Troubled Waters E-Book

Gillian Galbraith

• Herausgeber: Polygon
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 353

Beschreibung

A young, disabled girl is lost on a winter's night in Leith, unable to help herself or find her way home. Someone is combing the streets, frantically searching for her. Within hours of her disappearance, a body is washed up on Beamer Rock, a tiny island in the Forth being used as part of the foundations for the new Queensferry Bridge. No sooner has Detective Inspector Alice Rice managed to discover the identity of that body than another one is washed up on the edge of the estuary, in Belhaven Bay. What is the connection between the two bodies? Has the killer any other victims in their sights and if so, can Alice solve the puzzle before another life is taken? In this novel, the sixth in the series, appearances belie reality, and truths and falsehoods gradually merge, becoming indistinguishable.

Leseprobe

TROUBLED WATERS

Other books by Gillian Galbraith:

Blood in the Water

Where the Shadow Falls

Dying of the Light

No Sorrow to Die

The Road to Hell

The Good Priest

First published in 2014 by Polygon,

an imprint of Birlinn Ltd

West Newington House

10 Newington Road

Edinburgh

EH9 1QS

www.polygonbooks.co.uk

Copyright © Gillian Galbraith 2014

ISBN 978 1 84697 293 5

eBook ISBN 978 0 85790 818 6

The moral right of Gillian Galbraith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

The publishers acknowledge investment from Creative Scotland towards the publication of this volume.

Most of the places mentioned in this story are real, but all persons described are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance between characters in the story and any real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Set in Italian Garamond BT at Birlinn Ltd

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

TJ International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Glenys Andrews

Colin Browning

Martyn Clark

Douglas Edington

Lesmoir Edington

Robert Galbraith

Daisy Galbraith

Diana Griffiths

Tom Johnstone

Mr E. Macdonnell

Roger Orr

Aidan O’Neill

Dr David Sadler

David Watt

DEDICATION

To Robert and Daisy

one each now –

with all my love

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

1

An accident, that’s what it had been, just a horrible accident. No more than an accident. His mind was chaotic, thoughts barging in, swirling, colliding, chasing each other, disappearing, and all without his volition. In the maelstrom, all he felt was panic, a tide of fear rising, threatening to engulf him. He could not breathe.

Trying to calm himself, he slackened his grip on the steering wheel and looked into the rear view mirror. Behind him, the girl was busy picking at the dry flakes of skin on her upper lip, as she tended to do when anxious. He watched her for a few more seconds before, unable to bear it any longer, he exclaimed, ‘Stop it, please. Just stop it, will you?’

It came out more sharply than he had intended. Like a startled deer, she glanced up, meeting his eyes before lowering her gaze to her lap, chastened, her right hand now wringing her left as if in mute appeal.

Looking ahead again, he followed the narrow road round into Kirk Street, braking hard as he noticed a one-way sign coming up and just managing to take the sharp right into the lane leading back to Leith Walk. As he turned the steering wheel, he felt his car slewing sideways on the snow-covered road, and heard a dull thud as something hit the inside of the boot, followed by a slight intake of breath from behind him. Glancing at her reflection again he sighed; she was at it once more, only now with renewed vigour. At one side of her Cupid’s bow lips, the carmine merged into an inflamed, angry pink at the side of her mouth, a testament to her obsessive picking and a visible reminder of his impotence. There was even a bead of fresh blood. By now, she ought to know that it was forbidden. By now, a dumb beast would know that.

‘Stop it!’ he shouted, and this time felt a surge of shameful pleasure in seeing her petrified expression as she jumped, dropping her hand as if it had touched an electric current. Frightened, she blinked repeatedly before closing her eyes, shutting out the world and everything in it.

In repose, he thought, stealing a few additional glances at her as the engine idled at the traffic lights leading into Great Junction Street, she would pass as normal. Her condition manifested itself, not in her features, which were regular and well-proportioned but in her incessant, maddening tics. No wonder she was so thin, with one or more of her muscles always busy, propelling this limb hither or thither, working a tendon or bending a joint, and all to no useful purpose. Sometimes it was as if the Almighty was some sort of puppeteer, pulling her strings simply to test that they were still attached. Yet, when relaxed or asleep, at rest, she would pass for a beauty.

