The last remnants of the afternoon sunshine had disappeared and, in the gathering darkness, street lights splashed pools of yellow along the Esplanade. McBride watched as a Royal Navy frigate slid soundlessly across the window in front of him, commanding the centre of the river and being pursued on the outgoing tide by a dozen seagulls.
He wondered where the warship was bound. Probably back to Portsmouth. Maybe round the coast to the Forth where the crew would be anticipating a run ashore in Edinburgh. Better if it was heading across the North Sea to Sweden where the women were sure to be more exotic, he mused.
McBride had occupied the seat at the window for an hour. It had been a time of relaxed contemplation, a pastime he excelled at. Next to running, cycling and sex – their order of priority variable – he liked to do nothing, if you called thinking nothing.
That afternoon he had considered many things, but mostly Alison Brown and Ginny Williams – and the supple, soft back of Petra Novak. Although he knew why he had not told his running partner of the morning about Ginny Williams and his unsupported belief that she had shared the same killer as Alison, he still felt strangely guilty. The flexible detective inspector had acquired the indefinable edge of all police officers but she had somehow retained the trusting purity of the schoolgirl who had come calling at his newspaper office in London. His conscience did not trouble him long. He knew he would tell her sometime, probably soon.
McBride finally removed his feet from the window ledge and rose from the high-backed seat where he occasionally also slept. Other things entered his mind. Whether he would dine at home, which was distinctly unlikely since he had only ever mastered the preparation of three different dishes – chilli, fried steak and pasta, all of which he had consumed in the last week – or visit the upstairs restaurant of the Ship Inn half a mile away. That option would give him the excuse of dropping in to The Fort on the way back. He might even find company there – perhaps not as appetising as the delightful Petra but also not the kind who would be looking for a lifetime commitment.
His whimsical deliberations were interrupted abruptly by a sound he did not immediately recognise. It was only when he heard it for the second time that he identified it as the doorbell. It was the first time it had rung since he had moved into the Esplanade flat. Although it had not sounded previously, he knew instinctively that the caller was female. It was not an aggressive or impatient ring. The touch was light, polite, almost apologetic.
His instincts did not let him down. When he pulled the door open, he looked into the face of DI Petra Novak and a smile that was simultaneously innocent and sensual. The sweatshirt of the morning had been replaced by an outfit that exuded chic. She stood before him in a short, simply cut black jacket and matching skirt that stopped two inches above the knee. She looked taller because her black leather shoes had three-inch heels. Her white blouse had an upturned collar and her legs were sheathed in black opaque nylon that, on anybody else, would have looked prudish. On her, they made him wonder about the colour and nature of her underwear.
He cleared his blocked throat as he cursed the discomfort he felt at being caught wearing the same shorts he’d had on that morning. But despite this, he couldn’t hide his pleasure at her unexpected arrival. He did not even think to ask how she knew where he lived.
She was first to speak. ‘Sorry to burst in on you,’ she said, foolishly believing an apology was necessary. ‘It’s just that I was on my way past and I thought I’d update you on our conversation this morning.’
McBride threw the door wide, extending a welcoming arm and gesticulating towards the stairs. ‘Please, come in, please. I was just thinking about you.’
She continued to explain her unannounced arrival. ‘I’m on my way home. It’s better than using the phone.’
McBride nodded. Inwardly he smiled. All police officers are pathologically suspicious, especially about the use of phones – hardly surprising since most calls in and out of headquarters are routinely recorded. Petra might have been being disarmingly open but she was also healthily cautious. By the time she gained another pip on her shoulder, she would be satisfactorily cynical as well.
They climbed the stairs to the sitting room where McBride had been exercising his mind. He began picking up discarded clothing and magazines and tried to put her at ease, forgetting that the room was in almost complete darkness.
‘Grab a seat,’ he said, waving into the gloom.
Her lips parted in a girlish grin. She stretched a hand over her eyebrows, theatrically peering towards the black recesses of the room. ‘OK – just give me a clue about direction.’
