Thursday 15th December
As she looked disconsolately through her wardrobe, Alice downed another gulp of the Chardonnay. It would help, give her courage, confidence, perhaps even bestow the gift of the gab on her or at least loosen her tongue. Taking a black pencil skirt from its hanger, she brushed off the few dog hairs clinging to it and tried it on in front of the mirror. She smiled at her own reflection, not because it pleased her, but rather in an attempt to lighten herself up. It would be important, her friends had told her, to look ‘fun-loving’ and ‘up-for-it’, but the effort required to maintain a carefree expression was too much, and she watched as her brows recovered their normal furrow and her mouth relaxed out of its obvious upward curve. She did not feel fun-loving or up-for-it, and her face would not lie, it reflected her preoccupation with the murder enquiry. She should be back in the office with all the others, leave or no leave.
The clock in the lobby of The Dome struck one o’clock, and people began moving lazily towards the dining area. The letter in her hand begged to be read again: ‘You can’t miss me. I am tall and will be wearing red boots. See you at one pm…’ What had she been thinking of? What kind of freaky man wears red boots? What kind of woman wants to meet such a man? Her mind answered the question instantly and truthfully. A desperate one. The thought made her laugh, inwardly, at herself, and switching rapidly from panic and self pity to a sort of masochistic enjoyment, she imagined herself describing her rendezvous to Anthony. He would want to know every tiny detail, from the colour of her lipstick to the exit strategy she adopted. So she would have to observe everything, note everything, go through with it all, if for no other reason than to be able to tell him. Revived by this thought she felt herself smiling, an amused observer rather than a sweaty participant.
In an armchair at the other end of the hall another woman was seated. Clad elegantly in a simple grey suit, her long legs were placed gracefully to the side, revealing expensive, black stilettos. As Alice watched she noticed how nervous the woman was: her legs, always together, were switched from one side of the chair to the other and then back again, and her right hand was held close to her mouth as if the nails might be bitten at any moment. Every so often her lips moved, as if she was reciting something silently.
One-twenty pm. He was late, too bloody late, time to go. Alice rose and moved towards the doors. As she was doing so, she saw a man wearing red baseball boots making his way through the revolving doors. He caught her eye, and she knew from his smile that he had also recognised her. In order to leave she had to move towards him, and as she did so he began to extend his arms in greeting, robbing her of any opportunity to depart unobtrusively. Suddenly the woman in the grey suit appeared by his side, and put her arm proprietorially round his waist. He blushed, but made no attempt to disengage himself from the embrace.
‘Up to your old vices again, Charles?’ the woman said loudly, her eyes resting on Alice. The man shrugged; he appeared unable to move, like a fly trussed up by a spider. Alice did not know what to do. The man must be her date-how many men in Edinburgh would be wearing red boots in the very hotel where they were supposed to meet at the approximate time arranged? But who was the woman? Maybe an old flame, now a stalker, keen to embarrass her former love, in which case she could only feel sorry for him and, possibly, afraid of her. The man’s looks were even within the bounds of acceptability, on first impression at least. The woman in the grey suit, seeing Alice’s confusion, took control.
‘No doubt you’re responding to this chap’s ad?’
Alice nodded, bemused.
‘Well, to put you out of your misery, I can tell you that he’s my husband. When he considers married life too dull he advertises himself, puffing himself beyond recognition I might add, and some poor sap usually falls for it. This time it’s you. If it’s any comfort, that’s how we met. I replied to his ad, only then he was single…’
Cocooned in the back of the taxi Alice began to weep. The extent of her humiliation appalled her: to be all dolled-up to meet a sleazy adulterer, to be warned off by the wife, to be so needy in the first place as to look at a lonely hearts advertisement, never mind answer it. Tears fell, unchecked, down her cheeks. All she was trying to achieve was what the rest of humanity seemed to take for granted: a mate, a companion, someone to love. Through the tinted glass she watched as the married paraded themselves, in pairs, along George Street. Couples were arm-in-arm wherever one looked, not necessarily happy, but always together. Was it so much to ask that someone out there should have been made for her? She was shaken out of the deepening spiral of self-pity into which she was sinking by the jangling note of her mobile. It was Alastair.
