Dying of the Light (13 page)

That evening, Eric Manson parted his lips, allowing the cigar he was smoking to fall to the ground, trod on the butt, exhaled heavily and pulled open the side door to the church hall. Religion in its place, he mused, was all very well, but like homosexuality should not be flaunted. Its trappings should be kept to a minimum, with no bells, smells or catwalk costumes. Full grown men nancying around in purple silk ‘vestments’. Frocks, more like! Had they no pride? The Church of Scotland, of course, seemed to have pitched it about right, allowing little more than a fur trim on the minister’s hood, but otherwise
leaving
out the disco tinsel so cherished by the rest of them. Would the fur be stoat, weasel, ferret or what? Badger, even? And then there were the Kirk’s good works; the Boys Brigade and Africa.

Traipsing through the vestibule, he entered a well-lit hall and saw, directly in front of him, a troupe of twenty little boys and girls, sitting cross-legged and arranged in a semi-circle at the feet of the seated priest. As the door slammed unexpectedly behind him, some of the
children
spun round on the floor to look at the intruder and
he attempted a warm, reassuring smile in return, striding purposefully towards the back of the room where there were rows of chairs and, thankfully, other adults sitting in them. Only one free. He lowered himself on to it and peered around. Nothing but couples everywhere. The woman on his right whispered enthusiastically, ‘Which one’s yours?’

Suddenly panicking at the thought that he might be taken for a paedophile on a reconnaissance trip, he pointed dumbly at a freckled, red-haired youngster
sitting
slightly apart from the other first communicants in the class, then asked, ‘How much longer have we got to go?’

The woman glanced at her watch and whispered in reply, ‘It’s nearly half seven. Four more minutes to the break and then, maybe, another fifteen after that.’

The break! Heavens above, that was when his ‘
daughter
’ would surely expose him as a fraud or worse. Then things really would get sticky. Elaine Bell, entrusting him with the job of persuading McPhail to attend the station voluntarily once more, had impressed upon him that he would have to use all his tact in order for them to get this second bite of the cherry. Thinking quickly, he began to cross and uncross his legs, shifting this way and that on his hard seat until he was sure he had created the intended impression.

‘So sorry to bother you again,’ he said, an expression of desperation on his face, ‘but is there by any chance a toilet in the hall?’

‘Vandalised, I’m afraid.’

No matter. The thought had been planted in her brain. As the children rose for their orange juice and biscuits he stood up, staying slightly bent as if his bladder might
explode at any minute, and, smiling politely at his fellow parents, left the hall. In the street, a few wet snow flakes were idling down and he shivered, opening his packet of Hamlets and hurriedly lighting up. Another father slunk out of the hall and joined him, looking longingly at
Manson’s
face as he exhaled his cigar smoke.

‘Like one?’ Manson asked, feeling generous, his spirit buoyant, his cover still intact..

‘Thanks. The wife thinks I’ve given up but… well, you never do really, eh?’

‘Aye,’ his companion replied, offering a match and
taking
a deep, satisfying drag.

‘Lovely sight, eh, all the wee yins gettin’ prepared an’ everythin’.’

‘Lovely.’ And the last one in the packet. Damn it!

‘And what’s yours going to be called on confirmation? My wife’s set on Philomena, so there’ll likely be a battle ahead.’

‘Eh?’ What was the man going on about?

‘You know, the name that she’ll choose on
confirmation
?’

Bloody hell, bloody, bloody hell. More mumbo jumbo. He racked his brain. ‘Mmm… Judy.’

‘Judy’s no a saint’s name!’

So, another fucking trap, but a show of knowledge ought to win the day.

‘Oh, very much so. Er… St Judy’s comet. St Jude’s sister, you know.’

Back at his original seat in the church hall he gave a familiar nod to his female neighbour and mumbled
something
designed to cover the next eventuality. ‘Fortunately, er… Philomena’s auntie and uncle are here tonight too,’ but she appeared to have drawn no adverse conclusions
from his long absence and, presumably, the child’s
greeting
of others.

Eventually, the priest got up and the children
scampered
to their parents. Careless now of any impression he might make on his neighbours, he marched over to Father McPhail.

‘We have a few more questions, Father.’

‘At the station?’ His voice sounded tired.

‘Aye. At the station.’

‘Very well.’

