Gillian Galbraith - Dying Of The Light

Two hours later, the body, its hands, feet and head bagged in clear plastic and secured with brown parcel tape, began its undignified journey to the police mortuary in the Cowgate. So bound, it no longer seemed human, resembling instead a gigantic, grotesque doll or toy. In Edinburgh, despite the city’s douce exterior and cultured reputation, the mortuary remained open for business at all hours of the day and night. Even at midnight on Christmas Eve, with carols sweetening the air and kisses landing on cold cheeks, its harsh lights shone brightly, awaiting its next guest. Always room in that inn.

Alice, yawning uncontrollably, tramped up the dusty tenement stair to her flat in Broughton Place. The loud barking, echoing in the stairwell, reached a peak as she stepped onto the landing below her own. As the door opened, her dog, Quill, darted out to greet her, his tail a blur of wagging, claws clattering on the stone as he danced joyfully around her. His temporary custodian, Miss Spinnell, wordlessly handed over his lead before, bowing her head ever so slightly, she retreated into her lair. Her door’s multiple locks were being driven home as Alice climbed the final flight to her own front door.

As she turned on the light in the kitchen she saw a note in Ian’s characteristic over-large italic hand, lying on the table.

‘Back whenever. Don’t worry about food for me.’

And without him, the place felt cold and cheerless. With every step she had taken on the journey home she had been thinking about what she would tell him of her evening, luxuriating in the prospect of unburdening herself of its grim sights by sharing them with him. The very act of describing a murder, she found, lessened its impact, focussed her mind and helped her to believe that something could be achieved, that their efforts would, eventually, bear fruit.

Of course, the old order could never be restored. A killing was not like the eruption of a monster’s head through the dark waters of a loch, the creature then sinking back into the depths, leaving a ripple-free surface behind it. In some form or other, a murder’s repercussions continued forever, extending outwards and permanently altering lives in ways seen and unseen, every bit as profoundly as the flapping of a butterfly’s wing in some rainforest somewhere. But Leith might be made safe again, at least.

She longed to tell him what she had seen: the woman’s oddly bloodless face, the almost Prussian blue of her lips, the disquieting sight of a bird dropping on her neck and the blackness of the wound. But he was in his studio, oblivious to her need, the time and the freezing temperature, absorbed completely in his work, all his interest centred within the studio’s four walls. And, yes, he never complained about her absences or the fact that most of her energies were used up in the station. But, just occasionally, very occasionally, she imagined the reassurance that might come from someone missing her, waiting anxiously for her return. And tonight was just such a night, just such an occasion.

Of course, the solution to the problem was easy, as a woman Alice knew that. If you are unable to find the place that you are looking for then you simply ask anyone you meet, particularly those in nearby premises. It stood to reason. Nevertheless, the next morning she found herself wandering past the first row of shops she came to, convincing herself that her destination would be just around the corner. Then again, the nearby office block would, she thought, probably be empty, and the group of young men by the bus stop were too busy talking to each other for her to interrupt them.

Walking past an old biddy, standing motionless as she fished in the depths of her carrier bag, Alice began to ask her for directions, only to find that she spoke only Polish, was lost and appeared to be furious with the world and all its works. Desperate now to find the S.P.E.A.R. office, she peered through the first open door in a row of industrial units and saw a pair of overalled legs projecting from beneath a car.

‘Excuse me?’ she said, her voice lost against the background of music emanating from a radio resting on the oil-blackened concrete.

‘Excuse me!’ she repeated loudly, but there was still no answer.

‘EXCUSE ME!’ she shouted, finally attracting the man’s attention as he wheeled himself out from under the chassis, switched off the radio and got up, wiping his hands on a soiled rag as he came towards her.

‘I just wondered…’ she paused momentarily, trying again to work out the best words for her enquiry, the least damning, which would get her the directions she wanted without having to mention the exact place she was looking for. But it was no use. She could not remember the name of the bloody street. The best she could recall was that it was off Restalrig Drive.

‘I’m looking for S.P.E.A.R.’s premises?’ she continued brightly.

‘Nae Spears round here, hen. There’s a shop, Sears, a bed shop at three doors along. Could that be it?’

‘Er… no. But thanks, anyway. I’m looking for the er… er… prostitutes’ office, their… er… resource centre?’

The man looked at her, brazenly scanning her figure, grinning broadly. ‘Like I said, dearie, there’s the bed shop. What other resource do yous need?’

In the face of defeat, she had to try again, although her cheeks were now burning and she had begun, foolishly she knew, to devise other questions, ones designed to find the sodding place without conclusions being drawn about her own profession. The next-door building turned out to be a dressmaker’s workshop, hand-made clothes displayed on a small crowd of dummies, each with an expensive price tag hanging below the hemline. With a sinking heart she approached a seamstress, head bent as she machined a seam, pins sticking menacingly from her wide mouth.

‘Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for S.P.E.A.R.’s. premises?’

Please God, no further clarification needed. Concentrating on her sewing, and speechless due to her mouthful of pins, the woman jerked her head towards the door. On screwing up her eyes, Alice made out the words on the sign opposite: ‘The Scottish Prostitutes Education and Advice Resource’.

The squad meeting had been fixed for ten p.m. At five past, Alice edged through the half open door into the murder suite on tiptoe, hoping to slip into a seat at the back without her lateness being noticed. However, to her surprise, she found the room empty, lights off and computers still dormant.

While she was still wondering if she had misheard the appointed time, Eric Manson came into the room, sausage roll in hand, and slumped heavily onto the only seat softened by a cushion. Like the rest of the squad, he looked pale-faced, had only slept for a few hours, and his chin was bleeding from a botched attempt to shave in the poorly lit men’s toilet.

Just as she was about to ask him if the meeting had been postponed, three detective constables, Littlewood, McDonald and Galloway, arrived together, their conversation tailing off into a self-conscious mumble as they filed in. DC Ruth Lindsay trailed behind them, yawning and unbuttoning her coat. The remaining vacant chair was beside Alice, and she took it for granted that it would soon be occupied by her friend, Alistair Watt, ideally bearing coffee for them both. Instead, Simon Oakley deposited his heavy frame in it, inclining his head slightly in her direction and smiling in recognition.