The Road to Hell Read online

  The next witness was the previous witness’s wife. She entered the conference room and looked round it fearfully, registering that all eyes in the place were fixed upon her. She was dressed in an overly tight cream suit. Under one arm she clutched a beige handbag. It was her Sunday best, but the heels she had chosen to go with the ensemble were higher than those she usually wore to church. She had calculated that she would not have to walk too far, so there would be no danger of keeling over in them, as she had once done en route to the Ladies in the bingo hall. On TV programmes, her only insight into trials, witnesses stood still to give their evidence. She answered the questions in a faint, smoke-scarred voice and had to be warned by the chairman to speak up on three separate occasions. Finally, the crucial question was posed to her.

  ‘Did either of the police officers you spoke to mention the fact that Mr Longman was a sex offender, either of them call him a “paedo”?’

  She nodded her head by way of a reply, and had to be advised once more by Chief Superintendent McLay that for the sake of the recording they needed an audible answer.

  ‘Aha,’ she confirmed, her voice almost too low to be made out.

  ‘Which one mentioned it, Mrs Meldrum – was it the man or the woman?’

  Once more, complete and intense silence reigned until, finally, it was broken by her stuttering reply. Miss Howard was staring at the woman like a hawk, all her attention and energy focused on her prey, willing her to give a particular answer. Her victory depended upon it.

  ‘It w . . . was . . . the m . . . man.’

  For a second, shock transformed the black-suited lawyer’s expression, but she recovered quickly and, in an even tone, said, ‘You say that it was the man. Are you absolutely sure about that, Mrs Meldrum? Could it, in fact, have been the woman?’

  ‘Aye, it could’ve,’ the witness said, her bag now held across her chest as if to protect herself. ‘At first I thought it was her. But later me and Davie spoke about it, and I realised it wasn’t her, it was him. I’m dead sure of that now. Certain it was him. The first time she spoke, like, was to tell him to keep quiet. She said, “That’s enough, Bill”, or something like that.’

  Unexpectedly, Alice felt a long arm extend across her back and pat her shoulder, and she turned to see her lawyer’s beaming face.

  ‘We should be fine now,’ he whispered conspiratorially to her, and then he returned his gaze to his opposite number. She was deep in discussion with her sidekick, and the clerk, having left his own table, appeared to be drawing something to the attention of the panel.

  Giving evidence herself, for once in her career, Alice almost enjoyed the experience. She answered the critical question confidently and without hesitation: ‘I did not inform any of Mr Longman’s neighbours in Grange Loan or elsewhere that he was a sex offender, or a paedophile.’

  She felt a little more nervous about the follow-up question. In a solemn tone, and looking straight at her, Alan Norton asked, ‘Did you hear your colleague, DS Stevenson, so inform the occupants of the second-floor flat next to Longman’s house, Mr and Mrs Meldrum?’

  She had answered that particular question in her head on countless earlier occasions, in the office in St Leonard’s Street, in the supermarket, while driving her car and in every room in her flat. Usually, incandescent with anger at her predicament, she had almost shouted out the word, ‘Yes!’ But here, now, at this hearing, she found herself hesitating. Even if the bastard had lied throughout the investigation in the full knowledge that she would be dragged into the proceedings, it went against the grain to ‘tell’ on him, inform against him. But if she did not do so then her own career might still be brought to a premature end, despite her innocence. And he would have no such bloody scruples. He had dropped her into this mess, and had this coming. So, loudly and as if she felt no qualm, she responded, ‘Yes.’

  After a short interval during which Alice put her hands behind her head, leant back on her chair and tried to relax, the two female lawyers began conversing in hushed voices, both of them suddenly looking tired and rather grim. Eventually, the black-suited one stood up and turned to address the Chief Superintendent. Glancing down at a bit of paper she was holding in her hand, she said, ‘In all the circumstances, Sir, including the evidence given by Mr and Mrs Meldrum and DS Rice’s own testimony, the prosecution move that the hearing be discontinued and that DS Alice Rice be found Not Guilty on all the charges laid against her.’

