Eventually she stopped trying, convincing herself that she was being melodramatic, overreacting, manufacturing a crisis and enjoying the drama and her own starring part in it. But every few seconds, an insistent voice in her head repeated a single, unanswered question: why has Muriel not called? And, on the stroke of midnight, she found herself talking to a policeman, blurting out all that she knew, sobbing uncontrollably and being comforted by the enemy.
At eight a.m. on the dot, Elaine Bell arrived in her office and triumphantly extracted her mug from its new hiding place behind a pot of African violets. Their sad, dust-encrusted leaves proclaimed that the spot was unvisited by the meddler with her tickling stick. Detective work at its best. She dipped a teaspoon into her yogurt and then sucked it, distractedly, her mind on the complaint made against her and the meeting at two p.m. with the DCC to discuss the outcome of the investigation. Surely, nothing would come of it, at least not if the expression ‘free speech’ retained any meaning and progress up the greasy pole did not involve the surgical removal of any sense of humour.
And, please God, no counselling this time! The prospect of facing another bright-eyed innocent dispensing the blindingly obvious in the guise of a unique and rare insight was too much to bear. When would they grasp that the problem lay not in an inability to distinguish between an ‘appropriate’ comment and an ‘inappropriate’ one, but rather in the challenge of withstanding provocation?
Of course, the sensitivities of the public had to be accorded due regard, but how many of them, she wondered, could have kept silent in the face of the self-righteous spectacle that had confronted her? Looking out of the window, spoon-handle sticking out of her mouth, she visualised the ‘complainant’, his portly figure now standing before her, hands on his hips and on the edge of apoplexy. A man who had no difficulty finding his way in his simple, black-and-white world and who knew whose side the angels were on. Invariably, his own. And that harmless quip had escaped her lips before her brain had an opportunity to censor it.
Worse still, she thought, it had been the truth. This was rarely, in her experience, a mitigating factor, and not one that she would be sharing with the rest of the force. Chance would, indeed, be a fine thing if a used condom were to be found in her hall or anywhere else within her house. The average octogenarian, if the magazines were to be believed, had a richer, fuller sex life than she did nowadays. And the future seemed every bit as bleak, promising a cuddle-less existence, unpunctuated by kisses, ending in a cold and lonely grave.
She shook her head, trying to ward off the mood of self-pity that was threatening to overwhelm her, and turned her thoughts to practicalities. Obviously, an apology would have to be made and, thinking about it again, she did genuinely regret any offence caused to the man by her ‘inappropriate levity’, as he had described it in his letter of complaint. Having couples copulating in the common stair and posting their prophylactics through the letter-box would be unpleasant. Yes, saying sorry would be ‘appropriate’ and, she breathed out loud, she would be prepared to concede the ‘inappropriateness’ of her crack. Although, when all was said and done, that was all it had been. A crack, a joke, a wry observation, not a very funny one, but at her expense not his. What had happened to ‘Laughter, The Best Medicine’, she wondered?
As she was about to lick the layer of thick yogurt off the pot’s lid, the telephone rang and she dropped it, watching in horror as it landed sticky side down on her letter from the Conduct Department.
After getting the news of the day, in particular that another prostitute was missing, she sat motionless at her desk, her left hand covering her eyes, breathing slowly in and out. Her hour had come. She must summon up all her strength or, all that remained of it, as the race had just changed from a sprint to a marathon. If Muriel McQueen was dead, as now seemed more than likely, then everything had altered, and the eyes of the world would be upon them. And they would all be under the spotlight, its unforgiving radiance revealing every flaw and shortcoming, with nothing to protect them from its heat. Now orders must be given and there was no time to waste, disciplinary meeting or no meeting. She threw the yoghurt pot into the bin, licked the spoon clean and strode out of her room.
Having been sent to Julie Neilson’s home by her tight-lipped boss, the first thing that struck Alice on entering it was how unnaturally neat and tidy it all was. The common stair leading up to it was dark and dismal, with two light bulbs broken and the other in a terminal state, flickering uncertainly and making a strange clicking sound. Graffiti adorned the hallway’s chocolate-coloured walls, and flakes of peeling paint hung off them like bark on a dying tree. The landings had been sticky, never a good sign, and the stairs leading to them were as unswept as her own.
In contrast to the communal squalor, the flat at number 35 shone like a beacon of domestic pride. All the furniture inside it gleamed as if newly polished, and a spotless cream carpet covered every inch of floor space. Three pairs of shoes, two of them tiny, lay neatly beside the door, and on noticing Julie Neilson’s unshod feet, Alice removed her own. The woman herself looked exhausted, drawn and pale, with long features and a down-turned mouth. As soon as Alice sat down, she rose from her chair and, apparently unaware of what she was doing, started plumping up the cushions that she had just crumpled.
‘I know you’ve already spoken to the Sergeant on the telephone,’ Alice began, uncomfortable to find herself seated and her hostess standing, ‘but we need, if possible, the best description you can give of the man that Muriel went off with last night.’
Julie Neilson nodded, her attention now turned to the curtains, which, although they would have appeared perfect to most onlookers, evidently required some kind of fine adjustment.
‘Aha. Ah cannae say much, hen, though. Ah’d some-wan wi’ me, so Ah wisnae payin’ that much attention tae her fella. Aw Ah can say wis that he wis big, ken, a big strappin’ lad.’
‘Over six foot?’
‘Aye, a wee bit.’
‘And his figure?’
‘Aha… well built, ken.’
A huge plasma screen in the corner of the room evidently needed to be polished again and Julie Neilson had begun to rub it with a duster, becoming completely absorbed in the task. As she worked, her sleeves fell away from her forearms exposing their underside, and revealing strange textured skin like that of some kind of reptile. The whole area from wrist to elbow was covered in horizontal scars, each touching the other without a millimetre of undamaged flesh between them.
‘And his face, his clothes – can you tell me anything about either of those?’ Alice asked, unable to take her eyes off the pitiful spectacle.
‘Never seen his face… tae far awa’ fer that, an’ his claithes were normal, like, a big waterproof jacket, grey mebbe, an’ he wis wearin’ a hat an’ a’.’
‘What kind of hat?’
‘Eh… wan like what the cowboys wear. A… a… a…’ She hesitated, trying to think of the word.
‘Stetson?’
‘Aye, a Stetson… wi’ a broad brim.’
For a few seconds, the woman sat down again next to Alice, indicating with her hands the width of the brim, until her attention was caught by a small pile of magazines on a low table which, plainly, she considered disordered. Instantly, she rose again to remedy the imperfection.
‘Did you hear the fellow’s voice at all?’
‘No, he wis tae far awa’… an’ the wind wis roarin’ an everythin’.’
Having tidied the offending magazines, the woman returned to Alice and stood in front of her, looking down anxiously into her face. She asked, ‘D’ye think she’ll be a’ right?’