Where The Shadow Falls

by Gillian Galbraith

‘Come in.’

  Alice advanced through the door and was disappointed to see the Assistant Chief Constable, Laurence Body, seated in the Chief Inspector’s office.

  ‘Yes, Alice,’ DCI Bell said.

  ‘Well, Ma’am,’ she began, disarmed by the unexpected presence, ‘it’s about Mr Freeman… sorry, Sheriff Freeman and his partner, Mr Lyon.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve new information that might help us, but I could always come back later, tell you when you’re free. You know, after the Assistant Chief Constable, Sir, has…’

  Wordlessly, Laurence Body rose from his seat, went to the window, collected from beside it another chair and then placed it beside his own. He smiled reassuringly at the Sergeant and, with a courtly gesture, indicated for her to take the seat. Oh fuck, she thought, worried that in such august company the power of speech might desert her or, at least, the power to persuade. Treat it like a presentation, she told herself, but a subversive answer in her own head replied that she had not prepared for any such thing, expecting instead some form of dialogue, ideas exchanged, tested, accepted or rejected, all in the course of an ordinary conversation.

  ‘Well Ma’am, Sir…’ she began, voice sounding weak already. ‘I think Christopher Freeman murdered the Sheriff and the Sheriff’s partner, but we may have great difficulty in proving it.’

  ‘Go on,’ Body said eagerly, clearly rapt.

  ‘First of all, motive. James Freeman, the eldest son, inherited all of the Freeman wealth, the vast house in Moray Place, land and so on, except for a single farm, Blackstone Mains, which was shared with his brother, Christopher. Originally, the elder brother was pro-wind farm and seems to have got Vertenergy involved or at least acceded to their wind farm plan. From Alistair’s enquiries with Vertenergy it seems that their lease of Blackstone Mains for a twenty-five year period would’ve netted the brothers a sum in excess of one and a half million. And for Christopher Freeman-almost anyone I suppose-that’s a huge amount of money. As far as I can see, he lives in pretty reduced circumstances. He doesn’t seem to have had any sort of career and his house in Frogston Road West reeks of genteel poverty. But the money won’t have mattered so much to the Sheriff: he was already rich, and he’ll have got a fat pension from the government. Also, he knew he was dying. Nicholas Lyon said that when James Freeman entered into negotiation with the company he was keen on renewable energy, global warming and all that. Over time, though, he changed his mind about wind turbines, possibly due to some extent to his partner’s arguments, appeals or whatever. Christopher Freeman, however, didn’t know that his brother had a partner, male or female. If his brother didn’t have a partner then it wouldn’t be an unreasonable assumption, even taking into account their strained relationship, that in the event of the Sheriff’s death the land would remain in Freeman hands, that it would be left by James Freeman to Christopher Freeman…’

  The telephone rang, breaking the spell, and the Chief Inspector’s irritation could not have been missed by her caller.

  ‘Yes, Eric. Go home. Get better and, please, please don’t come back to the office until you’re mobile again. Okay. That understood? Fine. Bye.’

  ‘Suppose…’ Alice started again.

  ‘How do you mean, “suppose”?’ the Assistant Chief Constable interrupted.

  ‘It is only a supposition, Sir, but reasonable, I think.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Suppose Christopher Freeman called on his brother on the night of the murder. We know that the Sheriff had, by that time, told Vertenergy that he didn’t intend to allow Blackstone Mains to be included in the Scowling Crags scheme. Surely he must have communicated his decision to his brother, by some means? Anyway, we can check his phone records on that. If he did tell his brother then it seems quite plausible to me that Christopher Freeman might want to visit him. To talk to him. Persuade him to change his mind again and allow the scheme to go ahead. After all, his brother’s DNA was found in number seventy-three.’

  ‘Is that right, Alice?’ Elaine Bell asked, clearly surprised by the news.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am. Well, the lab says the stuff from the hairbrush matched…’

  Laurence Body interrupted, ‘What on earth are you talking about, Sergeant? “The stuff on the hairbrush”?’

