Ken McClure - Eye of the raven

He looked up Cuddles Executive Saunas and found three listings. One was in Rose Street, a narrow lane running parallel to Princes Street on its north side, another was in Salamander Street, down by Leith Docks and the remaining one was situated in a side street close to the city’s Haymarket railway station. Steven noted down these addresses too. This was just in case he got round to asking Paul Verdi why such a hotshot lawyer had made such a lousy job of defending David Little.

Steven was just about to get ready for bed when the phone rang and an unfamiliar voice asked, ‘Dr Dunbar?’

‘ Yes, who is this?’

‘ My name is John Merton; I understand from Tom Kelly that you were looking for me earlier today? How can I help you?’

‘ Good of you to get back to me so quickly, Mr Merton. I wonder if we could meet up. I’d like to ask you some questions about your time in the forensics lab in Edinburgh.’

‘ Good Lord, that was a long time ago,’ said Merton. ‘Another life, you might say. That’s going to be a bit difficult, I’m afraid. I’m in France at the moment and then I plan on going on to Germany. I’m not due back until the end of next month. Is there anything I can help you with over the phone?’

‘ No reason why not,’ said Steven. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to call you back?’

‘ No problem,’ said Merton, sounding amused. ‘I think the business can stand it.’

‘ I hear it’s going well,’ said Steven.

‘ Certainly beats working for the university,’ said Merton. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘ I’m looking into events surrounding the Julie Summers murder back in 1993 and the part the lab played in the trial of David Little. Do you remember the case?’

‘ I’m not liable to forget it,’ replied Merton. ‘It was a very high profile affair at the time; in all the papers. Come to think of it, I might still be in the lab if it hadn’t been for that case. I left in the aftermath. What do you want to know?’

‘ I understand there was a problem with the samples collected at the scene of the crime.’

‘ There certainly was. Old Ronnie chucked them out, poor old bugger. His career went with them.’

‘ I’ve talked to everyone on the team at the time, Dr Lee, Carol Bain, Sister Egan…’

‘ Who was that last one?’

‘ Sister Egan at the Western General… Sorry, Samantha Styles that was,’ said Steven. ‘She got married.’

‘ Oh, Sam,’ exclaimed Merton. ‘Nice lass, didn’t realise she’d become a nurse, good for her.’

‘ I understand from Carol and Samantha that you… looked out for Dr Lee in the lab.’

‘ Someone had to,’ chuckled Merton. ‘I kept hoping the powers that be would recognise he had a drink problem and arrange help for him but no, they preferred to bury their heads in the sand and pretend nothing was wrong.’

‘ Until the Summers scene-of-crime samples were lost,’ said Steven.

‘ That was more or less the last straw,’ agreed Merton. ‘Not that it made much difference in the end. The DNA evidence was watertight.’

‘ What other evidence was there?’ asked Steven.

‘ Let me think… Julie scratched Little’s arm. We got a perfect DNA match for the material taken from under her fingernails.’

‘ You did?’

‘ Most certainly.’

‘ And a report was prepared to that effect.’

‘ I did it myself,’ said Merton.

‘ It’s just that all the reports have gone missing…’

Merton let out a long sigh. ‘Ye gods, you know, hearing this is bringing it all back to me, just how awful that place was. Getting out was the best thing I ever did.’

‘ Sounds like it,’ said Steven. ‘You’ve no idea where the reports might be?’

‘ If they’re not in the lab case files, none at all,’ said Merton. ‘Sorry.’

Steven relaxed and said, ‘Mr Merton, I think that’s all I needed to know. You’ve been most helpful.’

It rained heavily on Thursday morning, giving the city a dark, gloomy, depressing air as Steven’s taxi made its way slowly through Edinburgh’s morning traffic to the new town premises of Seymour and Nicholson. He’d decided not to drive because of likely parking problems and knew he’d made the right decision when congestion forced them to halt yet again at the West End of Princes Street. The clatter of the taxi’s idling diesel engine vied with the sound of the rain on its roof as clouds of cold exhaust from neighbouring vehicles drifted upwards in the chilly air.

‘ What’s this prat doing’?’ growled the driver as the bus ahead seemed to take an eternity at the stop ahead. ‘How long does it take to hand out a few tickets for Christ’s sake?’ grumbled the man.

‘ There’s no hurry,’ said Steven.

‘ Maybe no’ for you, pal, but ah’ve got a livin’ tae make,’ snapped the driver.

Steven abandoned his calming initiative.

The bus eventually moved off to ironic cheers from the taxi driver and they continued down into the Georgian new town.

‘ Abercromby Place, you say?’ said the driver.

‘ That’s right,’ said Steven, adding the number.

‘ I think that’s at the far end. It bloody well would be…’

The cab turned into Abercromby Place where the driver leaned forward over the wheel to look up at the numbers as they moved along. He had slowed to a crawl, which annoyed a Volvo driver behind who couldn’t get past because of parked cars. He tooted his displeasure, which set off the cab driver on another rant. ‘What’s your problem pal?’ he yelled out the window, and then turning to Steven, he added, ‘See Volvo drivers? They’re all the bloody same. Think they own the bloody road.’

Steven adopted a neutral smile and got out. He paid the driver, aware that they were still holding up the car behind.

‘ No hurry, pal. Let the bugger wait,’ advised the driver.

Steven gave the man a ten pound note, told him to keep the change and stood on the pavement for a moment as the cab drove off slowly with the Volvo estate only inches from its bumper and its driver gesticulating furiously.

Steven turned away from social interaction in the city and looked up at the imposing blue door of Seymour and Nicholson. It stood tall and wide at the head of a flight of stone steps flanked by recently-painted black iron railings. A polished brass nameplate on the wall at the side cited the names and credentials of those who worked within.

The door was slightly ajar so Steven pushed it open and passed through an inner, tiled porch and then through a frosted glass door where he was met with the smell of air that had been dried-out by electric heaters.

‘ Can I help you?’ asked the young girl who appeared at a sliding glass panel. Steven saw this as a test of his theory that the person asking this question never could.

‘ I wonder if I might have a word with either Mr Seymour or Mr Nicholson.’ Steven asked, knowing that the reply would be, as indeed it was, ‘Do you have an appointment?’

He admitted that he didn’t and showed her his warrant card.

‘ One moment please,’ said the girl, peering at the card as she walked away with it.

Steven could hear whispering female voices while he waited. He heard an older woman finally say, ‘I’ll deal with this, Marlene and the girl reply, ‘Yes, Mrs Woodgate.’ His theory remained intact.

Mrs Woodgate appeared at the sliding panel, all glasses and blue-rinsed hair and asked, ‘You’re some kind of policeman?’

‘ You could say,’ agreed Steven.

‘ Can I ask what this is about?’

‘ Fire regulations,’ lied Steven.

‘ Fire regulations?’ repeated the woman, sounding alarmed.

Steven nodded. ‘There’s a problem.’