Where The Shadow Falls Read online

  ‘Hello… hello, how can I help you?’

  A tone of bewilderment was apparent in the quavering voice, which had begun to speak before Alice had a chance to introduce herself.

  ‘Miss Spinnell, it’s Alice. Quill’s owner. I was just ringing to see if it would be all right for you to keep him this evening until, say, ten thirty?’

  ‘Keep who until ten thirty?’

  ‘Quill. There is something on at the station and-’ she was interrupted by Miss Spinnell’s impatient tone.

  ‘Of course… of course I’ll keep the dog, and I’ll see you later Alison.’

  The last remark, which was followed by the replacement of Miss Spinnell’s receiver, sounded like a veiled threat, the sort made by a tetchy headmistress when prevented by circumstances from giving vent to her true emotions.

  3

  Walking down St Leonard’s Street towards the Pleasance, two weeks later, Alice revelled in the warm, summery breeze, its heat so uncharacteristic of the capital that its simple existence allowed the residents briefly to dream that they had been transported to London or Madrid, cities where the air has no sharp edges. Everyone she passed seemed relaxed, happy even, as if like plants they had responded to the sunshine and allowed themselves to unfurl. Even in the deep shadow of the Cowgate it felt balmy, and before too long she was able to bask once more in full sunlight as she turned to her right and entered Old Fishmarket Close. Heels clicking on the cobbles, she zigzagged her way up the hill, past Patrick Wheatley’s abandoned office with its jaunty slogan ‘A Wheatley defence makes sense’, intent upon joining the High Street at the City Chambers.

  In Parliament Square a few mourners had congregated by the Mercat Cross, huddling together before entering the cathedral for the Sheriff’s funeral. She walked past them into the dimly-lit interior and was handed a copy of the Order of Service. A vacant seat near the Chapel of Youth caught her eye and she sat down, oblivious to the scowl on the life-size statue of John Knox guarding it. Self-conscious at being unaccompanied, she raised her eyes to the stained glass and began examining the depictions of John the Baptist and King Solomon, as if they were of genuine interest. Around her the few remaining seats in the row were being taken and a sudden hush fell over those assembled, as the minister, clad in robes of black and purple, climbed the stone steps to the pulpit. The service began with the hymn ‘O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go’. As the strains of Heward’s melody burst forth from the massive organ pipes, she looked about her to survey those within the Kirk. She had expected St Giles to be packed to the gunwales, standing room only, but the elderly congregation filled no more than twelve rows. The female members of the establishment present seemed to favour wide-brimmed hats, velvet berets and veiled pill-boxes to cover their white locks, and their few remaining spouses wore Crombie overcoats to a man, some sporting sombre black ties, others regimental stripes. Gathered beneath a large marble relief of embattled warriors was a discrete group, clad exclusively in black and white, the uniform of the legal profession on duty. On further scrutiny Alice recognised the faces of Lords Cairncross, Darling and Thorburn, their features branded onto her memory from her High Court trial appearances as a witness. One of the women seemed familiar too: Lady Schaw, the trial judge for the Gravestone Rapist.

  A second hymn, ‘Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise’, started up, and the sparse crowd did their best to breathe life into it. While fumbling for the correct page, Alice became aware of an alien aroma, brandy, and as she was speculating on its origin an elderly man shuffled past her, extending his stride on reaching the northern aisle. There, he raised his head, lifted his shoulders and marched, as if on parade, towards the pulpit.

  His accent was that of the former ruling class, with clipped vowels and staccato sentences, and his voice boomed out in the cavernous space, magnified unnecessarily by the sound system. The address that he gave was short, factual and without frills or any sign of emotion. It was more like the Sheriff’s entry in Who’s Who than any kind of funeral tribute. The congregation was informed that James Henry Freeman had attended public school at Wellington College, Berkshire, where he excelled academically and had been captain of the rifle team. At Edinburgh University he had achieved a first class degree in Law, the foundation for his subsequent meteoric career at the Bar. For five years in the sixties he had been the Sheriff in Haddington prior to obtaining his shrieval post in Edinburgh. On the bench his reputation was for a keen mind combined with a kind manner, and his industry, in this office, was second to none. The speaker paused briefly, re-adjusting his notes before continuing in the same authoritative tone. James had been a bachelor to the end, and had been sustained throughout his life by his strong Christian faith, albeit not as a churchgoer. He was, in short, a true Christian gentleman, and his premature death, a little more than a fortnight earlier, represented a great loss to the legal profession and, of course, a great personal loss to his only remaining family, his younger brother Christopher.