The DCI removed her supper from a Boots bag. One Mars bar, one packet of Nurofen, one bottle of
Covonia
and a fever scan strip. She unwrapped the Mars bar, sniffed it, found it unappetising and quickly shoved it in a desk drawer. A couple of fast acting caplets washed down with a swig of glucose-filled cough mixture would do nicely.

Having wiped the sugary moustache from her upper lip with her hand, she held the strip over her forehead for half a minute and then removed it. A green square appeared, no doubt indicating a high temperature, but the instruction sheet would clarify that. Before she had time to consult it, the phone interrupted her. It was the Chief Constable, Laurence Body, and he sounded cross. Regardless of what he was actually saying, his tone
communicated
that he was expecting a catastrophe, and that he wanted to pounce on the likely culprit and if possible avert it.

‘I assure you I fully appreciate the extent of the public’s interest in this matter, sir…’ The tirade was unstoppable. ‘Steady progress has been – correction – is being made.
The priest’s coming in again very shortly, on a voluntary basis… Indeed, just as well… and the lab should be reporting to me first thing.’

The rant continued, unappeased by any of her answers. It was punctuated by veiled threats including the imposition of unnamed officers onto the case, some of a disturbingly high rank. The swine! It was hardly her fault that the entire round of door to doors had proved fruitless, the witness appeals had fallen on deaf ears and, for that matter, the ‘girls’ had not come up trumps. The telephone went again, doubtless some further threat he had forgotten to mention in the heat of the moment.

‘And one more thing, Chief Inspector. The plan’s changed, so you’ll be fronting the press conference. Is that understood? Charlie says it’ll be packed out, they all think this may turn out to be another Ipswich. It’s been fixed for 4.00 p.m. on Thursday, but I dare say, by then, you’ll have found some titbits to feed to the hounds. By the way, I’ve arranged for McPherson to speak to your squad.’

‘I thought he’d retired, sir. He must be eighty at least.’

‘Sixty-four and still accredited, actually. We needed someone to show we are doing everything we can, and the other basta… candidates declined to become involved on a variety of pretexts. Some man from England may come up later, but we’ll try our own home-grown talent first.’

Elaine Bell awoke the next morning with a neck so stiff that she cursed out loud in frustration. Three nights in the office with only an undersized settee to sleep on had taken their toll. Another of the trials of middle-age, she thought bitterly, folding the rug she had used for makeshift bedding and plumping up the cushion that had served as a pillow. Huge feathers of snow floating lazily past her window attracted her attention, and she walked towards the curtains, gazing at the scene that now met her eyes and found herself unexpectedly moved by it.

The grey slate of the nearby tenement roofs was
hidden
under meticulously tailored white blankets, and the cobbled streets and wynds looked flawless, immaculate in their new clothes. She felt a sudden overpowering desire to feel the snow herself, under her own feet, before it was robbed of its pristine allure by the city’s traffic and churned into mud-coloured slush. It was only five o’clock; time enough for a short expedition, time enough to enjoy the fragile scene before it was destroyed. Hurriedly putting on her coat and boots, she set off up St Leonard’s lane, exhilarated by the crisp air, experimenting as she walked with different footprints, leaving first a flat-footed trail and then a pigeon-toed one. Reflections from the yellow streetlights glinted in the high tenement windows and, for a second, the blanket of thick cloud parted, revealing the stars above. Seeing them, she began to feel revitalised, almost elated. Glad to be alive.

The slope leading to St Leonard’s Bank was deceptively steep and she puffed her way up it, stopping to catch her breath at the summit and marvelling at the small grove of trees she found there, the exposed side now covered in snow and the sheltered side black as soot. She continued along the narrow roadway, determined to reach the waste ground at the end of the street and enjoy the promised view of Salisbury Crags and Arthur’s Seat in all its
midwinter
glory. And she was not disappointed. Queens Drive had disappeared, becoming, with the Galloping Glen, a continuous white field lapping the base of the crags. And the cliffs themselves had been transformed, in their new apparel appearing rugged and untamed, like the foothills of some remote range at the edge of the Cairngorms or Glencoe. They bore little resemblance to the tired,
city-encircled
landmark found on countless cheap postcards, the sad spectacle of nature domesticated and subdued.

