Where The Shadow Falls

by Gillian Galbraith

  ‘What’s the matter, Miss Spinnell?’

  ‘I failed it. He said that I’ve failed it,’ she whispered, chin trembling, fear in her eyes.

  ‘Failed what?’

  ‘My cholesterol test!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Alice said soothingly, ‘it doesn’t mean much. There are statins, blood-pressure reducing-’

  ‘But for days and days before I had no butter, no cream, no milk even… I’ve never failed anything in my life, you know. The shame!’

  Baffled, as usual, Alice patted a bony little shoulder, forgetting Miss Spinnell’s dislike of being touched, her hand being shrugged off with a shudder of revulsion.

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ the old lady said coldly, moving rapidly out of range.

  ‘Quill all right today?’ Alice asked, thinking it best to change the subject.

  ‘Well, no. Not “all right today”, in fact, needing treatment, I expect. I’ve kept it for you.’

  ‘Kept what?’

  ‘His sick,’ she said, beckoning her visitor towards a dustpan resting on a coal scuttle.

  In amongst a revolting brown, scummy mass, scraps of wrapping paper had been regurgitated and were visible; red, gold and black.

  ‘But you’ve been feeding him Mars bars, Miss Spinnell?’

  ‘Precisely. A Mars a Day Helps You Work, Rest and Play. But not in his case.’

  Walking beside the dog up the tenement stairs to her flat, Alice contemplated the strange symbiotic relationship that had evolved between herself and her neighbour through their shared pet. The old woman’s day only seemed to begin with the arrival of her life-enhancing charge, and her reluctance to part with him grew on each visit. Initially, the care she had lavished on the mongrel had exceeded that of any professional kennel keeper, leaving Alice with a career, a pet and no anxieties about her dog’s welfare. However, as the years were passing, Miss Spinnell’s repertoire of eccentricities was multiplying, impinging on every area of her life including her dog-minding abilities. Spaghetti hoops yesterday, a Mars Bar today. But, Alice thought, the balance remained in the old lady’s favour. True, the now flatulent Quill would become barrel-shaped before his time, but it was unthinkable to deprive Miss Spinnell of her greatest solace and only protector. Without the dog to guard her and her fortress, the imaginary thieves might run amok, make her life unbearable. And, anyway, Quill loved her with or without her marbles. Somehow, the status quo must be maintained for as long as possible.

  Everyone could feel it and in small ways showed it: the team was complete again with DCI Bell back in charge. For over an hour they had exchanged information, explained leads followed, cursed over dead-ends and, at the close, had their tasks allocated to them by her.

  ‘Alice, you and Alistair can go to Nicholas Lyon’s funeral,’ she instructed. ‘It’s at the Warriston crem. Starts at eleven o’clock.’

  Then she turned her attention to DI Manson. ‘By the way, Inspector, you haven’t told us how you got on with that Munro woman?’

  Open laughter followed her query, and she raised her eyebrows quizzically.

  ‘Well, Eric?’

  ‘A malicious nutter, ma’am. I had to climb eleven storeys in a tower block to be told that she’d seen the accident, but only in her fucking head.’

  ‘And I gather you’ve a sore leg?’ Elaine Bell said sympathetically, looking at his left foot, now shod in an oversized tartan slipper.

  ‘I have,’ he replied with dignity.

  ‘Well, maybe today you could mark up statements, eh? Stay in the office?’

  The Inspector nodded before limping off, turning round angrily on catching a whispered chant of ‘Pieces of eight, pieces of eight’ from Alistair Watt.

  Little groups of people wandered uneasily about the car park, conversing in low voices, peering around anxiously for their allocated place, no allowance made in the crematorium’s rigid timetable for the bereaved getting lost. The notice stated that the ‘Lyon’ funeral was to be held in the Lorimer Chapel, a building more fitted to a bus-station complex than any religious purpose, its architecture low-key and utilitarian, carelessly hostile to the numinous.

  Mrs Nordquist was standing alone in the front row, the place otherwise completely deserted. Feeling the need to stick together and somehow manufacture a congregation out of thin air, the others took their places beside her as if such proximity had been necessitated by a shortage of space. She acknowledged their presence by no more than a slow-motion blink in the shade of her broad-brimmed black hat.

