Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

‘Detective Sergeant Rice here. I understand that my colleague, DS Watt, spoke to a Mr Vernon from your company yesterday. Could I speak to him, please? There are a number of new matters that have arisen.’

The receptionist, boredom unconcealed, said that she would send someone to find him; he was certainly in the office but had not been answering his phone. In the meantime, Alice would have to be put on hold. A minute or two of complete silence and then she was unceremoniously cut off. Re-dialling, fortunately, produced another receptionist, one abashed to hear of the mishap and prepared to leave her desk to find the Director.

‘Hello, Sergeant Rice. What can we do for you today?’ The man’s voice was cheery, eager to please.

‘It’s in relation to the Scowling Crags wind farm, Mr Vernon. I understand that all of your dealings, originally at least, were with the late James Freeman, but that later his brother Christopher Freeman became involved…’

‘That’s right. Christopher Freeman informed us that permission would be granted to use Blackstone Mains as the access strip for the development.’

‘After you received the Sheriff’s letter withdrawing permission for the inclusion of Blackstone Mains, did someone from your company contact Christopher Freeman to tell him of the withdrawal?’

‘No,’ the man sounded puzzled, ‘I wouldn’t think so. You see, at that stage, we dealt solely with James Freeman. I doubt anyone here was aware, then at least, that the land was jointly owned. Even if they did know it, the assumption would have been that Freeman was consenting on behalf of all the landowners of Blackstone Mains. We’d have no cause to contact Christopher Freeman. I’m not sure anyone then knew that he even existed. Normally, we would have tried to tie up the “legals” before embarking on the quest for planning, but we couldn’t this time, too many applications to risk being barred by “cumulative effect”.’

‘So you’re pretty certain that no-one from your company phoned Christopher Freeman for that purpose?’

‘Well…’ Mr Vernon hesitated before replying. ‘Yes. I’m in charge of the Scowling Crags development. I didn’t talk to him and I can’t think of anyone else who would have done so. I could check it with Roger I suppose…’ he paused again. ‘No. It’s pointless. He was off on holiday then, so there’d be nobody. I bet my life on it that no-one from here contacted Christopher Freeman. We were very relieved when he contacted us.’

Alice replaced the receiver and breathed a long sigh of relief. DC Lowe strode to her desk. ‘The boss wants to see you, Sarge, and it’s urgent,’ he said, frowning and jabbing his finger at her as if to convey added force to the order.

The scent of coffee in the small office reminded Alice that she had missed her breakfast cup. Too much of a rush if the appointment at the Western was to be kept. DCI Bell looked up on her entry, busy brushing a mound of spilled sugar off her desk into a waste paper bin.

‘Ah, Alice,’ she said, and the relative warmth of her tone reassured her subordinate that she was not facing the dressing-down she had begun to anticipate.

‘I’ve been thinking things over…’ she continued, ‘and I’m persuaded by your… reasoning. I just hope to God that your unofficial sample of the man’s DNA proves identical to the official one we’ll get on arrest. That it’s not his wife’s, for example. Otherwise, I’ll be for the high jump. Anyway, after you left I got the ACC’s grudging permission for a check to be run on James Freeman’s telephone calls for two weeks prior to his death. We’ll see if he called his brother. A verbal result should be available either late this morning or early afternoon, the printout will follow later. We’ve got permission to do Vertenergy too.’

‘Excellent, Ma’am. I’ve already spoken to a Director of the company, a Mr Vernon, the chap that Alistair talked to yesterday, and he’s pretty positive that they didn’t tell Christopher Freeman about his brother’s change of mind. But a check would put it beyond doubt.’

The absence of the poodles from the bungalow made it appear, somehow, larger, more commodious, as if the grand proportions of the beasts had distorted the scale of the house. It also seemed unnaturally quiet, dull and lifeless, and Sandra Freeman herself seemed subdued, immobile and absorbed in the business of smoking her cigarette. Without much thought Alice enquired politely as to the dogs’ whereabouts.

‘He’s got the boys, both of them, up at the Mains for a good long walk,’ she replied, distractedly.

Slowly but surely the significance of this ostensibly innocuous piece of information began to sink in. Blackstone Mains was a remote destination, one off the beaten track, and a couple of Shetland ponies would be more welcome, less disruptive, on a bus than those two massive, ill-disciplined poodles. Anyway, few buses, if any, would pass on such obscure back roads, and only the closest friend would allow his vehicle to be soiled by the dogs and their messy ways.

‘I didn’t see the car outside,’ Alice said. Her hostess, briefly, showed some interest and then, expelling smoke forcibly through her mouth, said calmly, ‘No. It’s back in the garage, the one we got it from. In Liberton.’

‘What’s the matter with it?’ Alice shot back, allowing little time for thought or, more importantly, fabrication.

‘Mmm…’ Sandra Freeman paused. ‘The carburettor-dirt, yeah-dirt in the carburettor, I think.’

‘The garage,’ Alice said, while removing her mobile from her pocket, ‘that would be Tooles, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes! Yes! Tooles.’ Mrs Freeman was becoming vexed. ‘Why on earth do you want to know that?’

‘Because I need to check that the car is there. At the garage, I mean. You see, I think that your husband must have it, up at Blackstone Mains.’

Mrs Freeman rubbed her eyes with her thumb and index finger, and then forcibly stubbed her cigarette out.

‘Oh very well…’ she said, exasperation having replaced her previous irritability. ‘Very well. He does have it. There. He shouldn’t have it, of course. I know that. But… well, he does. Now, are you satisfied? Going to go up there and charge him now? That’ll be the toast of your enquiry I expect, eh? “Murdered Sheriff’s brother caught driving his own car without a licence”.’

‘Or insurance,’ Alice added, then continued ‘-but it’s not the first time, is it? His driving whilst disqualified, I mean?’

‘What exactly are you getting at?’ Sandra Freeman asked, her face creased with concern, brows furrowed, blinking rapidly.

Quickly, Alice thought things through. It would be a gamble, she knew that, but one that would surely pay dividends. If she could project sufficient certainty, then the woman’s own surprise would prevent her from making false denials, protecting her husband and painting herself into a corner.

‘On the night of his brother’s murder your husband had the car. That’s correct, isn’t it?’

The woman’s expression revealed that she had, indeed, been caught off balance, but she said nothing, playing for time, so Alice repeated the question verbatim, emphasising her assertion and then waiting patiently for a reply.

‘All right, all right. I was staying at my mother’s that night, down the road. So he kept the car, to go to the pub he said. The next morning he told me that he was worried that someone had seen him, reported him, a neighbour or some other do-gooder. And they would do that here, you know, in this neighbourhood. I said I’d help him. He needs his licence back. He’s a man, he needs to be independent.’