They were her best feature; the weathervane of her moods, an infallible printout of whatever was on her mind at any waking moment. Looking at her, even if he had not remembered, Bob would have known beyond doubt what was on her mind back then, in Corfu, on their honeymoon.
He flicked the switch and the film rolled on. The scene widened as the zoom unwound and the cameraman backed off. They were on a terrace balcony with high walls on either side, and nothing in front but railings and the clear blue sea. On the deck were two white sun-loungers with blue cushions. Myra was spread on one, half-seated, half-kneeling. She was naked. He stopped the film again and gazed at her, feeling his tears come. The sun, high in the summer sky, gleamed on the Ambre Solaire which he had rubbed into her full firm breasts with their upward-tilting nipples, into her flanks, into her back, her legs, her flat, firm belly . . .
He flicked the switch again. In a single supple movement, she rose from the lounger, and turned, stepping towards the rails as if to lean over them. She was the same honey-gold colour all over, and her oiled buttocks bunched as she moved.
She turned again and came towards him, laughing as she approached, mouthing silent words, and sending even stronger signals with her eyes. Then a hand reached up - but not too far, as Myra had been five feet ten inches tall - and took the camera.
There were a few wild frames as the lens swung round, until at last a young man came into shot. He was tall, and tanned as deeply as she. Sun-oil gleamed on him also, on his forehead, his strong, straight nose, his high cheeks, and on his wide shoulders. His fair hair was cut short, and his blue eyes were creased by his smile. He looked as happy as anyone Bob had ever seen. He remembered. He had been.
The camera began to pan downwards, slowly, over his chest with its mat of tangled bleached-blond hair, over his tightly muscled stomach, past his slightly protuberant navel. The camera began to zoom in and the shot went out of focus, but not so badly that it was impossible to make out the big hand as it flashed up to clamp over the lens.
The screen was dark for a few seconds. When it lit up once more, Myra was seated on a high stool, at an open-air bar. She was clothed this time, but only just, in a short, clinging yellow dress with a halter-fastening, from beneath which the tops of her breasts bulged, as if trying to break free. She was still smiling, and her great brown eyes were still beckoning, beckoning him now as they always had.
The stillness in the room was eerie. The whirring of the projector cut the silence like a knife paring off a layer of butter. Above the soft sound he could hear the sound of his own breathing, slightly fast and rasping. And then, gradually, he began to fancy that below it, within it, he could catch the whisper of a second breath in the darkness.
He stared hard at the screen, and as he did the hair on the back of his neck began to prickle. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, and when he opened them everything had changed.
He was still staring at Myra, but suddenly she was three-dimensional; Myra and Sarah mingled together as the film of his first wife seemed to shine and move around the form and features of her successor.
‘I came out here to talk, Bob.’ Sarah/Myra said coldly. ‘To try to persuade you, to try . . . oh I suppose, to try and fight for you!
‘Bad move, huh? Now I can see what I’m up against.’
He stood there, rooted to the spot, with his heart pounding heavily in his chest like a hammer. Struck dumb, he shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut once more. When he opened them, Myra was alone and two-dimensional once more.
In her Seventies honeymoon dress, she stepped down from the barstool and walked, smiling, lustily, towards him once more, as she had done in the scene on the terrace. As her image grew, and as Bob’s confusion, his emotions, and his memories combined to overwhelm him, he fancied, but without certainty, that he heard the soft click of the front door, closing.
14
‘Who was telling the truth, d’you reckon, Dave? Jackie Charles or Medina?’
‘I’ll give you a more solid answer once Maggie and I have had the guy in here for formal interview, and once he’s forced to commit himself on the record, under questioning that’s a bit tougher than he had last night.’
Donaldson looked across the meeting table in Martin’s office. ‘But my gut feeling is that I don’t believe him. When we got there, he had read the News report, and he knew that Mrs Charles was dead. He’s not Einstein, but he may have guessed that Jackie would have told us about him and that we’d be coming to see him.
‘He could have dreamed up that story as a defence, or with an eye to recovering his reputation, knowing that Mrs Charles wasn’t around to deny either it, or the allegation that she had cooked the books to fit him up.’
‘That’s true,’ said the Head of CID, ‘and there’s sod all we’re going to be able to do to verify it either way. Apart from the vehicle registration documents and a few other papers, that were kept in a safe built into the floor, all the records of the business were kept in the office filing cabinets. Although those were still standing, the heat of the blaze was so great that the documents inside caught fire.
‘When Arthur Dorward’s team opened them up all they found was sodden black ash. You and Maggie can lean on the guy Medina as hard as you like, but if he sticks to his story, invented or not, you’re not going to be able to do a thing to disprove it.’
Martin shrugged his shoulders. ‘Ach, it’s a sideshow anyway. What about the big question? Could Medina have killed Carole Charles?’
Donaldson looked to Maggie Rose, seated alongside him.
‘Means, motive and opportunity, sir,’ she said. ‘The means, petrol and towropes for fuses, were handy on the premises.
‘Motive? Medina says he was unfairly dismissed. He did nothing at the time, possibly out of fear or out of caution, but when he missed out on a job because Charles wouldn’t give him a reference, that could have been enough to provoke him finally to revenge.
‘Opportunity? Angela Muirhead was about to give him an alibi, but Medina wouldn’t let her. He seemed to go out of his way to tell us that she’d been out until just before nine. He could have done that to protect her, to prevent her from putting herself at risk for him.
‘Let’s assume that the truth is that Angie got home at ten to nine, and he was there. The opportunity question hinges upon whether he could have made it from Seafield to Slateford in less than twenty minutes.’
‘I could,’ said Martin.
‘Aye,’ came a mumble from his right. ‘Provided there were no lampposts in the way.’
The Chief Superintendent looked sideways at Detective Sergeant Neil McIlhenney, who grinned wickedly and said, ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Leaving lampposts out of it . . . The first thing you’ll have to find out is whether Medina has a car or access to one.’
‘I have done, sir. I called Angela Muirhead at her office this morning. She confirmed that they have one car only and that she uses it to go to work. She had it on Wednesday evening. That leaves taxis. If he had picked one up in Seafield Road at eight thirty, he’d have been home by eight forty-five, before her.’
‘Cutting it fine,’ said Martin.
‘Yes,’ Rose agreed, ‘but it’s possible, and it means that he could have had the opportunity.’
‘Agreed. So it has to be followed up. If he was picked up, unless he was daft enough to book one of Jackie’s minicabs, it would have to be a black taxi that he stopped. Put people on to checking them all, now, but get round the mini-operators as well.’