Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

‘Same again on the night of Mr Lyon’s accident, eh?’

‘Yes, he took the car then, as well. But he wasn’t away that long. He said he had to get out, cabin fever or whatever, and we needed ciggies too.’

‘Mrs Freeman, you lied…’ Alice began.

‘I know I lied,’ the woman interjected. ‘Of course I bloody lied. I had to. Wouldn’t you have done it? He’s perfectly safe, you know, been driving for years, and it’s only a matter of days before he’s allowed to drive again. Legally. If either of us had told you the truth… well, what then? You’d probably have him disqualified for life!’

Climbing the flight of stairs, each upward step felt easier than the last, as if her legs were on springs, but on arrival at the office she found it empty of all life except for DC Lowe. He was on the telephone, receiver clamped between shoulder and ear, attempting to write something down whilst simultaneously flicking through a telephone directory. No. Not him, she thought. Too much of a liability. DCI Bell was in her office, puce in the face, struggling to fend the Press off, fiddling crossly with a rubber band.

‘No. I appreciate that. What do you expect me to say? If you are not getting satisfaction from Fettes or from here then, obviously, it’s your prerogative to go elsewhere. Indeed. The Chief Constable may well, as you suggest, view matters differently. Yes. It is entirely up to you. I expect that your Editor does know him well. Goodbye.’

She slammed down the instrument and began massaging her shoulder and neck. ‘A RIGHT FUCKER’ she mouthed silently at Alice, before, breathing out slowly and calming herself, she turned her full attention to her Sergeant.

‘Good news…’ she began, ‘the Sheriff spoke to his brother on the phone the day before he died, and there’s no record of Vertenergy contacting Christopher Freeman following their receipt of his brother’s letter.’

‘Yes, Ma’am. And Mrs Freeman lied…’ Alice replied. ‘Her husband has no alibi for either of the nights. A friend’s giving her a lift to the station and I’m going to ask DC Lowe to look after her when she arrives, get her tea and so on. If we go to the Mains he can keep an eye on her until we get back. The others are all out and about, and DI Manson’s not back yet.’

Heavy rain started to fall, overwhelming the tattered wipers on the Astra, reducing visibility in the city to a few yards. Crossing the Dean Bridge the traffic ground to a halt, filthy water streaming from blocked gulleys on either side of the road, flooding the slight depression opposite Eton Terrace. They stopped again at the lights by the Bristo Baptist Church, rainwater now beginning to drop through the roof onto Elaine Bell’s lap, ingeniously deflected to the side by the use of a laminated map adopted as a shield. Headlight to bumper the line of traffic flowed on, the Astra trapped mid-stream, until at the Barnton roundabout, the shower having finally dissipated itself, black sky gave way to blue and the sun emerged from its hiding place.

No tickets. No money. No purse even, Alice thought, instantly cursing herself, visualising her bag on her desk at the station. And everything, everything she needed was in it, including, critically, her identification. Surreptitiously she glanced at the fuel gauge. Full, thank Christ-that humiliation, at least, avoided-but the towers of the bridge were looming nearer, her crass ineptitude about to be exposed.

‘I don’t suppose you have a pound coin for the bridge, do you, Ma’am?’ she asked lightly, attempting to disguise the acute discomfort that she felt.

‘No, Alice…’ the DCI replied. ‘I assumed that you would have come prepared, so I didn’t bring my purse.’ The car reached the booth and the toll man extended his hand in automatic anticipation of payment.

‘I’m sorry, we’ve no money between us, but we’re Police officers-on Police business,’ Alice said, but hearing her own voice and taking in afresh the shabbiness of the unwashed car, the hollowness of the assertion struck her.

‘Well, well,’ the man sounded doubtful. ‘Must be some mighty big operation on over in Fife, eh? You’re the third car of polis I’ve had this morning. Do us a favour, eh? Prove it! Go on, hen, gie us, gie us a flash o’ yer blue light or something.’

‘Show him your identification, Sergeant,’ the Detective Chief Inspector said testily. Alice caught her superior’s eye, and shook her head, dumb with embarrassment. Instantly, looking daggers drawn, Elaine Bell extracted her card from her jacket and flashed it at the official. With a mock salute the barrier was raised, just as a lorry behind, lights glaring, began to hoot its horn, impatient for progress.

No-one appeared to be about, but the Freemans’ car was parked at the top of the first track, near the farmhouse. The building itself was clearly unoccupied, with metal shutters protecting its windows and fallen slates perched perilously in the rhones. Instinctively, the two women stuck together as they began searching the sheds that formed the quadrangular steading. The first one, cobwebs frosting the windows, appeared to be some kind of feed store with piles of old hessian sacks stacked against one wall and empty grain bins on either side of the door. Attached to it, fortunately with electric light installed, was a workshop, half the floor removed to form an inspection pit, and the concrete of the remainder blackened, coated in a thin veneer of ancient oil. Old Shell tins lay about the place, and on a rough-hewn work bench rested spanners, wrenches and other tools, beside a yellowing newspaper, as if someone had been interrupted mid-task and never returned. Next, Elaine Bell prised opened a stable door which creaked noisily, and as they peered in a rat scuttled, hunchbacked and lame, across an old table, then jumped, landing heavily in a pile of sawdust. Quickly, the door was slammed shut, ensuring that the creature remained incarcerated, unable to reach them. Over the excited twittering of sparrows perched on the roof, distant shouting could be heard.

‘Pepe… Chico, you bloody dogs. Come here!’

Following the direction from which the voice had come the two policewomen ran towards a patch of scrub woodland, finally stopping for breath on reaching a large haystack built on an old bonfire site. A few bales had fallen from the stack and lay, burst and broken, on the cold ash. Sitting beside them, incongruously, was a rusty can of petrol, and the stench of fumes from it filled the air, obliterating the gentler scent of the hay.

Suddenly, Alice felt two huge paws thudding on her back as an exuberant poodle welcomed her, then slid to the ground to shake itself vigorously, showering her with a fine spray of mud. Chico, not to be outdone, immediately bounced up on her before turning his attention to Detective Chief Inspector Bell, the flustered woman now engaged in a losing battle, ineffectually attempting to fend Pepe off with an extended knee. When this ploy failed, she turned in a circle hoping to baffle the dog and unbalance it, but inadvertently created a game, as with each turn the poodles revolved with her. Eventually, having lost interest in the visitors, the two dogs raced up the stack, chasing each other all over it, causing little falls of hay in their path and emitting high pitched yelps like excited puppies.