Dying Of The Light

5

DI Eric Manson handed Alice the pathologist’s report and she leafed through it quickly, learning a few facts of which she would rather have remained in ignorance, including that the woman had been five months pregnant when she died. The stab wound to her chest had damaged the left ventricle, completely severing the left anterior descending coronary artery and perforating her left lung. The cause of death was given as a stab wound, haemothorax, external blood loss and haemopericardium.

‘Has the knife turned up yet?’ she asked Manson, folding the pages and filing them temporarily under a coffee mug.

‘Nope. The dogs have been all over the place and uniforms have hoovered the entire area, but nothing’s shown up so far, doll.’

‘Simon told me yesterday that an approximate time of death’s been given?’

‘Yeah, well… Professor McConnachie’s never prepared to commit himself, obviously, but the boss kept on pressurising him, and sometime between about 9.00 p.m. and 11.00 p.m. Tuesday ninth is the best they can do.’

‘And no sign, from the swab or anything else, of recent sexual activity?’

‘Condoms, dear. One of the tools of her trade, I hear.’

‘I was thinking more of the combings and so on. Anything else happen while I’ve been away, sir?’

He opened his eyes unnaturally wide, and nodded his head vigorously. ‘I thought you’d never ask’, he sighed.

The usual game to be endured. And the quicker it was begun the quicker it would end.

‘Well, I’m asking now, sir.’

‘We’ve got a match from a bloodstain, with the DNA, I mean. And the shit may well soon hit the fan so I’d duck if I was -’.

On Elaine Bell’s unheralded entry into the murder suite he fell silent, watching his superior like everyone else as she patrolled the room, eyes raking the place, clearly in search of something. Approaching Alice’s desk she swept up the blue-and-white-striped mug, breathing a sigh of annoyance as she did so.

‘Bloody cleaners! Rearranging everything,’ she said through gritted teeth. Alice smiled an answer, uncomfortably aware that she was now in close proximity to a hornet, its angry buzz warning that it was liable to sting at any moment. Keep still. Say nothing and it will fly past, she thought, trying to maintain her now fixed smile.

‘And don’t let it happen again, Alice!’ the Chief Inspector spat.

Perhaps she should just shake her head in apparent remorse and remain silent, play safe and avoid any more unwelcome attention, thought Alice. On the other hand, she had no idea what it was that she was not to let happen again, so it might. At any moment. Was she an accessory to mug theft, perhaps?

‘Or you, Simon!’

The DCI’s attention, though not her physical presence, had shifted on to her other sergeant. Unfortunately for him, he was not familiar with the finer points of the Elaine Bell’s body language and blundered in, a sweet still in his mouth.

‘Sorry, ma’am. I’m not sure what you are t… t… talking about?’ he asked nervously, cheek swollen with his humbug.

Instantly, she whirled round to face him.

‘Contamination, DS Oakley, that’s what I’m talking about. It’s thoroughly unprofessional, I’m sure you’d agree. The single hair from DS Rice was bad enough, but your blood… God save us all! Fortunately, being present when the body was found, seeing the scene myself, I got the lab to check the elimination database and, fortunately once more, you’re both on it, but we would have looked complete arses otherwise!’

‘It must have been the b… b… brambles,’ DS Oakley stuttered ‘I was c… c… cut to shreds.’ He looked to Alice for support, and glancing up momentarily at their superior, she nodded her head in agreement.

‘Brambles, alopecia… I don’t care what caused it, but it is not, I repeat not, to happen again. Is that understood?’

The two reprimanded officers nodded again and the Chief Inspector, venom now drawn, bustled out of the room, blue-and-white mug quite forgotten.

‘If only you’d listened, Alice…’ Eric Manson said, with phoney regret.

‘Was that all? The only traces being mine and Simon’s?’ Best ignore his jibes.

‘No, there’s another two, one from blood and the other semen, both less good than those of Simon the Pieman and his dancing bear, but they managed to get a match for one of them at least. The blood. You and I are off to see Mr Francis McPhail of Jerez Street this very evening. They got his DNA in 2005 for drink-driving, and he’s the match.’

When she did not immediately rise from her chair to follow him, he said, ‘Come on, Bruno. Time to perform!’

A woman was on her knees scrubbing the stone landing outside McPhail’s flat, her ample rump waggling slowly in the doorway, following the rhythm of her outstretched arms. Her bucket blocked their way up the stairs.

‘We’re looking for Mr McPhail?’ the Inspector said loudly, ensuring that he could be heard above the din of the cleaning.

‘He’s away at the church,’ she replied, hardly looking up.

