No Sorrow To Die Page 14

  ‘And the book?’ Elaine Bell said, hotly. ‘That’s a bit more difficult for him – for you – to explain away, I think you’d agree.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Alice said, hesitating, conscious that her next piece of information would cause further consternation, ‘not really. I asked Mrs Brodie if her husband had disposed of that Jeffrey Archer, and she said she wasn’t sure but that it was quite likely. Apparently, as he got worse and worse, they had to bring in aids to help with him, rails, commodes, hoists and so on. Extra space was needed. They had a clear out to make room for all the equipment. She said that he loved “airport reading”, as she called it, had a huge collection of paperbacks. She sold the bookshelves and got rid of the A-M section in one of the charity shops in Stockbridge. Archer was one of his favourites, along with Dan Brown. Their system wasn’t perfectly alphabetical, she said, but not bad. The book was an odd thing for Clerk to keep, too, having thrown away a wallet, jewellery and all that.’

  ‘And the remarkably similar M.O.?’

  ‘Cutting the throats of invalids? It’s a remarkable coincidence if Brodie happened to overdose himself on the very night that someone else had chosen to kill him, don’t you think? I’d say it’s much more likely that one individual did both, even if we don’t yet know why. I know we’ve charged Clerk, but as things currently stand I don’t think we’ll get a conviction. Not with what we’ve got at present, will we, Ma’am?’

  ‘Alright, alright, you’ve made your point. Find out who the merry widow’s having it away with, eh? Don’t ask her, go and see that carer woman at the Abbey Park Lodge. Let’s see what Mrs Brodie was actually up to. But, for Christ’s sake, don’t let her know we’re onto her.’

  9

  Bustling angrily from the room, like a hen forcibly deprived of a tasty scrap, the DCI was now thinking hard, trying to work out in her own mind how she could best describe the latest development to the ACC, ensuring that it did not sound like a setback. Her colleagues, both weary after a long day’s work, remained seated, each now reluctant, although for different reasons, to go home. Alice was dreading a confrontation with Ian and its result, and Manson, though too fearful to risk a confrontation with Margaret, was unable to bear the uncertainty of the status quo.

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  He hesitated, trying to work out the best way, the most innocuous way, of introducing the subject, alerting no one. That Margaret should no longer love him was bad enough, but he was not, yet, the butt of office jokes, the object of ill-concealed sniggers, or worse still, sympathy.

  ‘I wondered,’ he continued ‘you know how Mrs Brodie, the old one, told me that Heather was, how should I put it… on the pull? That she had a “fancy” man,’ he added with distaste. Usually, his manner on discussing this kind of thing would be bantering, lewd and jocular, so Alice looked at him, her attention caught by his uncharacteristic diffidence, but he did not follow it up, sinking into silence. She rose, stretched, and lifted her coat from the back of her chair. Infidelity was not a subject she wanted to discuss with him now.

  ‘If she was unfaithful, how would you know?’ he enquired, after a long pause.

  ‘How d’you mean, Sir? How would you know? You’ve just told us that the old lady told you that Mrs Brodie was unfaithful.’

  ‘Yes,’ he hesitated again. ‘Yes, I did… but it’s only an inference drawn by her, by a mother-in-law, you understand. She doesn’t actually know, she hasn’t seen the man, or caught them together or anything. What I’m thinking is, is she – is she right? In the inference she’s drawing, I mean. About her daughter-in-law. You’re a woman, Alice, aren’t you?’

  ‘To the best of my knowledge. Of course, I haven’t been subject to any tests,’ she replied acidly.

  ‘Exactly. So, as a woman, what would make you draw the inference that another woman, a married woman, was having an affair?’

  ‘A number of things, I suppose,’ Alice said, her interest briefly kindled, finding herself entering the discussion almost against her will. ‘I suppose she might dress better, take more care with her appearance generally – her underwear in particular. Her mood, her behaviour might be different too, depending on things like her attitude to the adultery…’

  ‘Like what?’ the Inspector shot back, sounding anxious, then rephrasing the question in an attempt to sound less concerned. ‘Um… what d’you have in mind?’

