Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

A hand tapped on his shoulder and he opened his eyes to see the plump form of the shopkeeper beside him.

‘Ye all richt, Mr Lyon?’

He nodded, embarrassed, incapable of speech, afraid that if he attempted to say anything he might break down and weep, and then be unable to stop himself.

‘Come in oot the rain eh? Dinnae worry yerself aboot yon board. S’only up the day an’ it’ll be doon afore tomorrow morn. Fish ’n chips frae then oan. We a’ ken you, an’ aboot the Sheriff an’ a.’

‘Yes! A result!’ Eric Manson slammed down the receiver and punched the air. Alice caught Alistair’s eye. Should they indulge the man in his excitement, ask the inevitable question or, sadistically, let the seconds tick by, force him to wait for a bit? Even say nothing at all and twiddle their thumbs before another exhibition was staged in an attempt to whet their curiosity further? DC McDonald, unaware of the tensions within the squad, resolved their unspoken dilemma.

‘What is it, Sir?’

‘Only a lead. That’s all! Some poof’s been boasting in a gay bar, the Boar’s Head down Leith way, that he was having it off with the Sheriff. Come on Alice, turn off the computer, we’re going to…’

Before DI Manson had finished speaking his phone rang again, and he snatched it up impatiently, annoyed at being delayed.

‘Yes! Oh, I see, Sir. Of course, I quite appreciate that. I’ll come through right away. I had been on my way to check out something urgent in Leith, a boy we need to see there. Maybe I should go there first?’ He grimaced at Alistair. ‘Yes, Sir, Alice and DS Watt could easily go in my place. If the Assistant Chief Constable needs a report then, obviously, that takes priority. I’ll attend to it now.’

The traffic on Leith Walk was gridlocked, moving little more than a few feet every minute and, in the still, warm air, the stench of exhaust fumes was overpowering. But no escape presented itself. A bus driver hooted his horn angrily, and in vain, at two parked cars blocking his lane, and a stationary taxi-cab, immediately ahead of them, disgorged its overheated passangers. The two Police officers wound up their windows simultaneously, desperate to preserve such fresh air as the Astra contained, knowing that they would now swelter in its furnacelike interior. By the time they reached Salamander Street both of them had, somehow, stuck to their plastic car seats. They immediately flung the doors wide, enjoying the cool sea breeze, preparing to peel themselves off the vinyl.

A few tables, sporting faded parasols, littered the pavement frontage of the newly-decorated pub, and a shaven-headed bulldog of a man turned out to be the inspector’s contact. He seemed pleased that they had been sent in Manson’s stead, and led them through the bar into the back kitchen, shooing out two pale youths who were occupied stirring, lethargically, the contents of a gigantic aluminium tureen. The snout was helpful, eager to provide such information as he could, but scrupulous in distancing himself from any accusations potentially associated with it. The press had already been sniffing about the place, he explained. Georgie was the name of the customer who had been boasting; a flamboyant, middle-aged extrovert who revelled in being the centre of attention. But, the bull-dog cautioned, maybe the boasts had been no more than empty talk, a bid by Georgie to upstage a popular raconteur, who had been regaling the regulars with tales of his adventures as a transvestite fire-eater. In any event, he said, he was simply passing on the guff for what it was worth. He did not know the fellow’s surname, only that he worked in a small second-hand bookshop on Nicolson Street, up near the University. They would recognise him by his shock of blond curls and his invariable buttercup-coloured tie. Oh, and he was a smiler.

Back in the Police pound, the two officers piled out of the car, thankful to leave its close atmosphere, only to find themselves immediately separated, DI Manson summoning Alistair to the office. But Alice had no intention of waiting for him and delaying following up such a promising lead. He might be able to join her later in person, and the shop was within easy walking distance. A stroll in the bright sunshine, on her own, down the Pleasance and along Drummond Street, would have been a joy even if she had not been getting paid for it.

Their quarry was discovered, less than twenty minutes later, perched on a high stool in his bookshop, nose deep in a leather-bound copy of Court Dress through the Ages . Georgie was so engrossed in his book that he appeared unaware that a potential customer was at his elbow until a discreet cough alerted him. On seeing her, his face lit up as if he had encountered a long-lost, and very dear friend, and his bonhomie was catching. Alice felt herself smiling warmly in return, until she recollected the real purpose of her visit and, assuming a more appropriate, business-like expression, showed him her card.

‘And what can I do for you, my lovely?’ he asked, inserting a till receipt to mark his place in the book.

When she asked him about his reported boasts, deliberately affording him an opportunity to deny them, he chose not to do so. Instead, he maintained, with a degree of exaggerated indignation, that he had, indeed, slept with the Sheriff. Their only tryst had taken place a few days before the fellow’s death, in Georgie’s flat in Cumberland Street. He volunteered that while he might have been slightly intoxicated on the night, incapable of recollecting all the evening’s events with complete clarity, the essentials remained clear, including his pick-up’s identity. After all, he had seen the judge’s photo in the paper within days of their meeting. Anyway, he said, now in mock anger, he was not in the habit of fabricating false liaisons, someone so delectable had no need to do so.

When questioned on his whereabouts on the night of the murder, he replied that he had been, as far as he could remember, on his tod, attending to the accounts for the business and parcelling up a few books for mail-order customers. His bookshop, he said proudly, had cornered the market in fashion and footwear literature, dispatching stock all over the country and beyond. He seemed unconcerned by the gentle interrogation he was undergoing, untroubled in admitting his recent encounter with a murder victim, and, incongruously, pleased with his involvement in the whole affair. It appeared that the limelight was irresistible, whatever it illuminated. She left him as another customer arrived, noting that his face showed as much pleasure on seeing the stranger as it had done when first she interrupted his reading.

The hall carpet in Geanbank had been partially covered by a dust sheet. In its folds, in disarray, were cut stems, sprays of leaves and a few crumbs of Oasis sponge. Above the sheet, on a bow-legged table, was a vast flower arrangement with pale blue irises, delphiniums and cream, full-bloomed roses. Nicholas Lyon led the policewoman past it, and Alice smothered the impulse to congratulate him on its perfection. On entering the drawing room he went straight to the window and drew the curtains tight shut, excluding the prying eyes of the Press, now camped en masse outside. He poured her China tea from a silver teapot and offered cake, apologising as he did so for the lack of biscuits and explaining that, for the moment, he was unable to leave the house to get more. Alice braced herself for his reaction before dutifully warning him that the Press interest had probably not reached its zenith. It was possible that reports might appear, fed by those claiming close acquaintanceship with the Sheriff, reviving the story, artificially expanding its lifespan. The old fellow listened to every word, blinking furiously and occasionally giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head.