  ‘When’s kick-off?’ Alastair whispered.

  ‘Eleven o’clock exactly. Three minutes to go.’

  An aged man crossed in front of the altar, genuflected while making the sign of the cross and made for a pew towards the back. He was joined, seconds later, by a couple of elderly women, ankle-fat sagging over their too-tight shoes. The sound of piped music became audible as if to herald the entry of a group, pensioners all, whispering to each other irritably before cramming themselves in single file into a middle pew. Last to arrive was a thin man, evidently unused to such chapels, placing the kneeler on his seat as if it was a cushion.

  The service itself was uninspiring, all the motions simply gone through. Prayers were murmured in reverential tones and the paltry congregation’s attempt at hymn singing was bolstered by another hidden music system, miraculously providing an angelic choral accompaniment. Eventually, to the sound of the Trumpet Voluntary, the coffin, swathed in an embroidered sheet, sank down before juddering its way into a concealed opening, its last few feet in silence except for a strange squeaking sound from the rollers.

  A few more desultory devotions and they were free to go, the black-hatted undertakers almost outnumbering the bereaved. Alice recognised one of the old ladies as the gossiping shopkeeper, and the family resemblance with the other one was so marked that she had no doubt that they were sisters. Their escort, the aged man, dawdled nearby, fidgeting, eventually cupping their elbows and easing them into the car. The pensioners helped each other clamber back into their minibus, a battered van with ‘MOODY’S COACHES-CARNBO 866644’ in gold lettering on its unwashed rear. Two attempts at ignition and its engine spluttered into life, the vehicle weaving its way between dazed mourners. Only the thin man remained unaccounted for, gazing at the bouquet of flowers propped up against the chapel wall, reading the inscription on the card.

  ‘Excuse me, could we talk to you for a minute?’ Alice asked hesitantly. The mourner looked up, surprised to be approached, more so again when they showed him their identification.

  ‘Are you a relation or friend of Mr Lyon?’ Alistair began.

  ‘Yeah, relative. I’m Ivan McKellar, his nephew. My mum’s his sister.’

  ‘But she’s not here?’

  ‘No. They don’t get on.’

  ‘Sorry to intrude, here of all places, Mr McKellar, but could you tell us why?’ Alistair continued.

  Seeing the man’s disquiet at the query, Alice indicated the Astra and the three of them then sat inside it, as if in some way a post-funeral Police interview in an enclosed space was more seemly than an open-air one.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ Ivan McKellar enquired.

  ‘We need background information about your uncle. He died as a result of a hit-and-run accident. His death is being investigated, but we know very little about him. Anything you could tell us might be of help.’

  ‘Okay,’ the man nodded, ‘but I haven’t much to give you. They fell out, him and my mother because… well, he was gay wasn’t he? She’s religious, Catholic, devout, blah, blah, blah, blah. She thinks hell-fire’s his destination…’ he shrugged. ‘Mine too, if she but knew it. She cut him off thirty, maybe more, years ago. I was only about six but I remember him well. I loved him, thought he was the world’s best uncle. One day she said we were never going to see him again. She’d discovered that he was involved in a gay relationship with the man he lived with. Obviously, nobody else would ever have assumed anything else but… jeez, ot
herworldly or what? Anyway, all contact ended then, but I never forgot him. I missed him. So when I was older I started writing to him, just now and then, but he always answered. Dead quick, too. After I moved to Edinburgh, got a teaching job at the University, we used to meet up. Not often, he wasn’t in the city much. I eventually told him I was gay, but he didn’t say a lot about it. Old school maybe, you know, the “don’t flaunt it” attitude. And perhaps there is a gay gene, because I’ve certainly got it. Soon, I’ll tell her too, and then she’ll cut me off as well. None of that loving the sinner crap for her.’

  ‘Are you his only family then, your mother, brothers and sisters or whatever?’

  ‘I think so. There were just the two of them and there’s just the one of me. Not good breeders, you see, my family. Yeah, we’re pretty well it.’

