Saturday
‘So, Doctor,’ Elaine Bell began, feeling tense already, knowing that the man might be a difficult interviewee with his university degrees and the ease, the self confidence, which came from his position in the community. But some bloody pillar of it he was – pillock, more like – and she would get the better of him. The lying toad. Fortunately, he looked rattled now, his dark eyes looking anxiously into hers, sweat shining on his upper lip, and all before she had even begun. The ride in the marked police car seemed to have done the trick.
‘I understand from the Inspector that on last Saturday night you were at your health club, Triton, until about 10 pm or so, is that correct?’ Let him assent, and hang himself here and now. A firm ‘yes’ would leave him no room for pleas of error or forgetfulness later.
As she had hoped, he did say yes, glancing nervously at Eric Manson’s well-built figure as he was doing so. In American cop programmes they beat people up, but not here, surely? If only he had watched The Bill or Taggart, anything, then he would have had an idea.
‘And after that you went on to the Geordie in Rose Street?’
He nodded, adding quietly, ‘Yes, that’s where I went.’
‘Sure about that?’
He nodded once more, crossing his legs and fingering the cleft in his chin.
‘Funny, then, that nobody at Triton, your club, saw you?’
‘Not really, Chief Inspector,’ he replied. His voice sounded hoarse, so he cleared his throat and repeated, ‘Not really funny. It’s a big place, lots of machines, a swimming pool, showers. Not a difficult place to hide… if you wanted to.’
‘OK, I follow that. Maybe the Geordie was the same. Lots of people, busy, jolly Christmas crowd, that sort of thing?’ Please God, another ‘yes’.
‘Exactly. That’s exactly what it was like. Still, I’m surprised that no one could remember me being there, if that’s what you’re going to suggest to me. Not even Brian?’
‘Brian?’ she replied, inviting him to enlighten her.
‘Brian. Irish Brian. He’s one of the barmen. I could have sworn he served me with at least one pint. He’ll probably remember me.’
‘That would be a bloody miracle,’ Eric Manson growled, looking hard at the doctor.
‘It would be a little… odd,’ the DCI said, in a slightly perplexed tone, ‘since the Geordie was closed on Saturday night. There’d been a flood, you see. So, “Irish Brian”, and everyone else, now that I think about it, would be elsewhere.’
‘So, “Doctor”,’ Eric Manson said, raising crooked fingers on either hand to put inverted commas around the man’s title, and leaning closer towards him, ‘where the fuck were you?’
All the remaining colour drained from Colin Paxton’s face and he said, in an apologetic tone, ‘I’m sorry, sorry, I think I’m about to be sick.’ No sooner had he said the words than he bent forward and threw up onto the table, copiously, splashing himself and the nearby Inspector.
‘Bloody Hell!’ Manson shouted, leaping to his feet, his chair tumbling to the ground behind him.
Later, in a different interview room, the same group reassembled. Paxton seemed somehow smaller, dressed in borrowed clothes, his head bowed and licking his lips incessantly as if he had just crossed a desert.
The DCI looked quizzically at him, inviting him to begin but saying nothing herself.
‘I wasn’t at the club… or the pub. I was seeing Heather,’ the doctor said, head bowed.
‘That’ll be Heather Brodie, your patient’s wife, eh?’ Eric Manson said, as if helpfully clarifying matters.
‘Yes,’ the man replied, in a low voice, closing his eyes briefly as if unable to face them.
‘So, tell us,’ Elaine Bell said, ‘what exactly did happen on Saturday night?’
Slowly, the story of the evening at Il Gattopardo and in his flat emerged, he having to be prodded occasionally to ensure that his narrative did not dry up. When he had finished Eric Manson leant across and snarled, ‘So, you’re knockin’ off a sick man’s wife, right? No, sorry, correction, a dying man’s wife… then, after that…’
‘Eric! That’s enough,’ the DCI reprimanded him, alarmed by the fury in his voice and the ferocious expression on his face.
‘Why didn’t you accompany Heather Brodie home?’ she asked the doctor.
‘I would have… I would have liked to, but I’d have had to stop before India Street anyway, and there’s always the risk…’
‘The risk?’
‘That we’d be seen. It would be awful for Heather, and if the GMC caught just a whiff of it I’d be struck off…’
‘For knocking off a dying man’s wife? Surely not?’ Eric Manson sneered.
‘That’s why you lied?’ Elaine Bell asked, ignoring her colleague’s aside.
‘Of course, I had to. Why else would I?’
‘What do you think, Alice?’ the DCI asked, after they had congregated once more in the murder suite, leaving their interviewee in his room to stew in his own juice, pacing up and down, uncertain what would happen to him next.