A red light on his dashboard began to flash, attracting his eye, warning him that they were all but out of fuel. By good fortune, no, likely by Divine Providence, a garage was within sight, on the other side of the bridge. Turning in, he began to apply the brake gently, over-sensitive now to the risk of skidding on the icy tarmac. All the pumps were busy, and as he waited he drummed his fingers manically on the steering wheel. Three minutes later, he drew up opposite the last pump in the row.

Turning round to face her, and fixing her in the eye as if she were a dog, he commanded, ‘Stay!’

Satisfied by her meek, nodded response, he managed to still his trembling fingers, undid his seatbelt, and clambered out of his Mazda 6 into the cold air. For a second he stood gazing up at the sky, transfixed by the innumerable flakes of snow as they poured down, every one revolving in its fall, every one illuminated by the forecourt lights. Digging his hands deep into his pockets, he fingered the two crisp twenty-pound notes. They would get him fuel enough. As he yanked the nozzle from its holster, he noticed the man in front of him doing the same thing and automatically speeded up, determined to reach the cashier first and settle his business. His need was greater.

Once he was in the shop, the girl took her chance. Opening the door as quietly as she was able, she crept out, marvelling as snowflakes landed on her face and melted there. Instinctively she extended her tongue, allowing them to land on it, before, lizard-like, withdrawing it at speed.

Excited by her freedom, by the unfamiliarity of the place, by the spiralling snow and the bright lights of the cars, she began to walk along the very edge of the pavement, arms out for balance like a tightrope walker. Teetering to one side, she caught sight of a narrow lane, signposted Prince Regent Street, ahead of her, righted herself and headed for it, dragging her feet through the fallen snow for a while simply to experience the sensation. It was like walking on solid clouds.

Lights were on in many of the windows she passed and, unselfconsciously, she pressed her face against a few of them. In one house, a man was watching a television, its unnatural glow reflected off the bridge of his nose and his sharp cheekbones as he sat open-mouthed before it. Next door, a couple of small children appeared to be dancing, each of them holding something in their right hands. They, too, were facing the screen and seemed entranced by it. As she rose onto her tiptoes to get a better view of what they were looking at, she felt something snuffling around her skirt, poking her knee. A bony dog, apparently ownerless, had its cold, wet nose against her flesh, exploring it insistently as if she was as inanimate as a side of beef.

With stiff, frightened fingers, she pushed it away but it resisted, its head returning to snuffle her thigh again. Hysterical, unnerved by its boldness, she ran away, abandoning the dancing children and looking back at the stray, fearful that it might follow her. In her absence, its attention had turned seamlessly to a piece of grease-stained newspaper, flapping and pinned by the wind to the front of a nearby wheelie bin.

Shaking her head at the sight, she blundered on, blinking as snowflakes hit her eyes. The wind had risen, changed direction, and a horizontal stream of thick snow blew directly into her face. A young couple passed, their arms linked, talking and laughing together as if they were alone in the world. Glancing back down the street and seeing the dog staring at her, she became fearful that it would follow her after all and started to jog again, legs and arms flying in all directions. It would bite her this time. She had seen its teeth. That was what dogs did.

In her terror, she veered off the pavement and all but collided with the wing of a passing car, catching the blare of its indignant horn as its brake lights receded and merged into the red lights of the T-junction ahead of her. A cyclist, having to swerve to avoid her, hurled abuse at the top of his voice. Something in her mind began to scream. Standing still in the gutter, feeling the world racing around her, spinning out of control, she bent over, covering her eyes with her hands.

‘Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.’ That was what Mrs Smollett had said the last time in the games room. On that occasion, one of her teacher’s manicured hands had been pressing on the small of her back, and the woman had been inhaling and exhaling in time with her, sounding like a steam engine. But it wasn’t working. Not here and now. Not without Mrs Smollett.

‘You all right, dear?’ a stranger asked, coming towards her and bending over slightly to reach her level, to be face to face with her.

She said nothing, relieved when she saw the woman’s companion, a little boy on a scooter, wrinkle his nose and incline his head, signalling that they should move on, mind their own business. The scent of stale coffee tainted the woman’s warm breath. Suddenly, alarmed by the uninvited proximity, the girl stood up straight, crossed her arms against her chest and walked off, eyes looking directly ahead as if she had heard nothing, seen nothing. The mother and son might have been as insubstantial as ghosts for all the notice she took of them.

