Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

‘Perhaps you could take over now, DS Rice?’ DCI Bruce said as he rose, departing with unconcealed haste, intent on achieving his single, easily accomplished goal. And it would not be, ignominiously, behind the bike shed either.

‘Mr Lyon, maybe we could continue this interview at Geanbank in a few days’ time?’ the policewoman asked.

‘That would be fine. Thank you, I’d prefer that.’

Alice looked at the exam paper.

‘(12) There are several factors that may affect underwater visibility. Tick those that do:

A – Weather.

B – Water movement.

C – Ambient pressure.

D – Suspended particles.’

The weather must, surely. Bright sunshine could only make things clearer. Tick. Water movement? If there are lots of waves, then stuff, like sand, would be mixed into the water. Tick.

Ambient pressure? Christ knows. Leave it out.

Suspended particles? Of course. Tick

‘(13) Almost all injuries caused by aquatic life are attributable to (fill in space) action by the animal. Tick, as appropriate:

A – Unpredictable.

B – Unprovoked.

C – Defensive.’

Alice racked her brain for an example. A shark attempting to bite a lump out of a diver. That would do. Let’s see; thoroughly predictable and therefore, possibly, avoidable. Routinely unprovoked and offensive in nature rather than defensive. Tick ‘unprovoked’. She wished she had read ‘Knowledge review – Module 3’ of the Open Water Diver Manual last night instead of another chapter of Ishiguro’s bleak novel, which had reduced her to tears. As she began to scrutinise Question 14, at first sight completely incomprehensible, she became aware of Bridget craning over her question sheet. The invigilator had left the room.

‘Well, what’s the answer to Question 12?’ Her friend murmured.

‘No idea, I’ve opted for A, B and D.’

‘And 13?’

‘Again, I haven’t the faintest, but I’m going for “Unprovoked”. What’s the answer to 14, Bridget?’

‘I’ve put “Establish buoyancy; Drop weight belt; Stop; Think; Act relaxed and signal”. I had it all written down on my palm.’

‘My palm wouldn’t be big enough!’

The urgent whispering in the room ceased as the invigilator returned, bearing a cup of coffee for himself.

‘Now, students, your time’s up. If you exchange sheets with your neighbour we will correct the exam.’ Before Alice had a chance to pass her sheet on to the man on her right Bridget snatched it from her grasp and thrust her own onto Alice’s lap, wheedling conspiratorially, ‘Last week, 90%. This week 92%? Eh? Top o’ the class for me?’

‘These things matter!’ hissed the waste disposal entrepreneur.

‘I know,’ nodded Bridget before adding blithely, ‘that’s why I intend to come first.’ And then she muttered to Alice, ‘water off a Dux’s back, eh!’

The woman’s carmine lipstick glistened moistly in the light. As always it had been immaculately applied, DI Manson decided, while he watched, transfixed, as she inserted a cashew nut into the flawless Cupid’s bow of her mouth. Oh, and her eyebrows were thin and perfectly arched, her nails long, manicured and pearly pink. Blonde hair, too. This is exactly how a woman, a proper woman, should look, and then men, all men, certainly this one, would give her whatever she desired.

‘A gin and tonic for the lady and, eh… a pint for me,’ he said to the barman, before adding ‘make it a Bitter and Twisted, eh?’

Turning his attention back to the journalist perched on the bar-stool beside him, he smiled broadly at her and was nonplussed when she displayed signs of dictating the pace of the meeting.

‘So, Eric, what exactly d’you want?’

The Inspector attempted, as usual, to disguise the disappointment he felt at the sound of her voice. It was a high-pitched squawking noise, and whenever he heard it, he recoiled, dismayed by its ugliness. As if an exquisite bird of paradise had opened its beak and screeched like a magpie. She should have made a low, purring sound, perhaps, with the slightest hint of a lisp; and he had wanted the illusion of a social drink between friends to be maintained just a little longer, but so be it. If it had to be down to business, then fine, she would be impressed with his offering whenever it was laid before her.

‘It’s not a question of what I want, love, more what you’ll want.’ He winked, inwardly congratulating himself on his answer. Flirtatious, intriguing even.

‘Don’t play games with me. I’ve not got all sodding night. If you’ve got something to say, then just say it, eh? I’m needing the loo and I’ve better things to do than lounge around the friggin’ Balmoral all evening.’

‘It’s about Sheriff Freeman.’

‘The murdered one?’ Her voice betrayed rising interest.

‘Aye. The murdered one,’ he nodded, tantalising her.

‘Well?’ Another squawk.

‘Well. Wait for it… he was gay!’

The semblance of a smile. ‘How d’you know?’

‘Because we had his partner in the station, at St Leonards. Another old bloke, lived with Freeman for years and years.’

‘‘Tell me he’s a suspect?’ Her eyes now glittered with excitement.

In for a penny, in for a pound, the Detective Inspector thought, replying: ‘Aha. He certainly is!’

The woman uncrossed her long, shapely legs and leant towards the policeman. A little notebook was extracted from her shoulder-bag and she began, for the first time that evening, to bestow her full attention upon him.

‘Go on then, Eric… talk to me. For you, pet, I’ve all the time in the world.’

DI Manson drained the dregs of his pint, swallowed a burp, and allowed his left foot, accidentally, to brush against hers.

Shortly before three o’clock in the afternoon, Nicholas Lyon put up his umbrella and set off to walk to the village shop to collect his bread and milk. A soaking was just what the ground needed; the soil had become dust-dry and the lawn was disfigured by leprous yellow patches where the grass had died. He squelched through the puddles on the drive in his boots, breathing in deeply to inhale the pungent scent of aniseed released as the rain sank into the parched earth, slaking its summer thirst.

Reaching the store he cast his eyes over the billboard propped up against the plate glass window. Most days it was of little interest-‘Fife Councillor on the Take’, ‘Road Bridge Toll to Go Up’, or ‘T in the Park – a Record Success’. Once in a while someone else’s tragedy had become news: ‘Local Boy Dies in Motor-cycle Crash’ or ‘Mother’s Coma Vigil’. He had ruminated over the incidental cruelty involved. A private grief magnified to assuage the public’s insatiable appetite for ‘human interest’ stories. And then the relatives’ reaction, exacerbated by the news coverage, might, in itself, provide more columns of newsprint. This time the hastily scrawled black lettering on the white background spelt out ‘MURDERED SHERIFF’S GAY LOVER NOW A SUSPECT’. On reading it he was swept by an overwhelming feeling of dread, a sensation of fear, unmistakably physical, like nothing he had ever experienced. Cold sweat rose on his forehead and acid seemed to be seeping into the pit of his stomach. What would everyone think? And then, and worse still, came the conviction that, somehow, he had let James down. In death, James Freeman had become cheap, tabloid fodder, a source of vulgar amusement at best, infuriated disgust at worst. And the easiest label of all would now be bestowed upon him, that of hypocrite.