Dying Of The Light

8

Elaine Bell awoke the next morning with a neck so stiff that she cursed out loud in frustration. Three nights in the office with only an undersized settee to sleep on had taken their toll. Another of the trials of middle-age, she thought bitterly, folding the rug she had used for makeshift bedding and plumping up the cushion that had served as a pillow. Huge feathers of snow floating lazily past her window attracted her attention, and she walked towards the curtains, gazing at the scene that now met her eyes and found herself unexpectedly moved by it.

The grey slate of the nearby tenement roofs was hidden under meticulously tailored white blankets, and the cobbled streets and wynds looked flawless, immaculate in their new clothes. She felt a sudden overpowering desire to feel the snow herself, under her own feet, before it was robbed of its pristine allure by the city’s traffic and churned into mud-coloured slush. It was only five o’clock; time enough for a short expedition, time enough to enjoy the fragile scene before it was destroyed. Hurriedly putting on her coat and boots, she set off up St Leonard’s lane, exhilarated by the crisp air, experimenting as she walked with different footprints, leaving first a flat-footed trail and then a pigeon-toed one. Reflections from the yellow streetlights glinted in the high tenement windows and, for a second, the blanket of thick cloud parted, revealing the stars above. Seeing them, she began to feel revitalised, almost elated. Glad to be alive.

The slope leading to St Leonard’s Bank was deceptively steep and she puffed her way up it, stopping to catch her breath at the summit and marvelling at the small grove of trees she found there, the exposed side now covered in snow and the sheltered side black as soot. She continued along the narrow roadway, determined to reach the waste ground at the end of the street and enjoy the promised view of Salisbury Crags and Arthur’s Seat in all its midwinter glory. And she was not disappointed. Queens Drive had disappeared, becoming, with the Galloping Glen, a continuous white field lapping the base of the crags. And the cliffs themselves had been transformed, in their new apparel appearing rugged and untamed, like the foothills of some remote range at the edge of the Cairngorms or Glencoe. They bore little resemblance to the tired, city-encircled landmark found on countless cheap postcards, the sad spectacle of nature domesticated and subdued.

Snow feathers were still cascading endlessly from the pale sky, gliding silently downwards and coating everything, including her head and shoulders. So she turned back down the cobbles and was amused to see a cat padding blindly towards her, lifting its paws unnaturally high and occasionally shaking them with a perplexed look on its face. However, the second it became aware of the stranger in its path it gave a frightened yowl and dashed across the street, seeking cover behind a couple of parked cars.

Unthinkingly, Elaine Bell turned her head to follow its swift departure and instantly suffered agony, her neck rigid with pain, immobile, reminding her that she was no longer young or fit, and that she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. A murderer was running free in this Winter Wonderland! What the hell had she been thinking of? She should have been preparing for the squad meeting, re-reading witness statements, polishing her armour for the press conference; she had a hundred things to do. Instead, here she was gallivanting outside like a bloody teenager. It was ridiculous. She was ridiculous! And this depth of snow would impede the investigation, help the killer and cause chaos with the city’s traffic. Sod the stars. Her feet were cold.

By the time the last of the squad arrived for the nine o’clock meeting the DCI knew exactly what she intended to say, had rehearsed it several times and now looked forward to the press conference, like a prize fighter sure of his purse. Having been up for hours she was also unnaturally alert, impatient to get her information across and press on with her other tasks. No concessions would be made to any bleary eyes, sleep-befuddled thinking or attempts at humour.

‘I’m going to recap, ladies and gentlemen, for your benefit to ensure that we are all familiar with events so far. Furthermore, I want no interruptions until I have finished speaking. Is that understood?’

Silence and a chorus of nods greeted her question.

‘As you will recall, Isobel Wilson, a prostitute working the Seafield area, was found dead on the night of ninth January in amongst a patch of undergrowth at the north east corner of Seafield Cemetery. She was a known drug user, aged thirty-seven. The body had been concealed in its ultimate location, hidden below vegetation. Forensic evidence has established that she was killed within the cemetery, a few yards from her final resting place -’

‘What forensic evidence, ma’am?’

The DCI glared at the speaker, DC Littlewood. He had been warned.