  Alice’s eyes met her superior’s with dumb entreaty, then Elaine Bell spoke: ‘Ah, Sergeant Rice used her initiative, Sir. Collected some hair samples, granted in a slightly unorthodox fashion, from Christopher Freeman’s house.’

  ‘Well, that will be of no use in court,’ Body said coldly.

  ‘I know, Sir,’ Alice said, ‘but we’ll be able to get one we can use once we take him in.’

  ‘Bloody stupid thing to do, though. Carry on.’

  ‘So Christopher Freeman’s DNA is in his brother’s house. He must have been there about the time of the murder. The Sheriff had a cleaner after all. But he’s denied being there, and his wife said that the brothers hadn’t met for years and he, standing right beside her, made no attempt to correct that impression.’

  ‘They’re brothers, for heaven’s sake,’ Body interjected. ‘If he knows that his DNA was found at the scene then he’ll suddenly “remember” a recent innocent visit to explain it away. Then what will we have left? There was no DNA on the truncheon thing.’

  ‘Sir,’ Alice said, determined to keep going, ‘we can make it more difficult for him than that. He doesn’t know about the DNA he left in the building. And he’s not a bright spark either. If he did murder his brother in Moray Place he’s going to be determined, on all occasions, to deny going anywhere near the house whenever he is given the opportunity. If in his interview under caution we get him repeatedly stressing that he hasn’t been near the house for years, and he’s bound to say that to protect himself unless he knows about the sample, then he’ll find it very difficult indeed to explain all those denials on the record at his trial if he chooses to give evidence at all. The jury won’t be convinced by him if he’s consistently denied being near the place until confronted with the forensic evidence linking him to it…’

  ‘Maybe,’ Elaine Bell said, musing, ‘but the interview under caution would have to be handled incredibly carefully.’

  ‘What else have you got?’ Body said testily, plainly unconvinced.

  ‘It’s all circumstantial, Sir, about the Nicholas Lyon killing too, but again a sort of picture is beginning to emerge. I think so, anyway. Traffic concluded that Nicholas Lyon was not accidentally run over. The driver of the car seems to have accelerated at him, having been able to see him clearly. Tooles Garage sold Christopher Freeman a new, well, new secondhand, car on the afternoon of 7th July. Alistair got that information from them today. Mrs Freeman, and the Major, admit that they bought their new car two days after Nicholas Lyon’s death, and they both said that the old car had been sold the day before they got the new one. Mrs Freeman’s pretty vague on the sale. Either she doesn’t know anything about it or she doesn’t want to talk about it. Christopher Freeman said he sold the car to a stranger for cash, conveniently enough, scrap value only. A “For Sale” sign was, supposedly, in the back of the car. Only neither his wife nor any of his neighbours remember anything about any “For Sale” signs. It seems likely that Nicholas Lyon met someone at the Moray Place house and Mrs Gunn saw lights in the house before the accident. Suppose Forensics find more of Christopher Freeman’s DNA in…’

  ‘Hold on. Hold on. Hold on,’ Body said. ‘Forensics are checking Moray Place again, are they? Suppose they do find “more” of Christopher Freeman’s DNA. What exactly can be done with that?’

  ‘Yes, Alice,’ DC Bell added, concerned, aware of the potential problem.

  ‘It’s difficult, I know. I did say that. The Defence will, no doubt, suggest that any “more” DNA found was always there, missed by Forensics the first time, and then attempt to cover it by exactly the same explanation as will be proffered for the original stuff. I see that, but it might be useful for us to know. S
uppose…’

  ‘Suppose this. Suppose that,’ Body said sarcastically, patience clearly frayed.

  ‘Suppose,’ Alice battled on, ‘Nicholas Lyon and Christopher Freeman met in Moray Place that night. I don’t know why, but suppose they did. Both of their phone records could be checked to see if either called the other. The Major might have wanted to talk about the inheritance or whatever… their affairs on any view had suddenly become linked. Suppose Christopher Freeman leaves the house, presumably not having achieved whatever he wanted, and kills Nicholas Lyon, runs him down with his car. It would explain the absence of the white-and I saw it myself-Volkswagen Polo, the timing of its disappearance, and the new DNA, if it’s there.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Body said angrily, ‘this is no more than a mass of conjecture, one theory on another. And the little hard evidence that exists will probably melt like spring snow in the hands of a half-competent counsel.’

