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Authors: Gillian Galbraith
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straying to his open newspaper.
‘What are you staring at?’ she demanded sharply.
‘Nothing.’
‘Where’s Alistair?’ she snapped, her gaze resting on the copy of the Scotsman. The two police officers shook their heads; neither of them had any idea where he was.
Since she had failed to be promoted to Superintendent, Elaine Bell’s scant store of patience seemed to have dried up completely. Had almost anyone rather than DCI Ranald Bruce pipped her
at the post she might have reconciled herself to remaining at St Leonard’s, but his success stung, like vinegar dripped onto a recent wound. He was, in her view, grossly over-promoted
already.
She, of course, was blind to his political skills, although they were the real secret of his success and the key to her own failure. An early morning phone call from him had set her nerves
jangling. Preoccupied, now replaying their conversation in her head, she heard herself admitting that he would be indeed a ‘new broom’ as he had described himself. Silently, she had
added the observation that he would be ideally suited to the role, being made of wood from the neck upwards.
‘Fine, fine,’ she said, her mind still on other things, ‘he’ll be late as bloody usual. Well, he’ll just have to go and fill in at Gayfield instead of you, Alice,
and you can go to the Hermitage with Eric.’
‘Right.’
‘But what’s happened there?’ the Inspector inquired, stretching his arms high above his head and then standing up.
‘Didn’t I tell you? No? A couple of joggers have found a body in the undergrowth there. One of them phoned half an hour ago. It’s a woman . . . oh, and she’s half-naked.
She may have been raped.’
The bulky and inexperienced WPC stationed at one of the boundaries of the crime scene signalled with her arms, revolving and then crossing them like an uncoordinated windmill.
She was trying to attract the attention of two CID officers heading uphill. As they deviated from their original course, turning towards her, a stooped, bird-like figure peeked out from behind her
billowing raincoat. The smaller woman’s posture betrayed her great age, and she, too, was gesturing at them, frantically flapping a hand to hurry them along. Both women knew that it was
pointless to shout, their voices would be lost in the roar of the gale raging around them. The storm had blown in across the North Sea and was running amok up the east coast, spinning weathercocks,
splintering slates and smashing up yachts in harbours as far apart as Coldingham, Musselburgh and Arbroath. Before dawn it had taken possession of the city and was busy playing with the
inhabitants, turning their umbrellas inside out and rattling their chimney-pots.
‘You go, Alice,’ DI Eric Manson shouted, peeling off, heading instead in the direction of a small group of men that he had just spotted in the distance. They were clustered in a
small circle, the majority of them down on one knee, their heads close together like young children absorbed in a game of marbles. Everything about them suggested that they were with the body.
Suddenly one of them rose, chasing a piece of paper as it bobbed in front of him, caught in an up-draught, his hands outstretched as if beseeching the elements to return his property.
As Alice drew closer to the large policewoman, the old lady dodged in front of her human windbreak, almost blown off her feet as she did so, but determined to get her say in first. One hand was
clamped over her crocheted yellow-ochre bonnet, and from the other swung a nylon dog lead. It was blowing to and fro in the strong gusts as if weightless. Her head, which shook constantly, was sunk
deep into her shoulders. Looking up at Alice like a tortoise from inside its shell, she blinked and said dolefully, ‘Teazel – Teazel’s gone off! I’ll need to get him back.
I’m very sorry.’
‘Where did he leave you?’ Alice asked, leaning towards the woman and trying to project her
‘What are you staring at?’ she demanded sharply.
‘Nothing.’
‘Where’s Alistair?’ she snapped, her gaze resting on the copy of the Scotsman. The two police officers shook their heads; neither of them had any idea where he was.
Since she had failed to be promoted to Superintendent, Elaine Bell’s scant store of patience seemed to have dried up completely. Had almost anyone rather than DCI Ranald Bruce pipped her
at the post she might have reconciled herself to remaining at St Leonard’s, but his success stung, like vinegar dripped onto a recent wound. He was, in her view, grossly over-promoted
already.
She, of course, was blind to his political skills, although they were the real secret of his success and the key to her own failure. An early morning phone call from him had set her nerves
jangling. Preoccupied, now replaying their conversation in her head, she heard herself admitting that he would be indeed a ‘new broom’ as he had described himself. Silently, she had
added the observation that he would be ideally suited to the role, being made of wood from the neck upwards.
‘Fine, fine,’ she said, her mind still on other things, ‘he’ll be late as bloody usual. Well, he’ll just have to go and fill in at Gayfield instead of you, Alice,
and you can go to the Hermitage with Eric.’
‘Right.’
‘But what’s happened there?’ the Inspector inquired, stretching his arms high above his head and then standing up.
‘Didn’t I tell you? No? A couple of joggers have found a body in the undergrowth there. One of them phoned half an hour ago. It’s a woman . . . oh, and she’s half-naked.
She may have been raped.’
The bulky and inexperienced WPC stationed at one of the boundaries of the crime scene signalled with her arms, revolving and then crossing them like an uncoordinated windmill.
She was trying to attract the attention of two CID officers heading uphill. As they deviated from their original course, turning towards her, a stooped, bird-like figure peeked out from behind her
billowing raincoat. The smaller woman’s posture betrayed her great age, and she, too, was gesturing at them, frantically flapping a hand to hurry them along. Both women knew that it was
pointless to shout, their voices would be lost in the roar of the gale raging around them. The storm had blown in across the North Sea and was running amok up the east coast, spinning weathercocks,
splintering slates and smashing up yachts in harbours as far apart as Coldingham, Musselburgh and Arbroath. Before dawn it had taken possession of the city and was busy playing with the
inhabitants, turning their umbrellas inside out and rattling their chimney-pots.
‘You go, Alice,’ DI Eric Manson shouted, peeling off, heading instead in the direction of a small group of men that he had just spotted in the distance. They were clustered in a
small circle, the majority of them down on one knee, their heads close together like young children absorbed in a game of marbles. Everything about them suggested that they were with the body.
Suddenly one of them rose, chasing a piece of paper as it bobbed in front of him, caught in an up-draught, his hands outstretched as if beseeching the elements to return his property.
As Alice drew closer to the large policewoman, the old lady dodged in front of her human windbreak, almost blown off her feet as she did so, but determined to get her say in first. One hand was
clamped over her crocheted yellow-ochre bonnet, and from the other swung a nylon dog lead. It was blowing to and fro in the strong gusts as if weightless. Her head, which shook constantly, was sunk
deep into her shoulders. Looking up at Alice like a tortoise from inside its shell, she blinked and said dolefully, ‘Teazel – Teazel’s gone off! I’ll need to get him back.
I’m very sorry.’
‘Where did he leave you?’ Alice asked, leaning towards the woman and trying to project her
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