‘Don’t play games with me. I’ve not got all sodding night. If you’ve got something to say, then just say it, eh? I’m needing the loo and I’ve better things to do than lounge around the friggin’ Balmoral all evening.’
‘It’s about Sheriff Freeman.’
‘The murdered one?’ Her voice betrayed rising interest.
‘Aye. The murdered one,’ he nodded, tantalising her.
‘Well?’ Another squawk.
‘Well. Wait for it… he was gay!’
The semblance of a smile. ‘How d’you know?’
‘Because we had his partner in the station, at St Leonards. Another old bloke, lived with Freeman for years and years.’
‘‘Tell me he’s a suspect?’ Her eyes now glittered with excitement.
In for a penny, in for a pound, the Detective Inspector thought, replying: ‘Aha. He certainly is!’
The woman uncrossed her long, shapely legs and leant towards the policeman. A little notebook was extracted from her shoulder-bag and she began, for the first time that evening, to bestow her full attention upon him.
‘Go on then, Eric… talk to me. For you, pet, I’ve all the time in the world.’
DI Manson drained the dregs of his pint, swallowed a burp, and allowed his left foot, accidentally, to brush against hers.
Shortly before three o’clock in the afternoon, Nicholas Lyon put up his umbrella and set off to walk to the village shop to collect his bread and milk. A soaking was just what the ground needed; the soil had become dust-dry and the lawn was disfigured by leprous yellow patches where the grass had died. He squelched through the puddles on the drive in his boots, breathing in deeply to inhale the pungent scent of aniseed released as the rain sank into the parched earth, slaking its summer thirst.
Reaching the store he cast his eyes over the billboard propped up against the plate glass window. Most days it was of little interest-‘Fife Councillor on the Take’, ‘Road Bridge Toll to Go Up’, or ‘T in the Park – a Record Success’. Once in a while someone else’s tragedy had become news: ‘Local Boy Dies in Motor-cycle Crash’ or ‘Mother’s Coma Vigil’. He had ruminated over the incidental cruelty involved. A private grief magnified to assuage the public’s insatiable appetite for ‘human interest’ stories. And then the relatives’ reaction, exacerbated by the news coverage, might, in itself, provide more columns of newsprint. This time the hastily scrawled black lettering on the white background spelt out ‘MURDERED SHERIFF’S GAY LOVER NOW A SUSPECT’. On reading it he was swept by an overwhelming feeling of dread, a sensation of fear, unmistakably physical, like nothing he had ever experienced. Cold sweat rose on his forehead and acid seemed to be seeping into the pit of his stomach. What would everyone think? And then, and worse still, came the conviction that, somehow, he had let James down. In death, James Freeman had become cheap, tabloid fodder, a source of vulgar amusement at best, infuriated disgust at worst. And the easiest label of all would now be bestowed upon him, that of hypocrite.
A hand tapped on his shoulder and he opened his eyes to see the plump form of the shopkeeper beside him.
‘Ye all richt, Mr Lyon?’
He nodded, embarrassed, incapable of speech, afraid that if he attempted to say anything he might break down and weep, and then be unable to stop himself.
‘Come in oot the rain eh? Dinnae worry yerself aboot yon board. S’only up the day an’ it’ll be doon afore tomorrow morn. Fish ’n chips frae then oan. We a’ ken you, an’ aboot the Sheriff an’ a.’
‘Yes! A result!’ Eric Manson slammed down the receiver and punched the air. Alice caught Alistair’s eye. Should they indulge the man in his excitement, ask the inevitable question or, sadistically, let the seconds tick by, force him to wait for a bit? Even say nothing at all and twiddle their thumbs before another exhibition was staged in an attempt to whet their curiosity further? DC McDonald, unaware of the tensions within the squad, resolved their unspoken dilemma.
‘What is it, Sir?’
‘Only a lead. That’s all! Some poof’s been boasting in a gay bar, the Boar’s Head down Leith way, that he was having it off with the Sheriff. Come on Alice, turn off the computer, we’re going to…’
Before DI Manson had finished speaking his phone rang again, and he snatched it up impatiently, annoyed at being delayed.
