Festival of Murder by Ross Macfarlane KC, Chapter 18: What Did You Learn from All of This?

Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane | Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane

Ten minutes (and a copious number of apologies) later Wood’s phone had (a) been set up to receive a video WhatsApp call and (b) had finally stored Katharine Livingstone’s name/number.

On screen, Katharine was in her white lab coat and was showing Wood the old lady’s body on the slab. ‘It was the feet that bothered me. Let’s have a look…’ Wood was tempted to say: ‘I’d rather not, thank you,’ but the forensic examiner had called to inform him of the latest developments in the Lady in Red case, so he couldn’t really say ‘No’.

Dr Livingstone angled her phone/camera so that it focused on the feet of the deceased lady. She lifted the sheet, exposing the soles. Wood winced when he saw the collection of what looked like an array of painful corns and craters on those feet. It reminded him of Neil Armstrong landing on the moon.

Katharine held a pencil to the soles of the feet: ‘So here are some pretty unpleasant looking plantar corns near the metatarsal heads – ‘clavi’ or ‘helomata’ as we would call them in the trade…’

Wood nodded: ‘Yup. The cleaning lady said the ‘The Lady in Red’ was plagued with them.’

Katharine nodded: ‘She would have been. Painful stuff. But we have a new addition to the family here. Look.’ She took the stick and pointed to one of the depressions in the sole of the foot. One with a darker rim.

Wood was getting a bit bilious by this time: ‘Nasty!’

Katharine smiled: ‘Nasty indeed - ‘But this is not a corn.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘This is an electricity exit wound.’ The medical examiner angled the phone to her own face now to speak to Wood. ‘The reason why the lady’s heart stopped was because her system received an electrical shock. The cause of death here was that Mrs Bryant had been electrocuted…’

‘Electrocuted?’

‘It still happens. With the older generation, it’s mostly with badly-wired old lamps and things like that.’

Wood frowned, processing what he had just been told. Livingstone continued: ‘Now, I looked at the crime scene photos. That antique lamp on the table. I take it that the lamp was thoroughly checked as part of the investigation?’

*****

‘So – you’ll understand that we had to examine the antique lamp as part of the investigation…’

Same interview room with the plastic chairs and the imitation wood table. Except, this time, on the other side of the table, it was not Alex Bryant, it was the cleaner, Mrs Mags Hampton.

Maddy Price leaned in: ‘Can you guess what we found?’

Mags Hampton was not young person. Mags Hampton was not an educated person. But Mags Hampton was not a stupid person. Her mouth smiled, even if her eyes didn’t: ‘I don’t know, dear. Was it like “The Antiques Road Show” kind of thing?’

‘It was the lamp that killed her.’

Hampton feigned surprise: ‘Somebody hit her over the heid wi’ a lamp???’

The detective remained calm: ‘The wiring, Mrs Hampton. The wiring was defective. Mrs Bryant was killed by an electric shock. From the lamp.’

Mags Hampton sat back in her chair: ‘Nothin’ to do wi’ me, hen, I’m a cleaner, not a ‘spark’…’

‘But you already told us that it was your son, Wee Andy, who did the electrical fuses for Mrs Bryant. Remember?’

Hampton was staring at the floor now. Obviously cornered. She shook her head: ‘Naw. I remember now. Andy never touched that lamp. I think it was new.’

Wally Wood saw an opening: ‘Mags, Mags – look at me. I know that you’ll do anything for your son but now is not the time for lying.’

‘I’m not lying…’

‘Mags, you’ve already lied to us. You said that you were not at the flat your usual Wednesday morning when Mrs Bryant came out of the window. That was a lie…’

‘I told you – I never went - I thought I had The Covid…’

‘Mags, you came to her flat as normal. And you found her dead on the floor with that lamp beside her, and you knew what that meant.’