‘About Paxton?’
‘Of course.’
‘I think he’s telling the truth this time. He’s petrified. I don’t think he was lying.’
‘But do you think he was involved? In the killing?’ the DCI asked.
Before Alice had time to answer, she added, ‘What I don’t understand is, why? Why would Heather Brodie or Paxton, alone or together, bother to kill Gavin Brodie? If they wanted him out of the way, he was on his way out already. They would hardly have had to wait. And they weren’t really waiting anyway, they were already getting on with their lives together. He couldn’t have lasted more than… what, a couple of months or something? He was wasting away in front of their very eyes. Why would they take the risk?’
‘I don’t know, but something I came across yesterday might explain it,’ Alice replied. ‘In Heather Brodie’s desk I found some insurance policy documents. If Brodie survived beyond early February next year, which is a month or so away, then she would not get a payout of two hundred thousand pounds. If he died before then, she would.’
‘He had to die before then for there to be a payout? Why didn’t you tell me this last night?’ Elaine Bell demanded crossly. ‘It might have been useful to have known that this morning, don’t you think? For questioning Paxton, if nothing else.’
‘Er… I think I thought…’ she racked her brain, wondering why she had failed to pass on the news.
‘Oh, never mind,’ the DCI interrupted in a tired voice, ‘We’ve got him for a bit longer, I suppose. But we’ll still need a lot more evidence, motive or no motive It’s all circumstantial so far.’
‘I don’t know, we’ve a fair amount against them both now, haven’t we?’ Eric Manson commented, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he wiped a spot of something from the shoulder of his jacket with a paper hankie.
‘No, we haven’t, Sir,’ Alice said bluntly, too exhausted from lack of sleep to bother how her intervention might sound. ‘Surely any prints or DNA in the house can be easily explained away? He’ll not have been on the database, but if the unidentified stuff is his, prints or DNA, it was in the kitchen and the bedroom wasn’t it? He’ll account for it on the basis of his role as the man’s doctor. And there was nothing on the knife or anything else, thanks to the river and the rain. We’ve no witnesses. All we’ve got so far, surely, is opportunity, means and now, possibly, motive. Nothing concrete. And what did they do? Poison him and then cut his throat, but why both? And why would they take stuff, then throw it away?’
‘Well, if it was them,’ the DCI answered, ruffling her hair distractedly with her hands, ‘they’d take the stuff just to make it look like an outside job. But I’ve no idea at the moment why they’d do both.’
‘Have we heard from the pharmacy whether there was enough in the bottles for the overdose?’
‘Yup. There was enough – well, enough if we can rely on Paxton’s prescription records. Which, of course, is rather a big if now.’
‘Presumably,’ Alice said, ‘we should discount, for the present, at least, Heather Brodie and Paxton’s evidence about the victim’s ability to take the stuff himself?’
‘Yes, I agree. We’ll go with the old lady and what‘s her name Reid’s version, the children’s too, that he couldn’t do it himself, and he no longer knew what was in the bottles.’
‘One other thing, Ma’am,’ Alice said, tentatively, keen to avoid provoking another outburst, ‘amongst the stuff in Heather Brodie’s desk there were papers, court papers. He had to raise an action to stop some madwoman pursuing him, scratching his car, yelling at Harry and Ella, breaking his windows. It all happened quite recently. Just last year in fact. Should I check the woman out? I’ve done a bit of digging with her neighbours, and apparently she works at the Abbey Park Lodge.’
‘Mmm, does she now,’ Elaine Bell responded, her interest engaged immediately, falling silent as she thought things through. A few trails seemed to have led back to that place. And, remembering the Dyce enquiry and her failure to follow up a possible lead, she nodded.
‘On you go. We’ll leave Paxton to sweat in here for a bit longer. In the meanwhile, we’ll re-do her closest neighbours, and make a start on his. Maybe someone will be able to say whether he left the place with her, when, or have seen the pair of them go into India Street together, anything. Anything to show that he’s still lying. Because if he is, with a bit more pressure, I reckon he’ll break.’
‘And if he doesn’t, then that leaves her, the Brodie woman,’ Eric Manson said, adding grimly, ‘and she’ll be the only one left in the picture.’
‘That’s it then, Detta,’ the manageress of the Abbey Park Lodge said, airily, ‘there’ll be no more raisins sprinkled in the clean underwear, eh?’
‘Em… like I told you, I just spilt them there… the sultanas, like.’
