Dying of the Light (12 page)

Finding that all the flats in the tenement bar one were boarded up, she knocked on its scratched front door, getting no response. Then, noticing a gap in it where a spy hole once had been, she put her eye to it and found herself eyeball to eyeball with the occupant.

‘Ye’re lucky I didnae poke a sharp pencil right through it,’ an old voice croaked, and the door was opened a foot or two to reveal an unshaven little fellow, his pyjama top visible below his knitted jersey. Concluding that his
visitor
posed no threat, he said cheerily, ‘C’mon, hen, c’mon in.’

The sound of dozens of budgies cheeping and
chirruping
greeted her as they entered the kitchenette, making any conversation impossible until the old man turned on a tap, soothing or intriguing them into silence.
Nonetheless
, many of them continued to fly free, swooping from cage to cage, some now sitting on the mixer tap, heads bent to one side. Moving a soiled newspaper from a chair, their owner sat down and began to speak, cutting an apple into budgie-size bites as he did so.

‘The last time I seen Annie wid be oan the Friday night, eh… the twelfth, that’d be,’ he said, running his fingers up and down over the stubble on his cheek. ‘No since then, mind. Mebbe she’s been away or somethin’.’

‘Does she go away often?’

‘Naw. She’s nivver away. I seen her oan the stair, aboot the back o’ eight. She wis oan her way tae her work.’

‘Her work?’ Did he know that she was a prostitute?

‘Aha. She’s a cleaner, ken. Cleans nights at schools up the toon. Sleep a’ day, practically. Looks aifter the wee yin
perfect, though,’ he added quickly, anxious not to create official suspicion about her child-care arrangements or anything else. She was much more than a neighbour to him, she was his friend.

‘So, sir, you’ve not seen her since the back of eight on Friday night. But have you maybe heard her? Coming up the stairs or in the flat or anywhere? Even the sound of a radio or TV?’

‘Naw. Not a cheep, darlin’.’

‘Get the fucking result and get it now!’

Elaine Bell banged down the phone and looked up at Alice from her desk.

‘Bloody lab,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘We’ll see about that. I’ll have it in a couple of days or they’ll feel the Chief Constable’s hot breath on their collars. What do you want, Alice?’

‘Er…’ stammered the sergeant, confused, ‘DI Manson said you wanted me, had something in mind that I am to do – now.’

‘Right,’ the DCI said, trying to gather her thoughts as she spoke. ‘Quite right. I need you to go down to the Cowgate for 9.00 a.m. tomorrow. Professor
McConachie’s
going to do the PM and, if I can make it, I’m coming too. First, though, go back to S.P.E.A.R. and see who we should speak to about Annie Wright. Find out who’ll know her movements and so on.’

‘But it’s eight o’clock at night, ma’am. The office will be empty.’

‘Yes, the office will be empty but, for Christ’s sake, use your initiative! The van will likely be out and about. Check Carron Place and then any of its other stopping
places. You said the Barbour woman usually mans it, so go and find them. Now!’

And, as was so often the case, DCI Bell turned out to be correct. The yellow van was parked on the cobbles in Salamander Street, beside a vacant lot. On the high mesh fencing surrounding the waste ground a sign swung creaking in the wind, bearing the words ‘Scheduled for Re-development’. Plumes of grey smoke curled from a few slush-dampened bonfires dotted about the site, their embers casting a tangerine glow on the snow surrounding them. Soon that area, too, of the ancient, venerable Burgh of Leith, with its winding streets and decayed grandeur, would be no more. Its place would be taken by
comfortable
and characterless flats interspersed with retail parks, the place’s independent status already no more than a fading memory.

Despite the harsh weather, a woman leant against the vehicle chatting to the driver. Snatches of their
conversation
reached Alice’s ears as she walked towards the van. Something about polis cars, lights, and the scrappy’s yard. Not surprising that the prostitutes know, she thought – another killing in the heart of their territory, they should be among the first to hear.

