Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

DCI Bruce looked into the mirror compact that he had found in his desk drawer. A fine-looking man, he concluded. No-one had ever actually paid him such a compliment, or likely ever would, but its absence had never dented his belief in the truth of such an observation had it been made about him. Red hair and blue eyes. An excellent Celtic combination. Today, maybe, the skin looking a little pallid and freckled, but more than made up for by the manly auburn moustache. At the afternoon press conference he would photograph well again, any pallor being put down to overwork, and such an impression could only do him good.

The unannounced entry into his office of the Assistant Chief Constable, Laurence Body, jolted him out of his reverie and he dropped the mirror back into its hiding place before rising from his seat.

‘Well, DCI, I hope you have some progress to report. There seems to have been precious little to date.’

Thank God the Detective Segeant had phoned. ‘I do, actually, Sir. I heard from DS Rice that the toxicology report confirms that the Sheriff took a fatal overdose of that drug-am… whatever.’

‘The amitriptyline?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘So?’

‘Er… so what, Sir?’

‘So, do we know whether the Sheriff was already dead when he was hit over the head or whether the drug killed him? Whether only a corpse was battered?’ Body’s irritation coloured his voice.

DCI Bruce cleared his throat, trying to gain time to think. This possibility, now so obvious, had not previously occurred to him. He would rely on Professor McConnachie’s post-mortem remarks.

‘The cause of death was the blows, the Prof told me that at the mortuary,’ he said, trying to sound confident.

‘And did the Professor have the toxicological results to consider then?’

The Chief Inspector was just formulating an evasive reply when Body answered his own rhetorical question. ‘Of course not . He wouldn’t then be aware of any competing cause. For Christ’s sake!’ He sighed with exasperation before continuing, ‘And we have no suspect as yet, I understand?’

‘Actually, I’m just about to see one. The Sheriff’s partner.’ The day had been saved.

Nicholas Lyon leant against the window-sill and looked out through the smeared glass across St Leonard’s Bank and the broad sweep of Queens Drive and onto Salisbury Crags beyond. A scene so carefree and sunlit that it seemed to belong to his past, not to this dreary, painful present. All his life he had been protected by the law, by James and James’ knowledge of it; and here he was in the front line, unprotected and under attack. And all because of James. Even his own body was letting him down, palms clammy and sweat trickling down his brow. He closed his eyes, slowly breathing in, trying to blot out the alien world in which he found himself, with its institutional smells and unashamed ugliness.

Suddenly, the door of the interview room was thrown open and a small red-haired man entered, shoulders back, head erect, with the now familiar policewoman following behind him. Nicholas sensed that this time there would be no gentle preliminaries, no charade of ‘assistance’. The manner of the entrance proclaimed that an interrogation was about to begin, however it might officially be described. He could feel his heart-rate rise, the pounding in his chest audible to him, if not everyone else.

‘So, Mr Lyon, the Sheriff took the amitriptyline himself, did he?’

‘Yes. He must have done, if you found it in his blood, and as he had planned, in Edinburgh.’

‘And you knew all about it?’

‘Yes. Well, no… not exactly.’ The old man was becoming flustered, ‘I mean, I knew that he intended to take it and I thought that he was going to do so on Monday night, but I couldn’t be sure. You see, it’s difficult to explain, but James didn’t want me to know… when, exactly, I mean.’

‘How did you discover that he was dead?’

‘Like I said to the Detective Sergeant, our friend, Liv Nordquist, phoned and told me.’

‘And why, in God’s name, didn’t you immediately make yourself available to us for the purpose of our enquiries? The Sheriff had, after all, been murdered.’

It was difficult to explain. More than that. Maybe impossible, or at least impossible to explain to this strange martinet. But, again, he must try.

‘James was dead, Chief Inspector, and he never liked people to know that he was gay. He came from a long line of military men, generals and brigadiers, that sort of thing… Service people. You know the sorts of views they tend to have about people like us.’ Seeing the DCI’s expression of surprise, he corrected himself quickly. ‘James and me, I mean. Anyway, most people didn’t know that he was gay, or that he had a partner. If I had turned up… well, that would all be over, wouldn’t it? And word of his homosexuality would get out, it would have, wouldn’t it? Into the newspapers and everything.’ He glanced up at the policeman, seeking his reaction, expecting agreement but not finding it.

‘Not nowadays. You’ll have to do better than that, Mr Lyon.’

The old man, sensing that he was not being believed, looked dismayed. His words began to tumble out, a new note of desperation in his voice.

‘But I knew you would find me… I suppose if I had come forward sooner you’d have got whatever information I can give you sooner, but, you see, I don’t know anything. I have no idea who killed James or why anyone would want to. If I can’t help now then I couldn’t have helped then either.’

‘Did the Sheriff have other lovers?’

‘I’m sorry, what are you talking about?’ The old man appeared bemused by the question.

‘Lovers. Other gay lovers. Other than you. It’s simple enough. Did the Sheriff have other gay lovers?’

No. I was his lover, his friend, his companion for over forty-five years. I was all he needed.

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘What about when he was in Edinburgh, with you left in the country?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘But you didn’t know?’

‘Does anybody know what their lover does every minute of every hour of every day sufficient to know for certain that they are faithful, Chief Inspector?’

‘So the simple answer is that he could have done so?’

Of course, he could have done so. I could have done so but, you foolish man, I knew his heart. He would not have done so any more than I would have done so. A truth apparently beyond your imagination or experience.

‘Yes, he could have done so.’

‘And are you aware whether anyone might have any kind of grievance against him due to his job?’

‘No. He retired over ten years ago, but even when he was on the bench I never heard of anything like that. Once, ages ago, I remember him telling me that a woman pelted him with an egg as he left the Sheriff Court in Haddington. Otherwise, I can’t recall anything or anyone.’

Interfering Scottish fucking Executive. Them and their bloody rules, DCI Bruce thought to himself. I NEED a cigarette. I don’t just want a cigarette, I need one, and without one all that I can think about is a smoke and where the next one is coming from. Something to calm my shattered nerves and stop the constant re-running in my head of the meeting with the ACC. No less than a sodding fiasco, and a further obstacle on the road to promotion. When would DCI Bell be returning, indeed! As if the man could not wait to replace him. But a little nicotine would restore his confidence, restore his self belief. Oh, it was intolerable! This interference with the rights of individuals, particularly individuals doing important and responsible jobs and who needed, physiologically, needed a good drag to function at top level. Without it he could not listen to this drivel for a second longer.