The woman snorted. 'Easy amused then. And I'm no beggar, by the way.'
Clarke took a step forward. 'Wouldn't it heat up quicker if you opened it?'
'Eh?'
'Heat the inside rather than the outside.'
'You saying I'm cack-handed?'
'No, I just...'
'I mean, you're the world expert, are you? Lucky for me you just happened to be passing. Got fifty pence on you?'
'Yes, thanks.'
The woman snorted again. 'I make the jokes around here.' She took an exploratory bite of the burger, spoke with her mouth full.
'I didn't catch that,' Clarke said.
The woman swallowed. 'I was asking if you were a lesbian. Men who hang around toilets are poofs, aren't they?'
'You're hanging around a toilet.'
'I'm no lesbian, by the way.' She took another bite.
'Ever come across a guy called Mackie? Chris Mackie?'
'Who's asking?'
Clarke produced her warrant card. ' You know Chris is dead?'
The woman stopped chewing. Tried swallowing but couldn't, ended up coughing the mouthful out on to the floor. She went to one of the sinks, cupped water to her mouth. Clarke followed her.
'He jumped from North Bridge. I'm assuming you knew him?'
The woman was staring into the soap-flecked mirror. The eyes, though dark and knowing, were so much younger and less worn than the face. Clarke placed the woman in her mid-thirties, but knew that on a bad day she could pass for fifty.
'Everybody knew Mackie.'
'Not everybody's reacted the way you just did.'
The woman was still holding her burger. She stared at it. seemed about to ditch it, but finally wrapped it up again and placed it at the top of one of her bags.
'I shouldn't be so surprised,' she said. 'People die all the time.'
But he was your friend?'
The woman looked at her. 'Gonny buy me a cup of tea?' Clarke nodded.
The nearest cafe wouldn't take them. When pressed, the manager pointed to the woman and said she'd caused trouble, trying to beg at the tables. There was another cafe further along.
'I'm barred there as well,' the woman admitted. So Clarke went in, fetched two beakers of tea and a couple of sticky buns. They sat in Hunter Square, stared at by passengers on the top decks of the passing buses. The woman flicked the Vs from time to time, dissuading the spectators.
'I'm a bad bugger, me.' she confided.
Clarke had her name now: Dezzi. Short for Desiderata. Not her real name: 'Left that behind when I left home.'
'And when was that, Dezzi?'
'I don't remember. A lot of years now, I suppose.'
'You always been in Edinburgh?'
A shake of the head. 'All over. Last summer I ended up on a bus to some commune in Wales. Christ knows how that happened. Got a fag?'
Clarke handed one over. 'Why did you leave home?'
'Like I said, nosy little beggar.'
'All right, what about Chris?'
'I always called him Mackie.'
'What did he call you?'
'Dezzi.' She stared at Clarke. 'Is that you trying to find out my last name?'
Clarke shook her head. 'Cross my heart.'
'Oh aye, a cop's as honest as the day is long.'
'It's true.'
'Only, this time of year the days are awfy short,' Clarke laughed. T walked into that one.' She'd been trying to work out if Dezzi knew about Mackie, knew about the detective who was asking about him. Knew about the story in the News. 'So what can you tell me about Mackie?'
'He was my boyfriend, just for a few weeks.' The sudden, unexpected smile lit up her face. 'Wild weeks they were, mind.'
'How wild?'
An arch look. 'Enough to get us arrested. I'm saying no more than that.' She bit into her bun. She was alternating: mouthful of bun, puff on the cigarette.
'Did he tell you anything about himself?'
'He's dead now, what does it matter?'
'It matters to me. Why would he kill himself?'
'Why does anyone?'
'You tell me.'
A slurp of tea. 'Because you give in.'
'Is that what he did, give in?'
'All the shite out here...' Dezzi shook her head. 'I tried it once, cut my wrists with a bit of glass. Eight stitches.' She turned one wrist as if to show it, but Clarke couldn't see any scars. 'Couldn't have been serious, could I?'
Clarke was well aware that a great many homeless people were ill; not physically, but mentally. She had a sudden thought: could she trust any stories Dezzi told her?
'When did you last see Mackie?'
'Maybe a couple of weeks back.'
'How did he seem?'
'Fine.' She pushed the last morsel of bun into her mouth. Washed it down with tea, before concentrating on the cigarette.
'Dezzi, did you really know him?'
'What?'
'You haven't told me one thing about him.'
Dezzi prickled. Clarke feared she would walk off. 'If he meant something to you,' Clarke went on, 'help me get to know him.'
'Nobody knew Mackie, not really. Too many defences.'
'But you got past them?'
'I don't think so. He told me a few stories... but I think that's all they were.'
'What sort of stories?'
'Oh, all about places he'd been - America, Singapore, Australia. I thought maybe he'd been in the navy or something, but he said he hadn't.'
'Was he well educated?'
'He knew things. I'm positive he'd been to America, not sure about the others. He knew London, though, all the tourist places and the underground stations. When I first met him...'
'Yes?' Clarke was shivering; couldn't feel her toes.
'I don't know, I got the feeling he was just passing through. Like, there was somewhere else he could go.'
'But he didn't?'
'No.'
'Are you saying he was homeless by choice rather than necessity?'
