Troubled Waters (9 page)

‘Bye, bye,’ he ended, as brightly as he was able.

6

The dead woman had lived in Casselbank Street, a narrow, characterful thoroughfare at the bottom of Leith Walk, which was home to no less than three churches and a branch of the Cat Protection League. The League’s terraced building sported a jaunty sign above its door, making it look more like a pub than a charitable institution. Opposite her tenement block was one of the churches, proclaiming itself on a hoarding in exuberant, purple loops as ‘Destiny Church’. It had been constructed originally as a Turkish baths. With its pediments and lead-covered ogee domes, the building was eye-catching, looking both foreign and incongruously opulent in the small, unassuming Scots street.

A joiner, arranged by DC Cairns, was waiting in his van for the arrival of the policewomen, the engine still running. He had parked further up the road, opposite the columned and pilastered doorway of one of the few remaining Georgian houses in the location. Seeing the Scientific Support crew assembling outside the tenement, he threw away his cigarette and began to jog towards the group, keen to warm up. As each foot hit the ground, his work box swung uncomfortably against his thigh.

Seconds later, he and the rest of the party gained access to the woman’s flat courtesy of a bell marked ‘A. Anderson’. Waiting in the common stair they huddled together, talking in hushed tones as if in a church awaiting the entry
of the minister. Alice went to speak to ‘A. Anderson’. The owner of that name turned out to be a red-faced, middle-aged woman with a strange, fixed smile and few teeth. In her soft Highland accent she described her upstairs neighbour, and the rictus remained on her face when an image of the girl, cold and dead, was presented to her. Holding the photo about a foot from her presbyopic dark eyes, moving it forward and back in an attempt to see it clearly, she identified her neighbour in a matter of fact fashion, apparently untroubled by the death.

‘Aha, that’s her, but it’s not like her. Not a good likeness. I’ve seen her a few times, not that I knew her. She’s new. This is all like on the telly, eh?’ she said, handing the image back.

‘Thank you for your help.’

‘No problem. You’d better watch out as she had a house cat,’ she added by way of a parting shot, nodding to herself as she turned back towards her red front door and murmuring, ‘as if there aren’t enough of them round here. Yowling and screeching at all hours, like banshees. I’d drown them, kittens and all.’

Two minutes of the joiner’s drill on the old, ill-designed mortise lock protecting the woman’s flat was all it took, before it fell, shattered, onto the stone flags of the common landing. Once inside they set to work immediately, photographing and videoing all four of the shabby rooms, searching for any evidence which might establish conclusively that Miranda Stimms had been its occupant, and if she had met her end there. The forensic team, in their distinctive white garb, moved around the cramped space, performing figures of eight like reel-dancers, expertly avoiding each other as they attempted to gather DNA samples and fingerprints from all possible surfaces. A
couple of them stood over the unmatched dirty crockery littering the kitchen table: two cups, a saucer and an eggcup, droplets of bright yellow yolk staining its sides. The fridge had little in it bar a carton of milk, not yet sour, a half-tin of cat food and an opened slab of Red Leicester cheese. All, Alice noticed, picking them up in her gloves, reasonably fresh and bought from the Co-op. A cat-litter tray, unused, lay near the door. But of the cat itself there was no sign.

In the bedroom, away from the team, Alice peered into the only cupboard, a homemade hardboard construction which was missing one door. Inside was a solitary green coat hanging on a nail. The gloss-painted chest of drawers nearby, which still had the price ticket from Capability on it, contained more women’s clothing. Every item was clean and neatly folded. On the bedside table were two photographs in cheap, plastic frames. One, badly out of focus, appeared to show Miranda Stimms at the seaside, laughing, her arm tight around the shoulder of a girl in a hat, receiving a kiss on the cheek from her. The other was of a young man. He looked shy and was self-consciously pointing a finger at the photographer as if trying to think of a wacky pose, or just something to do before the shutter closed.

