Gillian Galbraith - Blood In The Water

‘I’d just got back from work, so maybe six-thirty pm.’

‘So when you went out to your car later, it would be about seven-ten or seven-twenty, something like that?’

‘Yes, that’s correct, Officer.’

‘What were they doing then?’

‘They were knocking on someone else’s door.’

‘Whose door?’

‘Mrs Jarvis’s, but they’d have no luck there whatever they were up to.’ Mr Burns pursed his lips, blatantly inviting further questions.

‘Oh?’ Alice enquired, an unwilling participant in the man’s breathless game.

‘Another neurotic female. Her husband left her about a year ago for a younger model, and no surprise there since she’d let herself go completely, no face-paint whatsoever and she lived in trousers. Since he left she’s become a virtual recluse, peering out of her curtains occasionally, but no one darkens her door except her son, poor brute. His life’s not his own any more. No chance of any strangers being allowed over that threshold.’

If like-minded people are attracted to the same places, then Mrs Morris had no business living in Lennox Street. She answered the door clad in a paint-streaked boiler suit and old plimsolls, the whole ensemble being set off by a peroxide-blond crew cut. In the privacy of her studio she explained that the three visitors had been Jehovah’s Witnesses, intent upon converting her until she had explained to them that she was a practising Nichiren Buddhist, evangelical in her own way, and currently engaged on a thesis entitled ‘The History of the Lotus Sutra’. Their departure had been hastened by her offer to teach them a chant central to her belief, and she laughed out loud remembering the alacrity with which they collected their umbrellas, pamphlets and papers as soon as she began to intone ‘Nam myok…’.

The sergeants were greeted like old friends by the Jehovah’s Witnesses at the nearby Kingdom Hall. Followers appeared from nowhere, men and women, old and young, all smiling kindly at them and one bearing refreshments. They were led, superflous mugs of tea in hand, to a comfortable seating area, a space reserved for leather-covered armchairs and long, low tables covered in brightly coloured little books and pamphlets. Their escorts mysteriously drifted away, but one old lady remained with them, sipping her tea companionably and radiating a benign contentment at their appearance. Alice, realising that the Witnesses believed that their visit was due to a desire for conversion or, at the very least, further information leading to conversion, drew her identity card from her pocket and showed it to their hostess. The effect was immediate, and the old lady’s expression changed into one of anxiety.

‘How can we help you, Officers?’ she said.

‘We would like to speak, if possible, to any of the three Witnesses who were in Lennox Street last Thursday evening,’ Alice replied.

The old lady blinked nervously, and then bellowed, with surprising vigour, ‘Eva! Eva! Come out here.’

The mousy woman who had distributed the tea emerged from behind a partially open door and joined them in the seating area. A lifetime of knocking on strangers’ doors and being met with abuse had prepared her for any ordeal, and an interview with the police was as nothing compared to one night’s evangelising in the rougher parts of Midlothian, places where gobs of spittle often accompanied the slamming of doors. In response to their polite inquiries she explained that neither she, nor either of the others, had seen anything unusual that evening. They had, indeed, called at No. 1 Bankes Crescent. It was the last house they’d tried before thankfully abandoning their night’s chore and returning to the hall, weighed down with as many leaflets as they’d set out with. It had been a bad shift, with little kindness from any quarter, and they were all too disheartened to continue trying to spread the word any longer. She reckoned that they’d been at Dr Clarke’s front door at about nine pm and had got no response from any of the three flats.

As Eva began to describe their cool reception earlier that evening in Lennox Street, Alice’s mind drifted back to the information they’d already obtained, automatically assessing its import. The trio had been in and out of other people’s houses throughout the evening, so they could easily have missed all, or any, significant movements for the whole time. However, Dr Clarke had not responded when they had pressed her bell. She would not have been able to see who was at the front door from her flat, and medics couldn’t ignore callers as their services might be needed. Anyway, Dr Clarke was probably too polite, or too curious, to allow a doorbell to ring without responding to it in some way. So by nine pm she was probably dead.

DI Eric Manson had a gift, an unusual one, a gift for annoying Alice beyond endurance, and since he had discovered this particular accomplishment he had enjoyed exercising it to the full.

‘Ian Melville killed Dr Clarke, mark my words, Alice. He was turned down by her again and couldn’t accept it.’

‘No, Sir, I don’t think so,’ she replied in measured tones.

‘Face it, love, he had a motive and he had the opportunity. She’d spurned him, killed his kid, for Christ’s sake, what more do you want? Just because he’s good-looking, maybe even available…’ The caress of the flame on the blue touchpaper had been too close, and Alice’s response was immediate and heated.

‘His good looks, as you call them, Sir, have nothing to do with anything. Everyone who ends a relationship isn’t killed, everyone who refuses to re-ignite a relationship doesn’t have their throat slit. Abortions are performed every day and the mothers don’t end up in the mortuary. What we have on Melville, at the moment, all that we have, is his historic relationship with Dr Clarke, the proximity of their addresses and the absence of any alibi for the time at which she was probably killed.’

‘That’s what you think,’ Manson said provocatively, adding, with mock disbelief, ‘and as if that’s not enough!’

Alice and Alastair exchanged glances. Manson was well known for preferring to play with his own hand-picked team, and neither of them were under any illusion that they’d figure even as reserves if he had his way. It would not be the first time that he had been deliberately slow in exchanging intelligence crucial to the team as a whole. Fortunately, he was deprived of the opportunity of flourishing his additional information to maximum dramatic effect by the entry of DC Lindsay, announcing that a squad meeting had been called.

While surveying those assembled in the room DCI Bell crunched her cough sweet, menthol fumes invading her sinuses and making her blink repeatedly. Her voice was hoarse from a heavy cold, and she still looked colourless and panda-eyed. She should have been tucked up in bed asleep, not addressing her troops.

‘Listen up, please, as they say in the movies. We need to consider where we are in this investigation and where we’re going. Considering first Dr Clarke. We’ve just heard from the fingerprint boys that prints, matching those of Ian Melville, have been found on a glass taken from Dr Clarke’s kitchen.’ Alice became aware that Manson was smirking at her, so she continued to stare impassively at her boss.