‘Raisins, sultanas, whatever… they all look like rodent droppings, don’t they? And once could be accidental, twice carelessness even, but six times? No, I don’t think so. However, I… no, we, will manage to forget all about this little incident, I’m sure, and you’ll not be going to the lawyers, to the Industrial Tribunal either. Is that right, dear, you’ll give up your claim now, eh?’
Victory, the manageress thought, as she looked into the little Irishwoman’s resentful eyes, was almost in her grasp. It was true, as the manuals said, that management sometimes resembled a game of chess, but, fortunately, every so often one’s opponent turned out to be not a Russian Grandmaster but, as in this case, an ass. And yes, she would admit it, hers was an unorthodox approach, certainly not one recommended or sanctioned by those manuals, but innovation and flexibility were surely the hallmarks of the competent manager? This morning, fortune had favoured the brave, and Julia from H R.’s timid advice could now be consigned to the wastepaper bin of industrial relations. And, as ‘brown cow’ did not always, inevitably, follow ‘How, now,’ Agnes, too, might get nowhere with her complaint.
Detta O’Hare, her head lowered as if in church, nodded mulishly, and then turned to leave the manageress’s office, hitting her elbow on the door frame in her haste to escape.
A few minutes later, and feeling reinvigorated by the routing of the woman, the manageress found herself informing the police sergeant that no Agnes Hart worked in their premises.
‘No.’ She shook her head, replacing the cap on her gold Parker pen with a single assured movement, ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there. No one with that name works here. As I’m sure you’ll appreciate, I am familiar with the names of all my staff.’
‘You’re quite sure about that?’ Alice enquired, ‘because this is where a neighbour told us she works.’
‘Yes.’
‘Any other Agneses employed here?’ Alice asked doubtfully, with little expectation of a useful reply.
‘Two. Agnes Cauld and Agnes Leckie. They’re both on bed-making duty in the Drumsheugh Wing, or at least they should be. If they’re not there, then try the lifts, they may be cleaning them out.’
As Alice entered the first room after the fire doors, Agnes Cauld’s large posterior greeted her as the nurse bent over a resident’s bed, smoothing the covers for him. Unaware of the policewoman’s presence, she began to swing it playfully from side to side, singing as she did so, all to the evident delight of the hairless old fellow below her who began excitedly clapping out a calypso rhythm, determined to keep his jolly nurse’s company for as long as possible. Amused, Alice watched them for a few seconds, then cleared her throat loudly to alert them to her arrival.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said, turning round to face the policewoman and smiling broadly, her bright smile remaining undimmed as Alice asked her name and about the likely whereabouts of her namesake.
‘Agnes? Easy. Agnes will be smokin’…’
Then she added in singsong voice, ‘A-smokin’ or a-shakin’. Agnes is always a-smokin’ or a-shakin’. A-shakin’ or a-smokin’.’
The designated staff smoking area for the home amounted to no more than a corner of tarmac in the yard, minimal shelter being afforded by a ragged piece of corrugated iron over the triangular piece of ground. Standing in the corner, her head sunk low into her shoulders to prevent it from touching the edge of the roof, was the woman Alice was looking for. She was absorbed in her own thoughts, inhaling deeply from her cigarette, then watching the stream of smoke as she exhaled it forcefully through pale and pursed lips. On either side of her were piles of bloated rubbish bags, overspills from the nearby dustbins, and the air was rank with the stink of rotten cabbage and bad fish. By her feet were dozens of small blue polythene bags, most of which appeared balloon-like, inflated to near-bursting point with some kind of self-generated noxious gas. But she appeared oblivious to it all, to the awful odour, to the light rain falling all around her, and to the approach of the stranger, because all her attention was focused on one thing and one thing alone, her cigarette.
The woman was unusually short and almost spherical in shape, her elasticated tracksuit bottoms encircling the globe of her waist and clinging to it, cruelly outlining her vast, protuberant belly. Beneath it, and in its shade, her little feet were shod in scuffed white trainers, both of which had their pink laces undone. A pair of raisin eyes peered out from behind her fleshy cheeks, and her mouth, when not occupied in exhaling smoke, moved incessantly as if she was talking to herself.
‘Agnes Leckie?’ Alice asked, approaching the woman, trying to work out the wind-direction, to ensure that she would not be downwind of the rubbish pile.
‘Aye,’ answered Agnes, looking at the stranger with little curiosity, her trembling hand raised to her mouth, ready for another draw. ‘Who are you?’
If Alice had said that she was from the refuse department the woman could not have shown less interest in her answer, and when asked if she had ever used ‘Hart’ as a surname, she nodded, showing no curiosity whatsoever as to how this police officer could know such a thing or why she would wish to meet her.