‘No bloody interruptions, I said. The forensic evidence amounted to a few droplets of blood and fibres from the woman’s clothing on some blades of grass. Is it all coming back to you, Constable? The murder weapon has still not been found, despite an exhaustive search of the location. Conclusion, anyone?’

But not a soul dared answer, given her forceful earlier instruction.

‘Conclusion, obviously,’ she shook her head as if appalled by the slowness of her team, ‘either the weapon remains undiscovered, possibly somewhere beyond the location, or, and more likely, the murderer took it with him or her, when he left. The pathologists are of the opinion that it was probably a knife, single-bladed and unserrated. Its minimum length has been estimated at three inches. No eye-witnesses have come forward about the attack. Post-mortem examination revealed that the death was somewhere between about nine and eleven on the ninth. She was last seen alive by a fellow prostitute, Lena Stirling, at about 7.00 p.m. at the Leith end of Salamander Street on that date. DNA from the deceased’s clothing has been matched with one Francis McPhail, a Catholic priest living in Jerez Street. He denies all knowledge of the victim and maintains that at the time she was killed he was in his church on the same street. But no witnesses to his attendance there then have been found. The victim, who had not been recently sexually interfered with, was found with her arms across her breast -’

‘As if in p… p… prayer,’ DS Oakley added out loud.

‘I beg your pardon?’ the DCI said, sounding as if she had just been publicly insulted.

‘Er… the victim’s position, m… m… ma’am, it was if she was in prayer.’

‘Thank you for your entirely unsolicited interpretation of the facts, Simon. The next time I require such a service I will request it from you. Is that quite clear?’ A chastened nod sufficed for an answer, all the other occupants of the room now stunned into an unnatural silence by the fierceness of her expression.

‘Our only other suspect in the Wilson case is Eddie Christie, but he, to all intents and purposes, has been excluded. He has an alibi, albeit provided by his wife, for the relevant time, and no forensic evidence to link him with the crime has been forthcoming.

Turning now to the second victim, Annie Wright. On Monday fifteenth her body was found in a wrecked car at Cargill’s scrapyard. She was aged thirty-five, a prostitute and a known drug user. From traces of blood found a couple of yards to the east of the car it seems that she was killed on the site and then concealed within the vehicle. She, too, was found with her arms crossed on her breast…’

‘As if in p… p…’ Eric Manson said, unable to resist the temptation, his voice becoming inaudible following the basilisk stare the Chief Inspector gave him. ‘…prayer,’ he mouthed.

‘Shut up, Eric!’ Elaine Bell snapped, continuing in the same breath, ‘…she, too, had not been recently sexually interfered with. Post-mortem examination suggests that she was killed on the Friday, approximately three days before her body was found. That estimate for her time of death accords with two other pieces of information. First, the earliest date for her unopened mail. Second, the last sighting of her. On the evening of the twelfth at about eight p.m., her neighbour, a Mr Holroyd, saw her on the landing of her flat, probably as she was leaving the building for the street. Unfortunately, the prostitute with whom she teamed up as a pair was herself absent from their beat from ten p.m. onwards on the Friday. So she didn’t notice or report her pal’s absence.’

‘Ma’am?’ Alice asked timidly.

‘DS Rice?’

‘I’ve asked to see various members of the Leith Vigilante Group, CLAP or whatever their acronym is, from twelve onwards today. One or other of them may be able to help with the final time for a sighting of…’

‘CLRAP,’ Elaine Bell corrected.

‘Sorry?’

‘Their acronym. CLRAP. Central Leith Residents Against Prostitution.’

‘LRAP, surely,’ DC Lindsay said. ‘Just Leith Residents -’

‘Never mind what the hell they’re called!’ the DCI interjected, ‘you’re going to see them, Alice, so that’s fine. If you get anything worthwhile from them, then let me know as soon as possible. Where was I? Oh yes – over much of the likely period that she was killed, Francis McPhail has no alibi. I spoke to him last night in the station and he told us that on the night in question he was, surprise, surprise, alone in the church. So, Eric, I want you to check on his whereabouts with his housekeeper and then go and see that guy, Thomas McNiece. McNiece stood trial for rape, Annie Wright was his accuser, and he was acquitted. He threatened to “get her”, so away and check him out, eh? He lives on Kings Road, off Portobello Street.

Eric Manson nodded, mute, his cheeks bulging with his breakfast roll.

