Gillian Galbraith - Blood In The Water

‘Today, as every day, there can be little, if any, doubt of the overall tenacity of the proposition advanced in terms of, if nothing else, its validity and inherent coherence, not to mention its internal consistency in the face of multiple challenges?’

He might as well be speaking Chinese. Alice watched, with horror, the advocate lick his lips in anticipation of her answer and then chew the stray particle he had found.

‘Er… I’m not entirely sure that I have understood the question,’ she said, noticing out of the corner of her eye that one of the baboons in the jury was attempting to get the judge’s attention by waggling its blue hindquarters out of the jury box.

Alice’s dream anxiety ended when she was woken by a sharp rapping noise and Quill’s demented barking. Still drowsy with sleep, she edged her legs over the side of the bed and sat, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Another loud knock immediately restored her senses. Christ! This must be what happened to Flora Erskine, she thought. The girl opened her front door and found behind it her nemesis, knife poised to strike. A cold shiver ran down Alice’s spine. If she were to survive she would need a weapon. She tiptoed into the kitchen, inadvertently releasing the excited dog, and grabbed a bottle of wine from the rack. Her heart began to race and she leant back against the work-top, breathing in and out slowly, trying to calm herself and control the panic that she could feel rising within her.

Advancing into the corridor she was surprised to see Quill, tail wagging from side to side, whining piteously and scratching a corner of the front door. He appeared to know the killer. With her right hand raised behind her head, she yanked open the door, readying herself to smash the stranger’s skull as he launched his attack. But standing on the doormat was the tiny, chittering figure of Miss Spinnell, blinking rapidly, completely oblivious to her near-death experience.

Exhaling loudly, and silently cursing the ancient pensioner, Alice deposited her weapon on the stone tenement floor and escorted the old lady into her kitchen. No doubt there would be some explanation for the unexpected night visit, even if none seemed to be anticipated from her by her visitor, despite her makeshift club. Miss Spinell fixed her neighbour with her bloodshot eyes, each orb disconcertingly having an independent life of its own.

‘They’ve come back,’ she whispered dramatically.

‘Who?’ Alice whispered in response.

‘The thieves. They’ve gone too far this time. They crept into my room, while I was sleeping, and took my spectacles. Removed them from my bedside table. God knows they may have taken more, but I can’t see to tell. It’s a miracle they didn’t hurt me as I slept. They may still be in the flat… for all I know.’

‘Would you like me to go and see?’

‘For heavens sake! I’m telling you that there are intruders in my home… There could be more than one of them. Phone the police,’ the old woman demanded angrily.

‘Miss Spinnell, I am the police, remember…’

‘You’re just a chit of a girl. There may be men. Big men. We need a constable, at least.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll just do a quick preliminary check and I’ll take Quill with me. He’ll be sure to warn me if any of them are left.’

‘No!’ Miss Spinell shrieked, ‘Don’t take Quill. He might get hurt!’

So Alice set off on her own, unprotected but unconcerned, and her neighbour sat with Quill at her side, sipping the only restorative that she would accept, cherry brandy. The furniture in Miss Spinell’s bedroom consisted of a narrow, single bed and a bedside table. On the floor, by the table, lay the missing glasses as if they had been knocked off in the search for them, a scrabbling hand sending them flying spacewards. Alice picked them up and inspected them. They were unbroken, frame and lenses intact. The rest of the flat bore no signs of any intruders, but Miss Spinell remained unconvinced, despite Alice’s account of her search.

‘The men must have dropped them,’ the old lady explained patiently.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ Alice said gingerly, ‘maybe they were never there. After all, why of all the items in your flat would they home in on your spectacles?’

‘What better way to disable me than to rob me of my spectacles?’ the old lady said impatiently. Alice said nothing. It would only scare the poor woman more if she was to point out the obvious, that age and infirmity had disabled her long ago, blind or sighted, and that a child of six would be capable of putting up more effective resistance. For a few seconds she debated with herself-should she explain to Miss Spinell that she had never, at any stage, been in peril from any intruders, or should she go along with the old lady’s version of events, allow her the satisfaction of being right at the price of letting her remain prey to the thought that strange men could enter her stronghold at will? She opted for the latter; familiarity with her neighbour had taught her that nothing upset the old lady more than evidence of her own confusion. She would be comforted by the false vindication, however odd its logical consequences might be.

‘I’m sure you’re right, Miss Spinell. Now would you like to take Quill down to spend the rest of the night with you?’ Alice offered.

The strange eyes twinkled with joy, a broad smile transformed the sunken mouth, and a look of pure pleasure swept across the aged face.

‘Oh thank you, dear. It possibly would make sense.’

They walked downstairs together, Quill trotting ahead, and Alice waited until all the locks had been rammed home before returning to her bed. Four-forty-five am, and she would have to be up by seven at the latest if the dog was to get even a half decent walk. Back under the covers, she flicked anxiously through the judgement again as if simply touching the paper might, in some inexplicable way, provide more enlightenment. Her eyes fell, at random, on the word ‘unreliable’, and she continued reading the paragraph, unearthing ‘misleading’, ‘untrustworthy’ and ‘worthless’ as she did so. She would have to remember to tell the Boss tomorrow. Desperate for sleep, she forced herself to think of Druimindarroch, a real place and as close to heaven as she could imagine, a bay where the sea is always still, its unrippled surface more like glass than water. A late summer evening, the sun still in the sky, windless, and she would take the boat out beyond the island. But she never reached it, sleep always coming before she passed the old stone and slate boathouse guarding the entrance to the bay.

Friday 16th December

Who is responsible for the naming of the new streets, new parks and new estates in a city? Whoever it was in Edinburgh slipped up with ‘Bright Park’, a misnomer so crass as to hint at a sense of humour, albeit one blacker than jet. The expectations that might naturally arise from such a label could include light, airiness, space and, possibly, green leaves, but not eight concrete tower blocks plonked down in a sea of pitted tarmac, a million shards of smashed glass in each pothole, and the unsightly whole encircled by a busy ring road. Two shops, timorous behind shutters and barbed wire, served the residents, and ‘community’ sculptures littered the estate as if ‘art’ might obliterate its ugliness rather than highlight it.

The lift was broken, so the Detective Sergeants had to trudge up the endless stairs to the sixth floor, inhaling the reek of stale ammonia with every step. Flat D lay directly ahead, and sellotaped to its cream-painted front door was a hand-made notice saying ‘Mair’. As Alice knocked it swung open, revealing a windowless hall stripped of furnishings and floor coverings. The place was deserted; the only furniture in it was a three-legged wooden table with an old fishtank perched precariously on top of it. The glass walls of the tank were coated in a greenish scum and a mass of dry, black weed was stuck to its base. On the bottom, with desiccated fronds collapsed over it, was a miniature pink fairytale castle, once the home of angelfish. The sounds of hoovering and Radio 2 could be heard through the door of 6E, and the plastic name-plate spelled out ‘A. Girvan’. An elderly woman carrying a baby answered the door and glanced at their identity cards, pursed her lips and whispered ‘The polis’.