Having wiped the sugary moustache from her upper lip with her hand, she held the strip over her forehead for half a minute and then removed it. A green square appeared, no doubt indicating a high temperature, but the instruction sheet would clarify that. Before she had time to consult it, the phone interrupted her. It was the Chief Constable, Laurence Body, and he sounded cross. Regardless of what he was actually saying, his tone communicated that he was expecting a catastrophe, and that he wanted to pounce on the likely culprit and if possible avert it.
‘I assure you I fully appreciate the extent of the public’s interest in this matter, sir…’ The tirade was unstoppable. ‘Steady progress has been – correction – is being made. The priest’s coming in again very shortly, on a voluntary basis… Indeed, just as well… and the lab should be reporting to me first thing.’
The rant continued, unappeased by any of her answers. It was punctuated by veiled threats including the imposition of unnamed officers onto the case, some of a disturbingly high rank. The swine! It was hardly her fault that the entire round of door to doors had proved fruitless, the witness appeals had fallen on deaf ears and, for that matter, the ‘girls’ had not come up trumps. The telephone went again, doubtless some further threat he had forgotten to mention in the heat of the moment.
‘And one more thing, Chief Inspector. The plan’s changed, so you’ll be fronting the press conference. Is that understood? Charlie says it’ll be packed out, they all think this may turn out to be another Ipswich. It’s been fixed for 4.00 p.m. on Thursday, but I dare say, by then, you’ll have found some titbits to feed to the hounds. By the way, I’ve arranged for McPherson to speak to your squad.’
‘I thought he’d retired, sir. He must be eighty at least.’
‘Sixty-four and still accredited, actually. We needed someone to show we are doing everything we can, and the other basta… candidates declined to become involved on a variety of pretexts. Some man from England may come up later, but we’ll try our own home-grown talent first.’
8
Elaine Bell awoke the next morning with a neck so stiff that she cursed out loud in frustration. Three nights in the office with only an undersized settee to sleep on had taken their toll. Another of the trials of middle-age, she thought bitterly, folding the rug she had used for makeshift bedding and plumping up the cushion that had served as a pillow. Huge feathers of snow floating lazily past her window attracted her attention, and she walked towards the curtains, gazing at the scene that now met her eyes and found herself unexpectedly moved by it.
The grey slate of the nearby tenement roofs was hidden under meticulously tailored white blankets, and the cobbled streets and wynds looked flawless, immaculate in their new clothes. She felt a sudden overpowering desire to feel the snow herself, under her own feet, before it was robbed of its pristine allure by the city’s traffic and churned into mud-coloured slush. It was only five o’clock; time enough for a short expedition, time enough to enjoy the fragile scene before it was destroyed. Hurriedly putting on her coat and boots, she set off up St Leonard’s lane, exhilarated by the crisp air, experimenting as she walked with different footprints, leaving first a flat-footed trail and then a pigeon-toed one. Reflections from the yellow streetlights glinted in the high tenement windows and, for a second, the blanket of thick cloud parted, revealing the stars above. Seeing them, she began to feel revitalised, almost elated. Glad to be alive.
The slope leading to St Leonard’s Bank was deceptively steep and she puffed her way up it, stopping to catch her breath at the summit and marvelling at the small grove of trees she found there, the exposed side now covered in snow and the sheltered side black as soot. She continued along the narrow roadway, determined to reach the waste ground at the end of the street and enjoy the promised view of Salisbury Crags and Arthur’s Seat in all its midwinter glory. And she was not disappointed. Queens Drive had disappeared, becoming, with the Galloping Glen, a continuous white field lapping the base of the crags. And the cliffs themselves had been transformed, in their new apparel appearing rugged and untamed, like the foothills of some remote range at the edge of the Cairngorms or Glencoe. They bore little resemblance to the tired, city-encircled landmark found on countless cheap postcards, the sad spectacle of nature domesticated and subdued.
Snow feathers were still cascading endlessly from the pale sky, gliding silently downwards and coating everything, including her head and shoulders. So she turned back down the cobbles and was amused to see a cat padding blindly towards her, lifting its paws unnaturally high and occasionally shaking them with a perplexed look on its face. However, the second it became aware of the stranger in its path it gave a frightened yowl and dashed across the street, seeking cover behind a couple of parked cars.
Unthinkingly, Elaine Bell turned her head to follow its swift departure and instantly suffered agony, her neck rigid with pain, immobile, reminding her that she was no longer young or fit, and that she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. A murderer was running free in this Winter Wonderland! What the hell had she been thinking of? She should have been preparing for the squad meeting, re-reading witness statements, polishing her armour for the press conference; she had a hundred things to do. Instead, here she was gallivanting outside like a bloody teenager. It was ridiculous. She was ridiculous! And this depth of snow would impede the investigation, help the killer and cause chaos with the city’s traffic. Sod the stars. Her feet were cold.
By the time the last of the squad arrived for the nine o’clock meeting the DCI knew exactly what she intended to say, had rehearsed it several times and now looked forward to the press conference, like a prize fighter sure of his purse. Having been up for hours she was also unnaturally alert, impatient to get her information across and press on with her other tasks. No concessions would be made to any bleary eyes, sleep-befuddled thinking or attempts at humour.
‘I’m going to recap, ladies and gentlemen, for your benefit to ensure that we are all familiar with events so far. Furthermore, I want no interruptions until I have finished speaking. Is that understood?’
Silence and a chorus of nods greeted her question.
‘As you will recall, Isobel Wilson, a prostitute working the Seafield area, was found dead on the night of ninth January in amongst a patch of undergrowth at the north east corner of Seafield Cemetery. She was a known drug user, aged thirty-seven. The body had been concealed in its ultimate location, hidden below vegetation. Forensic evidence has established that she was killed within the cemetery, a few yards from her final resting place -’
‘What forensic evidence, ma’am?’
The DCI glared at the speaker, DC Littlewood. He had been warned.
‘No bloody interruptions, I said. The forensic evidence amounted to a few droplets of blood and fibres from the woman’s clothing on some blades of grass. Is it all coming back to you, Constable? The murder weapon has still not been found, despite an exhaustive search of the location. Conclusion, anyone?’
But not a soul dared answer, given her forceful earlier instruction.
‘Conclusion, obviously,’ she shook her head as if appalled by the slowness of her team, ‘either the weapon remains undiscovered, possibly somewhere beyond the location, or, and more likely, the murderer took it with him or her, when he left. The pathologists are of the opinion that it was probably a knife, single-bladed and unserrated. Its minimum length has been estimated at three inches. No eye-witnesses have come forward about the attack. Post-mortem examination revealed that the death was somewhere between about nine and eleven on the ninth. She was last seen alive by a fellow prostitute, Lena Stirling, at about 7.00 p.m. at the Leith end of Salamander Street on that date. DNA from the deceased’s clothing has been matched with one Francis McPhail, a Catholic priest living in Jerez Street. He denies all knowledge of the victim and maintains that at the time she was killed he was in his church on the same street. But no witnesses to his attendance there then have been found. The victim, who had not been recently sexually interfered with, was found with her arms across her breast -’