‘The others are on their way. So, best get back to your kennel, eh?’ he added, beginning to shuffle sideways, pushing her along with him until, annoyed, she jutted out her hip, temporarily stopping him in his tracks. As if on cue, two other men, one wearing an orange day-glo jacket, emerged from a parked car and silently joined the strange chorus line, starting to move in unison with their leader. The prostitute was forced along again until, suddenly, she stepped backwards and the men came to an unscheduled halt, bumping into each other like railway carriages colliding. Immediately, the shufflers reformed, feet together, aligning themselves beside her to restart their sideways progress along the pavement. A few more seconds of pressure and Christine Hunter felt her legs going from beneath her; she slipped on sheet ice and fell backwards onto the unyielding ground.
Lying there, panting from the effort of resisting their combined pressure, she glared up at her tormentors as they stood speechless, exhaling their warm breaths into the cold air, more like dumb beasts than fellow human beings.
‘OK, OK, big men, yous win,’ the woman said in her nasal, sing song voice, her ribs aching, bruised from the heavy landing. The buggers would not see her cry though. She would not give them that satisfaction.
To her surprise a gloved hand was stretched towards her and she took it, wondering, as she did so, if it was some kind of sick joke and she would find her grip unexpectedly released. But it did not happen, and two cloth caps were tipped at her as she turned northwards heading for Salamander Street, blinking hard as snow flakes landed in her watering eyes. A tap on her shoulder did not make her halt or turn around, it would only be the vigilantes making sure that she did not retrace her steps, shepherding her as if she was an old ewe. But when the figure drew level and she saw a woman’s face, she stopped at last.
Back in Fishwives Causeway, the prostitute stretched upwards for the coffee jar on the wall unit and felt, as she did so, a stab of pain in her left chest, savage enough to make her wince, and instantly she retracted her arm as if she had received an electric shock. Unasked, the police sergeant reached it for her, and took over the preparation of their drinks, searching in the fridge for the milk and unhooking the mugs from their place below the shelf.
Christine Hunter was still trying to take in the meaning of what she had been told. Annie Wright. Annie of all people! On the other hand, why not Annie? Why not her, for that matter? Leaves in the wind mattered more to most people, were less of a nuisance than the so-called underclass. Her class. Maybe the time had finally come to quit? But she rejected the idea immediately. It could not be afforded, best not even contemplate such a thing. Maybe, when she was clean, but she had failed often enough at that. Drumming the warm coffee spoon on her palm, she turned her attention to the questions being fired at her and began to speak.
‘Last time I seen Annie wid be oan the Friday. I’ve no’ been back oot since then, as Marvin’s been ill in his bed an’ I stayed hame wi’ him.’ Hearing the name, Alice wondered, idly, whether the man was the girl’s pimp, present somewhere in the house but hidden. She said nothing, letting the woman continue.
‘She’d hae been at the warehouse though. She gaes even if I’m off. Annie needs the money, like, aye works there… unless the bastards are out ’n aboot. Like the nicht.’ The prostitute stirred another spoonful of sugar absentmindedly into her half cup. ‘No-wan showed on the Friday, mebbe the weather, mebbe the new law, whitever. By ten we ca’ed it a day. Nivver seen her aifter that.’
‘So the last time you saw your friend alive was at about 10.00 p.m. last Friday?’
‘Aye.’
The kitchen door creaked open and a small boy, clad in oversized pyjamas, peered round it until his mother beckoned him and he skipped across the floor, his hems dusting the lino, then jumped delightedly onto her lap.
‘Your son?’ Alice asked.
‘Aha. Ma wee boy, Marvin.’
‘Did you have a bad dream?’ Alice enquired, beaming at the child as he traced the shape of a stain on the kitchen table with his finger. She got no reply.
‘Did you have a bad dream, Marvin?’ she tried again.
‘He’ll nae hear ye, hen. He has tae see yer mooth tae ken whit ye’re sayin’. He’s stane deaf, like me. We’re gaen tae get implants wan day an’ join the human race.’
A gleaming hearse with its engine idling was waiting at the vehicular entrance to the Police Mortuary in the Cowgate. The driver, his black topper resting on the dashboard, was having a smoke while listening for an answer at the entry phone.
Inside the building, Alice looked at the naked, bruised female corpse lying on the table, exposed to the gaze of all as she had been when first born. The circle completed. She looked over the record of items removed from the corpse, her gaze flitting down it until she found the jewellery section. An eternity ring, a pair of stud earrings but, oddly, no gold crucifix listed with the chain.
Jock Brady, one of the technicians, nudged her out of the way, fussing about the place like an old hen, compulsively arranging and then re-arranging the tools and equipment, ensuring that they were all in their proper order in readiness for the arrival of the principal dramatis personae.
‘Heard about the Prof?’ he asked cheerily, buffing up an oversized metal ladle on his sleeve.
‘No.’ Alice shook her head, tense in anticipation of what she would soon have to witness. What in Heaven’s name would the ladle be used for?
‘He’s fine, but the poor auld bugger lost a lot o’ blood, I’ve heard. His gastric ulcer blew up early this morning, and he was rushed – blue light an’ all – into the Royal Infirmary.’
Maybe the post mortem would be postponed, then, Alice thought, feeling her spirits soar at the prospect. If so, someone else might find themselves assigned to it instead of her. Surely, luck was on her side.
‘So, is this thing going to go ahead then?’
‘Obviously. We’re all here. Doctor Zenabi’s going to do it wi’ some bint drafted in for the occasion frae Dundee. Eh… a Doctor… Doctor… Doctor bloody Who for all I can remember. She’s reputed to be a real glamour pu…’ His voice tailed off as Doctor Zenabi, with the female pathologist in tow, approached the table. Jock smiled ingratiatingly at both of them.
‘Doctor Todrick,’ the woman volunteered, introducing herself in a business-like fashion. She was, Alice noticed, strikingly attractive despite her unflattering garb and scraped-back hair, and had the upright carriage of an empress. On the other side of the body the technician raised an eyebrow and winked conspiratorially as if to say ‘I told you so’.
And as the minutes ticked slowly by, Alice noticed that Ahmed Zenabi could not take his eyes off his new colleague. Due to his infatuation, his movements, usually so precise and assured, had become subject to a marked delay, out of synchronisation with everyone else. He was only a few seconds behind, but enough to cause a degree of irritation to Jock if no-one else. The usual practised choreography of the mortuary was being upset.
Now the technician stood with the saw in his hand, eyes rolling upwards, waiting impatiently, and in vain, for the signal to apply it to the skull. Several times he mimed the anticipated action, making loud brooming noises as if he were about to wield a chainsaw, but neither of his superiors paid any attention to him. One was busy taking scrapings from beneath the dead woman’s fingernails, and the other was busy too, transfixed by the sight of his colleague performing her duties. He might as well not have been there.
‘Lovesick puppy!’ Jock murmured under his breath to Alice, before deliberately knocking an empty metal collecting jug off the table with his elbow, causing it to bounce noisily on the tiles below. Doctor Zenabi looked up, glaring angrily, only to find the saw thrust unceremoniously towards him, an indignant expression on his colleague’s face rather than the expected contrition.