  After the old fellow had cautiously descended the stone stairs, the minister resumed his place in the pulpit, neck now shrunk into his robes like a tortoise’s in its shell, and gave the briefest of addresses, excusing its slightness on the basis of his lack of personal acquaintance with the deceased. He ended it with two stark announcements. Firstly, all donations were to be made to the Earl Haig Poppy Fund, and secondly, a luncheon had been laid on in St Andrew’s Church Hall at Holy Corner, and all who wished to attend would be welcome to do so. On cue, the organ began to play the introduction to the final hymn.

  Listening to the first few bars, Alice began to relax. Her unspoken fear that the service might provide too forcible a reminder of her mother’s mortality had proved groundless, the tissues remaining dry in her pocket. And then a beautiful soprano voice rang out, heart-rendingly pure, shattering her complacency and all but undoing her. She concentrated, as intensely as if her life depended upon it, on an inscription on a brass plaque, until she could be sure that the moment of weakness had passed, that she would remain the owner of her face.

  As the mourners filed out, the Gunns, both dry-eyed, were at the front of the queue attempting to manoeuvre themselves round a small man who was stationary, sobbing unashamedly. Nearer the middle was Mrs Nordquist, her face partly hidden by the brim of her straw boater, but her eyes were exposed, red and tear-stained. Alice caught up with her by the Signet Library, where she had paused to slip on a pair of dark glasses. Recognising the policewoman, she spoke, as if sensing that some explanation for her condition might be required.

  ‘Funerals! It could be a deat ratt in the box ant I’d be weeping… I’m off home now for a goot, strong drink.’ But her breath suggested that she had refuelled already.

  Few made the journey to the Church Hall, and a desultory affair the wake turned out to be. Metallic Women’s Institutestyle teapots were in service, and the food would have disgraced a post-war austerity street party, consisting entirely of white bread egg-and-cress sandwiches and angel cakes. Its unabashed stinginess contrasted uneasily with the ancient splendour of St Giles and the evident affluence of most of the guests.

  The host appeared to be the Sheriff’s brother, Christopher, and Alice watched him as she took sips from a mug of bitter Indian tea. His leathery skin suggested a twenty-a-day habit, all deep lines and furrows, and white stubble shone in little, isolated patches on his chin, confirming, with the crusted blood on one cheek, the use of a blunt razor. His clothes were those of the no longer well-to-do of his class: frayed collar, elbow patches and a dark pin-stripe, glistening with wear. Only his brogues were impeccable, black and shiny, as if rarely liberated from their shoe-trees.

  She noticed that his heavy-lidded eyes were scanning the room, checking who had turned up, and occasionally he chatted animatedly to a guest, pressing an angel cake on them as if it was Beluga caviar.

  After an hour the numbers dwindled further as the old brigade took their leave, kissing each other’s powdery cheeks before heading slowly back to their
well-polished cars. While farewells were still being exchanged, a woman busied herself scooping the sandwiches off the plates into polythene bags, and putting the remaining cakes into a Tupperware box.

  ‘They’ll do for the dogs,’ she said to her husband as he passed her, carrying a pile of stacked white plates into the scullery area.

  ‘Good thinking, darling, they’ll wolf them down.’

  As Christopher Freeman was washing dishes at the sink, Alice introduced herself to him and he extracted a hand from the soapsuds to shake hers.

  ‘I didn’t know you people attended funerals, too, but thank you for coming.’

  ‘We usually do, sir, as a mark of respect, you understand. Also we’ve had such difficulty in speaking to you, we need information if we are to find out who killed your brother. I’ve phoned your house numerous times but…’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he interrupted, ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been busy making arrangements… you know, like funerals, wakes, that kind of thing. I did say after I’d identified the body, that poor Mop woman being well nigh hysterical, that I’d get back in touch with you.’