‘And you knew Gavin Brodie, didn’t you?’ the Sergeant continued, ‘when you were still called Hart, I mean. I need to speak to you about him.’
‘Gavin Brodie? Oh aye, fire away,’ she replied, wrinkling her adipose features in disgust, ‘I’ve no’ forgotten him… No’ likely tae forget him.’
‘Before I ask you about him,’ Alice said, ‘can you tell me where you were on Saturday night, last Saturday night?’
‘This is like oan the telly, eh! Me ’n’ Gareth went to see his friend. Then I went back to ma ain flat. Whit’s all o’ this tae dae wi’ Gavin Brodie?’
‘On your own – were you at home on your own?’
‘Aye,’ she said rubbing her stomach round and round as if to polish it, ‘well, almost oan ma ain. After the wee wan’s born me ’n’ Gareth will move in tegither. I’ve taken his name already, “Leckie” for the wee wan’s sake. Like I said, whit’s all o’ this tae dae wi’ Gavin Brodie?’
‘You know who I’m talking about? The Gavin Brodie who lived in India Street?’
‘Aye, there’s only the wan fer me,’ she said, drawing deeply on her cigarette. ‘I ken him, but what’s a’ this tae dae wi’ me? He’s the wan you should be interested in – wrecked ma business, broke up ma marriage, made me ill. That wis a crime! You wouldnae believe it, but when I wis at college I used to be petite, I wis only seven stone. I could fit, nae bother, into a size eight. I’m oan a diet now, no crisps or chocolate, like, jist fags.’
‘How did he wreck everything for you?’
‘Because it wis his job tae keep me right, see? He kept the accounts for ma business. I’d a wee sandwich shop oan Henderson Row, below ma flat. Thanks tae him, all ma tax wis wrong, he got it a’ wrong, an’ the next thing the taxman wis aifter me. I got letter aifter letter, but I couldnae pay ’cause I didnae have the money. So the tax people made me bankrupt an’ then I lost the lease of the shop, then my man dumped me because he wis stressed to bits.’
She stopped speaking, dropped her cigarette butt onto the tarmac and ground it up with the heel of her trainer, then added, ‘Still, he got his come-uppance, didn’t he?’
‘His “come-uppance”?’ Alice repeated, her voice sounding nasal, a sudden whiff of bad eggs making her clamp her nostrils between her fingers. But Agnes Leckie did not respond, too busy attempting to prise another fag from the foil-covering within the packet.
‘How do you mean, “got his come-uppance”? Who did he get his “come-uppance” from?’ Alice said more loudly, moving towards the care assistant, eager to inhale the cigarette smoke now drifting about her head. The little woman took another draw, threw away her match and said, smugly, ‘God, hersel’. By givin’ him that disease.’
‘Have you been back, recently, to India Street, or anywhere near Gavin Brodie?
‘Me? Em… em, naw.’
‘Sure about that?’
‘I never done, naw, I never done that. I’d be put inside if I’d done that.’ Agnes sounded agitated, and she began scratching a rough, inflamed area on her forehead.
‘Aggie… Aggie,’ cried an anxious voice in the distance, and a little later Una Reid’s solid figure appeared, running towards the shelter with a newspaper held over her head, to protect it from the persistent rain.
‘You’ll hae tae make the last three beds…’ she began breathlessly on her arrival, ‘I done the rest of the Drumsheugh wans but I cannae dae it all mysel’. I’m supposed to be helpin’ the residents wi’ their breakfasts now.’
Agnes Leckie glanced at the newcomer, nodding her head several times in response, but she made no move to leave the shelter. Instead, she returned her gaze to Alice as if expecting the interview to continue.
‘Come oan, Aggie!’ Una Reid said excitedly. ‘Mrs Drayton kens that you’re here. She saw you leavin’ the dining hall, an’ she’s been watchin’ you ever since frae her office.’
‘Mrs Hart – er, Ms Leckie, stay here, please. There are a few other things I need to know,’ Alice began, but she was quickly interrupted by Agnes Leckie who, as if she hadn’t spoken, squealed in a high voice, ‘Mrs Drayton? She’s no’ seen me, has she, Mum?’
‘Aye. Mrs Drayton, the manageress. So get a move oan, eh, Aggie.’
‘I never went nowhere… nowhere near Gavin Brodie,’ Agnes said, her face now scarlet and tears rolling down her fat cheeks.
‘That’s right, pet, you never,’ her mother replied quietly. ‘But dinnae worry, I’ll tell the lady fer you. Off you go.’
‘I would rather speak to Agnes… directly,’ Alice said.