‘The fucker’s struck again. All leave’s cancelled and we’re to go to the scene. DS Travers and some of the others are already there. Where are you?’
‘In a taxi on George Street, heading home.’
‘I’ll meet you at your place. I’ll leave the station now and see you there in about fifteen minutes. Okay?’
‘Yes, fine. Do we know anything about the victim, who is it, who’s been killed?’
‘A female advocate, her name’s Flora Erskine. Got to go. See you in Broughton Place shortly.’
Flora’s friend, Maria Russell, had no criminal practice, had never had any criminal practice. The books of grotesque photographs routinely handed round in criminal trials involving violence were unseen by her and she had never read a single post mortem report describing the horrific injuries that one human being can inflict on another. Her field was consistorial law, matrimonial disputes involving children and, more often than not, money. Sitting on her friend’s bed, out of the way of the forensic people below, she felt sick. The awful smell of blood had permeated the upper storey of the house, polluted it. And her mind would not let go of the image of Flora, throat severed, flesh gaping, her mouth hanging open as if in horror. How could any human being contain so much blood? How could such a thought have leapt into her mind? She wanted to curl up in the foetal position, close her eyes and block out the world, to pretend that the day had not started and begin it again. I must do something or I will start screaming and never stop.
She looked around and spotted a wallet of photographs on the bedside table and picked it up, letting the snaps fall onto the bed in a heap. She should have known, every one was of David Pearson, like a fashion shoot for a male model, except for the last, which depicted Flora and her lover standing, hand in hand, outside a hotel. She had taken that one, being complicit in their deceit, enjoyed vicariously their happiness. Feeling a desperate need to talk to someone, she picked up the phone and dialled her mother.
‘Mum, it’s me. I’m at Flora’s house.’ Her voice sounded dull, tired, on the edge of tears.
‘Are you alright, Maria? You sound upset. What is it?’ Her mother had, as she knew she would, immediately picked up her abnormal tone.
‘Flora’s dead. I found her this morning, she’s been murdered. The police are here now, and I have to stay to speak to them…’. As she was talking, the door of the bedroom opened and Alice entered. ‘In fact, I’ll phone you later, I think they need to talk to me now…’ She replaced the receiver.
‘I thought you’d have a WPC with you,’ Alice said, surprised to find a witness alone.
‘I did. She had to go, they said someone else would be coming.’
‘Have you had any tea?’
‘I couldn’t face it, thanks.’
‘I’m sorry you were left on your own at all, it shouldn’t have happened. I have to ask, Maria, can you tell me when you found Flora?’ Alice asked.
‘About… an hour ago.’ The young woman’s eyes were red, swollen with tears.
‘What happened exactly?’
‘I share a clerk with Flora, we’re both advocates. Sheila, our clerk, phoned to tell me about a consultation fixed for tomorrow and said, in passing, that Flora hadn’t shown up for a Summar Roll hearing, answered her phone or responded to her pager. That’s very uncharacteristic of her, so I said I’d look in on her on my way up to the Faculty. I pass her door. So that’s what I did.’
‘The front door was open?’
‘Mmm.’
‘You walked in and found her, as she now is, in the sitting room?’
‘Mmm.’ She blinked, trying to hold back more tears.
‘You phoned for us?’
‘Yes.’
‘Immediately on finding her?’
‘Mmm. She was dead.’
‘Did you see or talk to Flora yesterday?’
‘Yes. We spoke on the phone. I didn’t see her.’
‘When did you last talk to her?’
‘Yesterday evening.’
‘When?’
‘About seven pm. I rang to see if she’d like to go to the cinema with me.’
‘When did the call end?’
‘I don’t know. Some time around seven-fifteen pm, maybe. We didn’t speak for very long. I only know the time as I’d checked it to see what films we’d be able to catch.’
‘And you didn’t see or speak to her after that until you found her this morning?’
‘No, that’s right.’
Maria shifted her position on the bed and the photos on it cascaded onto the floor. Alice picked them up, looking at each one as she did so, and a cold shiver went down her spine. She handed one of David Pearson to the young advocate and asked, ‘Can you tell me who that is?’