  ‘I appreciate that, sir, and I really do apologise for intruding at such a time…’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re not “intruding at such a time”, actually, but Sandra and I really do have to go. I simply cannot speak now, we’re off to a dentist’s appointment, and before that this place has to be cleaned up. You can come to the house, tomorrow, say at three o’clock. You’ve got my address in Frogston Road West, right?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, sir,’ Alice said wearily, eager to leave and not in a position to object.

  DI Manson lay sprawled across his chair, hands clasped behind his head and feet crossed on the desk. He had just returned from the forensic laboratory, where he had learned that despite the murderer’s attempts to clean up after himself, traces of the Sheriff’s blood, tissue and hair had been found adhering to an enamelled truncheon retrieved from Moray Place. He snuffled idly in his bag of crisps, examining the crevices for any further salty crumbs to extract, and then licked his fingers. He was bored, unwilling to rise and annotate the white board with the new information.

  ‘Alice, dear, would you do me a favour?’

  She looked up from the statement that she was marking, nerves on edge from the very word ‘dear’. Little he said to her was not topped or tailed by ‘dear’, ‘love’, ‘pet’ or some other term of affection-used, she was convinced, to belittle her or deliberately irritate her. And as he had calculated, she had never remonstrated with him, feeling the slight to be too intangible, petty even, so he used the terms freely, watching as his little jabs went home.

  ‘Sir?’ At least she did not sound rattled.

  ‘Would you write on the clean board some information for me? Under “weapon” put “truncheon”-ironic or what-and then add “traces of the deceased’s hair, tissue and blood”.’

  ‘Anything else, Sir, before I sit down?’ She knew his tricks.

  ‘Well, yes, Alice. Put in “Alien DNA (A) on two doorknobs: drawing room door-external and internal: front door-external and internal. Within the house Alien DNA (B) present throughout the house”.’

  She resumed her seat, picked up her marker pen and began to re-apply her brain to the paperwork. Just as she was again lost in concentration DI Manson spoke, once more breaking the spell, his timing perfect to annoy.

  ‘By the way, Alice, I’m coming with you tomorrow. To Frogston Road, I mean. It’s been actioned by the boss. I don’t know why, you could have handled it yourself,’ he paused, ‘…I expect. Mind you, he’ll be twitchy. Two weeks gone already and sweet Fanny Adams to show for it. Nothing will be left to chance now.’

  The pool car had all the signs of being unloved, nobody’s car, the passenger floor littered with sweet-wrappers and the air freshener, a little set of traffic lights, overwhelmed by its task, unable to cloak the smells of stale smoke and body odour. DI Manson was at the wheel, displaying his usual mixture of unprovoked aggression and unexplained hesitation, and Alice mused on the conclusions to be drawn from the way a man drives to the way he’d make love. Only a ghastly experience could be anticipated from this quarter; no thoughtfulness, no smoothness, no rhythm… the list of ‘nos’ was endless. And then, as if reading her thoughts, the inspector said casually: ‘Has the vacancy been filled yet, Alice?’

  ‘Which one, Sir?’

  ‘Don’t be coy, dear, you know very well. The “Tall, slim young lady, cultured, intelligent, GSOH, seeks… anything male”.’

  She attempted a good-natured laugh, playing for time as if no answer was called for, but he persisted.

  ‘Well? I hope you don’t mind me asking…’

  It was all too close to the bone. Attack might well be the best form of defence.

  ‘You seem strangely well acquainted with the vocabulary of the Lonely Hearts columns, Sir. Mrs Manson back from her Easter holiday yet? I heard it’s another long one… she left in, must have been February, wasn’t it?’

  DI Manson brought the car to a sudden halt, using the handbrake for the final few inches of momentum, and Alice was hurtled forwards; they had arrived at their destination.

  The front door was opened by the woman Alice had seen collecting sandwiches at the funeral, and two black standard poodles rushed out of the bungalow to greet the visitors. They jumped all over the Inspector, dark eyes invisible in their black fur and their unclipped tails waving like mediaeval banners in a strong breeze. One of them then scampered across the pavement and began leaping up to the window of a parked Volkswagon Polo. The white car was unwashed and decorated with stickers on the back window proclaiming allegiance to the RSPB and support for ‘Vertenergy-Wind Power for a Clean, Green Future’.