  With the collapse of the first hearing, the timetable for the second was brought forward. The proceedings against DS Stevenson were to begin straight away. Looking out through the open doorway of the interview room, Alice saw his unmistakable snub-nosed profile as he proceeded down the corridor on his way to the Force Conference Room. Trying to read that day’s copy of The Times, she could still overhear the voices of the Meldrums as they discussed what they would have for their tea later. Mrs Meldrum wanted a pizza and Mr Meldrum said that he would prefer a proper fry-up with eggs, bacon, sausages, black pudding and beans. Unable to agree, their voices got higher and higher, until footsteps could be heard followed by a harsh admonishment. There was a momentary silence, then a muted, ‘Fine. Right. Well, I’ll cook my own tea then!’ from Mr Meldrum.

  The next sound that Alice heard was more footsteps, two sets this time, heading in the direction of the hearing. She peered out of her room and caught sight of the departing figure of Mr Meldrum, a minder leading him along as if he was a child.

  Her mind drifted onto Reginald Longman, still on the loose, no doubt sheltered as usual by some smitten woman, ignorant of his predilections and with a child in tow. The infant would be the draw for him, something unimaginable to its mother, until the worst happened and the cycle began again.

  It was so easy for him. He did not resemble the tabloid caricature of a paedophile, an inadequate with thick glasses and a woolly hat pulled down over a Neanderthal forehead. Looking into his eyes at their last interview, Alice had been horrified how attractive he had seemed to her, making her doubt for a second that they had apprehended the right man. But the contents of his computer had shattered any first impression that he had made. And the mask had slipped when he saw her as he was being escorted from court, his face contorting in fury, spitting at her like a snake.

  Attempting to put the image of him out of her mind, she picked up her paper and started to read it again, homing in on an article about the plight of the Siberian tiger. Forty minutes later, hearing the sound of more footsteps, she peeped out again and came face to face with Mrs Meldrum as she was being shepherded away to give her evidence. She would be next, Alice thought, and she prayed inwardly that the Meldrums would not, for some reason or other, change their testimony.

  This time when Alice entered the conference room she was directed to take a seat close to the door, facing the large table and opposite the panel. Annigoni’s picture of Queen Elizabeth wearing the Garter robes looked down regally upon the proceedings, the Prussian blue of her cloak now a little faded by sunlight. Alice was aware that William Stevenson was looking at her. His colour was not good and he appeared anxious, an uncharacteristic pleading expression in his eyes.

  Once more she gave her evidence efficiently, describing the call, her investigations following upon it, the drive with DS Stevenson and finally their inquiries in Grange Loan. The Presenting Officer in the Stevenson case, another lawyer, was an untidy, grey-haired woman with specks of dandruff on her shoulders. She had the confident swagger of a battle-scarred fiscal, an old-timer who could cope with whatever emerged in the evidence. Looking relaxed, she introduced the ‘house to house episode’ as she called it.

  ‘DS Rice. Did you at any stage mention the fact that Reginald Longman was a sex offender, a paedophile in fact, to either Mr or Mrs Meldrum?’

  ‘No, I did not,’ Alice replied.

  ‘Did you . . .’ the woman asked, holding the lapels of her crumpled, navy suit as if it was a gown, ‘hear DS Stevenson tell either of the Meldrums that Mr Longman w
as a sex offender, a paedophile?’

  ‘I did.’ Alice answered quickly, deliberately avoiding meeting her colleague’s eye.

  ‘What expression did he use?’

  ‘Paedo.’

  DS Stevenson shook his head from side to side in an exaggerated fashion, signalling to everyone present that she was not telling the truth and should not be believed.

  Giving evidence in his own defence, he maintained, as he had throughout all the investigations, that he had not told the Meldrums that Longman was a paedophile but that his fellow sergeant, DS Rice, had done so. Foolishly, he felt the need to embellish the scene and was soon reporting other conversations with the couple, unaware that in the previous hearing they had said that the meeting on the landing had finished almost as soon as it had begun.