  ‘Nobody else?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Nobody else. Too many dead ends. Me and him for a start.’

  Elaine Bell could not conceal the pleasure she felt on returning to St Leonards and her command. The weeks away had felt like an eternity. She was conscious that she was smiling too much, an almost imbecilic grin periodically escaping, and had to stifle the impulse to sing under her breath. But this was the way it was meant to be for her. Destined. Alive again, truly living. And those familiar station smells were most welcome. No more cooking, cleaning and manufacturing outings simply to get herself out of the house. No more awkward exchanges with neighbours or, God forbid, day-time television. All the pains remained, but here they were no more than a distraction, there they had somehow magnified, engulfed her.

  Through her open door she saw Alice Rice and called her, telling her to close it behind her.

  ‘How did you get on at the Lyon funeral?’ she enquired.

  ‘There was almost no-one there, Ma’am. Mrs Nordquist, she’d arranged the whole thing, a couple of neighbours from near Geanbank including his cleaner, a group of pensioners from Carnbo and a solitary relation, a nephew. Lyon’s sister didn’t come. There’d been a family rift over his homosexuality. Apparently she’s an ardent Catholic.’

  ‘OK Alice, well done. Now, about Colin Norris-Eric seems to think though that he’ll get a confession out of him, that we should caution…’

  The Sergeant interrupted. ‘Even if Manson-sorry, the Detective Inspector-got one, I’d be very ginger about it ma’am. Unless it disclosed something only the murderer could know, it wouldn’t be worth much. The man’s a wreck… the last time I saw him his hands shook so much that he spilt his own coffee. In his state the defence would have a field day and we won’t get another bite at that cherry.’

  The DCI nodded her head. ‘But all this wind farm stuff, it may be… well, just wind. Let’s go back to basics. Look at the family, eh? Lyon’s got none, apparently, except for the sister and nephew. That right?’

  ‘Yes. And no clear motive there,’ Alice said, thinking as she spoke. ‘The rift was maybe thirty years ago, I can’t see that figuring in any way.’

  ‘And the Sheriff, Freeman, what about him? Any family?’

  ‘There’s a brother, that’s all. No reason, though, to suspect him.’

  ‘Nonetheless, let’s check him out. Thoroughly. And I don’t think we’ll discount the nephew yet, either.’

  But before the Scowling Crags chapter comes to an end, Alice thought, one last enquiry to pursue. She found Vertenergy’s number without difficulty and dialled it, noting as she did so that their office was in Edinburgh. To dot the i’s and cross the t’s properly, a check had to be made in case the company knew of any particularly hostile anti-wind farm campaigners, any individuals displaying more than the average level of hostility. And the news she received from the woman at the other end of the line surprised her.

  ‘Scowling Crags? That one’s not going ahead.’

  ‘Really? The protestors at the Perth meeting seemed unaware of that fact. Are you quite sure?’ Alice said in disbelief.

  ‘Hang on a minute and I’ll double-check.’

  She waited, patiently, for two minutes, ears assaulted by a hideous loop of ‘Soave Sia Il Vento’ on the flute.

  ‘No,’ the voice returned. ‘It looked as if we were going to have to withdraw the application, but we’re not going to now.’

  ‘Do you know why it was going to be withdrawn?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I’ve been talking to my superior about. Apparently, James Freeman withdrew permission for us to use the access strip but then that was countermanded…’

  ‘Countermanded by whom?’ Alice interrupted.

  ‘By his brother, Christopher Freeman.’

  ‘Sorry, when did all of this happen?’ Alice enquired.

  ‘Can you give me just another minute? I’ve got the file here in front of me.’

  This time, fortunately, no travesty of Mozart to raise the blood pressure before the voice returned.

  ‘James Freeman withdrew his permission for the development in a letter. He sent back all the contract documents too.’

  ‘What was the date of that letter?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Erm… 7th June, this year.’

  ‘Okay, and the countermand?’

  ‘That was in a letter from his brother, Christopher. Do you want to know its date?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘It’s headed 13th June.’