Through the constant drone of the Leith traffic she could make out snatches of music and, hardly conscious of what she was doing, she began to search for the source of it. Having adjusted and readjusted her course innumerable times, she eventually found herself opposite an open doorway at the far end of Madeira Street. Standing outside it, peeking in, she blew on her fingers, her whole body chittering with cold. Then, drawn by the light and the sound of piano music streaming from the door, she walked inside.

Everywhere there were people, all talking, all laughing, and every one of them seemed to be holding a glass. A woman, much of her tanned flesh on show, glowered at her as she pushed past, their buttocks touching in the closeness of the crush. Observing them both, an old fellow winked at her. Someone had dropped a packet of crisps on the floor and she could hear them crackling as they broke under her feet. Accidentally she jostled a plump lady’s elbow, making her spill her drink over herself and curse out loud in annoyance. Burrowing on, she lowered her head and kept pushing through the crowd until, unexpectedly, she found herself in a corner. Turning round she spotted a small alcove with a table and two chairs in it. There was even an open packet of nuts. Following the wall with her hands until she reached it, she sat down, now eye-level with the surrounding shirts, ties and blouses.

‘Like a wee drink?’ a smiling man asked her, tapping the side of his wine glass as if to show her what a drink was.

‘Donald!’ The white-haired lady beside him said, frowning.

‘What?’

‘She’s a child!’

‘No, she’s not, she’s a young lady. Well, what’s she doing in here if she’s a child, I’d like to know?’

‘Leave her alone!’

‘I am. I was only asking if she’d like a drink, for Heaven’s sake! There’s no harm in that, is there, Hilary?’

‘Yes. There is.’

The girl was no longer listening to them or to anyone, anything. She was gazing out of the window, watching the snow pouring from the sky like water in a waterfall, hypnotised by the perpetual movement. A young man had taken the only other seat and was glancing at her, taking an occasional gulp from his beer glass as he did so. Had he chanced upon the crock of gold at the end of the rainbow he could not have looked more pleased. After a couple of minutes, he plucked up the courage to speak to her.

‘D’you like the snow?’

Hearing his voice, she turned to face him and, for the first time, he saw just how extraordinarily beautiful she was. Her dark, long-lashed eyes met his and as they did so, she shivered and a slight tremor started up in her right hand. To stop it, she slapped her left over it, trapping it.

‘You cold?’ he asked.

‘You’re wasting your time, boyo,’ Donald said to the youth. ‘She’s probably foreign, immigrant Polish or something. She doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t understand.’

‘Just because she didn’t answer you!’ his wife snapped, putting her empty glass on the table and waiting, expectantly, for her husband to do the same. His was half-full of gin but, smiling at her with his mouth only, he obeyed.

Listening to the background music, the boy sat with the girl, getting no reply to any of his questions, collecting more drinks and, after a while, staring at her openly as if she was an object. She ate the peanuts in front of her, singly and slowly, and then, unselfconsciously, licked the inside of the packet. His eyes always on her, he stacked and restacked his pile of beer mats. Twice while they sat there, he had to fend off the attentions of drunken men, telling one of them that she was his sister and giving the other, more insistent one, a shove. He, his balance long gone, careered into another customer, getting a hard stare for his pains and quickly retreating back into the anonymity of the melee for his own safety. Under the table, the boy slid his foot beside the girl’s, feeling the warmth of her flesh through the leather and heartened that she made no attempt to move it away. They had an understanding, wordless, but real.

Twenty minutes after going into the BP kiosk, the man hurried out of it. He was jingling his small change in his pocket, whistling as if he did not have a care in the world. Once he had done his belt up he glanced into the mirror, expecting to see the girl’s familiar, anxious face behind him. But there was nothing. He could make out the road beyond, the cars zipping past, the buildings and pavement, but no human being. Maybe she was kneeling down for some reason? Was playing Hide and Seek, larking about, making a fool of him? Now, of all times!

Feeling his heart speeding up, rapping against his ribs, he ripped off the belt and climbed out of the vehicle. He grabbed the back door and yanked it open. Nothing: there was nothing there. He got in, knelt on the seat, looking forward as if, somehow, she might have concealed herself in the foot-well of the passenger seat. No one was there either. Under the seat? Not a dickey bird. Heavens above! She had done it again, scarpered into the night, and dropped him right in it. This time, Lambie might not forgive him.