  ‘It all depends. If the woman was in love, too, then she might be radiant, feel she’s walking on air, be unusually happy. On the other hand she could be tortured, as well, racked with guilt, unsure how to resolve things and more irritable as a result. She might be kinder to everyone, feeling benign, content with the world and her place in it, or she might appear to lose interest in things that had previously held her attention – things like their home, old hobbies shared with her husband… I don’t know, Sir. Perhaps you’re asking the wrong person!’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest…’ he began, briefly apologetic before adding, dismissively, ‘you’re not married anyway,’ as if sexual fidelity outside wedlock had no significance.

  ‘True,’ she answered, putting on her coat and starting to walk towards the door. She wanted no more of this discussion. It was far too close to the bone.

  ‘If she had started cooking dishes she particularly knew that her husband liked, fancy ones – ones she hadn’t cooked for years, then that could be indicative of her adultery, of a guilty conscience, you think?’

  ‘It could be.’ Alice shrugged her shoulders. ‘She might be compensating in some way, her new “interest” making her kinder, making her even pity her husband…’ Jesus, did Ian pity her?

  ‘Pity!’ he snorted, then nodded sagely to himself, muttering, ‘Pity… yes, I can see that.’

  ‘Or it might just mean that she loved him. Really loved him,’ she added quickly, a sudden doubt assailing her. How could she have been so slow in the uptake? It was obvious that his interest in the topic of adultery went far deeper than was required for the job. Glancing at his tired face, at his slumped posture, she knew what was worrying him, and felt nothing but sympathy for him. He must be on the rack, too. They were sparring partners of old, and more often than not his jabs irritated or annoyed her, but she took no pleasure seeing her old adversary like this. Off-balance, dancing on the canvas no more, supporting himself on the ropes and unable to conceal his injuries. She only hoped that her own had been better hidden.

  Alice sat in the kitchen of their flat, a second glass of white wine by her hand. She had already consumed one to give her courage, stiffen her spine. Beside her on the floor Quill lay peacefully asleep, snoring gently, sated after his second dinner.

  Throughout the entire journey home she had been rehearsing in her head what she would say, imagining Ian’s likely responses, sometimes scaring herself half to death. Now she could feel butterflies fluttering about in her stomach, she was anticipating the worst and trying to prepare herself to deal with it, or, at the very least, accept it. She looked down at the newspaper again but her eyes glided over the print, taking in nothing. Soon she found herself in the business section, where she finally gave up.

  Restlessly, she rose and wandered over to the fridge, then moved away from it and went to look out of the window, watching for his familiar figure tramping homewards on the pavement below. Rain had fallen on the cobbles, making them glisten in the orange lamplight and shine in the headlights of each passing car. She let her nose rest against the cold glass pane, seeing her breath mist it up. Still unable to settle, she returned for no good reason to her seat at the kitchen table. A pile of old newspapers at one end of it caught her eye, and, for the first time, she noticed a sheet of A4 paper resting on top of them. It was a note from Ian.

  ‘Darling Alice,

  Have caught the train to London. The owner of a Gallery saw my website and is very interested in my work. Am taking five of the wishbone lithographs with me for him to see in the flesh. Back late on Saturday.
<
br />   Love

  Ian.’

  After she had read it she covered her face with her hands, her heart sinking, more anxious and even more unsettled. Why had he not phoned her to tell her about the trip in person? What was, could possibly be, so urgent that he had to leave her without saying anything. He hadn’t even said where he was staying. And, over a month ago, he had come home annoyed that he had cleaned the stone for the wishbone lithographs, had discovered that he had none left and now could produce no more. He was such a bad liar, and she forgot so little.

  Her first reaction was to call him on his mobile, but he might lie again, and what would she say then? She did not want to listen to his disembodied voice making things up, conjuring some paper-thin untruths from the air while sweating at the other end of the line. No. This had to be done face to face. She had to look into his eyes, see him again, if the ‘him’ whom she had believed she knew and loved still existed.

