Dying Of The Light

7

A man was walking along the pavement towards her: waterproof jacket, starched blue jeans and a cloth cap pulled down low over his face. Christine Hunter knew the type. A prim wife at home fondly imagining hubby to be at the Rotary, the Residents’ Association or some other worthy gathering, waiting patiently for his return, blinkered to the real nature of his hotly anticipated meetings. And a punter on foot meant no cosy car despite weather cold enough to kill a cat.

To her surprise, as the stranger drew near, he unfurled a striped golf umbrella and thrust it aloft, high above his head, like a tourist guide. She gazed at his face expecting the usual expression of fear mingled with excitement, but found instead something rather different. Unadulterated loathing.

‘Filthy bitch!’ he mouthed.

She turned away from him to face the traffic, but to her amazement he lined himself up beside her so that their shoulders and elbows were in contact, and they were side by side like figures in a paper chain.

‘The others are on their way. So, best get back to your kennel, eh?’ he added, beginning to shuffle sideways, pushing her along with him until, annoyed, she jutted out her hip, temporarily stopping him in his tracks. As if on cue, two other men, one wearing an orange day-glo jacket, emerged from a parked car and silently joined the strange chorus line, starting to move in unison with their leader. The prostitute was forced along again until, suddenly, she stepped backwards and the men came to an unscheduled halt, bumping into each other like railway carriages colliding. Immediately, the shufflers reformed, feet together, aligning themselves beside her to restart their sideways progress along the pavement. A few more seconds of pressure and Christine Hunter felt her legs going from beneath her; she slipped on sheet ice and fell backwards onto the unyielding ground.

Lying there, panting from the effort of resisting their combined pressure, she glared up at her tormentors as they stood speechless, exhaling their warm breaths into the cold air, more like dumb beasts than fellow human beings.

‘OK, OK, big men, yous win,’ the woman said in her nasal, sing song voice, her ribs aching, bruised from the heavy landing. The buggers would not see her cry though. She would not give them that satisfaction.

To her surprise a gloved hand was stretched towards her and she took it, wondering, as she did so, if it was some kind of sick joke and she would find her grip unexpectedly released. But it did not happen, and two cloth caps were tipped at her as she turned northwards heading for Salamander Street, blinking hard as snow flakes landed in her watering eyes. A tap on her shoulder did not make her halt or turn around, it would only be the vigilantes making sure that she did not retrace her steps, shepherding her as if she was an old ewe. But when the figure drew level and she saw a woman’s face, she stopped at last.

Back in Fishwives Causeway, the prostitute stretched upwards for the coffee jar on the wall unit and felt, as she did so, a stab of pain in her left chest, savage enough to make her wince, and instantly she retracted her arm as if she had received an electric shock. Unasked, the police sergeant reached it for her, and took over the preparation of their drinks, searching in the fridge for the milk and unhooking the mugs from their place below the shelf.

Christine Hunter was still trying to take in the meaning of what she had been told. Annie Wright. Annie of all people! On the other hand, why not Annie? Why not her, for that matter? Leaves in the wind mattered more to most people, were less of a nuisance than the so-called underclass. Her class. Maybe the time had finally come to quit? But she rejected the idea immediately. It could not be afforded, best not even contemplate such a thing. Maybe, when she was clean, but she had failed often enough at that. Drumming the warm coffee spoon on her palm, she turned her attention to the questions being fired at her and began to speak.

‘Last time I seen Annie wid be oan the Friday. I’ve no’ been back oot since then, as Marvin’s been ill in his bed an’ I stayed hame wi’ him.’ Hearing the name, Alice wondered, idly, whether the man was the girl’s pimp, present somewhere in the house but hidden. She said nothing, letting the woman continue.

‘She’d hae been at the warehouse though. She gaes even if I’m off. Annie needs the money, like, aye works there… unless the bastards are out ’n aboot. Like the nicht.’ The prostitute stirred another spoonful of sugar absentmindedly into her half cup. ‘No-wan showed on the Friday, mebbe the weather, mebbe the new law, whitever. By ten we ca’ed it a day. Nivver seen her aifter that.’

‘So the last time you saw your friend alive was at about 10.00 p.m. last Friday?’

‘Aye.’

