Gillian Galbraith - Blood In The Water

Alice knocked on the heavy door and waited patiently for the characteristic thuds, clicks and bangs which always preceded its opening. Finally, her identity having been confirmed from behind the last chain, Quill was released to her with the usual polite little nod that signalled the changeover of custody. The dog ran, yelping excitedly, up to their flat on the third floor and waited patiently as Alice fished in her bag for her keys. As the door swung open, she caught the end of a message on her answerphone. Bridget’s voice: ‘Sorry you’re not in. Had thought we might meet up tonight. I’ll try again later in the week.’

She breathed a sigh of relief. No white lies needed to excuse her reluctance to leave home again, just the prospect of a drink in the company of her own thoughts. She poured herself a glass of New Zealand white, unable, as she sipped it slowly, to switch off. Ian Melville seemed believable, but he had a motive or two for killing his former lover, and the opportunity; his house and studio were less than ten minutes from the victim’s flat. Of course, he had no alibi, but he seemed, somehow, an unlikely killer. Surely, if he had done it, it would have been in the heat of the moment, a crime of passion. Yet Dr Clarke’s cleaner said that no knives were missing, which meant the murderer must have brought his own blade with him. So it must have been a premeditated crime, just like Sammy McBryde’s. The paper chase connecting the killings and the calculated way in which they had been carried out were as if someone wanted to ensure that they got the credit for both.

Joe used to marvel that she slept so peacefully, motionless with her head invariably turned to the left. Like she was already dead, he’d once observed. Not tonight, though. Alice could not keep still, she could feel herself tossing and turning, now one arm above her head, now to the side, now one hand under the covers, now on top. No position was comfortable, no position brought sleep any closer. The sheets themselves seemed to be made of sandpaper, abrading her face and bare arms. She needed to talk to someone, to unburden her mind of the thoughts that were chasing each other, exhausting her. Two am. But there were no friends good enough for that any more, and no lover to be roused in extremis like this. If Joe had been beside her she could have touched his shoulder or whispered his name, confided in him the troubles that now wracked her. But he was the trouble, or a big part of it, the one who had explained that dependence was attractive, that independence was not always viewed as a virtue in women. It was Joe who had planted the seed of doubt in her mind, now a full-canopied tree, and then gone away. At four am Alice gave up the unequal struggle, turned on the light and finished the bottle of wine in the fridge. If nothing else could bring about slumber, alcohol certainly would, even if her return to consciousness would be accompanied by a hammer and anvil of a headache.

She woke four hours later, unrefreshed, nauseous and feeling that her age had doubled overnight. Her bedroom mirror, ruthless in its honesty, reflected a sallow-skinned, red-eyed stranger sitting up in her bed. Quill slipped off his chair in one fluid movement, stretched, wagged his tail and bounded, bright-eyed, into the kitchen as if it was the first morning of creation. He knew the routine, and in anticipation of his walk raced round the flat while his mistress dressed with care, preparing herself for the cold world outside-the cold, still dark, world. Twenty minutes later the pair set off towards Canonmills, the dog straining on the lead, pulling his reluctant owner with him from lamppost to lamppost, zigzagging all the way to the park.

Alastair was already at his desk by half past eight, phone clamped to his ear, when Alice arrived at the station. He looked her up and down and then scribbled a note, displaying it to her as he continued to speak into the receiver.

‘ROUGH NIGHT, EH?’ She nodded meekly, preferring the picture of her carousing with friends until the early hours to any explanation, or exploration, of the real cause of her sleeplessness. Eric Manson approached their desks and then, on seeing her, started back theatrically as if encountering some horrible vision. She could not be bothered to smile but managed to manufacture a weak rictus, sufficient to communicate her appreciation of his tired joke and send him, contented, on his way. The blacksmith in her head had begun to pound away again, blow after blow to the left temple, undeterred by the aspirin she’d forced down with her coffee. Another sleepless night, another ruined day, and all because Joe could not handle her as she was, as she wanted to be. And now the sod was even muscling in on her waking hours, not content with destroying her nights.

‘That was a Mr Burns,’ Alastair said, interrupting his companion’s thoughts. ‘He lives in Lennox Street and has just returned from holiday. He saw a report about Dr Clarke’s death in the Evening News and has remembered that on the night of the killing he saw a group of three people, a man and two women, patrolling the area. Lennox Street is no distance from Bankes Crescent. We’d better go and speak to him.’

The Burns’ house presented a neat exterior to the neighbourhood: trimmed hedge, gravelled path and a garden bereft of flowers and weeds. The cement patio that had replaced the lawn sported a collection of brightly coloured, glazed pots, each containing tufts of dry grasses or other architectural plants. Jack Burns had no time for cultivation, he was a golfing man and his home was a shrine dedicated to the ancient sport, hung with tinted prints of its holy places, St Andrews and Muirfield, and bedecked with glistening trophies, usually depicting rigid figures in plus fours swinging clubs. He exuded confidence, the confidence of the law-abiding citizen who has no concern about faulty tail-lights or an out-of-date tax disc. For him the police were simply public servants employed to assist righteous taxpayers, like himself, in their eternal struggle against the great unwashed. As Alice and Alastair took their seats in the immaculate sitting room, Mrs Burns, a timid, downtrodden-looking creature, entered bearing a tray laden with fine china, tea and biscuits for the guests. She lowered her load onto the coffee table nervously, looked up at her husband and was dismissed, with a grimace, from the meeting.

‘Could you describe for us the individuals that you saw?’ Alastair began.

‘As I said on the phone, Officer, a man and two women. I saw them as I was parking the car. They all appeared respectable, the man in a suit and tie and the ladies both in skirts and car coats.’ Mr Burns’ voice was surprisingly high, almost a treble. Alice had expected a baritone to come from the corpulent man. His intonation betrayed his Morningside origins, no need to conceal them in the West End.

‘Can you give us any clue as to their ages?’ Alastair asked.

‘I didn’t get a close view, but middle-aged, I’d say.’

‘What were they doing?’

‘I only saw them for a minute, if that. They were calling at my neighbours, the Osbornes, and getting no answer they moved to the next house, Mrs Morris’s. No Mr Morris now, if there ever was, and frankly I doubt it. She let them in. They were all back in the street about forty minutes later. I had to collect something from my car which was parked outside our house.’

‘What time was it when you first saw them?’