Snow feathers were still cascading endlessly from the pale sky, gliding silently downwards and coating
everything
, including her head and shoulders. So she turned back down the cobbles and was amused to see a cat padding blindly towards her, lifting its paws unnaturally high and occasionally shaking them with a perplexed look on its face. However, the second it became aware of the stranger in its path it gave a frightened yowl and dashed across the street, seeking cover behind a couple of parked cars.

Unthinkingly, Elaine Bell turned her head to follow its swift departure and instantly suffered agony, her neck rigid with pain, immobile, reminding her that she was no longer young or fit, and that she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. A murderer was running free in this Winter Wonderland! What the hell had she
been thinking of? She should have been preparing for the squad meeting, re-reading witness statements, polishing her armour for the press conference; she had a hundred things to do. Instead, here she was gallivanting outside like a bloody teenager. It was ridiculous. She was ridiculous! And this depth of snow would impede the investigation, help the killer and cause chaos with the city’s traffic. Sod the stars. Her feet were cold.

By the time the last of the squad arrived for the nine o’clock meeting the DCI knew exactly what she intended to say, had rehearsed it several times and now looked forward to the press conference, like a prize fighter sure of his purse. Having been up for hours she was also unnaturally alert, impatient to get her information across and press on with her other tasks. No concessions would be made to any bleary eyes, sleep-befuddled thinking or attempts at humour.

‘I’m going to recap, ladies and gentlemen, for your benefit to ensure that we are all familiar with events so far. Furthermore, I want no interruptions until I have
finished
speaking. Is that understood?’

Silence and a chorus of nods greeted her question.

‘As you will recall, Isobel Wilson, a prostitute working the Seafield area, was found dead on the night of ninth January in amongst a patch of undergrowth at the north east corner of Seafield Cemetery. She was a known drug user, aged thirty-seven. The body had been concealed in its ultimate location, hidden below vegetation. Forensic evidence has established that she was killed within the cemetery, a few yards from her final resting place –’

‘What forensic evidence, ma’am?’

The DCI glared at the speaker, DC Littlewood. He had been warned.

‘No bloody interruptions, I said. The forensic evidence amounted to a few droplets of blood and fibres from the woman’s clothing on some blades of grass. Is it all coming back to you, Constable? The murder weapon has still not been found, despite an exhaustive search of the location. Conclusion, anyone?’

But not a soul dared answer, given her forceful earlier instruction.

‘Conclusion, obviously,’ she shook her head as if appalled by the slowness of her team, ‘either the weapon remains undiscovered, possibly somewhere beyond the location, or, and more likely, the murderer took it with him or her, when he left. The pathologists are of the opinion that it was probably a knife, single-bladed and unserrated. Its minimum length has been estimated at three inches. No eye-witnesses have come forward about the attack. Post-mortem examination revealed that the death was somewhere between about nine and eleven on the ninth. She was last seen alive by a fellow prostitute, Lena
Stirling
, at about 7.00 p.m. at the Leith end of Salamander Street on that date. DNA from the deceased’s clothing has been matched with one Francis McPhail, a Catholic priest living in Jerez Street. He denies all knowledge of the victim and maintains that at the time she was killed he was in his church on the same street. But no witnesses to his attendance there then have been found. The victim, who had not been recently sexually interfered with, was found with her arms across her breast –’

‘As if in p… p… prayer,’ DS Oakley added out loud.

‘I beg your pardon?’ the DCI said, sounding as if she had just been publicly insulted.

‘Er… the victim’s position, m… m… ma’am, it was if she was in prayer.’

‘Thank you for your entirely unsolicited interpretation of the facts, Simon. The next time I require such a service I will request it from you. Is that quite clear?’ A chastened nod sufficed for an answer, all the other occupants of the room now stunned into an unnatural silence by the
fierceness
of her expression.

‘Our only other suspect in the Wilson case is Eddie Christie, but he, to all intents and purposes, has been excluded. He has an alibi, albeit provided by his wife, for the relevant time, and no forensic evidence to link him with the crime has been forthcoming.

Turning now to the second victim, Annie Wright. On Monday fifteenth her body was found in a wrecked car at Cargill’s scrapyard. She was aged thirty-five, a prostitute and a known drug user. From traces of blood found a couple of yards to the east of the car it seems that she was killed on the site and then concealed within the
vehicle
. She, too, was found with her arms crossed on her breast…’

‘As if in p… p…’ Eric Manson said, unable to resist the temptation, his voice becoming inaudible following the basilisk stare the Chief Inspector gave him. ‘…prayer,’ he mouthed.