Ignoring the policewoman’s words, Una Reid started shooing her daughter away with her hands and then replied firmly, ‘Naw, you can speak tae me instead. Agnes’s already oan a final warnin’, she’ll lose her job if she disnae go. But you can speak tae me… again.’
‘You sure, Mum? It’ll be alright then, I’d best go, eh?’ Agnes Leckie said, zipping up her tracksuit top, preparing herself to brave the downpour, huge drops of rain smashing onto the tarmac and soaking her trainers.
‘Aye. Off you go. Dinnae you worry yourself, pet. I’ll deal wi’ her,’ Una Reid answered, jerking her head in Alice’s direction.
Agnes lurched out from under the corrugated iron roof and squelched across the yard, her rounded arms flapping loosely at her sides.
‘Right,’ said Una Reid, watching her go, then finally giving Alice her full attention. ‘She’s away. You can speak tae me an’ I’ll tell you anythin’ you need tae ken. So… why are you botherin’ Aggie – my daughter, Agnes?’
‘I wasn’t “bothering” her,’ Alice corrected her, annoyed at not being able to speak to a possible suspect, ‘I was questioning her. We’re investigating Gavin Brodie’s death, as you well know.’
‘Aye. So whit dae you want wi’ her?’ Una Reid demanded, unabashed.
‘You didn’t tell me about Agnes, your daughter, and Gavin Brodie – the connection between them. You never mentioned Agnes’s troubles, the interdict that had to be taken against her to stop her harassing him, harassing his whole family.’
‘Naw, I didnae,’ the woman replied, then she paused as if thinking and said slowly, ‘I dinnae think it mattered. It wis history. You never asked me, neither.’
‘I didn’t know about it when I last spoke to you – that she had a grudge, to put it mildly, against the man.’
Una Reid gazed unblinkingly into the policewoman’s eyes before answering, and then said, ‘Aye, she does. And nae wonder! Who could blame her? Aggie went bust, lost her husband, an’ she blamed Gavin Brodie fer everythin’… everythin’. And she wis right. So dae I. Her business wis goin’ OK up until the bother wi’ the tax people, and her man couldnae take it when things started going wrong. He just walked away, walked oot on her. Aggie stopped lookin’ aifter hersel’. She’s bi-polar, see. It’s been diagnosed now, but not before she wis sectioned for it, mind, put intae the Royal. She blamed him fer everythin’ that happened. I done and a’.’
‘Has she ever been back to India Street, anywhere near Gavin Brodie, as far as you know?’
‘You’re jokin’ aren’t ye? Ye must be. No, Never. She’s shit-scared, terrified. But you’re no interested in that, are you? The court case and a’ that. No, you’re wonderin’ if she killed the man, aren’t you? Aggie? Jeez!’ she sighed. ‘Just to let you know,’ she added, hotly, ‘it’s ridiculous. you seen her for yourself. Are her prints all over things or somethin’? Course they’re fuckin’ not! Oh, and youse’ll have them, you know. Before she went into the Royal she wis in an’ oot the jail. Shoplifting, malicious mischief, drink and everythin’.’
‘OK, but we…’ Alice began, pausing momentarily to move further into the shelter in an attempt to avoid more drips going down her collar.
‘Aggie!’ the woman continued, fired up with anger at the thought, ‘Aggie can hardly get oot her bed in the mornin’ the now. She’s so drugged she can hardly think.’
‘Did you realise, when you got the job with the Brodies, who you were going to work for?’ Alice persisted.
‘No’ at first, it was a’ done through here, through the Abbey Park. Aifter the first few days I realised.’
‘And then, once you did realise, how did you feel about the man who had ruined your daughter’s life, seeing him every day?’
‘What d’you think I felt? I just about quit at first. But then, well, I needed the money. They’re private payers, like, good payers, too. And I didnae kill him, if that’s what you’re getting’ oan aboot the noo. Naw, I didnae need to. I watched him being punished day in and day out, that was reward enough for me. Why’d I bring his suffering to an end? I enjoyed seein’ it… got paid by him to watch it an’ a’.’
‘Alice?’ It was Ian.
‘Yes,’ she answered, her voice dull, but her heart suddenly thumping against her ribs as if trying to escape its cage. Simply at the sound of his voice at the other end of a phone.
‘I’m back. Have you had lunch yet? Could you spare half an hour or so, so I can see you. I’ve something to tell you.’
‘No, I haven’t had lunch. Whereabouts were you thinking?’
‘Say, that café in Stockbridge, in twenty minutes or so.’
She arrived first and took a table in the window, watching the people passing on the street outside, trying to calm herself by breathing in and out more deeply. Every time the door opened she looked up, and eventually, five minutes late, he walked in. Seeing her he came over and tried to kiss her cheek, but instinctively she turned her head away.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, sitting beside her, looking anxiously into her face.
