No Sorrow To Die Read online

  For over a minute Manson stood outside the front door of the old manse, summoning up all his strength, all his energy, preparing to knock and begin the wearisome business of interrogation once more. But it was no good, his mind remained constantly plagued by uninvited thoughts, the host of jagged fears which now ran amok in it. And all the while, his eyes roamed over the moonlit garden, taking in the two herbaceous borders, trimmed evenly for the winter, and the perfectly circular pond set between them, its margin now fringed with ice. Beyond lay an avenue of pollarded Whitebeams leading to a rose bed, the plants there throwing their sharp shadows onto the hard ground. A drystane dyke, with not a stone out of place, marked the boundary of the garden, and in the distance lay the pale undulations of the Lammermuir Hills, their gentle curves sculpted by the passage of time.

  This old woman must have some staff, gardeners in abundance, to keep the place up so well, he decided, pulling himself up to his full height in preparation for meeting a County lady and, in all likelihood, a bit of a Grand Dame.

  Just as he raised his hand to knock, a Honda Civic crawled up the short driveway and drew to a halt behind his own car. Inside it, three immaculately-clad old ladies began to unbend their stiff limbs to begin the long process of disembarking from the vehicle, one of them, apparently, fankled up with her own stick. The driver, the fittest, was the first to get her swollen feet onto the ground, and with her head now down, handbag swinging on her wrist, she made unsteadily for the door. The policeman stood to one side, allowing her unimpeded access to the porch. Once there, and seemingly oblivious to the man’s presence, she proceeded to ring the doorbell. Having done so, she bestowed a gracious smile on him while pulling the ends of her coat collar close together against the cold air.

  When Erica Brodie opened the front door her eyes lit immediately on her friend. She said, excitedly, ‘Well done, Beatrice! In you come. I’ve got the tea on. Did you manage to pick up Honor and Marigold as we discussed?’

  ‘Of course,’ Beatrice replied, starting to remove one arm of her dark-blue husky jacket and edging towards a row of coat hooks in the outer hall.

  Having seen to Beatrice, Mrs Brodie noticed the stranger standing to the side of the doorway and said, sounding slightly irritated, ‘I am sorry, I didn’t notice you there. Can I help you?’

  ‘Well, I’d like to speak to you…’ the inspector began, but was cut short in imperious tones.

  ‘Could you possibly come back tomorrow? We’re just about to play a four at Bridge…’

  As she was still speaking, the two remaining elderly ladies shuffled past Manson, beaming at him benignly as they did so, and starting to ease off their jackets with arthritic fingers.

  ‘No,’ Eric Manson answered, more forcefully than he had intended, but feeling the need to regain control of the situation. This was a police matter after all, it had priority over any social engagement.

  ‘No? No?’ Mrs Brodie repeated coldly, taken aback by the man’s persistence. Whatever charity he was collecting for had just lost its donation. Unless it was the lifeboats, then she would just have to grit her teeth and pay up. Those brave men battling the waves in their sou’westers deserved every penny they got.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the man tried again, ‘I should have told you immediately. I’m from Lothian & Borders Police, and I need to speak to you now. It’s about your son, Gavin Brodie. We need to find…’

  He stopped speaking, noticing a trio of powdery faces clustered behind the woman’s shoulder like benevolent barn owls, each fixing him with unblinking, curious eyes, nodding, eager for him to continue.

  Sensing their presence behind her, Erica Brodie turned to face her bridge partners and said, with distinct testiness, ‘Beatrice, perhaps you could show Honor and Marigold to the drawing room, and then close the door. I’ve laid the tea things out and the fire is lit. Just help yourselves. I need to speak to… er… this gentleman, on a private matter.’

  Obediently the old ladies turned away. To the sound of a stick clacking on bare floorboards, they began their stately progress down a narrow corridor as directed.

  ‘What about Gavin?’ Erica Brodie asked, her brows furrowed and her gnarled thumbs flicking in and out of her clenched fists.

  ‘It might be better if I could talk to you inside, in the warmth, where there’s a seat for you. This may take a little time,’ Eric Manson said firmly, conscious of her great age, moving towards the woman as if to follow her inside. But she remained immobile, blocking the doorway, so that their bodies came closer together than either would have chosen. Manson leant back on his heels slightly and Erica Brodie began to speak.

