The Road to Hell (33 page)

‘Not exactly,’ Alice replied. ‘I’m from the police. I need to speak to you about the watch you’re trying to sell.’

Now looking terrified, the woman said, ‘There must have been some mistake. I’m not selling anything, and I’ll need to be away home now.’

She moved quickly towards the door, her hand stretched towards the handle.

‘Not quite yet,’ Alice said, remaining where she was and blocking the woman’s only exit.

‘The man you tried to sell the watch to, Mr Khan, contacted us and, if necessary, I’ll bring him in here to repeat his version of events to you. I know you have the watch, so you can
either tell the truth and talk to me here about it, or accompany me back to the station at St Leonard’s. It’s up to you.’

For a moment, the woman remained silent and then, looking even more forlorn, she said, ‘OK, you win. What’d you like to know? I’ve not got much time. I’ve got to collect
my wee boy from school.’

‘Could I have it, please?’

Obediently, the woman fished inside her satchel and handed it over.

‘Where did you get it?’

‘Em . . . I got it at Christmas from my husband.’

‘This Christmas present that you’re now trying to sell, it’s a man’s watch isn’t it? Do you normally wear men’s watches, then?’

‘Aha. I like a big face. Easier to see the numbers, eh?’ the woman replied, smiling timidly at Alice as if to charm her.

‘The initials on the back – whose are they?’

‘Mine.’

‘Dorothy Drummond? DD?’

‘No, sorry, I forgot. It was secondhand, see. My husband said not to worry about them so . . .’

‘What are the initials on your watch? No doubt you’ll remember that, since you’ve had it since Christmas.’

‘Em . . . I’ll need to see,’ she replied.

‘I’ll read them to you,’ Alice said, ‘DJM.’

‘Em . . . em . . . my dad’s name. Donald . . . Jane . . .’

Running out of patience with such half-witted lies, Alice cut in. ‘Stop wasting my time, please, Mrs Drummond. Up until about six days ago this watch was around the wrist of the Reverend
Duncan McPhee. He was found dead on the ninth of February. Do you understand? It was not for sale, in any shop, secondhand or otherwise, prior to that date.’

‘It must have been. Alan bought it for me.’

‘We are pursuing an investigation into Duncan McPhee’s death,’ Alice continued, ‘because he may have been murdered. Do you understand that? You may be in possession of
the watch of a recently murdered man. It is worth thousands of pounds. Bearing that in mind, shall we start again?’

‘Right,’ the woman said, twisting her hands together and nodding, having finally grasped the implications of the police officer’s speech.

‘So where did you get it?’

The woman opened her mouth but nothing came out. Trying again, she said in a low voice, ‘In one of the rooms, one of the service-users’ rooms. In the hostel for the homeless, the one
on Ferry Road. I work there as a care worker.’

‘Did you take it from there?’ Initially the woman said nothing, then she nodded her head and looked into Alice’s eyes imploringly. ‘You’ll not tell my employers,
eh? I need that job. I’ve never done it in my life before and, honest, I’ll never do it again. I can’t afford to lose my job. I’ve learnt my lesson, I really have. Please,
please don’t tell them, eh?’

‘You took the watch from someone’s room in the hostel. When?’

‘Em . . . it’ll have been on the morning of the eleventh.’

‘Whose room was it? Alex Higgins’?’

‘No. If I tell you, will you promise not to tell them?’ she wheedled.

‘No, I can’t promise that. But I need to know whose room you took the watch from.’

‘OK, but I’m trusting you . . . not to tell them, I mean. I’m trusting you, mind. I got it from another bloke’s room, the one called Taff. I don’t know his surname,
truly. I really don’t know it. Nobody does. You speak to the manager or the Reverend Davis. Nobody knows.’

Hatless, and in the absence of his large, padded anorak and the many layers of jerseys worn beneath it, Taff seemed to have shrunk. Sitting on the hard wooden bench of the
drop-in centre, he was now dressed only in a collarless white shirt, a black jacket and worn jeans.