They both laughed.
‘Sorry, sorry.’ McBride dashed around, switching on every lamp and stumbling into the corner of a low table. He swore silently again at her ability to make him clumsy.
She dropped on to a sofa and went straight to the point. ‘Right. Answers to your questions – though God knows why I’m providing them. I need my head examined. First, there was beer in Alison Brown’s flat – four cans, two lager, two export – in the fridge. The tie she was strangled with was black, and fairly well worn. The wine was white and, according to the photographs taken of the interiors at the time, the label on the bottle indicated it was a Chardonnay. I checked and it would have cost around six or seven quid a bottle. Don’t know about you but that makes it expensive in my book. Last, and probably least, there didn’t seem to be any music that night. The CD player was switched on but no one had bothered to put a disc in.’ She watched his face, waiting for a reaction to her revelations.
McBride rose quickly from his seat opposite. He did not shout, ‘Yesssss!’ but clapped his hands once. In his excitement, he neglected to say anything by way of thanks.
‘What did I tell you? I knew there would be beer in the flat. A black tie – why black? Morbid bastard …’ McBride was no longer addressing his visitor but conversing with himself.
He rushed a question and without waiting for a reply followed it with another. ‘The photograph – where was the wine bottle? Was it on the table beside Alison Brown’s or her killer’s glass?’
Petra closed her eyes, conjuring up a memory of the photograph. After five seconds, she said, ‘The bottle was at the far end of the table beside the other glass – not Alison’s. What’s the difference?’ She looked baffled.
‘Plenty. If it was down the table, he did the pouring. And, if he did the pouring, the odds are that he brought the wine with him. Just imagine for a moment that Bryan Gilzean was not the killer. Alison Brown is expecting a visitor and is dolled up in high heels and flashy dress. Her caller arrives, bringing wine. Because he brought it, he pours. You’re hardly likely to help yourself in someone else’s house. And the bastard brought something else along as well – a black tie to throttle her with. If Bryan Gilzean had done the strangling and wanted to use a tie, he would have taken off the one he might have been wearing or another one that had been in the house. Either way, there’s little chance it would be a black one – Christ, nobody wears a black tie unless they’re at a funeral. That night it was Alison’s. And whoever attended it was warped enough to bring along the appropriate neckwear. A right sicko.’
Petra had listened in silence, nodding two or three times but waiting for him to finish. ‘Before you ask, the wine bottle had been wiped clean,’ she said finally. ‘No fingerprints, no sweat to take DNA from.’
McBride did not speak for a few moments. Then, almost as much to himself as Petra, he said softly, ‘No music … the CD player on …’ He paused again. ‘Clever guy.’
Petra looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to expand. ‘So?’ she said.
‘So, he brought his own disc,’ McBride said. ‘And it didn’t contain music. I’ll give you top odds it was something he’d recorded himself. Off one of the TV soaps.’
She still looked baffled.
‘He needed the neighbours to think Alison and Bryan Gilzean had argued so he invented it. All he had to do was wait for a soap couple to fall out – which they do all the time – then record it. Played back at the right volume, it would sound exactly like the occupants of a nearby flat having a row. Neighbours never hear the actual words in these situations – just the angry voices.’
Petra looked impressed. ‘OK, it all fits,’ she said, ‘except for his semen, hair and prints …’
‘Jesus, Petra, we’ve been there. You know there could be an explanation for all that,’ he protested, ignoring that he could not satisfactorily provide it.
She shrugged. ‘The theory’s not bad – I’ll give you that – but that’s all it is. Find the proof.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to work on it.’
McBride remembered his manners at last. ‘I’m sorry.’ He spread his hands, seeking forgiveness. ‘I haven’t even thanked you for all that. You’ve been fantastic.’ He hesitated. ‘Look, I was thinking about eating. Can I buy you a meal to show my appreciation?’ He looked at her expectantly.
‘I’d love to but not tonight, I’m afraid – I’m due back on duty in just over an hour.’
