Tuesday
‘It wis there, under they things… o’er there,’ Ally Livingstone said, his voice echoing through the massive semi-circular arches of the Dean Bridge, as he pointed at a couple of leafless elderberry bushes.
Far below the path on which he stood, the Water of Leith flowed onwards on its journey towards the sea, its turbid waters tumbling over rocks, occasionally lapping lazily in the sandy shallows and depositing on the shore a froth of creamy foam like that left in an empty beer glass. The moisture-filled air seemed almost intoxicating, laden with the aroma of brewing, of hops and barley, a timeless scent and one characteristic of Auld Reekie.
Mid-river, a pair of police divers were on all fours, feeling their way along the bottom with their gloved hands. Near them, a colleague periodically immersed himself in a deeper pool, only to surface every so often with a hub-cap, a slime-covered milk-crate or other detritus consigned to the river by the litter louts of the capital.
Breaking the water again, his black wet-suit glinting like sealskin in the weak winter sun, the upright diver said, ‘I think I’ve got something, Inspector.’
Amid the roar of the river his voice was lost. Realising that he had not been heard, he tried again, shouting this time: ‘I’ve got something, Sir.’
‘So what is it?’ Eric Manson bellowed back, then cupped his hand over his mouth, sheltering his match from the icy breeze so that he could light his cigar. The diver, standing waist-deep in the water and shivering visibly in the cold, continued examining a muddy rectangular box clutched between his gloves.
‘Eh…’ the man said, pushing his mask onto this head to get a clearer view, ‘seems to be…’ He hesitated again, ducking the object back into the water to wash it. ‘Em… I think it’s a t… t… trinket box, boss. Yup, it’s like a w… w… wee box for valuables.’
‘Big deal,’ Ally Livingstone thought, watching the diver wading heavy-legged towards the bank, and taking a deep draw on his cigarette. They were all supposed to be looking for the fucking wallet, weren’t they? That was what this circus was supposed to be about. And, obviously, if they looked hard enough in the water, they would find it. He exhaled the smoke onto his linked hands, relishing the feel of warm breath on his chilled fingers, and allowed his mind to wander.
Their child would be a boy, he thought, a son. And the wee man would not be afraid of mice or snakes or any other creatures, including polismen. No, he’d handle them fearlessly, just like his dad.
Christ! A sudden thought struck him. It was freezing, the pale winter sun too weak to take the chill from the air, and with him having been banged up overnight, Armageddon would still be loose on the floor of the unheated Nissan. The snake would have become torpid, might even have died, and he had not had his tea, never mind any breakfast. And for sure, Frankie would not have been able to face lifting him out, the very idea likely to bring on a miscarriage.
As he was racking his brains, trying to think how to solve the problem, one of the divers in the shallows stood up, waving something above his head. The cold air had made his eyes water and Ally Livingstone screwed them up, trying to make out what had been found, and then gave a long, low whistle. The object was a long-bladed knife, and the sight of it held aloft made him shudder inwardly, banishing all thoughts of Armageddon, of Frankie, of the unborn baby even. And he cursed his stupidity. He should have said nothing as usual, no comment to everything, but it was too late for that now. Instead, he had brought them to this place as surely as a sniffer dog following a scent, but this time the hound had been following its own trail, tracking itself and condemning itself as it wagged its stupid tail. Now, he would not be holding Frankie’s hand as she cried out while their son was born. No, at this rate, he would be lucky to know the child at all.
‘So, Livingstone, what’s with the knife?’ the inspector asked, jerking his head in the direction of the water.
‘Em… I’ll have ma lawyer now, thanks. I dinnae ken nothin’ about any knife.’
‘What about the box, know anything about that?’
‘Aha. I threw it in the river aifter I’d taken the jewellery from it, the necklace an’ stuff an’ the big pearly ring,’ he answered, taking a draw on his cigarette and blowing a couple of smoke rings in the air.
‘You never mentioned the jewellery or the box before.’
‘Naw, and ye never asked us yesterday either, ’cause ye were in a dream most o’ the time! How am I s’pose’d tae ken what ye want tae ken, eh, less ye ask us? Is that no’ yer job? I found the jewellery box in the bushes an a’, an’ the computer, an old photy frame too… empty,’ Ally retorted crossly, jangling the loose change in his pocket.
‘Now, you tell us. What did you do with the computer?’
‘Eh, I took it to ma work, checked over the case, put the rubbish from it, like, in the bin, sold the computer to one of the Parky boys.’