‘I never…’

‘You see - we know you were there. You told us yourself - Rose Bryant - was - what was the word you used - ‘slovenly’ - but I saw the flat the day she had her fall - and it was absolutely immaculate. If it had been left for a week, according to you it would have been a ‘tip’…’

‘I don’t know what you’re trying to say here…’

Wood leaned in: ‘Do you know what the clincher was, Mags? It was the clock. That old clock on the mantelpiece – it was bang on time. To the minute. You know those old clocks. If it hadn’t been wound up for a week, then it would have been running slow, wouldn’t it?’ You said so yourself.’

Mags Hampton shifted her bulk in her seat. Wallce Wood leaned in: ‘A newly-wound clock. And an immaculate house. Mags - I could still smell the furniture polish! Oh - you were there that morning. This has your fingerprints all over it. Literally.’

The burly cleaner said nothing for a time, then: ‘If I admit to it, then will my Andy get into trouble? For the lamp business, like.’

Maddy leaned in: ‘If it was an honest mistake, Mags, then we’ll see what we can do.’

Mags Hampton sighed: ‘I got there and I took one look and there she was - lying on the floor. I was a nurse for that many years. I know a dead body when I see it.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I heard a kind of scuffling at the front door. It was somebody putting a key in the lock. So I took my bucket and I went and hid in that big walk-in press just off the lounge. The person came in. They must have saw what I saw. But they never did anything. I never saw who it was. They went into the bedroom, then they left.’

Wood nodded. The cleaner’s story accorded with the fact that Rose’s son, Alex had paid a short visit to the flat that morning. ‘And what happened then?’

‘Well, I was in shock, like. I needed time to think. I didn’t ken what to do. I needed time to think. So I did what I always do…’

Wood frowned: ‘Which was what?’

A pause, then: ‘I wound up the clock. And I started polishing…’

*****

‘So - we know what happened to your mum.’

The cramped dressing room at The Counting House was even more cramped than usual as Maddy Price, Wally Wood and Alex Bryant sat there. Bryant had now installed a large mirror in that tiny room with a circle of lightbulbs and was doing his make-up.

Bryant sat with his back to Wood and Price and stared into the mirror, brushing mascara onto his left eyelashes with a small wand.

Bryant dipped the brush into a little bottle: ‘Then you’ll know that it had nothing to do with me.’

‘Do you want to know what happened to her?’

Bryant was silent for a moment. Applying mascara to one eye only. *Dab*dab*dab*: ‘It was the cleaner, wasn’t it?’

Wood was visibly taken aback: ‘How did you…’

‘Have you seen the hands on that Mags Hampton? Like shovels. And she used to be a nurse. She’ll be used to lifting bodies and chucking them about.’’ *Dab*dab*dab* ‘Probably lifted up the body with her pinky.’ Bryant turned round to face them: ‘What did she do it for?’

‘Her son…’

‘Ah - the blessed Andy…’

“Her son had wired the old lamp and it was defective wiring, so…’

Bryant completed the sentence: ‘So your woman - Mags Hampton – found my mum on the floor – saw the lamp – put two and two together – then threw my old mum out of the window – make it look like suicide - to take the heat off her beloved son.’ He exhaled sharply: ‘What a woman. What a mother. She would do anything for that boy.’ He turned back to the mirror: ‘I met him once. Andy. And you know – he was nothing special. So, what now? Are they going to prosecute the cleaner?’ *Dab*dab*dab*. ‘Or give her the ‘Mother of the Year’ award?’

Neither Wood nor Maddy Price knew the answer at this stage, so made no answer. Instead, Maddy asked: ‘What were you doing there that morning? You said you hadn’t seen your mother in years.’

Bryant looked in the mirror and ran the fingers of his left hand through his hair extension: ‘I got a text a couple of days before.’ He reached into his pocket and produced his phone. ‘It was from her.’ He scrolled through, then held it up so that they could read the text: Have just seen that disgusting poster for your so-called “show”. You have made us both a laughing stock. You have no talent. STOP NOW.

Alex Bryant shrugged: ‘I was so angry. How dare she. I stewed for a couple of days. Then, on the Wednesday morning, I was out on the Royal Mile with all the gear on – handing out flyers, you know - and I just…I suppose…I walked and walked up and down and - do you know those times where you just walk yourself into a temper?’

