I told him what Mrs Wilson had said.
"She must be upset," he said. "Uniform got a photo no problem. I'll see if I can get you a copy."
"And what about the car crash? Her husband's death?"
"What about it?"
"You didn't tell me," I said.
"I didn't? Must have slipped my mind."
And before I could reply he was gone.
5
In a couple of minutes, we were outside Bruce's teacher's flat. She lived in an end tenement block with its construction date chiselled into the sandstone above the door. 1881. It was a nice enough area without being as leafy as the one we'd just left.
"Kiddie fiddler lives a couple of doors down," Erica said. "Real sicko."
"Once they're out, they have to live somewhere," I said.
"He was never locked up. The dirty sod walked."
"Lack of evidence?" I asked.
"Yeah, and he was smart. Wouldn't talk. Right from the off, all he ever said was, 'No comment'."
"You think there's a chance he might have followed Bruce's teacher to school?"
"Now that you mention it." Erica nodded slowly. "Maybe we should pay him a visit."
"Right after we've spoken to Mrs Lennox." I pressed the buzzer and a man's voice answered. "Police," I said. I always enjoyed saying that.
6
Upstairs, Mr Lennox was waiting for us in his doorway. "How can I help?" he asked. He wore heavy-looking black-framed glasses and he couldn't stop smiling.
He didn't seem nervous, though. More likely he was just eager to please. Which happened more often than you'd think. Sometimes people made up all sorts of stuff with the best of intentions. I once had an old dear describe a burglar in great detail, all the way down to his ginger beard and nose ring and Hibs top. Turned out she never saw the guy. She'd just wanted to help and imagined that's what a burglar would look like.