Dying of the Light (19 page)

And it was not as if they had all the time in the world left, or even enough, to waste the precious stuff bickering over the ordinary, domestic trivialities which coloured their life
together. His prostate had seen to that, and it would not be fair to keep her in the dark about things forever. But the ‘right’ time had not yet arrived. Something must be said soon though, or later, after he had gone, she would reproach herself needlessly over any impatient words uttered, any unloving looks bestowed. They would not now grow old together, irritating each other to the end. And from this new, lonely perspective, such a fate seemed, suddenly, blessed, something to be most earnestly desired. Dear, dear Audrey.

He looked tenderly into his wife’s face as she read on, unaware of his scrutiny, noticing the split veins over one cheekbone and that her neck now had a strange, dry texture with two prominent tendons running its length. Once she had been flawless, perfect, like a peach ripe for the picking, and her hair, a torrent of unruly gold. At least she was lucky enough to have her locks left, he thought almost enviously, unconsciously stroking his few remaining strands several times as if in disbelief. Life was unfair – men losing their hair due to their virile hormones, although, thankfully, the stuff should also ward off the development of man boobs. And that TV programme had shown that it was all
connected
, in some mysterious way, with battery chickens, the contraceptive pill and the water supply. They were
responsible
for the feminisation of men, fish, polar bears and so on. But it was no longer his problem. Unlike his father, he would not go to the grave as bald as a coot. And, oddly, that thought gave him some satisfaction.

As the doorbell chimed Audrey Keane closed her book with a nervous snap, gave her husband’s cheek a stroke, straightened his bedcovers and then bustled away to greet
the stranger. In less than a minute the sound of her heavy footsteps padding back up the carpeted stair, a lighter pair in tow, could be heard. The duo stopped outside the bedroom door and he could just make out their whispered conversation.

‘You are not, I repeat not, to tire him out, is that
understood
, Sergeant?’

‘Of course, Mrs Keane. I’ll be as quick as…’

‘I mean it. He’s got a broken elbow, cracked ribs and some kind of crucified ligament.’

‘Honestly, I’ll be as quick as I possibly can, Mrs Keane. Just signal when you want me to go. I appreciate being allowed to see him at all.’

Having obtained a suitable undertaking from the policewoman, Mrs Keane led the her into the bedroom, settled herself on the edge of her husband’s bed and
gestured
for Alice to sit on its twin. Seeing the Sergeant, Bill Keane attempted to do up his pyjama top with his one good hand, and failing, found the job completed for him by his wife. Looking at the policewoman he felt sure that he recognised her, and pleasingly quickly it came to him. She had come to their house before, and hers was not an easily forgotten face.

‘We need a description, sir, only if you can manage it, of course,’ and the policewoman threw a wary glance at Audrey Keane, ‘of the man who knocked you over in the car park last night?’

‘The only man ever to knock me over, Sergeant, I’ll have you know,’ he replied sharply, ‘in a car park or
anywhere
else!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He was huge, burly, built like a house in fact. And over six foot tall, I’d say.’

‘Did you manage to see his face at all, sir?’

‘Not that I can remember. The second he turned towards me, he charged – like a mad bull elephant. That was how he knocked me off my feet.’

‘You didn’t see if he had dark hair, fair hair, any of that sort of thing?’

‘No. But what I can say, using your police jargon, is that he was male, Caucasian and maybe thirty-five or a little bit older. Is that any help? I’m afraid I’m not
narrowing
things down much for you.’ He smiled wanly at the Sergeant, wishing that he could have assisted her more.

‘And his clothes?’

‘Oh… a big grey waterproof, I think. Something like that. It was so quick and at the best of times I never take in what people are wearing, do I, Audrey?’ His wife
nodded
stiffly in response.

Alice took one of the photographs of Francis McPhail as an adult from a large envelope and passed it to the invalid.

‘Have you seen this man on your patrols in the area, where the women hang out or anywhere else in Leith?’

‘No,’ Bill Keane replied emphatically. ‘Not him. An odd-looking bugger for sure. I’ve seen all sorts but not that one. I’ve a good memory for faces too. I remember seeing you, Sergeant. Even before you came here the first time, I mean.’ He beamed at her again.

‘Oh?’ Alice answered guardedly, watching as Mrs Keane ostentatiously brushed a non-existent speck from her
husband’s
shoulder, clearly scent-marking her property.

‘Yes,’ he went on, still gazing at her. ‘You were in the rammy in Carron Place, too. You spoke to that Barbour woman. Remember?’

Only too well, she thought, particularly the sinister drumming noise you orchestrated. But seeing Mrs Keane’s eyes on her signalling frantically that her time was up, she rose, only to sit down again immediately, having remembered Lena’s photofit. His head sunk now uncomfortably low on the pillows, the man looked closely at the composite picture held in front of him, but eventually shook his head, pushing her hand away with a disappointed expression.

‘One other thing, Sergeant, before you go,’ Bill Keane said, grimacing with pain as he altered his position in the bed, ‘how is the girl, the one who helped me?’

‘The prostitute, he means the prostitute,’ his wife added unnecessarily. And as if he had not heard her words, Bill Keane repeated, ‘The girl, Sergeant. Lena. How is she?’

