The lawyer did not smile when Alice entered his office. Her appointment with him had been fitted into his already packed diary by his secretary, who was shortly off on maternity leave and now careless of whether he approved. Guy Bayley made no attempt to conceal his annoyance at the re-arrangement of his timetable. Instead, he waved towards a hard chair opposite his own, then pushed all the papers on his desk to one side as if to clear a space for whatever matter she might raise with him. It seemed a slightly petulant, almost hostile reception, and all the while his expression remained unchanged, his mouth set tight as a trap and his brows furrowed. He had thin blond curls which fell in every direction on his scalp and a complexion as pale as ivory, but extending just below his hairline was an angry, red margin of psoriasis, framing his forehead like a wreath of blood. Despite remaining silent he managed to convey an impression of extreme exhaustion, a tiredness with life and terminal ennui.
Just as Alice took her seat the door opened and a heavily pregnant young woman came in bearing a tray with two cups of tea on it. She threw Alice a shy smile as she lowered the tray onto the desk, but before she had a chance to take the cups off, her boss said wearily, ‘Not now, Susannah. I’ll have mine later.’
As the door closed again he turned his attention to the policewoman.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have long, Ms Rice, and although I did set up the group I don’t think I’ll have much information – or at least much information likely to be of any use to you. I co-ordinate our activities, orchestrate our campaigns, act as a spokesperson and so forth. I see it as a type of social work really. No-one, I think, could suggest that the “sex-workers” are anything other than a public nuisance.’
He waited a few seconds for her assent, which did not come, and then continued in the same dull tone, ‘and finally, despite our best efforts, they have now achieved the double – sex and murder, no less.’
Sounding slightly more interested in the subject, he told Alice that on the nights of both crimes he had been on duty, scouring the streets for prostitutes, ready to winkle them out of Salamander Street, Boothacre or any other of their shady cracks and crevices. By the time his vigil had ended he had encountered one whore only, a Russian creature whose accent seemed tailor-made for the foul insults she flung at him.
Talking to the man in his sedate, New Town premises, Alice saw no signs of the hate-filled fanatic described by Ellen Barbour, and wondered, momentarily, if her friend had confused him with someone else. His office, with its black-and-white Kay prints, vapid watercolours and thick carpet, seemed so far removed from the front-line in Leith that it was hard to see how the two worlds might meet, far less collide. And had he not lived in Disraeli Place, their two orbits would have remained fixed, distant and discrete, each unaware of the other spinning past.
‘Well, sir, those two unfortunate women…’ she began, but immediately he cut in, now emphasising his point by rapping his fountain pen on his desk.
‘They are not, sergeant, “unfortunate women”,’ he intoned, a humourless smile of correction on his face.
‘Sorry, sir?’ she replied, puzzled.
‘They are not “unfortunate women” as you described them,’ he answered, repeating himself but making no attempt to explain his statement.
‘No? Then what are they, sir?’
‘Dead whores,’ he said, brushing a shower of thick scurf off his right shoulder.
‘Murdered women are surely unfortunate women?’
He rolled his eyes, eloquently expressing his exasperation at her apparent sentimentality.
‘No, sergeant, my point is that they are not women, not real women, at least. No real woman would do what they do, I’m sure you’d agree.’
Finding herself annoyed by his response, she said coolly, ‘Again, I’m not sure what you mean, sir. Every second all around the world women are doing what they do – not for money, perhaps, and out of choice, but many of the prostitutes have no choice.’
‘Firstly, many but not all. And secondly, and more importantly, there is always a choice,’ the man said, as if addressing a particularly slow child.
‘If they are not women, then what exactly are they, sir?’
‘Society’s flotsam and jetsam, obviously. Society’s, let’s not mince our words, rubbish, detritus, garbage.’
‘And such rubbish should be cleaned up, eh, sir?’ She wondered how far he would go.
‘Well, I don’t know where you live, sergeant,’ he said, looking hard at her, ‘but perhaps you and your neighbours would welcome with open arms those “unfortunate women”? Welcome their used needles, their discarded condoms, their pimps and punters, them and all their revolting paraphernalia, to your leafy suburb. If not, then you too might find that if they arrived, uninvited, you also would want them cleaned up and got rid of, from your own area at least.’
‘And how should they be cleaned up?’
‘With a BIG BROOM,’ he said, opening his eyes unnaturally wide to express his sarcasm, ‘anything to move them on… but killing’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?’
‘Are there any witnesses to your movements on -’ she began, but before she had completed her question he returned to the fray.
‘No. I live alone. But think about it, detective – all that they could corroborate would be that I was in the vicinity of the murders on the night on which they were committed.’
‘At what time did your tour of duty begin on each of the nights?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Seven-thirty maybe. I never go out much before then, it’s not worth it.’
