Dying Of The Light

15

The bus looked empty and the prostitute climbed aboard it, relieved to be returning to the safety of her home and that the night’s labours were over. As Julie Neilson lowered herself into the seat her right hand touched something warm, soft and sticky. She recoiled instantly as if burnt, examining her palm and finding it scented with the sweet, sickly aroma of spearmint. Recently-chewed chewing gum. Taking her hankie from her pocket, she spat on to it and began to wipe her palm clean, noticing as she did so that the back of her hand had a couple of liver spots on it and that the veins were clearly visible, flowing like frozen rivers towards her knuckles.

‘Hen, hen… whit ye oan this bus fer?’ demanded an unfamiliar voice, one which swooped from treble to bass and back again. She raised her head from her cleaning task and watched as a couple of youths bundled each other into the seat directly in front of hers, one of them upending a bottle of Buckfast into his mouth and the other grinning at her, his face now unnaturally close to her own. They were both young enough to be her children, and she had no desire to talk to them, but they were an unknown quantity. They were likely to be unpredictable, and ignoring their question would be seen as rude.

‘Fer a ride…’she said, adding quickly, but not quickly enough, ‘…hame.’

Immediately, they burst into raucous laughter, one nudging the other with his elbow, repeating together, ‘Fer a ride, eh? Fer a ride! You’ll be lucky!’

She lowered her eyes, looking down at her knees, hoping that if she seemed withdrawn and uncommunicative they would become bored, find something else to attract their attention and allow her to continue her journey in peace. Let her think about other more pressing things.

‘Like fags, hen?’ the dark-haired one asked, taking another draught from his bottle and waving an open cigarette packet under her nose.

‘Naw,’ she said quietly. ‘Thanks, though.’

‘Naw – you like real men, eh, men like us!’ the youth guffawed, puffing out his thin chest and beating it before rising from his seat to sit next to her. She edged herself towards the window, sliding away from him, but he followed, cramming himself alongside her until their hips touched and she was crushed against the side of the bus. He turned to face her and his breath stank of alcohol and tobacco. But, close up, he was no more than a boy.

‘Ye no’ fancy me then, hen?’

Exhausted as she was, she prodded her brain into action. If she said that she did fancy him, then God alone knew what he would be up to next. On the other hand, if she said that she did not, then he might take offence, get angry, become more abusive or whatever. And she had not enough energy left to administer the tongue-lashing he deserved. So, in a voice that sounded as weary as she felt, she said softly, ‘You’re just fine, son. But ah’m auld enough tae be yer maw.’

Her companion pretended to look angry and the other youth, now hunkered down on the seat in front but facing her, grinned and started to wag a finger at his friend. The dark-haired boy looked at the woman again, experimenting with another furious expression, his teeth clenched and his jaw jutting out aggressively.

‘D’ye think ah fancied ye or somethin’, ye auld dug!’ he shouted in her face.

Something else would have to be said, something to calm him down and end this exchange, otherwise she would have to leave the bus to escape their attentions, with three stops still to go and a mile or more to walk.

‘Naw, son,’ she replied soothingly, ‘naw, I ken fine ye dinnae.’ And no wonder, she thought to herself, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the dark glass. She looked haggard, more like her mother than herself.

The vehicle’s brakes screeched noisily as it drew to a halt, and the dark-haired boy stood up and swung himself back into his original seat, slumping down beside his companion. Julie Neilson sighed and rubbed her tired eyes, then looked hard in the driver’s direction in the hope that someone else would get on the bus, and she would not be alone with the two youths for any longer. Her prayers were answered, and a teenage girl, with dirty blonde hair scraped tight into a ponytail and thick black mascara under her eyes, stepped aboard and then sashayed up the aisle to lounge across the back seat. As soon as she was seated she lit up ostentatiously, looking around her neighbours and daring anyone to object.

‘Whit ye oan the bus fer?’ the fair-haired boy enquired of her, a salacious grin on his face and his eyes resting on her long bare legs.

‘Nae fer a ride wi’ either o’ yous, ye wee tossers,’ she spat back, flicking her cigarette-ash towards him contemptuously as she spoke. And watching them blush, reduced to children again, Julie Neilson felt almost sorry for them.

Once inside her flat she opened the door to her daughters’ room and tiptoed inside, picking up a primary school skirt and blouse from the floor and hanging them over the back of the chair, for use the next day. Two pairs of miniscule tights had been discarded, one draped over the toy-box and the other suspended from a mobile. She folded them up and put them in the dirty washing box, removing a doll from it at the same time.

In the light falling from the hallway the girls’ faces could be clearly seen; one pale with long upturned lashes, her unruly auburn hair spread behind her on the pillow like a lion’s mane, and the other a redhead too, but with short, curly locks. Julie Neilson knelt between her children’s beds, listening with pleasure for a few seconds as they breathed in and out, before, tenderly, brushing a ringlet from the younger one’s brow with her fingers. Gazing at their perfection she felt at peace, blessed even, their presence reminding her that, whatever had gone wrong in her life, something had gone right, something good had come out of it all.

How lucky she had been, how lucky she still was! And might be for a couple of years longer, because ignorance was bliss, and their innocence protected her from herself as well as from the rest of the world. One day they might be ashamed of her, even wish that she was not their mother, but not today or tomorrow. And perhaps, by then, everything would have changed and she would change too, find a job as a shelf-stacker or something. In the meantime they had enough money for school trips, dancing lessons and everything else. Man or no man.