  ‘Has Christopher Freeman got an alibi for the killings?’ DCI Bell asked quietly.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Alice conceded, adding desperately, ‘but only from his wife.’

  ‘And no car’s been found,’ the Assistant Chief Constable added.

  ‘Thank you very much, Sergeant Rice, I’ll speak to you later,’ DCI Bell said, and Alice, now dejected, waited to be dismissed.

  ‘I think, perhaps, Sergeant, you might more usefully go and see Mr Du Thuy and his friends. Too many coincidences there for my liking,’ Laurence Body added, escorting her to the door.

  16

  ‘Whereabouts do we go, Mum?’ Alice asked, worried that they would be late. Peering round in all directions as if still trying to find her bearings, her mother said, ‘Keep going to the top of this road and then, I think… take the first right.’

  ‘And you’re sure they’ll have a space there? The place seems to be jam-packed.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I’ve got a reserved one in the oncology car park, a privilege I could well do without.’

  As the car drew up at the barrier, a fat man in a peaked cap, sweating profusely, peered in at the driver’s window, frowning as if to repel any interlopers. Hastily, Alice’s mother passed across her appointment card and the bouncer, pudgy fingers obscuring most of the writing, examined it.

  ‘Busy today?’ Mrs Rice enquired politely.

  ‘Aha. The pole’s already been up n’ doon like a hoor’s breeks,’ he muttered, head still bowed, engrossed in his inspection, before continuing, ‘Okay hen. In ye go. Furst oan yer left.’

  The radiotherapy staff trooped out, one of them putting a comforting hand on Alice’s shoulder as he passed. Seconds later the red light above the door went on, signalling that the treatment had begun. Inside, Olivia Rice lay semi-naked on a hard metal bed, with little more than a paper towel to preserve her modesty. She stared up at the ceiling, willing herself to relax, conscious that her neck muscles were on the edge of spasm. Everyone had said that she would be fine, the rays would cure her, not kill her. And the small tattoo on her breast, delineating the target area, had been minutely aligned with the machine. ‘One thousand and one… one thousand and two,’ she began counting, but before she reached ‘One thousand and five’, her six seconds of radiation were up and she heard a strange clicking sound followed by a passage of whirring, announcing that her first session was complete. The middle-aged nurse returned and freed her from the bed and the contraption above it, directing her behind a screen where she was reunited with her clothes.

  Seated in the corridor, Alice crossed, uncrossed and then re-crossed her legs before, on automatic pilot, beginning to recite a Hail Mary. Self-consciousness returned with the first ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God’ and she laughed at herself, parroting mumbo-jumbo, but found that she was unable to leave the prayer incomplete. Just as she had decided to rise from her seat and investigate the magazine table, her mother reappeared, calm and smiling, chatting animatedly with the radiographer about the virtues of pink fir-apples.

  It was just too unlikely, she thought. And, looking at Georgie, affable, amusing Georgie, she could not imagine the James Freeman that his partner had described forming any kind of alliance with him, never mind a one-night stand. He poured more tea into her cup, before resuming his stool amongst the books and beaming, magically, at her again. Although she returned repeatedly to the original meeting in the Boar’s Head, he took no offence, patiently answering all her questions. She knew it was the lynchpin, without it little more would be left than a chance meeting between two gay men, both of whom worked in the same area of Edinburgh. Ivan became a suspect because of Georgie, and Georgie became one because of Ivan.

  ‘So you’re sure it was him, the Sheriff, because of the likeness to the newspaper photo?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Yes. I never bothered reading the actual obituary. But I remember his looks all right.’

  ‘Not because of anything he told you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he say anything much?’

  ‘Well, we chattered for a bit, as you do, got to know each other… Not so different, really, from the heterosexual world, you appreciate.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest…’

  Georgie quickly touched her elbow, grinning again to reassure her. ‘That’s all right, Miss Rice, I didn’t think you did.’

  She tried a different tack. ‘James Freeman, you know, was not far off eighty.’

  ‘No!’ The man seemed thunderstruck.

