unexpected, violent attack. The post mortem is being held this morning, but that’s just a formality.
‘We’ve established that just before midday an old lady on the top floor answered a buzzer call from someone saying he had come to read the electricity meters. She let him in, but he never arrived.’
‘Did anything strike you about the style of the attack?’ asked Martin. ‘Was there any trademark, any sort of signature?’
‘No, sir. There was no frenzy about this attack. It was cold, calculated and very efficient. The perpetrator went there specifically to kill Carl Medina. After the killing the flat was searched. There were traces of the victim’s blood all around, transferred by the plastic bags which the killer wore on his hands and feet.
‘The search was concentrated in a specific area, among papers and notes kept by the victim. They had been ransacked. Of course, we have no way of telling whether or not the killer found what he was looking for.’
‘Did our man leave any forensic traces?’ asked Donaldson.
Dorward smiled. ‘We went over that house all night, and didn’t find a thing. Not a scrap.’ He paused, as if for effect. ‘Then we looked at the inside of the binliner. Nothing.
‘Finally we looked at the four Safeway bags. Inside one of them, we found a fifth bag. It had eye-holes cut in it, making it clear that the killer wore this bag as a hood. Attached to it, on the inside, we found a single strand of hair.
‘We’ve established already that the strand didn’t come from the victim, or from his girlfriend. We’ve no way of establishing where it did come from, short of possibly testing every Safeway checkout person in Edinburgh.
‘Right now, we can’t tell whether the hair came from our killer. But when we find him, if it’s his, it’ll help put him away for life.’
Martin smiled. ‘Wonderful, Arthur. We’ve actually got some evidence; good old-fashioned evidence for your new DNA technology to work on.
‘Arthur, you and I will go together to obtain hair samples from Jackie Charles and Dougie Terry. We’ll promise them if we have to that if the tests prove negative the samples will be destroyed afterwards and that no DNA information will be retained.
‘There isn’t a cat’s chance that we’ll get a match from either, but let’s do it just to keep the pressure on them.’
He leaned back in his hard chair. ‘The Boss gave Jackie a good going over last night, but he still couldn’t get near him.’ He paused. ‘In fact, the wee bugger almost had me believing that he didn’t know a thing about Medina’s death. That reminded me that we mustn’t put all our eggs in one basket in this investigation.
‘Where’s the girl Muirhead?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Pamela Masters took her to a friend’s place in Learmonth Terrace,’ said Donaldson.
‘Okay, you and Neil go along and interview her,’ said Martin. ‘As gently as you can, but keep it formal. You don’t need to pull her in to St Leonard’s, but make it clear that it’s more than just a sympathetic chat. Ask her to tell you everything she knows about Medina. Then lean on her just a wee bit.
‘You never know, Medina might have had a rival, someone who fancied Ms Muirhead, with or without her encouragement. And maybe, that rival . . .’
‘Cut up rough, sir?’ said Neil McIlhenney.
30
Alex awoke with a start. The room was hot and clammy from the Cannon Gasmiser, although it was burning only at medium output. The heavy curtains were drawn, and the reading lamp shone over her shoulder, its beam focused on the volume in her lap.
She shook her head, completely disorientated and still slightly woozy, and blinked hard. She looked up at the clock on the wooden mantelpiece, and saw that it showed five minutes before nine.
She stared at the curtained window, her confusion turning into slight alarm. Quickly she put the book to one side, rushed to the window, and threw the curtains wide. She cried out with relief as the light of the Glasgow morning flooded in. ‘Thank the Lord for that. I thought I’d lost a day.’
And then the memories of the night before came flooding back. Supper with her father, the shock of the cine film, his presentation of the trunk . . . and her mother’s diaries.
She jumped as the phone rang. For a moment she thought of letting it go unanswered, but finally she picked it up.
‘Alex?’
‘Andy! Morning, love. Where are you?’
‘I’m at work. I thought you’d have stayed at Bob’s last night. I just called his number, but there was no answer.’
‘No, I decided to come through here.’ She hesitated. ‘I’ve got some studying to do, some intensive reading. I thought I’d tackle it in a one-er over the weekend. You don’t mind, do you? If it’s any consolation, I’ve got my period.’
He laughed. ‘After the conversation I’ve just had with McIlhenney and Donaldson that’s a big consolation, believe me. Look the fact is, I’m going to be tied up for longer than I thought. Maybe I could come through there when I’m finished. You’re alone, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, but . . .’ she hesitated. ‘I really have a lot of studying to do. I think I’m better left on my own. You go out with the lads, or whatever you used to do before you had me hanging around. Er, no. On second thoughts don’t do that!’
She heard him laugh. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll get by, don’t worry. I’ll see you when you’re finished.’
‘Okay. Bye. Love you.’
She put the phone down and wandered through to her small bathroom, peeling off her stale clothes as she walked. She brushed her teeth, and gargled with a blue mint mouthwash, before stepping into a lukewarm shower. Under the strong spray, she hunched her shoulders to send the water cascading down her back, then leaning back she pressed her arms together to channel it to where she felt most sticky.
Fifteen minutes later, in a clean white tee-shirt and panties, and munching a micro-heated croissant, she felt more or less refreshed. She settled back into her chair, and picked up the diary which she had been reading when she fell asleep.
It was the second of the fourteen volumes. The entries were meticulous, in a young but clear hand, with not a single day, or, it seemed, detail missed. Alex looked at the page, and remembered at once why she had put the diary down at that point.
April 21.
Sixteen at last, and what a day it’s been. Mum and Dad were good enough - daft enough - to let me have my party on my own. Campbell came round early and gave me my birthday present. I gave him his, on the carpet in front of the fire. (Well, I’m sixteen now!) I timed him with the second hand on the mantelpiece clock while he was doing it. Seventeen seconds. That is not what it says in the books I’ve read.
Campbell is quite nice, but he’s just like a dog panting around me, and frankly he’s hung like one as well. A Chihuahua though, not a Great Dane. The boy Skinner, though, he’s different! Quiet and broody, doesn’t talk much, but those eyes of his say it all for him. He’s supposed to be a bit straight-laced - according to Alice anyway - but I sense hidden depths there.
I sense more than that too. Bob and I had a dance tonight, me in my tight dress and him in his baggy trousers. That wasn’t a gun he had in his pocket. It was a cannon!
Campbell didn’t like me dancing with him, but what happened to him was his own fault. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was so exciting!! Then Bob stopped Big Zed in his tracks, with just that look. What a pity! I’d have liked to see more. I think Bob was disappointed too, the way Zed chickened out. I only just managed to clean up the carpet before Mum and Dad got in. Imagine, sweet sixteen and they’re fighting over me already!!
Alice says she thinks Bob’s a virgin. She should know. He won’t be for much longer, though, if Myra Graham has anything to do with it!
Alex closed the diary, flushed and flustered, feeling slightly embarrassed, slightly guilty. She fought it by thinking back to her own mid-teens. There had been no sex on the carpet on her sixteenth birthday, but with her
