Dying of the Light (25 page)

The young constable’s lips were blue, his arms clasped tightly around himself, hugging his torso in an attempt to stop his spasmodic shivering and warm himself up. His head was bare, a sudden gust from the North Sea
having
whipped his cap off, and he had watched helplessly from his position by the corpse as his headgear bowled its way along the cliff edge before dropping into the turbid waters below. Each successive wave had then carried it a little further out until, finally, he had lost sight of the little black speck and, reluctantly, turned his attention back to the woman lying at his feet.

The job in the force was not turning out to be quite as he had visualised it. He had seen himself as the centre of attention, the first to find the corpse, stolen goods or whatever, but he had overlooked other matters. Important matters, like the weather, the inadequate, ill-fitting gear and the general discomfort that seemed to be part and
parcel of his new profession. Still, he would have cracking stories to tell in the pub one day, but, first, he would have to steel himself to take a good shufty, impress upon his memory all the gory details for the delectation of others in days to come. And, this time, the sight of blood would not make him faint and he could stare at her as much as he pleased, no offence being taken by the dead.

Looking hard at the woman’s face, he was struck by the thought that, in life, she must have been pretty with such large eyes and high cheekbones. Gradually, he allowed his gaze to slide down from her chin to her neck, then, slowly, to descend to her breasts. Taking things bit by bit would be the answer, and this time there would be no element of surprise. But the sight once more of the unnatural cleft on her chest, clotted blood fringing its edges, made his gorge rise, and he bent over, convulsed, to vomit onto the ground beside her. Swallowing hard, and deliberately inhaling the icy air deep in his lungs to purify himself, he straightened up and stood erect, shocked by his own weakness and alarmed at the trembling that had begun in his legs. Feeling another upsurge of bile into his mouth, he tried to shift his mind and distract himself, fixing his eyes on the horizon and following its perfect line past the Cockenzie Power Station and onwards towards Aberlady Point. Never letting his gaze fall. When the CID arrived he was still standing with his head erect, looking seawards like an old salt unable to tear himself away from the sight.

Suited and booted in her paper overalls and overshoes, Alice knelt beside the body to examine it, noticing
immediately
the wound to the breast and the crossed arms, both
trademarks with which she was sickeningly familiar. One of the fingers of the right hand had blood at its tip and she stretched over the torso to examine it more closely, finding dried blood on its sharp, uneven nail. Perhaps, in death, the woman had scratched her attacker, taking a minute piece of him with her and leaving him marred for a day or two at least.

Alice closed her eyes and breathed out slowly, a sinking feeling now in her stomach, increasingly unnerved by the conclusion to which she seemed to be being driven. No journalist had been told about the attitude of prayer in which the victims were invariably found, so no paper had reported the detail and it remained a secret known to two parties only, the police and the murderer. Whoever had killed Muriel McQueen had also killed Isobel Wilson and Annie Wright, and it was not Father Francis McPhail.

And the conclusion that was forming in her mind was one that she was loath to reach, disliked herself for even considering. But it was also one which could not be ignored, however much she might wish that she had never reached it. The pieces of the puzzle were slowly fitting together, but the picture that they were forming scared her, making her doubt her own judgement.

Simon Oakley’s blood was on both bodies, and its
presence
on the first, she now knew, could not be satisfactorily explained by contamination. There had been no brambles near the body so some alternative explanation for it must be sought. Furthermore, he appeared to fit the
descriptions
given by the majority of the witnesses and twice had pled illness, his absence each time bringing about a particular result. It meant that Lena Stirling, the only victim to survive an attack and therefore able to describe her attacker, had not seen him since. She had never had
the opportunity either to recognise or identify him. Had he really been sick, or was it simply a ruse to avoid the prostitute’s scrutiny? On both occasions on which he had used his health as an excuse to absent himself he had not seemed even remotely off-colour, and his order at the Raj suggested an unimpaired constitution.

And if he was the murderer, then Lena Stirling had been right when she had said that she had met her
assailant
before, because they had sat together in a police car the day after the first murder, never mind any earlier
meetings
. And here she was touching a gold crucifix, found in his pocket, and bearing a remarkable resemblance to the one she had seen around Annie Wright’s neck throughout McNiece’s trial. But the idea that she was, even to
herself
, accusing one of her colleagues, filled her with dread. Immediately she began to try to unpick her own case.

To be sure, she reassured herself, it was based on little or no evidence and much speculation. It could probably be explained away, and would probably not even have been reached by a less tired mind. Please God, an
innocent
answer would be forthcoming for everything. After all, lots of people owned crucifixes, brambles could be cut down and she, herself, had seen his blood dripping in the scrappie’s yard. And Ian had a tummy bug this very morning.