  ‘No, thank you. I would prefer that things remained private. Marigold will eavesdrop if she possibly can, and my legs are quite steady, I can assure you.’

  So he questioned her where they stood, his exhaled breath snowy white in the cold, marvelling as she spoke at her composure. Occasionally the slightest change in her voice betrayed her distress, together with the incessant movement of her thumbs, and when once, instinctively, he moved towards her again, arm outstretched to comfort her, she responded by backing away from him, as if his touch might weaken her.

  ‘So, you think it unlikely that he could take his medicine without help?’ he continued.

  ‘Very unlikely,’ she replied in her plummy voice. ‘In fact, I’d go so far as to say completely impossible. He could do almost nothing for himself… just like his father before him.’ She added, in a tired tone, ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Almost. I’m sorry to ask you – but did your son want to die?’

  ‘Of course he did. Just as I do. Now, is that it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, impressed by her fortitude, recognising someone of the old school and finding himself strangely touched by her. She was like a little, fluffed-up robin redbreast, bold and unafraid, prepared to take on anyone within her own territory.

  She turned to go in, but then stopped and asked him, ‘And Heather, the “grieving” widow – how is she coping?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he answered truthfully, surprised by her new, unmistakeably sarcastic tone.

  ‘Well, I’m sure everyone’s rallied round. Particularly her new man.’

  ‘Her new man?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘How do you mean, her new man? Who is her new man?’

  ‘I don’t know his name, or his address. Still, I’m doing better than you chaps. At least I’m aware of his existence.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I thought,’ she replied serenely, ‘that you might want to know.’

  ‘How do you know about him? Have you seen them together, or did she tell you about it or what?’

  ‘It is not, Inspector,’ the woman said, with a look of exaggerated disbelief, ‘the sort of thing my daughter-in-law would be likely to tell me, now is it? Nor have I caught her with the other man.’

  ‘So, then, how do you know?’

  ‘Because, antediluvian remnant that I am, I still have all my senses. In the last few months her hair has miraculously turned back from grey to auburn, she’s wearing new clothes, the bathroom is filled with different potions, scents, lotions. If she had a scarlet letter ‘A’ for adulteress tattooed on her cheek it couldn’t have been much clearer…’ she hesitated, ‘to a woman.’

  ‘So you’re sure, quite sure, about this new man?’ Manson asked numbly, apparently still talking about Heather Brodie, but in his mind, in fact, drifting back to Margaret. Talking about Margaret. If this old woman had any doubts about her daughter-in-law, could even change her mind, then he would be alright. They would be alright. He and Margaret.

  ‘Absolutely. I’m not in the habit of spreading false rumours – even about Heather,’ she replied bitterly, limping through her front door and thereby informing her uninvited caller that he was dismissed.

  Chugging back to the office along the old A1, Manson turned the wipers off, their noisy swishing too intrusive and distracting for him to bear. Then the undimmed headlights of an appro
aching car caught the raindrops on his windscreen, nearly blinding him, and he hastily switched them back on again.

  In his dark mood, the village of Tranent seemed like the end of the earth, metal shutters barricading its tawdry shops, dirty water stagnant in its gutters and the only pedestrians about being drunks, shambling from doorway to doorway on its sodden, litter-strewn pavements. The place was no more than a fucking midden, he said to himself, as he accelerated along its main street, ignoring the speed limit and swinging wildly round a bend in his haste to leave.

  The ‘Honest Toun’ appeared little better, the firth beyond Fisherrow not sparkling as it sometimes did, but looking like thick brown soup under a grey, lifeless sky. The two solid colours merged on the horizon. Even the bungalows lining the Milton Road seemed squat and misshapen. And now, thanks to Heather Brodie and her shenanigans, he would get home later than ever. The woman would have to be challenged by him, in person, in her den – well, her sister’s den. He would have to be the one to confront her with the old woman’s suspicions. Not a hint of any affair from Thomas Riddell, of course – the inefficient git! And it was exactly the sort of thing he should have been burrowing about to discover. What else was he for?

