Dying of the Light (15 page)

‘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!’

The young man straightened his striped tie. His first proper assignment as a qualified solicitor and it would have to be advising on an interview under caution. Oh, and not any old interview under caution, just one involving a suspected double murderer. Christ on a bike! Here he was, monkey masquerading as organ-grinder, and all because that fat git McFadden was taking a sickie to go ski-ing.

He glanced warily around the interview room,
nauseous
with apprehension and increasingly aware that his bladder needed emptying. But all the police personnel seemed eager to start, quivering like dogs in their traps, desperate to catch the passing hare. And even the hare, his so-called client, seemed ready to go. And if this had been for some trivial charge, say, a peeing up a close or a minor assault, then he too might be happily placing his toes on the start line. Presumably, they all imagined that he knew what he was doing. No-one could say that he did not look the part, at least.

On cue, and as soon as requested by the Chief
Inspector
, he left the room, feeling in some incongruous way as if he had been demoted, now a stage-hand rather than a performer. Thank goodness he had listened to the office secretary again, she knew her onions. Otherwise he would be vainly protesting his right to stay beside his client until he was forcibly ejected, his inexperience exposed for all to see, for all to laugh at. The humiliation just did not bear thinking about.

Obviously, the warnings he had remembered to give his client provided a sort of comfort, justified his initial attendance at public expense. Any difficult or dangerous questions were to be responded to with ‘no comment’, or ‘I’d rather not answer that’, and the consequences of such apparent lack of frankness could be sorted out later. But now, watching the priest through the internal glass
window
of the interview room, and, worse yet, hearing him, the holy fool appeared to be busy shooting himself in both feet, ignoring all the earlier whispered advice as if it had been imparted in Pushtu. In fact, for all the difference he had made, he might as well give up, enjoy himself instead, relax and take in his surroundings. Plainly, he lacked the requisite gravitas to influence a man of the cloth.

The young policewoman sitting opposite the priest caught his eye. DS Rice, he recalled, from their brief
pre-interview
conversation. Very tall indeed. And what was the polite word for thin too? ‘Willowy’. Pussy willow. He looked at her face, became absorbed in his study of it, heedless now of anything the priest was saying, or
anyone
else for that matter. Strange. Pussy Willow’s face was registering concern, distress even, the sort of expression to be expected from an onlooker at an inevitable crash. Unexpectedly, she threw a hostile glance at him, or was it aimed at someone near the door? Either way, he took no notice and carried on, whenever the opportunity
presented
itself, of studying her.

Unknown to him she was only too well aware of his presence, his grimacing face occasionally pressed to the glass, nose and chin flattened and yellowed. The mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish in a bowl.

‘Truly, I’ve never met Isobel Wilson,’ the priest said imploringly, and Alice Rice watched him intently as he
spoke. ‘Nor Annie Wright either. On the ninth I was, as I told you the first time, helping Mrs Donnelly clean my study in the early evening, then I went to my church. I got back home at about eleven, I think. On the evening of the twelfth I was…’ he hesitated briefly, ‘in my church again. I spent the night there.’

‘Anybody else there with you?’ Elaine Bell enquired.

‘No-one.’

‘Sure about that? No-one in the church throughout the entire period that you were there? The entire night?’

‘No-one. I’m sure.’

‘And when did you go there, and when did you leave the place?’

‘I went there at… maybe seven o’ clock, and I left there… about six or so.’

‘Eleven hours on your knees!’ Elaine Bell spluttered in disbelief.

‘I sat some of the time, officer,’ the priest said coolly.

‘Your housekeeper saw you return?’

‘In the morning? Yes, she saw me.’

‘So, Father, if traces of blood, with your DNA, have been found on the bodies of Isobel Wilson and Annie Wright, what exactly would your explanation for that be?’

The priest stared at the DCI. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, incredulous. Elaine Bell repeated every word she had said, and looked expectantly at him.

‘I’d say…’ he paused, meeting the eyes of his
interrogators
. ‘I’d say… it’s impossible, because I’ve never come across either of those poor souls.’

Alice looked towards the door, spotting the young solicitor framed outside in his usual window, entertaining himself by misting the glass with his breath and then
rubbing
a clear circle in it with his nose.

As Father McPhail was being taken down to the cell, Alice picked up a list recording the possessions taken from his pockets at the charge bar. His diary, a lottery ticket and a wallet containing a
£
5 note, a debit card, the photograph of a baby and a biro. While she was reading the diary, Elaine Bell was busy on the phone to one of the turnkeys, becoming increasingly frustrated as the conversation went on. ‘No – I said NOT to put him in the pink cell. I don’t care if all the others are occupied, just shift them around, eh? Why? Why? How about because the priest doesn’t need pacifying in there, or to see “FUCK THE POPE” scrawled on its walls. That’s why!’

At 10.30 a.m. the double doors of St Benedict’s opened, and a sad trickle of silver-haired people emerged,
chattering
among themselves in a subdued fashion, preparing to brave the snow-glazed church steps that led to the
pavement
. The celebrant was nowhere to be seen, so Alice buttonholed a stooped old lady, who stood motionless and staring hard down the street as if in search of her lift, to enquire whether June Sharpe was among the
congregation
. In clipped tones she was directed towards the parish secretary, a dowdy woman in a headscarf, busy cramming her missal into her handbag.

