Dying Of The Light

12

Glancing through the glass window into the interview room, Alice saw Eric Manson and he appeared uncharacteristically relaxed, leaning back on his chair, his hands linked on his belly, favouring Lena Stirling with a charming smile. The prostitute, in contrast, sat hunched, evidently tense, biting the fingernails on her right hand. As the policewoman came into the room their heads turned simultaneously to look at her, but, immediately, they turned back, their conversation continuing as if no interruption had taken place.

‘He was called… eh, Billy, no, Robbie – I’m right, eh?’ the DCI said, still beaming at the girl.

‘Aye. He’s called Robbie,’ she assented quickly.

‘And he’d have been in the year above me, so that makes him about fifty-two or so, that right?’

‘Aha. He’s fifty-two this April.’

‘What does he do, what’s his job?’

‘The now?’ she enquired.

‘Aye. The now.’

‘Em… he’s a plumber. He wis in social work… worked wi’ the Council fer years ‘n’ years. Then he decided he needed a change, took up plumbing.’

‘Does he know about you,’ the DI pursed his lips, ‘about your job, I mean?’

‘Naw,’ she shook her head dolefully, ‘…thinks I work for BT, in sales, ken.’

Alice pulled out a chair, its legs screeching on the bare floor as she did so, the girl wincing at the sound.

‘And your father, Robbie,’ the inspector continued, his curiosity not yet sated. ‘He used to go out with a lassie in my class. Susan… Susan… Susan… Susan something or other. Went out together since they were, must have been… fourteen, fifteen. Did they stay together?’

‘Aha… Burn. Susan Burn. She’s ma mum.’

‘And what does she do the now?’

‘Her job, like? Eh, she’s a classroom assistant – remedial teaching, ken, oot Dumbiedykes way.’

‘Isn’t it amazing!’ Eric Manson said, turning to face his sergeant. ‘I know both of Lena’s parents. We were at school together, secondary school. I think that’s incredible!’ Lena Stirling looked singularly unimpressed, despite his exclamations. It seemed neither remarkable nor unbelievable to her that a policeman should, once, have known either of her parents. Why shouldn’t he?

‘When you next see them, eh, tell them I was asking after them, eh?’ Eric Manson said warmly.

‘How’d I dae that then,’ the prostitute said, sarcastically. ‘Mum, ken, the last time I wis in the polis station, well, this Inspector telt me… somethin’ like that, dae ye think?’

‘No. No, of course, I’m sorry. I see the difficulty,’ Manson replied, deflated and embarrassed, his naivety exposed.

‘Now, Lena,’ Alice interjected, keen to start the interview, ‘we need a description of the man that attacked you last night?’

‘Yeah,’ the girl said dully.

‘So, what did he look like? Could you tell us that?’

‘Am I allowed tae hae a fag in this place?’ the prostitute asked, cigarette packet already open in her hand, ready to take one out and light up.

‘Sorry. No can do,’ Eric Manson said. ‘One puff and all the alarms in the station would go off. But if you’re desperate we could go outside to the car park, there’s a smoking area out there. I’ll have one with you an’…’

‘Nah… I’ll nae bother then,’ Lena Stirling replied, putting her Silk Cut back into her anorak pocket.

‘So,’ Alice began again, ‘the man who attacked you. What did he look like?’

‘Big. He was big. Fat an’ a’.’

‘How big? How tall would you say he was?’

‘Gey tall.’

‘Taller than me?’ Alice asked, standing up.

‘Naw. Yer height – mebbe a couple o’ inches bigger. Nae much though.’

‘And was he actually fat, obese or just well-made, heavily built or what exactly?’

‘Eh… he was solid, like. No’ blubbery, just solid.’

‘And what colour was his hair?’ Eric Manson asked, confidence returning.

‘Em…’ she thought, ‘he’d fair hair, plenty of fair hair.’

‘His eye colour?’

‘Aha.’

‘What colour were his eyes?’ Alice Rice tried again.

‘I wis thinkin’!’ Lena scowled, ‘I dae ken. Hardly seen his face. I only did at the end when he took his balaclava hat oaf…’ and sensing their growing curiosity at her words she added, ‘and afore yous ask, it was woollen. Grey wool kind of stuff.’

‘What did he sound like?’ Alice asked.

‘How d’you mean?’ The girl looked perplexed, her forehead now corrugated in consternation.

‘His voice, his accent?’ Alice explained. ‘Did he sound local or foreign or English or what?’