‘The weapon used on Annie Wright hasn’t been found, but the pathologist believes that it may well be the same one as was used on Isobel. The MO in both cases, you will be aware, appears to be identical. Accordingly, we may, God save us all, be dealing with some kind of serial killer. I want you three constables -’ and she stared each one in the eye in turn, ‘to re-do the door to doors. Something may have been missed. Re-do around both the cemetery area, the scrappie’s yard and the prostitutes’ known beats. S.P.E.A.R. could give you information on their territories. The newspaper appeals, as you may have guessed, have produced precisely nothing. The area’s insalubrious reputation, of course, does not help us.

Finally, there are two other things you should know. Firstly, the Chief Constable intends to expand our squad and is, I understand, currently involved in doing that, and secondly, he has decreed that Professor McPherson is to address us. This morning, immediately after I finish in fact.’

A groan went round the room.

‘Has Methuselah not been put out to grass yet?’ Eric Manson asked.

‘No, but he is coming from the Meadows especially to speak to us.’

Professor McPherson touched the material within his pocket, a hand in it would look more assured. Stop the brute shaking and giving him away, too. His hidden fingers encountered three pills and he realised that he had not taken his morning blood pressure or water tablets. But neither the nervousness he initially felt nor the panic that replaced it were evident on his face. It had an inexpressive, mask-like quality, impervious to everything, and easily explained, although not in the terms of the temperamental coldness or permanent boredom guessed by many.

The explanation, the Professor would have said, lay in the works of the great Mr James Parkinson of Hoxton Square. The man after whom the disease, his disease, was christened, or perhaps, more accurately, re-christened, changing from the Shaking Palsy to Parkinson’s Disease. And of course, as a result of it, his voice had become a monotone and he, in short, monotonous. But there it was, and it could not be helped. He tried to clear his throat, thinking that once he had begun to speak he would feel the old enthusiasm which had carried him through his final days as a lecturer.

‘The personality profile of a serial killer…’ he heard himself say in a dull drone, ‘can only be an uncertain business. Nonetheless, of the various theories I continue to favour the disorganised/organised theory of offenders’ characteristics.’ He looked at his listeners, hoping that some of them might be familiar with his subject, but saw no evidence of it on their faces.

‘Mrs Bell has, kindly, described to me the crime scene of both the murders currently under investigation. The relevant aspects, as far as I am concerned are, of course, in each case the absence of the murder weapon at the locus, or around about it, and the movement of the body after the act to a place of hiding. There could be added to this list, I would suggest, the fact that the killer appears to have left relatively little forensic or other traces of himself. These factors all indicate to me that the killer will display the profile characteristics of the organised offender. He, or she, may well be a first-born or an only child, and is likely to have an above-average IQ. Despite such intellectual ability, the offender’s work history may be sporadic and he probably had a poor relationship with his parents or, more likely, parent. His killing “spree”, if I may call it that, has probably been triggered by…’ His voice faded away, his mouth suddenly dry, and he grasped the glass of water that had been provided for him.

The minute his fingers gripped its curved surface he felt his hand beginning to shake, the tremor taking control. And the more he concentrated on lifting it up to his mouth, the worse the shaking became, until by the time it reached his lips water was beginning to splash out of it. Taking a hurried sip he quickly put it down, misjudging the distance to the table and allowing it to land with a loud thud.

‘…Some form of precipitating stress,’ he continued, noteless but unerringly exact in what he wanted to say. ‘You may wonder what I mean by that?’

He studied his audience, but in the absence of a reply or a raised hand he carried on. ‘What I mean is something like a breakdown in a marital relationship, the loss of a job, that sort of thing.’

He paused again, evidently thinking. ‘Perhaps I should say something about classification. I could tell you about Jenkins and the unpredictable and respectable types but -’ He stopped again, looking quizzically at Elaine Bell. ‘Maybe I should just plump for the revived Holmes and De Burger classification. Let me see, of their retained five types I only need to trouble you with, I believe, the missionary serial killer – the man or woman who appears to believe that they have responsibility or a special mission to cleanse the world of a certain category of human being, for example, whores or clergymen. Then again, perhaps, you should know too of the visionary serial killer – the person, usually psychotic or schizophrenic, who hears voices instructing them to kill other human beings. But maybe,’ he paused, ‘we are getting unnecessarily complicated. What I can say is that almost all serial killers are Caucasian males between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. Some take “mementoes” or “trophies” from their victims, hanks of hair, pieces of jewellery, that kind of thing. Fred West, for example, retained body parts from all…’

‘Sorry, sir, but just to understand the essentials – we should really concentrate on the organised/disorganised… umm… division?’ Tom Littlewood asked, bemused.

