Gillian Galbraith - No Sorrow To Die

As they crossed the junction with Dewar Place, a gust of chill wind hit her, sending a crumpled sheet of newsprint in the gutter spiralling upwards towards her head, and she dodged it, accidentally dropping her pie onto the pavement. She cursed, but her companion said smugly, ‘Better for you,’ taking his last mouthful of sushi and wiping his lips.

Turning eastwards, they crossed the busy road, dodging between the lanes of speeding traffic, heading for the blackened tenement building on the corner. Once there, they began hunting for ‘Clerk’ among the dozens of names on the doorbells. A young man wheeled his bicycle out of the main door, allowing Alice to walk into the common stair, and she signalled as she did so for her colleague to follow. In the absence of any glimmers of sunlight, the air inside seemed, if possible, colder and damper than that outside on the street, and she shivered, pulling the ends of her coat together and wishing it had not lost all its buttons.

‘Here’s an “R. Clerk” the DC said excitedly, his knuckles raised to knock on the door. She shook her head. ‘Norman Arthur Clerk’, the conviction sheet had said, so they continued upwards, checking every landing until on the third floor she saw a scrap of paper tacked onto the lintel with ‘N. A. CLERK’ written on it in large, uneven capitals. The door itself had the word ‘Nonce’ hacked into it with the blade of a knife. Standing there, they exchanged glances.

‘What a depressing hole,’ the constable remarked, absentmindedly dropping his empty sushi packet onto the stone floor where it joined the rest of the litter. The air trapped in the tenement smelt of stale, fried food, and flakes of cream paint were peeling off the ancient piping that snaked along its walls. Someone had taken the trouble to splash purple gloss paint onto the ceiling, and a few shiny stalactites hung down from it.

‘If this is him, let’s go in, eh?’ Tom Littlewood said, eager to get on and finish the job, get out of the building and back out into Torphichen Street and daylight.

She nodded again, but said nothing, still trying to gather her thoughts and work out what she would ask the man. This might be their one and only chance. While she was still deep in thought, the door opened and their quarry appeared, his hand on the shoulder of an ancient crone, her spine so crooked that she could see nothing but the floor in front of her.

Looking directly at the police officers, he whispered, ‘Bye, bye, Mum,’ and released her to teeter towards the banister, which she gripped with a bony claw before looking anxiously down at the flights of stone stairs she would have to descend. Keeping his gaze fixed on Alice, Clerk nodded his head in the direction of his flat and said, ‘Come on in. Your Inspector Manson told me the pair of you would be coming.’

A Sidney Devine record was playing on an old-fashioned gramophone. Clerk lowered the volume just enough to produce background music, before sitting down and raising a cloud of talcum powder from the seat of his chair, further scenting the already unsavoury air. Coughing theatrically, he fanned it away with his hands. Looking at them, Alice noticed how pudgy they were, his fingers like large, pale sausages. As he stared at her expectantly, he absent-mindedly conducted the music, jerking his thick forefingers to and fro in time with the beat. He was middle-aged and plump, thick cushions of flesh rippling when he moved, so that he reminded her, in his tight pink pullover, of an oversized marshmallow.

‘Do you know someone called Gavin Brodie?’ she began.

‘No. The dead man, you mean? I don’t know any dead people. You can’t, can you?’ he said, earnestly, his tongue protruding from the side of his mouth.

‘How did you know he was dead?’

‘Indeed, how did I know that he was dead?’ he repeated.

‘Yes. How did you know he was dead?’ Was he deaf as well as schizophrenic, perhaps?

‘I read it in the Evening News , “Accountant Found Murdered”,’ he answered, his tongue protruding once more from the side of his mouth.

‘Did you know him – when he was alive, I mean?’

‘You know what? I am parched, really parched. Dry as a bone,’ he said, ignoring her question and, unexpectedly, rising to his feet and offering to make them both a cup of tea too.

Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared into his kitchenette, murmuring that it would do them good. Within minutes, a tray with three stained floral teacups and a plate of biscuits was placed in front of them and, as if they had accepted his offer, he proceeded to pour out tea and milk for them both, handing it over with a polite nod. When Alice took it and put it to her mouth, he smiled at her as if in encouragement or, perhaps, in recognition of some small victory, a wide grin dimpling his fat cheeks.

Carstairs, he said, sipping daintily from his own cup, had changed him completely, com-plete-ely.

When Alice enquired in what respect, he replied, ‘Fish fingers. I enjoy them now, I didn’t used to, you see. Oh, and I prefer a shower nowadays. I used to like baths, you see.’

‘Anything else of any importance?’ DC Littlewood chipped in sarcastically.

‘I’m alright now, in technical, medical terms, I mean. Like everyone else. Indeed, right as rain. Don’t hear voices in my head any more. Of course, I used to have to take medication for my condition when I was in the Big House, but not now. I stopped them myself a little while ago. I don’t need any pills to keep me right nowadays.’

‘Glad to be out of Carstairs, I expect, on your own again,’ Alice said.

‘Glad to be free of luncheon meat,’ he said vehemently, puckering his lips. ‘Glad to be able to get my teeth into something else. I had so much of that stuff it was coming right out of my ears. But that’s what happens when you lose your human rights, of course. No Coca-Cola either… just Pepsi.’

‘So, did you know Gavin Brodie… in life?’

‘No… in life, no… the after-life? Well, I’m not there yet, heaven or…’

‘Where were you on Saturday night from 5 o’ clock onwards?’ she interrupted him, determined to take hold of their rambling exchange.

Crunching a custard cream, he leant towards her and said excitedly that on that very night, the night she was interested in, the Saturday, he had undergone a life-changing experience. He had gone with a pal from the centre to an evening service in the nearby church, but the minister celebrating it had been a woman, and a fairly young one at that.

‘Imagine that,’ he said brightly to DC Littlewood, smacking his lips. ‘A young woman!’

She had been attractive, too, with long blonde hair and a complexion like Queen Elizabeth’s, all peaches and cream. Oh, she could minister to him anytime, he purred. In fact, the sooner the better. Perhaps, if she heard that he was ‘sick’, he’d get a home visit from her! And he’d been told often enough that he was sick… sick in the head, he giggled, pointing at his temple.

Then, seeing that his visitors were not laughing, he ostentatiously swept his hand from his forehead to his chin, transforming his expression into a deadly serious one as it passed over his face. He muttered out of the side of his mouth to the policeman, ‘Bit of a killjoy, isn’t she?’

‘After the service, where did you go?’ Alice continued.

‘Home Sweet Home. Here.’

‘And you were here throughout the whole of Saturday night?’

‘Indeed no, sweetie. At about eight I went to my brother’s flat. It’s on the ground floor of this building, you see.’

‘So, were you with him for the rest of the night, or did you come back here, or what?’

‘Aha. I was with him.’

‘All night?’