She moved towards the door leading to the stairs. It was her turn to hesitate. ‘If you really want to show your gratitude, you can give me a few running tips sometime. I’m running a half marathon in twelve weeks and need all the help I can get. They tell me you’re an expert. True?’
McBride smirked in satisfaction. ‘You’re addressing a sub-three-hour marathon man,’ he responded too quickly. It was one of his proudest achievements.
‘So, any chance?’ She looked at him hopefully.
‘You’re on,’ he said, knowing it would not be a chore.
On reaching downstairs, he walked with her to her car. McBride did not know what she drove but headed towards a silver Volkswagen parked on the opposite side of the road. It just fitted – stylish, dependable, classy. Petra stopped beside it.
When she opened the driver’s door, she did not immediately enter the vehicle but paused, turning towards him with an expression that said she was not sure how she would phrase what she was about to say. ‘Look, Campbell,’ she began, picking her words, ‘I can’t be seen to be getting involved in any reinvestigation of the Brown case. Without any kind of evidence, it’s a non-starter as far as we’re concerned. Any interference from me would go down like a lead balloon so you’re on your own. But, for what it’s worth, one of our guys heard a bit later, after the trial, that Alison Brown might not have been the Mother Teresa some folk made her out to be.’
McBride raised his eyebrows but said nothing, waiting for her to expand.
Petra hesitated again. ‘I’m not saying she was a tart but, from what I gather, she was said to discreetly put it about a little bit. Nothing too regular – but, by all accounts, she was happy enough to have a touch of variety from time to time. That doesn’t make her Public Enemy Number One but it might help explain a couple of things.’
McBride nodded. ‘Such as?’
‘Such as the reason she and Bryan Gilzean had argued before she died.’
‘Sure, but it might explain something else as well,’ McBride said.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes. That she had one of her “discreet” friends to visit that night. And that “friend” was the one who choked the life out of her.’
Petra slowly moved her head up and down. ‘I know. It’s a possibility. It’s also a possibility that it gave Bryan Gilzean the motive to do what they convicted him of.’
McBride looked at her intently. ‘You don’t sound too convinced.’
She did not reply but sat in the car and turned the key in the ignition. The engine of the Volkswagen burst softly to life, waiting to be kicked to a louder response. The attractive woman behind the wheel obliged, stabbing the accelerator pedal twice and moving the gear stick into first. But she did not complete the procedure to engage the engine. Instead, she slid the stick back to neutral.
She looked up at McBride. Once more she spoke with something approaching reluctance. ‘OK, naturally we checked out the “other man” theory before the trial and it didn’t produce any kind of lead. But – and I’m not a hundred per cent on this – I get the distinct impression we may not have been quite as energetic on that aspect of the investigation as we could have been. Minds were probably closed because we thought we had the bloke responsible locked up.’ Her expression was apologetic, as though the oversight had been hers. ‘There’s something else,’ she continued.
McBride waited.
‘Adam Gilzean was aware of Alison Brown’s occasional infidelities.’
‘What?’
‘He seemed pretty clued-up according to a statement he gave us. He came to see us to say he’d learned that there had been at least one other man in Alison Brown’s life at some unknown time and wanted us to reopen the case.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. His son had been found guilty and there wasn’t a shred of evidence putting someone else in the frame. We had better things to do.’
McBride’s mind weighed the new information. ‘Why wouldn’t he have told me that?’ he said. It wasn’t a question to Petra but himself.
She shrugged.
He spoke again to himself. ‘Why not tell me?’
She pulled the car door shut and drove slowly away from the kerb. The Volkswagen was 100 yards away before McBride was aware it had moved off. Belatedly he raised a hand in farewell. Petra watched his embarrassment in her driving mirror. She allowed herself a smile. Without turning she lifted an answering hand.
But McBride did not see it. Inwardly he seethed. Why on earth had the man chosen to stifle information that might have helped eliminate his son as a murderer? Just what was Gilzean up to?