CARNAGE CORRIDOR CLAIMS TWO MORE VICTIMS
Catching up short, Adam stepped over to the kiosk and picked up the top copy of the Edinburgh Evening News, skimming over the lead story. A cursory reading revealed nothing of substance that he did not already know from his briefing with McLeod and his stint at the Royal Infirmary. There was, however, a black-and-white photograph taken at the scene of the accident. Without knowing quite what he was looking for, Adam bent to examine it more closely.
Prominent in the foreground was the twisted wreckage of the late model Austin Rover that Grant had been driving at the time of the accident. The attendant caption labelled the car a "commuter's deathtrap." Several spectators hovered slightly out of focus in the background, but as Adam continued to study the photo, his attention kept returning to one of them: a woman's pale figure in the upper left corner of the frame.
He stifled an exclamation, already fishing out pocket change to pay for the paper, for the face, though blurred, was one Adam was not likely to forget in a hurry. He had seen it at the moment of Malcolm Grant's death - the last thing Grant himself had seen before the car crash that eventually cost him his life. He could feel his pulse quicken in dawning excitement as he took his trophy back to his office.
Once seated behind his desk, he spread the newspaper on the desktop in front of him, switched on the desk lamp, and delved into the upper right-hand drawer for a small magnifying glass. Leaning forward slightly, he brought the lens to bear on the suspect corner of the photograph, focusing his attention on the pale-faced figure. The resolution was coarse and grainy, but left him with little doubt that it was, indeed, the same woman. Under magnification, her image seemed slightly detached from the rest of the background, almost as if someone had superimposed a solo photo on top of the crash scene.
Whoever she was, she appeared to be in her mid- to late-twenties. The eyes that stared out of the picture were hollow and piercing, their expression disturbingly intense, as if their owner were searching for someone or something. What, Adam wondered, had impelled her to step out in front of Grant's car? And where had she disappeared to afterwards?
Laying aside his magnifying glass, he reached for the telephone and punched in the number of McLeod's direct line at police headquarters. The inspector's voice answered after three rings.
"No, I've not seen the Evening News," he replied, in response to Adam's initial inquiry. "Why? What's afoot?"
"Well you may ask," Adam said. "If you could manage to lay hands on a copy, there's a photo on the front page that I think you ought to see."
Swiftly he gave McLeod the gist of his discovery. "I'd be willing to wager a small fortune that this woman in the picture is the same one Malcolm Grant went out of his way to avoid," he informed his Second. "Do you think you might pull the accident report and check to see if anybody fitting the description I've just given you is mentioned among the witnesses?"
"Can't do that right now," McLeod said. "It won't be in the system yet. I'll put Donald on it first thing in the morning, though. Of course, this mysterious lady of yours won't be in our records at all, unless she came forward to offer testimony. And she might well have avoided doing that, if she had reason to believe she was to blame for the accident." "Perhaps. But I have a feeling the situation is far more complicated than that," Adam said. "I wonder if the photographer might remember seeing her. We need to know who she is, Noel."
"I won't argue that," McLeod agreed. "Shall I see if I can track down the photographer? They'll know how to reach him over at the Evening News."
"By all means," Adam said. "I'll be here in the office for at least another hour. Let me know what you find out." He cradled the receiver and sat silently for a moment, hand still on the receiver, then set himself to finishing his case notes while he waited for McLeod's call-back. Only ten minutes went by before the phone rang again.
"Our photographer's name is Tom Lennox," McLeod announced without preamble. "He's got a flat in Langton Road. That's not a mile from where you are now, on the other side of Blackford Hill. I'd have gotten back to you even sooner, but while I was on the line, it occurred to me that our man might still be in the building, so I asked the receptionist to have him paged. There was a bit of a delay, but eventually he checked in. The long and the short of our conversation is that he's quite prepared to cooperate with us so far as he's able."
"What have you told him?"
"The truth, if not all of it," McLeod said. "That there are one or two people in the background of his photo that the police have reason to believe may be potential witnesses, but haven't yet been able to identify. I told him we'd like to stop by later this evening to discuss the matter in person, and he suggested round about seven o'clock."
"That would suit me," Adam said. "You want to meet me here at about six forty-five?"
"Sounds fine to me. I'll go grab a bite to eat and see you then."
Once the inspector had rung off, Adam rang Strathmourne to inform Humphrey that he would not be dining at home, then made a brief pilgrimage out to the hospital cafe for a sandwich and some coffee, which he consumed while he returned to his case notes. He had just finished up when McLeod arrived to keep their appointed rendezvous.
Langton Road lay on the western perimeter of a housing estate made up of blocks of flats. Lennox's address was midway along the street in a three-story walk-up virtually indistinguishable from all the others in its row. Adam and McLeod left the latter's black BMW parked at the curb outside and let themselves into the building through a ground-floor foyer that smelled of disinfectant. From there, two flights of concrete steps took them up to the topmost floor, where they found themselves in an enclosed landing between two doors.
Lennox's flat was the one on the left. McLeod led the way to the door and knocked smartly. Somewhere else in the building a small dog began to yap belligerently. Trading wry glances with Adam, McLeod knocked again.
After an extended pause, a couple of thumps resounded from inside, followed by the hurried tattoo of approaching feet. They heard the click of a lock being unsnibbed, and the door opened to reveal a lanky, sandy-haired young man in jeans and a T-shirt with "Dundee College of Art" scrolled in black letters across the chest. At the sight of the two men on his doorstep, his goodnatured face split in a grin.
"Sorry if there was a bit of a delay. I was up in the loft, where my darkroom is, developing some prints. You're Inspector McLeod?"
"That's right." McLeod presented his warrant card for the other man's inspection. "My associate is Dr. Sinclair, a special police consultant." At Lennox's wave, McLeod tucked the ID back into the breast pocket of his coat.
"Well, you're both very welcome," Lennox said, with a cordial inclination of his sandy head. Backing away from the threshold, he beckoned the way into an untidy hallway lined on one side with a crowded array of bookcases. "Please come in. The sitting room's the second door on your left."
Together they made their way along the passageway into a large, square room, comfortably if somewhat haphazardly furnished. Waving his visitors toward two mismatched overstuffed chairs by the fireplace, Lennox flopped down on the davenport by the window and propped his elbows on his knees. Lacing his fingers together under his chin, he favored his two visitors with a look of inquiry.