‘Aye,’ Ian McRae answered, ‘but Tuesday mornings are always quiet. The young people just don’t seem to turn up.’
As they waited together in the manager’s office in an uncomfortable silence, all their small talk used up, the scrawny boy entered empty-handed and looked anxiously at his boss.
‘Did you say you needed the tapes, last night’s tapes Mr McRae?’
‘Aye. From all the cameras, not just those on the east side.’
‘Well,’ the boy shook his head sorrowfully, ‘there’s been a bit of a… mess, you could say. No-one’s changed them, the tapes I mean. So there’s nothing – nothing since the middle of last week actually.’
At her final destination, the next-door warehouse, the supervisor insisted on taking Alice personally to visit their CCTV equipment, as if she might otherwise doubt what he had told her. Crossing the car park he chattered nervously, twice bumping her shoulder, apparently having no normal concept of personal space. Suddenly, he stopped and pointed upwards to a severed stalk, the only remaining part of Camera Point One. He explained angrily that some ‘wee bastards’ from Portobello had decapitated it with the aid of a chainsaw and a set of steps. ‘And that one,’ he said, waving at the side of the building, ‘has been done over an’ a’.’ She looked up and saw that the remaining camera had been deliberately re-positioned so that its lens pointed downwards, towards the ground, where someone had painted in white letters, ‘Welcome to Wankerland.’
Had he forgotten or, perhaps, begun to take for granted, the lovely sound of Audrey’s voice, Bill Keane wondered, relaxing in bed and listening as she read David Copperfield out loud to him. A low, mellow tone, so she would be classified as a contralto and none the worse for that; think Kathleen Ferrier, think… whoever. And it warmed his heart, moved him, the effort that she was putting into the story; deepening her voice to reproduce the cold, unfriendly tones of Mr Murdstone, and attempting a rural Suffolk accent in order to become Peggoty, or was it Ham? No matter, he thought, they should do this sort of thing more often together, instead of squabbling about what to watch on the box, cookery or gardening, gardening or cookery.
And it was not as if they had all the time in the world left, or even enough, to waste the precious stuff bickering over the ordinary, domestic trivialities which coloured their life together. His prostate had seen to that, and it would not be fair to keep her in the dark about things forever. But the ‘right’ time had not yet arrived. Something must be said soon though, or later, after he had gone, she would reproach herself needlessly over any impatient words uttered, any unloving looks bestowed. They would not now grow old together, irritating each other to the end. And from this new, lonely perspective, such a fate seemed, suddenly, blessed, something to be most earnestly desired. Dear, dear Audrey.
He looked tenderly into his wife’s face as she read on, unaware of his scrutiny, noticing the split veins over one cheekbone and that her neck now had a strange, dry texture with two prominent tendons running its length. Once she had been flawless, perfect, like a peach ripe for the picking, and her hair, a torrent of unruly gold. At least she was lucky enough to have her locks left, he thought almost enviously, unconsciously stroking his few remaining strands several times as if in disbelief. Life was unfair – men losing their hair due to their virile hormones, although, thankfully, the stuff should also ward off the development of man boobs. And that TV programme had shown that it was all connected, in some mysterious way, with battery chickens, the contraceptive pill and the water supply. They were responsible for the feminisation of men, fish, polar bears and so on. But it was no longer his problem. Unlike his father, he would not go to the grave as bald as a coot. And, oddly, that thought gave him some satisfaction.
As the doorbell chimed Audrey Keane closed her book with a nervous snap, gave her husband’s cheek a stroke, straightened his bedcovers and then bustled away to greet the stranger. In less than a minute the sound of her heavy footsteps padding back up the carpeted stair, a lighter pair in tow, could be heard. The duo stopped outside the bedroom door and he could just make out their whispered conversation.
‘You are not, I repeat not, to tire him out, is that understood, Sergeant?’
‘Of course, Mrs Keane. I’ll be as quick as…’
‘I mean it. He’s got a broken elbow, cracked ribs and some kind of crucified ligament.’
‘Honestly, I’ll be as quick as I possibly can, Mrs Keane. Just signal when you want me to go. I appreciate being allowed to see him at all.’
Having obtained a suitable undertaking from the policewoman, Mrs Keane led the her into the bedroom, settled herself on the edge of her husband’s bed and gestured for Alice to sit on its twin. Seeing the Sergeant, Bill Keane attempted to do up his pyjama top with his one good hand, and failing, found the job completed for him by his wife. Looking at the policewoman he felt sure that he recognised her, and pleasingly quickly it came to him. She had come to their house before, and hers was not an easily forgotten face.
‘We need a description, sir, only if you can manage it, of course,’ and the policewoman threw a wary glance at Audrey Keane, ‘of the man who knocked you over in the car park last night?’
‘The only man ever to knock me over, Sergeant, I’ll have you know,’ he replied sharply, ‘in a car park or anywhere else!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He was huge, burly, built like a house in fact. And over six foot tall, I’d say.’
‘Did you manage to see his face at all, sir?’
‘Not that I can remember. The second he turned towards me, he charged – like a mad bull elephant. That was how he knocked me off my feet.’
‘You didn’t see if he had dark hair, fair hair, any of that sort of thing?’
‘No. But what I can say, using your police jargon, is that he was male, Caucasian and maybe thirty-five or a little bit older. Is that any help? I’m afraid I’m not narrowing things down much for you.’ He smiled wanly at the Sergeant, wishing that he could have assisted her more.
‘And his clothes?’
‘Oh… a big grey waterproof, I think. Something like that. It was so quick and at the best of times I never take in what people are wearing, do I, Audrey?’ His wife nodded stiffly in response.
Alice took one of the photographs of Francis McPhail as an adult from a large envelope and passed it to the invalid.
‘Have you seen this man on your patrols in the area, where the women hang out or anywhere else in Leith?’
‘No,’ Bill Keane replied emphatically. ‘Not him. An odd-looking bugger for sure. I’ve seen all sorts but not that one. I’ve a good memory for faces too. I remember seeing you, Sergeant. Even before you came here the first time, I mean.’ He beamed at her again.
‘Oh?’ Alice answered guardedly, watching as Mrs Keane ostentatiously brushed a non-existent speck from her husband’s shoulder, clearly scent-marking her property.
‘Yes,’ he went on, still gazing at her. ‘You were in the rammy in Carron Place, too. You spoke to that Barbour woman. Remember?’
Only too well, she thought, particularly the sinister drumming noise you orchestrated. But seeing Mrs Keane’s eyes on her signalling frantically that her time was up, she rose, only to sit down again immediately, having remembered Lena’s photofit. His head sunk now uncomfortably low on the pillows, the man looked closely at the composite picture held in front of him, but eventually shook his head, pushing her hand away with a disappointed expression.
‘One other thing, Sergeant, before you go,’ Bill Keane said, grimacing with pain as he altered his position in the bed, ‘how is the girl, the one who helped me?’
‘The prostitute, he means the prostitute,’ his wife added unnecessarily. And as if he had not heard her words, Bill Keane repeated, ‘The girl, Sergeant. Lena. How is she?’