Where The Shadow Falls

by Gillian Galbraith

  ‘This is Alice Rice’s answer phone. Please leave your message after the beep.’

  On impulse she dashed across the room and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello.’ She sounded breathless.

  From the more than momentary silence that followed she recognised the caller’s re-adjustment as he prepared himself to speak to a human being rather than a machine.

  ‘Alice, hi, it’s me. Ian. I thought you must be out.’

  ‘I’ve just got in.’ A whitish lie.

  ‘I was wondering if you’d be free tomorrow… tomorrow evening? Maybe join me on a walk? We could go to the beach at Tyninghame or somewhere. What d’you think?’

  I would love to. I would really love to. ‘Mmm… that sounds fine. What sort of time were you thinking of?’ Without alcohol a measured, less-truthful response.

  ‘How about six thirty? I could pick you up in Broughton Place and we could have a meal afterwards, after the walk, I mean.’

  Perfect.

  ‘Thanks, yes, that’d be great. See you then.’

  He had called again. She had hoped that he would, but prepared herself in advance in case it was not going to happen. Now she could relax, luxuriate in the knowledge that he wanted to see her once more. He must feel a little, at least, of what she felt.

  7

  Eric Manson yawned, took off his jacket and slung it across the back of his chair. Then he rolled up his sleeves and wandered towards the nearest window, intending to open it. Straining loudly, he pushed upwards on the lower half but, despite the veins now pulsating in his neck, achieved not an inch of movement; it was glued fast with paint. All the other windows in the room proved equally resistant. He took a sip from his bottle of water, switched on the fan nearest to his desk and settled down to read his newspaper.

  The voices of DCs Trotter and Drysdale could be heard, arguing loudly, as they clattered up the stairs, exchanging heated views in a medley of tenor voices. Davie McDonald followed close behind them, mouth full of bacon roll, unable to participate in their row. On entering the murder suite he made a beeline for the coffee flask, emitting a stream of curses on finding it empty. DCI Bruce glanced down at his watch. Three minutes to nine and only four out of the expected six had appeared. The absence of DC Lowe, he decided, should be viewed as a cause for celebration. The moron held everything up, needing instructions endlessly repeated or clarified, and the sooner he was returned to the uniform branch the better. Let the doctor put up with his vacuous prattle for a change.

  ‘Morning, Sir,’ DS Watt said cheerily, switching off Manson’s fan as he passed it and taking a seat beside the vacant chair usually favoured by Alice Rice.

  ‘Anyone actually seen Ms Rice yet?’ the Chief Inspector said testily.

  ‘Yup,’ Alistair Watt replied. ‘I saw her heading off towards the Ladies’, less than a minute ago,’ and before he had finished his sentence his friend swept through the door to find all eyes on her and DCI Bruce tapping his watch. She glanced at her own. Nine o’clock on the dot. A triumph, in itself, to arrive on time, given Miss Spinnell’s uncharacteristic garrulousness on Quill’s handover. With an effort she managed to smile at DCI Bruce.

  ‘Morning, Sir, just in time for your nine o’clock meeting.’

  The Chief Inspector slid his buttocks off the desk and handed out to each of the members of the squad a copy of the most recent anonymous letter sent to James Freeman.

  ‘We need to find the writer of this,’ he said. ‘He or she’s now our best suspect. So I expect everyone to concentrate on it. Alistair, did you get a chance to check out the rest of the letters in the box?’

  DS Watt nodded. ‘Yes, Sir. They’re all very similar in tone and content. Vague threats or pleas. But I didn’t see anything in them to provide us with any additional clues on the author’s identity. All that seems to emerge is that the writer doesn’t want the wind farm development to go ahead as it’ll “destroy” him and his family if it does. Presumably they must live somewhere near the site or, at the very least, have some interest or other near it which will be damaged if it gets the go-ahead.’

  ‘I’ve handed over the principals to the graphologist, Sir,’ DC Trotter interjected eagerly, ‘and they’re looking at them the now. They’ll let us know if any of them were written by a different individual. Forensics are going to check out the paper after that.’

