Dying of the Light (17 page)

Alice explained her business and was escorted to the waiting room, an even more cramped space, furnished with a few cane chairs and a coffee-table. Inside an
anxious-looking
woman sat, and on her knee a small girl rocked contentedly back and forth. Alice nodded at the woman, collected a torn copy of
Hello
and stood by the window, looking out onto the nearby red sandstone church.

‘Mrs Rice?’ a man’s face peeped round the door, his mouth open in a wide smile as if to allay any misplaced fears, but looking nervous all the same. The mother immediately rose, pulling her surprised child by the wrist towards the fellow and made to follow him.

‘We’re your twelve o’clock appointment, Mr Starkie, and my meter’s going to run out.’

‘I’ll be very quick with… ah… Mrs Rice,’ the dentist said in a placatory tone, recognising the genuine patient and withdrawing immediately into the hallway.

The air in the surgery was sweet with the scent of oil of cloves, and a female hygienist scurried out of it as soon as they walked in. Alice perched herself uneasily on the edge of the reclining dental chair, but Malcolm Starkie remained standing, arms crossed defiantly on his chest, long legs wide apart. As he listened to her, the reason for her visit slowly dawning on him, he closed his eyes, putting one hand on his forehead, but said nothing.

Waiting for him to respond, she took in the surgery,
noting
a mantelpiece covered with family photographs, pride of place going to an oval portrait of a smiling middle-aged
woman dressed in a cherry coloured cardigan. Adorning each wall was a blown-up photograph of an owl, their huge eyes staring at the patients as if at prey. Seeing her gaze on the birds, the man began to speak. ‘I took them. That one…’ he pointed, ‘is a snowy owl. A female. This one’s a barn owl…’ Then, stopping mid-sentence, he ran his fingers through his hair.

‘I didn’t even know her name,’ he said slowly, ‘until I read it in the papers. Isobel Wilson. We never say much, converse… I was at home when those girls were killed. I’m almost always at home. When I’m away I wish I was back. Printing my photos, watching the television or whatever.’

‘Could anyone else confirm that you were at home those evenings, those nights? Your wife, maybe, even a neighbour, someone like that?’

‘My wife died last January. A neighbour possibly, but I wouldn’t bet on it. I hardly know either of them.’

‘So when did you last… er… see Isobel Wilson?’

‘I can tell you exactly, officer, on Saturday. On
Saturday
the sixth of January, to my eternal shame…’

‘Sir?’

‘Our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.’

A full moon does no-one any favours, Lena Stirling thought sourly, slipping into the shadow of the warehouse, finding herself now exposed to a harsh wind which swept along the corridor of Seafield Road, slicing through her thin clothes and leaving litter dancing merrily in its wake. She cupped her hands together and blew into them, fingertips bloodless and painful, her eyes still wide for any passing traffic. For the second time that evening a silver Mercedes glided past, the driver’s gaze never leaving hers, but it continued its stately progress, red tail lights receding into pinpricks as it reached the horizon. Yet another man, she thought, out window shopping, but unable to pluck up the courage to make an actual purchase. Of these soiled goods, at least.

Stepping back again from the pavement edge she heard a crack as the ice on a large puddle broke under her weight, cold water immediately flooding into her left shoe. And on her thirtieth birthday, for fuck’s sake! She shook her foot, and as she was doing so another car began to approach, moving slowly like a stalking cat, coming to a halt directly opposite her. As the window was being rolled down she ambled closer, relieved finally to have secured a punter, and crouched down to speak to the driver.

Suddenly, something scalding landed on her face, making her recoil instantly. Screaming in pain, she pawed
her eye sockets in a desperate attempt to rid them of the burning liquid. Frantically, she wiped hot slime from her cheeks with her coat sleeves, then put her hand to her head, finding her hair matted with the same gunk. It was dribbling down her jacket too, and the smell was entirely familiar. The bastard had flung his carry-out at her; sweet and sour pork, the weapon of choice. As she looked at the Fiesta it tore off, horn parp-parping in triumph.

Sunk in uncharacteristic despair, she slowly closed her eyes, blocking out the world and everyone in it. For many years she had not allowed herself time to think. In her first weeks on the street she had occasionally done so, until one awful morning something had struck her, something blindingly obvious but which, nonetheless, she had not figured out before. And it was that there was
no way back
. But now, feeling suddenly more miserable than she could bear, her brain started to work overtime, unconstrained, uncensored, careless where her thoughts might take her or what damage they might do. Opening old wounds and picking at old sores.

How had she failed to realise that that first, hurried transaction would change everything? Stupid, stupid bitch. Thanks to it, she had become a whore and could never unbecome one. It was not like being a junkie, you could be ‘cured’ of that habit, cleaned up, your reputation restored. But this had less to do with what the world now thought of her, more to do with what she now thought of herself. Knew, in fact. That she was worthless. Since that revelation the most ordinary acts of human kindness had seemed unexpected, each one a bonus; and disdain, if not disgust, had become the price of truth. Whoring was not like any other job, any other profession. The lying involved destroyed your past and your present, and there
was no future. As if in a daze, she had chosen it and burnt her boats. Three whole days after leaving school.

A stout man was ambling along the pavement towards her, and despite her dejection and bedraggled state, she
automatically
looked up into his face, intending to smile her willingness, needing a fix whatever the cost. But the sight of his balaclava-covered head startled her, frightening her sick, until she reminded herself of the jubilant newspaper headlines, felt the freezing weather and calmed down. Perhaps he was simply a Leith resident worried that he might be recognised? Or maybe the boot would be on the other foot and he would be put off by her unclean appearance? It had never happened before, mind.
Looking
her in the face, he gave a slight nod, and then began to speak, and as soon as he did so she relaxed, certain that she recognised his voice. Good, it must a regular, or perhaps someone she had been with just the once before – so much the better on a night like this. No time wasted haggling, talking or anything much else. With luck she would be home within the next forty minutes, out of the cold, back with the kit to share with Archie.