‘Yes! Oh, I see, Sir. Of course, I quite appreciate that. I’ll come through right away. I had been on my way to check out something urgent in Leith, a boy we need to see there. Maybe I should go there first?’ He grimaced at Alistair. ‘Yes, Sir, Alice and DS Watt could easily go in my place. If the Assistant Chief Constable needs a report then, obviously, that takes priority. I’ll attend to it now.’
The traffic on Leith Walk was gridlocked, moving little more than a few feet every minute and, in the still, warm air, the stench of exhaust fumes was overpowering. But no escape presented itself. A bus driver hooted his horn angrily, and in vain, at two parked cars blocking his lane, and a stationary taxi-cab, immediately ahead of them, disgorged its overheated passangers. The two Police officers wound up their windows simultaneously, desperate to preserve such fresh air as the Astra contained, knowing that they would now swelter in its furnacelike interior. By the time they reached Salamander Street both of them had, somehow, stuck to their plastic car seats. They immediately flung the doors wide, enjoying the cool sea breeze, preparing to peel themselves off the vinyl.
A few tables, sporting faded parasols, littered the pavement frontage of the newly-decorated pub, and a shaven-headed bulldog of a man turned out to be the inspector’s contact. He seemed pleased that they had been sent in Manson’s stead, and led them through the bar into the back kitchen, shooing out two pale youths who were occupied stirring, lethargically, the contents of a gigantic aluminium tureen. The snout was helpful, eager to provide such information as he could, but scrupulous in distancing himself from any accusations potentially associated with it. The press had already been sniffing about the place, he explained. Georgie was the name of the customer who had been boasting; a flamboyant, middle-aged extrovert who revelled in being the centre of attention. But, the bull-dog cautioned, maybe the boasts had been no more than empty talk, a bid by Georgie to upstage a popular raconteur, who had been regaling the regulars with tales of his adventures as a transvestite fire-eater. In any event, he said, he was simply passing on the guff for what it was worth. He did not know the fellow’s surname, only that he worked in a small second-hand bookshop on Nicolson Street, up near the University. They would recognise him by his shock of blond curls and his invariable buttercup-coloured tie. Oh, and he was a smiler.
Back in the Police pound, the two officers piled out of the car, thankful to leave its close atmosphere, only to find themselves immediately separated, DI Manson summoning Alistair to the office. But Alice had no intention of waiting for him and delaying following up such a promising lead. He might be able to join her later in person, and the shop was within easy walking distance. A stroll in the bright sunshine, on her own, down the Pleasance and along Drummond Street, would have been a joy even if she had not been getting paid for it.
Their quarry was discovered, less than twenty minutes later, perched on a high stool in his bookshop, nose deep in a leather-bound copy of Court Dress through the Ages. Georgie was so engrossed in his book that he appeared unaware that a potential customer was at his elbow until a discreet cough alerted him. On seeing her, his face lit up as if he had encountered a long-lost, and very dear friend, and his bonhomie was catching. Alice felt herself smiling warmly in return, until she recollected the real purpose of her visit and, assuming a more appropriate, business-like expression, showed him her card.
‘And what can I do for you, my lovely?’ he asked, inserting a till receipt to mark his place in the book.
When she asked him about his reported boasts, deliberately affording him an opportunity to deny them, he chose not to do so. Instead, he maintained, with a degree of exaggerated indignation, that he had, indee
d, slept with the Sheriff. Their only tryst had taken place a few days before the fellow’s death, in Georgie’s flat in Cumberland Street. He volunteered that while he might have been slightly intoxicated on the night, incapable of recollecting all the evening’s events with complete clarity, the essentials remained clear, including his pick-up’s identity. After all, he had seen the judge’s photo in the paper within days of their meeting. Anyway, he said, now in mock anger, he was not in the habit of fabricating false liaisons, someone so delectable had no need to do so.
When questioned on his whereabouts on the night of the murder, he replied that he had been, as far as he could remember, on his tod, attending to the accounts for the business and parcelling up a few books for mail-order customers. His bookshop, he said proudly, had cornered the market in fashion and footwear literature, dispatching stock all over the country and beyond. He seemed unconcerned by the gentle interrogation he was undergoing, untroubled in admitting his recent encounter with a murder victim, and, incongruously, pleased with his involvement in the whole affair. It appeared that the limelight was irresistible, whatever it illuminated. She left him as another customer arrived, noting that his face showed as much pleasure on seeing the stranger as it had done when first she interrupted his reading.
