have is which bucket to be sick in.’
He had laid a small mother-of-pearl box on the table; it was a pinky-white colour which took on some of the radiance of the moonlight coming in through the window pane.
McLevy blew upon the casing and wiped away a minuscule speck of dirt with the tissue. He concentrated his gaze as if the box contained some deep secret and seemed to have completely lost interest in their conversation.
‘Mae Donnachie, how did she die?’ Joanna prompted.
‘Split to the bone.’
‘Did you find the murderer?’
‘Not a trace.’
He straightened up and smiled. ‘But you would know that, surely?’
She avoided his eyes for the moment. She was beginning to catch on to his methods. Always keep the subject off balance, come in from an angle, break up the rhythms, truly the fellow was more devious than appearances warranted.
‘You must have found something?’ she ventured.
‘A man was seen running through St Andrews Street, towards the Kirkgate. Well dressed, a fine head of hair.’
‘Hair?’
‘He was seen from above, through a dirty window by an auld wifie on her last legs.’
He laughed but there was a bitter edge.
‘So far gone, she didnae even mind talking to the police. We knocked on every door, stuck our heads to places a starving dog wouldnae creep in to die. We’d have talked to the very rats themselves, had they but been witness.’
‘It sounds a personal quest.’
‘You might put it that way.’
He was now looking at her with a measure of hostility. That suited Joanna just fine.
‘So the result of your labours, was … nothing?’
‘A drunkart claimed he saw a man o’ that ilk, but the fellow was in delirium with bad whisky, kill-me-deadly, he would have sold his birthright for another drink.’
‘Which you gave him?’
A wolfish grin.
‘The price we had to pay, Miss Lightfoot. The price we had to pay. He claimed the man near jumped over him where he lay on the ground. The man was clad in black, a red stain all down his front. He didnae glimpse the face. The man ran off towards the Maris Chapel on Constitution Street.’
‘But you did not believe him? This … drunkard?’
‘Oh, I entered into the Catholic church right enough, Sergeant Cameron wouldnae go near the place. Just built. New. Ye could smell the Pope everywhere. There was a young priest, Father Callan. I made enquiries of him but he could not help me. Ye know these Romans, the confession box or bugger all else. And the place was white as snow, the only red was the altar wine.’
He laughed but he had a memory of Father Callan’s face, a soft moonlike priestly visage though the eyes were honest enough. And there might have been something hidden in them. Obscured by the calling. A shadow on the wall. He’d pressed the priest as hard as he could but came up against a profound, sanctified silence.
Of course he was only a constable then, but even now, at the height of his considerable powers, he doubted if the little priest would have told him more. A Catholic silence is like no other.
‘So you ended up with bugger all?’
‘Precisely.’
If she had hoped to knock him back by repeating the swearword, it had no discernible effect.
‘It wasnae much to begin with, but the trail died that night. The man had vanished.’
She thought that he would say more, but nothing came. The room was utterly still. Rooted to the spot.
Sadie Gorman’s body on the slab. McLevy wondered then, had the past come back to haunt him. Time would tell.
‘The location of this … dreadful murder. Mae Donnachie. Was it … nearhand to the … recent event?’
‘Oh, aye. Back of the Markets. A few streets between them. Thirty years and a stone’s throw.’
‘And the present … victim. Was she also young?’
‘Sadie Gorman?’ he laughed suddenly. ‘I don’t think she would describe herself as such. She was at the other end o’ the sliding scale.’
He laid his hand on the mother-of-pearl box, and ran his fingers gently over the surface. ‘That would appear to be me, Miss Lightfoot. Now how about yourself?’
‘What lies in the box?’ she asked.
Make him wait. Make him wait.
‘Relics.’
He opened it and brought forth a broken white feather that he held carefully between thumb and forefinger.
‘This came from Sadie Gorman. She wore it in her hair. A silent witness.’
He held it up.
‘As you can see, it has also suffered injury. The proud head chopped off.’
Joanna showed little interest. He returned the feather to the box.
‘And this?’ He produced the fragment of black material. ‘This was clutched in Mae Donnachie’s hand. A remnant. A killer’s legacy.’
Her face went white at the sight of the scrap of fabric. She jerked forward convulsively and almost snatched it out of his hand, fingers trembling, holding it up to her eyes by the light of the fire.
For a moment he feared that she would throw it into the flames and tensed to hit her arm a blow which would divert any such intention, but after a moment she seemed to come to a decision. She handed the scrap back and spoke quietly.
‘Could that have … come from a stock? Such as would cover a finger, or part of a hand?’
‘I had thought about that. Not a glove; the material is too fine for that. Perhaps a stocking, or a cravat, a scarf of sorts even, but … it might be part of such a covering.’
He scrupulously replaced both relics inside the box and closed the lid.
‘Why do you ask, Miss Lightfoot. What is on your mind?’
‘What if I told you a story, inspector?’
‘I like stories,’ said McLevy. ‘But I don’t always believe them.’
‘I don’t ask for belief,’ she replied. ‘All I desire is that you listen and form your own opinion.’
She crossed back to the leather chair in front of the fire and sat herself down. McLevy warily followed suit to ensconce himself in the sister armchair opposite which had, however, a broken spring jabbing into his backside. They faced each other like subjects at a seance.
She thus began. In the manner of a story.
‘This is about a man who sat in a railway compartment with his daughter’s coffin, all the way from Euston to his own father’s house in the northern slopes of the Mearns, between Dundee and Aberdeen. A long, long journey.
‘The girl was five years old. Her name was Jessy. The medical explanation for her death was meningitis. She had lingered most cruelly for two weeks, until,’ a deep, bitter note entered the voice, ‘she was compassionately taken by her Saviour into the fold of his peace.’
‘That’s nice,’ said McLevy.
‘His own words. Please refrain from interruption.’
He glanced longingly at the empty coffee pot. This could take for ever, he’d never yet known a woman frugal in expression, their details tended to multiply like the Hydra’s teeth.
She continued. ‘He closed the blinds down in the compartment, so that he could be alone with her and his thoughts. His Christian thoughts.
‘But suppose his mind shifted and the demons came to feast? What if his sins had caused her death? What if
