Gillian Galbraith - Blood In The Water

‘It’s ma pal, Davie, he’s collapsed. Ye’ll need tae phone fir an ambulance…’

Despite the entreaty in his voice her reply was cold.

‘Have you not got a mobile telephone like everyone else?’

For Sammy, patience was a commodity in short supply at the best of times, and the only explanation necessary had already been provided.

‘Fer fuck’s sake woman, jist phone the hospital will ye? I’ll need tae move him in here, oot o’ the rain. It’s pissin’ doon oan him.’ He turned round as if to go and collect the body, muttering obscenities at her under his breath.

‘Just a minute, if you don’t mind. I’d rather you just took him to the shed, he’ll be under shelter there. I don’t know either of you from Adam, and the box’s full of scare stories about ruses for getting into peoples houses… em… I’m not suggesting you… but all the same… I’d rather…’

‘Away tae fuck wi’ ye.’

By the time Sammy returned to Davy’s prostrate body, little moans were coming from his sodden form, and saliva appeared to be bubbling out of his mouth.

The ambulancemen were gentle, easing the slight body onto a stretcher and picking up the loose change as it fell from his pockets onto the soaked ground. Sammy knew he should tell them that Davie was an alcoholic. Even if he recovered he’d soon start suffering the DTs and it would be all too obvious. But he didn’t like to betray his friend, and if he did they might try to involve him in some way. Instead, he gave the men the old fellow’s address and provided a false one for himself, otherwise they might try to contact him to help with any recuperation or, God forbid, arrangements for a funeral, and, really, it was none of his business. Davie had a missus somewhere, shed years ago, but no doubt the authorities would be able, somehow, to contact her.

Sammy let himself into the house, luxuriating in its empty state, the welcome absence of any sulky wife, noisy children or screaming babies. Soon the taps were on, filling the pink bathtub and warming the cool air of the bathroom with steam. Soft music on the radio soothed him as he lay in the hot water, secure in the knowledge that no one was impatiently waiting to take his place, Shona would not be returning from her work as a barmaid until at least eleven-thirty pm. He had a good six hours all to himself. He washed his hair with her coconut-scented shampoo and scrubbed his fingernails vigorously to remove all the day’s grime. Looking around him he saw that all the clothing which had previously littered the floor had gone, and that Shona had laid out clean clothes for him on the bathroom chair. The ironed pile included the raspberry pink shirt, chosen by her before she understood his tastes, but no-one would see him in it in the house. Dressing, he felt an animal pleasure in his cleanliness, with the sweet smell of soap on his body and his crisp, freshly laundered kit.

In the kitchen he unwrapped the parcel of fish and chips that had been keeping warm in its brown paper in the oven. The hiss of the ring-pull on the Tennants can made for the perfect evening. He opened Principles of Practical Beekeeping and read on:

‘Towards the end of summer, rearing and mating of queens usually ceases and as a colony has no further use for its now redundant residents, the workers turn upon the drones in fury. First they gnaw their wing bases so that they are unable to fly, then forcibly eject them from their home, where they quickly perish from cold…’.

He thanked God that he hadn’t been born a bee, and closed the book hurriedly. Perhaps the TV would make for the truly perfect evening, so he flicked on the remote and was heartened to see the rugged features of Steve McQueen contort as he punched a cop on the jaw. Just as he felt himself slumping a few inches further into the easy chair he heard a knock on his front door. Steve was just about to land another punch, this time to the cop’s eye, so for a moment he considered ignoring the caller, but he had never been able to let a phone ring unanswered or disregard a doorbell. You never knew when such things might not signal an emergency: Shona might have been hurt or something. He pulled himself, reluctantly, to his feet, took a final swig of his lager and went to see who had come to call.

Tuesday 6th December

DCI Bell waited impatiently for the rump of her squad to arrive. Eric Manson breezed in, last of all, as if he was attending a social gathering of some sort, clutching his polystyrene mug of coffee and nodding to his pals as he found his way to his seat.

‘Are you quite ready, Eric?’ Elaine Bell asked sarcastically.

‘Sorry Ma’am, got held up in the traffic,’ Eric replied, apparently uncontrite.

‘When I say nine, I mean nine. Nine o’clock precisely.’ She continued, unpleasantly aware that she sounded like an exasperated primary school teacher.

‘Last night a man named Samuel McBryde was found murdered in his home at Granton Medway. He was aged thirty-six and was discovered by his girlfriend, Shona Gordon, when she returned to their home after her work. She reckons it was at about eleven-fifty pm. His throat had been cut, and the pathologists think that the killing took place earlier that evening, which accords with the information we have from the girlfriend that McBryde normally got back home at about five or five-thirty pm. Another bit of lined paper, this time with the word “worthless”, and again written in green ink, was present near the victim’s left foot.’ She cleared her throat, before carrying on:

‘It looks like whoever was responsible for Dr Clarke’s death also killed Samuel McBryde. In both cases, the initial incision was high up on the left side of the neck, starting from just below the ear. Anyway, the presence of the pieces of paper with their inscriptions can hardly be coincidence. But Christ alone knows what the connection between the two of them is. Dr Clarke’s cleaner doesn’t think any knives were missing from the doctor’s flat. Miss Gordon doesn’t think that anything’s been taken from their house, two twenty-pound notes were lying on the kitchen table untouched. Neither she nor Mr McBryde were drug users…’

Manson interrupted, ‘Is that on Miss Gordon’s say-so, boss? She’s hardly likely to admit that they were users to us.’

‘Yes, Eric. It’s on Miss Gordon’s say-so and I’m quite aware of the likely reliability of any such statements. If I could continue?’ She shot an impatient glance at the Detective Inspector before resuming her address, ‘As before, there were no signs of forced entry, so it seems probable that both victims knew their killer. In the circumstances, it’s been decided to enlarge the Murder Squad and we are to be assisted by some of the Leith people. We are getting DSs Moray and Sands and DCs Porter and Lindsay. The scene of crime officers are already at the locus…’

DCI Bell allocated the day’s tasks amongst the squad. Alice was assigned, with Alastair, to talk to McBryde’s neighbours in Granton Medway. The place, when they eventually found it, was a midden, about as far removed from the graceful Georgian architecture of the New Town as a pygmy village on the Congo. Two rows of bleak, cement-harled houses were separated by a road rutted with potholes and pavements blotched with different shades of tarmac grey, a patchwork of repairs. Squat wheelie-bins flanked each communal doorway, many of them displaying obscenities in thick white paint. Litter was strewn everywhere as if a vast bin had exploded in the centre of the estate, showering everything in it over the houses, including the ubiquitous satellite dishes. The houses on either side of McBryde’s had their windows boarded up and then, for additional security, metal shutters had been fitted.