‘David Pearson. A QC. The one that was murdered.’
‘Was she having an affair with him?’ She hardly needed to ask, the photos were confirmation enough.
Maria hesitated before responding. ‘Yes.’
‘Had it been going on for long?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I think it started soon after they were in the Mair case together. That went ahead in about June this year.’
‘Do you know if his wife knew about it?’
‘I’ve no idea…’ she paused, and then continued ‘I don’t think she can have. Flora would have told me if that had happened.’
‘Did you ever hear Flora mention the names Elizabeth Clarke or Sammy McBryde?’
‘No…’ she corrected herself, ‘Yes. I think there was a female doctor called Clarke who was an expert witness, or something, in one of her cases. Maybe the Mair one, I can’t really recall. But I have heard her mention the name, I’m sure. Sammy McBryde, that name’s not familiar, and I’d have a reasonable chance of remembering it, as McBryde’s my mother’s maiden name.’
On the route to Merchiston Place and ‘Drumlyon’, Alice and Alastair discussed the approach they would adopt. Laura Pearson’s promiscuous husband and his two lovers were now dead, and if anyone had a motive for killing the lot of them, Laura Pearson did. And she had lied about Elizabeth Clarke, denying any connection between the dead woman and her husband, even though she knew that they had been lovers for years. Pressure would have to be applied, could be applied with the kid gloves still on.
The widow opened the door, and her surprise on seeing the two police officers showed momentarily on her face, but she led them immediately into her living room. The CD of ‘The Messiah’ was taken off and packets of Christmas cards were cleared from the sofa where they were lying, in order to make space for the unexpected visitors. From her seat Alice studied Laura Pearson. She did not look like any kind of vengeful monster, more like a Carmelite recently released from her enclosed order and as yet unused to the world and its ways. A Reverend Mother, though. Appearances mean little, Alice reminded herself, thinking of the graveyard rapist and his resemblance to the archetypal angelic chorister.
Alastair began. ‘We saw Alan Dunlop, your husband’s friend. He told us that David had had an affair with Elizabeth Clarke.’
The woman bit her lip but said nothing, so he continued. ‘When we asked you whether your husband knew Dr Clarke, you denied it.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I just couldn’t talk about it. I’m sorry. I knew who could tell you anything you needed to know and I sent you to him. To Alan, I mean.’
‘Alan might not have told us.’
‘And the sun might not rise tomorrow. I know Alan, he loved David and he understands me. You needed information to help you find whoever killed Elizabeth Clarke and David, that’s why you were there. I was sure Alan would tell you of their connection, he’d know as much about it as me, quite possibly more. Why would I deny something that was virtually public knowledge?’
‘It being virtually public knowledge would mean, for you, virtually public humiliation?’
She flushed. ‘Yes, and it did. But if you’re suggesting from that statement that I would conceal the affair from you to avoid further such humiliation, it’s nonsense. As I said I just couldn’t, so soon after his murder, speak about that part of our life together. If you’re suggesting that I hated David for humiliating me, you’re right, but I got over it. Plenty of women do.’
‘We also asked you about Sammy McBryde. Did your husband know him?’
‘I told you, I don’t think so. I can’t guarantee it. I don’t know exactly who he knew and who he didn’t. All I can safely say is that if he did know him, he never mentioned anything about him to me.’
‘And you. Did you know him?’
‘No. I told you before that I didn’t.’
‘Can you tell us what you were doing between five pm and nine pm on Thursday 1st of December?’
‘I don’t know offhand. Can I look at my diary?’
‘Of course.’
Laura Pearson went over to a low, walnut bookcase and extracted a small pocketbook from a red leather bag resting on it. She returned to her seat, flicking through the diary pages before answering.
‘I must have been here. I can’t have been out anywhere, as my diary’s blank and I’m meticulous about filling in any appointments, engagements and so on.’
‘Would anyone have been here with you?’
‘David, probably, unless he was still working at the library. No-one else. Our children visit occasionally but I don’t remember any visit from them then. Mum was still away. She was on holiday in Sicily until the fourth of December.’