The interviewers had no idea what he was talking about, but they nodded anyway to keep the narrative flowing.

‘I thought - well, if you didn’t like the poster, you old witch, then wait til you see the real thing in the flesh! I went up the stairs and was going to shout ‘ta-da’ when she opened the door. No answer - but she always left the key under the mat, so...’

Wood leaned in again. ‘What did you see when you went in?’

Alex Bryant paused. No-one was expecting this, but he began to choke and his eyes filled with tears. Maddy Price scraped around in her bag and produced a paper hanky.

Bryant took it with a sniff.

‘Thank you. I was just so…just so angry with her. But I walked in and there she was. Lying there, cold. And alone. My mum. My poor old mum.’ For a moment, he froze in the memory, then: ‘My old mum. I had to get out of there.’

Maddy looked up: ‘But - before you left - you took away a painting? From the bedroom?

‘It was a picture. It was an old photograph. Framed.’

He scrolled through his phone again and held it up: a capture of a faded photograph inside a gold frame. A happy wee boy - pre-school? - at the seaside with a bucket and spade. And leaning into the photo, a lady (in her thirties). Smiling. Proud.

Bryant looked at the photo: ‘I still remember that day. I was four. A friend of hers had just bought a new car. We took it for a run out to Portobello Beach. I was so happy that day. I was so happy…’

Tears (and mascara from one eye) ran down his cheek.

*****

JD was laughing hard now: ‘SO - let me get this straight: Wallace Wood - who is not an investigator - was investigating a murder that was not a murder. In the course of that, the prime suspect was a man half-dressed as a half-woman. And it turned out that the person who actually committed what looked like the crime was an ex-nurse who used to dress the victim’s corns…’. JD shook his head: ‘Bloody hell - and they said you needed a hobby…’

Doc piped in: ‘So what will happen to the cleaner and her son?’

Wood frowned in thought: ‘Not sure about the son. If he thought the lamp was wired properly, then what was the crime?’

‘And the old mother?’

‘Again, not sure. Maybe a charge of ‘Reckless Endangerment.’ Putting the body out of the window like that.’

‘Will she get the jail?’

Wood shook his head: ‘Get real, Doctor Holliday. Nobody gets the jail these days. Prosecuted on Summary Complaint. Community Payback Order.’

JD chortled: ‘I know, her punishment could be that she had to sit through the run of Alex Bryant’s Fringe show.’

Wood smiled: ‘Sorry, JD, but they have outlawed ‘cruel and unusual punishment’.’

‘Then maybe instead of going to jail, she could be sentenced to clean the jail.’

‘That would be far too sensible!’

Doc leaned in: ‘But here’s the real question: Wally - what did you learn from all of this?’

Wood shook a weary head: ‘Oh, Doc - this isn’t an American TV show…’

Doc persisted: ‘Come on, Wally. Remember that old quote: ‘Life is lived forwards, but understood backwards’.’

JD shifted in his seat: ‘I’ve always loved that quote. Never understood it, but always loved it.’

Wood tapped his finger on the table and blew out a stream of air: ‘I’m not a philosopher - I’m a lawyer. I suppose - at the end of the day - it’s like that old James Taylor song. Better to ‘Shower the People You Love with Love’.’

Doc sipped his Guinness for a moment: ‘Well, it’s not exactly The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, but it sounds fair enough.’

At that point, Wood’s phone began to *ting*.

Wood looked at the table and waved the ting away.

*ting* Again.

Nobody spoke.

*ting*

JD leaned over and read the screen. ‘Hmmm – it appears to be from an individual by the name of ‘Katharine Livingstone’.’

He looked up and gave a mischievous smile: ‘Well, Wallace Wood - retired prosecutor age 67 and a half,’ he nodded towards the phone, ‘are you going to answer that or not…’

*****

Look out for more Wally Wood tales next year in The Scotsman newspaper.