Kneeling down again, she studied the body beside her, her attention drawn once more by the bloodstained fingernail on the right hand. Whoever had killed Muriel McQueen might have a small reminder of their encounter on his face. Conscious that her paper suit was beginning to get soggy at the knees, she rose to go and walked slowly towards the car, unzipping the garment as she went until the wind found its way inside and made it billow in all
directions, transforming her into a Tellytubby. Still deep in thought, she dropped the crumpled mess into the boot and hesitated, leaning against the driver’s door, trying to work out what to do next. The blood on the woman’s nail, if that was what it was, might provide samples of the
murderer’s
DNA, but the extraction process, never mind the subsequent matching, would take time. And meanwhile the guilty man, whoever he was, remained at liberty, able to kill once more, his escape possible. As every second ticked past, his trail would be getting colder.

But the accusation she was making was so awful that she could tell no-one of her suspicions, not while that was all they were, all they might ever be. It was shameful to harbour such thoughts about another member of the squad, the DCI’s team, her own team. She was not sure that she would ever forgive anyone who considered that she could be guilty of such acts. On reflection, she knew she would not.

Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she looked out to sea and found herself calmed by its immensity, reassured by the sight of the endless breaking waves with their crests of white foam colliding with each other before running to the shore, all anger spent. Of course, thoughts in
themselves
neither harmed nor defamed anybody, and could be quickly forgotten by the thinker. But, she reminded herself, this one, however hare-brained, would have to be
translated
into deeds, because in the unlikely event of it turning out to be correct and nothing being done, then another woman might be attacked, might be killed. There was no easy option, and even the least bad alternative, alienation from one or more of her colleagues, required action.

And, fortunately, she had a pretext to take a look at Simon Oakley. His jacket was lying on the back seat of
the Astra, folded neatly, ready to be returned to him. She would go to his flat, hand it over to him, and while doing so, take a good look at his face. If it remained smooth and uninjured as before, then her flight of fancy would be over, and he need never know the unworthy doubts that she had entertained. Within a day or so the results of the DNA would come in and he would, presumably, be exculpated. And for as long as they continued to work together, he would be mystified by her thoughtfulness, her solicitousness on his behalf. Because, come what may, she would find a way of making it up to him somehow.

But, standing outside the bright purple front door of Simon Oakley’s flat in McDonald Road she could feel her stomach starting to churn, the urge to return to the car almost getting the better of her. If she left, then
no-one
need ever know her dirty little secret. She turned to go but managed to stop herself, facing the door again and forcing herself to knock, deliberately losing control of the situation. Seconds crawled past, and feeling giddy with relief she was just about to leave when she heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching and the door swung open. To her surprise, an elderly woman stood in front of her wearing a pinny over her skirt, and evidently having just peeled off one of her rubber gloves before turning the door handle.

‘Are you lookin’ for Simon?’ the stranger enquired in a cockney accent, pulling the other glove over her thick wrist to reveal a reddened hand.

‘Yes,’ Alice replied, ‘I’m one of his colleagues.’

‘He’s out at the moment, but he’ll be back shortly. You could wait here if you like?’

‘How shortly is shortly?’

The woman looked at her watch. ‘Oh, within the next five minutes or so, I expect. I haven’t seen him this morning, he wasn’t here when I arrived, but he’s bound to be back before one o’clock. He knows that I have a hair
appointment
at half past, and he left a note saying he’d gone to the bank to get my money. I’m Sue by the way…’ she held out her damp hand, ‘and I clean for him once a fortnight.’

Sitting at the kitchen table, exchanging occasional words with the cleaner, Alice felt ill at ease, apprehensive about what was to come. In the meanwhile, the situation seemed more than slightly surreal, absurd. Here she was being offered tea while the cleaner busied herself
sorting
the underpants of a putative murderer into piles of coloureds and non-coloureds. On the other hand, Alice also felt reassured by her homely presence, the smell of washing powder and the ordinariness of her domestic routines. As long as Sue was present then she was surely safe, whatever she was going to see, and whatever Oakley observed in her.

At the sound of the front door opening Alice rose, but found herself waved back to her seat by Sue and thought better of her initial movement, maybe it would not be him anyway. Two voices in conversation could be heard from the hallway, the woman’s tone rising as if in surprise, followed by sympathetic clucking noises, then Simon’s voice and, finally, the ominous click of a key being turned in a lock. And at that final noise her heart began to
hammer
frantically in her chest, as if trying to beat its way out of her body through her rib cage. Now she was on her own with him and, for some reason, he had blocked her escape. As he walked through the doorway he looked her straight in the eyes, watching her watching him.