‘And the drugs, medicines, morphine and so on?’
‘Eh?’
‘Don’t “eh” me! What did you do with the drugs?’
‘I found a bag o’ bottles – that what ye mean?’
‘Funny, isn’t it, the way you know about pretty well everything – everything except the knife.’
‘They wis empty, and it’s no’ funny tae me. Expect I’ll get the blame fer a’ the shoppin’ trolleys an’ a’? Oh, aye, that wis Ally, ye’ll a’ say – he’s the wan spends his days chuckin’ stuff in the river – knives, forks, spoons, prams, the lot. It’s his hobby.’
Alistair Watt stifled a yawn and looked around the room, surveying the assembly of pale, weary faces in it. Beside him, Alice was leaning back on her chair, her eyes closed, arms crossed over her chest. Black bruising encircled her left eye-socket and she, too, looked exhausted.
‘A domestic? Or too much of the sauce followed by a collision with a door, perhaps?’
‘Clerk attacked me, since you ask.’
‘What did you do to him?’
‘Not nearly enough…’ she began, but stopped abruptly as Elaine Bell took her place at the front of the room and the murmur of quiet chatter died away. Eric Manson, his lips blue with cold, shuffled towards the only remaining vacant chair.
‘Good news. I’ve just heard that Clerk was refused bail…’ the DCI began.
A spontaneous ripple of applause filled the air, reaching a crescendo when, acknowledging it, she took a bow and pointed at all of them as a conductor might at an orchestra.
‘But…’ she continued, ‘I also heard that he’s appealing the decision. So we may have only a few days before he’s back out again. Eric, how did you get on?’
‘The stuff was just where Livingstone said it would be. And we’ve got the weapon, I reckon. One of the divers fished a knife, looked like a kitchen knife, out of the river.’
‘D’you think he’s involved in any of this?’
‘Livingstone? No, no way. I was watching him. He looked horrified when he saw the blade, started gibbering away. I think he was telling the truth, saying that he found the stuff, I mean. It’s given him the fright of his life. Serves the bastard right.’
‘OK. Alice, how did you get on with the carer woman, Una… Una Reid?’
‘She told me what Brodie last ate and I phoned the lab with the information, for what it’s worth. Oh, and she didn’t leave him until eight, eight-ten or so.’
‘Ma’am,’ DC Littlewood said, ‘you’re sure Clerk done Brodie, that he’s our man, aren’t you, eh?’
She nodded, a half-smile playing about her lips, and he, emboldened by her apparent good humour, continued. ‘Me too. Looks like he preys on the disabled as easy meat, you could say. Can’t be chance, can it? A knife, a disabled person. Each time.’
‘Easy meat?’ the DCI said, repeating his phrase with an expression of extreme distaste on her face.
‘Em… the vulnerable, then,’ the Constable said, blushing.
‘If it was him, why did he chuck away the jewellery box and so on that he’d filched? Did he do that with the old woman’s stuff?’ Alice asked.
‘No, I checked that out earlier this morning,’ the DCI replied. ‘He didn’t, but don’t forget that over fifteen years have passed since his last crime. M.o.’s change – maybe just a little bit here and there, but they do change – perhaps he liked the old lady’s stuff, wanted to keep it, but not Brodie’s. He took what he wanted and threw away the rest. Who knows? Let’s leave that for his defence.’
DC Gallagher marched confidently into the room, but when he saw his boss’s face darken at his lateness, he said immediately, ‘Sorry, I’m late Ma’am. I was on the phone. The crime scene manager wanted to speak to you. I took the message.’
‘And?’ she said, crossly.
‘And they’ve found a book there, in Clerk’s flat. It’s got a bookplate on it which says “Ex Libris Gavin Brodie” or something like that.’
‘Yes!’ Elaine Bell said triumphantly, raising her fist in the air. ‘We’ve got the creepy bastard now.’
Tonight would be spent in her own bed, Elaine Bell thought, seeing and smelling the freshly-ironed sheets as if they were in front of her. And, another big bonus, now she would have time to prepare herself for the confrontation with the Super, assemble all the evidence she needed and consider the best strategy to make him rewrite that travesty of an appraisal. She would have to give him wriggle-room to change or rephrase his expressed views without it resembling a retreat. The slightest hint of such a thing would make him more recalcitrant, more uncompromising and, possibly, if cornered, positively belligerent.