Beside him the drum of a washing machine was revolving noisily, but he seemed oblivious to the racket it was making. The back of his head was propped against the wall and in repose his face
looked as gaunt as a medieval death mask, eyes closed, his cheeks and temples sunken. His mouth had fallen open, accentuating the line of his jawbone.

Fast asleep, he was completely unaware of Alice’s scrutiny. For a couple of seconds she was able to gaze at his face, studying it as objectively as she might an inanimate object in a
museum. In profile, she thought, he had a certain nobility, and his large aquiline nose only added to that impression.

The second the washing machine clicked into spin cycle he jerked awake, but he did not look refreshed or restored by his sleep. Seeing Alice standing above him, he said in a slightly thick
voice, ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, what now?’

Because he looked so tired, and fragile as glass, she found that the anger she had felt earlier had dissipated. Taking a seat next to him she said, ‘Taff, just tell me the truth this time,
will you? Have you ever owned a Rolex watch?’

‘What do you think?’ he said roguishly, rubbing his eyes. ‘Do I look like the sort of man to own one of them?’

‘So you’ve never owned one?’

‘That’s what I said, wasn’t it?’ He stretched his arms above his head and yawned, and as he did so an ominous click came from one elbow.

‘Sure about that?’

‘Yes. I’m sure about that. Is this some kind of game or something, because if it is I don’t want to play. I’ve got better things to do.’

‘Fine. About an hour ago I spoke to Dorothy Drummond.’

‘Did you now? How do you come to know Dot?’

‘Never mind that for now. Dorothy Drummond was in possession of a Rolex watch and she told me that she took it from your room.’

‘Oh, right,’ he said, not turning a hair, ‘I wondered what had happened to it. She’ll be the one to have taken Linda’s money too, I bet, even though Moira took the
blame. She cleans in Bread Street too. Are you following her up?’

‘Not at the moment. I thought you said you’d never owned such a watch.’

‘Spot on, love. That’s what I said. See that watch on my wrist, there, that’s a Sekonda. The Rolex was in my room, I admit that, but I didn’t own it. I was keeping it
safe for someone else. It wasn’t my watch.’

‘Really?’

‘Aye. Really.’

‘So who were you keeping it safe for?’

‘For Alex.’

He rose, opened the door of the washing machine and began to unload the clothes. The slight effort involved made him gasp for breath, and halfway through the task he stopped and sat down,
resting the pile of damp washing on his knee.

‘This won’t bloody do,’ Alice said, looking directly into his tired, heavy-lidded eyes.

‘What are you going on about, dear?’ His voice sounded faint.

‘Alex was already dead when the watch was taken from your room.’

‘Not when he gave it me . . . to look after, not then, though.’

‘When you told me about the signet ring you got as a result of a swap with Alex, I asked you if you got anything else from him. You said no. Why didn’t you mention the watch
then?’

‘I didn’t get anything else from him. I told you, he didn’t give me the watch. I was just its custodian, as you might say. The ring became mine.’

‘Have it your way. Apart from getting the watch and the signet ring from Alex, did you get anything else at all? What I mean by that, just to be entirely clear, is did he pass anything
else on to you, whether as a gift, an exchange, something for you to look after or anything else?’

‘No.’

‘So you got nothing else whatsoever from Alex?’

‘That’s what I’ve just said, isn’t it?’

‘Sure about that?’

‘Yes, I’m bloody certain about that.’

‘This won’t do,’ Alice repeated, her eyes still fixed on his.

To her surprise he smiled broadly as if pleased by something, and said, ‘And why not, officer?’

‘Because,’ she said, pointing at his lapel, ‘You’re wearing a black jacket with a small badge on it. Do you know what the badge is?’

‘No. I never even noticed it. Tell me.’ He was still smiling, but he began to pull up his lapel to get a better look at the badge.’

‘It’s the Burning Bush.’

‘Well, I never,’ he said. He stood up once more, but once he was on his feet he sat down heavily again, murmuring, ‘I’m a wee bit dizzy.’

‘That black jacket you are wearing belonged to the Reverend Duncan McPhee. The badge is the one that ministers of the Church of Scotland often wear. The watch and the signet ring both
belonged to him too. Odd that.’