Breathing rapidly, too shallowly, he clambered out of the Mazda and began looking about him. Snow was still falling all around, disorientating him and making everywhere appear strange, new and other. Even the sounds of the traffic seemed muted. No footprints were visible on the garage forecourt. The queue in the kiosk had been long, certainly, but not that long, surely? He should not have gone to the Gents, too; that was it. That had been silly, added another five minutes to his total. Undoubtedly, the bloke with the wrong credit card had done the bulk of the damage, but the queue, the Gents, it all added up. She had probably stayed still for quarter of an hour or so, then lost all hope, and gone in search of him or something. The stupid, stupid little ninny. On her own, outside the car, she was as vulnerable as a snail without a shell, as a new-born baby on ice. Anything could happen.

Panicked by the thought, he raced back down Great Junction Street, accosting people as he passed them, demanding to know if they had seen her, getting strange stares, shakes of the head and, from one, a mouthful of foreign curses. In case she had doubled back, he looked again at the car, illuminated brightly within the distant forecourt lights. A youth was ambling next to it, casting sidelong glances into its windows. Had he locked it? Blast! All he needed now was a theft!

He raced back, and once in range, pressed the button on his key fob, supporting himself against a lamppost, panting, his lungs aching, made raw by the frozen air. While he stood there, unable to move, he scanned his surroundings, pirouetting slowly on the spot for a three hundred and sixty degree view. There she was! She was standing by a bus stop on the other side of the street, only a couple of hundred yards away.

Forgetting all about his lungs, he shot off in pursuit, slipping on the smooth road surface and almost losing his footing in front of a car in his haste to get to her. Once he was close enough to grab her, he realised that he had made a mistake, turned on his heel and began the long trek back to the garage.

This was hopeless, suicidal. He must get on. She would be all right for now, would survive. Someone would look after her. Someone always did. First thing tomorrow, he would return with a plan, track her down properly, if she had not been returned before then. This had happened before, would not be the last time either, and he had business to attend to. Very important business indeed; and somehow, somehow, he would square it all with Lambie.

When the landlord called last orders the hum in the pub became louder, a few drinkers making their way through the crowd to the bar, others leaving their empties on the tables, bestowing beery kisses on each other and departing into the night, to be startled by the chill air. The girl sensed the movement around her, felt uneasy at the change and caught the boy’s eyes. He, pleased that she seemed to have noticed him at last, got up and interrupted the stream of people going out to allow her to join the flow.

Once outside, he took her cold hand in his and began walking eastwards, in the direction of his home. A couple of hundred yards on, exhilarated by her company, he let go of her hand and playfully backed her against the tenement wall, caging her there with both his arms. Hesitantly, he placed his head on her breast as if to listen to her heart, astonished to feel it on his temple as it thumped against her ribcage. As he raised his head to kiss her, she poked him in the chest, dislodging his arm and ducking out of his unwanted embrace. Free, she began to run, her long legs as ungainly as a new-born fawn.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he said, looking round blearily for her, hurt and disappointed. Did she not want to kiss too? On a magical night like this, peaceful and still, heavenly, what could be nicer than the feel of warm flesh on warm flesh? She had only to say if she didn’t like it.

At three-thirty in the morning, a householder in North Fort Street dialled 999 and asked for the police. She had been unable to sleep, had risen every hour or so to get a drink of water. Sipping it by her bathroom window, a figure had caught her attention. Someone, she said, was curled up in a doorway opposite, and the snow was falling on them, like it would on a wild beast.

‘Homeless?’ the call-handler asked.

‘They must be.’

‘Have you tried the Bethany Christian Trust or the Salvation Army or someone? That’s a social services problem, not really a police problem . . . not an emergency.’

‘It might be a child, for Christ’s sake, it looks little more than a child.’

‘You should have said that first, dear. We’ll send someone round the now. What’s the address?’

