Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

‘What do you want, caller?’ The tone sounded surprisingly aggressive.

‘It’s just me, Miss Spinnell, I’ve come to collect Quill.’

‘I’m afraid that will be quite impossible tonight, I’ll have to keep him with me. I have been locked in here by those rogues. My door, simply, will not… out… ehm… open.’

Alice sighed. Work had been arduous enough without having to endure the additional burden imposed on her by her neighbour’s gradual loss of all remaining wits.

‘Perhaps, if you undid the locks, the internal ones, you could free yourself?’ she said slowly, attempting to keep the impatience she felt out of her voice, reminding herself of her beholden state.

The reply sounded querulous, doubtful: ‘I’ll give it a try, this once.’

The usual cacophony of metal on metal could be heard before the door swung open to reveal a slightly startled, blinking, Miss Spinnell with Quill sitting beside her, restrained by a lead.

‘Your dog must be tested,’ the old lady said stiffly.

Alice was baffled. ‘Tested? Tested for what?’

Miss Spinnell’s bulging eyeballs, in unison for once, travelled heavenwards. It was all so obvious. How could this socalled policewoman (God help us all) not understand?

‘His hearing. A hearing test. Men-men-I repeat, MEN… have been in my flat and locked the pair of us in, but was there so much as a howl, a growl, a bark even, to warn me? There was not. This… this,’ she struggled for the word ‘this… eh, horse… this hound… has a hearing problem and a carefree… er, caring owner would have detected it eons ago. Things could, possibly, then have been done, but it will be too late now. Poor Quill must be stone deaf.’

So saying, she patted Quill’s soft head before blithely issuing her order, ‘Off you go, boy.’

The phone rang in Alice’s flat. It was Alistair. Thankfully, no effort would be required.

‘Did Bruce have a go at you, too?’

‘Yes. I missed the meeting completely. I gather you did too. Not a great start, eh?’

‘Nope. How did you get on at Freeman’s other place?’

‘Well, it’s a long, long story. I met the Sheriff’s other half and I reckon that the plentiful alien DNA in Moray Place will turn out to have come from that source.’

‘Why on earth didn’t she come forward?’

‘Because she’s a he.’

‘Oh, really! Do you…’

‘Hang on, there’s more. On the night he was killed the poor bastard was attempting to do away with himself.’

‘Christ! Why?’

‘Nicholas, his partner, told me that the Sheriff had motor neurone disease and didn’t want to wait and let the illness take its natural course.’

‘And did you believe the man?’

‘Yes, I did. Why wouldn’t I? I’m not sure what I’d do if I found out I had something like that. Freeman, apparently, took an overdose of amitriptyline. I think I might well choose to opt out, too.’

‘Maybe, but when his partner was killed he didn’t appear, didn’t help us in any way whatsoever, and that’s bloody odd, I’d say. He might have told you about the amy… whatever, in the knowledge that an explanation would be required-for the drug I mean. Any idiot would know there’d bound to be a PM.’

‘True, but there was nothing at the post mortem to suggest that the Sheriff had been forced to ingest anything. Anyway, I’m due to speak to Lyon again, but, remember, if this was the dead man’s widow we wouldn’t be quite so quick in assuming that she’d done it. We’d all be falling over ourselves, trying to understand her predicament. Comfort her, even. He didn’t abscond, disappear or anything, he simply waited for us to find him at the home he shared with Freeman. That’s not such suspicious behaviour in their particular circumstances.’

‘I’m not convinced. Don’t forget, there was nothing in the post mortem report about any disease at all, and the drug could have been added to food or drink. And who’d give a stuff about the Sheriff being gay nowadays? I don’t think it hangs together at all.’

‘Well, Professor McConnachie was pretty sure about the cause of death, and it looked convincing enough. The big holes in the skull. I think we should go back to him and see if there was any evidence, from the brain, spinal cord or whatever, about motor neurone disease. If the old man had it, then his partner’s version of events could be possible.’

She paused, thinking, and then continued: ‘Certainly, there’d be no need for Lyon to whack him over the head if he knew the Sheriff was already full of a fatal dose of amitriptyline… and, like I said, there’s no evidence of any force-feeding. Anyway, even if the old fellow was wrong about any press interest in their relationship, as long as his belief was genuine then it would still explain his action-or inaction. Wouldn’t it? By the way, Alistair, why did you miss the meeting?’

‘Because DI Manson noticed in your report on the funeral that you described Mrs Nordquist as tearful, and he thought she ought to be talked to again, the tears suggesting something other than neighbourly feeling. This being Edinburgh and all. Also, he said DCI Bruce asked her to ID the body in the mortuary, before we managed to contact Christopher Freeman, and she’d been completely unbothered by the prospect. Odd, with her weeping at St Giles.’

‘And did you find anything?’

‘No. Mrs Nordquist had been imbibing again; actually I’d say she was drunk this time. Anyway, I couldn’t make head or tail of what she was saying, with her accent and all, and she kept trying to press that liqueur stuff on me. She got furious when I wouldn’t join her and then edged towards me on the sofa and started crying. We’ll have to go again, or on reflection, perhaps, just you.’

DCI Bruce whirled round at speed in a full circle on his revolving chair. It could have been simply joie de vivre , but Alice sensed that the man had done it to proclaim his dominance over his territory and over the only subordinate present, herself. Returning to his place at the front of his desk he pressed the ends of his fingers together, as if praying, and began to speak.

‘That’s very useful stuff, in its way, Detective Sergeant. Almost, but not quite, makes up for missing my meeting…’ he smiled with no warmth. ‘Anyhow, the toxicology report should make entertaining reading, so I suggest that you go off and harry the lab for me. It’s over three weeks since the post mortem and this case, surely, deserves some priority.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And when you talk to Nicholas Lyon again, bring him in here, eh? Just to let him know what he’s got himself into.’

‘What has he got himself into, Sir?’

‘A murder enquiry, remember?’

‘I hadn’t forgotten that, Sir, but he’s not really a suspect at present, is he? Mr Lyon’s the… the… well, the bereaved. He lived with the victim for over forty-five years. We’ve got nothing to suggest that he was involved in any way, and I’d much rather see him in his own home; he’ll be more relaxed there.’

‘Get real, Sergeant! He didn’t come to us, did he? We had to go and winkle him out, and that speaks volumes in my book. He’s a suspect as far as I’m concerned! So let’s give him a dose of reality and bring him in here “to assist us”. In fact, I’ll do the interview myself to make sure we get everything we need.’

The Professor’s desk was almost invisible beneath the array of empty coffee cups and polystyrene mugs stacked on it, and the man’s expression betrayed irritability when he looked up from his computer screen as the policewoman entered.