‘So,’ she interrupted herself ruthlessly, in a male voice this time. ‘Since you have a match, I assume you have a suspect. Is anyone in custody?’
‘Not at present,’ Elaine Bell mouthed, then repeated the words in a more optimistic tone. ‘Not at present, sir, but we are very confident that, possibly within the next few days, we will be in a position -’
‘Had either of the prostitutes been raped?’ she interrupted herself again, using the characteristic squawk of the giantess from the Evening News. Time for a standard but anodyne answer, one unobjectionable to any reporter with the slightest grasp of the constraints imposed by a continuing investigation. ‘I’m sorry, madam, I’m not in a position to disclose such details at this stage in our enquiries.’ A fine, pompous ring to it too.
‘If you have a match and the match is your suspect, why has he not been apprehended?’
The questions she was posing herself seemed to be becoming increasingly difficult.
‘Well, there are often…’ A poor start. It sounded too tentative, almost timid. She tried again. ‘DNA can be found on a body, or whatever, for entirely innocent, even serendipitous reasons. Rarely is its presence alone sufficient to -’
‘I see,’ she broke in again in the male voice. ‘The DNA match is not your suspect. Do you have any real suspect at all?’
If that one was actually to be asked by the press, in such bald terms, a number of possible strategies opened up. Her favourite one, sadly a fantasy, was a dead faint. The lesser alternative, knocking over a glass of water, would create no more than a temporary diversion. Any reporter worth his salt, having scented blood, would return for the kill the second the tumbler had been righted. No. If the need arose a faint would be the answer. Considering it, she wondered whether she should practise now, let her legs buckle and see where she ended up. Hitting her head on the table as she collapsed would be most unfortunate, even if it did add authenticity to the performance. As she was daydreaming, wondering whether to faint to the left or the right, the telephone rang. It made her strained nerves jangle, returning her to reality and her lack of any adequate response at the press conference.
‘Yes.’
‘Elaine, is that you? It’s Frank at the lab.’
‘Frank! Frank! Great to hear your voice. Have you got any news for me?’
‘Yep. Summer is a-coming in, loudly sing cuckoo. We’ve got a match… Francis McPhail again. Not perfect, but good enough. Fucking contamination – sorry, Elaine, excuse my French – contamination again, blood from that DS Simon Wanker of yours. But no worries, McPhail’s DNA was in the stain again.’
A single phone call and the sun had emerged from behind the clouds. At last, they had a proper suspect, a bloody good one at that. One trace could, perhaps, be explained away, but not two! No, siree. And now she could stride into the press conference with her head held high, no blustering needed, and not just withstand the slings and arrows but thwack them back at the pack. With gusto! If the Chief Constable had been given the same news then by now he would be falling over himself in his haste to shed his alternative commitment – if it had ever existed. She spat out her cough sweet, tore up her notes and left the office, headed for the murder suite with ‘Nessun Dorma’ playing in her head.
An ‘A. Foscetti’ was listed in the Perth and Kinross directory at ‘Barleybrae’, Milnathort. Alice looked at her watch. 5.30 p.m. She could go home, the press conference was over and their suspect out of circulation. Still, Ian would not be there yet. His working day never ended before 7.00 p.m., and on recent form he was unlikely to be home before 9.00. So, she had an abundance of time, even if there were rush-hour queues at Barnton or raging blizzards at Kelty.
Best try the number first, she thought. No answer. Perhaps she should wait until tomorrow and phone again, save a wasted journey. On the other hand, if she succeeded there would be rejoicing in Miss Spinnell’s bosom. Spurred on by the thought, she grabbed her bag and set off for the car.
‘Barleybrae’ turned out to be an austere villa on the Burleigh Road. The house had once been a doctor’s surgery, and high hedges, now unclipped, continued to ensure its genteel privacy. Alice knocked and stood waiting, arms crossed tightly for warmth, willing the front door to open. Not a sound within. She knocked again, more forcefully this time, rapping the solid wood as if on urgent police business. Nothing. One final hammering before setting off back across the Bridge, she decided, bruising her knuckles in her enthusiasm. She listened intently, and made out a shuffling sound, coming closer, stopping, and then the sound of a Yale snib being released. One half of an aged little face squinted through the crack that had opened.
‘Mrs Foscetti?’ Alice began, ‘I’ve come about your sister. I’m a neighbour of hers, a friend. Actually. I’ve lived in the same tenement as her for the last ten years’
The front door opened fully, and to her amazement Alice saw Miss Spinnell standing before her. Dumbfounded, she stared until the old lady broke the silence.
‘Well, dear, what do you want? What about my sister?’
‘Miss Spinnell!’ Alice exclaimed.
‘Yes, I know her name, thank you.’ A characteristically tart reply.
‘No, no…’ Alice began. ‘How did you get here?’
‘Oh, I see.’ The old lady spoke again, a wide smile lighting up her features. ‘You think I’m Morag, don’t you? Morag Spinnell.’
‘Yes,’ Alice answered, disconcerted.
‘No, dear. She’s my sister. I’m Annabel Foscetti, nee Spinnell. We’re identical twins, in fact.’ Now, looking at the woman intently, Alice began to notice differences. The white hair seemed thicker, less tousled, and her protruding eyes were more co-ordinated, moving together in unison, working as a pair.
‘Oh… I’m sorry.’
‘She is alright, my sister?’ the old lady asked anxiously, touching Alice’s hand for a second.
‘She’s fine. She wants to see you.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so, dear,’ the old lady replied firmly, ‘we had a falling out.’
‘Yes,’ Alice insisted, ‘Yes, she does. She “lost” you, so to speak, couldn’t trace you. It was her birthday a few days ago, and now she wants to see you.’
‘OUR birthday,’ Mrs Foscetti said, in an irritated tone. ‘Our birthday, dear. She always tells people that I’m older than her, although I’m actually the younger, by a full eight minutes. We haven’t seen each other for, oh, must be… well… years and years. We fell out.’ Having had her say, the old lady waved the policewoman into her house.
Seated in her snug, well-ordered sitting room, Mrs Foscetti explained the origin of the rift between the twins. Pouring out of tea for her guest with a steady hand, she confided that it had been over a man. Charlie Foscetti, in fact. Morag had considered him her “property”. She had “found” him first, after all, and had never forgiven either of them when Charlie transferred his affection from one twin to the other. To the younger of the two, as it happened.
‘Well, she wants to see you now,’ Alice said, warming her hands on the bone china cup clasped between her hands.
‘How is she?’ Mrs Foscetti asked, looking concerned.
‘A bit forgetful, muddled sometimes, but physically in pretty good shape.’ Should she mention the Alzheimer’s, Alice wondered. What if, given their identical genetic make-up, the disease had Mrs Foscetti in its sights too? Better say nothing. ‘Muddled’ covered a wide spectrum of possible complaints.
‘In that case, I’m going to give her a ring!’ Mrs Foscetti said, plainly delighted at the idea, replacing her cup on its saucer.
‘Her phone’s off, I’m afraid.’ Knocked to the floor by Quill once too often.
‘I know, then,’ the old lady said, excitedly, ‘I’ll give her a big, big surprise. On Saturday, I’ll catch the bus and go and see her. Where is she living now?’