  Once all the evidence had been taken, the panel listened to the Senior Officer’s report. Alice, who had remained in the room, was surprised to hear in the course of it that Stevenson had already picked up two regulation warnings in his sixteen-year career. One, a breach of regulation five, was for a trivial neglect of duty, and the other, a breach of regulation six, for misconduct involving the sexual harassment of a female colleague. Everyone in the room knew that the verdict was a foregone conclusion, so the Chief Superintendent surprised nobody when he finally delivered it in his booming baritone. Solemnly, and now sweating copiously in the heat, he declared that William Stevenson was required to resign in relation to both counts. Then, mopping his brow with his damp handkerchief, he rose and strode out of the room, the assessors following behind him like puppy dogs, desperate to keep up with their master’s gigantic strides.

  The drive home did not take long despite the rush hour traffic or, if it did, Alice was not aware of it. The elation she now felt made everything seem bright and blessed, and she could find fault with nothing. With her hands resting loosely on the steering wheel and with the radio playing an old Beach Boys hit, she set off, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She had survived, been left with no stain on her character and the system had worked. No more accusations, no more questions, and life, normality, could be resumed at last.

  Looking across Carrington Road onto the east elevation of Fettes College, the edifice as picturesque as a French chateau with its lofty central tower straining to touch the sky, she felt only pleasure. The immense building appeared as benign and well ordered as the world itself now seemed to be.

  Turning right at the lights on East Fettes Avenue onto Ferry Road she joined the eastbound traffic, the car now warming up nicely. Stationary on Inverleith Row, her attention was caught by a party of Japanese tourists who had clustered together near the gates to the Botanic Garden. In the spitting rain, they were hurriedly unpacking their umbrellas from their backpacks and putting them up to protect themselves. One, who had turned his back on the treacherous wind, had his sugar-pink brolly blown inside out, causing a ripple of consternation amongst the entire group.

  As she observed the scene, the faint, rhythmic whirring sound made by her windscreen wipers suddenly and unexpectedly reminded her of her childhood. Rainy days all those years ago meant, if she was lucky, a trip to Haddington with her mother, to the newsagents to buy one of those miraculous colouring books. A single stroke from the wet paintbrush and the grey flowers would become blue, orange and purple, and the grey grass, lime green. Even a lick to the paintbrush was enough for the magic to start to work.

  Turning into Broughton Place her luck held, a residents’ parking space was free and not too far from the door of her own building.

  Locking the car door, she looked up at the third floor and saw, to her delight, that the lights were on in her flat. Ian was home. In seconds, she would be able to chat to him about her day, tell him all about the hearing and the ‘Not Guilty’ verdict.

  She ran up the cold common stair and let herself in. Immediately she could hear the sound of animated voices, chuckling, talking together, deep in conversation. One of them was Ian’s, and she recognised the other too. It belonged to Celia Naismith and, she thought, there was almost no one on the planet she would like to see less. In fact, in the whole infinite space of the Universe. The woman, petite and feline with unnaturally large unblinking brown eyes, somehow managed to undermine her by simply breathing the same air, by being in the same room. To date, on every occasion on which they had met, Alice had gone away feeling like a clodhopper, ungainly and ill-educated. That was the extent of the woman’s talent, and, as far as she was concerned, it was about as welcome as the deadly song of the Siren.

  Taking a deep breath she entered the drawing room, and from their positions sprawled comfortably on the carpet, both Ian and Celia looked up at her.

  ‘We’ll ask Alice, shall we?’ Celia said, excitedly.

  ‘OK,’ Ian replied, sitting up, helping himself to a crisp and smiling warmly at Alice.

  ‘We’ve been discussing Rothko,’ Celia said, resting her head on her elbow, ‘and I think that he was more influenced by Avery, but Ian thinks Still’s fingerprints are more evident. What do you think?’

  ‘No idea, I’m afraid,’ Alice answered evenly, slumping down in an armchair and sipping from a nearby glass of wine that she hoped fervently belonged to Ian. For this conversation, some alcohol would be essential.

  ‘Maybe the TRAP people were more influential on him?’ Celia remarked.

  ‘You mean De Kooning, Pollock and so on?’ Ian asked.