She crept out of their room and into the kitchenette, starting to brew a cup of hot chocolate, trying Muriel’s phone number again while waiting for the milk to boil. As before, she got a ring tone but no answer and, glancing at her watch anxiously, saw that it was past half eleven. If Muriel did not get in contact within the next hour then she would have to call the police, that was the arrangement. No doubt all would be well, her lateness being down to some minor accident or oversight, but with things as they were, or had been, she could take no chances. Not with a life at stake.

Her legs folded beneath her, she nestled into the settee to watch the TV, burning her lips on the boiling cocoa and nearly tipping it onto her lap. Her eyes rested on the screen, but she knew she was taking in nothing, preoccupied, unable to follow the simplest plot. In her head she was busy rehearsing what she should say on the phone, the exact words she would use in describing the punter, and trying her best to remember everything about the man. Screwing up her eyes with the effort, she attempted to create a picture of him, visualise the figure she had seen, but little came. He was big, bulky even, wearing some kind of flapping waterproof with a broad brimmed hat on his head. That was all there was, no name, nothing to identify him or distinguish him from half a million other Johns.

Eventually she stopped trying, convincing herself that she was being melodramatic, overreacting, manufacturing a crisis and enjoying the drama and her own starring part in it. But every few seconds, an insistent voice in her head repeated a single, unanswered question: why has Muriel not called? And, on the stroke of midnight, she found herself talking to a policeman, blurting out all that she knew, sobbing uncontrollably and being comforted by the enemy.

At eight a.m. on the dot, Elaine Bell arrived in her office and triumphantly extracted her mug from its new hiding place behind a pot of African violets. Their sad, dust-encrusted leaves proclaimed that the spot was unvisited by the meddler with her tickling stick. Detective work at its best. She dipped a teaspoon into her yogurt and then sucked it, distractedly, her mind on the complaint made against her and the meeting at two p.m. with the DCC to discuss the outcome of the investigation. Surely, nothing would come of it, at least not if the expression ‘free speech’ retained any meaning and progress up the greasy pole did not involve the surgical removal of any sense of humour.

And, please God, no counselling this time! The prospect of facing another bright-eyed innocent dispensing the blindingly obvious in the guise of a unique and rare insight was too much to bear. When would they grasp that the problem lay not in an inability to distinguish between an ‘appropriate’ comment and an ‘inappropriate’ one, but rather in the challenge of withstanding provocation?

Of course, the sensitivities of the public had to be accorded due regard, but how many of them, she wondered, could have kept silent in the face of the self-righteous spectacle that had confronted her? Looking out of the window, spoon-handle sticking out of her mouth, she visualised the ‘complainant’, his portly figure now standing before her, hands on his hips and on the edge of apoplexy. A man who had no difficulty finding his way in his simple, black-and-white world and who knew whose side the angels were on. Invariably, his own. And that harmless quip had escaped her lips before her brain had an opportunity to censor it.

Worse still, she thought, it had been the truth. This was rarely, in her experience, a mitigating factor, and not one that she would be sharing with the rest of the force. Chance would, indeed, be a fine thing if a used condom were to be found in her hall or anywhere else within her house. The average octogenarian, if the magazines were to be believed, had a richer, fuller sex life than she did nowadays. And the future seemed every bit as bleak, promising a cuddle-less existence, unpunctuated by kisses, ending in a cold and lonely grave.

She shook her head, trying to ward off the mood of self-pity that was threatening to overwhelm her, and turned her thoughts to practicalities. Obviously, an apology would have to be made and, thinking about it again, she did genuinely regret any offence caused to the man by her ‘inappropriate levity’, as he had described it in his letter of complaint. Having couples copulating in the common stair and posting their prophylactics through the letter-box would be unpleasant. Yes, saying sorry would be ‘appropriate’ and, she breathed out loud, she would be prepared to concede the ‘inappropriateness’ of her crack. Although, when all was said and done, that was all it had been. A crack, a joke, a wry observation, not a very funny one, but at her expense not his. What had happened to ‘Laughter, The Best Medicine’, she wondered?

As she was about to lick the layer of thick yogurt off the pot’s lid, the telephone rang and she dropped it, watching in horror as it landed sticky side down on her letter from the Conduct Department.

After getting the news of the day, in particular that another prostitute was missing, she sat motionless at her desk, her left hand covering her eyes, breathing slowly in and out. Her hour had come. She must summon up all her strength or, all that remained of it, as the race had just changed from a sprint to a marathon. If Muriel McQueen was dead, as now seemed more than likely, then everything had altered, and the eyes of the world would be upon them. And they would all be under the spotlight, its unforgiving radiance revealing every flaw and shortcoming, with nothing to protect them from its heat. Now orders must be given and there was no time to waste, disciplinary meeting or no meeting. She threw the yoghurt pot into the bin, licked the spoon clean and strode out of her room.

Having been sent to Julie Neilson’s home by her tight-lipped boss, the first thing that struck Alice on entering it was how unnaturally neat and tidy it all was. The common stair leading up to it was dark and dismal, with two light bulbs broken and the other in a terminal state, flickering uncertainly and making a strange clicking sound. Graffiti adorned the hallway’s chocolate-coloured walls, and flakes of peeling paint hung off them like bark on a dying tree. The landings had been sticky, never a good sign, and the stairs leading to them were as unswept as her own.

In contrast to the communal squalor, the flat at number 35 shone like a beacon of domestic pride. All the furniture inside it gleamed as if newly polished, and a spotless cream carpet covered every inch of floor space. Three pairs of shoes, two of them tiny, lay neatly beside the door, and on noticing Julie Neilson’s unshod feet, Alice removed her own. The woman herself looked exhausted, drawn and pale, with long features and a down-turned mouth. As soon as Alice sat down, she rose from her chair and, apparently unaware of what she was doing, started plumping up the cushions that she had just crumpled.