2

Before dawn that same day, a man lowered himself into a dinghy as it swung about at the stern of the Safety Boat. The deckhand above him hurled its painter down to him and, despite the howling of the wind, he heard the clicking noise made by the anchor chain as it was being pulled in by the winch. ‘Are you not staying?’ he bellowed, grabbing the oars and starting to pull. Lit up by the crewman’s torch, he was still facing the larger vessel. Concentrating hard, he rowed the grey inflatable dinghy away from them, now exposed to the full fury of the weather himself. Straining against the cross-current, he lowered his head, putting his back into it, battling to cover the last few yards to his lonely destination. A wave caught his bow and, for an instant, he thought it would tip him over, upend him into the cold, grey water. Spray, thrown up by a mistimed oar-blade, lashed his face, dripping off the side of his ears and running down the inside of his collar.

‘Nope,’ the Captain’s voice hollered back from the vessel, ‘Andy’s got to check the monitors on the Road Bridge.’

‘How long will you be?’ the man in the dinghy shouted, as loud as he could.

‘Twenty minutes, half an hour at a pinch. The tide’s already well on the turn. That’ll give you time to check the scaffolding over . . .’

There could, the man thought, clambering up onto Beamer Rock, be few more inhospitable places in the world, at any time of the year, never mind in the middle of January, and in the pitch-dark. The whine of the Safety Boat’s twin propellers as the skipper eased open the throttle, heading downriver towards the open ocean, underlined the fact that he was on his own. A blizzard was raging around the Forth, and as he switched on his torch to follow the disappearing craft, its beam illuminated a corridor of snowflakes, each one circling its way across the waves before disappearing into the turbulent waters. He breathed into his wet gloves and stamped his feet vigorously, trying to return feeling to them, so that he could get on with the job. Even tying up the dinghy would require a degree of dexterity. There was no time to waste. The generator powering the lighting rig must be fired up.

Once started, it released a throaty purr, more like a lion or a tiger than a machine, and hearing it lifted his spirits. The yellow light from the rig transformed everything, bathing the only two buildings on the rock in its rich glow, reminding him that shelter, even there, existed. Meticulously, he began to inspect the scaffolding around the base of the nearest one. The metal poles framing the red and white striped lighthouse seemed intact, secured by their ties; the wooden boards were still in place and the access ladder remained lashed to one end. Jetsam, in the form of a couple of milk cartons, had been deposited on the lowest platform and he tossed them back into the water, watching as one, then the other, was consumed by the waves. The clattering noise made by his tackety boots as he moved about was drowned out by the shrieking of the wind as it raced around the two bridges, searching for weaknesses and making any loose spars or struts rattle and zing with its passage. Finally, the job done, everything scrutinised and all slippery seaweed removed, he switched the generator off, instantly plunging his tiny kingdom into blackness again.

Keen to distract himself, knowing he still had time to kill, he turned his head towards the Fife coast and shone his torch on the north tower caisson. A couple of barges attached to it had cranes on board and his eyes alighted on the grab of one of them, suspended from its yellow, skeletal arm, hovering hundreds of feet above the vast steel structure of the bridge. Next, his beam picked out a tri-coloured German flag on one of the craft. It was writhing on its flag pole, faded and frayed, above the name-plate ‘Gerhardt’. In the cutting wind, he shielded his eyes with his free hand, trying to make out the name on the other barge but it was no good.

Seconds later, he had to screw them up, the force of the flakes driving into them making his tear ducts pour with water. Pulling his white safety helmet down over his forehead, he covered his whole face briefly with his hands, the pain in his eyes temporarily unbearable. In his sightless state, he was suddenly overcome by dizziness and all but lost his balance. Christ alive! When would that fucking Safety Boat re-appear? Its lights, bobbing about close to the centre of the Road Bridge, did not seem to have moved an inch for at least the last ten minutes, and well over twenty minutes had already passed since his landing.

Determined to get back into the warmth the instant it arrived, he hunched himself against the force of the gale and started trudging towards the spot where he had tied up the dinghy, compelled every few seconds to turn his back to the blast. Slipping, thankfully, into the lee of the foghorn building, he swung his torch from side to side in time with his steps, sweeping the surface of the rock for the rusted ring and the blue rope tied to it.

Although his sight was still blurry, an unfamiliar bulky shape resting on the black dolerite surface caught his eye. His first thought was that it was a seal, and he was glad, grateful, that there was another living, breathing creature here with him in the godforsaken place. Sweeping along its length, his beam picked out a herring gull, its feathers rippling in the gale. The bird was perched on the thing, pecking at it.