  ‘Yeah. What I really like about Rothko is the sheer unintellectuality of his later work, you know, the fact that he had the courage to emphasise feeling and physicality – put thought to one side. Feel the paint.’

  Celia stretched, raising both her arms above her head, evidently entirely at home and at ease in Alice’s home, in Alice’s presence. ‘Who do you like?’ she asked innocently, turning her wide brown eyes on her hostess.

  Here we go, Alice thought, feeling nervous and already, somehow, put on the spot. She tried to summon into her mind images she was fond of, but other than one of Francis Bacon’s screaming popes, nothing came, and she did not even like that picture really. She found it disturbing, almost too powerful with its lumps of amorphous flesh.

  ‘I quite like . . .’ she began slowly, ‘Lucian Freud. Some of his horse pictures, like Mare Eating Hay, and the strange early ones with animals in them . . . and some of Cadell’s portraits.’

  ‘Just figurative stuff, then?’ The slightly puzzled, condescending tone used to frame the question let Alice know that she had failed the test. Having scented blood, Celia added, as if in clarification, ‘You probably like things like Vettriano’s Singing Butler and so on?’

  ‘Celia!’ Ian Melville said in a warning tone, but he followed it up with a little laugh to soften the rebuke. He was well aware of her views of the Scottish artist and had begun to realise that she was playing with Alice in, possibly, a not entirely benign way. Rather like a cat with a mouse.

  ‘Yes, I do like figurative stuff, but I also like some of Eardley’s later works,’ Alice said, some random inspiration having come at last, ‘those wild ones, the stormy ones . . . the ones painted at Catterline.’

  ‘Just figures or landscapes, then?’

  ‘Yes, I do like landscapes too . . .’

  Perhaps, Alice thought, she should just retire from the joust with her lance not yet broken. She had not wanted to enter this contest; it just seemed to have happened. As it always did with Celia.

  ‘What do you think of Rothko’s aquarelles?’

  Now her lance had been well and truly bloody snapped! Alice took a deep breath. What the hell was an ‘aquarelle’? Before she had time to assemble her thoughts, or attempt to bluster, Ian tried to throw her a lifeline.

  ‘Enough shop talk, painter talk, for the moment, I think. Alice, how did you get on at work today?’

  Looking into his eyes, it was obvious that he had forgotten all about the hearing. If he had remembered he would have chosen some other diversionary topic. He knew
how she had been feeling about it, how scared she was, how private the whole matter was to her.

  She told herself that his lapse did not matter, after all he was trying to help her. Anyway, nothing would have induced her to talk about this afternoon’s purgatory in front of Celia, whatever the result had been. The very idea of Alice being subjected to any kind of disciplinary proceedings would have her salivating at the mouth, inciting her to pose a barrage of ill-intentioned questions, each one designed to embarrass or elicit some further unflattering disclosure.

  ‘I spent this morning with the SART – the Search and Rescue Team at Gayfield Square,’ she said brightly, ‘and it was very interesting. Friendly men, a clever system – they’ve got really close relationships with all the pawnshops in the city.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Celia expostulated, putting a hand across her mouth as if she was about to be sick. ‘You spent this morning in porn shops? Porn shops – how horrible!’

  ‘Not porn shops, P.A.W.N. shops,’ Alice said, spelling the word out quickly. ‘Actually they’re quite respectable now. The manager of one of them told me that they now see themselves as part of the Financial Services Industry. That may be going a bit far, but they’ve got customer charters and everything. They’re pretty tightly regulated nowadays, I think.’

  ‘Still, I’m not sure that’s how I’d want to spend my day, or even a minute of it, sniffing around the detritus of other people’s lives, in and out of pawn shops, mixing with irresponsible losers or thieving scum,’ retorted Celia, trying to catch Ian’s eye in search of agreement, a manufactured expression of pity on her face. ‘Someone’s got to do it, I suppose,’ she added, looking around for the crisps.

  ‘Alice enjoys it. Don’t you, darling?’ Ian said, holding out his hand for her to take. She took it, aware that he was trying to defend her in his loyal, uncomplicated way.