‘Since I have you here, officers,’ Mrs Keane said, ‘I’ll just take advantage of your visit to fill you in with what we have to put up with,’ and she smiled at her husband, who blinked at her on cue.
‘Yesterday, once more, I found two used condoms on our own little lawn, and I heard that Mrs Keir, at number thirteen, had the unpleasant experience of interrupting a fornicating couple at the bottom of her stair. Two days ago I myself, believe it or not, was accosted by a kerb-crawler who was abusive, obscene actually, when I put him right. Oh yes, and when I went onto the West Links on Thursday with my grand-daughter, Katie, I stopped her, in the very nick of time I might add, from picking up a used hypodermic syringe. I am, I have to admit, almost at the stage of thinking that one less – one less streetwalker, I mean – would be a good thing!’
DS Oakley, mouth still filled with shortbread, nodded as if sympathetically, and Mrs Keane, spurred on, continued to address her captive audience.
‘As for S.P.E.A.R., don’t get me started! The van attracts them, you know, like flies to… well, waste. If it parked somewhere else I’d bet my bottom dollar they would follow it and go somewhere else too. And we’ll have no more “tolerance” zones, thank you very much. All very well to impose them when it involves other people’s toleration rather than your own. Perhaps, they could be “tolerated” in the vicinity of Holyrood, somewhere by the new Parliament building. Save the MSPs a journey!’
‘Audrey!’ Bill Keane said, in a shocked tone.
‘Well,’ his wife continued, unabashed, ‘despite your valiant efforts, sweetheart, and I mean that, valiant efforts, the “problem” has not been solved. And for as long as it continues, Katie, and all the other small children we know, are at risk of jabbing themselves with needles, catching Aids and so on. And these constables need to understand how we feel…’
I understand only too well, Alice thought, unconsciously stroking the miniscule scab on her palm. And Ellen Barbour’s account of her career, with its high-living and free choices, seemed a million miles from the grubby world of prostitution on display in the dark, unsavoury crevices of the City. Places where the meter ran not by the hour but by the minute, and warm flesh could be bought for the price of a Chinese meal for two.
‘To get the full picture of what we have to bear, they should really speak to Guy, shouldn’t they, darling?’ Audrey Keane said, belatedly offering the shortbread to her husband.
‘Guy?’ Alice asked.
‘Guy Bayley, the head of our group. Our founder, in fact,’ Bill Keane replied, ignoring his wife’s outstretched arm and smoothing both his winged eyebrows with his fingertips, checking his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece as he did so.
Talman Secondary gave the impression that it had been formed by the occurrence of an earthquake at a trailer park. Portakabins had been attached to each other at unexpected angles, creating asymmetrical E or T shapes, some ornamented by tired graffiti, and the tarmac on which they rested had wide fissures, like the edges of tectonic plates They had an unsettled, temporary appearance as if their unfortunate inhabitants might be awaiting the clearance of the site followed by the construction of permanent school buildings.
The headmistress, a flustered Asian lady with ebony hollows below her tired eyes, directed them briskly towards the staff room, assuring them that Mr Christie would be in there and that they would not be disturbed before three o’clock. Knocking on the flimsy door, they entered to find an elderly man sitting gazing at a couple of lethargic goldfish in an aquarium, a rolled-up newspaper sticking out from his jacket pocket.
When he stood up, Alice was surprised to see how small he was, such height as he had being in his spine rather than his legs. From her own six-foot vantage point she found that she towered over him, overlooking the extensive bald patch on the crown of his head which was in a perfect pear-shape.
Until he was shown the photograph in the S.P.E.A.R. leaflet, Eddie Christie played dumb, firmly refuting any suggestion that he might have used prostitutes in Edinburgh or anywhere else. When confronted by his own picture, he stared hard at it as if in disbelief, and then a faint smile flitted across his lined features and was gone.
‘OK, sergeants, how can I help you?’
‘Our enquiry,’ Alice said, ‘is concerned with the death of Isobel Wilson, a prostitute working in the Leith area’.
‘And?’
‘We understand that you knew her?’
‘No, no, not… I don’t think so…’
‘It may s… s… save time,’ Simon Oakley interrupted, ‘for all of us, if we tell you that S.P.E.A.R., who produced the leaflet, informed us that the photo you are looking at was taken on Ms Wilson’s phone, and that she reported you to the centre shortly after you had b… b… beaten her up.’ He rested his heavy buttocks on the edge of a table and crossed his arms, glaring at the man, an expression of impatience on his face.
‘Well, I don’t accept any of that, obviously, but now you mention it she does seem familiar.’
‘You knew her?’ Alice asked.
‘“Know” might be putting it a bit strongly, other than in the bibli -’
‘Fine. You were acq… acq… acq… ac…’ Simon Oakley stammered uncontrollably, then shook his head in frustration and tried again. ‘You had m… m… met her before the occasion on which you hit her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell us where you were between, say, 5.00 p.m. and 10.00 p.m. on Tuesday night?’ he continued.
‘Last Tuesday?’
The policeman nodded.
‘Easy. With my wife at home, marking homework.’
‘And your wife’s name, and address?’
‘Rona Christie. We live at number five Rintoul Drive.’
‘We’ve got Isobel Wilson’s phone. The one she took the photo of you with. We’ll get the date off it. Why did you h… h… hit her on that occasion?’
‘You really want to know?’
Simon and Alice looked at each other in disbelief before answering ‘yes’, simultaneously.
‘Because she called me “Crocker”.’
‘So?’ Alice asked.
‘It’s part of a school chant, chanted by my pupils. Or, in this case, ex-pupil. “Who’s oaf his rocker, Crocker, Crocker…Crocker Christie!”’
‘She was an ex-pupil of yours?’
‘So I discovered.’
5
DI Eric Manson handed Alice the pathologist’s report and she leafed through it quickly, learning a few facts of which she would rather have remained in ignorance, including that the woman had been five months pregnant when she died. The stab wound to her chest had damaged the left ventricle, completely severing the left anterior descending coronary artery and perforating her left lung. The cause of death was given as a stab wound, haemothorax, external blood loss and haemopericardium.
‘Has the knife turned up yet?’ she asked Manson, folding the pages and filing them temporarily under a coffee mug.
‘Nope. The dogs have been all over the place and uniforms have hoovered the entire area, but nothing’s shown up so far, doll.’
‘Simon told me yesterday that an approximate time of death’s been given?’
‘Yeah, well… Professor McConnachie’s never prepared to commit himself, obviously, but the boss kept on pressurising him, and sometime between about 9.00 p.m. and 11.00 p.m. Tuesday ninth is the best they can do.’
‘And no sign, from the swab or anything else, of recent sexual activity?’
‘Condoms, dear. One of the tools of her trade, I hear.’
‘I was thinking more of the combings and so on. Anything else happen while I’ve been away, sir?’
He opened his eyes unnaturally wide, and nodded his head vigorously. ‘I thought you’d never ask’, he sighed.