‘And on neither evening did you see anything on your rounds, any punters, any prostitutes other than the Russian?’
‘No. But the women do hide, you know. Anyway, it’s now twenty-five past nine and I really do need to do some preparation before my next client. She will be paying for… er…’ He hesitated for a moment, having lost his drift.
‘Your services,’ Alice said, rising to go.
Holding the door open for her, the pale man stood erect, and as their eyes met, he closed his as if to shield his soul from scrutiny.
There was nothing much in the fridge, so it would be a relief not to have to cook the dinner today, Mrs Donnelly thought, looking in the cutlery drawer and wondering what she should put on the table. Not, of course, that Father would like the stuff produced by Iris Pease. Far too highly spiced, and she would insist on dropping chillies into everything, even, Christ have mercy on us all, in the mince. And it was not as if she had not been told, forcefully on at least one occasion, that he preferred food without a ‘bite’ or ‘kick’ or whatever it was called.
She had a touch of the black fever that one, eyeing Father up, simpering, volunteering before volunteers had been asked for. Imposing more like! Of course, all the women on the rota were dangerous, but that one, ‘Ms’ Pease, would have to be watched, for sure, prowling around like a lioness seeking someone to devour. She knew the signs.
At least there would be time to do the crossword before she arrived, pans clanging like cymbals. And the policewoman would surely now wait until after lunch before wasting any more of their time. Mrs Donnelly searched unsuccessfully for a pen, and then sank into the chair. Opening the kitchen drawer to continue the hunt, she pushed her hand into it past envelopes, string and polythene bags, suddenly releasing a little gasp as her fingers landed in a cold pool of spilt glue. While gingerly extracting her hand, trying not to get the glue on the envelopes and other contents of the drawer, she heard the doorbell go. Distracted, she yanked her hand out, bits of wool still sticking to it, and rushed to the tap. Vigorously shaking the water off, she hurried to the front door. ‘Ms’ Pease did not like to be kept waiting.
As she talked to the housekeeper, Alice became aware that whenever she mentioned the priest, the subject of their conversation, the woman bristled, as if giving a warning against some form of intimate trespass. It was as though his name should not pass the policewoman’s lips, for fear of it being soiled in some way when spoken by her. Watching the housekeeper’s increasing annoyance, she persevered. Her reaction revealed an obsession, a fixation with the man. He was her exclusive property; his business was her business, and if she did not know what he was doing, then whatever it was could be of no real importance. By definition.
‘So, Mrs Donnelly, you said before that you couldn’t confirm that Father McPhail was present in the church on the ninth of January between about 8 p.m. and 11 p.m. Is that still so?’
‘That’s right, I can’t.’ She smiled as if breaking good news, her inability to provide the priest with an alibi not troubling her. She was busily laying the table as she spoke.
‘You are aware,’ Alice said slowly, ‘of the seriousness of the charges that Father McPhail could face?’
‘Och, it’ll not come to that sergeant. You’ll get the fellow and then we’ll all get on with the rest of our lives.’ She beamed again.
‘But we think that Father McPhail may be the fellow.’
‘Do you really?’ Laying a knife and fork at the end of the table, the woman threw a patronising glance at the policewoman.
‘I’m not here on a social call, Mrs Donnelly. We do think Father McPhail may be the fellow.’
‘You’ve got to be joking! That’s a very far-fetched suggestion indeed.’
‘Well, someone killed those two women, and so far he hasn’t been able to explain away -’
‘What are you going on about, those two women! Father McPhail is no more involved than I am myself!’ She gave a brittle little laugh, dismissing the suggestion, her head cocked to the side as if to ridicule the very idea.
‘You, on the other hand, have not been tied by forensic evidence to Seafield, to the crime -’ Alice stopped herself in mid-sentence, afraid that in her frustration she had already disclosed too much, but the effect on the housekeeper was immediate.
‘Evidence!’ she said excitedly, ‘forensic evidence? Inspector, you have my word that Father has been nowhere near Seafield – or any of those kind of women.’
Mrs Donnelly was looking Alice straight in the eye, blinking hard, but never moving her gaze.
‘How do you know?’ Alice asked calmly, hiding the disquiet she felt at her earlier slip.
‘I know.’ The woman nodded hard. ‘I know.’
‘Well then, tell me how you know?’ Please God, tell me.
‘I can’t, no. I’m afraid I can’t. You’ll just have to find out yourselves.’
‘I suppose that woman from the parish is involved…’ Nothing to lose now. The time for a gamble had definitely arrived.
Mrs Donnelly’s jaw dropped open in surprise. ‘What do you know of any such woman, sergeant?’
Nothing. ‘Enough.’
