The Road to Hell (25 page)

‘Can you tell me a little about your husband?’ Alice asked. Seeing a look of concern flit across the woman’s face, she added, ‘For the purposes of our inquiry, Mrs
McPhee. You see, until the post mortem’s complete we won’t know whether his death was suspicious or not, but, as you’ll appreciate, at the moment the circumstances of his death do
tend to suggest that some investigation may require to be carried out.’

‘What do you want to know?’ the woman said, sitting down on the edge of the sofa and folding her hands in her lap. A thought suddenly crossed her mind. ‘Do Hugh and Flora know?
Have you told them yet?’

‘No, not so far. We had to be sure it was your husband.’

‘What happened to your face?’ Mrs McPhee asked, in sudden surprise. She was looking hard at Alice, as if the small area of cuts had just appeared.

‘Someone threw a brick through a window – I was too close.’ Alice put her fingers to her cheek, now self-conscious about her appearance.

‘I’m sorry to hear it. So, what do you want to know?’ the widow said, wearily.

‘Did he like his job? What was his normal routine? Anything about any other members of the family or friends which might be relevant? Anyone, I suppose, who might have wished him
ill?’

‘He was a minister of the Church of Scotland, the minister of St Moluach’s. He did well – he was well respected, spent a fair amount of his time at 121 George Street on
committees and so on. He was . . . a good man. A good husband. I can’t think of anyone . . .’

She stopped, gazing at nothing, and muttered as if to herself, ‘Golden lads and girls all must . . .’

‘His routine?’ Alice prodded, rousing the woman from her momentary trance.

‘His days were varied. Some of his time was spent here, in his study, attending to his sermons, doing office work – preparing for meetings, that kind of thing. You can imagine the
sort of dry stuff, I’m sure. Over and above that he had parish work, but he had an assistant to help with that.’

‘What is his name?’

‘Jim Kenny. He’s young. Twenty-five or so.’

‘Do you and he have much family?’

‘Us, just us. His parents are dead. They both died in the eighties. He’s got a brother in Australia and a half-sister somewhere or other. They had the same mother, different fathers.
We lost touch with her many moons ago. So, there are the two children, Flora and Hugh, and me. That’s about it, I suppose.’

‘Ill-wishers?’

‘What an antiquated expression! I can’t think of anyone much . . .’ Juliet McPhee hesitated, before continuing, ‘He’s annoyed plenty of people in his time –
but not to the extent that they’d wish him any real harm, I think. He was a clergyman, not a mafia boss.’

‘Who would these people be?’ Alice persisted.

‘I don’t know.’

‘He had no enemies?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ the woman said impatiently, her irritation breaking through. ‘Who doesn’t? Really! He annoyed me, he annoyed the children, he annoyed Jim,
he annoyed our neighbours – to some extent he annoyed anyone he ever dealt with. But it’s all rather trivial, isn’t it? He wasn’t the easiest of men, officer. He was
complex. Jim or Timothy Dawson would certainly tell you that . . . if you need a testimonial to that effect.’

‘Who is Timothy Dawson?’

‘Someone who knew my husband well. In fact, for a long time, his best friend.’

‘I’d like to talk to him, if possible.’

‘I’m sure he’d be only too happy to speak to you about Duncan, he usually is. He’ll talk to anyone who will listen to him nowadays. And some who won’t.’

Then, distracted, the woman started to look around the room as if searching for something. Looking anxious, she rose and disappeared through the door. In seconds she returned.

‘Where’s Ailsa?’ she asked, adding immediately, and as if to reassure herself, ‘I suppose you took her, when you came to the house earlier? Where is she? I’d like
to pick her up.’

Remembering the report announced by DC Cairns, Alice said, ‘Your dog? Is she a Dalmatian?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ the woman replied, smiling, clearly relieved. ‘Ailsa. Can I go and collect her?’

Feeling a vague dread and conscious that she would, once again, be the bearer of bad news, Alice said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid not. She’s dead. She was found this morning
on the road opposite here. A car must have hit her.’

‘Ailsa’s dead? Oh God, I don’t believe it!’ Mrs McPhee said piteously, bowing her head and covering her face with her hands, rocking to and fro on the edge of the sofa,
oblivious to the fact that she was not alone.

A couple of days later, when Alice was sitting at her desk looking at her statement and thinking about the forthcoming FAI, the phone rang.

‘Hello, doll.’

‘Is that you, Donny?’ she said, unsure of the voice. It sounded like her pal from the SART office.

‘And I thought you were a quick learner, Sybil. Have your forgotten me so quickly?’ Donny replied, his tone letting her know that he was affronted by her inability to recognise
him.

‘No, not at all. Are you short-handed – needing someone to make the tea for you again?’

‘We’ve a new woman. Aileen from Lost Property has learned to do that now. She’s introduced us to Earl Grey and Lapsang Souchong. None of your builders’ tea for us these
days, Alice.’

‘So you just rang up to boast?’

‘Yes. Why not? Also, I thought you’d like to know that someone tried to sell a signet ring matching the description you gave us at the Cash 4 U shop up near Lauriston Place.
We’ve tried to follow it up, but whoever it was gave a false name and didn’t have the right papers. So the shop wouldn’t take it. But, the good news is that we’ve got the
bastard on film. I‘ve arranged for you to see the clip at their premises at two o’clock. That suit you?’

The manager of the shop, Sarah Owen, was dressed in a dark-blue trouser suit and stilettos. With unconcealed haste, she bundled Alice through the security door and into her
office, concerned in case any potential customer got wind of the police presence.

