Dying of the Light (5 page)

Another beam of light on the snow, swinging rhythmically like a metronome, left to right, right to left, advanced towards them, before being raised upwards to scan their heads. Immediately the Labrador began to bark,
snapping
furiously, pulling and straining on the lead to reach the invisible stranger and almost yanking the old woman off her feet in its enthusiasm. Suddenly it broke loose and jumped, hurling itself upwards at the newcomer, only to be felled by the thrust of a knee, dropping to whimper and yelp in a heap on the ground. Having dealt with the dog, the beefy stranger calmly peeled off his woollen balaclava, exposing his face for the first time.

‘I think it’s a bloke called Simon – Simon Oakley. A DS with ‘C’ Division. A benign but lazy bugger, apparently. He must have been nearby, responded to the call-out too,’ Alistair whispered to Alice, as she and the dog’s
distraught
owner bent down together to stroke it and check that it was uninjured. Oakley, his head bent against the driving snow, joined them and patted its back.

‘Sorry, self-defence, but the d… d… dog will be fine. Anyone called the DCI yet?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Alice said, still caressing the Labrador, ‘we’ve only just arrived. So we’d better check things out first. I don’t fancy getting anyone out on a night like this only to discover that we’ve found an old stick or a comatose tramp.’

As Alistair Watt tried to take a statement from the witness, his fingers so numb that he could scarcely grip the pen, Alice Rice, with DS Oakley following in her footprints,
set off towards the patch of undergrowth. Tussocks of dead grass and dried, skeletal weeds tripped them as they worked their way forwards, snaring their hands, catching their calves and entwining their ankles. Cursing, having fallen for a second time, Alice looked down at her feet, only to catch a glimpse of a colourless female face looking back up at her. As the bulb in her torch began to fade she and her companion knelt beside the figure and he touched the woman’s neck, feeling for a pulse, his fingers becoming tangled in a necklace of beads. Her arms were crossed on her breast as if to receive a blessing or as laid out by an undertaker. But, below one of her hands and over her heart, a dark stain extended.

Elaine Bell turned over in her bed and lay on her left side but found her breathing no clearer. Her head still felt heavy, her sinuses and left nostril blocked completely. Carefully, she rolled onto her right, conscious, as she did so, that now both nostrils were tightly sealed and she opened her mouth to gasp for breath. Beside her,
releasing
growling snores, lay her husband, blessedly unaware of her restlessness in his dream-free sleep. Easing back the duvet cover, she slid her legs over the side of the bed and managed to get out without making it creak.

A thorough inspection of the bathroom cabinet revealed only three empty bottles, each with a film of brightly-
coloured
viscous material the bottom and crystallised sugar making the glass sticky. She turned the one with most in it upside down, but the thin layer of congealed cough
mixture
remained solid. Her attempt to get some of it with the end of a toothbrush failed, providing only a few small globs of the medicine. Nestling behind a box of sticking
plasters she found a discoloured sachet, a fat friar’s face beaming from its wrapper, promising ‘blessed’ relief from chronic catarrh.

In the harsh light of the kitchen she shook out the sachet into a large, enamel jug and added a kettleful of newly-boiled water. The stinging of her eyes told her that the mixture was producing a powerful, irritating vapour, but her nose remained blithely oblivious to everything. Desperate for relief she flung the towel over her head, craning her face into the steam and inhaling deeply as she did so. Despite a burning sensation deep in her lungs she persisted until her cheeks and forehead seemed to be on fire. Only a few more minutes to endure, she thought, and such acute discomfort must be rewarded by results. As her hand fumbled blindly on the table for the egg-timer, the telephone rang. She tore off her towel and ran into the
living
room to answer it before the din woke her husband.

‘Hello, DCI Elaine Bell,’ she said, noting angrily to herself that her voice sounded as nasal as it had before she had scalded her face.

‘It’s Alice, ma’am. I’m at the Seafield Cemetery with DS Watt. We’ve got a body… er… an unburied, newly dead one. A female, middle-aged. And it could well be a murder.’

