Gillian Galbraith - Dying Of The Light

Still at a loss for words, Alice realised that her optimism had been misplaced. An exhausted, semi-addled Elaine Bell would still be sharper than a cat’s tooth, and that uncanny sixth sense of hers never failed, alerting her to any of her subordinates’ irregular activities.

And it was such a difficult question to answer. Alice had no idea where to start, particularly, as she had not satisfactorily resolved the matter in her own mind. In truth, she was simply dotting ‘i’s and crossing ‘t’s, excluding the improbable, making it the impossible. This had to be done even if it did involve wild speculation or worse. And whatever was left would yield the answer. After all, if Father McPhail was innocent, then they should still be hunting a double murderer, not just on the lookout for some low-life who had assaulted a prostitute. But, losing all confidence in her ability to make her activity sound anything other than madness, even to a well-rested Elaine Bell, never mind the frazzled reality confronting her now, she murmured something about ‘long shots’ and ‘intellectual curiosity’, and waited for the storm to break around her. And it did, its ferocity taking her by surprise until she remembered her own earlier, intemperate reaction to Mrs Donnelly and her concerns. That burden now rested on her lighter than feathers in comparison to the one carried by her tired superior.

‘That Guy Bayley man, have you spoken to him again?’ the Inspector demanded.

‘Not yet, Ma’am.’

‘Well, get a move on, for Christ’s sake!’

After her extended and apparently cathartic outburst, Elaine Bell patted the back of her unbrushed hair, disconcerted to feel a pair of upstanding tufts, exhaled heavily and marched out of the murder suite with a spring in her step, empty-handed. Inspector Manson almost collided with her in the corridor, flattening himself against the wall to let her past. Still striding forwards, she said over her shoulder, ‘Have you checked up McNeice’s alibi, Eric?’ Getting no immediate response, she added, ‘Well, shift your arse then.’

The minute she was alone again, Alice made a quick call to the forensic science lab, praying to herself that someone would be in at such an unearthly hour and that the DCI would not return for the forgotten mug. To her delight the phone was picked up after only four rings, and, better yet, she recognised the voice at the other end.

‘Dave… would you do me a favour?’ Fear of discovery was making her succinct, if not actually terse.

‘Ms Rice, I presume. What can I help you with this time?’ Was there an edge in his voice? One too many favours sought?

She must be clear, get her enquiry across without delay and hope that her near pathological brevity did not cause him terminal offence.

‘Dave, I need to know whether or not it’s possible for X to leave Y’s DNA, as well as his own, if X leaves a sample of his blood at a crime scene or wherever. Assume X received a blood transfusion with Y’s blood at some point before X left the blood.’

It did not sound as lucid as she had hoped it would, but there was no time for rewording the query and he was a bright man. She would have to trust in that.

‘And why do you want to know that, pray?’

‘Because,’ she hesitated momentarily, thinking she heard the tell-tale clump of Elaine Bell’s heavy tread, ‘because if such a thing could happen, it might explain the presence of someone’s DNA at a crime scene – when, if they’re to be believed, they were never there.’

‘OK, Alice. It sounds a bit off the wall, but I’ll check it out for you during my lunch hour. How are you? How are things at St -’

‘Dave. I’m really sorry but I’ve got to go,’ she interrupted him, alert to the sound of the door handle turning, vowing to herself to make it up to him as soon as she could, to explain everything properly. ‘I’ll phone you in the early afternoon. Thanks a million for your help.’

Just as she put the receiver down the DCI re-entered the murder suite and removed the blue and white mug from Alice’s desk, a slightly sheepish smile on her face, hair now brushed flat, ready to face the world.

‘Has your stomach recovered yet?’ Alice asked, the words slipping out before she realised the unintentional barb contained in them. Simon Oakley’s mouth was wide open, about to take another bite out of a cheese pasty. They were waiting in the Astra at Brighton Place for the lights to change, sitting behind a white van that belched exhaust fumes and had ‘I love you’ written on the dirt on its back door.

‘Yeah,’ Oakley replied, reddening as if remembering the fiasco at the Raj.

‘Tanya seems to have got Mr Starkie off the hook, eh?’ A quick change of subject would show that the ostensible dig was not deliberate.

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you notice her amazing coloured lenses?’

‘Nope.’

Being electric blue they were impossible to miss even by the dullest observer, never mind someone as keen-eyed as Simon, Alice thought. She wondered whether her companion had retreated into his habitual near-speechlessness and had no desire to talk. On the other hand, perhaps, he had taken offence at her opening gambit and she should try to coax him round, reassure him that she had meant nothing untoward? As she was racking her brain, as seemed to be happening all too often, for some other uncontentious subject, her phone went.

‘What was that about?’ he asked, as she put it back into her pocket.

‘A cleaning up exercise, I’m afraid. The boss thinks that the DI and I didn’t get enough information from Lena Stirling about the assailant’s voice, so we’re to go to her flat in Harbour Street, see her there and ask about it and about the bloke’s looks again. Another witness has turned up, someone from Cadiz Street, who saw a dark-haired man running in the area at about the right time.’

‘What about “snowflakes” or whatever he’s called? I thought we were to go there?’

‘Lena first, apparently.’

To her amazement, when they reached the Portobello roundabout, Simon Oakley continued over it, heading back into Leith instead of turning right towards the sea.

‘Simon, it’s Harbour Street – back there. We need to turn round.’

‘Sorry, Alice, I can’t. It’s my tummy, it’s started playing up again. I’ve got to get home quickly. I think I’m going to be sick.’ He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his pale throat.

She glanced at him, annoyed not to have been consulted, and he immediately caught her eye, returning her look sheepishly, as if asking for forgiveness. But he looked blooming, in the pink, and he had recently finished one and a half pasties. Maybe that was the trouble.

‘OK. But a minute ago you were fine. Couldn’t we just do this first? It’s all hands to the pump now and we’re right next to the woman’s house, practically. I’m sure she’d let you use her loo and it won’t take long, I’d be as quick as quick can be. You could even stay in the car, if you like, and I’ll go there by myself. I’ll be in and out before you know it,’ Alice said, looking back at their turn-off as it disappeared into the distance.

The man shook his head, then, Alice noted, extended his hand apparently towards the unfinished pasty on the dashboard, before redirecting it in the nick of time to the gear-stick and performing a gear change. Then, to her surprise, he winked at her.