Aftershock

Fifteen

As Becky Stallings walked up the path towards number eight Meriadoc Crescent, she saw the curtains twitch at number six, and guessed that Mrs Holmes was at her post.

On her second visit to the bungalow, there was no need to ring the bell. The door was opened as she approached by a tall, middle-aged man in a checked shirt and faded jeans. His face bore an expression that managed to combine shock and trepidation. ‘Ms Stallings?’ he asked. ‘I’m John Dean.’

They shook hands, and the inspector introduced DC Haddock, who was following her. ‘Thank you for letting me know you were back,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you till this evening.’

‘Don’t ask how fast I drove,’ Dean replied, as he led them into a thoroughly conventional living room, one of thousands of its type in Edinburgh’s middle-class suburbia. A woman sat in an armchair, a glass full of a brownish liquid clutched tightly in her hand. ‘My wife, Greta.’ He caught Stallings’s glance. ‘I’m sorry, after the journey we both felt the need of a drink. Would you like one?’

‘No, thanks. I know it’s a cliché, but we’re on duty.’

‘Have you sorted this thing out?’ the anxious mother asked harshly. ‘Have you found out who this woman is? It can’t be Sugar: we’d have … We’d just have known.’

Unbidden, Stallings sat on the couch close to her. ‘Mrs Dean,’ she began, but got no further. The woman bent forward, putting her hands to her face and pressing the glass against her forehead, as if she was trying to hide inside it from the truth. Her shoulders began to shake with sobs.

Her husband came and stood beside her, as if he was standing guard. ‘There’s no doubt?’ he whispered, colour draining from his cheeks.

‘The medical history you gave us,’ Stallings told him, ‘appendectomy scar, healed radial fracture: they’re both present on the dead woman.’

Dean was shivering as he stared blankly at the wall. Sauce Haddock stepped across to the sideboard, picked up his discarded glass and a bottle of Famous Grouse, and poured a large measure. ‘Here, sir,’ said the young man, as he handed it to him.

‘Thanks,’ he murmured. He took a swallow, then another. ‘You’ll want me to identify her, I take it. I’d be grateful for an hour or two to prepare myself.’

‘In the circumstances,’ the inspector replied, ‘that won’t be necessary. We can confirm your daughter’s identity by DNA, if you can give us personal samples.’

Greta Dean had recovered some composure. ‘That’s very kind of you.’ She paused for a strengthening breath. ‘But we’d like to see for ourselves that it’s true.’

Stallings looked up at John Dean, hoping that he had read her meaning.

He had. ‘No, Gret,’ he told his wife. ‘What the officers are saying is that there’s no legal requirement for a formal identification, and that it will be better for us to see Sugar in a funeral home, rather than in the mortuary. In that case, that’s what we’ll do.’

The inspector nodded, hoping that they chose the most skilled mortician in the city. Dean motioned her towards the back of the room, then through an open door that led into the kitchen. ‘What happened?’ he asked quietly. ‘I’m aware now, from the radio, that this is a murder investigation.’

‘Sugar was shot in the back of the head. Her death bears strong similarities to a series of murders committed earlier this year.’

Dean frowned heavily. ‘Yes, I remember. Sugar knew one of those poor girls, Stacey Gavin. They were at art college at the same time. But I thought that you’d caught the person who did those.’

‘We did. He was found dead, and those investigations are closed.’

‘So this might be the sincerest form of flattery? Is that what you think?’

‘It’s an unavoidable possibility.’

‘So there may be more on the way?’

‘Let’s hope not. But we’re not there yet. The first thing we have to try to do is establish a motive for Sugar’s death. If we can’t, then we may come to the conclusion that it was random.’

‘I understand.’

‘You thought your daughter was in France, sir?’ she continued.

‘Yes, that’s true. Off on the Picasso trail, as she put it, with her young friend.’

‘Davis Colledge?’

‘That’s him.’

‘Friend? Or boyfriend?’

‘Moving towards the latter status, I’d say. My daughter is well aware of the duties and responsibilities of a teacher towards pupils. . all pupils, that is, not only her own. But Davis is off to art school now, and a studio apartment, as she told me they’d booked, doesn’t really allow for young people being just good friends.’

‘Art school? That’s where he’s going?’

‘Yes. He has a place at Edinburgh. He’s a very committed young man, and very talented, Sugar says.’

‘Is there anyone else in Sugar’s life? Another man?’

‘That’s how you’re thinking, is it? A lover cast aside?’

‘That’s one of the first directions we take in an investigation like this,’ Stallings admitted.

Dean frowned. ‘I doubt if it will get you far. Her last serious involvement was two years ago, with a bloke called Theo Weekes. The fact is, they were engaged, but he broke it off.’

‘Do you know why?’ asked Stallings.

‘He went off with someone else, Sugar told me. She didn’t volunteer any more, but I could tell that she was hurt very badly. Now that I think about it, it’s only since she’s been friendly with Davis that she’s been back to her old self.’

‘Did she ever see Mr Weekes after the engagement ended?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Have you any idea where we could find him?’

‘Probably by checking with your personnel department. He’s a police constable; or, at least, he was then. . or at least that’s what he said he was. Us dads, we tend to accept our daughters’ involvements regardless of personal feelings: if we have reservations we keep them to ourselves. I never took to Weekes, and I was secretly pleased when it ended. The man was such a shit that I wouldn’t put it past him to have made the police thing up.’

‘Where was he stationed? Or, rather, where did he tell you he was stationed?’

‘Livingston.’

‘Thanks.’

‘About boyfriends,’ Dean mused. ‘If you look at old flames routinely, what about new ones?’

The inspector frowned. ‘We will be interviewing Davis,’ she replied, ‘as soon as we can find him. He was last seen heading for France to meet Sugar. Why do you ask? Did you have doubts about him?’

The teacher shook his head. ‘No. He’s a very impressive young man. But when something like this happens. . I’m just discovering that you see the devil in everyone.’

‘I know. In my career, I’ve met too many people in your situation.’

‘Then, if I can be brutal,’ the bereaved father asked, ‘in how many of those cases did the boyfriend do it?’

Stallings sighed. ‘Mr Dean, I’m new to this force, so I’m still moving cautiously. It could be more than my job’s worth to give you a straight answer to that question.’

‘Then forget I asked.’ He drew his shoulders back. ‘These DNA samples; how do we give them?’

‘I’ll send forensic officers round as soon as possible; they’ll do it. A saliva swab from each of you is all they’ll need.’

‘Okay.’ As Dean led her back towards his wife, the inspector saw that Haddock was seated on the couch, speaking to her quietly. For the first time she understood why he had been fast-tracked into CID.

As they stepped out into the crescent, she thanked him.

‘What for, ma’am?’

‘Comforting the mother. Not many people can do that. Most of us just stand stiff and stare ahead.’

‘It’s how I was brought up,’ he replied.

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Sugar. You know how she got the name? Mrs Dean’s favourite film is Some Like It Hot. Poor woman was almost embarrassed to tell me that she called her daughter after Marilyn Monroe’s character.’