to walk into the common stair, and she signalled as she did so for her colleague to follow. In the absence of any glimmers of sunlight, the air inside seemed, if possible, colder and damper than that outside on the street, and she shivered, pulling the ends of her coat together and wishing it had not lost all its buttons.
‘Here’s an “R. Clerk” the DC said excitedly, his knuckles raised to knock on the door. She shook her head. ‘Norman Arthur Clerk’, the conviction sheet had said, so they continued upwards, checking every landing until on the third floor she saw a scrap of paper tacked onto the lintel with ‘N. A. CLERK’ written on it in large, uneven capitals. The door itself had the word ‘Nonce’ hacked into it with the blade of a knife. Standing there, they exchanged glances.
‘What a depressing hole,’ the constable remarked, absentmindedly dropping his empty sushi packet onto the stone floor where it joined the rest of the litter. The air trapped in the tenement smelt of stale, fried food, and flakes of cream paint were peeling off the ancient piping that snaked along its walls. Someone had taken the trouble to splash purple gloss paint onto the ceiling, and a few shiny stalactites hung down from it.
‘If this is him, let’s go in, eh?’ Tom Littlewood said, eager to get on and finish the job, get out of the building and back out into Torphichen Street and daylight.
She nodded again, but said nothing, still trying to gather her thoughts and work out what she would ask the man. This might be their one and only chance. While she was still deep in thought, the door opened and their quarry appeared, his hand on the shoulder of an ancient crone, her spine so crooked that she could see nothing but the floor in front of her.