While Lena Stirling was shaking the water from her shoe, cursing the world and its inhabitants roundly, Bill Keane was giving his front door an almighty slam. Let Audrey hear it! Let the whole bloody lot of them hear it! Another precious evening wasted on tart patrol, and if it was his turn, ‘if’ being the operative word, it seemed to be
coming
round mighty quickly. Someone, somewhere, was not pulling his weight. And, worst of all, he would miss
Glamour Night at the photography club, a bi-monthly treat he had arranged for the delectation of the members, or at least most of them. He kicked a tin can out of the gutter, watching unconcerned as it flew up to land directly in a cyclist’s path, finding himself equally unmoved by the V-sign flashed at him by the irate rider.

Anyway, this whole thing was becoming a complete waste of time, a sodding fiasco, no less. Thanks to the ‘Leith Killer’, as the papers unimaginatively insisted on labelling the fellow, heedless of the effect such a title might have on house prices in the area, the hussies had become increasingly scarce. Like house buyers, in fact. The downside of his capture being, obviously, that the rest of the coneys would now re-emerge from their
burrows
and resume their traditional pastime. But not yet surely? They were brazen but not actually barmy.

Thinking about things, perhaps if he raced at full pelt to Carron Place, a highly favoured venue, he could forget about the other places, Ma Aitken’s and so on. Then he could nip home and catch the last fifty minutes of
Sharon’s
exposure, or was it Bridget tonight? It was a tempting thought, particularly as the wind-chill factor must be in minus figures and his knee was playing up. Then, to his fury, he heard the ‘Greensleeves’ ringtone emerging from his pocket.

Snatching the phone from his anorak impatiently, recognising the number and rueing his own efficiency in remembering the damn thing, he demanded,
bad-temperedly
, ‘What d’ you want, Adam?’

‘Whereabouts are you at the moment?’ What a nerve! To be checked up on by a runty little IT creep. A man who would not have been allowed within spitting distance of his boardroom.

‘Never you mind, Adam. I’m out doing the patrol, aren’t I? Is there anything else you want? It’s brass
monkeys
out here, so please don’t waste my time with stupid questions.’

‘I’m sorry, Bill,’ the voice sounded gratifyingly
apologetic
, respectful even, ‘it’s just that I’ve had a report. Todd’s been out in the Merc and he’s pretty sure that one of them set up stall at General George’s. Are you anywhere near there now?’

Red in the face and about to explode and release
frothing
expletives, Bill Keane suddenly had a bright idea, one designed to maximise his brownie points within the group and allow him to ogle Sharon, Bridget or whoever, too. He looked at his watch. Half an hour to go before the disrobing at eight or thereabouts.

‘Well,’ he began, ‘unfortunately, I’m on Fox Place at the mo – right at the far end away from Ma’s – but I’ll turn around right away. Don’t worry, I’ll see the baggage off PDQ. Over and out, Adam.’

So saying, he dropped the mobile back into his
anorak
pocket and continued, whistling merrily now, along Seafield Place, Ma Aitken’s pub already in sight. No need any longer to check out the West End. The group believed it had been done, and quite enough of their quarry located for the evening. Glamour Night might just be back on the menu.

As he bowled briskly round the warehouse corner, his mind on shutter speeds and apertures, he noticed two figures lurking together in the shadows, the man’s bulky form almost obscuring the woman’s markedly slighter one. Maybe he could tiptoe up to them, give the dirty
bugger the fright of his life by tapping him on the
shoulder
and barking, ‘OK son… you’re under arrest!’ or some other such nonsense. Mind you, the chap was built like a tank, and, on closer inspection, perhaps they had not yet begun to fornicate. Also, the fact that he was not a well man should not be forgotten. In the circumstances, discretion might be the better part of valour. The desired result could be achieved simply by, say, the loud clapping of hands or some other sudden noise.

While he was standing still, contemplating the best strategy, a shrill scream pierced the silence, terrifying him and making his heart pound in his chest. But when he realised where the sound was coming from, he found himself instinctively running towards its source. The small woman. At the sound of his footsteps clattering on the tarmac, the stranger whirled round to face him and ran straight at him, colliding deliberately and shouldering him to the ground. Stamping on his hand for good measure, he hared off in the direction of Leith.

From his new vantage-point on the tarmac Bill Keane looked up at the stars, breathless, shocked by the violence he had felt, still bewildered by the speed of events.
Groaning
slightly, he rolled onto his side, trying to rise. But as he put his weight on his right knee it gave way below him and he thudded down again, cracking his elbow against his ribs and yelping in pain like a startled puppy.

His high-pitched cry penetrated the woman’s numb brain, rousing her from her stupor. With the return of full consciousness came an overpowering sense of dread. She had opened her eyes and seen moonlight reflected on the blade of the punter’s knife, seconds before its point had
been pressed hard into her ribcage. She looked round the desolate scene, her eyes finally resting on the injured man, still collapsed and moaning gently to himself.

Immediately she stepped towards him. Dropping onto her knees beside him, she put an arm under each of his armpits and began to try to haul him up. He did not protest and she continued pulling until he lay with his back propped up against her, both of them gasping with the effort, neither sure what to do next. As they waited together for her to gain a second wind, hailstones appeared from nowhere, striking their faces and
bouncing
off the ground. Nature herself seemed unmoved by them, showed no pity at their plight.