Gillian Galbraith - No Sorrow To Die

In Wallace’s spotless council flat in Wester Drylaw Avenue, Tracey nodded her slick, black ponytail up and down and said: ‘He was wi’ me – like what he said.’

Having answered their question, she leaned back in the leather settee where a small, dark-featured man sat next to her, and returned her attention to her crisps and the television.

‘How do you know he told us that?’ Eric Manson demanded, a complacent smile playing on his lips as he stood, legs apart, towering over the seated girl.

‘Well… he would, wouldn’t he, if you’d asked him.’

‘But how d’you know we asked him anything?’ the inspector shot back. ‘He phoned you, eh? Told you we’d been round. Told you what to say and all.’

‘Funnily enough, “officer”, I didnae come up the Clyde oan a banana boat. Ye’re asking aboot him, aren’t ye? No me, really, no interested in me are ye? I am right aboot that, eh? So, ye’ll have asked him first. That’s how it works, how it aye works. An’ no, fer the record, like, he didnae phone me.’

‘All night? He was here, with you, all night?’ Alice asked, but her voice was drowned out by the sound of excited applause from the studio audience on the TV.

‘You were together all night?’ she repeated loudly.

‘Aye! What dae ye think I am? Think I’d sneak aff in the middle o’ the night tae sleep wi’ somebody else or somethin’? The fuckin’ cheek o’ it!’

‘They botherin’ you, chick?’ the ferrety little man sitting beside the girl asked, raising his eyes from the screen to look menacingly at the two officers.

‘Naw,’ she replied idly, drawing deeply on her cigarette and flicking the snake’s tail of ash into her empty coffee cup.

‘’Cause if they are,’ the man said, putting his arm around her and fixing Eric Manson’s eyes with his own bloodshot gaze, ‘I’ll just ask them to leave… politely like.’

‘Is there anyone who saw you and Billy here, on the Sunday night?’ Alice persisted.

‘Aye,’ the girl answered sarcastically, rolling her eyes at the stupidity of the question.

‘Who?’

‘Him,’ she said, tweaking the fingers of the hand that was resting on her fleshy arm.

‘“Him”? Sorry, but who is “him”? I mean what’s his name?’

‘ Him . Meet ma lodger, Mr Ecky… naw, Mr Alistair Cockburn – pronounced “Coburn”,’ she giggled, adding, ‘the cock’s silent, see?’

‘Ma cockle doodle you…’ the ferret guffawed, stroking the girl’s ponytail.

‘You can confirm that Billy Wallace was here all night?’

‘Aye, you’ve ma word oan it… as a gentleman,’ the man replied, laughing, his eyes back on the screen, pressing a button on the remote control and changing channels.

Catching sight of the clock in the Astra in which they were travelling, Alice asked her companion if the time shown was correct. Eric Manson nodded, but said nothing, his mind miles away, thinking of events earlier that day. What was his wife playing at? She had got up before him, dressed, and by the time he had wandered, sleepy-eyed, into the kitchen, she was already on the phone to someone. When she saw him, the smile on her face froze and she whispered, ‘That’s Eric. Got to go.’

When he questioned her she became angry with him, telling him to mind his own business, remarking crossly that she was not one of his suspects. Really, she wasn’t behaving like the Margaret he knew at all. And nowadays she was always out, had some excuse or other for evenings away, jaunts taken here, there and everywhere, but always without him.

‘Bugger!’ Alice said.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said, the concern in her voice interrupting his train of thought.

‘I was supposed to be at the mortuary at twelve with the DCI.’

‘Phone them. Tell them that we’re running late but we’re on our way.’

‘They’ll be all togged up, gloved up… probably left their phones in the changing room. Would you mind putting your foot down, Sir?’

‘No problem, pet, but I reckon it’s past praying for. We can be there in fifteen… no, make that thirteen minutes.’ And so saying, he clamped the blue light onto the roof of the car and pressed down hard on the accelerator. They sped down Ferry Road, overtaking a juggernaut on Inverleith Row before screeching straight over the roundabout at Canonmills, just managing to jump an amber light from Broughton Street onto York Place, siren screaming like a banshee and drawing the attention of all the passers-by. North Bridge passed in a flash, then they jinked eastwards, in short bursts, turning left down the Mile, rumbling over the cobbles down to St Mary’s Street past the Ben Line Building and, finally, entering the sunless corridor of the Cowgate.

By the time they bumped to a halt, Alice was feeling thoroughly shaken up and on edge, expecting a bollocking from the DCI for her lateness and still seeing in her mind’s eye the face of the startled pedestrian who was brushed by their car mirror at a zebra crossing. But adrenalin was coursing through her driver’s veins, making him bubble with excitement and goodwill, his earlier anxieties temporarily banished by the rush. Eleven minutes!

Shouting her thanks, she dashed from the car, only to find herself blocked at the entry-phone. There she waited for a few more precious minutes, stamping her feet impatiently on the greasy tarmac, the urgency in her voice insufficient to persuade the man on the door to adopt anything other than his usual sloth’s pace. He knew her, of course, and could see her on the CCTV monitor, but there were procedures to be followed, otherwise any Tom, Dick or Harry might gain access to the place. She caught the DI’s eye as he sat, engine revving intermittently to warm the air, waiting for her in case she had missed the show completely. Watching her, he shook his head slowly in disbelief at her treatment.

When, finally, the heavy black door opened, Elaine Bell came striding out, pulling on her coat as she walked. Seeing Alice she said tersely, ‘Fat lot of use you are now. The party’s over. The parcel’s open, the cake’s been cut. So, where the hell have you been?’

‘Billy Wallace had an alibi – his girlfriend. We had to check it out.’

‘And my calls? Why didn’t you answer them?’

An angry red line encircled Elaine Bell’s brow from the over-tight paper cap she had worn in the mortuary, and as she spoke, she distractedly fingered its contour with the tips of her fingers.

‘I never got any calls, there can’t have been any reception. I’m sorry, Ma’am.’

‘You didn’t have to go to check it out there and then, you could have waited until after the P.M., couldn’t you?’

‘Seemed safer to follow it up. Wallace told us that she was in the flat, if we’d waited she might have gone out.’

‘Alright, alright. Fine. What did she have to say?’

‘She said that he was with her, but I’m not convinced. I’ve checked with Alistair and she’s got form too. A junkie, in and out of Cornton Vale like a yo-yo, so she knows the ropes. She might say almost anything. How did you get on with the Professor?’

‘Never mind that now. Is that Eric, sitting wasting time, twiddling his thumbs in the car?’ asked the DCI, looking up at the grey sky and holding out her palms to catch the first few drops of rain.

‘Mmm.’

‘Good. He can take us back to the station. I want to speak to the whole squad – before lunch.’