Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

DCI Bruce interrupted again. ‘OK. Eric, I want you to contact the local Planning Office-Perth I suppose-and get a list from them of anyone who’s objected to the Scowling Crags wind farm application. And make sure and ask for any letters they’ve received, handwritten stuff particularly, and we’ll pass it on to the graphologist and forensics. You could pick it up while you’re at their offices.’

‘OK, Boss.’

‘Alice, how would you go about contacting the… er, local group?’

‘Sometimes they’ve a website. We could put “Scowling Crags” into Google and see what comes up. If we’ve no luck with that, then the easiest thing to do would be to go and visit someone living in the houses in the centre of the development or as close as possible to it. And James Freeman, Christopher Freeman too, both of them, are almost bound to have been supplied with copies of the information that the developers have to submit to the Council in support of their application. They could give us that information. I need to see Christopher Freeman anyway and I could collect the stuff from him. He may have been getting letters too.’

‘Yeh,’ the DCI agreed, ‘yeh, you do that. If the Sheriff’s been threatened it’s possible his brother’s been too. I want to know if he’s been getting the same shite through the post. Alistair, see what you can find on the computer, eh?’

The waiting room of McCowan, Cheyne & Little in Abercrombie Place was plush. Redolent of corporate wealth, landed private clients and a thriving trust department. Only Dundas Street separated it from Heriot Row, one of the most desirable addresses in the whole of the New Town, and its front windows overlooked Queen Street Gardens, providing a view of trees deep within the professional heart of the capital.

A grand portrait in oils of Torquil McCowan, WS, founder of the firm, stretched from the top of the mantelpiece to the ceiling and on either side of it were more modest portrayals of lesser men, recent senior partners meriting only depictions in crayon. Copies of Country Life, Homes & Gardens and Scottish Field were strewn artfully on the heavy oak sideboard, and none of the magazines was out of date. Nicholas Lyon perched on a hard upright chair by the door inspecting his still slightly grimy fingernails. He wished he was somewhere else, at home maybe, in the garden. There was plenty to do there. Both the black and the red currants needed pruning, the Cosmos daisy seedlings could be planted out to give them a good start and the henhouse was in need of a clean.

‘Would you like any coffee or tea, Mr Lyon?’

The enquiry from the elegant young receptionist, clad stylishly in a blue linen suit, returned him to the sedate waiting room and he declined, politely, wishing all the more fervently that he was somewhere else. This was James’ milieu, and he was impressed anew by the ease with which his partner had inhabited two such dissimilar worlds. One quintessentially urban and urbane and the other rural, simple and organic. No sooner had the young lady gone than she returned, addressing herself to him again.

‘Mr McKay can see you now, sir.’

As Nicholas Lyon loped through the door of the solicitor’s office he witnessed its occupant tossing a grape up into the air and then catching it, seal-fashion, in his mouth. Neil McKay, on seeing his visitor, immediately dropped the bag of grapes onto the floor and swallowed the morsel hastily as if to conceal his circus trick. Seeing the futility of this approach, he said sheepishly, ‘The grape diet, you know. Apparently, they’re almost entirely composed of water. I’ve had too many business lunches.’ And he patted his well-rounded belly fondly before gesturing towards a chair and muttering, ‘Take a pew.’

Nicholas laid the envelope on the solicitor’s leather-covered desk and watched as the man opened it and quickly scanned the document within.

‘Thank you, Mr Lyon. The letter simply contained a codicil to James Freeman’s will; a small bequest to a charity. Nothing too important. I had intended to get in touch with you once I became aware of the Sheriff’s death. Pressure of business I’m afraid…’ He looked up apologetically before continuing. ‘You and I are to be his executors, in terms of his will, I mean. And, as you probably know, you’re also the Sheriff’s principal beneficiary. His estate is being left, almost in its entirety, to you.’

‘But what about his brother, Christopher?’ Nicholas asked.

‘Provision has been made for Major Freeman. He’s to have a legacy of twenty thousand pounds, together with certain of the contents of Moray Place. Let’s see… he’s to get…’ Mr McKay fingered the Sheriff’s will, ‘Mmmm. Well, in essence, most of the regimental stuff and a few of the family portraits.’

‘James left me the land?’ Nicholas enquired in wonderment.

‘Yes, he did. And Moray Place and his half-share in Geanbank. Who owns the other half-share?’

‘I do.’

Alice’s reception at Frogston Road was cool. She had phoned earlier to arrange a meeting, but on arrival she was informed by Mrs Freeman that her husband had just left and was not now expected back until one o’clock. Evidently, the couple had squabbled and the woman could not conceal her anger. Alice sat at the kitchen table awaiting the man’s return as his wife smouldered, banging cupboard doors shut and clanging knives onto the table, making the forks on it vibrate and jump. In the ten minutes before his return Mrs Freeman consumed three cigarettes, one lit by the stub of the other, as she prepared a meagre lunch of cold ham and chips.

A strange yodelling sound mixed with strains of ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ announced Christopher Freeman’s entry. He glided speedily into the room, blew a theatrical kiss at his wife and slumped wearily into a chair, a miasma of whisky fumes surrounding him. Without waiting for his wife to join him he picked up his cutlery and began to eat. After his first mouthful he turned his attention to his guest.

‘So, Sss… ergeant, what exactly can I do for you?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been talking to your brother’s partner and…’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ a look of exaggerated disbelief passed across her host’s face. ‘Stop right there, please. My brother’s what?’

‘Your brother’s partner…’

‘What on earth are you talking about? My brother had no “partner”. He was partnerless.’

‘Er… the Sheriff did have a partner. A male partner, called Nicholas Lyon. You must have seen the stuff in The Scotsman and the Evening News , surely?’

‘Bloody hell!’ Mrs Freeman sniggered, ‘so he was still at it, eh? Still at it after all those years!’

‘Quiet, Sandra,’ Christopher Freeman barked. ‘We’ve been away-down south. Partner… how do you mean, partner? Presumably just a pick-up? That’s how those kind of people operate isn’t it? Nothing permanent in their world, eh, Sergeant?’

‘Well, your brother and Mr Freeman have been together for over forty years.’

‘That’s bb… bollocks! Bull’s bollocks!’ Christopher Freeman said, dropping his knife and fork onto his plate. ‘I’d have known. He was my brother, for Christ’s’s sake! They don’t mate for life, you know, they are not like us or… eh… ducks, swans. I always knew that James had had a predilection for men but… this just has to be nonsense!’

‘No, sir, it’s not, and it’s also not what I came to talk to you about. Your brother was receiving threats. Well, threatening letters…’