  ‘The chap you met, I take it, didn’t seem so old?’

  ‘Certainly did not. No. Let’s change that. Was not. I’m not some kind of gerontophile, I can assure you. No wonder Ivan seemed a bit taken aback when I told him about the liaison. It’s a miracle he didn’t run away screaming.’

  And then the light dawned. The photo, used in the papers, and which she had not seen, must have been an old one. She racked her brain for anything else she could remember about the dead Sheriff.

  ‘When you talked, did the man have a speech impediment?’

  ‘Christ almighty! What else? No, not that I can recall. What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Ws for Rs. You know, “Wound the wagged wocks, the wagged wascal wan…”’

  ‘No. Definitely not. I’d have noticed that.’

  ‘What about a scar-on his body. Cutting right across his chest?’

  ‘This is beginning to sound as if I picked up an aged monster… er, no disrespect to the Sheriff intended. No, no scar either. I take it all back. The man I slept with was normal, normal body, normal voice and not Methuselah. I did not, repeat did not, sleep with the deceased judge! I take it all back!’

  Then he ruffled his hair with the tips of his fingers, laughed and said, ‘What I want to know, detective, and this could be your next assignment, is who the hell did I bestow my favours on? As my old flame used to say-

  “You know it’s mad and bad as well,

  To copulate when stocious.

  You do not know your lover’s name,

  And the sex will be atrocious!”’

  A single trail remaining, and all that was needed now was a phone check. It was the obvious thing, except that permission from on high would be required, and those breathing the chilly air had seemed singularly unimpressed by her theory. An alternative, albeit imperfect strategy would now have to be deployed. She searched for Vertenergy’s phone number and found it scrawled on a Post-it attached to the front cover of her diary.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Rice here. I understand that my colleague, DS Watt, spoke to a Mr Vernon from your company yesterday. Could I speak to him, please? There are a number of new matters that have arisen.’

  The receptionist, boredom unconcealed, said that she would send someone to find him; he was certainly in the office but had not been answering his phone. In the meantime, Alice would have to be put on hold. A minute or two of complete silence and then she was unceremoniously cut off. Re-dialling, fortunately, produced another receptionist, one abashed to hear of the mishap and prepared to leave
her desk to find the Director.

  ‘Hello, Sergeant Rice. What can we do for you today?’ The man’s voice was cheery, eager to please.

  ‘It’s in relation to the Scowling Crags wind farm, Mr Vernon. I understand that all of your dealings, originally at least, were with the late James Freeman, but that later his brother Christopher Freeman became involved…’

  ‘That’s right. Christopher Freeman informed us that permission would be granted to use Blackstone Mains as the access strip for the development.’

  ‘After you received the Sheriff’s letter withdrawing permission for the inclusion of Blackstone Mains, did someone from your company contact Christopher Freeman to tell him of the withdrawal?’

  ‘No,’ the man sounded puzzled, ‘I wouldn’t think so. You see, at that stage, we dealt solely with James Freeman. I doubt anyone here was aware, then at least, that the land was jointly owned. Even if they did know it, the assumption would have been that Freeman was consenting on behalf of all the landowners of Blackstone Mains. We’d have no cause to contact Christopher Freeman. I’m not sure anyone then knew that he even existed. Normally, we would have tried to tie up the “legals” before embarking on the quest for planning, but we couldn’t this time, too many applications to risk being barred by “cumulative effect”.’

  ‘So you’re pretty certain that no-one from your company phoned Christopher Freeman for that purpose?’

  ‘Well…’ Mr Vernon hesitated before replying. ‘Yes. I’m in charge of the Scowling Crags development. I didn’t talk to him and I can’t think of anyone else who would have done so. I could check it with Roger I suppose…’ he paused again. ‘No. It’s pointless. He was off on holiday then, so there’d be nobody. I bet my life on it that no-one from here contacted Christopher Freeman. We were very relieved when he contacted us.’

  Alice replaced the receiver and breathed a long sigh of relief. DC Lowe strode to her desk. ‘The boss wants to see you, Sarge, and it’s urgent,’ he said, frowning and jabbing his finger at her as if to convey added force to the order.