Their meeting would take all her tact, all her diplomacy, virtues she was well aware that the good fairy had left out at her christening. And if these failed, then she would simply appeal over his head to his superiors, or perhaps try the grievance route. Of course, resort to either would result in gossip about her predicament. An appeal of any sort, however legitimate, would leave her damaged or tarnished in some intangible way. She would be marked out as another troublesome woman, hand-bagging her way to the top over the bodies of better candidates, all men. And that would be a victory for the Tyrannosaurus, although a different sort of one. No, somehow he would just have to be persuaded to change his mind.
It took four hours to compile, then distil, the evidence that she needed for her campaign, and it could all be contained in one large brown envelope. Looking at it, it seemed strange that her future could depend on such an unimpressive package. Stage two was to arrange the meeting, ideally for some time after lunch, when his belly would be full and his mood benign. Her phone rang and she picked it up, her thoughts still centred on the confrontation to come.
‘Chief Inspector Bell.’
‘Just thought you’d like to know, Ma’am,’ Alistair Watt said, ‘we’ve had Mr Anderson in and he’s just positively identified the video clip of Clerk as the man in his flat. He thinks he may have recognised him from the day centre in Raeburn Place, he sometimes goes there too. That’s where Robert Clerk goes as well.’
‘Alright,’ she replied, sounding unexcited by the news. ‘There was no doubt about that anyway, was there? Clerk didn’t deny being in the man’s flat, even admitted to picking up the man’s things, including the knife, didn’t he?’
‘Well, yes, but…’
‘Probably picks his victims from the place. It would make perfect sense wouldn’t it? I’d bet money that Gavin Brodie also attended that day centre.’
Seeing Professor McConnachie standing waiting in her doorway, she glanced at her watch and quickly terminated the conversation, waving the pathologist in. He sat down opposite her, his battered old leather briefcase perched on the edge of his fleshless knees.
‘And how are you this cold afternoon?’ he began, fumbling inside it and taking a couple of sheets of paper from its ink-stained interior.
‘I am fine, just fine,’ she replied, feeling well-disposed towards him, content with the way the investigation seemed to be going.
‘Well, we’ve got the toxicology report back, and I thought I’d bring it myself. I was due to see one of your people anyway.’
‘Anything interesting?’ she asked, picking it up and beginning to read the first paragraph.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’ she repeated interrogatively, her head on one side, waiting for him to explain.
‘That Brodie man seems to have been very unpopular. He was poisoned as well as having his throat cut.’
‘Bloody Hell!’
‘It was, I agree, a rather unexpected finding…’
‘Are you telling me,’ she interrupted him, ‘that the cut to the throat wasn’t the cause of death? Because if so, we may have wasted the first few, crucial days of this investigation…’
And, glowering at him, she added with real anger in her voice, ‘If only these reports weren’t always so bloody late!’
‘What I’m telling you, actually, Elaine, is that this is a complex, difficult picture,’ Professor McConnachie replied emolliently, trying to calm her down and ensure that she took in his news, digested its import properly.
‘Then he did die in consequence of the cut?’ she chipped in, unwilling to proceed at his sedate pace.
‘Yes, yes. Brodie was undoubtedly alive when his throat was cut and he did die in consequence of it. He exsanguinated, bled to death, if you like. We know that, you saw the evidence of it splattered all over th e place, running down his bedroom wall. But the toxicology here’s… well, anything but straightforward. At the P.M. I had difficulty getting blood, so as you know I submitted liver and heart samples too. They’ve been analysed, and the tissues contain significant concentrations of two drugs – morphine and nortriptyline – at a toxic or near-toxic level. A level, possibly, probably, suggestive of an overdose.’
‘What do you mean “possibly, probably”? We need beyond reasonable doubt, remember,’ she said sharply. ‘And which is it? “Possibly” or “probably”? And neither’s good enough, as you’ll appreciate.’
‘Yes,’ the Professor said, trying to remain unriled despite her combative tone. ‘I do appreciate that, but we can’t give you a more categorical result because of post-mortem redistribution. It’s likely there’s been some degree of post-mortem diffusion from the gastro-intestinal tract into the liver lobes lying closest to the stomach and into the cardiac tissues.’
‘So?’
‘So that makes it difficult to estimate ante-mortem drug concentrations, and the ingested dose, from the post-mortem measurements.’
‘So what is it, exactly, that are you telling me? I told you, I need, as a minimum, to understand.’