The hall carpet in Geanbank had been partially covered by a dust sheet. In its folds, in disarray, were cut stems, sprays of leaves and a few crumbs of Oasis sponge. Above the sheet, on a bow-legged table, was a vast flower arrangement with pale blue irises, delphiniums and cream, full-bloomed roses. Nicholas Lyon led the policewoman past it, and Alice smothered the impulse to congratulate him on its perfection. On entering the drawing room he went straight to the window and drew the curtains tight shut, excluding the prying eyes of the Press, now camped en masse outside. He poured her China tea from a silver teapot and offered cake, apologising as he did so for the lack of biscuits and explaining that, for the moment, he was unable to leave the house to get more. Alice braced herself for his reaction before dutifully warning him that the Press interest had probably not reached its zenith. It was possible that reports might appear, fed by those claiming close acquaintanceship with the Sheriff, reviving the story, artificially expanding its lifespan. The old fellow listened to every word, blinking furiously and occasionally giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
‘Did James know anyone called Georgie, a bookseller… a second-hand bookseller up past the Bridges?’ she asked, tentatively.
‘No. Nor did I.’
‘Did he ever go to a pub, the Boar’s Head, on Salamander Street, Leith?’
‘I wouldn’t think so, he didn’t really like pubs any more, couldn’t hear in them. I don’t think so. Why do you ask?’ he looked genuinely puzzled.
‘Nothing. We have to follow up everything, however unlikely it may be. I wondered,’ she continued, keen to change the subject, ‘whether you’d had any thoughts, you know, if you knew of anyone that might wish James harm?’
Her companion sighed, and then asked ruefully, ‘In life, you mean?’
‘In life, yes.’
‘I have thought about it. And I’m not sure that I’m much further on, but perhaps you can be the judge of that. I found these…’ He handed over a cardboard box containing a number of sheets of paper. ‘I knew about them, of course. James told me about the letters but I’d never actually seen them before. I wish I had, then I could have shared the worry better, but I had no idea that they were so, well… threatening. James made light of them; he said a lunatic had begun a one-sided correspondence with him and would, likely in his own time, bring it to an end. Maybe he was protecting me. He knew how I hated dissension, hostility of any kind.’
Alice lifted a single piece of paper from the box and read:
‘I hope you die in hell, you selfish bastard. Thanks to your greed, my life will be ruined. You don’t even need the money. You have no excuse. You don’t live there so you don’t care. You, and the rest of them, will pollute everything. Can you imagine that? No-one will want to come. Stop it or else I’ll stop you.’
The words were written in green biro ink in an elaborate italic hand, and some of them, ‘selfish’, ‘greed’ and ‘ruined’, were underlined heavily twice. Although the content of the message was intimidating, its appearance was artistic, oddly beautiful. She removed another letter in the same hand, this time in red biro ink.
‘Stop it, bastard. You can stop it still. It’s your land. You have the access strip. I know who you are and I know where you live. If you go ahead you will destroy me and my family. It’s only money, for Christ’s sake! End the whole thing or I will put a stop to you.’
The paper was cheap, lined and textured as if recycled. The other messages were in similar vein, sometimes pleading, sometimes threatening, always desperate in tone.
‘Have you any idea who sent these, who wrote them?’
‘No, I don’t, and James didn’t either. You can see, they’re all anonymous. He hadn’t a clue who the author was.’
Alice nodded. ‘But what about their content? Do you know what they’re about? What exactly was James proposing to do that the writer wanted to stop?’
Nicholas Lyon blinked rapidly before he began to speak.
‘I think-well, we knew-that it was to do with Blackstone Mains. It’s a farm that James and his brother owned jointly. Christopher persuaded James to offer it to one of those renewable companies, Vertenergy, to put up turbines on it. All the land’s tenanted at the moment. It’s to be part of a gargantuan wind farm on the Ochils. I think there are to be thirty turbines or thereabouts. Massive things too, maybe one hundred and twenty metres high. The wind farm’s to be called “Scowling Crags”. The company’s still seeking planning permission from the Council, a decision on it’s not due until the end of September.’