Returning to her table-laying duties, the housekeeper began speaking quietly, almost as if she did not want to be heard. ‘The Sharpe woman will be somewhere in all of this, no doubt, offering the apple again. That’s what she does, you know, tempt him. Otherwise, he’d be fine. In all our years together he’s never so much as laid a finger on me!’
‘That Sharpe woman?’
‘June Sharpe.’
‘Where would I find her?’
‘I can’t tell you… I shouldn’t say.’
‘Not much help to me then,’ Alice said, closing her notebook. ‘Not much help to him, either.’
‘St Benedict’s. St Benedict’s church. That’s the place to start.’
The doorbell rang once more and the housekeeper turned slowly, disturbed and annoyed, and shuffled towards the landing in her tattered sandals. And as Alice let herself out, Iris Pease strode into the kitchen as if it were her own, chic as a Parisian, and as unexpected in the drab tenement flat as a phoenix in a hen-run.
A trace of matched DNA on the body. That was all she had to offer them. Elaine Bell stretched, pulled her chair out and rose, putting her hands on her hips and pushing her chin out. She cleared her throat several times and began striding about her room, preparing to speak. To make a speech, in fact.
‘Ladies and gentlemen…’ No more than a hoarse whisper emerged, and she clamped her mouth shut instantly. That simply would not do. She needed to appear confident and authoritative, not on the edge of collapse, weaving unsteadily towards a nervous breakdown. With a deep cough, and inadvertently triggering a spasm of spluttering, she began speaking again: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen…’ It was no good – the same weak tone, breathless, bodiless. A sodding Strepsil would have to be sucked, that would clear the passages, restore the natural timbre of her voice. In the meantime, she would continue her dress rehearsal for the press conference, but this time silently, in her head, playing all the parts.
‘The trace of DNA,’ she asked herself, in a suitably aggressive tone, ‘have you got a match for it?’
‘Certainly,’ she replied to herself, as herself. ‘And we have several leads that should produce results very shortly. I am confident -’
‘So,’ she interrupted herself ruthlessly, in a male voice this time. ‘Since you have a match, I assume you have a suspect. Is anyone in custody?’
‘Not at present,’ Elaine Bell mouthed, then repeated the words in a more optimistic tone. ‘Not at present, sir, but we are very confident that, possibly within the next few days, we will be in a position -’
‘Had either of the prostitutes been raped?’ she interrupted herself again, using the characteristic squawk of the giantess from the Evening News. Time for a standard but anodyne answer, one unobjectionable to any reporter with the slightest grasp of the constraints imposed by a continuing investigation. ‘I’m sorry, madam, I’m not in a position to disclose such details at this stage in our enquiries.’ A fine, pompous ring to it too.
‘If you have a match and the match is your suspect, why has he not been apprehended?’
The questions she was posing herself seemed to be becoming increasingly difficult.
‘Well, there are often…’ A poor start. It sounded too tentative, almost timid. She tried again. ‘DNA can be found on a body, or whatever, for entirely innocent, even serendipitous reasons. Rarely is its presence alone sufficient to -’
‘I see,’ she broke in again in the male voice. ‘The DNA match is not your suspect. Do you have any real suspect at all?’
If that one was actually to be asked by the press, in such bald terms, a number of possible strategies opened up. Her favourite one, sadly a fantasy, was a dead faint. The lesser alternative, knocking over a glass of water, would create no more than a temporary diversion. Any reporter worth his salt, having scented blood, would return for the kill the second the tumbler had been righted. No. If the need arose a faint would be the answer. Considering it, she wondered whether she should practise now, let her legs buckle and see where she ended up. Hitting her head on the table as she collapsed would be most unfortunate, even if it did add authenticity to the performance. As she was daydreaming, wondering whether to faint to the left or the right, the telephone rang. It made her strained nerves jangle, returning her to reality and her lack of any adequate response at the press conference.
‘Yes.’
‘Elaine, is that you? It’s Frank at the lab.’
‘Frank! Frank! Great to hear your voice. Have you got any news for me?’
‘Yep. Summer is a-coming in, loudly sing cuckoo. We’ve got a match… Francis McPhail again. Not perfect, but good enough. Fucking contamination – sorry, Elaine, excuse my French – contamination again, blood from that DS Simon Wanker of yours. But no worries, McPhail’s DNA was in the stain again.’
A single phone call and the sun had emerged from behind the clouds. At last, they had a proper suspect, a bloody good one at that. One trace could, perhaps, be explained away, but not two! No, siree. And now she could stride into the press conference with her head held high, no blustering needed, and not just withstand the slings and arrows but thwack them back at the pack. With gusto! If the Chief Constable had been given the same news then by now he would be falling over himself in his haste to shed his alternative commitment – if it had ever existed. She spat out her cough sweet, tore up her notes and left the office, headed for the murder suite with ‘Nessun Dorma’ playing in her head.