The Professor sighed, ‘From the toxicological results it looks possible…’ He corrected himself, ‘Probable, that at some interval, perhaps a couple of hours before his throat was cut, Mr Brodie ingested a toxic or near-toxic dose of morphine, in some form, plus an anti-depressant, one of the tricyclics called nortriptyline – both medications he took for his condition.’
‘So we’ll need to check it all out, won’t we? Find out if he could have taken the stuff himself… or if it had to be fed to him – if it could even be fed to him – and then he’s bloody killed by something else anyway. I wonder where that leaves us?’
‘I really don’t know,’ the Professor said, his head bent as he fished in the interior of his bag once more.
‘Could he have taken it himself, accidentally or otherwise?’
‘As I said, I don’t know. I had a look at his medical records this morning, but you can’t tell from them.’
He rose to go, handing her another sheet of paper. ‘One other thing – and I’m just the messenger, remember – here’s the lab report.’
As soon as she lowered her head to read it, he took his opportunity to escape, casually ambling out of the open doorway, humming under his breath as if without a care in the world, but feeling the need for a good strong cup of coffee.
Although he was seated at his desk in the murder suite, Inspector Eric Manson’s mind was on his wife, rather than his work. Under his left hand lay a sheaf of papers that he was supposed to look at, fresh from the photocopier and still warm to the touch, but they remained unread. Tom Littlewood was scurrying about the room distributing the copies, the DCI’s barked orders ringing in his ears. The milk in Manson’s coffee had begun to form a skin, and he gave his cup an absent-minded stir, then removed the spoon from it but did not pick up his drink. Even his mid-afternoon snack, a white pudding, had been allowed to grow cold within its paper bag.
This could not be happening to him, he thought morosely. Not to him. To others, obviously, but to him? No. It was not that Margaret was plain – on the contrary, taking into account her age and so on, she had fared really quite well – but she had no interest in other men, surely? Years and years ago she must have ceased to look at them in that way. But maybe they continued to look at her in that way? Impossible! She had ‘happily married woman’ stamped all over her, every inch of her, she was positively matronly. She would never give anyone the glad eye, or make a spectacle of herself. Well, not that he had witnessed, anyway, although on reflection, she wouldn’t do it if he was watching her, now, would she? But it was ridiculous! Margaret must be… was, above suspicion.
On the other hand, perhaps that was part of the problem? Complacency. It could make the clearly visible, invisible, and prevent you from seeing what was right in front of your nose. And maybe he had taken her for granted. A bit. But not Margaret. Sweet Jesus!
He groaned, looked round to see if anyone had heard the sound, and then cleared his throat noisily to disguise it. The possibility, and that was all it was, must be faced, would have to be taken seriously. The evidence had to be considered and a conclusion reached. ‘Feeling’ or ‘intuition’ or other nonsense of that sort could not be relied upon. He would not be cuckood… cuckolded, or whatever the hell it was called.
His mobile rang and he snatched it up, annoyed at the intrusion into his thoughts.
‘Yes,’ he said sharply.
‘Eric, Eric, love, it’s me…’ the words were meant to be soothing, but the characteristic discordant squawk, instantly identifying the caller, had the opposite effect. The female journalist at the other end, unaware of the Inspector’s irritation, added in a rasping tone, ‘What’ve you got for me today, darling?’
Had Manson been standing beside her he would almost certainly have softened, as he usually did, on seeing her blonde good looks and inhaling her expensive scent. And he would have imparted information to her, whether confidential or not, before he had even realised what he was doing. But the ugliness of that disembodied voice still ringing in his ear had a very different effect, one unlikely to make him compliant. The assumption implicit in her question positively annoyed him.
‘Em… I’m in the office the now, Marie, and nothin’s doin’. I gave you your wee titbit about the Brodie murder yesterday, and it’s all I’ve got.’
‘Come on, Eric, sweetheart. You’re the man. You can do better than that.’
Again, if he had seen the words spoken by her full lips he would have found them flirtatious, heard some magical double-entendre, but when she was not there in the flesh they were open to a very different interpretation. To his preoccupied, troubled mind they had a nagging or goading sound. Did the woman imagine that he was her pet or something?
‘Em… I’ve got to go, Marie. Somethin’ urgent’s just… eh, breaking.’
So saying, he shoved his mobile back into his pocket, regretting instantly his use of the word ‘urgent’. It was bound to make her reporter’s ears prick up, and she would re-double her efforts. Never mind, she had been fobbed off for the present and reminded of her place.