  ‘Off our car, Pepe, come on, sweetie,’ Mrs Freeman cooed in an unnaturally high register, her Essex origins still discernible in her voice, and, unexpectedly, the poodle’s claws clattered off the vehicle as it rejoined its mistress.

  If the furnishings of the house at Moray Place looked as if James Freeman had inherited them from an unbroken line of well-heeled ancestors, the furnishings in his brother’s bungalow looked as if they had been acquired, cut-price, at a warrant sale of household goods. But in amongst the bric-a-brac a discerning eye would have detected some anomalous pieces. A solid silver Georgian sugar bowl sat on the Formica-topped kitchen table, an ornate-framed pier glass hung on a wall in the narrow hallway, and in the sitting room there was a bureau-cabinet veneered with satinwood, empty now of Meissen or Dresden porcelain, filled instead with slant-eyed kittens rolling balls of wool and be-hatted donkeys pulling carts, all made in China.

  Christopher Freeman seated himself at the kitchen table beside his wife, leaning towards her as if to inhale the smoke from her cigarette. Against one of the walls a pile of carrier bags, full and from Jenners, John Lewis and Hamilton and Inches, lay waiting to be unpacked.

  Taking the initiative, DI Manson pulled out a seat and gestured for Alice to do the same.

  ‘Mr Freeman, thank you for seeing us.’

  ‘Major Freeman, Inspector.’

  ‘Well, sir, Major, what we need is information, just general information about your brother. Some indication as to the sort of life he lived, the sort of man he was.’

  ‘Mean,’ Mrs Freeman giggled.

  ‘Now, Sandra,’ her husband said, in a semi-jovial remonstration, before continuing: ‘My brother, Inspector, was… now, let me think,’ he paused. ‘Well, to be entirely frank with you, we didn’t see eye to eye. Haven’t for years. I used to see him at family funerals but rarely otherwise. He was a lawyer, moved in that sort of society, I think. He didn’t have much time-’

  ‘-for a feckless wastrel,’ his wife interjected, giggling again.

  ‘… for me,’ the Major continued, ‘or I for him or his kind.’

  ‘You never met him even socially?’ DI Manson asked.

  ‘No, we never met him at all,’ Mrs Freeman chipped in. ‘He didn’t like
me, or Chris, for that matter. He’d got everything he needed, and that didn’t include us.’

  ‘Got everything?’ Alice enquired.

  ‘You know, the eldest son, primogenitals… what’s it called, Chris?’

  ‘Primogeniture,’ the Major corrected.

  Mrs Freeman continued. ‘So, James scooped the lot. The house in Moray Place, most of the money, all of the farms…’

  ‘No, no, we share Blackstone Mains, darling.’

  ‘Just as bloody well, too!’ she said hotly, drawing deeply on her Silk-cut.

  Before her husband had a chance to reply, DI Manson intervened again: ‘Was the Sheriff ever married… did he have any children?’

  ‘Goodness, no! Far too uptight to form “a welationship” with anyone-any woman for sure-a stranger to “lurve”,’ Mrs Freeman said disdainfully.

  ‘My brother couldn’t say his “Rs”,’ the Major explained, grinning.

  ‘When did you last see him?’ Alice asked.

  Mrs Freeman answered. ‘Cousin David’s funeral, I think, and that would be over seven years ago… maybe six years ago, what do you think, Chris? It was certainly before you lost that little job with those estate agents, showing people over houses.’

  ‘Who should we talk to, to get some impression of your brother?’ DI Manson asked impatiently.

  ‘I really don’t know,’ the Major replied. ‘We communicated largely by letter, Christmas cards and so on, or the odd telephone call. He must have had friends, maybe some of the people at the funeral? Mind you, most of them were old friends of the family, not of him personally. Best try his work colleagues, if any of them are still alive.’

  That evening in the cramped back room of the Clearwater Diving School Alice sat next to her friend, Bridget, filled in the register and passed it to the man on her right.

  ‘Who’s Mrs Norton?’ she whispered to her.