No Sorrow To Die Page 8

  After an hour had passed and Dr Tynan still remained closeted with their suspect, Elaine Bell listened at the door, then knocked loudly on it. She peered round it and said, breezily, but with a slight edge in her voice, ‘Nearly finished in here?’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ Clerk replied, brushing dust and fluff off the elbows of his pink pullover. ‘I know I am.’

  ‘Well,’ the young man began, ‘I’m finding it diff…’ Then he thought better of speaking in front of his interviewee, smiled at him and left the room. Sounding slightly agitated, he said to the Chief Inspector, ‘To do this properly, I really ought to see his records – from Carstairs, I mean.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Elaine Bell replied, a fixed smile on her face. ‘It’s his fitness now that we have to be satisfied about. The records will provide his history, granted, but really it’s his present state that concerns us. And it could delay everything significantly…’

  ‘Yes,‘Dr Tynan began, ‘but I really ought to see them if…’

  Elaine Bell interrupted him, speaking sternly. ‘I had the advantage of exchanging a few words with Mr Clerk a little earlier. Then he seemed entirely lucid, rational, orientated in time and space; he did not appear to be remotely delusional, or confused. It’s unlikely that anything’s changed between now and then, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Well, yes, I would, but it would still be better if…’

  ‘Dr Tynan, I did explain to you when you first arrived that there is a degree of urgency in this case, didn’t I? This man may have cut somebody’s throat, so time is of the essence. So far you’ve had…’ she looked at her watch, ‘over one hour to satisfy yourself. Your colleague, Dr Lowell, who we know well, usually manages to wrap things up in forty minutes, sometimes less. Would another five minutes be sufficient?’

  ‘Erm… yes,’ Dr Tynan said, cowed and overawed by the woman’s certainty, and sufficiently undermined by her manner to wonder if it had been reasonable, after all, to consider checking the records. Perhaps that was never normally done in these kinds of cases?

  When Norman Clerk was introduced to the social worker and told that Pat would help him with the interview, make sure he understood what was going on, ensure that his interests were protected, he looked at his ‘helper’, held out his hand towards him and said, delightedly, ‘All for me? You shouldn’t have bothered.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Pat said under his breath, shaking his head and returning his attention to his newspaper.

  Once seated at the table in the interview room, Clerk busied himself straightening a stray paper clip, then used the jagged bit of wire to clean the dirt from beneath his fingernails. Eric Manson entered the room, his entry logged on the tape by Elaine Bell, sniffed the air and immediately opened a window.

  ‘Too warm, officer?’ Clerk asked, adding, ‘me, too, thanks, I’m roasting… toasted.’

  ‘Can you tell us what you were doing in Ron Anderson’s flat in Saxe Coburg Street, earlier tonight?’ Elaine Bell asked, gesturing for her Inspector to take the seat beside her.

  ‘Looking around… I was just looking around it,’ he replied airily, extending his fingers in front of his face as if he had just had a manicure, examining them, his tongue poking out as if in concentration.

  ‘How did you get access to his premises?’

  ‘With a key – with a key.’

  ‘And how did you get the key?’

  ‘From under the mat, dear Lilah, dear Lilah,’ he sang, putting down the paper-clip and looking the Chief Inspector in the face for the first time.

  ‘What were you doing with the knife in the man’s bedroom?’

  For a split-second Clerk was unable to disguise his surprise at the question, then he pursed his lips and said, ‘Making a casserole. No, really… what was I doing with the knife? Nothing. I just picked it up. Indeed, I picked up quite a few things – a silver ashtray, a Chinese vase, a packet of chocolate buttons. No harm in picking things up and putting them down again, now is there?’ He nodded several times, as if convinced by his own answer.

  ‘And what were you doing concealed under your brother’s bed when Sergeant Rice found you?’ Eric Manson asked, leaning menacingly towards the man, annoyed by his flippant manner.

  ‘Hiding,’ he replied playfully, twiddling with his hair, then shuddering and removing a dead fly from it.

  ‘Hiding from what?’