  Out of habit, he lit another cigar, but after the first drag he felt slightly sick, persevering only in order to calm his frayed nerves, comforted by its familiar orange glow in the darkness. As he reached the traffic lights by the King’s Theatre he rolled down his window and chucked the stub out, the ashtray inside already overflowing with his dog ends.

  Sitting at her dining room table, Pippa Mitchelson felt distinctly uneasy as she began to wrap a pink teddy bear in Christmas paper, the prickly feeling at the back of her neck telling her that every movement was under the unblinking scrutiny of the morose man seated opposite her. All her attempts to engage him in conversation had failed, and now, with every second that passed, she felt more awkward and anxious, intimidated by his fixed gaze and silent, oppressive presence. Realising that if she wrote on the gift tag she would have to use her spectacles, she dithered, unwilling to put them on in front of him. Maybe she should just wait until he had gone before she put pen to paper? And soon, please God, Heather would return and the man’s attention would shift away from her and on to her sister. That was who he had come to see, after all, that was what he had said. So it must be true.

  Self-consciously, and with shaking fingers, she tied a bow in the red ribbon round the present and then peered, short-sightedly, about the table in search of the kitchen scissors to snip its end off. They were out of her reach, and the paper would unwrap itself if she let go of it, so, momentarily, she stopped as she tried to figure out what to do next. While she was still thinking, the policeman wordlessly handed the pair to her as if he had read her mind. And this confirmation that she was being watched, observed by him, made her yet more uneasy, so that when, after a brief silence, the next track of Rutter’s carols started up she almost jumped in the air with fright.

  The song, ‘Shepherd’s Pipe’ was one of which she was particularly fond, but hearing it now as if through this stranger’s ears, this worldly if not actually world-weary man, it suddenly sounded unbearably sentimental, stickily twee. She felt an overpowering urge to turn it off, but could not summon the courage to make such a decisive move. Instead, she sat through it, increasingly embarrassed by its sweetness, offering another prayer that Heather would appear soon and remove this unwanted limelight from her.

  Eric Manson, his mind freewheeling for once, found himself oddly moved by the sight of the childless spinster, spending her time wrapping presents for other people’s offspring. A crib, with cotton-wool snow on the roof of the stable and a plastic baby Jesus in the manger, had been placed on the sideboard, and beside it a Christmas tree stood with white tinsel and fairy lights wound around its evergreen branches. All arranged, no doubt, by those trembling, oversized hands, and for her own lonely pleasure.

  Glancing surreptitiously at the woman’s face, he was struck by her quiet dignity, her resolve in going on with her life as if everything was normal, as if everything remained the same when, in fact, chaos had begun to encroach, its cold waters now lapping around her feet. Listening to the music, he wondered what it could be, it was pretty and melodic for sure. Perhaps he would manage to get a glimpse of the cover before he left. Buy a copy of the CD and put it in Margaret’s stocking. Margaret… but before he became lost in thoughts of his wife once more, the telephone rang and the shy schoolteacher rose to answer it.

  ‘So you’re stuck,’ he heard her say, her voice sounding strained. ‘Don’t worry, love. Yes, I’ll pick you up. At Waverly in two hours. Yes, I’ll be there.’

  Putting down the receiver, she turned to him and said wearily; ‘That was Heather. She missed the train she was supposed to catch. So she’ll not be back for another couple of hours, I’m afraid. I have to go out myself in about fifteen minutes. I’m babysitting for Ella while she goes to her art class, and I can’t let her down. Probably best that you come back tomorrow morning?’

  Elaine Bell, feeling tense after an afternoon preparing for her appraisal meeting with the Super, strolled into the murder suite. Her labours had renewed her sense of the enormity of the injustice the man was trying to commit, to perpetrate against her. Her record was exemplary, all her appraisals bar his proved it, she deserved the promotion, and if she had to go into battle to achieve her due then she bloody well would. Bring it on. The sooner the better.

  ‘So, Alice, how did it go?’

  The sergeant looked up as the DCI came in and pushed her report to one side, accidentally knocking an all but empty coke can to the floor.