The only item of any value within the flat was a massive flat screen television in the sitting room. Its matt-black, state-of-the-art design was in stark contrast to the thin nylon carpet and patched curtains with which the room was furnished. Accompanied by a DVD player, this prized possession squatted on a low stool, and the leads from both had tangled together like spaghetti, their plugs jammed into a socket which, in turn, hung loosely from the wall.

Moving into the bathroom, the policewoman sniffed the damp, fungal air. Black mould disfigured the walls and ceiling, and the avocado-coloured basin was cracked, a tap dripping incessantly into its stained interior. A tooth-mug, on top of a mirrored medicine-cabinet, contained two identical, crossed, pink toothbrushes. As she tried to open the cabinet, one of its doors swung off its hinge to reveal inside a couple of deodorants and a bottle of cheap shampoo. A black cat with white paws arrived from nowhere, leapt up onto the lip of the bath and began tightrope-walking its way towards her. Brushing himself against her, he looked up at her with his bright yellow eyes.

‘I’ve got the post. One’s addressed to Miranda Jane Stimms,’ DC Cairns said as she entered, instinctively turning sideways, fastidious in her attempt to avoid touching the lavatory, ‘and I think I might have found where the deceased’s parents live.’ In her hand was an empty envelope addressed to James Stimms, ‘Fisher’s Rest’, Starbank Terrace, Edinburgh EH44 9MB, which she handed to the inspector.

‘Finally,’ Alice said, reading the address, ‘we’ll get her identified by a relative, and that’ll be good enough to get us a warrant for the PM. And after all this bother,’ she added, ‘it had better be a sodding murder.’

‘No sign of blood or guts in here or elsewhere.’

‘Perhaps Felix here has been cleaning up . . .’

‘You’re joking?’ DC Cairns said, looking at the beast in horror.

‘Am I? I wonder if he’ll be as well-fed with the Cat Protection League people,’ Alice said, giving the creature a stroke, unable to stop herself smiling as the constable shuddered visibly at the thought.

The view to the north for the inhabitants of the terrace of red sandstone houses halfway along Starbank Road was not such as might be found throughout much of the capital, a short one, one of high harled tenements, symmetrical Georgian squares, cosy post-war bungalows, factories or even municipal sports facilities. Instead, the great grey expanse of the Forth stretched before them for mile upon mile, finally losing itself in the hills of Fife. Theirs was a simplified horizon, grand, and austere, one which spoke of Newhaven’s fishing past. Not that in the absence of their sea view the locals could forget its history, living as they did in close proximity to places such as Fishmarket Square and Pier Place, with gulls instead of pigeons high above them and the salt-laden air reverberating with their raucous cries. That afternoon a gale was blowing, whipping up white horses and making the procession of clouds above scud past as if they were late for some grand occasion.

The woman who came to the door of Fisher’s Rest to meet them looked worried, and none of her anxiety was relieved once they introduced themselves. She was slight, little more than a perfumed wraith, neatly dressed, with the gold buttons on her cashmere navy-blue cardigan fastened all the way up to her neck. Her profuse grey hair had been newly permed, but in a style last fashionable in the fifties. Navy slacks, with a single crease on each leg sharp enough to inflict a cut, terminated in tiny, flat, navy shoes. Around her narrow waist was an apron, a perfect bow tied at the back, and in one hand she held a canister of air freshener.

‘Mrs Stimms?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’re from the police. I’m DI Rice and this is my colleague, DC Cairns. Is your husband about?’

‘James? No, he’s away at the moment. On a job out near Livingston and he’ll not be back until this evening. Do you want to speak to him?’

‘Could we come in and speak to you?’

‘Me? To me? Em . . .’ She hesitated, fine lines furrowing her brow, ‘Very well.’