‘Which church?’ Alice asked.

‘St Aloysius, further down the road. Obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ whispered the Inspector as they retraced their steps down the stone stairway to the street below.

The exterior of the church was vast but completely plain. No more than a rectangular, red-brick box with shallow slits for windows, each one positioned a few feet below the stark horizontal created by the flat roof. A structure so simplified and bereft of ornamentation as to fill any onlooker not with awe or wonder but instead with a kind of desperate depression; that humanity could waste time, money and energy in constructing anything so dull and mundane. Ambitionless. A piece of architecture either consciously subverting centuries of tradition, churches built to uplift the faithful and glorify God, or dictated by the excessive penny-pinching of a dying faith.

Passing through flimsy, oak-effect doors, they entered a well-lit nave, its white-painted surfaces bedecked with brightly coloured tapestries, each embroidered with a fish, a lamb or a lily, as if depicted by a child. Facing them, behind the altar, a massive stone crucifix was attached to the wall, a relief of the crucified Christ carved on it and the whole sculpture lit by a raft of concealed spotlights. A circlet of barbed wire adorned Christ’s head and his eyes looked upwards seeking deliverance.

As Alice and her companion processed towards the only occupied pews, those next to the altar step, the Inspector whispered, ‘What’s the awful pong, Yogi?’

But he had misjudged how his voice would carry, and his last words echoed around the space – ‘Yogi… Yogi… Yogi…’

‘Stale incense, sir,’ Alice replied, her voice hardly audible, fearful that her words, too, would be magnified as his had been. Arriving at the step, they automatically separated, taking a side each as if they had discussed the matter beforehand. Alice’s gentle tap on the white-haired man’s shoulder made him start with surprise, dropping the rosary he had been fingering to clatter onto the floor below.

‘Very sorry to disturb you, sir,’ Alice began, ‘but you’re not Mr McPhail, I suppose?’

‘No.’ The impropriety of the question, in such a place, was communicated forcefully to her by his stern expression. The next man along, eyes clamped shut in prayer, shook his head impatiently in answer to her query, and the third one in the row did the same, her voice having carried to him. Defeated, she manoeuvred her way back through the empty pew to find the Inspector waiting for her.

‘Any luck?’ he mumbled under his breath.

‘No.’

‘Me neither. The bastard must have gone.’

While they were still engaged in a whispered discussion, an elderly woman joined them and asked in a broad Irish accent, ‘Would it be Father McPhail, now, that you’re after?’

‘It might well be,’ the Inspector replied, smiling politely, and unconsciously adopting her brogue. ‘And where would we find him?’

‘Well, you’ll have to wait your turn like everyone else… he’s taking confessions at the minute. I’m number eight, so you’ll be numbers nine and ten. Keep your eyes skinned, mind, or other bodies after you in the queue will nip in before you and take your place.’

Sitting on the hard bench, Alice watched as Eric Manson, passing the time in between bouts of fidgeting, methodically hunted down any smut available in the Good News Bible, from Susanna and the Elders to Onan and his seed. Each one was discovered in seconds, a testament to the boredom of his own churchgoing years and a retentive memory. She knew them all, of course, and a few more besides; too many masses, benedictions and complines to fill and too little reading material.

After over an hour had limped by, the elderly woman emerged from the side-chapel followed by the priest in his white surplice and purple robe. He beckoned Alice, as if to signal that her turn had arrived, and she rose together with the Inspector.

‘Father McPhail… Father Francis McPhail?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

The dumpy figure seemed untroubled by their approach, as if used to dealing with pairs, handling inseparable couples. Despite his small stature, he had a magisterial air; they were in Christ’s house perhaps, but he was their earthly host. His strange, deep-set eyes looked out at them with an enquiring expression from beneath arched eyebrows. The eyeballs seemed to have no white, vast brown pupils taking up all the space, more like a chimpanzee’s than a man’s.

‘I am DI Manson of Lothian and Borders Police,’ the inspector began, and then hesitated, grimacing on hearing his last words returning to him, before continuing softly, ‘and I’d be grateful if you would be good enough to help us with our enquiries at the station, at St. Leonards Street.’

Francis McPhail looked astonished at the request, disbelief gradually becoming apparent on his face, but he quickly recovered his composure and said sternly, ‘Of course I’ll help you, officer, but first of all I must finish taking confession. Two of my parishioners have still to be seen, and if it’s all right with you, I’d like to see to them before accompanying you to the police office.’ So, for another forty minutes, the police officers waited in the unheated church, their breaths becoming visible, legs and arms crossed in an attempt to maintain their body heat until, to their relief, the priest emerged from the sacristy, clad now in black jacket and trousers.