  ‘Very interesting. I learnt a lot. For one thing…’

  At that moment Eric Manson returned, bringing with him the stench of stale cigar smoke, and came over to join them. Seeing the can rolling around the floor he said, petulantly, ‘That was mine.’

  ‘It’s empty,’ Alice replied.

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Elaine Bell said irritably, moving quickly away from her Inspector, overpowered by the miasma clinging to him. ‘How have you both got on?’

  ‘Mrs Brodie doesn’t think that her son was capable of taking the stuff herself. So he must have been given it, fed it or whatever,’ Eric Manson said, his arms now tightly crossed against his chest.

  ‘And young Mrs Brodie, Heather Brodie. What did she say? She should really be the one to know, I suppose? She tended to him, saw him every day after all.’

  ‘Yes, and she thinks he could have done it by glugging it straight from the bottle. The children don’t, though, but apparently she was the one to give it to him. Not them or old Mrs Brodie. She said that he wanted to die… he told them so every day.’

  ‘Good. That may be our answer then, if there was enough in the bottles, that he took it himself for some reason. Knowingly or unknowingly. Anything else, Eric?’

  ‘Aha. The old woman thinks that her daughter-in-law is carrying on with someone. She doesn’t know who, but she’s adamant that the bitch is having an affair.’

  ‘The “bitch”?’ Elaine Bell said, her surprised tone allowing the inspector to reconsider his choice of words.

  ‘Mrs Brodie. Heather Brodie.’

  ‘Maybe that explains it, then,’ Alice said slowly, thinking out loud, ‘what’s going on. Because Heather Brodie’s been lying to us, got her sister to cover for her too. She wasn’t at the theatre on Saturday evening. The actor she claimed to have seen, Martin Jarvis, wasn’t performing on the night she supposedly saw the play. And she was a great fan of his, she told me, so I don’t think she can put it down to some sort of mistaken identity. Perhaps she was with this man or something. Maybe that’s why she was lying.’

  ‘She’s been lying? Bloody Hell, the stupid, stupid cow! Do we know who he is, yet?’ Elaine Bell demanded.

  Eric Manson shook his head. ‘I went there this evening, to Pippa Mitchelson’s house, to ask her, find out who he is, bu
t she’s stuck in Perth. Won’t be back until after ten.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to find out what she was actually doing and who she was with. Neither of you have seen Una Reid again, eh? She might be able to help us out. She’ll have seen Heather Brodie and the rest of them at close quarters… unguarded. She’ll know if the woman was up to something and, quite probably, who with too. And, Eric, I don’t want Mrs Brodie to know that we’re interested in her. Not yet.’ She paused, thinking, ‘On the other hand, I’m not sure how much all of this matters. We’ve got Clerk, he’s inside and we’ve plenty of evidence against him, haven’t we? Brodie died at his hands, McConnachie was crystal clear about that. Thank God. In a way this is all just a sideshow really.’

  Aware that her contribution would be unwelcome, Alice said tentatively, ‘I don’t think it is, Ma’am – a sideshow, I mean. Apart from anything else, I’m not sure the evidence we’ve got is that good, the evidence against Clerk.’

  ‘What on earth d’you mean?’ Elaine Bell said, frowning angrily.

  ‘Well, Gavin Brodie did go to the Raeburn Place Day Centre. We know that.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know that too. And your point is?’ the DCI spluttered, interrupting her. ‘That’s probably how Clerk chooses his victims – finds disabled people, chats to them, learns where they live, works out their security and so on. He meets them through Robert, and I bet he came across Brodie that way.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Alice replied, ‘but it may also leave a big question-mark over the significance of the fingerprint evidence.’

  ‘What on earth are you going on about?’

  ‘Well, a wheelchair’s not like a fridge or a washing machine is it? It moves about the place with its owner, or at least he moves about with it. So, Brodie and his wheelchair go to the day-centre that Clerk goes to as well. All he needs to do is claim that he sometimes helped push people about or some such thing, then the prints are worthless or near worthless. And maybe it’s true, maybe he’s not our man. He left traces of himself all over his first victim’s flat. Ron Anderson’s too. He doesn’t take trouble. So, why just one set of prints in Brodie’s place, on the wheelchair?’