The kitchen door creaked open and a small boy, clad in oversized pyjamas, peered round it until his mother beckoned him and he skipped across the floor, his hems dusting the lino, then jumped delightedly onto her lap.

‘Your son?’ Alice asked.

‘Aha. Ma wee boy, Marvin.’

‘Did you have a bad dream?’ Alice enquired, beaming at the child as he traced the shape of a stain on the kitchen table with his finger. She got no reply.

‘Did you have a bad dream, Marvin?’ she tried again.

‘He’ll nae hear ye, hen. He has tae see yer mooth tae ken whit ye’re sayin’. He’s stane deaf, like me. We’re gaen tae get implants wan day an’ join the human race.’

A gleaming hearse with its engine idling was waiting at the vehicular entrance to the Police Mortuary in the Cowgate. The driver, his black topper resting on the dashboard, was having a smoke while listening for an answer at the entry phone.

Inside the building, Alice looked at the naked, bruised female corpse lying on the table, exposed to the gaze of all as she had been when first born. The circle completed. She looked over the record of items removed from the corpse, her gaze flitting down it until she found the jewellery section. An eternity ring, a pair of stud earrings but, oddly, no gold crucifix listed with the chain.

Jock Brady, one of the technicians, nudged her out of the way, fussing about the place like an old hen, compulsively arranging and then re-arranging the tools and equipment, ensuring that they were all in their proper order in readiness for the arrival of the principal dramatis personae.

‘Heard about the Prof?’ he asked cheerily, buffing up an oversized metal ladle on his sleeve.

‘No.’ Alice shook her head, tense in anticipation of what she would soon have to witness. What in Heaven’s name would the ladle be used for?

‘He’s fine, but the poor auld bugger lost a lot o’ blood, I’ve heard. His gastric ulcer blew up early this morning, and he was rushed – blue light an’ all – into the Royal Infirmary.’

Maybe the post mortem would be postponed, then, Alice thought, feeling her spirits soar at the prospect. If so, someone else might find themselves assigned to it instead of her. Surely, luck was on her side.

‘So, is this thing going to go ahead then?’

‘Obviously. We’re all here. Doctor Zenabi’s going to do it wi’ some bint drafted in for the occasion frae Dundee. Eh… a Doctor… Doctor… Doctor bloody Who for all I can remember. She’s reputed to be a real glamour pu…’ His voice tailed off as Doctor Zenabi, with the female pathologist in tow, approached the table. Jock smiled ingratiatingly at both of them.

‘Doctor Todrick,’ the woman volunteered, introducing herself in a business-like fashion. She was, Alice noticed, strikingly attractive despite her unflattering garb and scraped-back hair, and had the upright carriage of an empress. On the other side of the body the technician raised an eyebrow and winked conspiratorially as if to say ‘I told you so’.

And as the minutes ticked slowly by, Alice noticed that Ahmed Zenabi could not take his eyes off his new colleague. Due to his infatuation, his movements, usually so precise and assured, had become subject to a marked delay, out of synchronisation with everyone else. He was only a few seconds behind, but enough to cause a degree of irritation to Jock if no-one else. The usual practised choreography of the mortuary was being upset.

Now the technician stood with the saw in his hand, eyes rolling upwards, waiting impatiently, and in vain, for the signal to apply it to the skull. Several times he mimed the anticipated action, making loud brooming noises as if he were about to wield a chainsaw, but neither of his superiors paid any attention to him. One was busy taking scrapings from beneath the dead woman’s fingernails, and the other was busy too, transfixed by the sight of his colleague performing her duties. He might as well not have been there.

‘Lovesick puppy!’ Jock murmured under his breath to Alice, before deliberately knocking an empty metal collecting jug off the table with his elbow, causing it to bounce noisily on the tiles below. Doctor Zenabi looked up, glaring angrily, only to find the saw thrust unceremoniously towards him, an indignant expression on his colleague’s face rather than the expected contrition.

Gently placing a limp white hand back onto the table, Dr Todrick turned her attention to the ragged flesh around the chest wound. Oblivious to the fracas, she said quietly, ‘Some bites… rat bites, by the look of things. She must have been outside for quite a little while.’