Having dressed at speed, Elaine Bell looked in the mirror. Her hair, still wet from the steam, clung to her temples, old mascara had run below one eye and her face was puce. ‘The alkie look,’ she muttered grimly to herself, feeling her cheeks anxiously and finding them still hot to the touch. ‘And on a freezing night like this I’ll get bloody Bell’s palsy to boot.’

Seeing a strange figure, head crowned in a woolly bobble hat, tartan scarf wound tightly over the mouth and nose, advancing purposefully towards the taped area, Alice ran towards it, intent on blocking the way.

‘Sorry,’ she said breathlessly, ‘only police are allowed here for the moment.’

A muffled voice, but one entirely familiar to her, replied testily, ‘Don’t be silly, DS Rice, it’s me – DCI Bell. Your boss, remember?’

‘Sorry, ma’am. But your clothes… it’s a bit like a burka, or is it a chador?’

‘Never mind that! Has anyone actually succeeded in identifying the body yet?’

Alice handed over a leaflet and waited patiently while her superior read it.

‘Is it some kind of “Wanted” poster or something? What is it exactly?’

‘It’s produced by S.P.E.A.R. ma’am – you know, the prostitutes’ charity. It’s one of their publications, they hand them out from their van to the working girls to warn them about any particular ne’er-do-wells, batterers and the like.’

‘Fine. So where did you find it?’

‘It was in the woman’s pocket. First thing tomorrow I’ll go round to their office in Restalrig with a photo and see if they know her. Find out if they’ve a name, an address for him, too. He may have left it on her, I suppose, as some kind of calling card.’

Two hours later, the body, its hands, feet and head bagged in clear plastic and secured with brown parcel tape, began its undignified journey to the police mortuary in the
Cowgate
. So bound, it no longer seemed human, resembling
instead a gigantic, grotesque doll or toy. In Edinburgh, despite the city’s douce exterior and cultured reputation, the mortuary remained open for business at all hours of the day and night. Even at midnight on Christmas Eve, with carols sweetening the air and kisses landing on cold cheeks, its harsh lights shone brightly, awaiting its next guest. Always room in that inn.

Alice, yawning uncontrollably, tramped up the dusty tenement stair to her flat in Broughton Place. The loud barking, echoing in the stairwell, reached a peak as she stepped onto the landing below her own. As the door opened, her dog, Quill, darted out to greet her, his tail a blur of wagging, claws clattering on the stone as he danced joyfully around her. His temporary custodian, Miss Spinnell, wordlessly handed over his lead before, bowing her head ever so slightly, she retreated into her lair. Her door’s multiple locks were being driven home as Alice climbed the final flight to her own front door.

As she turned on the light in the kitchen she saw a note in Ian’s characteristic over-large italic hand, lying on the table.

‘Back whenever. Don’t worry about food for me.’

And without him, the place felt cold and cheerless. With every step she had taken on the journey home she had been thinking about what she would tell him of her evening, luxuriating in the prospect of unburdening herself of its grim sights by sharing them with him. The very act of describing a murder, she found, lessened its impact, focussed her mind and helped her to believe that something could be achieved, that their efforts would, eventually, bear fruit.

Of course, the old order could never be restored. A
killing
was not like the eruption of a monster’s head through the dark waters of a loch, the creature then sinking back into the depths, leaving a ripple-free surface behind it. In some form or other, a murder’s repercussions continued forever, extending outwards and permanently altering lives in ways seen and unseen, every bit as profoundly as the flapping of a butterfly’s wing in some rainforest
somewhere
. But Leith might be made safe again, at least.

She longed to tell him what she had seen: the
woman’s
oddly bloodless face, the almost Prussian blue of her lips, the disquieting sight of a bird dropping on her neck and the blackness of the wound. But he was in his studio, oblivious to her need, the time and the freezing temperature, absorbed completely in his work, all his interest centred within the studio’s four walls. And, yes, he never complained about her absences or the fact that most of her energies were used up in the station. But, just occasionally, very occasionally, she imagined the
reassurance
that might come from someone missing her, waiting anxiously for her return. And tonight was just such a night, just such an occasion.