Tom Knox - The Babylon rite

The junior policeman spoke up, for the first time. ‘It wasn’t reported.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘To be frank, we don’t know it even happened.’

‘But the landlady, what’s her name… Sophie Walker. She said Archibald was freaked. Scared.’

‘Yes,’ the junior policeman persisted calmly. ‘But it’s just hearsay. She heard it from him. He didn’t report a break-in, so we have no evidence of a break-in. And of course, unfortunately, we can’t interview him now.’

Adam felt as if he was trapped in a maze of impermeable logic. Everything the police were saying was entirely reasonable and rational. Yet he felt frustrated. But maybe his frustration was illogical: maybe he was the irrational person here. Him, and Nina?

Pizzuto took over. ‘Again, we will ask Rosalind McLintock if she knows anything about the theft of,’ her eyebrows drifted upwards, by a sarcastic fraction, ‘the theft of these “notebooks”, and this “break-in”.’

‘Don’t bother.’ Nina spat the words. ‘I asked her today. Again. Says she knows nothing.’

The two police officers exchanged a wearied frown.

Adam had one last go, trying to remember his training in news journalism in Sydney. Always ask the obvious questions. Get straight to the heart of the matter.

‘He seemed happy that day. In Rosslyn. Why would he kill himself?’

Pizzuto eyed Adam. ‘You mean he was smiling? Cheerful?’

‘Yes!’

‘But you said yourself, Mr Blackwood, he was also behaving “oddly”. Saying strange things. No?’

‘Yes, but-’

‘We have it on tape. “He seemed a little unbalanced, he was behaving oddly”. I’m sorry to be so brutal but these are your words.’

‘So why, then? Why did he do it?’

The detective sighed. ‘Please. As you must know, that’s not our territory. You know that, as a journalist. And if I may explain something, because you might be unaware, as an Australian, Britain has differing legal systems. Remember you are in Scotland, not England. There is no coroner here. We have something roughly similar: a procurator fiscal. She, or he, will gather evidence. If anomalies or grounds for further investigation are found there may be a Fatal Accident Inquiry, where these issues can be aired. But, I have to say,’ she turned to Nina, giving her an expression of genuine sympathy ‘if you want my honest opinion, and I feel you deserve it, Miss McLintock — then there probably won’t be an FAI. Why? Because this was a suicide. All the evidence points that way.’ She raised a conspicuously wedding-ringed hand, preventing Nina from interrupting, and continued. ‘I know this is distressing, Miss McLintock. No relative, and certainly no child, wishes to hear that their parent may have killed themselves. Suicide is a tragedy for the survivors. You will have feelings of deep guilt and confusion, as well as grief. Guilt that you didn’t spot the clues as to his moods, guilt that you didn’t do something. You feel helpless. It is only natural to hope, paradoxically, for a different explanation. Murder is easier to deal with, emotionally, for close relatives, than suicide, however odd that sounds. I’ve seen it before. But, again, all the evidence we have — and I am a fairly experienced police officer — tells me this was a suicide. I am sorry. But there it is.’

The discussion was over, it seemed. DCI Lorna Pizzuto was already standing, putting documents in a briefcase, then offering a handshake.

Nina accepted the gesture, in a way that said eloquently, I still don’t believe you.

Their walk to the door of the police station was short and silent. Outside, Adam inhaled the Edinburgh air, on busy Craigleith Road. The cold winter breeze was malted, carrying the distinctive tang of the breweries nearby. Yellow Edinburgh buses queued at the junction. He thought, inadvertently, and piercingly, of Alicia, crushed by a bus: King’s Cross in Sydney. How easily it happened, how easily death just took you, flippantly, crazily; with no logic, no logic at all.

It was an interlude of sadness and of awkwardness. Adam didn’t know what to say, or do. Believe the police, or believe Nina? Carry on, or go home? He didn’t want to think about Alicia, he didn’t want to brood.

‘You believe them, don’t you?’ Nina said at last.

‘I…’ He wondered whether to lie and decided against. ‘To be honest, I don’t know.’

‘Come on.’ She took his arm. ‘Let me show you something. It wouldn’t mean anything to the cops. But it might just mean something to you.’

She was already hailing a cab. He followed, bemused.

Ten minutes of light Edinburgh traffic found them in Grassmarket, climbing another set of tenement stairs to another flat: Nina’s own.

The flat was pleasant but spare, chic but austere. The flat of someone who wanted to live quietly and unfussily, or of someone who expected to be moving again soon. He sat down at her request in a leather chair. What was she going to show him?

She returned with two mugs of tea, in Rangers Football Club mugs.

‘Nice flat.’ He didn’t know what else to say.

Nina looked around the living room, appraisingly, as if she were an estate agent estimating the value. ‘Yeah well.’ She shrugged again. ‘I can only afford it because I sold up in London. Sold my ill-gotten gains.’ She sipped her tea. ‘I used to work in the City. But the job was so intense I quit.’

He gazed at her, wide-eyed; she laughed, ruefully. ‘Ach. You didn’t take me for a banker, did you?’

‘Well…’

‘You’re right. I wasn’t. Took me five years to realize it. I don’t know what the hell I am but I’m pretty sure I’m not one of nature’s bankers. But I made a bit of cash so I’m set. I guess. For a while.’

It occurred to Adam that, stupidly, he hadn’t ever asked her what she did. Her job: the most basic and essential of questions. The darkening whirl of drama meant he had neglected the primaries of his craft. Get the facts, all the facts, especially the most basic: age, job, race, marital status and hair colour if you are writing for a tabloid. Pretty Nina McLintock, 27-year-old brunette, spoke of her father’s death…

‘What do you do then, now?’

‘Charity work. Atoning for my sins.’

‘What kind of charity work?’

‘Scottish Shelter. For homeless people. I help them raise and make money, because I know how to handle money.’

‘Full time?’

‘Three days a week. The pay is dreck but that doesn’t matter, right now. Anyway, I’ve taken some time off, since Dad.’

‘Of course.’

Nina set the tea on the table. ‘Enough. Look at us! Reduced to bourgeois chit-chat.’ Her smile was terse. ‘Let me see if I can engage you. Re-engage you? Do you want to see what I’ve got?’

‘Yes, please.’

She stood and crossed the room to a cupboard. Opening a large drawer, she pulled out a plastic shopping bag. Then she dropped the bag on the coffee table between them. It was apparently stuffed full of small slips of paper.

Adam stared.

‘Remember last night?’

‘Not something I’m going to forget.’

‘Remember I ran into the kitchen-’

‘Of course.’

‘I went to get this.’ Nina gestured at the bag. ‘Receipts. Hundreds of receipts. Maybe thousands.’

He didn’t understand, though he could see the dim outlines of where this was going. Then he realized. ‘Your dad’s receipts.’

‘Exactly! You were a freelancer once, right? You understand. ’ She barely waited for his affirmative reply, then hurried on: ‘Dad was meticulous about this stuff, tax returns, claiming expenses. All that. As I was searching his desk, last night, I suddenly remembered that he kept all his receipts in a big bag in the kitchen, he’d chuck them in there automatically, whenever he got home.’