‘Certainly, but exercise caution. Douglas et al, in 1992 I think, introduced a third category into the taxonomy, the “mixed” offender. The introduction of this additional, intermediate category does, obviously, highlight a fundamental question, i.e. whether any empirical support for the basic dichotomy can be found. Does it not?’

Embarrassed silence greeted this enquiry, broken eventually by a question posed by Alice Rice.

‘Professor, do you think that human beings fall into distinct types? Because unless they do, templates for defining the characteristics of any distinct type won’t be of any use?’

‘Indeed I do. However, in Canter’s paper “The Organised/Disorganised Typology of Serial Murder: Myth or Model?” The learned author casts doubt upon the utility of -’

‘Thank you, Professor,’ Elaine Bell said, smiling broadly, raising her hands and beginning to clap loudly, ‘for a most helpful talk.’

The frail academic managed a stiff bow and then walked out of the room, his body bent forwards and taking little hurried steps as if to catch up with himself. Once the door had closed, Elaine Bell turned to face the small gathering. ‘Any questions?’

‘Yes. What are we supposed to make of that? Apart from anything else, the priest left his blood on the first victim, didn’t he? That’s a “forensic trace” of himself, surely?’ It was DC Ruth Lindsay, looking genuinely puzzled.

‘Yes, but that was all. Much more could have been left… is often left. All you need to remember, I think, is that the killer may, and I emphasise may, as he may well not, be an elder or only child who loathes his parents or parent, and may, despite his cleverness, have a sporadic work history. What else? Er…’

‘A Caucasian male between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five,’ Tom Littlewood prompted.

‘Aha,’ Elaine Bell replied, stroking the end of her inflamed nose. ‘And he may have just lost his job or had his marriage crash or whatever.’

‘That’s ok then,’ Eric Manson said, leaning back on his chair with his hands behind his head. ‘We’ll have reduced it to a mere tenth or so of the population. In this room, for example, only Tom, Jimmy and Simon are left.’

‘I’m off the hook, sir,’ DC Littlewood said smugly. ‘I’m the youngest in my family.’

‘Me, too, I’m innocent. I love my mum and dad,’ Jimmy Galloway said.

‘Simon?’ Eric Manson demanded. ‘That only leaves you!’

‘Well… I am an only child and I didn’t like my mum much, but – well, I’m a woman, sir.’

‘Enough of this drivel,’ Elaine Bell ordered, her mind already on the cup of coffee she intended to brew in the privacy of her room.

Google. There could be nothing to lose and something to gain. Alice typed in ‘Francis McPhail’ and waited for the entries to appear. And there were a surprising number of them, centring around three obscure publications – Sacred Spy, The True Path and Catholic Light, all editions produced in 2006. The first one, she noted, seemed to be little more than a collection of articles gleaned from other sources, all discreditable to the Catholic Church. They had titles such as ‘Celibacy: The Quick Route to Sexual Abuse’, ‘Bishop Gorged on Kiddie Porn Feast’ and ‘Sex and the Soutane’. McPhail’s name was only included as he had produced a commentary on a matter described by the rag as ‘One of the False Doctrines of Rome’. The True Path consisted of an extended diatribe against the evils of the modern world and any priests foolish enough to keep in touch with it. Such men were excoriated as ‘heretics, apostates, closet homosexuals, stunted adolescents and wrong heads’. McPhail had managed to draw the author’s ire by blessing a homosexual couple celebrating their twenty-fifth year together. For such an act he was labelled as ‘a Promoter of Sodomites and a Destroyer of the Family.’