The sitting-room that she showed them into looked as if they were the first human beings ever to enter it. Such a place in the sales showroom of a new housing estate would have some slight evidence of wear and tear, however minimal, but this displayed none. The beige cushions of the settee and matching armchairs were plumped up, the oatmeal carpet spotless and the ten folds in each of the cream curtains, both with a red piped tie placed exactly in the middle, were perfectly symmetrical. A ruler would have lain flat on the covers of the three piles of illustrated books on the coffee table, as if each volume had been chosen not for content but for its matching size in the array. In a cabinet, filling all five shelves, were cycling trophies. They alone provided some hint of the personalities responsible for such a temple of domesticity. And it was not just the lack of dirt, stains and creases on the pale-coloured furniture and elsewhere, the missing imprint of the living, which was remarkable, the very air itself felt dry, stagnant and unwelcoming.

‘Have you a daughter, Miranda?’ Alice began, taking a seat where she had been bidden. DC Cairns, also obeying instructions, sat in a nearby armchair. Alone, in the middle of the sofa and dwarfed by it, Mrs Stimms sat with her legs pressed tight against each other and folded to one side. Her hands, small and white, lay on her lap.

‘Aha . . . yes, I have, aha,’ she replied, nodding. Her complexion was unhealthily pale, and her large dark eyes flitted, covertly and frequently, between the inspector’s face and the floor.

‘When did you last see Miranda?’

‘Em . . . a good wee while ago. Months, maybe, at least two months? Two and a half? She doesn’t live here now, not with us. Not for a while since. She’s moved out – on her own, flown the nest. She lives her own life now, she’s a grown up, an adult . . . Grown up as a “Gay” as people say nowadays, in fact, you see. So she has her own life now.’

‘Does she have a partner?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t know anything about that side of her life. It’s not my business, is it?’

The woman picked up the nearest cushion, put it over her lap, and automatically, almost as if it was a pet, began to pat it, smooth its creaseless silk surface.

‘When did you, or your husband, last speak to her on the phone?’

‘Me? Months ago. We’re not that close any more. My husband . . . oh, I don’t know, you’d have to ask him.’

‘But her name is Miranda Jane Stimms – that is your daughter’s name?’

‘Oh, yes. That’s her name. Yes. Why are you here? Is she in trouble of some sort? Is she alright? Has she been in an accident or something?’

‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m afraid we think she may be dead.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘We found what we’re all but certain is her body, and we need your help . . . to identify her. It’s little more than a formality at this stage, really.’

The woman blinked hard, as if it might help her to comprehend the news.

‘Dead? Don’t be ridiculous, she can’t be. I told you, she’s in Edinburgh. She’s living in Edinburgh, in a flat. How could she be dead?’

‘I’m very sorry, but we’re almost certain that it’s her. Her body. We’ve been to her flat in Casselbank Street in Leith, and we’ve spoken to her employer. He identified her. A neighbour did as well.’

‘No . . . no. It’ll not be her. It’ll be someone else – some other young girl. Not Miranda. I don’t know her address – but this’ll be a case of mistaken identity.’

‘Could I ask you to look at a photo of the dead girl, Mrs Stimms? We have a photo of the dead girl.’

The woman nodded, and bent down to retrieve her spectacles from the dark blue handbag which was lying at her feet.

‘Is this your daughter?’ Alice asked, stretching towards her and handing over the photograph. For over a minute, blinking abnormally frequently once more, but remaining speechless, Mrs Stimms studied it before, with a long sigh, she offered it back to its owner.

‘Is that your daughter, Miranda?’

‘Yes,’ she said. Behind the spectacles, tears were brimming in her eyes, and her grip on the cushion had tightened, squeezing it out of shape and whitening her knuckles. ‘What happened to her face . . . who gave her a black eye?’

‘We don’t know yet. I’m sorry to ask, but could you come to the mortuary to identify her body for us? DC Cairns here will come with you, she’ll take you there, and bring you straight back. We could contact your husband for you, if that would help, so you could go together?’

‘What happened to her?’ Mrs Stimms enquired in a thin voice.

‘I’m afraid we don’t know yet. That’s what we’re investigating.’

‘Where did you find her?’ She was looking directly into the policewoman’s eyes, a strange pleading expression on her face. She was defeated, all hope gone.