Fall From Grace

Rachel gazed at him. He was still stark naked and she now clothed. His body was fleshy, like a butcher’s boy, but sleek and oily to the touch.

She was the client and he the whore.

A thrill of power ran through her and she flicked at the nipple of his chest with her forefinger. His lips parted slightly but he seemed much at home in his natural state, unlike all the other men she’d ever known.

On impulse she ran her mouth up against his, tongue darting in and out like a snake then glanced down and giggled to see the result of her labours.

‘Go and earn your corn,’ he said, though his voice had thickened slightly. ‘Not long now.’

‘Not long now,’ Rachel repeated.

The door shut. And she was gone.

Garvie pursed his full lips and blew out a little breath. A bead of sweat ran down from his hairline in defiance of the season.

‘She’ll be the death of me,’ he muttered, then grinned suddenly, walked to the window and pulled back the curtains to gaze out at a sea mist that was beginning to cover the scene before him, spreading out from the direction of the docks. To confirm the fact, a fog-bell sounded faintly in the distance coming from the lighthouse at the end of the West Pier.

Everything was in hand. All papers and documentation for the claim had been sent for the considered judgement of the insurance adjuster.

Robert Forbes.

Twenty thousand pounds.

Oliver opened the window and shivered as the dank air made contact with his skin. What did he have to fear?

Everything was in hand.

Including Jean Brash.

Must remember to get the sheets changed, he thought; women can smell each other a mile off, not that Rachel minded, she was devoid of jealousy. Like himself.

Not like that dolt of a constable, green to the gills because Garvie had flirted a little with a compliant Emily Forbes at one of the musical soirees; basically a cattle market for eligible bachelors where hopeful daughters of even more hopeful parents displayed their cultural and other wares. All for sale.

Emily was a child. Not worth the pain.

Everything was in hand, yet two separate images clicked into his mind.

One, the black charred corpse.

And two, the moment when that police inspector had laid out the prospect of justice before him. The fellow’s eyes for a moment resembled those of a wolf and Oliver had found the examination oddly disconcerting. Just as well he played the cards. A poker face is a useful acquisition.

McLevy had a reputation. No mercy, high or low. Best keep out of the man’s way as much as possible.

Oliver Garvie gazed out once more. The outlines were getting blurred. Just how he liked it.

13

Ah, my little son, thou hast murdered thy mother!

SIR THOMAS MALORY,

Le Morte D’Arthur

A howl like a soul in torment rang through the station, coming from the direction of the cold room, bringing Roach speeding out of his room and causing Constable Ballantyne to wince in sympathy.

‘What in God’s name is going on, constable?’

Ballantyne’s mark of birth pulsed an even deeper red, a sure sign that the young man was suffering some shred of compassion. Roach, on the other hand, looked much the same as usual. Buttoned up against raw weather.

‘I think it might be a mother’s grief, sir.’

‘Mothers?’ said Roach. ‘What have mothers to do with anything?’

Another howl sent him to the cold room door, which he cautiously opened to peer inside.

Three figures stood frozen, as if arranged in a tableau for a photograph or some painting by one of these French realists that were starting to infect the world with their hellish visions.

The Decay of Death, or some such dross.

Roach observed an old woman, both hands up to her head, mouth open. McLevy stood beside, eyes fixed upon her, not a shred of fellow feeling on his face, and Mulholland, on the other side of the cold slab, held the sheet in one hand as if he was about to perform some magic trick as opposed to uncovering a twisted, blackened corpse.

Mary Rough looked down at the body and the words finally found their way out of her rigid, clenched mouth.

‘Oh, my poor wee lamb, oh my God, he’s putrid burnt!’

Another heartrending wail caused Roach to flinch; he signalled at the inspector to come out and closed the door hurriedly.

McLevy gave Mulholland the nod to cover up the cadaver and scrutinised Mary as she put her head back into her hands and sobbed quietly.

Yet, when they had visited her in Horse Wynd, where she kept a single room in one of the closes, he had been struck by a certain evasiveness in her reaction to their queries.

I havenae seen him for days. A wild spark but a good boy. What has he done, now?

He’s been playing with fire, Mary.

Burnt himself to a crisp, ma’am.

Oh, god grant not. Not my wee boy, not my darling son!

The flames make no allowance. Darling or not.

But, how could it be?

Maybe somebody tipped him the word. To do a chore.

Whit kind of chore?

Break into a tobacco warehouse, ma’am.

And maybe it wasn’t the only chore. A wild spark, eh?

I don’t follow, inspector.

Are you sure of that?

I am.

And is that all you have to say?

I know nothing, inspector.

You will come with us to the station cold room. And view the body.

God grant it’s no’ my wee boy. God grant it so.

But all God had granted was his usual, now you see it now you don’t. Good and evil men were dying all over the world for no discernible reason. There’s nae justice.

Mary took her hands away from her face to find McLevy’s eyes drilling into hers. She may have been relying on some leeway as the broken-hearted mother but, from the looks of the inspector, there was little of that on offer.

‘Fire is the very devil, eh Mary?’ he said. ‘And your son dined out on flames.’