Where to begin? It was, of course, the very question that she had been anticipating, but all the answers that she had envisaged herself giving fell away, and she heard herself muttering ‘Nothing,’ like a sulky schoolgirl. After a second, she spurred herself on and tried again. ‘Well, no, not nothing actually. Something. Why did you tell me on Wednesday night that you’d been at your studio when you weren’t? I went there at about 10.45 and looked round about it for a bit and you were nowhere to be seen. I saw Susie and she told me that there had been a power cut, and the place was out of action until the next day…’
‘I know, I know, that’s what…’ he began, frantically waving the bemused waitress away as you might a troublesome wasp.
‘And London. I don’t even believe you were there. You told me before that you’d cleaned the stone you used for the wishbone lithographs… you told me at the time you did it. No address, no call, no text. What’s going on?’
It had all fallen out in a breathless rush, but as she had promised herself, nothing had been kept back, no accidental traps were left for the unwary. She had shown her complete hand, including, by the tone of her voice, her annoyance, her hurt at his deceit. Hearing her words, he looked taken aback, but said not a thing. Seconds passed in silence between them, feeling like hours.
‘Well?’ she heard herself say, her tone more like a magistrate than a lover.
‘I… I… I was intending to tell you…’ he began, but stopped again, moving towards her and holding out his hand for her to take. ‘I was intending to tell you…’
‘What?’ she said, sounding horribly shrill in her own ears, wanting the worst to be over and forcing herself to add, ‘tell me what? That it’s finished? That we’re finished and that it is all over? Fine. OK. I understand that, but what I’d like to know…’ She ground to a halt, but it was all right, she had somehow got it out, so that all that was left for him to do was to nod his head. He would not have to say a thing. But as he listened to her, the expression on his face had changed, and he looked distraught, hurt, like a dog who had received an unexpected blow.
‘No! No! Alice… that’s not what I wanted to say. Not what I wanted to tell you,’ he said.
‘Well, what is it then?’
‘Not that, not anything like that. Christ Almighty! How could you even think such a thing?’
‘What can I get you?’ a waiter asked, pad at the ready, looking expectantly at them for their order.
‘Not now, nothing,’ Ian answered, then added for politeness’ sake, ‘later. We’ll order later, thank you.’
‘What is it then, tell me,’ Alice said once the man had gone, already feeling a wave of relief rushing over her at his passionate denial, able to muster a weak joke: ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’
He took her hand in his and looked into her eyes. ‘That’s not so far off the mark… On Tuesday last…’ he swallowed, but continued speaking, ‘I discovered that I’m a father. I’ve got a three-year-old son. I knew nothing about him, I promise you. Nothing, I promise you. His mother, Paula, never let me know that she was pregnant. I lived with her for a little while on and off when I was in St Bernard’s Row, but it was never serious for either of us.’
‘Why is she telling you about the boy now?’
‘She isn’t. She didn’t. It wasn’t her. She didn’t tell me, it was her sister. Paula died in a car accident about two months ago…’
‘So, why didn’t you tell me that, about the boy? Why lie?’
He sighed. ‘I don’t know, I’m sorry. I was ashamed, having a child, and having done nothing for it – for him. Like some kind of deadbeat. I did go to London, I promise, but it was to meet his grandparents, talk to them. Before that, on the Wednesday night, I went to the sister’s house, that’s where I was. I saw him for a little while before he went to bed, I talked to her.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ she asked, still trying to digest the news.
‘I don’t know. Get to know him, first of all, I suppose.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Hamish. Hamish John Melville.’
‘No, Pippa, I’ll do it,’ Heather Brodie said, making no effort to disguise her impatience at her sister’s ineffectuality, ‘I know how it works. It’s got its own idiosyncrasies…’ So saying, she almost barged her sister out of the way, turned the key in the lock and simultaneously pushed the door with her right shoulder. Her forceful tactic worked, and the pair of them walked into Harry Brodie’s flat, a dark and dingy basement in Raeburn Mews. Heather Brodie was feeling annoyed. She had not wanted company on this occasion, particularly on this occasion, and was finding her extended stay with her sister rather a trial.
Pippa was far too neat, too quiet, too set in her ways, and seemed to have nothing better to do than mope about re-arranging her immaculate possessions on a daily basis. And she seemed to have sunk into a decline, ever since that interview with the police. But how many times would she have to repeat ‘It went fine,’ and explain that they had been believed, reassure her that the police would never discover their lies. How much more bloody reassurance could she give? And, for that matter, how much more silent resentment could she endure? And today Pippa had taken to shadowing her. Had she no life of her own? No friends? Were they not living in each other’s pockets enough already?
