‘Betty! Who’ve you got wi’ you now?’ an exasperated female voice asked, and as Alice stumbled into the room, she saw another care assistant, a stout, sandy blonde with a pitted complexion, standing beside the bed, tilting a spoon into the bloodless lips of its occupant, Miss Swire. The old schoolteacher herself registered nothing on the entrance of the uninvited pair, continuing to chew mechanically while looking beseechingly into her feeder’s eyes, like a nestling begging a worm from its parent. Gently catching a drip that had begun to weave its way down from Miss Swire’s puckered mouth, Una Reid shook her head fondly at Betty and asked Alice, in a nicotine-ravaged voice, if she had come to see Miss Swire.
‘No,’ Alice began. ‘You. I was looking for you, if you’re Una Reid?’
‘Aha, I am, yes,’ the woman croaked back, now patting the resident’s bluish lips with a napkin, cleaning off a tidemark of tomato soup.
‘Could I talk to you? I’m from Lothian & Borders Police, Detective Alice Rice. I’d like to ask you some questions about Gavin Brodie.’
‘Aha,’ Una replied, sounding slightly distracted. After offering a fork full of potato to Miss Swire, she added, ‘It’ll hae tae be in here, mind. We’re short-staffed the day, an’ I’ve another three ladies tae give their teas before seven o’ clock.’
Moving towards an empty seat, and gesturing for Betty to sit on it, Alice said, ‘As you’ll know, Gavin Brodie was murdered on Saturday night, and I understand that you saw him on that date. You may, in fact, have been the last person to see him alive.’
‘Is that right?’ Una cut in, apparently unperturbed by the thought.
‘Can you tell me what you did for him, on the Saturday?’
‘Just the same as I always done. I gi’ed him his tea at aboot seven, then I gi’ed him a wee bed bath an’ changed his PJs.’
‘When exactly did you leave him?’
‘Eight o’ clock, mebbe, ten past eight, somethin’ like that.’
‘Which door did you leave by?’
‘The front.’
‘Did you check that the back door was locked before you left?’
‘Naw, I never. I never done, that wasnae pairt o’ ma job. Why would I?’
‘How did Mr Brodie seem when you left him?’
‘Like he always done. Moanin’ awa’ tae himsel’. He wis unhappy, cross… greetin’ tae himsel’.’
‘When you were with him, did anyone else come to see him or phone him?’
‘Naw,’ the assistant said, putting the fork back on the plate in recognition of defeat. Miss Swire’s tightly closed teeth had barred its passage.
‘Are you aware whether anyone else saw him after you left?’
‘D’ye mean Mrs Brodie?’
‘Anyone at all.’
‘Well, she will hae, won’t she, whenever she got in. She wis the wan who left a message tae tell me that I neednae come in, oan the Sunday morning like. That’s how I wis able to see my friends in Aberdeen early.’
‘One last thing, Mrs Reid. Can you tell me what you gave Mr Brodie for his tea on the Saturday night?’
‘Aha.’
‘Could you tell me what it was?’
‘Why do youse need tae ken?’ the woman asked, pulling the foil lid from a chocolate mousse pot and then licking it herself.
‘Because we do.’
‘Yes, but why?’ The policewoman’s answer had not been good enough.
‘Because… because we just do,’ Alice snapped, suddenly feeling impatient in the stifling, smelly heat, with Betty’s arthritic fingers gripping her own tightly. She was longing to get back into the fresh air, back into life and away from the place. And as if sensing her tension, Betty began gently stroking her captive’s hand as if comforting a frightened bird.
‘Aha, but why?’ Una Reid repeated, unpersuaded, wafting a teaspoon of the mousse to and fro below Miss Swire’s nose, as if the scent of chocolate might tempt her to open her mouth.
‘Because we just do, alright? For the purposes of our investigation into the man’s murder.’
‘Okay doaky, doll. It wis Heinz’s lentil soup. Just a wee pickle, all he’d ever take.’ Una tried one final time to tempt the old lady to eat, and, defeated, put the dripping spoon into her own mouth.
As Alice moved towards the door, Betty began to move with her until the policewoman stopped and, looking into the old lady’s eyes, gently tried to prize one of the gnarled fingers free from her own. Instantly the grip tightened once more and Betty began to shake with the effort of maintaining it. Seeing Alice’s unsuccessful attempt and look of despair, Una Reid grinned at her, then clapped her red hands loudly and said ‘BINGO!’ Instantly, Betty released her hold, glanced at her wrist-watch, then sped out of the door in the direction of the residents’ lounge.
‘Why didn’t you do that earlier – when we came in?’ Alice asked, mildly amused at the strategy and massaging her freed fingers.
‘Because it wasnae 6.30, dear. The game doesnae start until 6.30.’
Once back home in her flat in Broughton Place for the night, Alice picked up her dog, Quill, from her neighbours. Mrs Foscetti and Miss Spinnell were a pair of octogenarian twins. The younger by a few minutes, Miss Spinnell, suffered from Alzheimer’s, but was utterly devoted to the mongrel, and the pair of them were his day-time keepers.
Having first fed Quill, Alice set to work at speed, expecting Ian to return at any minute, putting his favourite food in the oven and running a bath. A birthday dip with him would have been perfect, had been her plan all along. But as time wore on and he failed to appear, she had it herself, the water now tepid, downing a couple of glasses of wine to keep her spirits up. Before she knew it half of the bottle had gone.
By the time she got out of the bath, all the dozens of candles she had lit, covering every free surface in the flat, were beginning to gutter, pools of hot wax dripping from them, deforming them and making them overflow their saucers. There were no spares left to replace them with, and the electric light seemed discordant, too unmagical in comparison.
She tried Ian on his mobile phone again, but as before, it had been switched off. Then, to cap it all, she noticed a strange smell, and she inhaled deeply, trying to identify it, uncertain what it could be. A loud bleeping began as the smoke alarm went off. Feeling slightly dizzy between the drink and tiredness, she walked slowly to the kitchen.
The pastry on the butcher’s steak pie was burnt black, and the baked potatoes were no more than carbonised shells, crumbling when touched. She tossed the lot into the bin, thinking the evening could still be saved if she rushed to the nearby Indian takeaway for a banquet, but first of all the alarm would have to be silenced.
Standing on a chair she prodded the white plastic casing with a broom handle, trying to locate an ‘off’ button with it, but becoming impatient, she thumped it over-vigorously and part of the casing broke. It hung uselessly from the ceiling, showering her with a fine spray of black dust as it fell. But its innards continued to flash and shriek.
Hearing a loud knocking at the door, Alice leapt off the chair, believing it to be Ian, thinking that perhaps he had left without his keys that morning. Instead she was greeted by Mrs Foscetti, her sister peeping wide-eyed out of the nearby, half-closed door of their flat.
‘We’ve had smoke coming into our house, and the alarm’s gone off. Perhaps there’s a fire here? Hadn’t we all better evacuate the building, dear?’ Mrs Foscetti asked, calmly.