‘I know you’ve already spoken to the Sergeant on the telephone,’ Alice began, uncomfortable to find herself seated and her hostess standing, ‘but we need, if possible, the best description you can give of the man that Muriel went off with last night.’

Julie Neilson nodded, her attention now turned to the curtains, which, although they would have appeared perfect to most onlookers, evidently required some kind of fine adjustment.

‘Aha. Ah cannae say much, hen, though. Ah’d some-wan wi’ me, so Ah wisnae payin’ that much attention tae her fella. Aw Ah can say wis that he wis big, ken, a big strappin’ lad.’

‘Over six foot?’

‘Aye, a wee bit.’

‘And his figure?’

‘Aha… well built, ken.’

A huge plasma screen in the corner of the room evidently needed to be polished again and Julie Neilson had begun to rub it with a duster, becoming completely absorbed in the task. As she worked, her sleeves fell away from her forearms exposing their underside, and revealing strange textured skin like that of some kind of reptile. The whole area from wrist to elbow was covered in horizontal scars, each touching the other without a millimetre of undamaged flesh between them.

‘And his face, his clothes – can you tell me anything about either of those?’ Alice asked, unable to take her eyes off the pitiful spectacle.

‘Never seen his face… tae far awa’ fer that, an’ his claithes were normal, like, a big waterproof jacket, grey mebbe, an’ he wis wearin’ a hat an’ a’.’

‘What kind of hat?’

‘Eh… wan like what the cowboys wear. A… a… a…’ She hesitated, trying to think of the word.

‘Stetson?’

‘Aye, a Stetson… wi’ a broad brim.’

For a few seconds, the woman sat down again next to Alice, indicating with her hands the width of the brim, until her attention was caught by a small pile of magazines on a low table which, plainly, she considered disordered. Instantly, she rose again to remedy the imperfection.

‘Did you hear the fellow’s voice at all?’

‘No, he wis tae far awa’… an’ the wind wis roarin’ an everythin’.’

Having tidied the offending magazines, the woman returned to Alice and stood in front of her, looking down anxiously into her face. She asked, ‘D’ye think she’ll be a’ right?’

No, Alice thought, but said, ‘She may well be fine, and we’ll find her. Has this ever happened before, Muriel failing to call you, I mean? You know, having forgotten to phone or something like that?’

‘Naw,’ the woman shook her head. ‘She’s like clockwork, ken, that’s why Ah paired up wi’ her. She’s completely reliable – she aye calls.’

Tam McNeice looked up from his drink, saw the policeman marching towards him, put his hand into his crisp packet and took out some crisps. The heads of a couple of drinkers turned towards him, curious, aware that some kind of scene might ensue and unwilling to miss it. One of them raised a glass to him and gave him a cheery wink.

‘That was a pack of lies you told me, McNeice,’ Inspector Manson said, now standing opposite the man, out of breath and red in the face from recent exertion. ‘I’ve spoken to your neighbours, and they all say they never saw you on the twelfth, that there was no party at your flat.’

‘Naw… Ye dinnae say,’ McNeice replied, putting a couple of crisps into his mouth.

‘Yes, I do fucking say. So where the hell were you?’

‘I thought ye might be back. Been wasting yer time, eh, ploddin’ up an’ doon the stairs an’ all, jist when ye’d hae better things tae dae?’

‘Aha. But I’ll not be wasting any more of it here, I’ll just take you off to the station this minute, you wee bastard.’

Coolly taking a sip of his beer, McNeice replied, ‘Then ye’ll get promotion, eh? Takin’ in the Leith Killer…’ and he raised his hands and clawed them like a grizzly bear, a big smirk on his face, ‘all by yersel’, an’ a’.’

Conscious suddenly that everyone in the pub now seemed to be listening to their exchange, some of them gathering round for ringside seats, Eric Manson asked, in a slightly more conciliatory tone, ‘Just tell me where you were on the night of the twelfth, eh?’

‘Well, big fellow… luckily, it’s a’ comin’ back tae me the noo. I wis havin’ ma time wasted by yous people. The twelfth is ma birthday, like I says, an’ I wis to be havin’ a pairty in ma hoose, but I got merry that little bit early, in the morn, an’ you know what? Some soddin’ polisman took me down tae the cells in Portobello. So there was no pairty like what I had planned, an’ I wasted ma time in the pokey. Sorry aboot that, ma memory’s nae whit it wis. If ye’ve any puff left, go tae the polis office doon the street and they’ll tell ye that. Spent a’ day an’ a’ night there. And whit’s mair, ye can believe them, eh?’

Driving to the Seafield cemetery to assist DC Littlewood in searching the place, Alice cursed her own carelessness. In her haste to leave the flat, following the DCI’s call, she had forgotten to pick up her coat and could see it, in her mind’s eye, still hanging on its hook in the hall. She turned, briefly, to check the back seat in case she had made a mistake and saw on it Simon Oakley’s oversized anorak. It would have to do, she thought, and it would be considerably warmer than her own coat. He would not mind.

As she pushed open the car door, a shower of hail appeared from nowhere, and after waiting a couple of minutes in the hope that it would stop, she put on the large padded jacket. She quickly zipped it up before taking the plunge into the cold, hostile air. In the far distance she could just make out her colleague, looking methodically from side to side as he patrolled, shoulders hunched against the cold, hailstones ricocheting off his head and shoulders. She set off, trudging between the first row of gravestones, alert to anything and everything, and followed the line of stones towards the boundary wall. After five minutes she reached the path at the northern end and turned back, into the wind, to march down a parallel row. Half way along the second corridor, one of the memorials caught her eye.

