Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Christopher Freeman said, striding briskly towards them, stick in hand, staring at Alice and then at the Chief Inspector. He looked dishevelled. His jacket was torn, stems of dry hay protruding from the tweed, and it and his corduroy trousers were heavily stained, as if water or oil had permeated deep into their fabric.

‘Looking for you…’ Elaine Bell replied calmly. ‘I am DCI Bell of Lothian & Borders Police. Major Freeman, we’d like you to come back to Edinburgh with us, to St Leonards Street.’

Christopher Freeman said nothing, but stroked his chin between his thumb and forefinger. Just as the silence was becoming oppressive he said, ‘And for what reason exactly?’

‘To interview you about the murders of James Freeman and Nicholas Lyon.’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he exclaimed, evidently astonished. ‘You’ve got absolutely nothing on me. If you had a shred of evidence I’d have been pulled in long ago. I have an alibi. I was with Sandra, both nights, remember? She told you. I told you.’

‘No,’ Detective Chief Inspector Bell said quietly, ‘you were not.’

‘Have you been pestering my wife again?’ the man demanded angrily of Alice.

‘No,’ Elaine Bell snapped back, ‘she hasn’t. She’s been doing her job. Perhaps you should know that your wife is at the station at this very moment and she, too, is likely to be charged, obstructing us… as she has done.’

The man looked crestfallen. ‘Why, for pity’s sake… why are you dragging her into this?’

‘Because she lied to us. And she, like you, will have to pay the penalty for that.’

‘Well, do your bloody worst then.’ Christopher Freeman had speedily recovered from his surprise and regained his initial confidence. ‘We’ll get a decent lawyer. Maybe plead guilty to some silly trumped-up little charge. You’ve got nothing, after all…’

A crashing sound accompanied Pepe’s sudden descent from the hayrick, bales cascading to the left and right, one tumbling on top of the poodle, temporarily stunning him. A good portion of the structure had fallen with the dog, and beneath the remaining stack, a stretch of glass had begun to reflect the cloudless sky above. It was the windscreen of the white Volkswagon Polo. It took a few seconds for the impact of the revelation to sink in, and the first to react was Christopher Freeman, breaking the silence with a furious oath. Alice braced herself for threats, menace, physical violence even, and was beginning to feel the unpleasant effects of the adrenaline now coursing within her, but when she looked again at the Major she saw that he no longer appeared aggressive or defiant; panic had transformed his features, his face now pale and bloodless. Without another word, he struck a clutch of matches and hurled them towards the car, one dropping lit at his feet.

And then, mysteriously, time stood still, rendering Alice immobile, transforming her from an actor in the drama of her own life into a mere spectator. Before her eyes a man had begun to burn, snakes of flame encircling his legs, weaving sinuously upwards, twisting and turning, the heads of the serpents seeking out his face. And the brightness of the fire, its brilliant intensity, mesmerised her, drawing all her attention to it, making its source seem insignificant, compelling her to watch the strange spectacle that seemed to have been choreographed for her benefit alone.

‘Alice! Alice! For Christ’s sake, help me!’

The sound of DCI Bell’s voice broke the enchantment, revealing with hideous clarity the scene in its true colours. Christopher Freeman was standing engulfed by fire, shaking his head frantically, his hair now alight, limbs writhing ineffectually in an attempt to rid themselves of the clinging flames. From his mouth issued a grotesque noise. A continuous high-pitched squeal, like a terrified, wounded pig, and the cry echoed and echoed in Alice’s brain, before reaching an unbearable crescendo. And then, suddenly, it stopped, but the silence that followed it was eerier yet, as if all life on earth had ended.

In their repeated attempts to smother the flames they used their jackets, shifting them from place to place, frantic that their only weapons should not be consumed by the enemy. Become the enemy. To begin with they did not feel pain as their hands burnt, but when it did break through they continued, determined to subdue the flames, to suffocate them and somehow return the hellish torch back to its human form.

Her lover shampooed her hair and then soaped her body gently, as if she was a child, before pouring scented bath oils into the warm water. And still Alice did not feel clean. The awful smell of roasting flesh had permeated her, clung to her skin, tainted her hair, entered every single one of her pores. Nothing would drive it away, eradicate it from her system or cleanse her. A glass of white wine rested on the bath, the opened bottle beside it, and desperate to take the taste from her mouth she took one little sip after the other, rolling each around on her tongue, concentrating on the flavour. But a single image remained before her eyes, unalterable; a man incandescent, alight, writhing and twitching on the ground as, frantically, they tried to douse the flames, sticks of charred flesh emerging from beneath black smoke. And, in the process, she had inhaled him. Literally. Minute particles of scorched human being had entered her nostrils, probably her mouth too.

Exhaustion having made her careless, she reached for the plug, withdrawing her hand the instant the first moisture soaked through the bandage. The stab of pain in her fingers was excruciating, robbing her of breath and bringing tears to her eyes.

Walking slowly into her bedroom she found that it had been festooned with flowers: freesias, lilies and roses, the air now laden with their innocent perfumes. Clean sheets had been put on the bed and the covers turned back.

‘Live with me?’ Ian Melville said, coming close and lying next to her. She did not hesitate, needed no time to think or fashion an evasive reply. ‘I’d love to,’ she said, and it was no less than the sober truth.

Christopher Freeman seemed to have been drifting for days, waking every so often to be greeted by agonising pain and then, just as it seemed unbearable, relief would wash over him from somewhere on the tide, carrying with it the gift of unconsciousness, until the next breaking wave of agony. Once more his body sensed oblivion’s approach, was beginning to cry out for the sweet euphoria that the morphine brought, but until its touch there was something he knew he must do. Sandra was there, beside him, he was sure of it, he could feel her familiar presence even if he could no longer see it. Somehow, he must speak, explain everything to her before he died, and death seemed to be creeping closer every day in the guise of sleep.

‘Sandra,’ his voice sounded unfamiliar, dry, like the hissing of a snake. ‘I want you to know why I killed James…’ He stopped, briefly gathering together all his strength before continuing, ‘I went to beg him, tell him… to change his mind about the wind farm… ah… the money… the bastard was drunk… slurring his words… DRUNK. He started on about the way I’d lived my life… alcohol… ah… you, everything. We argued. It was nothing to him and… ah… everything to me. He turned his back on me… Then I hit him… my cuff around my hand… with that trun…’

His voice tailed off, the effort of speaking having drained him of the little energy he possessed, but, thankfully, he could make out a woman’s voice, talking softly, answering him, protesting even, attempting to console or maybe silence him. An immense sense of relief flooded over him, as he imparted the reasons to her. But he must finish, explain all or be lost again on a tide of painkillers, unable to speak.