Shielding his eyes with his hands, he edged closer, conscious that the thing must be dead, might even smell. Suddenly, he felt uneasy in its presence. In the bright light it looked solid, grey and fleshy, but its skin seemed to have come loose and was rucked up, corrugated around it.

At his approach, the bird opened its beak, let out a screech and flew off, banking against a wall of wind before disappearing up river and into the black. Gingerly, he went down on one knee to examine the thing more closely, stretching out to touch the head end, and on feeling it, instinctively whipping his hand back as if it had been burnt. Bile flooded his mouth. The pads of his fingers had not touched the wet seal fur they were anticipating, but skin, human skin, and smooth as silk.

Close up, bathed now in a pool of light, the thing remained recognisable, to one of its own species at least. By his feet lay the washed-up body of a woman – cold, wet and lifeless. Around her brow curled a strand of dark green seaweed, as if it had taken root there and was growing out of her skull. The involuntary squeak the man let out surprised himself, was the only external sign of his inner transformation from an adult into a frightened child. But here, on the sea-swept rock, there was no one to wake him up, put the lights on, comfort him and tell him that it was only a dream. His own eyes told him otherwise, staring as they were into the milky brown pair looking up at him from the dead face illuminated by his torch.

Desperate not to be alone with the body, he jumped up and started bellowing at the launch, waving his hands frantically, swinging his light at it like a wrecker’s lantern. But every word that left his mouth was lost, obliterated by the roar of the waves and the shrieking of the wind. He felt no pity for the corpse, only panic and revulsion, a desperate desire to get away, to leave the thing before he saw its chest begin to expand with breath, its eyes begin to blink.

‘Is that the on-call DI at St Leonard’s Street?’

‘Yes,’ Alice replied, putting down her coffee cup, the millisecond of hesitation before she answered a testament to the unfamiliarity of her new title and the ungodly hour. Five a.m., and the caffeine was not doing its job.

‘We’ve just received a report,’ continued the man in the control centre, ‘that someone dead – a female, apparently – has ended up on Beamer Rock. I’m to tell you that there’ll be a launch waiting for you at South Queensferry, if you want it. It’s been arranged by FCBC, the Consortium. They’re the bridge-building people. One of them found it.’

‘A launch? Beamer Rock? Where on earth is that?’

‘In the middle of the Forth, some place near the Road Bridge. They said the central tower of the new crossing’s to be constructed on it eventually. A workman was sent over to look at scaffolding on the rock, Heaven knows why, and he practically tripped over the corpse. They’re keeping his boat there for the moment, in case she’s washed away again. They want to know if we want it to stay with her until you get there.’

‘Yes, keep it there. This woman, what’s the story, was she washed up on the rock or left there by someone or what?’

‘No idea. The only other information we’ve got is that the tide’s coming in, so you’d better get your skates on. Correction, your flippers on. Apparently, it gets completely submerged at high tide.’

At that news, the detective inspector put the telephone down, snatched her coat from the back of her chair and called out for DC Cairns. Getting no answer, she went to look for her and, three minutes later, bumped into her as she was going down the station stairs and the constable was racing up them.

‘The incident sheet says there’s a body, somewhere washed up in the Forth!’ the constable said breathlessly, a piece of paper in her outstretched hand.

‘I know, Liz. Hurry, get your stuff. That’s where we’re going. I’ll see you at the car.’

In the city, snow had continued falling throughout the night and, as usual, the capital was behind in its preparations, caught by the outlandish eventuality of a two-day blizzard in January. St Leonard’s Street, already under a thick layer, was passable, but a delivery van impeded their progress up the slope of St Mary’s Street, its wheels spinning ineffectually on the glistening surface as it endeavoured to regain its lost momentum and ended up straddling the road instead. Immobile, the driver ground its gears noisily for a few seconds before, admitting defeat, he signalled with a wave for them to squeeze round behind it.

‘Arsehole, get yourself snow tyres! Pity we’ve no blue light, that’d put the fear of God into him,’ DC Cairns exclaimed as they drove by, shaking her head at the seasonal ineptitude on display.

‘You’ve got yours on, have you, oh wise virgin?’

‘Virgin, indeed! Not as such. Wise as I am.’

‘Did you phone the Duty Fiscal? Who’s on call?’ Alice asked, turning on the fan heater in an attempt to defrost the windscreen and herself.