‘He’s local, I think. But he hardly said nothin’. Jist the odd wurd, ken… like he didnae want tae speak. He wis pointin’, mind, tae show us where tae go an’ all.’ She pointed with her index finger, imitating her attacker’s gesture.

‘I recognised him,’ she added, as if providing some inconsequential detail.

‘His face?’ Alice enquired immediately.

‘Aye, but I cannae mind where I seen him before. I recognised his voice an’ a’… but I cannae think how I kent him.’

‘Maybe he was a regular, er… been with you before?’ Eric Manson asked delicately.

‘Naw, I dinnae think so. But I ken him frae somewhere… I seen and heard him before. Mebbe he wis wi’ me before.’

‘Lena, have you come across a man called Guy Bayley, he’s the leader of -’ Alice began, but was interrupted immediately.

‘Oh, aye. Snowflake, we cry him. It wisnae him, though.’

‘Snowflake?’

‘Ken, wi’ all that skin flyin’ aroond. Whit aboot him?’

‘Did you see him out and about on the night that either Belle or Annie was killed?’

‘Want tae ken something really funny?’ Lena said, her question directed at Eric Manson.

‘Aye, on you go,’ the inspector said indulgently.

‘A couple of years before a’ the residents got tegither, like, tae get us, Snowflake wanted a turn wi’ me, but I couldnae face it cause I wisnae feelin’ richt, been throwin’ up an’ everythin’, so I says naw. He went mad, ravin’ mad, bawlin’ at me in his plummy voice, “It’s not catching, you know!”. Ever since I wished I had done it, keep him oaf all oor backs. I telt the wumman frae the Record an a’, but she didnae believe me, never put it in, like.’

‘But did you see him out on either of the nights?’ Alice asked again.

‘Em… I might hae seen him oan the nicht that Belle an me fell oot wi’ each other, aye. He wis in his green vest. I waited in Carron Place till he’d gone, moved oan.’

‘And on the night Annie was killed?’

‘Naw, I dinnae mind, hen. Could’ve been there, he’s aye on the prowl.’

‘Does that get us any further, Sergeant?’ Eric Manson said, covering his eyes with his right hand and then stroking his eyelids ‘Lena’s already said that he was not the one who attacked her.’

DC Lindsay popped her head round the door, noted the temporary silence, and announced, ‘That’s the photofit team here now, sir.’

‘Like on the telly?’ Lena enquired eagerly of the stranger, excited at the prospect.

‘And Sergeant Rice is to go down to Leith and collect the CCTV tapes,’ the DC continued, as if the woman had said nothing. And Lena felt invisible as well as worthless.

At ten o’clock that morning Salamander Street was quiet, few cars using the coast road, and even they seemed to be enjoying the sea breeze, driving at a leisurely pace, showing neither urgency nor impatience. The sound of seagulls filled the air, crying forlornly as they flew over the sunless road to wheel around the docks or perch on familiar, whitened roofs to preen themselves before heading back out to the open sea. Uncertain of the exact location of the Third Training Company, Alice was able, without fear of flashing lights or hooting horns from the drivers behind her, to crawl along examining the buildings on her right hand side, until at last she spotted a sign with the company’s name on it.

Leaving the car she walked towards the entrance of the pebble-dashed building and found its double doors locked, with a notice hanging from one of the handles. In large handwritten capitals, it said ‘CLOSED FOR TRAINING PURPOSES’. Puzzled in the light of the instructions she had received from Elaine Bell after the interview, she wandered around the side of the building, periodically raising herself onto her tiptoes to look through the windows. All the offices seemed to be empty, although lights remained on in some, doors were left open and in one a telephone was ringing endlessly. As she approached the last unchecked window, the sound of Dolly Parton’s voice, with accompanying clapping beating out the rhythm, assaulted her ears.

Within the hall area, all the office staff were assembled, tapping their feet energetically and nodding their heads, apparently engaged in a bout of line-dancing. In the middle of the room a bearded man stood on top of a chair beating his thigh in time to the music and issuing instructions in a broad American accent. Beside him, a bony woman in overalls controlled a CD player, occasionally adjusting the volume to ensure that the man’s commands could be heard above Dolly’s plaintive tones. Alice watched, captivated, as a scrawny teenage boy, clearly broadcasting his reluctance to participate, was manhandled by numerous of his female co-workers to ensure that he completed the correct steps, in the correct way, at the correct time. Having finally done so, he looked around the room, pleased with his own efforts, and accepted with blushing grace a couple of pats on his shoulder from a big bosomed matron on his left.

