The woman was silent for several seconds. ‘Only the house. They’d bought a piece of land in West Linton. They were getting married next autumn and they were going to build a house.
‘But work, no. Nothing at all.’
‘Did Miss Jameson have any other male friends before Mike, or even while she was seeing him?’
‘You can forget the second part of that question. Those two were soul-mates - there’s an old-fashioned term for you. Before, I suppose she had There was some fat wimp of an accountant tagging along when I first knew her, and she did mention once that she’d been keen on some chap at university, but that was all.’
Martin noted the two slim and unlikely leads. ‘Mrs Allan, that’s been a big help. I’ll let you get back to sleep now:’
‘No such luck! The baby’s awake!’ She laughed grimly, and hung up
He chose another name from the list of friends. Marjorie Porteous had been Rachel’s equivalent of Johnny Smellie, her best friend through her schooldays at St George’s, and on through university. She had taken her Economics First to the City, and had married a property developer.
When Martin called the Maidenhead number, the telephone was answered by a woman with an accent redolent of Morningside, that refined but decaying suburb of Edinburgh. ‘652375. Marjorie d’Antonio speaking.’ Rachel’s mother had voiced to Martin her suspicion that the husband, whom she recalled from the wedding, had been christened Anthony Muggins, and had had swift recourse as an adult to the deed poll procedure.
‘Good morning, Mrs d’Antonio.’ Martin introduced himself an explained the reason for his call. At once the assertive voice at the other end of the line softened, and the accent became less pronounced.
‘ Yes. Poor Rachel. How can I help you, Chief Inspector?’
‘By telling me about Miss Jameson and your friendship.’
‘Where to begin? Rachel came to St George’s when she was fourteen You know what they say about St George’s? “All they teach you there is how to write cheques.”’ She laughed at her quip.
‘Well in our case at least, it wasn’t true. Rachel and I were sort of star pupils in our year. Did our full quota of “A” levels and went to Edinburg University together. At school, Rachel was always the popular one. Everyone thought I was a conceited little cow, and guess what, they were right, but Rachel had no airs and graces. She was head girl in our fina year, and she fixed it for me to be a prefect. I got my own back on a few then, I’ll tell you!’
Martin chuckled at the woman’s openness. He was warming to her more and more as the call progressed. ‘What about university? Did you both live at home?’
‘In our first year, yes. Then my Dad bought a flat in Marchmont as an investment, and we moved in, with a succession of other girls.’
‘Was Rachel active in university clubs?’
‘No. Not really. We both joined the North America travel club, and spent our second summer vacation working in San Francisco, but that was all. She didn’t get involved in politics or anything of that sort. She thought it was a waste of study time, and so did I.’
‘If she had joined a political club, what do you think it would have been?’
Marjorie’s answer came back without a pause. ‘The SNP. She was very into ethnic rights. Stood up for the oppressed and all that.’
‘Did she have any relationships at university?’
‘With men? Just a few flings at first. Quick grope in the Odeon, tha level of thing. But only one serious affair, in our third year. Her grades dipped a bit because of it. In fact that’s why she had to settle for a Two One, rather than a First; no doubt about it.’
‘Do you remember anything about the man?’
‘Not even his name. She called him Fuzzy; we all did. He was some sort of Arab. They met at a Union disco. Quick dance, he flashed the brow eyes and that was it.’
‘What sort of a man was he?’
‘I don’t really know. He hardly ever said anything. He was about the flat quite a lot. I mean, he and Rachel were sleeping together, but he never strung together any more than yes, no, please and thank you, when anyone else was around. I think it might have been the fact that he was so shy that attracted Kachel to him. When they were alone you could hear them yakking away through the wall.’
‘What happened?’
‘He left at the end of the year. But I could sense that it was running out of steam by then. Rachel told me so. She said that the trouble was his intensity, and his complete lack of humour. So he left, we went to the Côte d’Azur to work for the summer, Rachel met a big blond Swede with muscles everywhere, and I mean everywhere, and forgot about Fuzzy End of chapter.’
‘How about men after that?’
‘I didn’t see all that much of her after I moved south. But we exchanged letters often, and I gathered from them that there was no one serious for a long time, not until she met Mike Mortimer.’
‘When did you see her last?’
‘In the autumn. She came down for a weekend in September. The time before that was when I visited my parents in the spring.’
‘Did she say anything on either occasion about anything unusual that she and Mike, or either of them alone, might have been involved in?’
‘No. All she talked about was how happy they were, and how she would be able to take a year off from practice to have a baby when the time came, and how super everything was going to be. And then!’ Suddenly Marjorie, on the other end of the telephone, burst into tears. ‘What a shame What a bloody shame. And what a waste.’
52
The cobbles roared under the wheels of the Astra as they drove throug the New Town. Martin parked on a yellow line across the street from Mortimer’s flat. There was an old-fashioned remote entry system on the heavy outer door. Skinner rang the bell and after a few seconds the door creaked open. They stepped into a cold, dull hallway, and went through a second door, glass-panelled this time.
‘Up here!’ Brian Mackie called down to them.
The two detectives trotted up to the second floor. At the top of the stairway, the DI held a door open.
Mike Mortimer’s living room was furnished conservatively, mostly with reproduction items, but with one or two antique pieces situated prominently.
‘Nice place,’ said Martin.
‘A change from your bloody Habitat warehouse!’ Skinner suggested
Mackie grinned. ‘You should take a look in the bedroom. The four poster must have cost a bob or two.’
‘Does it have a canopy?’ Skinner asked.
‘Yes, boss. And we’ve checked. There’s nothing stashed up there. Mackie smiled, unable to hide his pleasure at having anticipated the question which had been bound to follow.
‘We’ve been all over the place. All his personal and business records were in that big desk over there, or in these two cupboards. He’s had them converted into filing cabinets.’
Mackie walked over to a door set in the wall to the left of the east-facing window. He threw it open. The space behind was filled with side-hung file racks, most of them stuffed with papers and manila folders.
Skinner looked inside. ‘You’ve got some work ahead of you. Is the other one the same?’
‘There’s this thing as well. We’ll need to look at it.’ He turned agai towards the desk. The only incongruous object in the room was a grey micro-computer with a small dot-matrix printer attached by a ribbon cable. By its side was a small box with a clear plastic lid, containing a number of computer disks in cardboard holders. Mackie picked one out and howed it to Skinner and Martin. ‘He’s been kind enough to label all of these. All I need now is to be able to read them.’