Finding that all the flats in the tenement bar one were boarded up, she knocked on its scratched front door, getting no response. Then, noticing a gap in it where a spy hole once had been, she put her eye to it and found herself eyeball to eyeball with the occupant.
‘Ye’re lucky I didnae poke a sharp pencil right through it,’ an old voice croaked, and the door was opened a foot or two to reveal an unshaven little fellow, his pyjama top visible below his knitted jersey. Concluding that his visitor posed no threat, he said cheerily, ‘C’mon, hen, c’mon in.’
The sound of dozens of budgies cheeping and chirruping greeted her as they entered the kitchenette, making any conversation impossible until the old man turned on a tap, soothing or intriguing them into silence. Nonetheless, many of them continued to fly free, swooping from cage to cage, some now sitting on the mixer tap, heads bent to one side. Moving a soiled newspaper from a chair, their owner sat down and began to speak, cutting an apple into budgie-size bites as he did so.
‘The last time I seen Annie wid be oan the Friday night, eh… the twelfth, that’d be,’ he said, running his fingers up and down over the stubble on his cheek. ‘No since then, mind. Mebbe she’s been away or somethin’.’
‘Does she go away often?’
‘Naw. She’s nivver away. I seen her oan the stair, aboot the back o’ eight. She wis oan her way tae her work.’
‘Her work?’ Did he know that she was a prostitute?
‘Aha. She’s a cleaner, ken. Cleans nights at schools up the toon. Sleep a’ day, practically. Looks aifter the wee yin perfect, though,’ he added quickly, anxious not to create official suspicion about her child-care arrangements or anything else. She was much more than a neighbour to him, she was his friend.
‘So, sir, you’ve not seen her since the back of eight on Friday night. But have you maybe heard her? Coming up the stairs or in the flat or anywhere? Even the sound of a radio or TV?’
‘Naw. Not a cheep, darlin’.’
‘Get the fucking result and get it now!’
Elaine Bell banged down the phone and looked up at Alice from her desk.
‘Bloody lab,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘We’ll see about that. I’ll have it in a couple of days or they’ll feel the Chief Constable’s hot breath on their collars. What do you want, Alice?’
‘Er…’ stammered the sergeant, confused, ‘DI Manson said you wanted me, had something in mind that I am to do – now.’
‘Right,’ the DCI said, trying to gather her thoughts as she spoke. ‘Quite right. I need you to go down to the Cowgate for 9.00 a.m. tomorrow. Professor McConachie’s going to do the PM and, if I can make it, I’m coming too. First, though, go back to S.P.E.A.R. and see who we should speak to about Annie Wright. Find out who’ll know her movements and so on.’
‘But it’s eight o’clock at night, ma’am. The office will be empty.’
‘Yes, the office will be empty but, for Christ’s sake, use your initiative! The van will likely be out and about. Check Carron Place and then any of its other stopping places. You said the Barbour woman usually mans it, so go and find them. Now!’
And, as was so often the case, DCI Bell turned out to be correct. The yellow van was parked on the cobbles in Salamander Street, beside a vacant lot. On the high mesh fencing surrounding the waste ground a sign swung creaking in the wind, bearing the words ‘Scheduled for Re-development’. Plumes of grey smoke curled from a few slush-dampened bonfires dotted about the site, their embers casting a tangerine glow on the snow surrounding them. Soon that area, too, of the ancient, venerable Burgh of Leith, with its winding streets and decayed grandeur, would be no more. Its place would be taken by comfortable and characterless flats interspersed with retail parks, the place’s independent status already no more than a fading memory.
Despite the harsh weather, a woman leant against the vehicle chatting to the driver. Snatches of their conversation reached Alice’s ears as she walked towards the van. Something about polis cars, lights, and the scrappy’s yard. Not surprising that the prostitutes know, she thought – another killing in the heart of their territory, they should be among the first to hear.
Sensing the approach of a stranger, and keen to avoid any confrontation, the woman slunk into the darkness, padding silently away on the compacted snow. Alice tapped on the window on the other side and watched a sleeve wipe away the condensation, to reveal the face of its owner. A jerk of the head was all that needed to communicate where the policewoman was to go and Alice climbed into the van, relieved to be out of the cold and heartened by the smell of coffee.
‘So, it’s true?’ Ellen Barbour said immediately.
‘What?’ Best give no information away yet.
‘Another murder!’ Barbour said crossly, aware that some sort of fencing was taking place and having no truck with it.
‘How do you know about it?’
‘Bush telegraph, so to speak. How d’ you think?’
‘We need your help, Ellen. It’s Annie Wright this time. She was found, as you’ve probably heard, in Cargill’s yard. Who would be able to tell me about her movements this evening and in general?’
‘Easy. She always works with Christine, they’re pretty inseparable. She’d be able to help.’
‘Christine?’
‘Christine Hunter.’
‘And where would I find her?’
‘Well, usually they work just up from the junction with Seafield Place, by General George’s car park. If I were you, that’s the place I’d try first.’
As the policewoman opened the car door to leave, Ellen Barbour added, angrily, ‘And that Guy Bayley, Alice, see him too – check him out.’
The name sounded familiar. ‘Why? Where would I find him?’
‘You’ll find him under ‘B’ for bastard in the phone book, or try the offices of Scrimegour and Woodward WS in Queen Street. That’s where he works, I gather.’
‘And why should I see him?’
‘Because he’s a fanatic, he started everything. He’s always on the phone, complaining to us, to the council. And he hates prostitutes, truly hates them – all of them. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because… well, maybe his mother was one or something.’
7
A man was walking along the pavement towards her: waterproof jacket, starched blue jeans and a cloth cap pulled down low over his face. Christine Hunter knew the type. A prim wife at home fondly imagining hubby to be at the Rotary, the Residents’ Association or some other worthy gathering, waiting patiently for his return, blinkered to the real nature of his hotly anticipated meetings. And a punter on foot meant no cosy car despite weather cold enough to kill a cat.
To her surprise, as the stranger drew near, he unfurled a striped golf umbrella and thrust it aloft, high above his head, like a tourist guide. She gazed at his face expecting the usual expression of fear mingled with excitement, but found instead something rather different. Unadulterated loathing.
‘Filthy bitch!’ he mouthed.
She turned away from him to face the traffic, but to her amazement he lined himself up beside her so that their shoulders and elbows were in contact, and they were side by side like figures in a paper chain.