Like an inquisitive jackdaw, the secretary’s head bobbed to the left and right as she scrutinised her
fellow
attendees, eventually declaring that Mrs Sharpe must have dodged Mass on this occasion. Fortunately, she was able to produce her address, smiling triumphantly at her effortless recall, careless to whom she was divulging the
information or for what purpose. Still cupping Alice’s elbow and with reflected sunlight cruelly illuminating a clutch of white whiskers on her chin, she pointed down the road to the junction of West Pilton Gardens and West Pilton View, indicating the woman’s house.

June Sharp turned out to be a fragile, doll-like creature with enormous blue eyes, straw-blonde hair and a wide upturned mouth. When Alice showed her identification, she seemed both excited and apprehensive, guiding the policewoman to her narrow galley-kitchen, while cooing loudly to the baby that was perched on her hip. In the kitchen she immediately bent down to stroke the head of an old dachshund, curled up in its basket, its black lips rippling as it snored contentedly in its sleep. Suddenly the washing machine began to whirr noisily on reaching spin-cycle, and she switched it off, looking first crossly at the machine and then anxiously at the dog to see if the racket had disturbed its rest. But it slept on, an occasional wag of its tail betraying its dreams.

‘Pixie’s being put down today – at two o’clock,’ the woman said, her large eyes brimming with tears, giving a graceful wave in the direction of the basket, ‘and I have to collect Nathan from nursery at twelve o’clock, I’m afraid. So I’ll have to go then, Sergeant Price.’

‘Rice,’ Alice corrected gently, ‘Sergeant Rice.’

‘Mmm… Sergeant Price,’ the woman nodded, ‘that’s what I said.’

‘It’s about Father McPhail,’ Alice continued,
disregarding
what she was being called. ‘I’ve a few questions about him. If you could help us, it might help him too.’

‘Oh. Yes?’ Her voice was childish, unnaturally
high-pitched
.

‘Can you tell me, did you see him on the night of
Tuesday the ninth of January?’ The woman hesitated, searching the policewoman’s face as if to read the desired answer, before tentatively committing herself.

‘Yes.’

‘What time did you see him?’

‘He came here,’ she paused again, looking
enquiringly
at Alice, ‘he came here at about… seven o’clock in the evening?’ It sounded more like a question than an answer.

‘And at what time did he leave?’

‘I didn’t leave.’ Mrs Sharp looked puzzled.

‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t have made myself clear. When did
he
leave?’

The woman sucked in her cheeks, apparently thinking, before replying in her strange treble, ‘Maybe one, two o’clock? That sort of time…’

‘And on Friday the twelfth of January, did you see him at any point on that date?’

‘No,’ she shook her head like a petulant child ‘I haven’t seen him since he left the parish.’

Confused, Alice asked, ‘but… I thought you just said that you saw him on the ninth?’

‘Oh… yes,’ the woman replied, unperturbed by her illogicality, if aware of it at all.

‘So you did see him on the ninth, then?’

‘I did, yes.’ Mrs Sharp smiled broadly, as if pleased that she had provided the correct answer.

‘And what about the twelfth?’

‘What about it?’ She seemed bemused.

‘Did you see him on that date?’

‘Eh…’ she looked into Alice’s eyes, as if to find the
solution
there. ‘No. No, I don’t think so… then, again…’

‘Mrs Sharp, I really do need to know!’

‘Then yes… yes, I did see him on the…’ she paused, ‘…whatever date you said.’

‘I simply need to know, Mrs Sharpe. Did you, or did you not, see Father McPhail on –’

The query remained incomplete as the phone rang, Mrs Sharpe starting at the sound. She picked the receiver up as if it might be dangerous, and placed it warily to her ear.

‘Oh, George, it’s you… Yes, I am going to do it… I’ll get it all done before lunch, honestly… Well, I can’t go at the minute – I’ve got someone with me…’ She faltered, looking Alice in the eye. ‘I’ve someone with me… No, just a salesperson. A woman. Mmm… I’ll get rid…
honestly
, everything will be ready in good time.’

‘My husband. We’re having a party this evening,’ she offered, apologetically, before continuing. ‘Frankie, er… Father… was here on the ninth because, well… he wanted to see me. George was away on business. We just talked, of course, that’s what we do. Talk and talk for hour after hour.’

‘That’s fine,’ Alice replied. ‘We’ll need, obviously, to take a statement from you – you know, for the trial.’

‘Trial? You never said anything about a trial!’

‘No. Sorry. It’s simply that we’ll need a statement from you confirming when he was with you – and then you may be called as –’

‘I’m very sorry,’ Mrs Sharpe said, ‘but I can’t give a statement. I can’t do that. I don’t mind telling you here, between the two of us, right, but nothing more than that. I can’t say anything that might get back to George.’

‘Why not? Your statement will be needed, you know. Without your testimony he might be wrongly convicted.’

‘Look, I’m saying nothing to no-one, I’m afraid. I’m not supposed to see Frankie, you know! If my husband
thought I had, he’d kill me. Honestly. Last time he
threatened
me, threatened to divorce me, said he’d get custody of Nathan…’

‘I’m sorry too, Mrs Sharpe, but we really do need your help. If necessary, we can compel –’

‘Compel! What are you talking about? You can…’ she hesitated, exasperated, racking her brain to think of a suitable torture, ‘pull my toenails out, if you like, but I’m saying nothing. I’ll deny I said anything to you. It wasn’t true what I said, anyway, I haven’t seen him since he left St Benedict’s. That is the truth if you want it. I’m telling you the real truth now!’