  ‘Good. Now do any of you know anything about sodding wind farms or wind farm activists?’ the Chief Inspector asked.

  ‘I do, Sir,’ Alice replied. ‘I’ve learned a little about both from my father. He’s involved in a group. I think that there are a number of ways for us to find out who’s been putting pen to paper…’ she tailed off, conscious of a certain presumption.

  ‘Go on then,’ the DCI said encouragingly, ‘we’re all ears.’

  ‘Well, there’ll probably be a particular group who have banded together in their opposition to the Scowling Crags development. The group could be made up of just a few individuals or quite a sizeable number. They’re usually composed of those most immediately threatened…’

  ‘Threatened? How threatened?’ DI Manson demanded.

  ‘Threatened by a wind farm around their house or in close proximity to it or their business or whatever. They’ll organise themselves…’

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ Eric Manson butted in again, ‘how the hell is anyone threatened by a wind farm! We’re talking about a murder here, right?’

  Alice sighed. She had anticipated scepticism in some form.

  ‘It’s difficult to explain, Inspector, but I’ll do my best. I’ve seen it at first hand. A couple of weeks ago I went to a wind farm meeting-never mind why-and I can assure you that the protestors loathe not only the developers but also the landlords benefiting from the schemes. I’ve rarely witnessed such raw emotion on show in a supposedly civilised gathering. Some of the group could hardly contain themselves. If you’d seen it I don’t think you’d doubt that they feel threatened. They love the countryside. They don’t expect radical change to happen round about them…’

  ‘They’re just bloody nimbys then,’ the DI said.

  ‘Maybe. Anyway, well, I’m just trying to explain. OK?’

  ‘On you go, dear,’ Eric Manson said, as if in charge, unperturbed by the look of annoyance that passed over his superior’s face.

  ‘Even if they own very little land they consider that, in some sense, they also have a claim on the ground beyond. On their view. Ordinary agricultural work on it by the landowners is fine, expected, even welcomed. In any event…’ she paused, grappling for the right word, ‘understood. But the imposition of gargantuan machines with all the infrastructure required for their erection and maintenance… that’s something else altogether. The anti-wind farm protestors are passionate, truly passionate, in their belief that the desecration of the countryside, as they see it, is wrong. Morally wrong. Completely unjustified.’

  ‘As I said,’ Eric Manson cut in again, ‘sodding nimbys.’

  ‘Whatever. The only…’

  ‘All right, Alice. Speech over. Can you get on with telling us about the organisations?’ DCI Bruce enquired.

  ‘Of course, Sir. Sorry. I expect there’ll be a group of those immediately affected by the development. There usually is. Then there’ll be associated groups, friends of the area, walking associations, equestrians and so on and, finally, there’ll be the individuals, each acting completely independently. Usually, all of them, groups of whatever nature, individuals, shower the local Planning Authority with letters, emails, objections in a variety of forms…’

  DCI Bruce interrupted again. ‘OK. Eric, I want you to contact the local Planning Office-Perth I suppose-and get a list from them of anyone who’s objected to the Scowling Crags wind farm application. And make sure and ask for any letters they’ve received, handwritten stuff particularly, and we’ll pass it on to the graphologist and forensics. You could pick it up while you’re at their offices.’

  ‘OK, Boss.�
��

  ‘Alice, how would you go about contacting the… er, local group?’

  ‘Sometimes they’ve a website. We could put “Scowling Crags” into Google and see what comes up. If we’ve no luck with that, then the easiest thing to do would be to go and visit someone living in the houses in the centre of the development or as close as possible to it. And James Freeman, Christopher Freeman too, both of them, are almost bound to have been supplied with copies of the information that the developers have to submit to the Council in support of their application. They could give us that information. I need to see Christopher Freeman anyway and I could collect the stuff from him. He may have been getting letters too.’

  ‘Yeh,’ the DCI agreed, ‘yeh, you do that. If the Sheriff’s been threatened it’s possible his brother’s been too. I want to know if he’s been getting the same shite through the post. Alistair, see what you can find on the computer, eh?’

