Gillian Galbraith - No Sorrow To Die

‘All night?’ he repeated, extending his tongue again and adding, ‘Aha. I was with him.’

‘That,’ Alice said, ‘would be your brother Robert, I suppose?’

‘Yes, indeed, Robert. My, you may be no fun but you’ve fairly done your homework, haven’t you?’ he replied, taking a final swig from his cup.

‘The same Robert who was prepared to give you an alibi at your trial for the night the old lady was killed by you?’ DC Littlewood interjected.

‘Yes. Good old Bob,’ Clerk answered, unconcerned, rising from his chair and waiting behind it for them to do the same.

‘One last thing, Mr Clerk. Did the voice, the one in your head, did it tell you to take the stuff from the old lady’s flat – the TV and the little clock?’ Alice asked.

‘Well,’ he said, opening the door for her and stroking his chin in thought, ‘it did, you know. But no one’s ever asked me about that before. The voice said, “Take the TV, Norman. Go on, take the telly.” I heard it ordering me, as clear as a bell. Indeed I did. The clock, too. It was very taken with the clock for some reason or other, even though I said “it’s not particularly valuable”. I argued with it and argued with it, but it won – it always does, you see.’

‘Your brother’s flat. Where is it?’

‘I told you,’ he answered, ‘on the ground floor. Number 3, if you must know. But I’m afraid you can’t speak to him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ he replied, gesturing for them to leave, ‘for one thing, he’s still away at the Day Centre in Raeburn Place. He goes there every day. Well, every day since he got out of the hospital.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘He doesn’t talk much any more,’ Norman Clerk answered. ‘In fact, since he had his stroke he’s hardly uttered a single thing, in Queen’s English, anyway. He’s paralysed on the right side too. That’s why I go along and look after him – help feed him, undress him, keep him company. Spend the night in his spare room. Mum used to do it, but, well, she’s way past that now. He’s got a carer, too, but she can’t be there all the time, can she?’

Once they were back out on the street, Alice asked ‘So, what’s the verdict, Tom?’

‘In technical, medical terms?’

‘Indeed.’

‘A mad tosspot of the first order.’

The Raeburn Day Centre was housed in a converted church on the main thoroughfare through Stockbridge, an unending stream of traffic passing close to its doors, deepening the black of its soot-stained masonry and making the very walls vibrate.

Inside, one of the swing-doors leading into the main hall was jammed open with a bucket. Alice peered self-consciously into the hall, her eyes eventually homing in on the only male in a wheelchair in the room. People sat in little groups about the place, some asleep, some knitting, a few talking in low voices to themselves or others.

Occupying the middle of the floor was a ring of office chairs, each with a bored old lady sitting in it. In the centre of the circle, like the bulls-eye, was a gargantuan man, his flesh seeping over the sides of his wheelchair. His partially-shaved head lolled to one side, but when prompted by a member of staff, he threw a tennis ball in the approximate direction of one of the circle, laughing loudly as it missed its target and bounced off the back of someone’s chair.

A female cleaner, clad in a denim jacket and jeans and carrying a mop, attempted delicately to squeeze past Alice, stepping over the bucket into the hall. Moving out of the way, the Sergeant apologised and then asked, ‘Is the man in the middle Robert Clerk?’

‘Aye – he’s like a big bairn,’ the woman replied, rinsing her mop in the bucket and beginning to swab the lino closest to the door, adding as an afterthought, ‘he’s wan o’ ma favourites.’

‘Does he speak at all? Can he speak any more?’

‘A wee bit, but I dinnae think he understan’s a word said tae him. But he’s aye in guid spirits, laughin’, the life an’ soul o’ the party, like…’

Once the game was finished, a helper wheeled the man to the side of the hall, where he sat, smiling to himself, looking round at the others brightly and flexing one bandaged hand in and out to some internal rhythm.

When Alice approached him, bending down beside his wheelchair, he appeared not to notice her until she said, ‘Excuse me, but are you Robert Clerk?’

Still looking straight ahead, he nodded his head up and down vigorously. A woman with childish features and the distinctive eye-folds of Down’s syndrome ambled over and put her arm around the man’s broad shoulders, tickling the back of his neck affectionately with her fingers. Her head was level with his, and when their eyes met the man chuckled delightedly.

‘You want a biscuit, Bob?’ she asked him. Once more he nodded, and when she asked whether he wanted a digestive or a bourbon or a piece of shortbread he assented to each suggestion in the same way.

‘He likes them all? Every type?’ Alice said conversationally to the small figure.

‘No,’ she said, looking fondly at him, ‘he doesn’t, but it’s good manners, eh? To ask him. He only likes jammy dodgers really, don’t you, Bob?’

And in response to the further question he nodded excitedly, his eyes never leaving his friend’s figure as she set off for the tea-trolley on his behalf.

On impulse, Alice asked the man, ‘Are you… Gordon Brown?’ and as before, the man’s head bobbed up and down, communicating that he was, indeed, the Prime Minister.

Alice’s phone went, and she took it from her pocket.

‘Alice, where are you?’ It was DCI Bell, and she sounded rattled.

‘I’m at the Day Centre on Raeburn Place, checking up on Clerk’s alibi for the Saturday night. Tom’s on his way back to the station.’

‘And?’

‘And… it’s not up to much. He says he was with his brother, but the brother’s had a stro…’ Her voice became inaudible as loud cha-cha music started up, a few elderly people taking to the floor. She moved towards the entrance.

‘Jammy Dodger?’ the little Down’s syndrome woman asked, offering her one from a plateful.

She shook her head, speaking into the phone again. ‘The man’s had a stroke, so he can’t tell us whether his brother was with him on the Saturday night or not. There’s a mother, I was going to go and…’

‘Never mind that now. Clerk’s a long shot. I need you to meet Eric at the bank by Saughtonhall Drive. The Fraud Squad’s just tipped us the wink that someone’s used Brodie’s card at an ATM machine on the Corstorphine Road. The CCTV footage reveals that it’s Ally Livingstone.’

‘I thought he was still inside.’

‘Well, he isn’t. So speak to the manager, then go pick him up and bring him straight here.’

Usually, having his wife’s fingertips resting on the handle of the supermarket trolley, restraining it, blatantly attempting to control it, maddened him. But this morning Ally Livingstone did not mind, he even allowed himself to be cajoled into traipsing up and down all the aisles, including the pet food one, although they owned neither dog nor cat. Seeing his heavily pregnant wife helping herself from the shelves, unconcerned about the cost and indulging in needless extravagances, pleased him, and on the only occasion on which she hesitated, he nodded at her indulgently, signalling for her to add the item to their load, just as a rich man would.