Sensing the approach of a stranger, and keen to avoid any confrontation, the woman slunk into the darkness, padding silently away on the compacted snow. Alice tapped on the window on the other side and watched a sleeve wipe away the condensation, to reveal the face of its owner. A jerk of the head was all that needed to communicate where the policewoman was to go and Alice climbed into the van, relieved to be out of the cold and heartened by the smell of coffee.

‘So, it’s true?’ Ellen Barbour said immediately.

‘What?’ Best give no information away yet.

‘Another murder!’ Barbour said crossly, aware that some sort of fencing was taking place and having no truck with it.

‘How do you know about it?’

‘Bush telegraph, so to speak. How d’ you think?’

‘We need your help, Ellen. It’s Annie Wright this time. She was found, as you’ve probably heard, in Cargill’s yard. Who would be able to tell me about her movements this evening and in general?’

‘Easy. She always works with Christine, they’re pretty inseparable. She’d be able to help.’

‘Christine?’

‘Christine Hunter.’

‘And where would I find her?’

‘Well, usually they work just up from the junction with Seafield Place, by General George’s car park. If I were you, that’s the place I’d try first.’

As the policewoman opened the car door to leave, Ellen Barbour added, angrily, ‘And that Guy Bayley, Alice, see him too – check him out.’

The name sounded familiar. ‘Why? Where would I find him?’

‘You’ll find him under ‘B’ for bastard in the phone book, or try the offices of Scrimegour and Woodward WS in Queen Street. That’s where he works, I gather.’

‘And why should I see him?’

‘Because he’s a fanatic, he started everything. He’s always on the phone, complaining to us, to the council. And he hates prostitutes, truly hates them – all of them. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because… well, maybe his mother was one or something.’

A man was walking along the pavement towards her: waterproof jacket, starched blue jeans and a cloth cap pulled down low over his face. Christine Hunter knew the type. A prim wife at home fondly imagining hubby to be at the Rotary, the Residents’ Association or some other worthy gathering, waiting patiently for his return,
blinkered
to the real nature of his hotly anticipated meetings. And a punter on foot meant no cosy car despite weather cold enough to kill a cat.

To her surprise, as the stranger drew near, he unfurled a striped golf umbrella and thrust it aloft, high above his head, like a tourist guide. She gazed at his face expecting the usual expression of fear mingled with excitement, but found instead something rather different. Unadulterated loathing.

‘Filthy bitch!’ he mouthed.

She turned away from him to face the traffic, but to her amazement he lined himself up beside her so that their shoulders and elbows were in contact, and they were side by side like figures in a paper chain.

‘The others are on their way. So, best get back to your kennel, eh?’ he added, beginning to shuffle sideways, pushing her along with him until, annoyed, she jutted out her hip, temporarily stopping him in his tracks. As if on cue, two other men, one wearing an orange day-glo jacket, emerged from a parked car and silently joined the
strange chorus line, starting to move in unison with their leader. The prostitute was forced along again until,
suddenly
, she stepped backwards and the men came to an unscheduled halt, bumping into each other like railway carriages colliding. Immediately, the shufflers reformed, feet together, aligning themselves beside her to restart their sideways progress along the pavement. A few more seconds of pressure and Christine Hunter felt her legs going from beneath her; she slipped on sheet ice and fell backwards onto the unyielding ground.

Lying there, panting from the effort of resisting their combined pressure, she glared up at her tormentors as they stood speechless, exhaling their warm breaths into the cold air, more like dumb beasts than fellow human beings.

‘OK, OK, big men, yous win,’ the woman said in her nasal, sing song voice, her ribs aching, bruised from the heavy landing. The buggers would not see her cry though. She would not give them that satisfaction.

To her surprise a gloved hand was stretched towards her and she took it, wondering, as she did so, if it was some kind of sick joke and she would find her grip
unexpectedly
released. But it did not happen, and two cloth caps were tipped at her as she turned northwards
heading
for Salamander Street, blinking hard as snow flakes landed in her watering eyes. A tap on her shoulder did not make her halt or turn around, it would only be the vigilantes making sure that she did not retrace her steps, shepherding her as if she was an old ewe. But when the figure drew level and she saw a woman’s face, she stopped at last.