The stone had been carved from black granite, gold lettering naming the deceased, and in its shadow was a strange little shrine. Within a glass case were two teddy bears, each leaning against an arm of a crucified Christ, their paws clasping a miniature bottle of scotch to their fat little bellies. While she was standing in front of them, wondering at their oddity and curious about the individual commemorated, she noticed a collecting box with ‘Alcoholics Anonymous’ printed on it. Without thought she put her hand into her coat pocket in search of any loose change, her fingers scrabbling around to find any coins, but found, instead, a small, irregular-shaped item together with something circular. Head bowed to protect her face from the hailstones, she examined the objects in the dull morning light. One was a yellow smiley badge with an oversized pin as a catch, and the other was a small gold crucifix. The sight of it frightened her.

As the cross still rested in her palm, DC Littlewood’s voice rang out from near the crematorium, carrying faintly over the noise of the gale now rising around them.

‘I’ve finished my area, Sarge, and there’s nothing here. Have you found anything yet?’

‘No,’ she bellowed back, still thinking, twiddling the cross between her fingers and finding it hard to tear her attention from it. Eventually she made up her mind, and added, ‘I’ve got one other thing to check over, Tom, then I’ll come and join you.’

The exact spot where Isobel Wilson’s body had been discovered was not hard to locate. Countless feet had trodden a path to it, and a couple of bunches of roses, their blooms now brown and shrivelled and the wrapping paper in tatters, lay where the woman had rested. Without a covering of snow to simplify everything, the large, burial ground looked shabbier and smaller than before, but the overgrown bed in which the body had been hidden remained distinctive, a bedraggled, wind-lashed mess in amongst the stillness of the manicured lawns. Instinctively, Alice began to walk through it, hurrying in the cold and feeling the rough grass brushing against her legs again, receiving an occasional jab from some wood-stemmed weed or dying nettle, but seeing and feeling no brambles. Twice more she forced herself to walk through the bed, vigilant for their looped barbs or any other prickly vegetation, but found nothing capable of inflicting a cut or scratch on anyone. And she was not wearing trousers.

‘Alice… Alice!’ It was DC Littlewood again, his voice louder than before, desperate to be heard above the roar of the wind.

‘Yes? Hang on a sec, I’m just coming.’

‘That was the boss on the phone. They’ve found her. A uniform’s with the body. It’s past the turn-off to Fillyside Road, on waste ground at the end of the prom. We’re to set off there this minute.’

The young constable’s lips were blue, his arms clasped tightly around himself, hugging his torso in an attempt to stop his spasmodic shivering and warm himself up. His head was bare, a sudden gust from the North Sea having whipped his cap off, and he had watched helplessly from his position by the corpse as his headgear bowled its way along the cliff edge before dropping into the turbid waters below. Each successive wave had then carried it a little further out until, finally, he had lost sight of the little black speck and, reluctantly, turned his attention back to the woman lying at his feet.

The job in the force was not turning out to be quite as he had visualised it. He had seen himself as the centre of attention, the first to find the corpse, stolen goods or whatever, but he had overlooked other matters. Important matters, like the weather, the inadequate, ill-fitting gear and the general discomfort that seemed to be part and parcel of his new profession. Still, he would have cracking stories to tell in the pub one day, but, first, he would have to steel himself to take a good shufty, impress upon his memory all the gory details for the delectation of others in days to come. And, this time, the sight of blood would not make him faint and he could stare at her as much as he pleased, no offence being taken by the dead.

Looking hard at the woman’s face, he was struck by the thought that, in life, she must have been pretty with such large eyes and high cheekbones. Gradually, he allowed his gaze to slide down from her chin to her neck, then, slowly, to descend to her breasts. Taking things bit by bit would be the answer, and this time there would be no element of surprise. But the sight once more of the unnatural cleft on her chest, clotted blood fringing its edges, made his gorge rise, and he bent over, convulsed, to vomit onto the ground beside her. Swallowing hard, and deliberately inhaling the icy air deep in his lungs to purify himself, he straightened up and stood erect, shocked by his own weakness and alarmed at the trembling that had begun in his legs. Feeling another upsurge of bile into his mouth, he tried to shift his mind and distract himself, fixing his eyes on the horizon and following its perfect line past the Cockenzie Power Station and onwards towards Aberlady Point. Never letting his gaze fall. When the CID arrived he was still standing with his head erect, looking seawards like an old salt unable to tear himself away from the sight.

Suited and booted in her paper overalls and overshoes, Alice knelt beside the body to examine it, noticing immediately the wound to the breast and the crossed arms, both trademarks with which she was sickeningly familiar. One of the fingers of the right hand had blood at its tip and she stretched over the torso to examine it more closely, finding dried blood on its sharp, uneven nail. Perhaps, in death, the woman had scratched her attacker, taking a minute piece of him with her and leaving him marred for a day or two at least.

Alice closed her eyes and breathed out slowly, a sinking feeling now in her stomach, increasingly unnerved by the conclusion to which she seemed to be being driven. No journalist had been told about the attitude of prayer in which the victims were invariably found, so no paper had reported the detail and it remained a secret known to two parties only, the police and the murderer. Whoever had killed Muriel McQueen had also killed Isobel Wilson and Annie Wright, and it was not Father Francis McPhail.

And the conclusion that was forming in her mind was one that she was loath to reach, disliked herself for even considering. But it was also one which could not be ignored, however much she might wish that she had never reached it. The pieces of the puzzle were slowly fitting together, but the picture that they were forming scared her, making her doubt her own judgement.