As soon as Dolly’s song ended, Alice knocked gently on the window, watching as the bearded man almost toppled from his chair in surprise, before he sprang from his makeshift podium and gestured for her to meet him at the main entrance. After turning over the ‘staff training’ notice to reveal a timetable of office hours, he held out his hand to her, saying in his natural Highland accent, ‘I’m Ian McRae, Sergeant. We expected you a little later, I must confess. I’ll just tell Michael to get the CCTV tapes for you.’

‘Staff training, eh?’ Alice smiled wryly. ‘I thought you Government departments taught young people how to prepare their CV’s, job applications and so on?’

‘Aye,’ Ian McRae answered, ‘but Tuesday mornings are always quiet. The young people just don’t seem to turn up.’

As they waited together in the manager’s office in an uncomfortable silence, all their small talk used up, the scrawny boy entered empty-handed and looked anxiously at his boss.

‘Did you say you needed the tapes, last night’s tapes Mr McRae?’

‘Aye. From all the cameras, not just those on the east side.’

‘Well,’ the boy shook his head sorrowfully, ‘there’s been a bit of a… mess, you could say. No-one’s changed them, the tapes I mean. So there’s nothing – nothing since the middle of last week actually.’

At her final destination, the next-door warehouse, the supervisor insisted on taking Alice personally to visit their CCTV equipment, as if she might otherwise doubt what he had told her. Crossing the car park he chattered nervously, twice bumping her shoulder, apparently having no normal concept of personal space. Suddenly, he stopped and pointed upwards to a severed stalk, the only remaining part of Camera Point One. He explained angrily that some ‘wee bastards’ from Portobello had decapitated it with the aid of a chainsaw and a set of steps. ‘And that one,’ he said, waving at the side of the building, ‘has been done over an’ a’.’ She looked up and saw that the remaining camera had been deliberately re-positioned so that its lens pointed downwards, towards the ground, where someone had painted in white letters, ‘Welcome to Wankerland.’

Had he forgotten or, perhaps, begun to take for granted, the lovely sound of Audrey’s voice, Bill Keane wondered, relaxing in bed and listening as she read David Copperfield out loud to him. A low, mellow tone, so she would be classified as a contralto and none the worse for that; think Kathleen Ferrier, think… whoever. And it warmed his heart, moved him, the effort that she was putting into the story; deepening her voice to reproduce the cold, unfriendly tones of Mr Murdstone, and attempting a rural Suffolk accent in order to become Peggoty, or was it Ham? No matter, he thought, they should do this sort of thing more often together, instead of squabbling about what to watch on the box, cookery or gardening, gardening or cookery.

And it was not as if they had all the time in the world left, or even enough, to waste the precious stuff bickering over the ordinary, domestic trivialities which coloured their life together. His prostate had seen to that, and it would not be fair to keep her in the dark about things forever. But the ‘right’ time had not yet arrived. Something must be said soon though, or later, after he had gone, she would reproach herself needlessly over any impatient words uttered, any unloving looks bestowed. They would not now grow old together, irritating each other to the end. And from this new, lonely perspective, such a fate seemed, suddenly, blessed, something to be most earnestly desired. Dear, dear Audrey.

He looked tenderly into his wife’s face as she read on, unaware of his scrutiny, noticing the split veins over one cheekbone and that her neck now had a strange, dry texture with two prominent tendons running its length. Once she had been flawless, perfect, like a peach ripe for the picking, and her hair, a torrent of unruly gold. At least she was lucky enough to have her locks left, he thought almost enviously, unconsciously stroking his few remaining strands several times as if in disbelief. Life was unfair – men losing their hair due to their virile hormones, although, thankfully, the stuff should also ward off the development of man boobs. And that TV programme had shown that it was all connected, in some mysterious way, with battery chickens, the contraceptive pill and the water supply. They were responsible for the feminisation of men, fish, polar bears and so on. But it was no longer his problem. Unlike his father, he would not go to the grave as bald as a coot. And, oddly, that thought gave him some satisfaction.

As the doorbell chimed Audrey Keane closed her book with a nervous snap, gave her husband’s cheek a stroke, straightened his bedcovers and then bustled away to greet the stranger. In less than a minute the sound of her heavy footsteps padding back up the carpeted stair, a lighter pair in tow, could be heard. The duo stopped outside the bedroom door and he could just make out their whispered conversation.

‘You are not, I repeat not, to tire him out, is that understood, Sergeant?’