Alice broke in. ‘Can you tell us where you were on Monday the fifth of December, between four-thirty pm and eleven-fifty pm?’
She looked in the diary again, found an entry, and responded. ‘Well, for some of the time I was at a candlelit concert in Rosslyn Chapel-carols, given by a singing group called Rudsambee. It began at eight pm and finished at nine-fifteen pm.’
‘Was anyone with you?’ Alice continued.
‘My mother, who you met, and my eldest daughter, Sara.’
‘And before the concert?’
‘They both came to tea, probably at about four-thirty pm or so. We had supper here before we left for Roslin.’
‘What did you do when the concert finished?’
‘We were all travelling together in the same car, my car. I dropped off my daughter in Liberton, then I took Mum to her house in the Grange and after that I came on here. I probably got back home at about ten-fifteen.’
‘Was there anyone here with you from then onwards?’
‘David was at home. I remember talking to him about one of the carols, “Il Est Né, Le Divin Enfant”. He was particularly fond of it, and you don’t often hear it sung nowadays.’
On the evening of your husband’s murder you were here on your own. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where were you yesterday evening and this morning?’
‘Between any particular times?’ she enquired.
‘Say, between seven pm yesterday evening and one o’clock this afternoon,’ Alastair answered smoothly.
‘Yesterday evening and yesterday night I was here on my own. I went shopping at about ten this morning, in Bruntsfield, other than that I’ve been here, on my own.’
‘Do you know anyone called Flora Erskine?’
‘No.’ No pause. No flicker of recognition.
‘Did your husband know Flora Erskine?’ Alastair persisted.
‘Well, it’s a bit like Samuel McBryde. I don’t think he did, but I can’t be sure. He certainly never mentioned her name to me.’
Alice caught Alastair’s eye. They needed a reaction. Alan Duncan had said that Laura Pearson was a very clever woman. Possibly she had lied to them before about her husband and Dr Clarke, although her explanation today for the lie would have been good enough to convince most juries. If she was ice-cool, then the ice would have to be broken.
‘Flora Erskine was found murdered in her house, a little over an hour ago. Her throat had been cut,’ Alice said, looking steadily at Laura Pearson.
The woman appeared puzzled, as if following a train of thought still being formed. ‘And you think this killing is connected with the murders of my husband and Elizabeth Clarke…?’ She stopped mid-sentence, panic in her eyes. It looked as if realisation was beginning to dawn.
‘The connection… Flora Erskine and David were lovers?’ she asked, a desperate hope for denial apparent on her face.
‘We think so.’
‘Dear God!’ She hesitated, taking the information in before following inexorably the chain of logic leading back to herself. ‘And you think that I am involved in their deaths?’
She looked up at Alice, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on the policewoman.
‘I don’t know,’ Alice admitted. It was no more than the truth. Laura Pearson rose from her armchair, moved to the telephone, bent to pick up the receiver and then stopped. Without a word she returned to her seat, sat down and addressed her two visitors.
‘As I am now a suspect in this case I was going to call a friend of mine, a solicitor, and I am going to do just that. But before I do, there are a few things you should know. After David’s affair with that Clarke woman, he promised me that there would be no more-no more women, I mean. I chose to believe him. Our marriage could not have continued if I had not. That marriage produced three children and two grandchildren with one more on the way. I had to believe that David would not endanger that fine achievement, my only achievement, again. Now, you tell me that I was wrong, that he was having an affair with Flora Erskine, whoever she may be. All I can say, whether you care to believe me or not, is that I trusted my husband, accepted his assurance, and he gave me no reason to doubt him. I knew nothing of any affair with anyone and, as far as I am concerned, I still don’t. I’ll never get a chance to hear David’s side of things, and there is no substitute, you two are no substitute. However, even if such an affair existed and I had become aware of it, I wouldn’t have killed him, or Elizabeth Clarke or any other lover. I’d have divorced him, just like the majority of women do when they discover that they are lumbered with an unfaithful, lying spouse.’
