Groaning inwardly, she pushed off the bed-clothes and began the long journey to the edge of the bed, grasping the side of an armchair to pull her unwieldy body the last few inches. With a loud bang her swollen feet landed on the bare floor boards. No bloody tea this morning, she thought to herself, wondering whether they had run out of teabags or whether, maybe, the milk was sour. Or, and most likely of all, Isobel had overslept as usual.
Having become breathless trying unsuccessfully to turn on a bath tap, she admitted defeat and gave her face a cursory wipe with an evil-smelling flannel before beginning the troublesome process of getting dressed. Buttons no longer fitted buttonholes; hooks, eyes and even zip fasteners seemed to have become smaller, impossible to grip, fiddly and frustrating. A final yank and her skirt was on, hem crooked but sitting below the line of her knee-length socks. Only the battle with her shoes remained, and she jammed the left one on, whimpering as her big toe hit the leather shoe-end unexpectedly. The right foot was a good size larger than the left, and she looked down at the misshapen flesh, noting the generous curve of a bunion and the clawed, gnarled toes. Hard to believe she had once favoured peep-toes in all weathers, scarlet nail varnish drawing attention to her best features. Time left nothing unchanged, and none of its changes were for the better.
Porridge today, she thought, a hot breakfast to keep out the cold, and fit for a king if topped with a little pinhead oatmeal. And then she remembered the milk crisis, and began to conjure up, instead, a picture of a slice of hot buttered toast awash with raspberry jam. Of course, the pips might get stuck in her dental plate, but by the time she reached the bread-bin she could feel her mouth watering.
When the doorbell rang she shouted, ‘Isobel! Get the door fer us, hen. I’m no’ dressed yet.’ Then she waited, expecting to hear the familiar, angry thuds as her daughter trudged across the floor. But when the ringing continued, and no-one stirred, she dropped the bread into the toaster, shuffled across the hall and undid the bolt, peeping timidly at her visitors.
Jane Wilson took the news of her only child’s death unnaturally well, Alice thought. She asked few questions and seemed neither dismayed nor surprised by the answers. It was as if she had been expecting just such news, had already grieved in expectation of it and had no tears left to shed when the moment actually arrived. She was like those wartime wives and mothers, nerves constantly stretched, waiting to read the worst in a telegram from the Front. As Alice spoke, the woman blinked hard and licked the corners of her mouth, shaking her head constantly, as if by disagreeing with what she was being told, she could change it.
While she was leaving the flat in the company of the two sergeants, the little Siamese cat slid through the opening door and strolled across the landing. The first time it happened DS Oakley managed to grab the animal and post it back into the flat, but as it came out again, it skittered past him and tiptoed down the stone stairs towards the open tenement door and the busy street outside. The old woman started to wail, crying out the cat’s name and hobbling ineffectually after it. And, miraculously, it stopped and began cleaning itself, licking its immaculate front paws and smoothing its face with them. The overweight policeman waited motionless on the step above it, breathing heavily, and then suddenly pounced, two podgy hands clamping around its waist, lifting it high in triumph. His complexion, usually high, was now ruddy with isolated pale patches around the nose and mouth, sweat shining on his brow. Unperturbed by its capture, the cat continued to groom itself and allowed itself to be deposited in the hallway, wandering off towards the kitchen, its kinked tail waving sinuously behind it.
Supported on either side at the elbow, Jane Wilson stumbled across the mortuary floor, her nostrils flaring in the presence of an unfamiliar, chemical odour. In the refrigeration area, the pathologist, Doctor Zenabi, was waiting for them beside a covered trolley and, slowly, the trio made their way towards him. On their arrival, he folded the sheet back, revealing Isobel Wilson’s pale, bloodless head. Alice gazed at it. It was a face in complete repose, all muscles relaxed, giving the middle-aged woman the lineless, unwrinkled appearance of a teenager. The kiss the old woman spontaneously bestowed on her daughter’s cheek confirmed the corpse’s identity, and her white hair remained against the cold flesh until Doctor Zenabi, kindly, eased her away, meeting only the slightest resistance. As if wishing her daughter farewell, she picked up a lifeless hand and stroked it, coming back time after time to a slight indentation on the ring finger.
‘What is it?’ Alice asked.
‘Someone’s ta’en oaf ma weddin’ ring. I gie’d it tae her an’ she aye wore it. Still, Belle’s at rest the now, eh? Nothin’ mair can hurt her.’
The others nodded, as the tears finally began to flow from the old woman’s cloudy eyes, rolling off her nose and dripping onto the shrouded form of her daughter.
‘So, Alice, loose words cost lives!’ DI Eric Manson said enigmatically, offering her a chocolate digestive and leaning across from his chair to hand it to her. Being hungry, she was tempted to accept the biscuit but hesitated, knowing that if she did so she would feel bound to take up his word-bait. Of course, even if she did there was every possibility, on past experience, that he would simply fob her off with another sphinx-like statement instead of an explanation. But, seeing the expectant look on his face, and the lack of any signs of curiosity from the rest of the squad, she decided to take pity on him and play the game.
‘What are you going on about, sir? Whose “loose words”, whose “lives”?’, she said, taking the digestive. The inspector pursed his lips, relishing the suspense he had created, and quite incapable of hiding the fact.
‘Well, since you ask…’ he hesitated for a few seconds, ‘our own Chief Inspector’s.’ Aware that he had not given a satisfactory answer, he then stared intently at his computer screen, knitting his brows theatrically, as if reading important news. No time left for idle chatter.
I could, Alice thought, just leave it at that, he’ll crack first on past form. But his ploy had worked, her curiosity was aroused, and she heard herself say, ‘Yes, sir, but what words? And to what effect, exactly?’
‘Mmmm…’ he replied, ponderously. Any delay could only further whet her appetite. ‘The words were “Chance would be a fine thing!” uttered by our very own Elaine Bell in response to a Leith resident’s query as to how she’d feel if she came across a used condom in her hallway. A rueful reflection on her own inadequate sex life, I suppose. Now, the effect – you’d like to know that too?’
‘Yes,’ she said evenly.
‘The effect is that a complaint, no less, has been lodged against her and is currently under investigation.’
‘And how exactly do you know about it all?’
‘Sir.’
‘And how exactly, do you know about it all, sir?’
‘Friends in high places,’ he smiled, unwrapping another packet of biscuits and decanting them into a tin.