‘Well done,’ he answered, his eyes closed and his breathing laboured. ‘At last. You’ve finally got there. I thought you might, I thought you might be the one to get
there. So you deserve the bloody prize.’

‘The prize?’

‘Aye. You deserve it and I’d like someone to know the truth. To bear witness, as they say in church circles. This time the story matters, you see, to me at least. Moira Fyfe was my
best friend, my only real friend . . . nowadays.’

‘I’d heard that. I know that,’ Alice said, ‘but could we talk about Duncan McPhee for the minute? He’s the one I need to know about. That’s who I’m
interested in. The file on Moira’s been closed.’

‘Patience, woman!’ replied Taff, breathing in deeply. ‘You’ll get everything you’re after – everything, you’ve my word on it. But you need to
understand. Moira’s file is not closed, not by me, anyway. Like I said, she was my friend. She was my mentor, showed me the ropes in the early days. How to keep myself warm, the golden rules
of begging, where you’d get a free breakfast . . . where to buy the cheapest drink. All the things, good and bad, that you need to know if you’re going to survive on the
street.’

‘Yes, but Duncan McPhee’s the . . .’

‘I said, patience!’ he spluttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

At that moment an unshaven man with a yellowish complexion came into the washhouse and, glancing at the two of them, began to unpack the contents of a thin carrier bag onto the top of the
washing machine. Once all his clothes were out, he carefully separated them into whites and non-whites.

‘Get out, Terry,’ Taff said gruffly to the stranger, his voice sounding heavy as if he needed to clear his throat.

‘I’ve my washing to do. You’re no’ using the machine,’ Terry replied, a placatory look on his face.

‘I said, “Out”.’

‘Why? You’re only chatting to her, you could go to the drop-in room to chat.’

‘Terry, I said, “Out”.’

Taff sounded resolute and as he spoke, he stared fixedly at the other man, his eyes burning into his, until Terry dropped his gaze.

Now looking put out, Terry stuffed his clothes back into their carrier bag and left, mumbling, ‘I’m seeing the manager.’

Waiting until the sound of footsteps had died away, Taff spoke again.

‘She was my pal,’ he reiterated, ‘and for a couple of months she’d managed to get right off the drink. The doctors had told her to lay off it and she’d been getting
help. It seemed to be working too. She was a good woman. Clever as well. She’d been a nurse for years, one of those kiddies’ nurses. A paediatric specialist.’

‘I know.’

‘Aye, I bet you do.’ He started to cough, his face reddening and his eyes watering as he fought for breath between each racking bout. After about three minutes, the coughing stopped
and he closed his eyes, taking in great gulps of air. He pressed his hand against his chest, massaging it as if the earlier paroxysms had been painful.

‘A couple of days before she died, she’d been begging, on her own, up close to Jericho House. She approached a man and asked him for any spare change. She looked at him and she
recognised him. Guess who it was?’

‘No idea.’

‘Go on. Try. I’ll give you a clue if you need one.’

‘I need one.’

‘It was a man of the cloth.’

‘Duncan McPhee.’

‘Top marks. It was Duncan McPhee. Know who he is?’ He stopped again, giving her the chance to answer and himself time to draw more breath.

‘Of course. He’s . . . a minister, a husband, a “committee man”.’ She shrugged her shoulders, letting him know that she had not an inkling of what he was driving
at.

‘Aye, he’s all of those things, but he’s more too. He’s a brother! He was Moira’s half-brother, her only brother. Bet you didn’t know that, did you?’ He
exulted in his superior knowledge.

‘No.’

‘No, you did not. Chalk and cheese, eh? Moira recognised him and she was overjoyed. She’d lost touch with him ages ago, years ago, long before she lost her house and everything, and
there he was, standing right in front of her. Large as life. So, naturally, she goes up to him and embraces him – puts her arms right round him, hugs him tight, but he doesn’t like it a
bit and he stiffens, pulls away. She can feel him freezing up. He doesn’t put his arms about her.’