‘I tried that, by the way, it doesn’t work. Derek Jardine. He said to give him a ring once we’ve got a better idea of the lie of the land. He’s tied up, attending a hit and run at the moment in Liberton.’

‘And the FME?’

‘It’s that tiny little irritable one. What’s he called again?’

‘Dr Harry McCrae.’

‘Right, him. I told him to meet us at eight at Port Edgar.’

‘You’ll need to speak to him again. We’re not leaving from Port Edgar. The Marine Unit Commander lives in Duns, and they’d take forever to get going. The Lammermuirs are probably knee-deep by now, anyway, if not the coast road. We’re taking up the Consortium’s offer of a launch.’

‘So where are we leaving from? The top brass won’t like it – all that expensive equipment rusting away, they won’t like it one bit, they’ll have no ammunition against the cuts,’ the constable said, impatient to see properly, scraping the glass in front of her with a hand and dislodging a thin strip of ice.

‘Needs must. He’d take an hour or more to get here from Duns, if he got through at all. The body would be long off to sea again by then. We haven’t that long. Tell him to meet us at the Hawes Pier at, yes, say, eight o’ clock – the one under the Rail Bridge, the one that the Inchcolm Ferry leaves from.’

‘I’ll let him know, then, about the new plan. This’ll make a nice change from the usual, eh, Alice? A crime scene at sea, that’s a first for me!’ The young police-woman smiled at the thought and searched around the side of her seat for her seat-belt.

‘For me, too, and if it’s a murder, it’ll likely be our last if they’re all shunted off to these new Major Investigation Teams after the reorganisation. We’ll be stuck with nothing but shoplifting, peeing up closes and runaway chihuahuas.’

‘And we’ll get to inspect, close up, the beginnings of the third Forth Bridge or whatever it’s to be called, even if it will be a bit dark. There’s a competition to name it.’

‘So I’ve heard. “Salmond’s Leap”, that’s supposedly the front runner along with the “It-should-have-been-a-tunnel-bridge”, the green lobby’s favourite,’ Alice remarked, as they drew up beside a bus at the first set of lights on Davidson’s Mains. It had one passenger in it, his head resting against the window.

‘Some kid suggested Rusty’s Pal. Actually, or accurately, it should be the fifth Forth Bridge. That would take into account the ones at Kincardine and Stirling as well as the two Queensferry ones.’

‘Or, to continue with the powerful fish-politician theme, “Sturgeon’s Passage”. That got a lot of votes I believe.’ A disturbing picture of the First Minister, pop-eyed and bubble-mouthed, swimming beside his little deputy, flitted, uninvited, into Alice’s head.

‘It’ll be something dull, something safe . . . the Queensferry Bridge, the Queensferry Crossing. I ought to put money on something like that.’

Her boss nodded, now lost in thought, going through a checklist in her mind as the constable, untroubled by her silence, wittered on. Paper suits were in the case in the boot, gloves and bootees too. A photographer, Jim Scott, had been fixed up. He was coming straight from his house in Rosyth. With his ponderous manner, vast belly and elephantine legs, he would not have been her choice for this particular job. But beggars could not be choosers. And at least, with his help, the three of them should be able to move the body without calling out the coastguard or the lifeboat men, cutting out the delay and unnecessary contamination that their involvement might bring with it. Unorthodox as this approach might be, time and tide would wait for no man. No woman either, so normal procedures would have to take second place, whatever fuss was made later by DCI Bell or anyone else for that matter.

‘Are you going to vote in September?’ DC Cairns asked, breaking her boss’s train of thought.

‘Mmm.’

The roundabout at Barnton, usually clogged with cars in all four directions, was deserted, silent, still, awaiting the arrival of its daily visitors. Conscious of the privilege, they sped across it.

‘And?’

‘Same as most of the women in the country. Thanks to Dewar we’ve a fair amount of autonomy, and whatever happens, more is on its way. Blair went to school in Scotland, Brown’s from Kirkcaldy. If John Smith hadn’t died, he’d have led. Who’s governing who? Salmond’s just another maker of promises, another maker of mistakes. Look into his genealogy and he’ll be a UK mongrel like the rest of us. I want fewer divisions, fewer boundaries, not more. Are you even old enough to vote?’

‘Only just. At least they’d be our mistakes . . .’