After they had gone, Laura Pearson went into the kitchen and made herself some tea. As she raised the cup to her mouth her hand began to tremble, spilling the hot liquid onto the oilcloth covering the kitchen table. She lowered her hand carefully and replaced the cup in its saucer before cradling her head in both her hands and groaning. In countless situations when her nerve had been tested before, her sang-froid had never deserted her, and she would not allow it to do so this time. In every way we reap what we have sown, she thought, picking up her tea cup by the fragile bone-handle to take a sip and marshalling her thoughts for the conversation she was anticipating. In a matter of minutes she knew exactly what she would say, how she would respond to the likely questions, and what impression she would convey. She was now a suspect in a murder inquiry. Not just a suspect, the suspect, the prime suspect. Who, in truth, would be likely to have a more compelling motive? No, there was no shortage there. The police were bound to be back, and she must prepare. She must call Paul and enlist his sympathies, retain his services, ensure that all her armour had been donned; but first she’d have to collect Anna from nursery school and take her home.
‘Can you hold, please?’
Before Alice had time to say no, the disembodied voice disappeared and was replaced by a tinny instrumental which she recognised, with growing horror, as ‘O Isis und Osiris’ from The Magic Flute. The piece had not only been shorn of the human voice but also speeded up, and her involuntary exposure to it, coupled with the unexplained delay, infuriated her. When the receptionist finally returned to the line, she could not have missed her caller’s pent-up anger.
‘Faculty of Advocates, how can I help you?’
‘I need to speak to Anthony Hardy. Now.’
‘Please hold while we try to find him.’
Again Alice seethed impotently as another few minutes passed. Finally, the chirpy voice reappeared. ‘I’m afraid he’s not responding to his pager.’
‘Can you take a message for him, please?’
‘Well, I’m not really supposed…’
‘Thank you…’, Alice cut in, ignoring the woman’s protestations. ‘Please tell him that Alice Rice called to ask, firstly, that he add the names Flora Erskine and Sammy McBryde to the computer search and, secondly, that he fax a copy of any details he can find about a case known as “The Mair Case”.’
‘I’ll try and pass that on, but I’ve not got a pen and I’m only supposed to…’
‘I am most grateful,’ Alice said, and put the phone down.
Manson’s smile alerted Alice to the problem long before he had opened his mouth. The smile remained, fixed and mirthless on his face as she swept past him towards the photocopier.
‘Our good lady’s baying for blood, Alice,’ he said sweetly.
‘No doubt we’re all to be donors, Sir.’
‘Nope,’ he grinned in triumph, ‘just blood groups Rice and Watt. I overheard her being savaged by the ACC, and your names and the words “out of control” and “serious repercussions” all appeared in the same sentence. Mrs Pearson’s got Paul Wilkinson representing her, so she’ll be bloody untouchable from now onwards, and that Winter woman, her mother, has been bending the Chief Constable’s ear about your visit. You’ve certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest. Anyway, dear, the DCI’s just phoned to say she wants to see your good selves in her office now.’
The atmosphere in the room where the squad had assembled was heavy. Everyone looked tired and dispirited, and there was little of the chatter that normally accompanied such a gathering. Alice sat by herself looking out of the window, her eyes fixed, unseeing, on Arthur’s Seat. She felt bruised. Maybe they had, as Elaine Bell had described it, ‘galumphed in’ like ‘bulls on thin ice’. Maybe they should have been more cautious, more circumspect, in their dealings with the QC’s wife, but their approach had paid dividends. Unless Mrs Pearson was an Oscar-winning actress, she could not have manufactured the look of surprise or despair that Alice had clearly seen on her face on hearing of Flora Erskine’s murder and her husband’s adultery. Alice had seen true emotion, not a simulation of it. The fact that the woman had understood so quickly the implications of the latest killing, the finger of suspicion now pointing at her, was, surely, a testament to her intelligence, not an indication of guilt. No doubt about it, Mrs Pearson was not the killer, but then who the hell was? The ACC entered the room followed by DCI Bell. As awareness of Body’s entrance spread, the muted hum died down until there was complete silence. The DCI began her briefing:
‘There’s been another murder. It took place in the home of the victim, a girl aged twenty-five called Flora Erskine. She lived in a house in Dean Mews, own front door. Throat cut, again. A piece of paper was, as usual, left. This time the word’s “untrustworthy”, and we’re back to lined paper and green ink. It had been placed by her head. The graphologists have confirmed that it’s the same hand again. She was found dead this afternoon at about one o’clock by a pal, Maria Russell. Miss Russell spoke to the dead girl last night at about seven pm and, so far, it seems that no one saw or spoke to her after that. The same fingerprints have been found at the Mews as were found at Bankes Crescent and Granton Medway. A tall dark-haired man was seen by one of the girl’s neighbours, George Hurst, leaving the Mews at about nine pm. Uniforms are still doing door-to-doors in the area and further information may be forthcoming soon. We’ve got the dog squad searching for a weapon, or anything else, as I speak.