Elaine Bell, handkerchief hastily clamped over her nose as if she might sneeze at any moment, moved closer to the body, craning forward to get a better view. In her eagerness she jostled a photographer. Her irritated snarl elicited a speedy apology from her victim.

‘Doctor Todrick, you said she’d been outside for a fair bit. How long exactly?’ she asked.

‘Quite a few days, judging by the rodent damage – and the faeces,’ the pathologist replied, extracting a black pellet from the centre of the wound and examining it carefully in her tweezers.

‘Fine… dead for quite a few days,’ Elaine Bell repeated, gagging and swallowing her voice, ‘…but how many days exactly? When was she killed?’

Adjusting her goggles, and re-focussing on the dropping, Dr Todrick replied ‘I can’t say with any real precision. My best estimate would be three or four days. Something like that. The cold’s certainly retarded the decomposition process.’

‘Four days, ma’am, would accord with the last known sighting of the woman alive and the date of the earliest letter unopened by her. It was postmarked the twelfth, a Friday, second class…’ Alice began.

‘OK, OK,’ the Detective Chief Inspector said, impatiently cutting her off, determined to extract maximum information from the pathologists while she still had the chance to do so in person.

‘And the wound, Ahmed, is it the same sort of shape, size or whatever as the one on Isobel Wilson?’

His gloved hand now around a human heart, the man nodded. ‘Looks like it. I can’t be sure without measurements and so on, but yes, it appears that way. Single-sided blade, un-serrated. If the vaginal swabs and other stuff are all negative, then it may well be the same perpetrator. Same M.O. at least. Isobel Wilson wasn’t touched was she?’

‘Mmmm,’ Elaine Bell assented unthinkingly, momentarily taken aback by the sight of the object in the pathologist’s hand. Meanwhile Doctor Todrick folded her arms for a few seconds respite, and her colleague immediately put down his handful to do the same, unconsciously mimicking her movements once more and allowing his gaze to return to her face. Briefly, their eyes met. Doctor Todrick quickly lowered hers, only to raise them again to meet his a few seconds later. And despite the smell of the butcher’s shop in the air and the presence of a dead body between them, Alice recognised what she was witnessing. She marvelled at the strangeness of life; that love should blossom, in a mortuary.

That evening, Eric Manson parted his lips, allowing the cigar he was smoking to fall to the ground, trod on the butt, exhaled heavily and pulled open the side door to the church hall. Religion in its place, he mused, was all very well, but like homosexuality should not be flaunted. Its trappings should be kept to a minimum, with no bells, smells or catwalk costumes. Full grown men nancying around in purple silk ‘vestments’. Frocks, more like! Had they no pride? The Church of Scotland, of course, seemed to have pitched it about right, allowing little more than a fur trim on the minister’s hood, but otherwise leaving out the disco tinsel so cherished by the rest of them. Would the fur be stoat, weasel, ferret or what? Badger, even? And then there were the Kirk’s good works; the Boys Brigade and Africa.

Traipsing through the vestibule, he entered a well-lit hall and saw, directly in front of him, a troupe of twenty little boys and girls, sitting cross-legged and arranged in a semi-circle at the feet of the seated priest. As the door slammed unexpectedly behind him, some of the children spun round on the floor to look at the intruder and he attempted a warm, reassuring smile in return, striding purposefully towards the back of the room where there were rows of chairs and, thankfully, other adults sitting in them. Only one free. He lowered himself on to it and peered around. Nothing but couples everywhere. The woman on his right whispered enthusiastically, ‘Which one’s yours?’

Suddenly panicking at the thought that he might be taken for a paedophile on a reconnaissance trip, he pointed dumbly at a freckled, red-haired youngster sitting slightly apart from the other first communicants in the class, then asked, ‘How much longer have we got to go?’

The woman glanced at her watch and whispered in reply, ‘It’s nearly half seven. Four more minutes to the break and then, maybe, another fifteen after that.’

The break! Heavens above, that was when his ‘daughter’ would surely expose him as a fraud or worse. Then things really would get sticky. Elaine Bell, entrusting him with the job of persuading McPhail to attend the station voluntarily once more, had impressed upon him that he would have to use all his tact in order for them to get this second bite of the cherry. Thinking quickly, he began to cross and uncross his legs, shifting this way and that on his hard seat until he was sure he had created the intended impression.