The cursory inspection Heather Brodie made of the place revealed the expected mess: unwashed clothes strewn on unhoovered carpets, dirty dishes stacked beside the sink, and books and papers scattered throughout as if a strong wind had blown them there.
She was quite accustomed to the sights and smells of her son’s quarters, since every fortnight or so for the past year she had gone there and cleaned them out. Today, however, the squalor of the place struck her with new force. In the company of her sister, she suddenly saw it through her eyes and imagined the thoughts that were likely to be passing through her mind. And Pippa, of course, only had dealings with six- to eight-year-olds, and then only during school hours, so she had, could have, no real experience of a normal nineteen-year-old boy and his habits.
And Harry was certainly entirely normal, the state of his flat testified to that, although it would, no doubt, be considered an abhorrence, an abomination, by his spinster aunt. And, actually, for the record, no amount of discipline, chastisement or reward would have turned him into a tidy boy, she thought crossly to herself, so it had nothing to do with his upbringing or lack of it, and everything to do with his… his character and his heredity. Gavin had been an untidy creature, too, always was.
‘This is disgusting,’ Pippa said, stooping to pick up a greasy frying pan from the top of the television set in the boy’s bedroom.
‘But quite normal – for students,’ her sister replied, evenly.
‘Ella doesn’t keep her flat like this. It’s always immaculate.’ The riposte was immediate.
‘Ella, Ella, Ella! Ella can do no bloody wrong, though, can she, Pippa?’ Heather Brodie said, unable to stop her annoyance bubbling to the surface and exploding as it did every so often. ‘She’s always been your favourite. I know that, Gavin knew that, Harry knows that. Ella too. You don’t even try to hide it. Ever since she was born she’s been perfect as far as you’re concerned, hasn’t she?’ The injustice of it rankled. Only a childless woman would be so blatant in her partiality.
‘Yes, perfect,’ the spinster replied defiantly, bending over Harry’s unmade bed, lifting the duvet up and emitting a horrified gasp as she did so.
‘What is it now?’ Heather Brodie asked.
‘What on earth is that?’ Pippa Mitchelson replied, sounding appalled and holding up a copy of Nuts magazine between her thumb and forefinger, an open centrefold showing a naked girl smiling and cupping her breasts in her hands.
‘They all do it, read it, I mean,’ Heather Brodie said in as matter-of-fact tone as she could muster, taking the magazine from her sister and adding, ‘though not Ella, obviously.’ As she took it a scrap of lined paper fell out and floated down to the floor. In a trice Pippa Mitchelson picked it up, her face breaking into a smile as she said excitedly, ‘It’s a poem, Heather. I’ll read it out, shall I?’
Without waiting for an answer, she cleared her throat and then began chanting out loud in a sing-song voice:
‘In the olden days,
In the golden days,
You held my hand in yours
And led me to the sea,
You did that for me.
But in the new days,
Such black and blue days,
I held your hand in mine
To lead you to the sea,
May the Lord forgive me.’
‘It doesn’t scan very well,’ she said dismissively. ‘D’you think he wrote it? It seems to be in his handwriting.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Heather Brodie answered, impatient to get on with the job in hand, ‘he’ll have written it. He likes poetry. He’s written his own since he was a very little boy. And it scanned perfectly well, Pippa, I thought. He’s good at rhythm, always has been. His English teacher even told me.’
‘No,’ Pippa said, looking at it again, ‘let me see. First line six, no seven, syllables. Second line the same. Third line, nine syllables…’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Pippa!’ Heather Brodie remonstrated angrily, ‘I don’t care how many syllables. We haven’t got time to analyse the poem. We’re supposed to be tidying up his flat. Couldn’t you just finish making the bed?’
‘Very well,’ her sister answered huffily, pulling the rest of the duvet back inch by inch as if afraid she might expose a severed body part. On the other side of the room Heather Brodie opened the curtains, letting daylight flood onto the disordered interior. She lifted a baseball bat from the carpet, disentangling three wire coat-hangers which had become attached to it and each other, and walked towards the door, intending to put it in the hallway. As she was doing so the telephone rang. She dropped everything immediately and picked it up, curious, but also determined that Pippa would not be the one to answer it.
‘Harry Brodie’s flat,’ she said, tension making her sound slightly hostile.
‘Oh, is that you, Mrs Brodie?’ a surprised voice asked, and Heather Brodie immediately recognised the high-pitched tones of Vicky MacSween. The girl was a friend of both of her children and Harry’s current girlfriend.
