‘Who yous after?’ she enquired dully, brushing a strand of dark hair out of her eyes with her hand.
‘Mr Norris. Colin Norris,’ DI Manson replied.
‘He’s out, away for the day.’
‘Where?’
She shrugged her shoulders, ‘You’ll need to ask ma mum.’
‘And where’s she?’
‘Shops. She’ll be back soon. You’ll just have to wait.’
A tall, thin boy, dressed all in black, leapt out of the cabin and flung his arms around the girl. She giggled and the two of them then returned, twined around each other, into their den. Instantly, loud laughter could be heard, followed by an increase in the volume of the music, which made the air vibrate to the pounding rhythm. Fleeing from the noise, an Indian runner duck waddled out of the cabin followed by its five upright ducklings, the family finding refuge through the open door of the cottage.
‘This place is a fucking pigsty,’ DI Manson muttered, lighting up another cigar.
‘I’d live here tomorrow,’ Alice said, knowing as soon as the words left her mouth that such a remark would be incomprehensible to her companion, a truth so impossibly unlikely that to utter it could only be a form of provocation.
‘Yeah, right,’ he said, ‘-and on your bloody own, I’ll be bound.’
Noticing a small outhouse with a corrugated iron roof, Alice went to explore it, bending double to go through the low doorway and finding herself in a foetid, unlit space. A loud moaning sound followed by a chorus of high-pitched squeals frightened her, and she peered into the blackness trying to make out the creatures responsible for the din. As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness she saw the curved outline of a large, prostrate pig. It was lying on its side, multiple teats exposed, and a mass of tiny piglets were tugging at them and scampering over each other, desperate to get their share. Delighted, Alice called out to her companion, ‘Come and see this, Sir.’
But DI Manson did not follow her into the hut. When she left it, eyes now dazzled by the sunshine, she found him sitting on the edge of a stone water-trough staring at the sole of his shoe, mobile phone in his left hand.
‘Thanks, Alice!’ he said. ‘Thanks to you I have stood on a massive bloody nail, and it’s gone straight through… and this place is covered in shit. I’m taking no chances, I’m going to get a tetanus jag right now at the surgery in Kinross. I’ll be back to pick you up in, say, two hours’ time. Norris himself is elsewhere, after all.’
As the rear of the car disappeared from the view, Alice noticed a ripple in the water of the trough as a stray raindrop fell from the sky. Soon, ripples collided with ripples as a summer downpour began, and she looked around for shelter, unwilling to intrude into the Portakabin, but keen to avoid a soaking. The porch would have to do; some refuge there, and as she ran towards it a red Escort bumped up the slope, coming to a halt with a heavy grinding noise. A woman got out, head bent against the rain, weighed down by four full carrier bags, and began to drag herself and her cargo to the doorway. Alice watched her slow, lurching progress, bags swinging against her legs, until finally they came face to face at the front door.
‘Hello. Where’ve you come from?’ the woman asked, surprise at Alice’s presence unmistakeable on her face.
‘Edinburgh. We got here about twenty minutes ago. I’m from Lothian & Borders Police.’
‘We? And how did you get here? I don’t see any car.’
As she spoke, the woman deposited two of her bags on the ground before shouldering the door wide open and entering the cottage. Picking up the remaining bags, Alice followed her inside, and they trailed together through a tiny hall into a cramped kitchen. The inside of the house, like the outside, was a work in progress. Nothing seemed to have been finished. The floor was covered with sheets of newspaper, but in the gaps between them bare chipboard could be seen. A few stacks of logs lay beside the stained wood-burning stove, and on either side of it were cupboard units, exposing their innards to all, each carcass doorless. Despite its shabbiness, the place felt homely, inhabited and warm. Odd touches testified to its owners’ affection for it: pots of fresh herbs on the window sills and a vase of wild flowers on the kitchen table. As Alice put the shopping on the floor, a black cat wound itself between her legs, purring loudly as if reacquainting itself with an old friend. Mrs Norris, now bagless too, turned her attention back to her visitor.
‘So who are “we”? And, like I said, how on earth did you get here?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Norris, I should have explained. I’m DS Rice, from St Leonard’s Police Station in Edinburgh. I did have my Inspector with me, only he injured his foot on a nail outside. He’s taken the car-the one we used to get here-off to the surgery in Kinross. For a jag,’ Alice replied.
‘OK, but what do you want from us? By the way, would you like some tea, coffee or something?’
‘That would be lovely. Tea, if possible.’
Mrs Norris boiled the kettle, and then dunked a single, used teabag in both mugs before offering the watery mix to Alice.
‘So, how can I help you?’
‘Perhaps,’ Alice said, extracting the photocopy of the specimen handwriting from her jacket pocket, ‘…you could look at this for me.’
As the woman examined the paper, Alice studied her. She had a sort of worn beauty, and neither age nor experience had yet robbed her of its brilliance. Her hair was brown, threaded with white, and her eyes were of the lightest grey, pupils sharp against their faded colour. Her complexion, though, had been ravaged, as if she had been exposed to all weathers, a faint network of broken veins travelling across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. Her hands were swollen, tight-skinned and red, with short, clean nails. The woman began biting her lip, and she continued doing so even after she had raised her face from the paper.
‘Mmm. What do you want to know?’
‘Can you identify the handwriting, please?’
‘Er… yes, but I’d like to know why, first, if I may.’ Blood had been drawn from the bitten lower lip.
‘Because we need to know the identity of the writer for the purposes of an ongoing investigation.’
‘Oh. Well…’ she hesitated, ‘it’s Colin’s writing, I think.’
‘Colin Norris. Your husband?’
‘Yes. My husband’s writing.’
‘Can you tell me where he is at the moment, Mrs Norris?’
‘Why, has he done something stupid again?’ Alarm was evident in her voice.
‘Again? Maybe. I don’t know. That’s why I’d like to speak to him.’
Mrs Norris sighed. ‘He’s in Edinburgh, helping his mother for a day or two. She lives in Gayfield Square.’
Mrs Norris was kind. Learning that her uninvited visitor could not be picked up for a further hour and a half, and seeing the discomfiture this state of affairs produced, she suggested that the policewoman entertain herself in the sitting room. She would find magazines for her, leave her in peace and attend to some household chores. Afterwards, they would have some lunch. A few copies of Which magazine, plus an old National Geographic, were handed over before Mrs Norris disappeared, her industry confirmed by the ensuing smell of furniture polish. Alice padded about the room, taking in her surroundings. On a mahogany sideboard sat a large silver cup, tarnished, and engraved with a short inscription. ‘Kilgraston School – 1971 – Senior Tennis Champion – Hilary Morrison’, and directly above it was a faded photograph of the 1971 tennis six, with a youthful Mrs Norris in the centre, holding a silver shield above her head. Further along the same wall was another framed photo, this time depicting the Glenalmond First Fifteen, and one of the names below the array of sturdy adolescents was that of Colin Norris. Elsewhere in the room the observant would have noticed, in amongst the frayed covers and thin curtains, relics of a more privileged existence, when shopping was done at Jenners and Forsyth’s rather than Ikea and B &Q.