‘She’s fine, sir.’

Going round to the end of her husband’s bed, Audrey Keane lifted a full carrier-bag off his silken eiderdown and handed it over to the policewoman.

‘It’s… Lena’s. You’ll have her address, I expect,’ the woman said shyly, and Alice looked inside to find a
newly-washed
, newly-ironed jacket, together with two boxes of Crabtree and Evelyn soap. Both Lily of the Valley.

‘It was Audrey’s idea, you know,’ Bill Keane said,
holding
his wife’s hand in his own.

Walking down Broughton Street that evening, Alice stopped outside the newsagent’s, her eye caught by an
Evening News
billboard which stated in large, black
capitals
, ‘LEITH KILLER STRIKES AGAIN BUT VICTIM ESCAPES WITH HER LIFE’. Who had told the press,
she wondered, thankful that she would not have to
perform
on the high wire that Elaine Bell would now find herself balancing on. The DCI’s performance at the next press conference would require an unusual degree of skill, with each member of the press corps secretly praying that she would splat onto the ground in front of them, and the Chief Constable watching unseen, through the flap of the circus tent. A timid ringmaster, indeed, one afraid of his own whip.

And no wonder, with their suspect charged and behind bars, and a killer apparently still on the loose, busy attempting to notch up further victims. But if the priest was not guilty, she wondered, then who the hell was the murderer? Such forensic evidence as they had pointed fairly and squarely in his direction. And he had provided no explanation for the presence of his DNA on the two bodies, whether or not the alibi provided for him by June Sharpe was accepted. Thinking idly of her conversation with the professor, it occurred to Alice that, perhaps, McPhail had donated bone marrow to somebody? After all, the only other traces were those left by herself, Simon Oakley and the dentist. Starkie seemed the next most likely suspect, so she decided, first thing tomorrow, she would revisit Rosefield Place. And she should check out Ellen’s front-runner again, Guy Bayley.

Strolling past the window of the Raj Restaurant, she looked in longingly, picturing the packet of old sausages and the tin of beans that would probably constitute their meal in the flat. There was no time to shop during a murder enquiry and it was her turn, rather than Ian’s, to produce supper. The next thing she knew she was sitting on a red banquette inside the place, queuing for a carryout, one hand full of Bombay Mix and the other holding a Tiger
beer. She looked up to see if any of the waiters were being vigilant, alert for her order, and was amazed to spot Ian sitting opposite her, glass already in his paint-spattered hand, reading the newspaper open on his knee.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. He looked up immediately, and seeing her, smiled.

‘A little treat for us,’ he replied, meeting her eyes. ‘On your night, too. Today I sold three paintings, so I think nothing less than a banquet is in order.’

While they were Inspecting the menu together, their heads almost touching, a moustachioed waiter appeared between them, saying, ‘Ooklee… one chicken jalfrezi, one lamb kurma, one pulao rice, one garlic nan and one kulfi…’, and then he looked round expectantly for Mr or Mrs Ooklee to collect the meal. Having just entered the restaurant, Simon Oakley approached the man, hand outstretched, and wordlessly took the bulging carrier-bag from him before favouring Alice with an almost
imperceptible
wave.

As they hurriedly ascended the cold, stone tenement stair in Broughton Place, both hungry, thinking about
nothing
other than starting their food as soon as possible, Alice heard the usual racket created by Miss Spinnell’s attempts to liberate herself from her fortress. Since the unlocking, unbolting and unsnibbing process usually took minutes, rather than seconds, she was tempted to continue upwards as if unaware of what the old lady was doing. But it was too mean. Who else would Miss
Spinnell
wish to waylay on the stair? So she handed the greasy brown paper carrier to Ian, mimed ‘Miss Spinnell’ and pointed upwards to signal that he should carry on without
her. She stood waiting until the old lady emerged from her lair, blinking hard, clad in a turquoise, silk kimono worn over her flannelette nightgown. Immediately her eyes lit on her neighbour leaning against the banister, and she sidled up to her.

‘Well?’ she demanded, looking up expectantly into Alice’s face.

‘Well… er, good evening,’ Alice replied, momentarily at a loss as to what was expected of her.

‘Your missing person enquiry… misper… you can call it off,’ Miss Spinnell declared, pulling the kimono tight around herself and grinning.

‘The missing person has –’

‘Yes,’ she was interrupted. ‘Call it off, dear. I was at the Lodge today and she spoke to me quite clearly, but this time it was from the other side.’

‘No,’ Alice cut in. ‘No… no, your sister’s in Milnatho –’

As if she had said nothing, Miss Spinnell continued speaking, sounding oddly triumphant.

‘Of course, it was to be expected at her age. No-one goes on forever, and she’s a good five, no, eight years older than me. I always knew I’d outlast her!’ And she beamed delightedly, eyes twinkling brightly until, noting the shocked look on Alice’s face and readjusting her own expression accordingly, she added, ‘Much, much, much, older than me, dear, you see. So I had prepared myself. Now at least, we’ll be in regular communication through the Lodge, you understand… probably once a week or so. More than if she was alive!’