‘She’s fine, sir.’
Going round to the end of her husband’s bed, Audrey Keane lifted a full carrier-bag off his silken eiderdown and handed it over to the policewoman.
‘It’s… Lena’s. You’ll have her address, I expect,’ the woman said shyly, and Alice looked inside to find a newly-washed, newly-ironed jacket, together with two boxes of Crabtree and Evelyn soap. Both Lily of the Valley.
‘It was Audrey’s idea, you know,’ Bill Keane said, holding his wife’s hand in his own.
Walking down Broughton Street that evening, Alice stopped outside the newsagent’s, her eye caught by an Evening News billboard which stated in large, black capitals, ‘LEITH KILLER STRIKES AGAIN BUT VICTIM ESCAPES WITH HER LIFE’. Who had told the press, she wondered, thankful that she would not have to perform on the high wire that Elaine Bell would now find herself balancing on. The DCI’s performance at the next press conference would require an unusual degree of skill, with each member of the press corps secretly praying that she would splat onto the ground in front of them, and the Chief Constable watching unseen, through the flap of the circus tent. A timid ringmaster, indeed, one afraid of his own whip.
And no wonder, with their suspect charged and behind bars, and a killer apparently still on the loose, busy attempting to notch up further victims. But if the priest was not guilty, she wondered, then who the hell was the murderer? Such forensic evidence as they had pointed fairly and squarely in his direction. And he had provided no explanation for the presence of his DNA on the two bodies, whether or not the alibi provided for him by June Sharpe was accepted. Thinking idly of her conversation with the professor, it occurred to Alice that, perhaps, McPhail had donated bone marrow to somebody? After all, the only other traces were those left by herself, Simon Oakley and the dentist. Starkie seemed the next most likely suspect, so she decided, first thing tomorrow, she would revisit Rosefield Place. And she should check out Ellen’s front-runner again, Guy Bayley.
Strolling past the window of the Raj Restaurant, she looked in longingly, picturing the packet of old sausages and the tin of beans that would probably constitute their meal in the flat. There was no time to shop during a murder enquiry and it was her turn, rather than Ian’s, to produce supper. The next thing she knew she was sitting on a red banquette inside the place, queuing for a carryout, one hand full of Bombay Mix and the other holding a Tiger beer. She looked up to see if any of the waiters were being vigilant, alert for her order, and was amazed to spot Ian sitting opposite her, glass already in his paint-spattered hand, reading the newspaper open on his knee.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. He looked up immediately, and seeing her, smiled.
‘A little treat for us,’ he replied, meeting her eyes. ‘On your night, too. Today I sold three paintings, so I think nothing less than a banquet is in order.’
While they were Inspecting the menu together, their heads almost touching, a moustachioed waiter appeared between them, saying, ‘Ooklee… one chicken jalfrezi, one lamb kurma, one pulao rice, one garlic nan and one kulfi…’, and then he looked round expectantly for Mr or Mrs Ooklee to collect the meal. Having just entered the restaurant, Simon Oakley approached the man, hand outstretched, and wordlessly took the bulging carrier-bag from him before favouring Alice with an almost imperceptible wave.
As they hurriedly ascended the cold, stone tenement stair in Broughton Place, both hungry, thinking about nothing other than starting their food as soon as possible, Alice heard the usual racket created by Miss Spinnell’s attempts to liberate herself from her fortress. Since the unlocking, unbolting and unsnibbing process usually took minutes, rather than seconds, she was tempted to continue upwards as if unaware of what the old lady was doing. But it was too mean. Who else would Miss Spinnell wish to waylay on the stair? So she handed the greasy brown paper carrier to Ian, mimed ‘Miss Spinnell’ and pointed upwards to signal that he should carry on without her. She stood waiting until the old lady emerged from her lair, blinking hard, clad in a turquoise, silk kimono worn over her flannelette nightgown. Immediately her eyes lit on her neighbour leaning against the banister, and she sidled up to her.
‘Well?’ she demanded, looking up expectantly into Alice’s face.
‘Well… er, good evening,’ Alice replied, momentarily at a loss as to what was expected of her.
‘Your missing person enquiry… misper… you can call it off,’ Miss Spinnell declared, pulling the kimono tight around herself and grinning.
‘The missing person has -’
‘Yes,’ she was interrupted. ‘Call it off, dear. I was at the Lodge today and she spoke to me quite clearly, but this time it was from the other side.’
‘No,’ Alice cut in. ‘No… no, your sister’s in Milnatho -’
As if she had said nothing, Miss Spinnell continued speaking, sounding oddly triumphant.
‘Of course, it was to be expected at her age. No-one goes on forever, and she’s a good five, no, eight years older than me. I always knew I’d outlast her!’ And she beamed delightedly, eyes twinkling brightly until, noting the shocked look on Alice’s face and readjusting her own expression accordingly, she added, ‘Much, much, much, older than me, dear, you see. So I had prepared myself. Now at least, we’ll be in regular communication through the Lodge, you understand… probably once a week or so. More than if she was alive!’
Understanding nothing, Alice climbed the last few steps to her flat, arguing with herself, wondering whether or not she had made the right decision. Mrs Foscetti wanted to thrill her sister with her unheralded appearance, but the element of surprise would be lost if Miss Spinnell learned beforehand of her twin’s existence. On the other hand, seeing Mrs Foscetti in the flesh, Miss Spinnell might now die of fright, thinking it an apparition. Or, and worse again, at their advanced age either twin might now expire of natural causes before the Saturday meeting arrived, and Alice would then be responsible, solely responsible, for their failure to meet again in this life.
13
Everywhere stank, everywhere smelt. Nowhere felt clean. Wherever Francis McPhail went, his nostrils were filled with the same stale stench, a mixture of old urine, disinfectant and unwashed human flesh. Even in the prison van it was present, periodically obliterated by new smells, the tired scent of exhaust fumes, nicotine and the tang of spilt diesel. So when, finally, he climbed down the step onto the St Leonard’s Street car park he stood for a moment, motionless, on the tarmac and inhaled deeply, reviving himself with the purity of the cold air, ridding his lungs of the captive atmosphere of Saughton.
The blue of the sky above him had never seemed bluer, the white of the billowing nimbus clouds scudding past more startling or sun-filled in their brightness. If only time would stand still, here and now, he thought, then he would begin to feel what happiness was once more. Not in the old way, when he had been needed, respected, revered even – that belonged to the past – but in a cleaner, simpler way. Unencumbered and unregarded. Instead, somehow, he would have to try to store enough happiness in this single instant to sustain himself for a lifetime. The absence of male bodies crowding round about him, milling aimlessly at his elbow, felt like luxury, as did the near silence of the place. No incessant, foul-mouthed chatter or music on the radio to intrude into his thoughts, muscling their dreary way into his consciousness. And without the crowding, the noise and the smells, he could achieve a state of near serenity, sufficient peace to let his mind roam freely, wander to beloved people and places.