The removal of the suspect from his own surroundings had been DCI Elaine Bell’s idea, but he remained ostensibly at ease, comfortable in himself and with the world around him, despite the alien environment. Alice glanced at her watch. Nine p.m. already.

‘Good of you to assist us, sir… er… Reverend, sorry… Father,’ Elaine Bell began, unusually courteous, seemingly thrown by the man’s dog-collar. In reply, he nodded affably, looking straight at her, his dark eyes shining, unashamedly curious to discover why he had been summoned.

‘Well, can you tell me where you were on Tuesday the ninth of January, between the hours of, say, 8.00 p.m. and 11.00 p.m.?’

‘Can I look at my diary?’ he asked, removing a slim leather-bound pocket book from inside his jacket, and holding it unopened in his hands.

‘Yes.’

He flicked the diary open and examined an entry, before meticulously inserting the ribbon marker and closing it once more.

‘I helped Mrs Donnelly clear my study in the early evening and then, as far as I recollect, I went to church.’ He blinked at his interrogator.

‘Mrs Donnelly?’ the DCI enquired.

‘My housekeeper.’

‘And at about what time did you leave to go to the church?’

‘I can’t be exactly sure. It would probably be at about 8.30 p.m. or so.’

‘Was there anyone there with you at the same time?’

‘To begin with there was a boy. I didn’t recognise him though. He’s not one of mine.’

Now, apparently completely relaxed, the priest rested his face on his elbow, stroking his ear-lobe, his eyes never leaving the DCI’s face.

‘When did he leave?’ She asked, clearing a stray curl from her forehead.

‘Maybe about nine or thereabouts.’

‘And when did you leave?’

‘Well after him. I’d say at about 11.00 p.m.’

‘What were you doing in the place between 8.30 and 11.00 p.m.?’

‘Praying.’

‘Praying! For two and a half solid hours?’ Elaine Bell said, amused scepticism written on her face.

‘I am a priest, Chief Inspector. Most evenings I’m out and about visiting – the sick, the bereaved, anyone who needs me, really. I have to take my chances when I can.’ His unblinking, simian gaze did not leave hers until, put in her place, she flinched, lowering her eyes as if to check her script. Something about his presence disquieted her.

‘Mmm.’ The DCI cleared her throat, and Alice became aware of an uncharacteristic hesitancy in her questioning. The priest now stared expectantly at the Chief Inspector, but she remained silent. Perhaps she was unused to dealing with the clergy or, at least, had not met one quite like this.

‘Now, about Isobel Wilson,’ she started again, an anxious look on her face, ‘I assume you knew the woman?’

‘Should I?’ the priest replied instantly. ‘Who is she?’

It was a foolish error in the DCI’s approach, and one of which she was immediately conscious, the hint of a blush beginning to rise upwards from her neck to her already flushed cheeks.

‘Erm… she was a prostitute working in Leith, Seafield.’

Francis McPhail sat up straight, an amazed look on his face.

‘Why on earth would you assume that I would know her? Seafield’s not even within my parish boundary.’

‘No,’ the Chief Inspector said, trying to recover her lost momentum, ‘but you still might know her. To be clear on this matter, er… Father… are you telling us that you did not know her?’

‘I certainly am. I’ve never even heard the name.’

‘Well, they don’t always use their real names. So, do you know, or ever use, any of the working girls down there?’ Outrage, followed by anger, transformed the man’s features, and when he spoke his tone was emphatic, impressing upon all that no quibbling with his answer would be tolerated.

‘Let’s be clear about this, shall we? I do not “use” anyone. I have never “used” anyone or needed to. As far as I am aware I do not know, am not even acquainted with, any of the “working girls” in Leith or anywhere else. Perhaps you would now have the courtesy to tell me what this is all about?’

Having watched her superior conduct many interviews, Alice expected a terse response to the implied reprimand. After all, the man was being questioned because DNA from his blood had been found on the body. And the Chief Inspector’s mild-mannered reply, surprised her.

‘Of course,’ Elaine Bell began almost apologetically, ‘our enquiry is concerned with the murder of Isobel Wilson. A prostitute killed on the ninth of January. We are asking everyone, everyone we can think of anyway, to assist us to that end.’

‘And me,’ the priest said evenly, his anger now controlled if not yet expended, ‘what precisely makes you think that I could assist you “to that end”?’

But the tables were not to be turned this time, the interrogated becoming the interrogator. He had gone too far. Nothing would be allowed to compromise the investigation, not even the normal requirements of good manners.