  ‘From the intruder, of course! I heard noises, the sound of someone else in the flat, so I ducked for cover. Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘And you attacked her because?’ Elaine Bell said, knowing already what his answer would be.

  ‘Because… because… well, wouldn’t you have done the same? An intruder comes into your flat – well, your brother’s flat… he’s an invalid, he can do nothing. Would you wait to be attacked? Indeed, I think not.’

  ‘OK,’ Elaine Bell said, leaning against the closed door of the now empty interview room. ‘A good night’s work. Bed now. But I’ll want you back here first thing. Both of you. Is your eye alright, Alice?’

  ‘Actually, it’s bloody painful, but I can still see out of it. It’s just bruising, I think. In a couple of hours I’ll look as if I’ve taken on Mike Tyson – and lost.’

  ‘Fine. Clerk will be in court in the morning for battering you, Alice, and for entering Anderson’s home. We’ll oppose bail. With the search warrant we’ll pull his flat to pieces. We’ll take the cannabis plants and hopefully find something of Brodie’s, a memento perhaps. That would give us enough to charge him with the man’s murder. Eric, you go with Ally Livingstone to the Dean Bridge, everything’s already tee’d up there for 11 am. See what you can find, eh?’

  ‘Aye, aye, Ma’am.’

  Returning to her room, the DCI moved a sheaf of papers towards the back of her desk, clearing a space for the cushion she intended to place there for her head. A single sheet fell off the pile and she picked it up. It was a note in Alistair Watt’s cramped hand that she had not noticed before;

  ‘Dave from the Lab phoned at 4 pm. We’re to get the report on India Street tomorrow. Also Prof McConnachie’s coming to see you, he thinks he’ll be at St Leonard’s at about 3 pm. Don’t know what about. He wouldn’t tell me over the phone.’

  6

  Tuesday

  ‘It wis there, under they things… o’er there,’ Ally Livingstone said, his voice echoing through the massive semi-circular arches of the Dean Bridge, as he pointed at a couple of leafless elderberry bushes.

  Far below the path on which he stood, the Water of Leith flowed onwards on its journey towards the sea, its turbid waters tumbling over rocks, occasionally lapping lazily in the sandy shallows and depositing on the shore a froth of creamy foam like that left in an empty beer glass. The moisture-filled air seemed almost intoxicating, laden with the aroma of brewing, of hops and barley, a timeless scent and one characteristic of Auld Reekie.

  Mid-river, a pair of police divers were on all fours, feeling their way along the bottom with their gloved hands. Near them, a colleague periodically immersed himself in a deeper pool, only to surface every so often with a hub-cap, a slime-covered milk-crate or other detritus consigned to the river by the litter louts of the capital.

  Breaking the water again, his black wet-suit glinting like sealskin in the weak winter sun, the upright diver said, ‘I think I’ve got something, Inspector.’

  Amid the roar of the river his voice was lost. Realising that he had not been heard, he tried again, shouting this time: ‘I’ve got something, Sir.’

  ‘So what is it?’ Eric Manson bellowed back, then cupped his hand over his mouth, sheltering his match from the icy breeze so that he could light his cigar. The diver, standing waist-deep in the water and shivering visibly in the cold, continued examining a muddy rectangular box clutched between his gloves.

  ‘Eh…’ the man said, pushing his mask onto this head to get a clearer view, ‘seems to be…’ He hesitated again, ducking the object back into the water to wash it. ‘Em… I think i
t’s a t… t… trinket box, boss. Yup, it’s like a w… w… wee box for valuables.’

  ‘Big deal,’ Ally Livingstone thought, watching the diver wading heavy-legged towards the bank, and taking a deep draw on his cigarette. They were all supposed to be looking for the fucking wallet, weren’t they? That was what this circus was supposed to be about. And, obviously, if they looked hard enough in the water, they would find it. He exhaled the smoke onto his linked hands, relishing the feel of warm breath on his chilled fingers, and allowed his mind to wander.

  Their child would be a boy, he thought, a son. And the wee man would not be afraid of mice or snakes or any other creatures, including polismen. No, he’d handle them fearlessly, just like his dad.