Simon Oakley’s blood was on both bodies, and its presence on the first, she now knew, could not be satisfactorily explained by contamination. There had been no brambles near the body so some alternative explanation for it must be sought. Furthermore, he appeared to fit the descriptions given by the majority of the witnesses and twice had pled illness, his absence each time bringing about a particular result. It meant that Lena Stirling, the only victim to survive an attack and therefore able to describe her attacker, had not seen him since. She had never had the opportunity either to recognise or identify him. Had he really been sick, or was it simply a ruse to avoid the prostitute’s scrutiny? On both occasions on which he had used his health as an excuse to absent himself he had not seemed even remotely off-colour, and his order at the Raj suggested an unimpaired constitution.

And if he was the murderer, then Lena Stirling had been right when she had said that she had met her assailant before, because they had sat together in a police car the day after the first murder, never mind any earlier meetings. And here she was touching a gold crucifix, found in his pocket, and bearing a remarkable resemblance to the one she had seen around Annie Wright’s neck throughout McNiece’s trial. But the idea that she was, even to herself, accusing one of her colleagues, filled her with dread. Immediately she began to try to unpick her own case.

To be sure, she reassured herself, it was based on little or no evidence and much speculation. It could probably be explained away, and would probably not even have been reached by a less tired mind. Please God, an innocent answer would be forthcoming for everything. After all, lots of people owned crucifixes, brambles could be cut down and she, herself, had seen his blood dripping in the scrappie’s yard. And Ian had a tummy bug this very morning.

Kneeling down again, she studied the body beside her, her attention drawn once more by the bloodstained fingernail on the right hand. Whoever had killed Muriel McQueen might have a small reminder of their encounter on his face. Conscious that her paper suit was beginning to get soggy at the knees, she rose to go and walked slowly towards the car, unzipping the garment as she went until the wind found its way inside and made it billow in all directions, transforming her into a Tellytubby. Still deep in thought, she dropped the crumpled mess into the boot and hesitated, leaning against the driver’s door, trying to work out what to do next. The blood on the woman’s nail, if that was what it was, might provide samples of the murderer’s DNA, but the extraction process, never mind the subsequent matching, would take time. And meanwhile the guilty man, whoever he was, remained at liberty, able to kill once more, his escape possible. As every second ticked past, his trail would be getting colder.

But the accusation she was making was so awful that she could tell no-one of her suspicions, not while that was all they were, all they might ever be. It was shameful to harbour such thoughts about another member of the squad, the DCI’s team, her own team. She was not sure that she would ever forgive anyone who considered that she could be guilty of such acts. On reflection, she knew she would not.

Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she looked out to sea and found herself calmed by its immensity, reassured by the sight of the endless breaking waves with their crests of white foam colliding with each other before running to the shore, all anger spent. Of course, thoughts in themselves neither harmed nor defamed anybody, and could be quickly forgotten by the thinker. But, she reminded herself, this one, however hare-brained, would have to be translated into deeds, because in the unlikely event of it turning out to be correct and nothing being done, then another woman might be attacked, might be killed. There was no easy option, and even the least bad alternative, alienation from one or more of her colleagues, required action.

And, fortunately, she had a pretext to take a look at Simon Oakley. His jacket was lying on the back seat of the Astra, folded neatly, ready to be returned to him. She would go to his flat, hand it over to him, and while doing so, take a good look at his face. If it remained smooth and uninjured as before, then her flight of fancy would be over, and he need never know the unworthy doubts that she had entertained. Within a day or so the results of the DNA would come in and he would, presumably, be exculpated. And for as long as they continued to work together, he would be mystified by her thoughtfulness, her solicitousness on his behalf. Because, come what may, she would find a way of making it up to him somehow.

But, standing outside the bright purple front door of Simon Oakley’s flat in McDonald Road she could feel her stomach starting to churn, the urge to return to the car almost getting the better of her. If she left, then no-one need ever know her dirty little secret. She turned to go but managed to stop herself, facing the door again and forcing herself to knock, deliberately losing control of the situation. Seconds crawled past, and feeling giddy with relief she was just about to leave when she heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching and the door swung open. To her surprise, an elderly woman stood in front of her wearing a pinny over her skirt, and evidently having just peeled off one of her rubber gloves before turning the door handle.

‘Are you lookin’ for Simon?’ the stranger enquired in a cockney accent, pulling the other glove over her thick wrist to reveal a reddened hand.

‘Yes,’ Alice replied, ‘I’m one of his colleagues.’

‘He’s out at the moment, but he’ll be back shortly. You could wait here if you like?’

‘How shortly is shortly?’

The woman looked at her watch. ‘Oh, within the next five minutes or so, I expect. I haven’t seen him this morning, he wasn’t here when I arrived, but he’s bound to be back before one o’clock. He knows that I have a hair appointment at half past, and he left a note saying he’d gone to the bank to get my money. I’m Sue by the way…’ she held out her damp hand, ‘and I clean for him once a fortnight.’

Sitting at the kitchen table, exchanging occasional words with the cleaner, Alice felt ill at ease, apprehensive about what was to come. In the meanwhile, the situation seemed more than slightly surreal, absurd. Here she was being offered tea while the cleaner busied herself sorting the underpants of a putative murderer into piles of coloureds and non-coloureds. On the other hand, Alice also felt reassured by her homely presence, the smell of washing powder and the ordinariness of her domestic routines. As long as Sue was present then she was surely safe, whatever she was going to see, and whatever Oakley observed in her.

At the sound of the front door opening Alice rose, but found herself waved back to her seat by Sue and thought better of her initial movement, maybe it would not be him anyway. Two voices in conversation could be heard from the hallway, the woman’s tone rising as if in surprise, followed by sympathetic clucking noises, then Simon’s voice and, finally, the ominous click of a key being turned in a lock. And at that final noise her heart began to hammer frantically in her chest, as if trying to beat its way out of her body through her rib cage. Now she was on her own with him and, for some reason, he had blocked her escape. As he walked through the doorway he looked her straight in the eyes, watching her watching him.