An ‘A. Foscetti’ was listed in the Perth and Kinross directory at ‘Barleybrae’, Milnathort. Alice looked at her watch. 5.30 p.m. She could go home, the press conference was over and their suspect out of circulation. Still, Ian would not be there yet. His working day never ended before 7.00 p.m., and on recent form he was unlikely to be home before 9.00. So, she had an abundance of time, even if there were rush-hour queues at Barnton or raging blizzards at Kelty.
Best try the number first, she thought. No answer. Perhaps she should wait until tomorrow and phone again, save a wasted journey. On the other hand, if she succeeded there would be rejoicing in Miss Spinnell’s bosom. Spurred on by the thought, she grabbed her bag and set off for the car.
‘Barleybrae’ turned out to be an austere villa on the Burleigh Road. The house had once been a doctor’s surgery, and high hedges, now unclipped, continued to ensure its genteel privacy. Alice knocked and stood waiting, arms crossed tightly for warmth, willing the front door to open. Not a sound within. She knocked again, more forcefully this time, rapping the solid wood as if on urgent police business. Nothing. One final hammering before setting off back across the Bridge, she decided, bruising her knuckles in her enthusiasm. She listened intently, and made out a shuffling sound, coming closer, stopping, and then the sound of a Yale snib being released. One half of an aged little face squinted through the crack that had opened.
‘Mrs Foscetti?’ Alice began, ‘I’ve come about your sister. I’m a neighbour of hers, a friend. Actually. I’ve lived in the same tenement as her for the last ten years’
The front door opened fully, and to her amazement Alice saw Miss Spinnell standing before her. Dumbfounded, she stared until the old lady broke the silence.
‘Well, dear, what do you want? What about my sister?’
‘Miss Spinnell!’ Alice exclaimed.
‘Yes, I know her name, thank you.’ A characteristically tart reply.
‘No, no…’ Alice began. ‘How did you get here?’
‘Oh, I see.’ The old lady spoke again, a wide smile lighting up her features. ‘You think I’m Morag, don’t you? Morag Spinnell.’
‘Yes,’ Alice answered, disconcerted.
‘No, dear. She’s my sister. I’m Annabel Foscetti, nee Spinnell. We’re identical twins, in fact.’ Now, looking at the woman intently, Alice began to notice differences. The white hair seemed thicker, less tousled, and her protruding eyes were more co-ordinated, moving together in unison, working as a pair.
‘Oh… I’m sorry.’
‘She is alright, my sister?’ the old lady asked anxiously, touching Alice’s hand for a second.
‘She’s fine. She wants to see you.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so, dear,’ the old lady replied firmly, ‘we had a falling out.’
‘Yes,’ Alice insisted, ‘Yes, she does. She “lost” you, so to speak, couldn’t trace you. It was her birthday a few days ago, and now she wants to see you.’
‘OUR birthday,’ Mrs Foscetti said, in an irritated tone. ‘Our birthday, dear. She always tells people that I’m older than her, although I’m actually the younger, by a full eight minutes. We haven’t seen each other for, oh, must be… well… years and years. We fell out.’ Having had her say, the old lady waved the policewoman into her house.
Seated in her snug, well-ordered sitting room, Mrs Foscetti explained the origin of the rift between the twins. Pouring out of tea for her guest with a steady hand, she confided that it had been over a man. Charlie Foscetti, in fact. Morag had considered him her “property”. She had “found” him first, after all, and had never forgiven either of them when Charlie transferred his affection from one twin to the other. To the younger of the two, as it happened.
‘Well, she wants to see you now,’ Alice said, warming her hands on the bone china cup clasped between her hands.
‘How is she?’ Mrs Foscetti asked, looking concerned.
‘A bit forgetful, muddled sometimes, but physically in pretty good shape.’ Should she mention the Alzheimer’s, Alice wondered. What if, given their identical genetic make-up, the disease had Mrs Foscetti in its sights too? Better say nothing. ‘Muddled’ covered a wide spectrum of possible complaints.
‘In that case, I’m going to give her a ring!’ Mrs Foscetti said, plainly delighted at the idea, replacing her cup on its saucer.
‘Her phone’s off, I’m afraid.’ Knocked to the floor by Quill once too often.
‘I know, then,’ the old lady said, excitedly, ‘I’ll give her a big, big surprise. On Saturday, I’ll catch the bus and go and see her. Where is she living now?’
‘Edinburgh. And I’ve a better idea,’ Alice said. ‘I’m supposed to be off on Saturday the twenty-eighth. If you like, I could come and pick you up then and take you to Broughton Place myself. How would that be?’
Spontaneously touching Alice’s wrist again, Mrs Foscetti nodded enthusiastically ‘Why not? I’ll wear my smartest outfit, and knock the spots off her!’