‘I’d rather not answer that question at present, Father,’ the DCI said firmly, re-asserting her control over him, and this time he took it meekly, simply nodding his head.

The interview over, Elaine Bell returned to her room, closing the door slowly behind her. She leant against it and breathed out. The creep had fancied her! Clearly fancied her! And the way he had looked at her had temporarily unsettled her, making her lose the place, flustering her. Hopefully, no one else in the room would have noticed.

Then she shook her head as if shaking the very notion out of it, deciding that it was a ludicrous one anyway. She was a middle-aged woman in a crumpled suit with more grey than brown in her hair, unfanciable by anyone, including her own husband. And no doubt that fact, more than any other, accounted for her delusion, which was all it must have been. The man was a priest, for Heaven’s sake! Unlikely to be eyeing up anyone, far less a dowdy policewoman firing impertinent questions at him, in the course of a murder investigation. An investigation with him as the suspect.

‘Quite a delicate operation ahead, eh, sir?’

‘In what way, teddy?’

Alice and Eric Manson were travelling together in the Astra to number five Rintoul Place in order to check out Eddie Christie’s alibi, and the Inspector was at the wheel. Periodically, he lifted one hand off it to flex his fingers in and out in his immaculate leather driving gloves, like a cat extending and retracting its claws.

‘Smart, eh? A Christmas gift from the wife,’ he said, waving an arm in her direction.

‘Very lovely, sir. As I was saying though, a delicate operation, this morning’s task.’

‘As you said, but I have no idea what you are on about, Boo Boo.’

‘Could we stop this bloody bear nonsense, sir?’ she replied, annoyance surfacing at his prolonged joke.

‘Can’t “bear” it any longer, eh?’ he smirked. ‘Bit grizzly now, bi-polar even?’ He laughed uproariously at his own wit, and Alice could not help smiling, amused at his amusement.

‘OK, OK, so what exactly is the problem, dear, Bambi… Rudolph… Dum…’ his voice tailed off, unable to think of any other names to sustain the gag.

‘Well, asking Mrs Christie about her husband’s whereabouts. She’ll surely want to know why we’re interested in them?’

‘No problem. I’ll handle it, just leave it all to me. Man o’ the world stuff.’

Subtlety, Alice knew, did not form part of Eric Manson’s social repertoire, and as she walked behind him past a car with a disabled sticker towards a front door with a cement ramp, she stopped, a thought having crossed her mind. Meanwhile, the Inspector peered through the open front door, and when Alice caught up with him, it was to be greeted by a woman, past middle age, seated in a wheelchair.

In her sitting room Manson attempted to begin his interview but, being well acquainted with his ways, Alice could tell that he was feeling uneasy, and thus likely to flounder and cause needless offence.

‘Mrs Christie…’ he paused. ‘We simply need to ask you a few questions about your husband’s whereabouts on the ninth of January.’

‘Really!’ the woman said, surprised. ‘Well, I’ll help you if I can.’

‘Now, can you tell me where he was on the ninth of January between about 8.00 p.m. and 11.00 p.m.’

‘That would be a Tuesday, eh?’

‘Aha, yes.’

‘He’d be here with me. He has three sets of double French on Mondays, so Tuesday evenings are always devoted to marking. He does it in here, beside me. Nice to have company, as he’s out all day, you see.’

‘Sure about that, that he was here with you all evening?’

‘Yes. He made us our tea at six, he brings home salmon on Tuesdays, then he did the homework. He always does on Tuesdays. I’d have noticed if he hadn’t. Why do you need to know where he was then anyway?’

‘Er…’ Eric Manson hesitated, ‘to help us with our enquiries – a murder enquiry.’

‘A murder!’ the woman repeated, excitement enlivening her voice. ‘Whose?’

Instead of stopping the conversation and redirecting it, Manson seemed to feel compelled to answer.

‘Em… an Isobel Wilson. Just… eh… a woman in Edinburgh.’

‘The prostitute! You mean the prostitute! I read all about it in the Evening News. What’s Eddie to do with her, exactly?’

The Inspector swallowed, now looking rather pale, clearly in difficulty with the line of questioning but, apparently, unable to extricate himself from it. He threw Alice a pleading look.

‘Nothing,’ she cut in, ‘he’s nothing whatsoever to do with her – with it. He was here with you, after all. But, you see, we have to check up on the movements of anyone living nearby. Proximity, in itself, to the scene… we have to exclude neighbours and so on. Get assistance from anyone, really.’

‘But why do you need to know where he was, then?’

‘Routine enquiry,’ she lied, stonewalling the woman for her own sake. ‘Purely routine, Mrs Christie.’