The evening paper seemed to think that it did.' New Town Funeral Pyre for Plastics Boss' concentrated on the charring and disfigurement of Saxon's body, managing to use the phrase 'barely recognizable' three times in the story. For the first time the police admitted publicly that they had been looking for Saxon in connection with their enquiries into the death of Neil Munro. The simple statement invited the public to draw their own conclusions, the very reason they made it, thought Fenton. No mention was made of the sex angle however, something that made Jenny suggest cynically that the police were going to sell it to the Sundays. She was wrong. The tabloids got it on the following morning and made a meal of it with, 'Sex Secrets of New Town Basement.'
No 'secrets' were actually revealed but the suggestion of homosexuality and the persistent use of the word 'apparatus' was enough to alter the nature of the crime for the law abiding citizens of Edinburgh. Outrage at the murder became muted. The unspoken view that this was an affair that God-fearing folk were better off not knowing about became the prevalent one. Some perverted creature from a strange twilight world had got his just deserts. I'll make the cocoa Agnes, you put out the cat.
Fenton could not help but feel that the police had orchestrated the whole thing and it had worked. The pressure was off them for, to all public intents and purposes, they had tracked down Neil Munro's killer and he was dead, better than a conviction for the rate payers. As for Saxon's killer? They would go through the motions, follow routine but there was very little pressure on them this time. No one cared about Saxon or his seedy society. At least this was what Fenton had concluded but he had to change his mind when the police issued a description of two men that they wanted to interview in connection with the New Town murder.
Fenton held his breath as he listened to the descriptions. Two men aged between twenty and thirty, one six feet tall and dark, the other slightly shorter with fair hair and broad shoulders. Both had been seen leaving the area of the basement flat on the night in question
Fenton's first instinct was to phone Steve Kelly but he talked himself out of it, deciding that it was a panic reaction. Kelly phoned him. There was nothing really to say.
Kelly phoned again in the evening just after eight when Jenny was leaving for the hospital. 'We've got trouble,' he said and Fenton's heart sank. Jenny, who had been in the act of leaving, paused in the doorway and said, 'Should I wait?'
'No,' said Fenton. 'Just go, see you in the morning.'
Jenny threw him a kiss and closed the door behind her.
'What trouble?' asked Fenton.
'Fiona Duncan called me. She pointed out that 'The White Horse' is very near Lymon Place and I've got fair hair and broad shoulders.'
'Just what we needed,' muttered Fenton, trying to think at the same time.
'I'm sorry about this,' said Kelly.
'I think we had better go to the police before they come to us.' said Fenton.
'Do you think if I strangled Fiona I could ask for one other case to be taken into consideration?'
'I'll come round to your place,' said Fenton.
Fenton apologised to Mary Kelly for having got her husband into his present predicament but she was in a less than forgiving mood and her look came straight from the freezer. As they left Kelly gave his wife a peck on the cheek and said, 'See you later.'
Don't bet on it, thought Fenton.
'Good evening sir,' said the desk sergeant, expecting a lost dog story.
'I think you are looking for us,' said Fenton, feeling as if he were throwing away a key.
The sergeant stared at them until he saw a six foot tall dark man accompanied by a shorter man with fair hair. 'Good God,' he said and lifted the telephone. Jamieson was summoned from home.
Fenton and Kelly were held separately during the wait, each accompanied by a silent constable. Fenton found his room oppressively quiet and free from distraction, furnished only with a table and four chairs and painted in institutional pastel green. At least the table creaked when he put his elbows on it and, in this respect, it was more communicative than the constable. There was a vaguely unpleasant smell of disinfectant about the place, something that made Fenton wonder why it had been necessary to use it in the first place. It conjured up visions of lice and filth and vomit and generally added to his feelings of unease.
'Any chance of a cup of tea?' he asked.
The constable shook his head mutely.
An awful thought struck Fenton. As yet, no one had asked for his name or any other details. Everything was being saved for Jamieson. It would be a surprise for him when he walked through the door. He wondered what he would say.
'Oh Christ! This is all I needed,' said Jamieson. 'Mr smart-arse Fenton.
Fenton struggled to adopt the right facial expression but couldn't find it. Aggression was out, definitely out in the circumstances, but contriteness went against the grain, especially with Jamieson. He settled for something along the lines of a British tourist being harangued by a foreign official in a language that he did not understand.
Jamieson finished his opening salvo and settled down to enjoying his work. He was going to play this particular fish for a while.
'Why did you do it Fenton? Revenge? Was that it? He cooked your mate, you cooked him?'
Fenton spluttered out a denial but the truth was that he had not seen the poetic justice angle. Things were even worse than he thought.
'How long have you been a practising homosexual Fenton?'
Fenton clenched his fists.
'Is that why you got beaten up in that pub Fenton…in the toilets wasn't it?'
Fenton made for him. The constable dived in to restrain him while Jamieson just smiled.
Jamieson was in his element, he had not had so much fun for ages. He ran rings round Fenton, laughing away denials, playing him out, reeling him in, digging the hook in deeper until, at last, he saw the fight in Fenton begin to subside. It was always the moment he enjoyed most. He brought his face close to Fenton's and said threateningly, 'Let me tell you this laddie, it gets very boring being taken for a mug by every half-arse who's seen The Pink Panther. You might just ponder on the fact that Nigel Saxon would be alive today if you had contacted us as soon as he called you. Fenton pondered the fact.
Fenton and Kelly were released at a quarter past midnight, a sober and wiser pair. They exchanged stories of their questioning as they walked down the High Street to collect Kelly's car. 'Do you know, he suggested I was queer,' complained Kelly. Fenton managed to summon up a smile in the darkness while a distant clap of thunder echoed over the roof tops. 'Bloody rain,' he said.
Fenton went back to the Kellys' flat where Mary Kelly was waiting up. She seemed much happier to see Fenton this time and apologised for her earlier frostiness. Fenton said that it had been understandable.
'So what happened?' asked Mary Kelly.
'We got our bottoms smacked,' replied Kelly.
'About sums it up,' agreed Fenton.
Mary Kelly went to bed leaving Fenton and Kelly drinking whisky and mulling over the past two days.
'Did Saxon kill Neil Munro or didn't he?' asked Kelly.
Fenton tilted his glass slowly from side to side, keeping the fluid level horizontal. 'It pains me to say it but I think he might have been innocent. I think he was about to shop the real murderer when he got killed for his trouble. The killer must have got wind of what he planned to do and turned up early.'
'The same man who called on Sandra Murray?' suggested Kelly.
'He could have killed Saxon but not Neil. The killer must have been in the lab when Neil discovered the truth about Saxon plastic. It couldn't have been a stranger.
'You do realise what you are saying?' said Kelly softly.
Fenton nodded. 'If the killer wasn't Saxon it must be someone in the lab. Someone who primed the fair haired man to ask the right questions. Someone who knew what would happen when you added hydrochloric acid to potassium cyanide…'
The thought put both men to silence.
'But why?' asked Kelly.
Fenton shook his head.