  Christ! A sudden thought struck him. It was freezing, the pale winter sun too weak to take the chill from the air, and with him having been banged up overnight, Armageddon would still be loose on the floor of the unheated Nissan. The snake would have become torpid, might even have died, and he had not had his tea, never mind any breakfast. And for sure, Frankie would not have been able to face lifting him out, the very idea likely to bring on a miscarriage.

  As he was racking his brains, trying to think how to solve the problem, one of the divers in the shallows stood up, waving something above his head. The cold air had made his eyes water and Ally Livingstone screwed them up, trying to make out what had been found, and then gave a long, low whistle. The object was a long-bladed knife, and the sight of it held aloft made him shudder inwardly, banishing all thoughts of Armageddon, of Frankie, of the unborn baby even. And he cursed his stupidity. He should have said nothing as usual, no comment to everything, but it was too late for that now. Instead, he had brought them to this place as surely as a sniffer dog following a scent, but this time the hound had been following its own trail, tracking itself and condemning itself as it wagged its stupid tail. Now, he would not be holding Frankie’s hand as she cried out while their son was born. No, at this rate, he would be lucky to know the child at all.

  ‘So, Livingstone, what’s with the knife?’ the inspector asked, jerking his head in the direction of the water.

  ‘Em… I’ll have ma lawyer now, thanks. I dinnae ken nothin’ about any knife.’

  ‘What about the box, know anything about that?’

  ‘Aha. I threw it in the river aifter I’d taken the jewellery from it, the necklace an’ stuff an’ the big pearly ring,’ he answered, taking a draw on his cigarette and blowing a couple of smoke rings in the air.

  ‘You never mentioned the jewellery or the box before.’

  ‘Naw, and ye never asked us yesterday either, ’cause ye were in a dream most o’ the time! How am I s’pose’d tae ken what ye want tae ken, eh, less ye ask us? Is that no’ yer job? I found the jewellery box in the bushes an a’, an’ the computer, an old photy frame too… empty,’ Ally retorted crossly, jangling the loose change in his pocket.

  ‘Now, you tell us. What did you do with the computer?’

  ‘Eh, I took it to ma work, checked over the case, put the rubbish from it, like, in the bin, sold the computer to one of the Parky boys.’

  ‘And the drugs, medicines, morphine and so on?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Don’t “eh” me! What did you do with the drugs?’

  ‘I found a bag o’ bottles – that what ye mean?’

  ‘Funny, isn’t it, the way you know about pretty well everything – everything except the knife.’

  ‘They wis empty, and it’s no’ funny tae me. Expect I’ll get the blame fer a’ the shoppin’ trolleys an’ a’? Oh, aye, that wis Ally, ye’ll a’ say – he’s the wan spends his days chuckin’ stuff in the river – knives, forks, spoons, prams, the lot. It’s his hobby.’

  Alistair Watt stifled a yawn and looked around the room, surveying the assembly of pale, weary faces in it. Beside him, Alice was leaning back on her chair, her eyes closed, arms crossed over her chest. Black bruising encircled her left eye-socket and she, too, looked exhausted.

  ‘A domestic? Or too much of the sauce followed by a collision with a door, perhaps?’

  ‘Clerk attacked me, since you ask.’

  ‘What did you do to him?’

  ‘Not nearly enough…’ she began, but stopped abruptly as Elaine Bell took her place at the front of the room and the murmur of quiet chatter died away. Eric Manson, his lips blue with cold, shuffled towards the only remaining vacant chair.

  ‘Good news. I’ve just heard that Clerk was refused bail…’ the DCI began.

  A spontaneous ripple of applause filled the air, reaching a crescendo when, acknowledging it, she took a bow and pointed at all of them as a conductor might at an orchestra.

  ‘But…’ she continued, ‘I also heard that he’s appealing the decision. So we may have only a few days before he’s back out again. Eric, how did you get on?’

  ‘The stuff was just where Livingstone said it would be. And we’ve got the weapon, I reckon. One of the divers fished a knife, looked like a kitchen knife, out of the river.’

  ‘D’you think he’s involved in any of this?’