Importantly, a connection between this victim and the last appears to exist. DCs Rice and Watt have discovered that Flora Erskine and David Pearson were engaged in an affair. Information to this effect came from the witness, Maria Russell, and seems to be confirmed by remarks made by Alan Duncan, Pearson’s friend. Photographs of David Pearson were found by Flora’s bed and their contents would be consistent with such a relationship. We already knew that Pearson and Elizabeth Clarke had, approximately five years ago, an affair. No connection, as yet, has been made between Flora Erskine and Sammy McBryde or either of the two of them and the doctor and the QC.
Ian Melville was under surveillance last night and this morning, and all his movements are accounted for. I’ve just put a watch on Pearson’s widow. She may have an alibi for the McBryde killing, but she’s got nothing covering the crucial times for her husband, Dr Clarke or Flora. So far, as you know, McBryde’s the real mystery here in amongst all these New Town types. Laura Pearson’s now got a lawyer acting on her behalf and I don’t want anyone, and I mean anyone…’, she looked sternly around the room, ‘…to talk to her from now onwards without my specific permission to do so. The press will go mad once news of the Erskine killing leaks out, and it will, judging by past experience. No one is to say anything to any journalist, whatever favours they have received in the past from any of the dangerous beggars. A press conference with the Chief Constable has been fixed for first thing tomorrow morning. In the meanwhile, I want DS Travers and Carter to attend Flora Erskine’s post mortem. It’s been fixed, provisionally, for five pm this afternoon. The body’s already been ID’d. A full statement will be needed from Maria Russell, DC Littlewood…’
The briefing went on and on, but Alice’s attention was elsewhere. In her mind she wandered through Flora Erskine’s house in Dean Mews trying to catch a glimpse of the girl’s character, her personality. The rooms had all been tidy, well-ordered, everything seemed to have a place and everything was in its place. Her desk had neat piles of paper on it and a number of different coloured pens were to hand; evidence of their use could be seen on some of the documents. She seemed to have been fond of sport-a tennis racket and hockey stick were in the hall-and also to be a keen cook. Her kitchen displayed a professional-looking array of gleaming knives and pans, and her bookcase was overfilled with recipe books. Alice’s recreation of the young advocate’s home ended when her shoulder was tapped by DC Littlewood. She was wanted in DCI Bell’s office again. Her heart sank. Let her wait, she thought, she wanted to see whether Ant’s fax had come through. On her desk was a sheaf of fax paper with a covering note on Faculty of Advocates’ headed notepaper.
‘Hi sweetheart, sorry not to be able to speak to you on the phone. I was in court attempting, unsuccessfully, needless to say, to interdict a woman from cutting down a leylandii hedge. I fed Elizabeth Clarke, David Pearson, Flora Erskine and Tommy MacBride into the SLT database and guess what came out? The “Mair case” you mentioned, its official citation is “Mair v Lothian Health Board”. I assume that this is the one you were looking for? No hits for Tommy MacBride, I’m afraid. Let me know if you need anything else. Ant.’
Alice cursed herself for not spelling out ‘Sammy McBryde’ to the air-headed receptionist.
