Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

‘Yess. I nefer saw the car. Most probably, it must have been parked in Moray Place or something. It wass the sutten acceleration that first… well, that seemed so ott.’

Freya padded through the French doors to join her mistress, and stood expectantly in front of her. Gently, Mrs Nordquist raised both of the dog’s ears in her hands and then sank her face into its warm head. As the detectives began to rise from their prostrate position, it stared at them with its sinister yellow eyes and let out a long, low growl which stopped them in their tracks. The noise only ceased when Mrs Nordquist came up for air and relaxed back into her deckchair. And then, and only then, did her visitors exit her domain.

Mrs McColl, an Aberdonian Scot and as conventional as her Scandinavian employer was unconventional, sat with her knees tight together on a leather-covered stool in the state-of-the-art kitchen. In fact, the place was more of a food laboratory than an ordinary, domestic kitchen, the stainless steel and glass units lending it an air of sterility. Oddly, the housekeeper was wearing a nylon housecoat, a garment completely at odds with her space-age workplace, an environment which would more harmoniously have suited a skin-tight silver one-piece rather than this incongruous throwback to a gentler age.

‘When did you first become aware of the accident, Mrs McColl?’ Alice enquired.

‘The time? Och, mebbe about half nine or thereabouts I’d say. I was doing the washing up-we’ve a Miele, quiet as a mouse you know-and I heard her shouting, screaming something. I ran upstairs, looked out the door and saw her in the street, bending over someone who’s been knocked down. I phoned the ambulance right away. Then, after that, for you… the polis, I mean.’

‘Did you see the car involved in the accident… anything?

‘No, I’m sorry. All I saw was the man, Mr Lyon, lying in the street. I recognised him when I went out with the blankets.’

‘Had you heard anything before you became aware of your employer shouting?’

‘No. I’m really very sorry but I was busy putting away the supper things. I only heard her voice because… well, she was screaming, she sounded hysterical.’

‘Did you know Mr Lyon or Sheriff Freeman?’ Alice persisted.

‘No,’ the woman looked her inquisitor in the eye. ‘I didn’t know either of them. Mrs Nordquist does, so I have seen them both, on occasions, when they’ve visited here. I saw more of the Sheriff. The little I saw of them… well, I liked them. Mrs Nordquist was always very pleased to see either of them, and the Sheriff, you know, helped her a lot after her husband left her. And not just with the legal stuff; as a real friend, I mean. I think, and I may be speaking out of turn, but I think he was helping her to get off… well, the drink. She almost never touched the stuff in the old days. My life was a great deal easier then, when she was happy, I mean.’

‘Alice, love, I’ve left a little note on your desk,’ DI Manson said cheerily to her as she passed him on her way to the Ladies. The ill-suppressed glee in his voice forewarned her that its contents would not please her. Sure enough. It contained an instruction from the DCI that she now telephone all the garages round the edge of the capital; places like Musselburgh, Tranent, Penicuik, Portobello, Ratho and so on. Sheer unadulterated drudgery, probably given to her as a punishment for her unauthorised impersonation and, more damningly, the lack of remorse shown by her for it. At their meeting earlier that morning, Robin Bruce had impressed upon her his disappointment and disapproval of her conduct. And he had conveyed something altogether more sinister; that if the matter were to be taken no further she would, in some intangible way, be in his debt.

‘DS Rice, apart from anything else, scarce resources might well have been wasted in the search for Mr Lyon’s non-existent daughter.’

‘I know, Sir. I’m sorry, too, but I don’t think that’s very likely. Tracing the woman would have fallen to the murder squad, so I’d have heard about it and immediately explained that she didn’t exist.’

‘And if you hadn’t heard… because, say, you were out of the office attending to something or other?

Good point, she thought, but said only: ‘Well. As I say, Sir, I’m sorry. But Mr Lyon had nobody. I knew that he had nobody. And he was, obviously, dying. If I hadn’t pretended to be a member of the family the nurse would have kicked me out.’

‘Before you went to the hospital you didn’t know he was dying. What the hell were you doing there anyway?’

‘It sounded, from your report, as if he was close to death’s door. You said it was “likely to prove fatal” after all, and traffic was involved. I knew him a bit. I liked him. To be honest, I wanted to see him. It all happened in my own time.’

‘Well, we’re lucky that the Infirmary isn’t making more of a fuss about the whole thing. As far as I am concerned you can visit whomsoever the hell you like, in your own time, but do not, I repeat, DO NOT ever impersonate a relative like that again. Is that clear? This is a murder enquiry and you-you nearly sent us off on an expensive wild goose chase.’

‘Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.’

‘Oh, and Alice?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘For the moment, at least, this’ll go no further. Be our little secret, eh?’ And he winked conspiratorially.

And looking at the Yellow Pages she felt genuine penitence; ‘Boswell’s Garage’, ‘Butchart Motors’, ‘Chas’s Auto Repairs’, page after page of similar entries. But not for holding the man’s hand as he died. Jaded already, she picked up the receiver and dialled the first number.

‘Hello, is that Allanton’s Auto Services?’

‘Aha.’

‘This is DS Rice of Lothian and Borders Police. We need to know if any cars have been brought into your premises this morning, following an accident, for repairs. Or if you’ve had any phone calls asking if any such vehicles could be attended to in the near future?’

‘Eh?’ Apparent incomprehension.

‘This is the Police. Can you tell me, have you had any damaged cars brought in this morning for repairs?’

‘Eh? Damaged cars?’ Had she somehow lost the ability to speak English, she wondered.

‘Yes, damaged cars. Have any been brought into your garage this morning to be mended?’

‘I’ve nae idea. Derek! Derek! Come and speak, there’s a lassie on the phone…’

After three hours of non-stop calling, all she had to show for it was a black transit van in Loanhead, a motor bike in Ratho and a minibus in Port Seton, and none of them seemed likely candidates for the Moray Place accident. DI Manson rose from his chair, stretched and yawned and ambled over to her desk.

‘Alice, dear, I’ve just heard from the DCI that you are to prepare the press release for the witness appeal. It seems you’ve been on the phone for ages so he told me to tell you myself. Also, he wants you, for some reason, to draft something in case there’s to be another television appeal. He’ll do the appearance, obviously. Now, I’m just off for my tea. I could get you something only… I’m off to the pub after that. Oh yes, and you are to make arrangements for text messages in connection with the appeal. And… no, that’s it.’

Maybe the woman would be late, held up by a benevolent deity, Alice thought. But the ominous sound of the cleaning trolley, mop clanging against the bucket, confirmed the nuns’ claim that He moved in mysterious ways. Mrs McLaren pushed her chariot towards the bank of wastepaper baskets and began tipping the rubbish, untidily, into a black bin-bag. An organic, vinegary odour clung to her, occasionally masked by drifts of air-freshener or furniture polish, and as she propelled the cart onwards, using it as a makeshift Zimmer, wafts of her overpowering perfume were dispersed throughout the room. The job bored her; she was not one of nature’s domestics and her own home would not have borne inspection, too much of a busman’s holiday for her to flick a duster in any of its nooks or crannies. Lavatories alone provided her with job satisfaction; immaculate porcelain and glistening mirrors. So unlike offices, veritable death-traps of cables, usually attached to expensive machines.