On his cheek there was a small, almost invisible scratch, dried blood still on it.

Holding out his jacket for him, she asked, as casually as she was able, ‘How d’you get the cut, Simon?’

His hand went up to it and, still feeling its texture, he replied, ‘Shaving, this morning.’

She looked at his face. Evidently, he had not had a razor anywhere near it since the previous day, dark stubble still covering his cheeks and chin, and the cut was at least an inch above the highest point of any beard growth. For an instant, he shielded the injury, hiding it playfully with his palm before letting his arm drop, and smiling.

‘Your jacket, Simon,’ she said, thrusting it towards him, praying that her hand would not tremble and betray the fear that she felt weakening her. But, ignoring her wishes, it shook violently, and as it did so his eyes remained on hers, until, eventually, he took the garment from her The first thing he did was to search the pockets, and from the right one he extracted the smiley badge.

‘And the cross?’ he said slowly.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘Come, come, Alice. You know there should be a crucifix in there. But, I have to say, you’re slipping up.’

‘I’m still not with you.’

‘Well, I’ll explain shall I? You’ve given me back the badge – the very thing I cut myself on when I was getting rid of Ms Wilson. Obviously, I took it away with me… you would wouldn’t you? But, unfortunately, I’d left a little calling card on her jacket. Still, we explained it away didn’t we? And you can imagine how pleased I was with that cut at the scrappie’s. I knew it would cover a multitude of sins, if I had slipped up again, I mean.’

Alice said nothing, and her silence seemed to annoy him.

‘Are you afraid of something, Alice?’ he asked in a mocking tone. ‘Me, perhaps? You and me together, by ourselves, in my house?’

‘No,’ she lied, ‘but I am cold. I’ve been out in freezing weather searching around Leith and Portobello for…’

‘Muriel. That’s her name, apparently, if you can believe a thing they say. And you found her, I suppose – at the end of the prom? I somehow thought I would have a little longer, a day at least. But, then, you’re sharp, eh? And now you’re scared of me, too.’

From her chair she glanced up at him, still at loss for words, unsure how his mind was working.

‘Yes, Alice,’ he said, again looking her straight in the eyes. ‘You are right. I did do it.’

‘Why?’ Her voice sounded weak, exhausted and old. And she knew she had wandered out of her depth, into realms far beyond her understanding.

‘You would like there to be a reason, wouldn’t you? You want… you need… the universe to be well-ordered and logical, and everything in it, too. But, suppose it isn’t like that? Maybe it’s completely unpredictable, uncontrollable whether by you or anyone else. And monsters don’t always look monstrous, do they? Myra’s image… quite ordinary when divorced from her history, I expect. You, of all people, should appreciate that, being in the force I mean.’

She nodded, her mind having shifted onto other things, concerned to conceal the fact that she was raking the room with her eyes, searching it for anything she could use as a weapon. After all, it made no sense for him to confess and then let her go. Her gaze alighted on a meat tenderiser resting on a chopping board and, transfixed by it, she did not hear his last few words.

‘Alice!’ he said sharply.

She looked up at him again, and seeing that he had her attention, he continued. ‘It is a possibility – complete disorder, I mean. But people like you have to make connections, false connections of course, but ones that provide you with comfort and an illusion of order. Otherwise you couldn’t cope, eh? But that’s not how life really is. Think about it, if I’d stopped at two, an innocent man would have borne the blame, wouldn’t he? Cruelty regularly rewards kindness and evil often blooms from good roots, doesn’t it? Look at me, eh? You liked me, maybe considered me a friend even? But I’m a bad, bad man.’

She shook her head, unable fully to comprehend what he was saying, but desperate to keep him talking while she tried to calm herself, make some kind of plan. ‘Maybe, or maybe there’s no such thing. Some people are born blind, eyeless, without retinas or optic nerves. Perhaps others arrive in this world without normal consciences, souls or whatever. Without pity…’

He laughed uproariously, confident, at ease with himself and everything under his control. No stammer troubling him now. ‘So, no-one’s to blame, eh? That’s lucky for me. No one should be punished either, just treated perhaps, an odd view from a policeman. Good news, I’m sure. And, presumably, the more heinous the crime…’

‘The more abnormal the perpetrator,’ she interrupted him, catching his drift, ‘the less their culpability. Because then they are clearly sick, not bad.’

‘And this line, Alice, between normal badness and abnormal badness, where is it drawn? Where do you draw it?’ he asked, walking to a knife-block on the kitchen unit and coolly, in front of her unblinking eyes, drawing out a black-handled knife.

‘A little biff to the wife and you’re responsible, but gouge her eyes out and you’re not?’ he continued, beaming at her and waving his weapon about. Then suddenly he stopped, stood still, and felt the point of the blade with his fingers.

‘Anyway, you said you’d like to know the truth Alice? Why I did it, I mean? Are you quite sure you want to know?’

‘No, I don’t want to know,’ she said quietly, and she meant it. She no longer wanted to know the truth, even if he was privy to it and prepared to share it with her, and neither seemed probable. If she was about to die, such knowledge would do her no good, and survival with it would be no boon. Too much reality for anyone. But it was a rhetorical question. He was not interested in her wishes, had rehearsed his justification far too often for there to be no performance.