Anyway, he thought, crossly, what had he ever got from her apart from a few come-ons ending in brush-offs? She was like some kind of mirage in the desert, shimmering and beautiful from afar, but turning out on closer inspection to be a mere illusion. No more than a puff of hot air. Not that, as a married man, he would have ever been led astray by her, obviously, even if he had had the chance, but to date she had not offered him the chance. The chance to refuse. Oh, no, she appeared to believe, he fumed, that he could be led by the nose endlessly like… like… a circus pony or a bull or something, never actually receiving a reward but still traipsing endlessly after her. A reward he would decline when, and if, she offered it. Even though it was long overdue.
He opened his desk drawer, intending to remove a couple of biscuits from the packet inside it, and noticed under his digestives a framed photograph of his wife. He picked it up, tipping off stale crumbs as he did so, and studied it. There she was, smiling at him, wearing a large navy boater and her favourite cream dress, the one with navy embroidery on the collars. Her ‘going away’ outfit. He had taken the picture on the first day of their honeymoon. Tucked into the frame was a more recent image, snapped less than a year ago. Staring at it, he became anxious once more. It reminded him that she had worn well for fifty-five, a little on the matronly side nowadays maybe, but she could still be described as ‘attractive’. And if he thought so, after over thirty years of marriage, then other men might well do so too. Christ Almighty!
But, he comforted himself, it was all right, everything was all right, because she would not be interested in the unscrupulous swine anyway. On the other hand, if that were true, then why had she taken to dressing so much more snappily of late? Her neckline had plunged lower than ever before, even he had noticed that, and her clothes were more clinging, more… He paused, trying to think of the appropriate word. ‘Sexy’. Christ, that was it. They were more sexy, she was looking sexier. And why, in heaven’s name, would she be doing that? Unless there was another man.
While he had been daydreaming, thinking about his wife, the DCI had come into the room to talk to him. And, now she was standing beside him, watching in disbelief as he frittered away valuable time, staring fixedly out of the window, his jaw loose, his mouth hanging open. She had already taken in the fact that the papers in front of him remained unread. A second earlier she had swept her hand across his line of vision, but, in his absorption, he had seen nothing.
‘Eric!’ she said, impatient to get his attention.
‘Ma’am,’ he answered automatically, coming to and becoming aware once more of his surroundings.
‘So, what do you think?’
‘Mmm…’ Having no idea what she was talking about, he played for time, quickly deciding to try and bounce the question back to her.
‘I’m just not sure what to think, really. What do you think, Ma’am?’
‘You haven’t read it, have you?’
‘I’ve made a start, but not very thoroughly, no…’
‘Well, to speed things up a bit – the toxicology report suggests that Brodie may have been poisoned before he had his throat slit, doesn’t it?’
‘Shit! Poisoned… you’re joking.’
‘I knew you hadn’t read it. Perhaps you’d like me to read it to you?’
‘No, Ma’am.’
‘Have you looked at the lab report?’
‘Not as such’
‘Well, if you had you would know that Clerk’s prints are on the handles of Brodie’s wheelchair in India Street. And there’s some other, so far unidentified, DNA in the house – which is, perhaps, not surprising really.’
Eric Manson cocked his head to one side, unsure quite what to think, but keen to look thoughtful.
‘Anyway, I’ve spoken to the fiscal and he agrees that with the prints and the book we’ve got more than enough now to charge Clerk with Gavin Brodie’s murder. We’ll interview him first thing tomorrow. But, in the meanwhile, I need to find out more about the poisoning, overdose or whatever. McConnachie’s quite clear that it wasn’t the cause of death, but we still need to know, in case his defence makes something out of it, as I’m sure they’ll try. And we don’t want him to get off, do we?’
‘So…’
‘So, I’m leaving it to you and Alice to find out what was going on, to dig about the place. I want an explanation, so just read the bloody reports, will you?’
He nodded, but said nothing.
‘Begin by seeing the man’s doctor, Colin Paxton. It may be Brodie took the stuff himself, that he was suicidal and there’s an innocent explanation for all of it. And if so, good, that’ll be an end of it. So, we need to find out if he could have done that, if there was enough in the bottles for the overdose – you get the picture. And Eric…’ she added unnecessarily, peeved that she still did not appear to have his full attention, ‘you’ll catch flies if you keep your maw open like that.’
Picking up the phone on her desk Alice immediately recognised Mrs Foscetti’s bird-like warble. ‘Alice, dear, Ian was supposed to collect Quill by six o’clock but he’s not been. And it’s nearly eight, and we’re supposed to be going out.’