Back in Fishwives Causeway, the prostitute stretched upwards for the coffee jar on the wall unit and felt, as she did so, a stab of pain in her left chest, savage enough to make her wince, and instantly she retracted her arm as if she had received an electric shock. Unasked, the police sergeant reached it for her, and took over the preparation of their drinks, searching in the fridge for the milk and unhooking the mugs from their place below the shelf.

Christine Hunter was still trying to take in the
meaning
of what she had been told. Annie Wright. Annie of all people! On the other hand, why not Annie? Why not her, for that matter? Leaves in the wind mattered more to most people, were less of a nuisance than the so-called underclass. Her class. Maybe the time had finally come to quit? But she rejected the idea immediately. It could not be afforded, best not even contemplate such a thing. Maybe, when she was clean, but she had failed often enough at that. Drumming the warm coffee spoon on her palm, she turned her attention to the questions being fired at her and began to speak.

‘Last time I seen Annie wid be oan the Friday. I’ve no’ been back oot since then, as Marvin’s been ill in his bed an’ I stayed hame wi’ him.’ Hearing the name, Alice
wondered
, idly, whether the man was the girl’s pimp, present somewhere in the house but hidden. She said nothing, letting the woman continue.

‘She’d hae been at the warehouse though. She gaes even if I’m off. Annie needs the money, like, aye works there… unless the bastards are out ’n aboot. Like the nicht.’ The prostitute stirred another spoonful of sugar absentmindedly into her half cup. ‘No-wan showed on the Friday, mebbe the weather, mebbe the new law, whitever. By ten we ca’ed it a day. Nivver seen her aifter that.’

‘So the last time you saw your friend alive was at about 10.00 p.m. last Friday?’

‘Aye.’

The kitchen door creaked open and a small boy, clad in oversized pyjamas, peered round it until his mother beckoned him and he skipped across the floor, his hems dusting the lino, then jumped delightedly onto her lap.

‘Your son?’ Alice asked.

‘Aha. Ma wee boy, Marvin.’

‘Did you have a bad dream?’ Alice enquired,
beaming
at the child as he traced the shape of a stain on the kitchen table with his finger. She got no reply.

‘Did you have a bad dream, Marvin?’ she tried again.

‘He’ll nae hear ye, hen. He has tae see yer mooth tae ken whit ye’re sayin’. He’s stane deaf, like me. We’re gaen tae get implants wan day an’ join the human race.’

A gleaming hearse with its engine idling was waiting at the vehicular entrance to the Police Mortuary in the Cowgate. The driver, his black topper resting on the dashboard, was having a smoke while listening for an answer at the entry phone.

Inside the building, Alice looked at the naked, bruised female corpse lying on the table, exposed to the gaze of all as she had been when first born. The circle completed. She looked over the record of items removed from the corpse, her gaze flitting down it until she found the
jewellery
section. An eternity ring, a pair of stud earrings but, oddly, no gold crucifix listed with the chain.

Jock Brady, one of the technicians, nudged her out of the way, fussing about the place like an old hen,
compulsively
arranging and then re-arranging the tools and
equipment, ensuring that they were all in their proper order in readiness for the arrival of the principal
dramatis personae
.

‘Heard about the Prof?’ he asked cheerily, buffing up an oversized metal ladle on his sleeve.

‘No.’ Alice shook her head, tense in anticipation of what she would soon have to witness. What in Heaven’s name would the ladle be used for?

‘He’s fine, but the poor auld bugger lost a lot o’ blood, I’ve heard. His gastric ulcer blew up early this morning, and he was rushed – blue light an’ all – into the Royal Infirmary.’

Maybe the post mortem would be postponed, then, Alice thought, feeling her spirits soar at the prospect. If so, someone else might find themselves assigned to it instead of her. Surely, luck was on her side.

‘So, is this thing going to go ahead then?’

‘Obviously. We’re all here. Doctor Zenabi’s going to do it wi’ some bint drafted in for the occasion frae Dundee. Eh… a Doctor… Doctor… Doctor bloody Who for all I can remember. She’s reputed to be a real glamour pu…’ His voice tailed off as Doctor Zenabi, with the female pathologist in tow, approached the table. Jock smiled ingratiatingly at both of them.