  ‘Livingstone? No, no way. I was watching him. He looked horrified when he saw the blade, started gibbering away. I think he was telling the truth, saying that he found the stuff, I mean. It’s given him the fright of his life. Serves the bastard right.’

  ‘OK. Alice, how did you get on with the carer woman, Una… Una Reid?’

  ‘She told me what Brodie last ate and I phoned the lab with the information, for what it’s worth. Oh, and she didn’t leave him until eight, eight-ten or so.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ DC Littlewood said, ‘you’re sure Clerk done Brodie, that he’s our man, aren’t you, eh?’

  She nodded, a half-smile playing about her lips, and he, emboldened by her apparent good humour, continued. ‘Me too. Looks like he preys on the disabled as easy meat, you could say. Can’t be chance, can it? A knife, a disabled person. Each time.’

  ‘Easy meat?’ the DCI said, repeating his phrase with an expression of extreme distaste on her face.

  ‘Em… the vulnerable, then,’ the Constable said, blushing.

  ‘If it was him, why did he chuck away the jewellery box and so on that he’d filched? Did he do that with the old woman’s stuff?’ Alice asked.

  ‘No, I checked that out earlier this morning,’ the DCI replied. ‘He didn’t, but don’t forget that over fifteen years have passed since his last crime. M.o.’s change – maybe just a little bit here and there, but they do change – perhaps he liked the old lady’s stuff, wanted to keep it, but not Brodie’s. He took what he wanted and threw away the rest. Who knows? Let’s leave that for his defence.’

  DC Gallagher marched confidently into the room, but when he saw his boss’s face darken at his lateness, he said immediately, ‘Sorry, I’m late Ma’am. I was on the phone. The crime scene manager wanted to speak to you. I took the message.’

  ‘And?’ she said, crossly.

  ‘And they’ve found a book there, in Clerk’s flat. It’s got a bookplate on it which says “Ex Libris Gavin Brodie” or something like that.’

  ‘Yes!’ Elaine Bell said triumphantly, raising her fist in the air. ‘We’ve got the creepy bastard now.’

  Tonight would be spent in her own bed, Elaine Bell thought, seeing and smelling the freshly-ironed sheets as if they were in front of her. And, another big bonus, now she would have time to prepare herself for the confrontation with the Super, assemble all the evidence she needed and consider the best strategy to make him rewrite that travesty of an appraisal. She would have to give him wriggle-room to change or rephrase his expressed views without it resembling a retreat. The slightest hint of such a thing would make him more recalcitrant, more uncompromising and, possibly, if cornered, positively belligerent.

  Their meeting would take all her tact, all her diplomacy, virtues she was well aware that the good fairy had left out at her christening. And if these failed, then she would simply appeal over his head to his
superiors, or perhaps try the grievance route. Of course, resort to either would result in gossip about her predicament. An appeal of any sort, however legitimate, would leave her damaged or tarnished in some intangible way. She would be marked out as another troublesome woman, hand-bagging her way to the top over the bodies of better candidates, all men. And that would be a victory for the Tyrannosaurus, although a different sort of one. No, somehow he would just have to be persuaded to change his mind.

  It took four hours to compile, then distil, the evidence that she needed for her campaign, and it could all be contained in one large brown envelope. Looking at it, it seemed strange that her future could depend on such an unimpressive package. Stage two was to arrange the meeting, ideally for some time after lunch, when his belly would be full and his mood benign. Her phone rang and she picked it up, her thoughts still centred on the confrontation to come.

  ‘Chief Inspector Bell.’

  ‘Just thought you’d like to know, Ma’am,’ Alistair Watt said, ‘we’ve had Mr Anderson in and he’s just positively identified the video clip of Clerk as the man in his flat. He thinks he may have recognised him from the day centre in Raeburn Place, he sometimes goes there too. That’s where Robert Clerk goes as well.’

  ‘Alright,’ she replied, sounding unexcited by the news. ‘There was no doubt about that anyway, was there? Clerk didn’t deny being in the man’s flat, even admitted to picking up the man’s things, including the knife, didn’t he?’