Free Troubled Waters by Gillian Galbraith

half-nine, ten at a pinch. But I love you. You know I love you. You and . . .’ He stopped abruptly. Starting to say his daughter’s name, his voice had begun to break.
    ‘Bye, bye,’ he ended, as brightly as he was able.

 
     
     
     
     
    6
    The dead woman had lived in Casselbank Street, a narrow, characterful thoroughfare at the bottom of Leith Walk, which was home to no less than three churches and a branch of the Cat Protection League. The League’s terraced building sported a jaunty sign above its door, making it look more like a pub than a charitable institution. Opposite her tenement block was one of the churches, proclaiming itself on a hoarding in exuberant, purple loops as ‘Destiny Church’. It had been constructed originally as a Turkish baths. With its pediments and lead-covered ogee domes, the building was eye-catching, looking both foreign and incongruously opulent in the small, unassuming Scots street.
    A joiner, arranged by DC Cairns, was waiting in his van for the arrival of the policewomen, the engine still running. He had parked further up the road, opposite the columned and pilastered doorway of one of the few remaining Georgian houses in the location. Seeing the Scientific Support crew assembling outside the tenement, he threw away his cigarette and began to jog towards the group, keen to warm up. As each foot hit the ground, his work box swung uncomfortably against his thigh.
    Seconds later, he and the rest of the party gained access to the woman’s flat courtesy of a bell marked ‘A. Anderson’. Waiting in the common stair they huddled together, talking in hushed tones as if in a church awaiting the entryof the minister. Alice went to speak to ‘A. Anderson’. The owner of that name turned out to be a red-faced, middle-aged woman with a strange, fixed smile and few teeth. In her soft Highland accent she described her upstairs neighbour, and the rictus remained on her face when an image of the girl, cold and dead, was presented to her. Holding the photo about a foot from her presbyopic dark eyes, moving it forward and back in an attempt to see it clearly, she identified her neighbour in a matter of fact fashion, apparently untroubled by the death.
    ‘Aha, that’s her, but it’s not like her. Not a good likeness. I’ve seen her a few times, not that I knew her. She’s new. This is all like on the telly, eh?’ she said, handing the image back.
    ‘Thank you for your help.’
    ‘No problem. You’d better watch out as she had a house cat,’ she added by way of a parting shot, nodding to herself as she turned back towards her red front door and murmuring, ‘as if there aren’t enough of them round here. Yowling and screeching at all hours, like banshees. I’d drown them, kittens and all.’
    Two minutes of the joiner’s drill on the old, ill-designed mortise lock protecting the woman’s flat was all it took, before it fell, shattered, onto the stone flags of the common landing. Once inside they set to work immediately, photographing and videoing all four of the shabby rooms, searching for any evidence which might establish conclusively that Miranda Stimms had been its occupant, and if she had met her end there. The forensic team, in their distinctive white garb, moved around the cramped space, performing figures of eight like reel-dancers, expertly avoiding each other as they attempted to gather DNA samples and fingerprints from all possible surfaces. Acouple of them stood over the unmatched dirty crockery littering the kitchen table: two cups, a saucer and an eggcup, droplets of bright yellow yolk staining its sides. The fridge had little in it bar a carton of milk, not yet sour, a half-tin of cat food and an opened slab of Red Leicester cheese. All, Alice noticed, picking them up in her gloves, reasonably fresh and bought from the Co-op. A cat-litter tray, unused, lay near the door. But of the cat itself there was no sign.
    In the bedroom, away from the team, Alice peered into