  14

  By the time Alice arrived all the food had been laid out and the trouble that he had taken amazed her. China plates had been provided, glasses, napkins even, and dish after dish of her favourite things, including Scotch pies and strawberries. Two bottles of champagne rested on the grass, one unopened, the other with half its contents consumed. A late picnic supper on the banks of Dunsappie Loch with the sun still high in the sky was a treat underrated by the majority of the residents of the city, but not by Ian Melville. He fully appreciated the extraordinary good fortune that the burghers enjoyed, having in their midst Holyrood Park in all its pristine beauty. A breeze rippled across the loch, disturbing a pair of mallard, and they flew off, wheeling round towards Duddingston and the shelter of the reedbeds by the church. What a place, she thought, what an unbelievably wonderful place. And that was not all that he had for her. Shyly, he eased out from under the rug a parcel wrapped in newspaper and handed it to her. He was confident this time she would love it, not be surprised or disconcerted by the gift. After all, in creating it, in every line and in every shadow he had caught her essence. A slumbering cat could not have looked more elegant, perfect, ineluctably itself than she had, naked and asleep, that morning.

  A little more champagne and with it, a lot more courage. Sufficient alcohol to loosen his tongue, allow the truth to escape yet let him withstand the consequences. Good or bad. With the Krug’s assistance, he would be able to look into her eyes and say what was on his mind, express what had remained on it for far too long. Unsaid. But how would she react to such a declaration? That she liked him was certain. And if she was half as attracted to him as he was to her then he need have no anxieties on that score. But love? That was another matter altogether, stronger, more elusive by far.

  Having refilled her glass, he topped up his own, the champagne beginning to convince him that whatever he said would be understood. And here, now, with the waters of the loch lapping at their feet, no misunderstanding could arise between them. They were as one. True. He had said the words before, although not often. Elizabeth Clarke had silenced him, stopped him dead in his tracks; but this, surely, was a mutual passion if such a thing had ever existed.

  A sudden doubt assailed him, pricking the expanding bubble of his happiness. Perhaps she would think that it was the drink talking, rendering valueless whatever he said. And, of course, it was the drink talking, but in vino veritas, and sober he might find himself unable to voice this most pressing concern.

  ‘Alice, I love you,’ he said quickly, but his voice was drowned by the whine of a passing car, and seeing him speak, but not hearing his words, she smiled contentedly at him before placing ano
ther strawberry in her mouth. No. This will not do, he thought. Such a declaration would have to be made with him stone cold sober. His restraint would have to be overcome not by champagne, but by the force of his clear will to say those three, difficult words to her.

  As he agonised, Alice sipped her drink, saying nothing, pre-occupied by Freeman’s death and only dimly aware that her companion had sunk into silence. It was a benign silence, though, the sort usually only achieved in the company of dumb animals or small children, a stillness not requiring to be broken and replaced with chatter, however inane. A few minutes later she picked up the picture that lay, now unwrapped, at her feet and studied it. Where, she wondered, should she hang a naked portrait of herself? It would have to be somewhere prominent, otherwise he might be hurt, thinking it disdained, uncherished. Better that she be thought an exhibitionist, displaying her unclothed self to a critical world. A small flock of gulls swept over the water, wings spread wide, calling shrilly in the dusk. They encircled a lone swan, their quick, jerky movements contrasting with its slow, dignified progress. When Ian Melville suggested walking back to her flat Alice was not surprised, keen to walk with him, until she remembered the car. So she handed over Quill’s lead, kissed him and watched as he set off, running, the dog free beside him, leaping up and yelping with joy, both racing down the uneven slope in their haste to reach Broughton Place.

  DCI Bell inspected the edges of the nail on her index finger, then chewed them while on the move, pacing to and fro in the murder suite, waiting for her troops to arrive. Most of the changes wrought by her predecessor, in her office and elsewhere, had been undone by her early morning industry and she was impatient now to start her briefing. DC Lowe dawdled in, cigarette drooping from his lips and, to her amazement, allowed it to remain there in her presence. She ratcheted up her quizzical expression to no effect, resorting eventually to a hostile stare directed at the cigarette itself.

  ‘Would you like one, ma’am?’ the bewildered constable asked.