‘I’ll leave you to see it yourself, eh?’ she said, pointing to a television monitor among a wall of four, and then sliding out of the room without waiting for an answer.

The first thing that Alice saw on the screen was an image of a bearded man approaching the counter. He was bent over, seemed to be coughing, and was holding a handkerchief close to his lips.
After less than a second the camera moved, filming the top of his balding head. Next, his face was panned, his most distinctive feature being a large, hooked nose with a scar running horizontally
across the bridge. His handkerchief now obscured the whole of his mouth. After that the doorway was shown as another customer, an Asian woman, walked through it. The last image showed the man
leaving the premises, apparently still coughing. The time and date flashed continuously on the film. At that moment Ms Owen reappeared, clutching a single sheet of paper in her tanned hand.

‘There’s the paperwork, such as it is. He hadn’t got any utility bills or other ID with him. So that’s all we’ve got,’ she said apologetically, hovering
beside Alice as if to read the piece of paper with her. Looking at the form, Alice saw that only one part of it had been completed. Under the heading ‘Name’ it read: ‘Lloyd
George’.

‘Seems unlikely,’ Alice grinned.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ the woman replied airily. ‘We get all sorts in here.’

The first witness called by the Procurator Fiscal at the Fatal Accident Inquiry into the death of Moira Fyfe was Brian Imrie, the manager of the Bread Street Hostel. He looked
incongruous in his ill-fitting charcoal suit, and the gold stud in his nostril only added to the discordant effect. With sweat glistening on his forehead, he said in his soft voice that he had
known the deceased, Moira Fyfe, on and off for about six years or so, initially in his capacity as the manager of the Ferry Road Hostel and later when he became the manager of the Bread Street one.
Her main problem, he explained, was that she was a chronic alcoholic, and however hard she tried to give up drinking she invariably failed.

‘She just couldn’t do it. I don’t think she could face life without it,’ he said, crossing his legs nervously as if needing the toilet. Responding to a further question,
he attributed her addiction to her ‘underlying issues’, and when asked to expand on them, he said, ‘loneliness . . . depression, lack of self-esteem. I’m no doctor, but with
her you didn’t need to be. She felt alone – unloved. Unlovable, I suspect.’

‘You’ll need to speak up, Mr Imrie, I can hardly hear you,’ the Sheriff said, looking down at him from the bench. She was a petite woman, swamped in her oversized gown. Her wig
touching her eyebrows, she resembled an aged child who had recently raided the dressing-up box.

‘Right. RIGHT. She felt unloved, unlovable,’ he said, obediently increasing the volume. He was determined to get this ordeal over with as soon as possible and get out of the
place.

‘Unlovable?’ the Procurator Fiscal, James Brand, queried, inviting the witness to expand his answer.

‘She used to say that she’d killed a wee girl. It was an accident, a medical accident, an overdose when she was nursing. We all knew that, but to her way of thinking she had killed
that child. And, of course, she had no one. No family. Her own child died, so did her husband. She had nobody else.’

‘When you got to know her, was that when she was staying in Bread Street or Ferry Road?’ the Procurator Fiscal asked, shifting his weight from one hip to the other. Awaiting the
man’s reply, he stood stock-still and pressed his upraised biro vertically against his pursed lips.

‘Yes, in both of them when I used to work for the Army,’ Imrie answered, ‘but also after that. Twice we helped her to get housing, once in one of our own settlement flats and
on the second occasion we managed to find her a local authority house in Niddrie.’

‘What happened to those arrangements?’

‘They broke down,’ the man replied ruefully, looking quickly up at the Sheriff and then back at his interrogator before saying, in a slightly defensive tone, ‘most of them do,
you know . . . unless you can fix their underlying issues.’

‘In Moira Fyfe’s case, why did they break down?’

‘Because . . . well, with the resettlement flat, after she’d been in it for less than five weeks she sold every stick of furniture in the place, all of which we’d got for her.
She used the proceeds to buy alcohol. She was lonely there, without her friends. A few days after she’d sold everything she abandoned the place.’

‘Your voice tailed away at the end again, Mr Imrie,’ the Sheriff said, in a tone of warning.

‘She ABANDONED the place, Ma’am,’ he repeated quickly, fidgeting with his tie.

‘She had returned to her old habits?’ the Sheriff asked, looking momentarily pleased, finally, to have caught his answer.

‘Yes.’

‘What help exactly, directly or indirectly, do you offer your residents to overcome their problems – drink, drugs or whatever?’ the Sheriff inquired, still smiling at the
hostel manager.

‘We offer a range of assistance,’ he replied, swivelling round in the witness box to face her. ‘There are detoxification programmes available which we try to facilitate. We can
suggest referral to the alcohol problem clinic at the Royal Edinburgh, and we have regular visits from the Community Psychiatric Nurses. Obviously, AA are always available to help with their twelve
steps and so on. We do what we can.’

‘Are your residents allowed to drink on your premises?’ the Sheriff continued, and the manager noticed, for the first time, her pen hovering over her notebook, ready to jot down his
reply.

‘No. That’s a part of the contract that we insist upon,’ he replied, speaking with a new self-consciousness, unable to take his eyes off the moving pen, his words suddenly
difficult to find. ‘They have to agree not to bring any drink, drugs or whatever onto our premises. Their rooms are checked periodically to see that they’re sticking to their side of
the bargain.’

‘And do they?’ she asked, not looking up from her notebook.

‘No, not always.’

‘On you go, Mr Brand,’ the Sheriff said, still noting down the witness’s answer but waving a hand at the Procurator Fiscal to signal that he could now resume his
examination-in-chief.