‘Of course, Mrs Keane. I’ll be as quick as…’

‘I mean it. He’s got a broken elbow, cracked ribs and some kind of crucified ligament.’

‘Honestly, I’ll be as quick as I possibly can, Mrs Keane. Just signal when you want me to go. I appreciate being allowed to see him at all.’

Having obtained a suitable undertaking from the policewoman, Mrs Keane led the her into the bedroom, settled herself on the edge of her husband’s bed and gestured for Alice to sit on its twin. Seeing the Sergeant, Bill Keane attempted to do up his pyjama top with his one good hand, and failing, found the job completed for him by his wife. Looking at the policewoman he felt sure that he recognised her, and pleasingly quickly it came to him. She had come to their house before, and hers was not an easily forgotten face.

‘We need a description, sir, only if you can manage it, of course,’ and the policewoman threw a wary glance at Audrey Keane, ‘of the man who knocked you over in the car park last night?’

‘The only man ever to knock me over, Sergeant, I’ll have you know,’ he replied sharply, ‘in a car park or anywhere else!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He was huge, burly, built like a house in fact. And over six foot tall, I’d say.’

‘Did you manage to see his face at all, sir?’

‘Not that I can remember. The second he turned towards me, he charged – like a mad bull elephant. That was how he knocked me off my feet.’

‘You didn’t see if he had dark hair, fair hair, any of that sort of thing?’

‘No. But what I can say, using your police jargon, is that he was male, Caucasian and maybe thirty-five or a little bit older. Is that any help? I’m afraid I’m not narrowing things down much for you.’ He smiled wanly at the Sergeant, wishing that he could have assisted her more.

‘And his clothes?’

‘Oh… a big grey waterproof, I think. Something like that. It was so quick and at the best of times I never take in what people are wearing, do I, Audrey?’ His wife nodded stiffly in response.

Alice took one of the photographs of Francis McPhail as an adult from a large envelope and passed it to the invalid.

‘Have you seen this man on your patrols in the area, where the women hang out or anywhere else in Leith?’

‘No,’ Bill Keane replied emphatically. ‘Not him. An odd-looking bugger for sure. I’ve seen all sorts but not that one. I’ve a good memory for faces too. I remember seeing you, Sergeant. Even before you came here the first time, I mean.’ He beamed at her again.

‘Oh?’ Alice answered guardedly, watching as Mrs Keane ostentatiously brushed a non-existent speck from her husband’s shoulder, clearly scent-marking her property.

‘Yes,’ he went on, still gazing at her. ‘You were in the rammy in Carron Place, too. You spoke to that Barbour woman. Remember?’

Only too well, she thought, particularly the sinister drumming noise you orchestrated. But seeing Mrs Keane’s eyes on her signalling frantically that her time was up, she rose, only to sit down again immediately, having remembered Lena’s photofit. His head sunk now uncomfortably low on the pillows, the man looked closely at the composite picture held in front of him, but eventually shook his head, pushing her hand away with a disappointed expression.

‘One other thing, Sergeant, before you go,’ Bill Keane said, grimacing with pain as he altered his position in the bed, ‘how is the girl, the one who helped me?’

‘The prostitute, he means the prostitute,’ his wife added unnecessarily. And as if he had not heard her words, Bill Keane repeated, ‘The girl, Sergeant. Lena. How is she?’

‘She’s fine, sir.’

Going round to the end of her husband’s bed, Audrey Keane lifted a full carrier-bag off his silken eiderdown and handed it over to the policewoman.

‘It’s… Lena’s. You’ll have her address, I expect,’ the woman said shyly, and Alice looked inside to find a newly-washed, newly-ironed jacket, together with two boxes of Crabtree and Evelyn soap. Both Lily of the Valley.

‘It was Audrey’s idea, you know,’ Bill Keane said, holding his wife’s hand in his own.

Walking down Broughton Street that evening, Alice stopped outside the newsagent’s, her eye caught by an Evening News billboard which stated in large, black capitals, ‘LEITH KILLER STRIKES AGAIN BUT VICTIM ESCAPES WITH HER LIFE’. Who had told the press, she wondered, thankful that she would not have to perform on the high wire that Elaine Bell would now find herself balancing on. The DCI’s performance at the next press conference would require an unusual degree of skill, with each member of the press corps secretly praying that she would splat onto the ground in front of them, and the Chief Constable watching unseen, through the flap of the circus tent. A timid ringmaster, indeed, one afraid of his own whip.