As she entered the Chief Inspector’s domain, Elaine Bell still had her briefing notes under one arm and was sitting on the edge of her desk examining the wallet of photographs of David Pearson. She gestured, mutely, for Alice to take a seat and continued to study the prints. The phone rang but she ignored it until, eventually, it silenced itself and she spoke.
‘What do you think, Alice?’
‘About what exactly, Ma’am?’ she replied cautiously.
‘Laura Pearson. You and Alastair have seen more of her than the rest of us put together. Could she have done it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, don’t be coy. Explain, please’
Alice sighed. ‘No, I don’t think she could have done it. I don’t think she even had a motive. I’d bet my life, well maybe Alistair’s life, that she had no idea who Flora Erskine was, that the girl was dead or that her husband was screwing around with her. When we broke the news it shattered her, or gave every appearance of doing so. If she didn’t know about Flora Erskine she’d have no reason to kill her, and I don’t think she’d have touched Elizabeth Clarke either. She seems to be a very rational character, controlled, not some kind of hot-head…’.
‘She’s all we’ve got,’ Elaine Bell said desperately.
‘Maybe, but it’s a bit thin. Even if she did have a motive, what else is there? She’s small and two full-grown men were overpowered. One of them was a labourer, she couldn’t have managed that. The prints in Bankes Crescent, the Medway and the Mews are not hers, whoever else’s they may be. Her accomplice? Not a shred of evidence about that, if so. On the other hand she is clever, she knew where all our questions were going and she gives the impression of something, someone, forged by fire, capable of taking much more than most without buckling or breaking.’
Sensing her boss’s dejection, she continued. ‘One interesting thing has turned up though, Ma’am. Before I came to see you I checked my desk. I’ve been sent a fax by an advocate friend of mine. It’s a case report involving in some way or other Dr Clarke, Pearson and Flora Erskine. It may be nothing, a mirage, but it seems worth following up. I’ll get a copy to you.’
‘Yes, you do that Alice,’ the Inspector said wearily. ‘I haven’t time to read it now. Body will be coming in the next few minutes together with the Chief Constable, as somehow the press are going to have to be contained, and the conference tomorrow will be our best opportunity to prevent them from whipping up further hysteria. I’ll be shut up with the pair of them dealing with the draft release for the next hour or so, but if the report’s helpful in any way please let me know. We need every bit of good news that we can get at the moment. I don’t envy the Chief Constable his role tomorrow at the press conference.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Alice began to move towards the door.
‘And by the way, Alice’, she smiled almost sheepishly, ‘I’m sorry…’ She stopped herself, rephrased her thought and began again. ‘I may, earlier, have been a bit sharp with you. Mrs Winter rattled the cages of the great apes who hold all our careers in their grimy palms. We could do without Wilkinson’s early involvement too… but the stuff you got from Laura Pearson has been useful, very useful.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
The report of the judgement in the Mair case was long, over twenty sides, but Alice settled herself in her chair eager to make a start. Before she had read the first few lines she was interrupted.
‘Well, are you ready for action?’ Inspector Manson said, standing in front of her.
‘Now, Sir?’ She tried to think what he might mean.
‘When else? Can’t let another body get cold.’
She contemplated saying nothing, following him and seeing where they ended up, gleaning along the way what they were supposed to be up to, but decided, instead, to admit her ignorance.
‘I’m sorry, Sir, but I’ve forgotten what we’re supposed to be doing.’
He looked at her pityingly. ‘Alice, for Christ’s sake. Time of the month or what? Didn’t you listen to any of the briefing? Bell said we were to go and see Flora Erskine’s parents in Cupar in case they know of any connection between McBryde and the dead woman. I’ll see you at the car.’ He turned and left her.
Alice closed her eyes. She could have shouted out loud in desperation, in anguish. Hours spent on a wild goose chase in the company of Inspector Manson, a face-to-face meeting with the parents of the dead girl. Their grief would be inescapable, infectious, debilitating.
And the reality proved to be worse than she had imagined. Flora Erskine was an only child, and her parents were all but speechless in their distress. Inspector Manson behaved like a clown who had inadvertently wandered into a funeral, oblivious to the mood, determined only to perform. She returned to the office after eight pm, exhausted, picked up the fax and set off for home.