Eye of the Raven by Ken McClure Page B

. . .’
    ‘ Thoughts of my daughter, Jenny, got me through the worst. I thought she might need me – or at least I convinced myself that it would be better for her if I stayed alive rather than taking “the easy way out”, as people mistakenly call it.’
    ‘ You’re still bitter,’ said Lawson.
    ‘ I didn’t realise it showed,’ said Steven.
    ‘ It does when you speak of your wife,’ said Lawson.
    ‘ Maybe in time I’ll get over it,’ said Steven, ‘just as you’ll get over your experience with Combe.’
    Lawson pursed his lips then said, ‘Why did you ask about Julie’s fingers?’
    Steven considered fielding the question but then admitted, ‘I’m trying to find out how Combe knew about Julie’s broken fingers. They weren’t mentioned at the trial or in any of the newspaper reports of the time.’
    ‘ I can tell you that,’ said Lawson. ‘It’s because he did it.’
    * * *
    Steven walked slowly back to the car. Combe could not have committed the crime and yet he’d obviously made a very good job of convincing Lawson that he had. But why? If he had been setting out to make trouble for the police as a final act of malice, why bring in a minister of the church as an intermediary? Why go through the motions of seeking absolution and losing his temper when it wasn’t forthcoming? What was that all about?
    As he got into the car, Steven conceded that his visit to The Firs had resolved nothing. If anything, it had actually heightened his feelings of unease. The fact that Combe had elaborated on just how he’d broken Julie’s fingers to Lawson was something he found particularly disturbing. It was almost as if he had wanted to draw attention to this aspect of the attack and his suggestion that Lawson touch the scars on his cheek as proof of a continuing link to the dead girl was quite bizarre. He wondered if David Little’s face had been marked during the attack but most of all he wondered again why had there been no mention of the broken fingers in the prosecution evidence given at the trial. Maybe the answer to these questions would be in the police files. He checked his watch and saw that there would still be time to drive into Edinburgh and visit police headquarters before catching the last London flight home.
    Fettes Police Headquarters in Edinburgh had no great claim to architectural merit but the functional buildings were situated in a pleasant area of the city near the botanical gardens and facing the impressive facade of Fettes College, one of Scotland’s leading public schools. Steven noted as he drove past that they were also close to the Western General Hospital, where David Little had carried out his research. He had given no warning of his visit so he had to show his ID and state his business to several uniformed men before finally being shown into the office of Inspector Peter McClintock.
    ‘This is a bit of a surprise,’ said McClintock. ‘Official is it?’
    ‘Not exactly,’ smiled Steven.
    ‘You were in the vicinity so you thought you’d just drop by and say hello?’ said McClintock.
    ‘You could say,’ replied Steven, instinctively feeling that, given time, he could like the man.
    ‘Well if it’s not official, do you fancy a pint?’
    ‘Sounds good,’ replied Steven, well aware that informal exchanges of information were usually of much more use than those confined to official channels – a bit like the black economy being more efficient than the real one.
    ‘So how come I was shown to your door?’ asked Steven as they drove away in McClintock’s car. He hadn’t come across McClintock’s name in any of the files on the case.
    ‘I was the one who got landed with Hector Combe’s confession when it came in. I sent it on to you guys when I found your sticker on the Summers file. Evil bastard, Combe.’
    ‘So I understand. So you weren’t actually involved in the Julie Summers case at the time?’ said Steven.
    ‘Not directly,’ said McClintock a bit too