  The waiting room of McCowan, Cheyne & Little in Abercrombie Place was plush. Redolent of corporate wealth, landed private clients and a thriving trust department. Only Dundas Street separated it from Heriot Row, one of the most desirable addresses in the whole of the New Town, and its front windows overlooked Queen Street Gardens, providing a view of trees deep within the professional heart of the capital.

  A grand portrait in oils of Torquil McCowan, WS, founder of the firm, stretched from the top of the mantelpiece to the ceiling and on either side of it were more modest portrayals of lesser men, recent senior partners meriting only depictions in crayon. Copies of Country Life, Homes & Gardens and Scottish Field were strewn artfully on the heavy oak sideboard, and none of the magazines was out of date. Nicholas Lyon perched on a hard upright chair by the door inspecting his still slightly grimy fingernails. He wished he was somewhere else, at home maybe, in the garden. There was plenty to do there. Both the black and the red currants needed pruning, the Cosmos daisy seedlings could be planted out to give them a good start and the henhouse was in need of a clean.

  ‘Would you like any coffee or tea, Mr Lyon?’

  The enquiry from the elegant young receptionist, clad stylishly in a blue linen suit, returned him to the sedate waiting room and he declined, politely, wishing all the more fervently that he was somewhere else. This was James’ milieu, and he was impressed anew by the ease with which his partner had inhabited two such dissimilar worlds. One quintessentially urban and urbane and the other rural, simple and organic. No sooner had the young lady gone than she returned, addressing herself to him again.

  ‘Mr McKay can see you now, sir.’

  As Nicholas Lyon loped through the door of the solicitor’s office he witnessed its occupant tossing a grape up into the air and then catching it, seal-fashion, in his mouth. Neil McKay, on seeing his visitor, immediately dropped the bag of grapes onto the floor and swallowed the morsel hastily as if to conceal his circus trick. Seeing the futility of this approach, he said sheepishly, ‘The grape diet, you know. Apparently, they’re almost entirely composed of water. I’ve had too many business lunches.’ And he patted his well-rounded belly fondly before gesturing towards a chair and muttering, ‘Take a pew.’

  Nicholas laid the envelope on the solicitor’s leather-covered desk and watched as the man opened it and quickly scanned the document within.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Lyon. The letter simply contained a codicil to James Freeman’s will; a small bequest to a charity. Nothing too important. I had intended to get in touch with you once I became aware of the Sheriff’s death. Pressure of business I’m afraid…’ He looked up apologetically before continuing. ‘You and I are to be his executors, in terms of his will, I mean. And, as you probably know, you’re also the Sheriff’s principal beneficiary. His estate is being left, almost in its entirety, to you.’

  ‘But what about his brother, Christopher?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘Provision has been made for Major Freeman. He’s to have a legacy of twenty thousand pounds, together with certain of the contents of Moray Place. Let’s see… he’s to get…’ Mr McKay fingered the Sheriff’s will, ‘Mmmm. Well, in essence, most of the regimental stuff and a few of the family portraits.’

  ‘James left me the land?’ Nicholas enquired in wonderment.

  ‘Yes, he did. And Moray Place and his half-share in Geanbank. Who owns the other half-share?’

  ‘I do.’

  Alice’s reception at Frogston Road was cool. She had phoned earlier to arrange a meeting, but on arrival she was informed by Mrs Freeman that her husband had just left and was not now expected back until one o’clock. Evidently, the couple had squabbled and the woman could not conceal her anger. Alice sat at the kitchen table awaiting the man’s return as his wife smouldered, banging cupboard doors shut and clanging knives onto the table, making the forks on it vibrate and jump. In the ten minutes before his return Mrs Freeman consumed three cigarettes, one lit by the stub of the other, as she prepared a meagre lunch of cold ham and chips.

  A strange yodelling sound mixed with strains of ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ announced Christopher Freeman’s entry. He glided speedily into the room, blew a theatrical kiss at his wife and slumped wearily into a chair, a miasma of whisky fumes surrounding him. Without waiting for his wife to join him he picked up his cutlery and began to eat. After his first mouthful he turned his attention to his guest.