But before Alice had said a word, begun to apologise, she heard a loud scuffling noise at the other end of the line, and then, in the background, Miss Spinnell’s irritated tones, followed by a brief, heated exchange between the sisters.
‘What are you doing, Annabelle?’ Miss Spinnell hissed. ‘It’s only the spiritualists, a Blue Lodge meeting.’
‘But I thought you wanted to go to it! You used to go, before I came.’
‘Yes, but I’ve found you haven’t I? It is you, isn’t it? I only joined to speak to you, when I thought you were dead. I wasn’t looking for company, for any old soul you know. Goodness me, you’re not the only one to have friends, dear! Tell Ali… Alice… that we’ll keep the dog, all night, if necessary. He can sleep on my bed… someone seems to have taken his.’
Reaching the entrance to Broughton Place, Alice looked up at the windows of the flat to see if any lights were on, but it was in darkness. Rather than spend time at home alone she carried on to the bottom of Broughton Street, over the roundabout at Mansefield Place and down towards Canonmills and Inverleith Row. As she walked, she kept her eyes peeled in case Ian was scurrying home, coming in the opposite direction, eager to get into the warmth and call it a day.
As she passed the terrace in the Colonies, drops of rain began to fall, getting bigger every second, until what had started as a light shower became an icy downpour. Soon streams were cascading off the pavements and setting the gutters awash with mud-coloured water. Everyone but her seemed to have had some kind of early warning of the deluge and had taken shelter. Opposite Reid Terrace, the usually sluggish Water of Leith was being transformed, its mild babbling turning into the roar of a gathering torrent.
Crossing the low bridge by the turn-off to Arboretum Avenue, she put her head down and began to run, heading for St Bernard’s Row. Suddenly the sky was lit by a flash of lightning and in seconds the boom of thunder followed it. Turning into Henderson Row and wondering if she would be struck by the next bolt, she tried the handle of the studio door, rattling it to no effect until she noticed the large padlock on the high latch.
Now soaked to the skin, she turned to leave, but saw a young woman, whom she recognised as a studio-mate of Ian’s, standing in a doorway opposite the dilapidated building. Desperate to get out of the ceaseless rain, she ran across the road and stood beside her, shivering, cursing herself for losing every umbrella she had ever possessed.
‘Ian’s not still in there is he?’ she said through chattering teeth, hoping against hope.
The woman, taking a final draw from her cigarette, said, ‘No, the place’s deserted. Everyone went hours ago. There’s a power-cut, and it’ll not be put right until tomorrow morning.’ Then she snatched up the rucksack at her feet and plunged out on to the pavement, clattering along it with an uncoordinated pigeon-toed gait, her bag swinging from side to side with each heavy footstep like Quasimodo’s hump.
Watching her as she disappeared, Alice wondered if, for once, Ian had taken a different route home and was now sitting in the light, enjoying the warmth of their flat. That was it – he, too, must have gone home by the Henderson Row route for a change. But what a night to choose.
With her hair and clothes drenched, water streaming down her face, she trudged back eastwards, keeping herself going with the thought of the hot bath and drink that would be waiting for her at the other end. It was his turn to do make the supper, so there would be some food, too, with luck. But the stone stairs up to their flat were as dry as ever, the odd puff of dust rising under her feet as she climbed, and no light was visible in the glass panel above their front door. Neither Ian nor Quill were there to welcome her in her dripping state, and the flat was cold. Where on earth was he?
An hour later, and having found something to eat, she tried to read the paper but found that she could not concentrate, flitting from one world disaster to the next, unmoved by them all. When she phoned him again she got his messaging service once more. Why had he switched his phone off? What was he playing at? If he had been in an accident surely she would have heard by now?
Perhaps he had just gone to the pub, was there still and had lost all track of time, having a few jars too many. He could have bloody contacted her though, she thought crossly. Then, hearing the sound of his footsteps on the stair, she rose to greet him, running to the door to open it. But she got there only to hear a bout of consumptive coughing, and the footsteps carrying on up the stairs to the next landing. Nothing more than the signature noises of another of their neighbours, Jim the Vicar, on his way to bed.
Just before midnight, Ian woke her, trying to slide silently under the covers beside her, and she said sleepily, ‘Where on earth have you been?’
‘In my studio,’ he answered, snuggling up against her curved back, ‘finishing things off for the exhibition.’