‘Shut up, Eric!’ Elaine Bell snapped, continuing in the same breath, ‘…she, too, had not been recently sexually interfered with. Post-mortem examination suggests that she was killed on the Friday, approximately three days before her body was found. That estimate for her time of death accords with two other pieces of information. First, the earliest date for her unopened mail. Second, the last sighting of her. On the evening of the twelfth at
about eight p.m., her neighbour, a Mr Holroyd, saw her on the landing of her flat, probably as she was leaving the building for the street. Unfortunately, the prostitute with whom she teamed up as a pair was herself absent from their beat from ten p.m. onwards on the Friday. So she didn’t notice or report her pal’s absence.’

‘Ma’am?’ Alice asked timidly.

‘DS Rice?’

‘I’ve asked to see various members of the Leith
Vigilante
Group, CLAP or whatever their acronym is, from twelve onwards today. One or other of them may be able to help with the final time for a sighting of…’

‘CLRAP,’ Elaine Bell corrected.

‘Sorry?’

‘Their acronym. CLRAP. Central Leith Residents Against Prostitution.’

‘LRAP, surely,’ DC Lindsay said. ‘Just Leith Residents –’

‘Never mind what the hell they’re called!’ the DCI interjected, ‘you’re going to see them, Alice, so that’s fine. If you get anything worthwhile from them, then let me know as soon as possible. Where was I? Oh yes – over much of the likely period that she was killed, Francis McPhail has no alibi. I spoke to him last night in the station and he told us that on the night in
question
he was, surprise, surprise, alone in the church. So, Eric, I want you to check on his whereabouts with his housekeeper and then go and see that guy, Thomas McNiece. McNiece stood trial for rape, Annie Wright was his accuser, and he was acquitted. He threatened to “get her”, so away and check him out, eh? He lives on Kings Road, off Portobello Street.

Eric Manson nodded, mute, his cheeks bulging with his breakfast roll.

‘The weapon used on Annie Wright hasn’t been found, but the pathologist believes that it may well be the same one as was used on Isobel. The MO in both cases, you will be aware, appears to be identical. Accordingly, we may, God save us all, be dealing with some kind of serial killer. I want you three constables –’ and she stared each one in the eye in turn, ‘to re-do the door to doors. Something may have been missed. Re-do around both the cemetery area, the scrappie’s yard and the prostitutes’ known beats. S.P.E.A.R. could give you information on their territories. The newspaper appeals, as you may have guessed, have produced precisely nothing. The area’s insalubrious
reputation
, of course, does not help us.

Finally, there are two other things you should know. Firstly, the Chief Constable intends to expand our squad and is, I understand, currently involved in doing that, and secondly, he has decreed that Professor McPherson is to address us. This morning, immediately after I finish in fact.’

A groan went round the room.

‘Has Methuselah not been put out to grass yet?’ Eric Manson asked.

‘No, but he is coming from the Meadows especially to speak to us.’

Professor McPherson touched the material within his pocket, a hand in it would look more assured. Stop the brute shaking and giving him away, too. His hidden fingers encountered three pills and he realised that he had not taken his morning blood pressure or water
tablets
. But neither the nervousness he initially felt nor the panic that replaced it were evident on his face. It had an
inexpressive, mask-like quality, impervious to everything, and easily explained, although not in the terms of the temperamental coldness or permanent boredom guessed by many.

The explanation, the Professor would have said, lay in the works of the great Mr James Parkinson of Hoxton Square. The man after whom the disease, his disease, was christened, or perhaps, more accurately, re-christened, changing from the Shaking Palsy to Parkinson’s Disease. And of course, as a result of it, his voice had become a monotone and he, in short, monotonous. But there it was, and it could not be helped. He tried to clear his throat, thinking that once he had begun to speak he would feel the old enthusiasm which had carried him through his final days as a lecturer.

‘The personality profile of a serial killer…’ he heard himself say in a dull drone, ‘can only be an uncertain
business
. Nonetheless, of the various theories I continue to favour the disorganised/organised theory of offenders’ characteristics.’ He looked at his listeners, hoping that some of them might be familiar with his subject, but saw no evidence of it on their faces.