  ‘So, Sss… ergeant, what exactly can I do for you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been talking to your brother’s partner and…’

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ a look of exaggerated disbelief passed across her host’s face. ‘Stop right there, please. My brother’s what?’

  ‘Your brother’s partner…’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about? My brother had no “partner”. He was partnerless.’

  ‘Er… the Sheriff did have a partner. A male partner, called Nicholas Lyon. You must have seen the stuff in The Scotsman and the Evening News, surely?’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Mrs Freeman sniggered, ‘so he was still at it, eh? Still at it after all those years!’

  ‘Quiet, Sandra,’ Christopher Freeman barked. ‘We’ve been away-down south. Partner… how do you mean, partner? Presumably just a pick-up? That’s how those kind of people operate isn’t it? Nothing permanent in their world, eh, Sergeant?’

  ‘Well, your brother and Mr Freeman have been together for over forty years.’

  ‘That’s bb… bollocks! Bull’s bollocks!’ Christopher Freeman said, dropping his knife and fork onto his plate. ‘I’d have known. He was my brother, for Christ’s’s sake! They don’t mate for life, you know, they are not like us or… eh… ducks, swans. I always knew that James had had a predilection for men but… this just has to be nonsense!’

  ‘No, sir, it’s not, and it’s also not what I came to talk to you about. Your brother was receiving threats. Well, threatening letters…’

  ‘Never mind that, Sergeant. I’ve not finished. This Nicholas Lyon man, are you saying that he was a ff… fixture, that he’d-well, that they were married or whatever?’ Major Freeman’s words were slurred.

  ‘I don’t think they’d been through a Civil Partnership ceremony if that’s what you mean, Major, but they seem to have been as married, in effect, as any heterosexual couple. Now, going back to the letters. Your brother was receiving threatening letters…’

  ‘About being a poof?’ Sandra Freeman giggled, putting her hand over her mouth.

  ‘No, Mrs Freeman. Not about that. The letters seemed to be concerned with the Scowling Crags wind farm. Someone didn’t want it to go ahead. Have you received any letters, threatening or otherwise, about the wind farm, Major Freeman?’

  ‘No. Not a dickie bird from anyone about it. Should I have? Mind you, I don’t suppose anyone much knows that I have any involvement in it.’

  ‘Why’s that, sir?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Because James does everything. To do with Blackstone, I mean. My only contribution was the idea. The tenants have been there forever, and I mean forever; the
re are no written leases or anything. If something had to be done then James saw to it. Actually, he didn’t exactly trust me, but that was fine by me. As it happens, I didn’t exactly trus… sst him either, but he’s… efficient.’

  Christopher Freeman turned his attention to his wife. ‘Are you not going to eat, my honey? You’ll fade away!’ he said smiling, patting a chair and beckoning her to sit beside him. Her resentment visibly dissipated, she sidled across to him, pecked him on the cheek and began to eat her meal.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Alice said, ‘I could show you a copy of one of the letters in case you recognise the handwriting?’

  ‘On you go, but we won’t, will we, darling?’ the man said, winking at his wife.

  ‘No, we won’t,’ Mrs Freeman answered, inspecting the copy letter with no real curiosity.

  ‘Could I borrow the material that Vertenergy produced in support of their planning application, please, sir? I understand that you’d get copies of most of it from the company.’

  ‘You’d be welcome to it if I had any, but I don’t. I told you I’ve had nothing to do with the scheme. It was just my idea. James organised everything with everybody, including the company.’

  Mrs Freeman placed her knife and fork neatly side by side on her plate before gathering it and her husband’s crockery up and depositing them both in the sink. From the fridge she extracted a highly coloured trifle and showed it, lovingly, to her husband.

  ‘Sweetie,’ he purred, ‘my favourite.’

  She laid it on the kitchen table, returned to her seat and lit up a cigarette. ‘Light one for mm… me, eh, love?’ her husband pleaded, dipping his spoon in the trifle and scraping off a layer of cream. She pouted at him, extracted one from its packet and lit it from her own. Major Freeman leant back on his chair, stretched an arm around her and inhaled deeply. Alice lifted up the box and prepared to leave.