Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

Inside the kitchen of his Heriot Row house, the former Sheriff Principal of Lothian and Borders pulled off his hat and veil and then collapsed into an armchair, extending his legs and allowing his wife, wordlessly, to bend down and pull off his green Wellington boots. Hairy woollen socks encased his legs, and the elderly woman casually flicked a bee off one of them into a glass tumbler, before releasing the creature back into the garden.

Alice introduced herself and the old fellow, now mollified with a cup of tea and a biscuit, turned his attention to her.

‘I’ve come to see you in connection with the death of one of your brother Sheriffs, James Freeman. I understand that he was under you until he retired about ten years ago. I wondered if you could tell me anything about him,’ she began.

The Sheriff nodded benignly, crunching his mouthful of ginger snap, before replying: ‘Perhaps you could be more specific, Detective Sergeant Rice. What sort of thing exactly would you like to know?’

‘Just about anything you can tell me, Sir. His job-was he good at it, for example?’

‘I couldn’t fault him. He was absolutely first rate, always completely reliable, never shirked anything, including the residence stuff or even crime. His judgements were routinely well written and well reasoned, and he was very rarely overturned. Of course, he loathed our administrators, everyone does, but he took his turn on committees and so forth. As you are probably aware, for most of his time in Edinburgh, I was in Perth, but he was one of my Sheriffs for his last three years up until his retiral.’

‘Did you know anything about his personal life?’

The Sheriff looked keenly at Alice from beneath his unruly eyebrows, and when he spoke he sounded wary.

‘Very little. In fact, only what James chose to tell me. Obviously, as an unmarried man, albeit elderly, there were rumours-there always are-but I paid scant attention to them. I have been the subject of gossip in my time, plenty of it, so I don’t place much credence on such tittle tattle… however entertaining it may be.’

‘And what did Mr Freeman choose to tell you?’

‘Almost nothing. Simply that he had never married and would now never marry.’

‘And the rumours?’

‘Surely you can imagine?’ the Sheriff said impatiently. ‘Girls, boys, sheep-two legs good, four legs better-that kind of thing. It must happen in your own workplace. Certainly, the idle tongues waiting to be exercised in the ordinary Court enjoy nothing better than clacking about the orientation of those around them, any new liaisons or break-ups, no-one’s safe, but it’s all pretty harmless.’

‘I know Sheriff Freeman retired a good while ago, but can you think of anyone who might have a grievance against him, having been locked up by him or whatever?’

The retired judge sighed. ‘No. Most of the young neds he sentenced will be middle-aged men with their own children in tow now. Maybe even householders. Anyway, he didn’t end up with much crime. You see he was happy to listen to endless debates, complicated skirmishes over contractual terms and the like, civil proofs; and many of his brethren were less amenable to that sort of thing so they tended to get… well, the crime. Furthermore, any malcontent dealt with by him would have waited a very long time for revenge, and frankly, as a motive I find it pretty implausible.’

‘Did you ever visit his house in Moray Place?’

‘No, nor did he ever come here. I never went to Geanbank either. We weren’t friends in that way.’

‘Geanbank?’

‘It’s his house in Kinross-shire, somewhere near Carnbo. Deep in the countryside, I believe. Maybe you’d even get heather honey there…’

A precious afternoon off and here she was supping with the devil in a seedy bar in Roseburn. It had come to this. Alice savoured the taste of the white wine on her palate, oblivious to the incessant chatter of the man by her side. She sensed his eyes on her, uncomfortably aware that his real object was to possess her, not just any information she might choose to impart to him. It was nothing personal, any woman would do. And this time she had nothing to tell him and, worse, he had lured her to the pub on false pretences; he had no news either and his bar-room patter was no substitute. What the hell. They both understood the value of their relationship; the need to nurture and preserve it. Her companion, a pasty-faced crime reporter, finished his cheese toasty, offered Alice a refill and, when she declined on the pretext of her imminent return to the office, snatched up his jacket and hurried off in order to catch the four thirty at Musselburgh.

As she raised her glass for the final swig, Alice became aware that the newly vacated seat beside her had become occupied. Turning, she found herself looking into the dark brown eyes of Ian Melville and saw him flinch as their eyes met; he had not expected to meet her in O’Riordans. Perhaps he had not expected to meet her ever again, and his disquiet on doing so could not be disguised. No wonder. Not so long ago he had been a murder suspect pursued by her, interrogated by her, afraid of her, and now here they were sitting together, side by side, like old friends. As she made to rise, he spoke.

‘Stay, Alice, please. I didn’t mean to disturb you. If it bothers you I’ll move… there are plenty of other tables.’ It sounded genuine.

‘Thanks for the offer,’ she heard herself say, ‘but there’s no need to go. I’d welcome the company.’

And it was true. His company would be welcome, but she had, somehow, expected her brain to bridle her mouth as it usually did, keep back the truth and give only some anodyne reply, nothing as forward as a welcome. It must be the drink. But he had remembered her name, and no longer required, in using it, to preface it with her rank, and she had remembered his. The sparring that they had engaged in during those tense interviews the previous year meant, in some bizarre way, that they knew each other. No. Correction. The truth was that she knew a fair amount about him, but he knew little of her. He was a painter, a good one; he had proved himself, ultimately, to be an honest man. He was rational and loyal. And, to his eternal credit, he had taken an immediate dislike to DI Manson and had, without difficulty, routed him. Finally, she had always found his irregular, angular features alluring. Others could feast their eyes on fair-haired men with perfect, symmetrical faces. They left her unmoved.

Forty minutes later they left the pub together and strolled down the steps that led to the walkway running alongside the Water of Leith, inhaling the scent of brewing effluent and lime blossom that accompanied the river on its winding course through the city. Deep in conversation they passed through the cold shadow cast by the Belford Bridge, high above them, their words echoing eerily within the archway, past the Dean Village and on to the final stretch that led to Stockbridge and their immediate destination. Opposite the Rotunda of St Bernard’s Well their hands linked, though neither of them was conscious of having taken any initiative.

The sign for Geanbank was nailed to the picket fence that marked the entrance to the driveway on the Carnbo to Cauldstones Road. The drive itself was flanked on either side by wild cherry trees, giving the place its name, and the fields beyond contained Highland cattle, long-haired and red-coated, their tails flicking incessantly to ward off the summer flies. Swallows chattered under the eaves of the house, their nests clinging perilously to the deep arches of the gothic windows where the mud used by them had splashed onto the soft yellow render of the building. The double front doors were locked, so Alice followed the perimeter of the house to the back door, but received no response when she rang the bell.