‘So sorry to bother you again,’ he said, an expression of desperation on his face, ‘but is there by any chance a toilet in the hall?’

‘Vandalised, I’m afraid.’

No matter. The thought had been planted in her brain. As the children rose for their orange juice and biscuits he stood up, staying slightly bent as if his bladder might explode at any minute, and, smiling politely at his fellow parents, left the hall. In the street, a few wet snow flakes were idling down and he shivered, opening his packet of Hamlets and hurriedly lighting up. Another father slunk out of the hall and joined him, looking longingly at Manson’s face as he exhaled his cigar smoke.

‘Like one?’ Manson asked, feeling generous, his spirit buoyant, his cover still intact…

‘Thanks. The wife thinks I’ve given up but… well, you never do really, eh?’

‘Aye,’ his companion replied, offering a match and taking a deep, satisfying drag.

‘Lovely sight, eh, all the wee yins gettin’ prepared an’ everythin’.’

‘Lovely.’ And the last one in the packet. Damn it!

‘And what’s yours going to be called on confirmation? My wife’s set on Philomena, so there’ll likely be a battle ahead.’

‘Eh?’ What was the man going on about?

‘You know, the name that she’ll choose on confirmation?’

Bloody hell, bloody, bloody hell. More mumbo jumbo. He racked his brain. ‘Mmm… Judy.’

‘Judy’s no a saint’s name!’

So, another fucking trap, but a show of knowledge ought to win the day.

‘Oh, very much so. Er… St Judy’s comet. St Jude’s sister, you know.’

Back at his original seat in the church hall he gave a familiar nod to his female neighbour and mumbled something designed to cover the next eventuality. ‘Fortunately, er… Philomena’s auntie and uncle are here tonight too,’ but she appeared to have drawn no adverse conclusions from his long absence and, presumably, the child’s greeting of others.

Eventually, the priest got up and the children scampered to their parents. Careless now of any impression he might make on his neighbours, he marched over to Father McPhail.

‘We have a few more questions, Father.’

‘At the station?’ His voice sounded tired.

‘Aye. At the station.’

‘Very well.’

The DCI removed her supper from a Boots bag. One Mars bar, one packet of Nurofen, one bottle of Covonia and a fever scan strip. She unwrapped the Mars bar, sniffed it, found it unappetising and quickly shoved it in a desk drawer. A couple of fast acting caplets washed down with a swig of glucose-filled cough mixture would do nicely.

Having wiped the sugary moustache from her upper lip with her hand, she held the strip over her forehead for half a minute and then removed it. A green square appeared, no doubt indicating a high temperature, but the instruction sheet would clarify that. Before she had time to consult it, the phone interrupted her. It was the Chief Constable, Laurence Body, and he sounded cross. Regardless of what he was actually saying, his tone communicated that he was expecting a catastrophe, and that he wanted to pounce on the likely culprit and if possible avert it.

‘I assure you I fully appreciate the extent of the public’s interest in this matter, sir…’ The tirade was unstoppable. ‘Steady progress has been – correction – is being made. The priest’s coming in again very shortly, on a voluntary basis… Indeed, just as well… and the lab should be reporting to me first thing.’

The rant continued, unappeased by any of her answers. It was punctuated by veiled threats including the imposition of unnamed officers onto the case, some of a disturbingly high rank. The swine! It was hardly her fault that the entire round of door to doors had proved fruitless, the witness appeals had fallen on deaf ears and, for that matter, the ‘girls’ had not come up trumps. The telephone went again, doubtless some further threat he had forgotten to mention in the heat of the moment.

‘And one more thing, Chief Inspector. The plan’s changed, so you’ll be fronting the press conference. Is that understood? Charlie says it’ll be packed out, they all think this may turn out to be another Ipswich. It’s been fixed for 4.00 p.m. on Thursday, but I dare say, by then, you’ll have found some titbits to feed to the hounds. By the way, I’ve arranged for McPherson to speak to your squad.’

‘I thought he’d retired, sir. He must be eighty at least.’

‘Sixty-four and still accredited, actually. We needed someone to show we are doing everything we can, and the other basta… candidates declined to become involved on a variety of pretexts. Some man from England may come up later, but we’ll try our own home-grown talent first.’