Gillian Galbraith - Blood In The Water

Alice left and went downstairs to the living room, which bustled with professionals intent on doing their jobs, the victim’s body already having been removed. A huge area of pale carpet in front of a chintz-covered sofa, and the sofa itself, was suffused with dark blood. It had splattered onto the high ceiling, dripped onto the ornate cornice and one of the walls. Two large oil paintings, views of Edinburgh in the nineteenth century, had splashes on them as if Jackson Pollock had been let loose to improve them with a bucket of red paint. Aware that she was in the way of the fingerprint men, she moved into an ante-room and found every inch of wall space taken up by shelf after shelf of CDs. The size of the woman’s collection rivalled her own, and a cursory inspection suggested their tastes were similar too. A huge metallic CD player stood in the centre of the small room, like a silver idol, and a series of switches were labelled, in cramped, irregular handwriting, ‘bedroom’, ‘bathroom’, ‘study’ and ‘kitchen’. Elgar’s ‘Sea Pictures’ was in the machine.

Alastair Watt entered the shrine, his large bulk suddenly making the space, or lack of it, feel claustrophobic. He made even Alice feel petite. As he was unable to stand upright in such a low ceilinged cupboard, he signalled her out into the living room. She followed him and they stood together by one of the large sash windows.

‘Dr Clarke doesn’t seem to have had many neighbours,’ he explained. ‘The flat below here is unoccupied, it was sold about two months ago, and the basement’s occupied by Mr Roberts, a deaf old codger unable to hear his own doorbell. I kept battering at his door until he finally appeared, but it seems he neither saw nor heard anything. Apparently, he hardly knew Elizabeth Clarke anyway, just about enough to say hello on the street. They’d never as much as visited each other’s flats.’

‘What about No. 2 Bankes Crescent?’ Alice asked.

‘I checked that out too. It’s been divided into student flats and they’ve all gone home for Christmas. Same with No. 1 Eton Terrace, except for one permanent resident on the second floor, an old lady, a Miss Penrose. I think we should go and speak to her. I’ve told her what’s happened here.’

Miss Penrose’s flat was smelly, its air thick with a perfume-mix of wet dog, used cat litter and overcooked cabbage. A dark tunnel of a hall, containing an overflowing cat tray, led to an ill-lit poky sitting room. In among dilapidated pieces of furniture were five small wooden clothes-horses, each laden with a selection of irregularly-shaped bits of towel, dishcloths and strange yellowish undergarments. The only heat in the room came from an old-fashioned one-bar electric heater. Steam was rising from the clothes-horse closest to it and condensed on the tightly snibbed window. Miss Penrose, having welcomed her guests with complete composure, resumed her seat on a shabby, upright armchair with her dog, Piccolo, on her lap. She was stick-thin, with almost translucent skin, and fragile birdlike bones were visible in her tiny, liver-spotted hands. Standing upright she would only be about five foot tall, but she was bent double by osteoporosis, her face now held permanently parallel to the floor. Her sparse white hair revealed expanses of a baby-pink scalp. She was dressed in a strange assortment of hand-knitted things, a tracksuit bottom and an incongruously large pair of blue trainers. In recognition of her company she began to manhandle some cloudy glasses and a decanter on a tray, readying herself to offer sherry.

‘No drinks for either of us, but thank you very much. We’re on duty,’ Alice said, noticing the old lady’s crestfallen reaction as with trembling hands she replaced the stopper into the decanter.

‘Did you know Dr Clarke?’ Alastair asked quickly, as if inquisition was some sort of substitute for conversation.

‘Of course I did, quite well. Such a pretty woman. Kind too. She used sometimes to come along for a chat with me. She loved Pico, of course, even though he’d twice tried to bite her. No teeth, fortunately.’ She stroked the toothless ball of matted grey fur on her lap, parting its mothy fringe to reveal two little black eyes gleaming malevolently below.

‘You’ll catch them, eh? He’s not much of a guard dog and I’m on my own too… and there’d not be much that I could do.’ It was a statement of the obvious; a snail without a shell on a scorching day would have had a better chance of survival.

Alistair nodded, conscious of the thin reassurance, but unable to give more.

‘Had you known her long?’ he continued.

‘Ever since she moved into Bankes Crescent, and that must have been, maybe, ten years or so ago. She used to walk in the gardens, sometimes she even jogged, and that’s how I got to know her. Through Pico really. I used to make a lot of my friends through him. But not now, as he can only manage a few yards.’

‘Were you at home yesterday evening?’

‘Yes, I went to bed early as it was so cold, and I was feeling a bit stiff. Old bones. I fell asleep with the radio on and I didn’t wake up until that horrible medley at the end of the World Service transmission. It’s at about six am or so. I wasn’t aware of anything out of the ordinary until I heard the commotion caused by the arrival of all those police cars.’

‘Did you see anyone coming to the door at No. 1 Bankes Crescent yesterday evening?’

‘You know, I never saw a thing. I shut my curtains at about five o’clock. I took Pico to the park during the Archers and I was back just before they finished at seven-fifteen pm. Then I took myself off to bed.’

‘Can you tell us anything about Elizabeth Clarke?’ Alice cut in. ‘What sort of person was she?’

Miss Penrose smiled, initially pleased to conjure up the company of her friend.

‘She was considerate. A quiet person. At first she was very reserved with me. Many times over the years, when I’ve been ill, she got my shopping for me. She worked too hard for her own good and I told her so. She was usually back home far too late. I called her Dr Finlay… our joke. She liked a joke. Pico got fond of her, always a good sign, I think. He’s a Dandie Dinmont, you know, Kennel-Club registered as “Piccolo Glorious Flute of Liberton”, to give him his full name. When my big dog, Dipper, died…’

A single tear trickled down her powdery cheek, to be wiped away discreetly with the side of a finger that carried on in the same movement to tuck a strand of unruly hair back into its clip. Miss Penrose came of a generation reluctant to display deep emotion in front of strangers, believing that if she did so she would be guilty of ‘making an exhibition of herself’. The cost of her self-control was more difficult to disguise; a stick-thin knee had begun to shake uncontrollably until she crossed her other leg over it.

‘Did Dr Clarke have any family that you know of, Miss Penrose?’ Alastair interjected, leading the old lady back to the subject like a dutiful sheepdog with a confused old ewe.

‘Her mother’s still alive and has a house in East Lothian, Haddington, I think, or maybe Gifford. I’m sure Elizabeth was an only child, like me. She grew up in the country, like me too. Of course, we lived in Lanarkshire in a big house with lots of dogs and even horses. No Dandie Dinmonts though… only fox terriers. Daddy didn’t like little dogs, parlour dogs, as he called them. He preferred working dogs, Labradors, fox terriers… even spaniels… now, Tinker…’

Neither sergeant had the heart to cut short Miss Penrose’s canine reminiscences too abruptly, so she carried on recalling dead Penrose dogs until, mercifully, her phone rang and they were able to depart, mouthing their gratitude and farewells as she quavered into the receiver.