‘Doctor Todrick,’ the woman volunteered, introducing herself in a business-like fashion. She was, Alice noticed, strikingly attractive despite her unflattering garb and scraped-back hair, and had the upright carriage of an empress. On the other side of the body the technician raised an eyebrow and winked conspiratorially as if to say ‘I told you so’.

And as the minutes ticked slowly by, Alice noticed that Ahmed Zenabi could not take his eyes off his new
colleague. Due to his infatuation, his movements, usually so precise and assured, had become subject to a marked delay, out of synchronisation with everyone else. He was only a few seconds behind, but enough to cause a degree of irritation to Jock if no-one else. The usual practised choreography of the mortuary was being upset.

Now the technician stood with the saw in his hand, eyes rolling upwards, waiting impatiently, and in vain, for the signal to apply it to the skull. Several times he mimed the anticipated action, making loud brooming noises as if he were about to wield a chainsaw, but neither of his superiors paid any attention to him. One was busy
taking
scrapings from beneath the dead woman’s fingernails, and the other was busy too, transfixed by the sight of his colleague performing her duties. He might as well not have been there.

‘Lovesick puppy!’ Jock murmured under his breath to Alice, before deliberately knocking an empty metal
collecting
jug off the table with his elbow, causing it to bounce noisily on the tiles below. Doctor Zenabi looked up,
glaring
angrily, only to find the saw thrust unceremoniously towards him, an indignant expression on his colleague’s face rather than the expected contrition.

Gently placing a limp white hand back onto the table, Dr Todrick turned her attention to the ragged flesh around the chest wound. Oblivious to the fracas, she said quietly, ‘Some bites… rat bites, by the look of things. She must have been outside for quite a little while.’

Elaine Bell, handkerchief hastily clamped over her nose as if she might sneeze at any moment, moved closer to the body, craning forward to get a better view. In her eagerness she jostled a photographer. Her irritated snarl elicited a speedy apology from her victim.

‘Doctor Todrick, you said she’d been outside for a fair bit. How long exactly?’ she asked.

‘Quite a few days, judging by the rodent damage – and the faeces,’ the pathologist replied, extracting a black pellet from the centre of the wound and examining it carefully in her tweezers.

‘Fine… dead for quite a few days,’ Elaine Bell repeated, gagging and swallowing her voice, ‘…but how many days exactly? When was she killed?’

Adjusting her goggles, and re-focussing on the
dropping
, Dr Todrick replied ‘I can’t say with any real precision. My best estimate would be three or four days. Something like that. The cold’s certainly retarded the decomposition process.’

‘Four days, ma’am, would accord with the last known sighting of the woman alive and the date of the earliest letter unopened by her. It was postmarked the twelfth, a Friday, second class…’ Alice began.

‘OK, OK,’ the Detective Chief Inspector said,
impatiently
cutting her off, determined to extract maximum information from the pathologists while she still had the chance to do so in person.

‘And the wound, Ahmed, is it the same sort of shape, size or whatever as the one on Isobel Wilson?’

His gloved hand now around a human heart, the man nodded. ‘Looks like it. I can’t be sure without
measurements
and so on, but yes, it appears that way. Single-sided blade, un-serrated. If the vaginal swabs and other stuff are all negative, then it may well be the same perpetrator. Same M.O. at least. Isobel Wilson wasn’t touched was she?’

‘Mmmm,’ Elaine Bell assented unthinkingly,
momentarily
taken aback by the sight of the object in the pathologist’s hand. Meanwhile Doctor Todrick folded her
arms for a few seconds respite, and her colleague
immediately
put down his handful to do the same, unconsciously mimicking her movements once more and allowing his gaze to return to her face. Briefly, their eyes met. Doctor Todrick quickly lowered hers, only to raise them again to meet his a few seconds later. And despite the smell of the butcher’s shop in the air and the presence of a dead body between them, Alice recognised what she was witnessing. She marvelled at the strangeness of life; that love should blossom, in a mortuary.