  Thinking about what she had lost, tears came to her eyes and rolled unchecked down her cheeks until she could taste the salt on her lips. She had to be a detective at work, but not, surely, at bloody home, too.

  Her phone went and her DCI’s name and number came up, but this time she let it ring. Getting no reply, her caller did not bother to wait for the messaging service. Instead, Elaine Bell took another sip of her claret, placed her knife and fork neatly on her plate and looked round, hoping to attract a waiter’s attention and get her bill. But all of them were busy attending to the other diners, one scurrying into the kitchens, empty plates balanced on both forearms.

  Her eye was caught by the sight of a large, red-faced man who had his arm around a woman. She was giggling loudly, and he, playfully, put his hand over her mouth, allowing his fingers to caress her full lips. The DCI, now even more painfully self-conscious than usual about her lone and unloved status, rose and went to pay at the till, eager to get back to her office. The Super, she thought, ruefully looking at him, might already have retired on the job and have plenty of time for play, but she had not.

  Friday

  At 9.30 that morning, the manageress of Abbey Park Lodge was deep in thought, trying to work out what to do next about the latest staff spat. One of her nursing auxiliaries, Agnes Cauld, a large West Indian lady with a fiery temper and a foul mouth, had just stormed out of her office. Her parting shot had been ‘… and don’t think I’ll not be taking this no further, because I bloody well will!’

  So all the tea and sympathy she had lavished on the woman had failed to pacify her. And the Irish woman, another auxiliary who had visited her earlier, had been no more amenable to her blandishments, muttering darkly about racism and sizeism in the workplace and uttering the dreaded words, ‘Grievance’ and ‘Legal Advice’.

  Perhaps, she wondered, the time had come to involve Julia from HR? No, all that would happen then was that she would be subjected to an earful of jargon about grievance procedures, appeal procedures, protocols and the like, and neither of them, Julia included, would have the faintest idea how to implement any of them. In fact, it was sheer gobbledygook, no more than a lot of meaningless incantations or spells. If only she had stayed within the NHS, then she could have availed herself of a proper, grown-up legal department instead of this tin-pot operation. Now, before you could say ‘Hobnob’, she would find herself on a witness list for an industrial tribunal!

  She took a sip of her hot water, delicately removing a stray lemon pip from her mouth, consciously trying to rehydrate herself and enter a calm place. A beach, maybe, with turquoise waters and palm fronds overhanging the lazy surf… No! No, no. First she must sort out this business. The nature of the complaint must be recorded, that was surely the first step, and fortunately the accounts given by the two troublemakers had not really differed. It must all be written down now, while her recollection remained fresh. She held her pen ready.

  Agnes had been moving an elderly patient from her bed to a nearby chair, assisted by her Irish colleague, Detta O’Hare. Allegedly, at some stage in the manoeuvre Detta had lost her grip, and Agnes had ended up bearing the patient’s whole twelve-stone weight. Consequently, Agnes had screamed, ‘Detta, you fuckin’ leprechaun, get a hold of her again!’

  Detta, apparently deeply insulted, had simply crossed her arms and said ‘How now…’ seeing no need to complete her sentence.

  Really, she thought to herself, putting down her Parker, the residents might have some excuse for occasional name-calling – dementia, loss of inhibition and so on – but what excuse was there for the staff? None whatsoever, the besoms! Oh, the complexity of it all, and still they had not managed to identify the prankster in the laundry responsible for putting raisins, which looked uncannily like rat droppings, in the freshly ironed underwear.

  Her head now in a spin, the manageress was glad to hear the knock on the door and her own confident voice say, ‘Come in.’

  Seeing the well-coiffured individual behind the desk, her gold-plated Parker lying centrally on a spotless pad of paper, Alice Rice was quite unaware of the inner turmoil in the manageress’s breast. However disturbed the woman was by events in her professional life she managed to convey an aura of perfect calm and tranquillity, the epitome of grace under pressure. Only her torn and bleeding fingernails would have alerted the shrewd observer to the difference between her inner and outer states.