‘Are any of the letters dated?’
‘No. But the last one was received, maybe, a week before James died. They were always addressed here, in James’s name, and he’d open them and tell me that it was just another crank missive.’
‘And you’ve no idea who sends them?’
‘Sorry. As I said, I don’t think James knew either, but, you see, he never took them seriously. So obviously I didn’t… and I’m kicking myself now. He said he’d come across this kind of thing in his job, he believed that the type of person who writes them never actually does anything more. He or she gets it out of their system on paper and then that’s it. James said they were usually sad, inadequate creatures, capable only of venting their spleen with words.’
‘What does it mean, “the access strip”?’
‘I think, though I’m not sure, that Blackstone was the access strip. A ransom strip, actually. For the whole development I mean. Blackstone’s on the main road, and none of the farmers round about it were prepared to allow their land to be used by the company. The ones at the back, on the hill, were really keen and that’s where the wind is anyway, but the developers needed land downhill, with access to the road, if the scheme was to go ahead. The Mains, Blackstone, provided access for the whole site and without that land, then it couldn’t go ahead. I was never for it in the first place, the wind farm, I mean, and I told James that too.’
‘Why? Why were you against it?’
‘Well, if you really want to know, because they’re ugly, inefficient things and the equation only comes out in credit if no value whatsoever is placed on beauty, the beauty of unspoilt scenery I mean. The answer isn’t to generate more, it’s to use less. We used to argue about it sometimes. Actually, I think I’d almost succeeded in persuading James. Maybe even the letters played a part. All I know is that he was less enthusiastic about the whole venture than he had been. I suppose Christopher will just go on with it though.’
‘I’ll need to take the letters if that’s all right, Mr Lyon?’
‘Nicholas. Please. I thought you’d want them. Take them in the box. I racked my brain after the conversation with the inspector and I couldn’t think o
f anything, anyone who’d want to harm James. And then, really by chance, I’ve found these things. Reading them chilled me, I can tell you. They were in one of his desk drawers together with something that I think must be his will. It’s addressed to his lawyers and I’m seeing them tomorrow.’
Alice walked quickly to the Astra, keen to avoid the attention of the Press who, like vultures, had spotted her and were now closing in, flapping towards the car. No sooner had she slammed the door shut than a rosy-cheeked young man pulled it open, suggesting, with a charming grin, that she might like to speak to him. Before she had time to answer, another figure insinuated himself into the same space to demand information about the Sheriff’s lover. Within seconds three more reporters had bent down, thrusting their heads towards her, each shouting, trying to outdo the others. A loud knocking had become audible on the driver’s side window, and she turned her head, briefly, to see DI Manson’s crony smiling seductively at her and gesturing at her notebook, apparently expecting a favour or some sort of preferential treatment.
Alice closed her eyes and breathed out. The creatures must be dealt with, although in their merciless pursuit of an old, heart-sick man, they had all but lost her sympathy. No. Like burying beetles, they had a place in the scheme of things. So, she must not indulge herself and give way to the overwhelming urge rising within her to shout expletives, put her foot down on the accelerator and shower them all with gravel. Temporarily calmed, she gazed at the woman and then, slowly and purposefully, drove off, watching in her rear view mirror as the reporter’s smile faded into her habitual scowl.
Another button missing but it could wait, the last one at the bottom of the blouse. No more than usual would be revealed. She folded it up, put it on the pile and began to iron a sheet, lost in Corelli’s Concerto Grossi and enjoying the clean scent of washing powder rising from the heated fabric. Was it Concerto No. 4 or No. 7? A repetitive clicking sound signalled grime on the disc, and she left the ironing board to go and wipe the CD. The telephone rang and she knew, intuitively, that it would be Ian Melville. The answer machine was on. Maybe she would listen to his voice, see what he wanted and then, if she chose and could pluck up the courage, return the call. Her recorded speech on the tape sounded unnatural, like some low-voiced stranger.
Where The Shadow Falls Page 8