‘I did it because if the whores are not there, then no one will be tempted by them. No-one will fall from grace, descend to their level. Like McPhail did, for a start, he must have been all over them whatever he told us. I cross their arms so that when they meet their maker, they appear penitent. And killing them is a kindness, really, for them, I mean. What kind of life do they lead, eh? If they were animals the RSPCA would have something to say about it… doped, drunken and dirty. They’re like a controlled drug, only they’re not controlled and the substance itself has feelings – well, of some sort. And they’re just as destructive as smack or whatever. Breaking up families, my own dad…’

He went on and on, justifying himself, attempting to provide a rational explanation and then realising that he had contradicted an earlier argument, starting all over again. And although his speech was entirely intelligible, its coherence could not disguise the underlying chaos of his thoughts.

Still speaking, he moved towards her. Seeing the blade now so close, she felt her whole body tense, her mind alert to everything, ready to respond to his slightest movement. And time no longer mattered, no longer governed anything, its passage an irrelevance. As he lunged at her, she sprang towards the chopping board and seized the tenderiser, swinging it at his hand and bringing it crashing down onto his knuckles. Roaring with pain, he dropped the knife and turned to face her squarely, his features suffused with anger. She swung the mallet again, but as she brought it down, aiming now for his head, he caught her wrist in mid-movement. With his free hand he grabbed her neck, kicking away one of her legs with his own.

Immediately, she felt herself falling, crashing to the ground, her skull catching the edge of the chair and his whole weight crunching on top of her. It’s over, she thought, pinned down by his body, breathless and winded, and feeling his hands as they tried to link with each other around her throat, preparing to throttle her.

Somewhere at the back of her mind she heard a distant clicking sound, then footsteps, and sensed that someone else had entered the room, but the effort involved in staying conscious was becoming too much for her. The air seemed to be alive with shouting, but when she tried to scream, to draw attention to herself, all she heard was a dry moaning noise coming from her throat, more like a death-rattle than anything else.

Suddenly, a loud crack vibrated in the air, and Simon Oakley’s head fell forwards, lolling onto hers. She squirmed, desperate to rid herself of him and his clammy face. His skin was sticking to hers, and revolted at the very thought she closed her eyes and held her breath. A serpent’s scales touching her cheek would have been more welcome.

A few seconds later she became aware that someone was rolling the dead weight of his body off her, and looking up she saw a young woman, a wine bottle still in her hand, peering down at her with a look of intense anxiety on her face.

‘Are you all right?’ the stranger asked.

‘I think so,’ Alice said, slowly heaving the rest of herself out from under her attacker’s leaden limbs and fingering her neck, hardly able to believe that it had not been broken or squeezed out of shape.

‘Who are you?’ she added, her voice sounding hoarse and unfamiliar.

‘Fiona Shenton. I used to be his girlfriend,’ the stranger replied. And so saying, she dropped the bottle onto the floor and collapsed onto the sofa, covering her pale face with both of her hands.

‘Well, Fiona, thank you very much. You saved my life.’

With the engine of the ambulance revving outside and a paramedic attending to the concussed figure of Simon Oakley in the back, DC Littlewood was pressganged into escorting him to the Royal Infirmary. He grumbled loudly that he had been up all night and that a replacement should be found. Anyone could do the job, he said crossly, climbing into the ambulance and continuing to complain to the crew as the vehicle indicated right and then pulled out into the sluggish traffic on Leith Walk, heading for Little France.

In the lull before the DCI and the SOCOS arrived Alice sat down again. Everything had begun to hurt and the base of her skull seemed to have tightened around her brain. One side of her throat was throbbing, a painful pulse shooting through it every millisecond. Her rescuer leant against the arm of the sofa, drained of all colour and apprehensive, unable to leave until a statement had been taken from her. Her nails had already been bitten to the quick but she continued to worry at them, in search of any loose skin.

Conscious of her anxiety and keen to soothe it, Alice tried to think what to say to calm her and help her pass the time until they were free to go.

‘You were very resourceful with the wine bottle…’ she began.

‘I just grabbed whatever I could see, lucky that it came to hand. I’ve never hit anyone before, you know, never mind knocked them out. At first I tried to pull him off you, but he knocked me backwards…’ The woman rubbed her shoulder-blade, then patted it as if it had taken the impact from a fall.

‘How did you manage to get into the flat?’

‘Keys. I’ve still got my own key. I came to collect my stuff, I thought that the coast would be clear, that he’d be out at work.’ She bit her lip, chin now trembling.

‘We don’t need to talk,’ Alice said gently. ‘Maybe you’d prefer not to?’

‘No, I’d rather we did. Somehow it makes things seem more normal.’

‘Of course. Do you mind me asking what Simon was like?’

‘I don’t really know. It was all lovely to begin with… But after I moved in, after a couple of months I mean, he changed. It ended, well, when he hit me. It was so unexpected. Up until then he’d been so gentle. He’s always so kind to his mum, and I thought he’d be like that with me…’

‘But she’s dead – and he didn’t get on with her!’ Alice interrupted, startled by the final remark.

‘Yes, she’s dead,’ Fiona Shenton nodded, clearly surprised by the sergeant’s reaction, ‘but only very recently. And he adored her to the end, visited her every day at the home until she died. And she loved him to bits, too.’

‘That’s not what he told me,’ Alice replied, remembering vividly one of their earliest conversations.

‘No?’ The woman chewed on her fingernails again. ‘You don’t surprise me. You see, he played games with people, manipulated them… enjoyed seeing what he could get them to do. Told one person one thing, and another, another. But in amongst the lies, he usually threw in an occasional, unexpected truth… dared them to be able to tell the difference. He thought it was funny, and he didn’t mind what he risked by disclosing it. An intimate truth disguised as a joke or a throwaway line. No one would ever know.’

With her hand massaging her neck, Alice asked, ‘When did you break up with him, leave him?’