A longer article about him, however, was unearthed in Catholic Light, a publication that made Alice feel queasy even as she ploughed through it. It was evidently no more than a semi-literate scandal sheet, peddling rumour and innuendo as news. Its creators had adopted the cheery language of the tabloids, and gave every impression of enjoying their self-appointed task. It, too, seemed to specialise in lurid headlines, such as ‘Priest’s Pants Off’ and ‘The Laity’s Love Machine’. The first half of this particular issue was given over to a justification of their current witch-pricking activity, a crusade to root out the ‘Evils of Homosexuality’ from within the Catholic Church. However, on page three, Father McPhail had been accorded a paragraph to himself entitled ‘Can of Worms’:

‘The insatiable Parish Priest of St Benedicts, Father Francis Xavier McPhail, has, we hear from reliable sources, become very close to yet another of his lady parishioners, this time a married mother of one. He used his position as her Parish Priest to “befriend” her, regularly “counselling” her on his own. Well, Father McPhail, lay your hands off ____________________ right now, or we’ll use our organ to expose you much more fully!!’

No other mention of McPhail appeared in the online version of the magazine, its last few pages being devoted to another chosen cause, this time the exposure of any Parish Priests who had expressed concern over the church’s teaching on contraception, with guarantees of anonymity expressly provided for informers. Reading Catholic Light, Alice was reminded of her schooldays and a rare breed of adherent she had then encountered, one she had thought extinct and whose passing she had not mourned. This was the passionate believer who knew the name of every Saint and Blessed from Aaron to Zita and the dates of their feast days; who lunched on haddock on Fridays, but saw no place in their lives for Christ’s teachings in the New Testament – love, forgiveness and other such peripheral matters – content that they were constantly in tune with the Magisterium of the church.

Eric Manson’s loud knocking on Mrs Donnelly’s door got no reply. So he went instead in search of Thomas McNiece. He discovered him sitting alone in The Severed Head, a pub off Portobello High Street. He was at a table by himself, hunched over his pint, eyes shut, and his head swaying to some internal tune. An untouched bowl of soup was by his elbow, puckered skin covering the thick, green liquid. When the policeman sat down next to him, McNiece moved down the bench seat, unconcerned who his neighbour might be, head still swaying in time to his own music.

‘You Thomas McNiece?’ Eric Manson asked.

‘Aha, have a’ won the pools or somethin’?’ the man replied jocularly, eyes still closed.

‘No, and I need to speak to you.’

‘Do yous now.’ A slight note of menace crept into the reply, as if to convey that the favour of an interview might not be forthcoming.

‘Yes, I do. In connection with an ongoing investigation that we are conducting, we need -’

‘Why didn’t you say you were a polisman?’ McNiece interrupted him, his eyes now wide open, mouth shaping itself into a cold smile. ‘Jist tell us whit you want, son.’

‘Son! Chief Inspector to you, McNiece.’

‘Oh, aye, Chief Inspector, sir, Your Holiness… didnae take you long tae show yer teeth, eh, tiger? So, whit d’you want?’

‘What were you doing on Friday last, from, say, ten p.m. onwards?’

‘The twelfth?’

‘Aye. The twelfth.’

‘Do you mind if a’ ask why, your honour?’

‘Yes.’

‘So that’s how it’s tae be. Fine, an’ it’s easy peasy an a’. I wis at hame havin’ a wee pairty, a birthday pairty. Ma birthday pairty.’

‘How long did it go on for?’

‘A’ nicht.’

‘So your guests, if we speak to them, will presumably be able to confirm that you were there all night? Eh?’

‘Aha. Ma pals, as I cry ’em. No probs there… sir. You’d no’ hae a pairty, eh? No pals tae come!’

‘After the party, what did you do?’

‘Ye’ll nivver even hae been to a pairty, eh? Whit d’ye think I done? I lay doon in ma bed a’ day wi’ a sair heid.’

‘On your own?’

‘Ma flat wis fu’ of folk, sleeping a’ o’er the place. Some oan the settee, oan the lounge flair… an’ Jessie wis in bed wi’ me.’

‘Jessie who?’

‘Jessie May McNiece.’

‘Your wife?’

‘Naw. That’s where we’re alike eh son? Both sleepin’ wi’ dogs. But a’m the lucky wan, ken. Mine’s got French blood. She’s a poodle.’

Getting up to leave and sticking a finger in the congealed soup, then sucking it and re-inserting it, Eric Manson growled, ‘I’ll not be taking your word for any of this, McNiece, I’ll be checking up on it all.’

‘Aye, right,’ the man replied, supping his pint. ‘Ye just do that, yer worship.’