‘Yes, Vicky, it’s me,’ she said, and hearing the impatience in her own tone, added, in an attempt to make herself sound less intimidating, ‘Can I help you?’
‘Is Harry there?’ Obviously not, Heather Brodie thought, otherwise he would be answering the phone instead of me, but she simply said, ‘No, Vicky, I’m afraid he’s not. Would you like me to leave a message for him?’
‘Is Ella there?’ Biting her tongue, her mother said, ‘No, sorry. She’s not here either. You could try their mobiles?’
‘Mmm… I will.’ A long silence followed.
‘So, Vicky, would you like me to leave a message in case they’ve switched them off, or what?’
‘OK. Yes, thanks. Could you tell Harry that I’ll see him tonight at about 8 pm at my place, and could you tell Ella that I’ve still got her jacket from last week. She left it in my flat on Saturday evening before we went on to the pub. I meant to give it to her before she left in the morning, but I’ll just give it to Harry when I see him tonight.’
‘Ella left it with you last Saturday? OK. And you’ll give the jacket to Harry. Righto. Anything else?’
‘Nope.’
Now deep in thought, Heather Brodie put the phone down and began picking up some of the sheets of A4 paper scattered all over the floor. As she was doing so her sister stooped to help her, but after she had gathered a few of them she came to a sudden halt.
‘They’re all mixed up – look,’ she said, holding up one of the sheets. ‘This one looks like English Literature, and this one…’ she added, pulling out another from the sheaf, ‘looks like a language paper or something, and this one,’ she tried to extract another sheet without losing her grip on the rest, ‘must be Russian studies.’
‘And?’ Heather Brodie said, still bent double, gathering up the papers, ignoring their contents and continuing to collect them in a single pile.
‘Well, they must be his lecture notes, mustn’t they? We’ll need to keep them separate. He’ll need them separate, for his essays and his revision if nothing else.’
‘Then,’ Heather Brodie said, conscious that her tolerance of her sister and her annoying ways was now at a dangerously low ebb, ‘he’ll just have to separate them out after we’ve put them all together into one pile, won’t he?’
‘Of course,’ her sister replied, aware of the unspoken reprimand, now wishing that she had never volunteered to help with the flat-cleaning, wasting a precious Saturday. She could have gone to the Botanics, checked out the Dean Gallery or simply cleaned her own flat, for that matter. It would have taken her mind off everything. And Heather simply did not understand the meaning of the word gratitude.
Feeling increasingly hot, and keen to get out of her sister’s company before she said something rash, she abandoned the paper collection and strode into the windowless kitchen, turning on the fan extractor and hoping for a rush of cold air. It seemed impossible to keep cool nowadays wherever she was, modern thermostats must all be set too high.
How fortunate for me, she thought to herself as she set to work, picking up a pile of battered, slime-covered silver cartons from the table, that this generation chooses to live on carry-outs. So much less washing-up, but so bland, and goodness knows what it must do to the young people’s health. No wonder the boy always looked so pallid, so thin and positively sickly of late.
Putting the cartons in the overflowing bin, she turned her attention to the sink, removed a couple of used teabags from the drain and lifted up a bottle of Fairy Liquid, the sole purpose of which seemed to be to act as a paperweight. Certainly, it had not been used for washing dishes. As she held it she noticed that an opened envelope with something inside it had stuck to the base of the bottle. Cautiously, she peeled it off. Now it was in her hand she was well aware that she should put it down again, or file it safely somewhere else, but she found that she could not resist the temptation to read it, to peek at it at least. The letter was addressed to Mr H. A. Brodie. The original India Street address had been scored out and, in Heather’s neat script, the Raeburn Mews one substituted. Maybe the letter would contain a declaration of strong feelings, friendship, or a love letter perhaps, something life enhancing and real. Maybe he had won a prize! She needed distraction, and Heather was in another room after all, so no-one would ever know, and Harry might not even mind if he knew, and he would never know so it could do no harm to anybody, could it? A single glance might well be enough. Filled with anticipation, she wiped her hands on a foul-smelling dish cloth and took a sheet of paper out of the envelope.
‘Heather,’ she shouted, forgetting in her surprise that she was not supposed to be reading the boy’s mail, ‘What’s this about? Was Harry going to have…’
Before she had finished speaking, her sister came into the room carrying another letter in an official-looking envelope. She took the sheet of paper from Pippa. Reading it, her expression changed to one of despair. She glanced at the name and address on the envelope that Pippa still held and sat down heavily on a nearby stool.
‘What is it, Heather?’ Pippa enquired, sitting down beside her on another chair.
‘Nothing… nothing that I can’t fix.’