‘Er…’ Fiona hesitated, clearly thinking. ‘It would have been about the sixth of January or so.’

With a couple of photographers now bustling around them, and feeling too wan to think or speak, Alice headed towards the front door, intending to walk the short distance home to Broughton Place. Mobile clamped firmly to her ear, Elaine Bell signalled for her to wait, then held something out in her hand for Alice’s inspection. It was a polythene bag containing a wedding ring, like that normally worn by the second murder victim. Alice tried to smile, recognising the grotesque memento immediately and fully aware of its likely significance at the man’s trial. Instead, against her will, she felt tears forming in her eyes and quickly brushed them away, unwilling to let the DCI witness her weakness. Then, remembering the gold crucifix that she had found in her colleague’s jacket, she took it from her pocket, handing it mutely to her superior in the sure knowledge that she, too, would recognise its importance. Immediately, Elaine Bell ended her telephone call and put an arm around her sergeant’s shoulder.

‘It’s a red letter day, Alice’ she said smiling broadly.

‘I know…’

‘Really? You heard that the complaint against me had been dismissed, too?’

Mrs Foscetti twirled a small handbag by her side as she dithered along the pavement in fits and starts like a little bird. She was dressed in a navy skirt with lemon piping around the cuffs and collar, and had an amber brooch pinned to her breast. Once inside Alice’s car she settled down in the seat, inspecting her face in the passenger’s mirror and smoothing her skirt over her bony knees.

As they were driving out of Milnathort the old lady pointed to various places, intent upon interesting Alice and keen to find out a little about her sister’s friend. A church they passed was immediately written off as ‘an impostor’. Mystified, Alice enquired why she regarded it in that light. In reply her companion simply said, ‘Their services, dear – no foot washing on Thursdays, you understand,’ as if that provided sufficient explanation. After that short speech she flashed a bright grin, and nodded her head vigorously several times. As Loch Leven came into view, she bent down and took her knitting from her bag and started to click her needles with great speed and dexterity. The knitwear she was making was a sweet pink in colour and appeared to be some kind of bootee, so Alice asked her if it was destined for a grandchild.

‘No,’ Mrs Foscetti replied, her tongue flicking in and out with concentration. ‘I have none. No children either. Charlie and me… well, very quickly we were rather more like babes in the wood than Anthony and Cleopatra, if you get my drift. It’s for my friend’s new granddaughter.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Alice, non-committally. ‘And what did you and Charlie do, your jobs, I mean, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Not at all, dear.’ She was frowning, concentrating hard on not dropping a stitch. ‘We opened a dragonfly museum in Didsbury. He came from Manchester, you know, and he was a real enthusiast, loved the Scarlet Darter particularly. After hours, he used to dance about the place singing like a big lark, unable to believe his own good fortune. Entrance to it would’ve been free if he’d had his way, but,’ she added, fingers still engaged in fevered activity, ‘of course, we had to eat.’

‘How did you meet him?’

‘Morag brought him home with her, like you would a stray dog. Actually, she’s always preferred dogs to people,’ she laughed. ‘But as it turned out, I was the retriever. I retrieved him from her – you could say I whippet him away from her! She drowned her sorrows in a Great Dane called Whisky and his companion, Brandy. It was a ménage a trois…’ She burbled on, amusing herself and giggling all the while.

Once they entered the tenement, the old lady’s spare frame made light work of the stairs, an emaciated claw sliding up the banisters as her highly polished shoes clacked their staccato way on the stone steps. Following the instructions given by Alice in the course of their journey, she waited patiently on the landing directly below her sister’s flat as her escort went to knock on Miss Spinnell’s door. After the usual cacophony of clicks and thuds, Miss Spinnell’s small face peeped from behind her fortress door, eyes wary and a slight scowl turning down her mouth. Seeing Alice, she straightened herself up to her full five feet and stepped out on to the landing to greet her.

‘So, Ali… dear, what do you want?’

Despite the note through her letterbox, dropped by Alice earlier that morning to warn her of an impending visit by a VIP, the ensemble sported by her was as eccentric as ever. She wore an oversized mauve beret, a canary yellow cardigan, elasticated slacks and carpet slippers.

‘Well,’ Alice began, pleased to be the bearer of good news at last. ‘You know I told you about your sister…’

‘Of course, I’ve not lost my wits you know,’ Miss Spinnell said, impatiently.

‘Well…’ Alice tried again, ‘I’m delighted to be able to tell you that she’s alive, not dead as you thought. No, she’s very much alive and…’

‘Nonsense!’ Miss Spinnell cut in. ‘I’ve spoken to her on the other side. And she came across, clear as a bell!’

‘Morag… Morag!’ A piercing voice could be heard coming from the stairwell.

‘In fact,’ Miss Spinnell said, completely unperturbed, a complacent smile transforming her face, ‘I can hear her this very minute.’

‘Yes,’ Alice answered, ‘so can I. She’s here, you see, in this building. Waiting for you -’. But before she had finished her sentence the sound of Mrs Foscetti’s sharp little heels could be heard tapping their way up the stairs and within seconds she had bobbed up onto her sister’s landing. There she stood, clapping her hands and grinning merrily. Then she extended her arms as if expecting an embrace, face proffered, and waited patiently for her sister to react.

‘Annabelle,’ Miss Spinnell said in a stand-offish tone, arms tight to her sides, ‘how lovely to see you.’

Giving Alice a large wink, Mrs Foscetti clasped her twin in a huge hug, ignoring her very obvious distaste and planting several kisses on her papery cheek. Then, beaming in delight at the success of the reunion, she blew Alice a kiss as well. Miss Spinnell, with an expression that said that Alice was really her friend, stiffly followed suit. A real red letter day.