  In her reassuring mellow contralto, a voice that had clinched many a job interview for her, she explained to the policewoman that she had heard that Una was helping Dr Coates at this moment in time. As she, herself, was on her way to the Bluebell wing, she could take her there if that would be helpful?

  As they passed through one of the many hallways, frenzied screaming broke the stale air of the place, and instantly attendants appeared from all directions, homing in on one room. After a strange thumping sound was heard emanating from it, the cries slowly died away like ripples on a pond, and the unnatural calm returned.

  ‘Old Mr Morris… we should have a vacancy there soon,’ the manageress said with a knowing look, gliding onwards through the next set of double doors. As she followed her, Alice suddenly felt that breathing the lifeless air of the place was dangerous, as deadly to its inmates as to a butterfly gasping in a killing jar. No one was safe in it. Her neighbour, Miss Spinnell, must never end up in a place like this, nor her feisty twin. It was no more than a waiting room for death, a place to store the elderly and infirm like unwanted luggage until the grim reaper finally turned his attention to them, or to what was left of them. And so the problem of the old would be solved.

  ‘Ah, Mr Braid,’ the manageress said, stopping in her stately progress to talk to a small overall-clad man who was pinning up a notice on a board.

  ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to take this lady,’ she gestured to Alice, ‘to room 143. I’ve just remembered that I promised I’d look in on Sandra.’

  ‘No problem,’ he replied. As Alice fell into step beside him, he cupped her elbow as if she was another infirm resident, introducing himself in a sing-song voice as he did so. Resisting the impulse to shake him off, she walked beside him until, thankfully, they reached their destination and he went back to his notice-board. A black and white picture of a laughing woman, on her knees and surrounded by Border terriers, was pinned to the open door.

  Inside a gaunt female figure was propped up, stiff and motionless as a log, her dead weight supported by the sides of a high-backed armchair. Her skin seemed shiny and unnaturally taut, and her head was tilted towards the window, which gave an unimpeded view of a tiny courtyard walled in brick, its pitted tarmac covered with recycling bins. Beside her, raising a spoonful of soup to her closed lips, sat Una Reid, coaxing her patient in her gravelly, twenty-a-day voice to ‘take a wee sip, just a wee sip for Una’.

  As the policewoman came in, the patient’s eyes never so much as flickered. Though fixed on the drab outlook, they did not appear to be taking anything in. As if unaware of the presence of the spoon, never mind of anyone else in the room,
she raised her hand and, uninhibitedly, felt along the edge of her tongue with her fingers. Then she let her arm drop back to her side, slamming into the spoon on the way down and spilling soup all over herself. Una wiped the woman’s bosom with a paper hankie, cleaning the broth from it, but the patient showed no sign of being aware that she was being cleaned or even that she was being touched. Suddenly her arm went up again and she fingered the sides of her tongue once more. Then, like a wounded animal, she let out a pathetic moan and slowly closed her unseeing eyes as if she was dying.

  ‘Mebbe she’ll sleep now,’ Una said, returning the spoon to the bowl and looking fondly at her.

  ‘Has she had enough?’ Alice asked, noting that the broth appeared virtually untouched.

  ‘No. But I’ll not get any more into her. She’s got Huntington’s, ken. Doesn’t know anyone or anything any more, not even that she needs to eat. I’m fighting a losing battle wi’ her,’ Una answered, sounding upset and surreptitiously wiping the corner of her eye with her finger.

  ‘You knew her – she’s a friend of yours?’ Alice asked gently.

  ‘Oh, aye. I worked wi’ her for years.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Here, in this place,’ she replied, as if it was obvious. ‘Doctor Coates was one of the resident doctors here when I first came and…’ she stopped momentarily to wipe away another tear, ‘and it was a very different place when she was in charge, I can tell you that.’