‘No.’
‘No. Why not?’ The question was posed in a puzzled tone, with an air of false concern.
‘I put my head round the door, but I didn’t see him. It was too dark.’
‘You could have put a lamp on or something, surely?’ The DCI’s brows were knitted and the speed of her cheek-tapping with the biro had increased.
‘Yes, but, to be quite honest, I wasn’t in the mood. I’d already said goodnight earlier. I didn’t want to wake him, and the radio hadn’t been left on, as it sometimes is. I was tired and I wanted to get to my bed.’
She suppressed an impulse to grab the ever-moving pen from her questioner’s hand.
‘When did you last lock the back door? Was it before you left, or when you came back, or the day before or when, exactly?’
‘I couldn’t really say. I try to remember to do it every night. My daughter, Ella, is always at me to check it, but it’s just part of my routine. So sometimes I do forget. I know I do. I can’t say when I last checked it. All I can say is that I try to remember to do it every night. Was it open or something?’
‘Yes. Does anyone apart from you have keys to the property?’
‘Una Reid. My son, Harry, my daughter, Ella, my mother in law… Pippa, my sister, as well. Then they can visit if I’m out. Gavin likes company, needs it, in fact. And I can’t be there all the time, with him always…’ she ended, defensively.
‘Your husband’s illness − what was wrong with him?’
‘Huntingdon’s Disease. In the old days it used to be called Huntingdon’s Chorea. He’s been virtually bedridden for the last year or so. Hasn’t been able to work for longer than that.’
‘What was his work?’
Silence followed. Heather Brodie did not answer because her attention had drifted once more, she had not heard the question, just as she did not see Thomas Riddell enter the room. Tears were now flowing unchecked down her cheeks, and she had no hankie with her to wipe them away.
As if aware of the spectacle she was making of herself, she turned her head to the side, humiliated to be seen in such a state by strangers, and pretended to look out of the window. But, with vision blurred, she saw almost nothing of the traffic rattling by on St Leonards Street. Her nose began to run, and just as she was about to break the habits of a lifetime and use the back of her hand, a paper hankie was proffered. Sniffing self consciously, she took it and dabbed her nose and cheeks, alert once more to all the eyes on her. Thomas Riddell removed another hankie from his packet, offered it to her and then changed his mind, passing her the whole packet instead. She blinked her large blue eyes at him to express her gratitude. ‘So, Mrs Brodie,’ the DCI continued. ‘Your husband’s job?’
‘He was an accountant. Initially he had his own business in Abercrombie Place. He employed three others. But, well… as the disease progressed things got more and more difficult. In the end it all fell to pieces…’ Her voice tailed off.
‘Fell to pieces?’ the Chief Inspector repeated.
‘Oh, his concentration went. He was on too many drugs, to stop the movements and so on. One of his clients sued him, something to do with underestimating tax liabilities or something. The woman went bust eventually. She was as mad as a hatter. The insurers handled it all for us, of course, but Gavin took fright. So did I, actually. I thought we’d lose the house, what with the legal expenses and everything.’
‘One thing, Mrs Brodie,’ Alice said, as they all rose to go. ‘Why did you change your arrangements, decide not to stay with your sister, I mean?’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind. I just wasn’t in the right mood, I wanted to be back in my own home.’
At 11 p.m. Alice Rice was still sitting at her desk in the incident room, both hands covering her eyes, feeling almost nauseous with fatigue. She had spent the past few hours staring at her computer screen, reading bulletins on the Scottish Intelligence database. Among the hundreds of opportunist thieves listed on there, only five seemed possible, and only one of those was suspected of having been recently ‘active in the New Town area’ of Edinburgh. He was a nineteen-year-old youth named Billy Wallace, who had rarely seen the inside of his own home, having been in a succession of foster homes, residential schools and penal institutions since the age of eight.
Tomorrow, she thought, she must become similarly ‘active’, not stealing things but buying them. Her lover’s fortieth birthday, and nothing yet in the bag for him, despite his unsubtle reminders and hour upon hour spent in crowded shops seeking, but not finding, inspiration. Time must be made − no, stolen if need be, otherwise Ian would be hurt. A wet suit, maybe or… or what? Too late already to wake him up on his birthday-morning with his present, as she had envisaged.
Her eye-sockets ached and she was, she knew, no longer thinking clearly. Nonetheless, she turned back to the monitor, ready to try to scan the next page, hoping to achieve something before leaving. As she did so, a bleary-eyed Thomas Riddell returned to the room with DCI Bell bustling behind him, crunching noisily on a barley sugar and almost shooing him onwards with her hands in her impatience to get on. As he was collecting his coat from the back of a chair she said, her mouth still partly full, ‘Alice, did you get the list of Brodie’s prescription drugs from the GP?’
‘Yes, it’s on the system now. Plenty of saleable stuff amongst it, too.’
‘Right. Any luck with the bulletins yet?’
‘Only one real possibility so far, I’m afraid. Someone called Billy Wallace, if that name means anything to you.’
‘“Braveheart”? Or “Softheid”, as I prefer to call him.’
‘You know him?’
‘Mmm. He’s a regular − a junkie,’ she nodded. ‘Anyway, you’d best get home now. You and Eric can see our hero first thing tomorrow.’
‘Suppose, ma’am, it’s not a thief, like the Prof said,’ Thomas Riddell asked, yawning uncontrollably. ‘Are we any further on, with the loony brigade, I mean?’
‘No,’ Bell replied, hesitating as she swallowed the remains of her sweet, ‘we are not. Light-fingered bastards are two a penny, aren’t they? Whereas, fortunately for all of us, your cold-blooded killer’s a much rarer bird. Have you heard whether anything interesting’s turned up from the door to doors in India Street?’
The large man shook his head and then, with old-fashioned gallantry, held up Alice’s coat for her to put her arms into. Then he lumbered wearily towards the door, putting his hand to his mouth to conceal another huge yawn.
As soon as he had gone, the DCI asked, ‘D’you know him, Alice? Ever worked with him before?’
‘No. Why?’ Alice replied, shaking her head.
‘Isn’t he the one that was following Susan Burton around − remember the one she couldn’t shake off, until she managed to wangle a transfer to Fettes?’
‘Gollum?’
‘I think so. So watch yourself.’
Monday
The boy they had come to see was standing behind the bar, drying a white china water jug on a stained dishcloth and whistling to himself. Billy Wallace looked up on their approach, taking them for customers, and a winning smile transformed his sallow face.
‘What can I get youse?’ he asked, hanging the cloth over his shoulder, his hand already hovering playfully over the beer taps.
‘Nothin’, son,’ DI Eric Manson replied. ‘We just need to speak to you… get a wee bit of information off you.’
‘Polis!’ the boy hissed, sounding disgusted ‘I’ve nothin’ tae say tae youse. I dinnae hae tae speak tae youse neither, ye cannae make me,’ and he deliberately turned his back on them and began stacking glasses noisily on a shelf, his sharp, boyish elbows visible below the sleeves of his short-sleeved green shirt.
‘Oh?’ Eric Manson said, and his intonation of the single syllable made it quite plain that he thought they could make him.