‘Shetland doesn’t think they are “our”. Nor does Orkney, nor do much of the Highlands. How local should we go?’

‘Home rule for Leith, I say. And we’d be richer.’

‘Away and sell your granny then, you patriot, if money’s what it’s all about. But best do it before the rush begins.’

‘You care?’

‘I care.’

The windscreen-wipers could not cope with the volume of snow now pouring from the heavens, so Alice speeded them up and began to accelerate up the brae beyond the Cramond Bridge, anticipating a straight run on the motorway ahead. But from the Kirkliston turn-off only the slow lane had been gritted. In the resultant bottleneck, they continued arguing, the pace of their journey dictated by a procession of others, all inching forward together at a speed sedate enough to make a hearse impatient. Their leader, an elderly white transit van, crawled onwards, its exhaust gassing them with an endless stream of noxious fumes.

‘Like I said, we need a blue light,’ DC Cairns repeated, as much to herself as anyone else. Cold, and desperate to get to their destination, her foot was flat on the ground, pressing an imaginary accelerator.

Fifteen minutes later they entered South Queensferry. Driving over the brow of the hill on Kirkliston Road, their eyes were immediately drawn to the long view of the estuary, its glistening waters cut in two by the sparkling, curved outline made by the lights on the Road Bridge. The pocket-sized royal burgh itself was at its picturesque winter best: snow lying in the interstices of the cobbles, capping the crow-stepped gables of the houses and coating the roof of the Black Castle, making it look like an illustration in an old-fashioned children’s story book. Dawn still unbroken, no one was yet abroad on its narrow streets and the place was lit only by the ornamental lanterns dotted along the sea front. The sole sign of life they saw in the town centre was a tabby cat, walking purposefully along the length of the Ferry Tap Inn before dodging into the shadows in search of prey.

A huddle of FCBC men, all in hard hats and orange high-visibility jackets, had gathered by the Inchcolm Ferry ticket office. They were clustered together by the statue of a seal, chattering, their breaths steaming white from their mouths in the cold air. One of them saw the car. He pointed at the nearby turning and started jogging alongside the Escort as it took a left off the High Street. The others followed him, the sound of their boots getting louder as the road surface below their feet changed from tarmac to the blocks of rough-hewn stone from which the pier was constructed. In the distance, dwarfed by the gigantic outer cantilever of the Forth Rail Bridge, lay the Consortium’s Safety Boat, the Fiona S. It was tied up at the far end of the Hawes Pier, rocking in the waves, its engine idling in readiness for the arrival of the police. Alongside it stood the corpulent figure of Jim Scott, cameras slung around his neck. He was looking anxiously in the direction of dry land and the Hawes Inn. Recognising the Inspector as she walked towards him, he waved a soup-plate-sized hand, saying morosely on her approach, ‘I hate the water. Can you swim, Alice? I might need help.’

‘Me? I’m a qualified junior life saver – although whether I’d manage without being dressed in my pyjamas, I’m not so sure,’ she replied, throwing her case over the side of the yellow and black craft, then stepping on board and holding out a hand to receive, first, his rucksack of precious equipment, and then his leaden bulk. At the same time, a red life-jacket was thrust at each of them by a passing stranger, the stern rope around his free hand. The photographer, breathing noisily, picked his off the deck where it had fallen, turning it this way and that, examining the catches, trying to work out how it might fit his vast frame.

‘This must be for a child,’ he said, holding it against his fur-trimmed bulk, a look of dismay on his face. ‘It’ll never keep me up. Look at these pathetic, thin flotation bits – they’re not even soft, air-filled. There must have been a leak. They’re not safe.’

‘They’ll inflate,’ the policewoman replied, passing a strap between her legs, ‘when you hit the water. That’s the whole point, so that they’re not too bulky now.’

‘When – don’t you mean if? And there’s a whistle! Fat lot of good that’s going to do as I’m swept out to the open sea . . .’

‘Just put it on, eh?’

No sooner had DC Cairns stepped on deck than she toppled forwards, hitting her elbow on a stanchion. With the last passenger on board, the Captain had ordered that they cast off and one of the deckhands had pushed off from the pier, making the boat lurch forwards in response. Another life-jacket was dropped unceremoniously by the same crew member on top of her crumpled form.

‘Thanks a bundle,’ she murmured sarcastically.