‘No. No, of course, I’m sorry. I see the difficulty,’ Manson replied, deflated and embarrassed, his naivety exposed.
‘Now, Lena,’ Alice interjected, keen to start the interview, ‘we need a description of the man that attacked you last night?’
‘Yeah,’ the girl said dully.
‘So, what did he look like? Could you tell us that?’
‘Am I allowed tae hae a fag in this place?’ the prostitute asked, cigarette packet already open in her hand, ready to take one out and light up.
‘Sorry. No can do,’ Eric Manson said. ‘One puff and all the alarms in the station would go off. But if you’re desperate we could go outside to the car park, there’s a smoking area out there. I’ll have one with you an’…’
‘Nah… I’ll nae bother then,’ Lena Stirling replied, putting her Silk Cut back into her anorak pocket.
‘So,’ Alice began again, ‘the man who attacked you. What did he look like?’
‘Big. He was big. Fat an’ a’.’
‘How big? How tall would you say he was?’
‘Gey tall.’
‘Taller than me?’ Alice asked, standing up.
‘Naw. Yer height – mebbe a couple o’ inches bigger. Nae much though.’
‘And was he actually fat, obese or just well-made, heavily built or what exactly?’
‘Eh… he was solid, like. No’ blubbery, just solid.’
‘And what colour was his hair?’ Eric Manson asked, confidence returning.
‘Em…’ she thought, ‘he’d fair hair, plenty of fair hair.’
‘His eye colour?’
‘Aha.’
‘What colour were his eyes?’ Alice Rice tried again.
‘I wis thinkin’!’ Lena scowled, ‘I dae ken. Hardly seen his face. I only did at the end when he took his balaclava hat oaf…’ and sensing their growing curiosity at her words she added, ‘and afore yous ask, it was woollen. Grey wool kind of stuff.’
‘What did he sound like?’ Alice asked.
‘How d’you mean?’ The girl looked perplexed, her forehead now corrugated in consternation.
‘His voice, his accent?’ Alice explained. ‘Did he sound local or foreign or English or what?’
‘He’s local, I think. But he hardly said nothin’. Jist the odd wurd, ken… like he didnae want tae speak. He wis pointin’, mind, tae show us where tae go an’ all.’ She pointed with her index finger, imitating her attacker’s gesture.
‘I recognised him,’ she added, as if providing some inconsequential detail.
‘His face?’ Alice enquired immediately.
‘Aye, but I cannae mind where I seen him before. I recognised his voice an’ a’… but I cannae think how I kent him.’
‘Maybe he was a regular, er… been with you before?’ Eric Manson asked delicately.
‘Naw, I dinnae think so. But I ken him frae somewhere… I seen and heard him before. Mebbe he wis wi’ me before.’
‘Lena, have you come across a man called Guy Bayley, he’s the leader of -’ Alice began, but was interrupted immediately.
‘Oh, aye. Snowflake, we cry him. It wisnae him, though.’
‘Snowflake?’
‘Ken, wi’ all that skin flyin’ aroond. Whit aboot him?’
‘Did you see him out and about on the night that either Belle or Annie was killed?’
‘Want tae ken something really funny?’ Lena said, her question directed at Eric Manson.
‘Aye, on you go,’ the inspector said indulgently.
‘A couple of years before a’ the residents got tegither, like, tae get us, Snowflake wanted a turn wi’ me, but I couldnae face it cause I wisnae feelin’ richt, been throwin’ up an’ everythin’, so I says naw. He went mad, ravin’ mad, bawlin’ at me in his plummy voice, “It’s not catching, you know!”. Ever since I wished I had done it, keep him oaf all oor backs. I telt the wumman frae the Record an a’, but she didnae believe me, never put it in, like.’
‘But did you see him out on either of the nights?’ Alice asked again.
‘Em… I might hae seen him oan the nicht that Belle an me fell oot wi’ each other, aye. He wis in his green vest. I waited in Carron Place till he’d gone, moved oan.’
‘And on the night Annie was killed?’
‘Naw, I dinnae mind, hen. Could’ve been there, he’s aye on the prowl.’
‘Does that get us any further, Sergeant?’ Eric Manson said, covering his eyes with his right hand and then stroking his eyelids ‘Lena’s already said that he was not the one who attacked her.’
DC Lindsay popped her head round the door, noted the temporary silence, and announced, ‘That’s the photofit team here now, sir.’
‘Like on the telly?’ Lena enquired eagerly of the stranger, excited at the prospect.
‘And Sergeant Rice is to go down to Leith and collect the CCTV tapes,’ the DC continued, as if the woman had said nothing. And Lena felt invisible as well as worthless.
At ten o’clock that morning Salamander Street was quiet, few cars using the coast road, and even they seemed to be enjoying the sea breeze, driving at a leisurely pace, showing neither urgency nor impatience. The sound of seagulls filled the air, crying forlornly as they flew over the sunless road to wheel around the docks or perch on familiar, whitened roofs to preen themselves before heading back out to the open sea. Uncertain of the exact location of the Third Training Company, Alice was able, without fear of flashing lights or hooting horns from the drivers behind her, to crawl along examining the buildings on her right hand side, until at last she spotted a sign with the company’s name on it.
Leaving the car she walked towards the entrance of the pebble-dashed building and found its double doors locked, with a notice hanging from one of the handles. In large handwritten capitals, it said ‘CLOSED FOR TRAINING PURPOSES’. Puzzled in the light of the instructions she had received from Elaine Bell after the interview, she wandered around the side of the building, periodically raising herself onto her tiptoes to look through the windows. All the offices seemed to be empty, although lights remained on in some, doors were left open and in one a telephone was ringing endlessly. As she approached the last unchecked window, the sound of Dolly Parton’s voice, with accompanying clapping beating out the rhythm, assaulted her ears.
Within the hall area, all the office staff were assembled, tapping their feet energetically and nodding their heads, apparently engaged in a bout of line-dancing. In the middle of the room a bearded man stood on top of a chair beating his thigh in time to the music and issuing instructions in a broad American accent. Beside him, a bony woman in overalls controlled a CD player, occasionally adjusting the volume to ensure that the man’s commands could be heard above Dolly’s plaintive tones. Alice watched, captivated, as a scrawny teenage boy, clearly broadcasting his reluctance to participate, was manhandled by numerous of his female co-workers to ensure that he completed the correct steps, in the correct way, at the correct time. Having finally done so, he looked around the room, pleased with his own efforts, and accepted with blushing grace a couple of pats on his shoulder from a big bosomed matron on his left.
As soon as Dolly’s song ended, Alice knocked gently on the window, watching as the bearded man almost toppled from his chair in surprise, before he sprang from his makeshift podium and gestured for her to meet him at the main entrance. After turning over the ‘staff training’ notice to reveal a timetable of office hours, he held out his hand to her, saying in his natural Highland accent, ‘I’m Ian McRae, Sergeant. We expected you a little later, I must confess. I’ll just tell Michael to get the CCTV tapes for you.’
‘Staff training, eh?’ Alice smiled wryly. ‘I thought you Government departments taught young people how to prepare their CV’s, job applications and so on?’