Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

‘Would you like one, ma’am?’ the bewildered constable asked.

‘No, dunderhead. Put it out, it’s against the law, duh?’

She shook her head in disbelief as Lowe, now flushed, dunked it in his mug of cold tea. Surreptitiously, she inhaled its fast-fading fumes before resuming her pacing, watching out of the corner of her eye as Lowe read the instructions on his nicotine gum paper before cramming a strip into his mouth. Alistair Watt’s arrival was preceded by a murmur of jazz before, still swaying to the rhythm, he unplugged himself from his MP3 and sat down, looking expectantly at his boss as if she was about to speak. By nine o’clock all were present except for DI Manson, who could be heard shuffling up the stairs in his tartan slippers, tapping each step with a newly acquired stick. When he appeared his complexion was uncharacteristically sallow, yellowish, as if he had recently fainted.

‘Go home, Eric, you look awful!’ DCI Bell said instinctively, panicking for a second that his condition might be infectious and her squad fall like flies, and then remembering the likely cause of his malady.

‘I am fine, ma’am. I saw the doctor yesterday, got some new painkillers from her. The last ones went for my guts. I’d rather stay on the job, if it’s all right with you.’

His mind was still churning over the previous night’s events. An evening of near continuous weeping and wailing, interspersed with threats to leave him. Terminating with exile to the spare room to sleep in an unmade bed, covered only by a candlewick bedspread. And all because of that siren from the tabloids. She certainly owed him now. In spades. It had begun peacefully enough, his wife’s armchair close to his own, his foot placed solicitously on a stool by her. But then their viewing had been interrupted by the sound of the telephone. He had known immediately from the very first ring that trouble was on the other end of the receiver. And had it not been for his fucking foot he would have handled the emergency like a professional. Just another dratted wrong number, dear, and then back to Coronation Street . Instead his wife had jammed her ear to the phone, neutral expression gradually changing into that of a rabbit transfixed by a stoat, and then, hands shaking, had handed the instrument over to him. Every word of the conversation he had with the siren was now branded onto his mind.

‘Er… hello,’ he had begun tentatively, paralysed by his predicament.

‘C’mon Eric, it’s only me. She’ll never know. So, how are things?’

‘Fine.’ Nothing had been given away.

‘Not seen you at the Balmoral lately. Not out of sorts?’

As if she cared. ‘No, no. I’ve been very busy.’

‘Eric… Eric, it’s me, remember? I’ve missed you. I was wondering how things have been going on the Freeman murder?’

Her real concern had been flushed out quickly enough. ‘Fine.’ Cheeky cow.

‘Don’t be like that… talk to me, lover!’

‘Well, I’ll see you in the office first thing tomorrow, Constable.’

Frowning hard as if impatient with a subordinate, he had put the phone down, limped back to his seat and resumed watching the television, but Enid had not been fooled. A squawk as unique as that one could not be explained away. And the subsequent interrogation, using the female weapons of choice, tears and tantrums, had forced an admission from him. Indeed, all contact with the woman had not ceased but, he had explained weakly, it was only for his work. Well, mainly. The thought of further recrimination, more pained disappointment, would have been intolerable even if his foot had not been throbbing fit to burst. The office promised respite. A sanctuary.

‘Okay, people,’ the Chief Inspector began ‘…we’ve got the forensic result. It seems that the paint flakes from the locus don’t match those taken from Norris’s car, and it looks like it wasn’t his DNA in Moray Place either. We know he’s got no alibi and he has admitted writing the letters but… well, I’m not sure. We’ll keep him in our sights, but not hold our breaths. Torphichen Place has passed on information about two back-street garages, worked exclusively by moonlighters. One’s in Newhaven and the other’s along the canal, so I want DC Lowe and…’

‘Yes,’ Lowe piped up, interrupting her flow, suddenly alert to his own name.

‘and DC McDonald,’ she glared at him, ‘to go along and see if either of them has had a white car in since the hit-and-run. Alistair, I need you to help out with Holmes this morning, and Eric… well, let’s see. You could prepare the report for the Assistant Chief Constable. Have you made any progress with Christopher Freeman yet, Alice?’

DS Rice shook her head. ‘I’m going to see him now, Ma’am; they’ve been away. But I have discovered that, somehow, he learnt that his brother had changed his mind about the wind farm. And I intend to find out how, precisely, he made that discovery.’

Sandra Freeman let her in, grasping the poodles’ diamante collars to prevent her dogs from tearing off into the road and then, on closing the door, releasing them to jump all over her visitor. Alice was assaulted on all sides by them, pink tongues emerging from their dark heads to lick her, untrimmed claws laddering her tights. In the kitchen an open bottle of nail varnish sat on the table, and Mrs Freeman immediately busied herself removing black curls from her wet nails before, sighing, she collected a paper hankie and began wiping off all the polish, ready to start her task afresh.

‘Could I speak to your husband, please, Mrs Freeman?’

It was as if she had said nothing. The woman continued attending to her nails, brows furrowed with concentration, tongue protruding, intent on producing a flawless surface. Just as Alice was steeling herself to repeat the question a response arrived, flat in tone.

‘No. He’s still in bed.’

‘When is he likely to get up?’

‘Mmmm-’ the woman buffed the nail on her ring finger furiously, ‘well, he’s probably…’

Her sentence remained unfinished, hanging in the air, as the man waddled into the room, unshaven, Paisley-patterned dressing gown flapping open to reveal stained, striped pyjamas. Spying an open packet of cigarettes on the dresser, a hairy hand emerged and scooped them up, and in seconds he was drawing deeply on one, sucking in his cheeks as if taking in the first life-giving oxygen of the day. A smoky kiss was bestowed on his wife.

‘Coffee, darling?’ she enquired, still preoccupied with her manicure.

‘Of course, my love.’

‘I’ll just let this dry and then put it on for you. She wants to talk to you again, sweetie,’ Sandra Freeman said, uncapping a Nescafe jar cautiously as if her nails might stick to the lid.

‘Does she indeed…’ her husband replied. ‘Well, she’ll just have to wait until after my bath.’

Smelling of Imperial Leather, and clad now in a viyella shirt and patched cavalry twill trousers, hair slicked down with water, Christopher Freeman showed his unwanted guest into his sitting room. It was small, bedecked with cheap ornaments, and cold. The fireplace had a dusty bowl of potpourri in it and the only two armchairs present were each draped with an antimacassar.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve come to tell me who killed my brother or his “partner” by any chance?’ the man began.

‘No, sir, I’m afraid not. I’d like to ask you some questions though, to help us with our continuing enquiries.’