And no wonder, with their suspect charged and behind bars, and a killer apparently still on the loose, busy attempting to notch up further victims. But if the priest was not guilty, she wondered, then who the hell was the murderer? Such forensic evidence as they had pointed fairly and squarely in his direction. And he had provided no explanation for the presence of his DNA on the two bodies, whether or not the alibi provided for him by June Sharpe was accepted. Thinking idly of her conversation with the professor, it occurred to Alice that, perhaps, McPhail had donated bone marrow to somebody? After all, the only other traces were those left by herself, Simon Oakley and the dentist. Starkie seemed the next most likely suspect, so she decided, first thing tomorrow, she would revisit Rosefield Place. And she should check out Ellen’s front-runner again, Guy Bayley.

Strolling past the window of the Raj Restaurant, she looked in longingly, picturing the packet of old sausages and the tin of beans that would probably constitute their meal in the flat. There was no time to shop during a murder enquiry and it was her turn, rather than Ian’s, to produce supper. The next thing she knew she was sitting on a red banquette inside the place, queuing for a carryout, one hand full of Bombay Mix and the other holding a Tiger beer. She looked up to see if any of the waiters were being vigilant, alert for her order, and was amazed to spot Ian sitting opposite her, glass already in his paint-spattered hand, reading the newspaper open on his knee.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. He looked up immediately, and seeing her, smiled.

‘A little treat for us,’ he replied, meeting her eyes. ‘On your night, too. Today I sold three paintings, so I think nothing less than a banquet is in order.’

While they were Inspecting the menu together, their heads almost touching, a moustachioed waiter appeared between them, saying, ‘Ooklee… one chicken jalfrezi, one lamb kurma, one pulao rice, one garlic nan and one kulfi…’, and then he looked round expectantly for Mr or Mrs Ooklee to collect the meal. Having just entered the restaurant, Simon Oakley approached the man, hand outstretched, and wordlessly took the bulging carrier-bag from him before favouring Alice with an almost imperceptible wave.

As they hurriedly ascended the cold, stone tenement stair in Broughton Place, both hungry, thinking about nothing other than starting their food as soon as possible, Alice heard the usual racket created by Miss Spinnell’s attempts to liberate herself from her fortress. Since the unlocking, unbolting and unsnibbing process usually took minutes, rather than seconds, she was tempted to continue upwards as if unaware of what the old lady was doing. But it was too mean. Who else would Miss Spinnell wish to waylay on the stair? So she handed the greasy brown paper carrier to Ian, mimed ‘Miss Spinnell’ and pointed upwards to signal that he should carry on without her. She stood waiting until the old lady emerged from her lair, blinking hard, clad in a turquoise, silk kimono worn over her flannelette nightgown. Immediately her eyes lit on her neighbour leaning against the banister, and she sidled up to her.

‘Well?’ she demanded, looking up expectantly into Alice’s face.

‘Well… er, good evening,’ Alice replied, momentarily at a loss as to what was expected of her.

‘Your missing person enquiry… misper… you can call it off,’ Miss Spinnell declared, pulling the kimono tight around herself and grinning.

‘The missing person has -’

‘Yes,’ she was interrupted. ‘Call it off, dear. I was at the Lodge today and she spoke to me quite clearly, but this time it was from the other side.’

‘No,’ Alice cut in. ‘No… no, your sister’s in Milnatho -’

As if she had said nothing, Miss Spinnell continued speaking, sounding oddly triumphant.

‘Of course, it was to be expected at her age. No-one goes on forever, and she’s a good five, no, eight years older than me. I always knew I’d outlast her!’ And she beamed delightedly, eyes twinkling brightly until, noting the shocked look on Alice’s face and readjusting her own expression accordingly, she added, ‘Much, much, much, older than me, dear, you see. So I had prepared myself. Now at least, we’ll be in regular communication through the Lodge, you understand… probably once a week or so. More than if she was alive!’

Understanding nothing, Alice climbed the last few steps to her flat, arguing with herself, wondering whether or not she had made the right decision. Mrs Foscetti wanted to thrill her sister with her unheralded appearance, but the element of surprise would be lost if Miss Spinnell learned beforehand of her twin’s existence. On the other hand, seeing Mrs Foscetti in the flesh, Miss Spinnell might now die of fright, thinking it an apparition. Or, and worse again, at their advanced age either twin might now expire of natural causes before the Saturday meeting arrived, and Alice would then be responsible, solely responsible, for their failure to meet again in this life.