‘Why on earth didn’t she come forward?’
‘Because she’s a he.’
‘Oh, really! Do you…’
‘Hang on, there’s more. On the night he was killed the poor bastard was attempting to do away with himself.’
‘Christ! Why?’
‘Nicholas, his partner, told me that the Sheriff had motor neurone disease and didn’t want to wait and let the illness take its natural course.’
‘And did you believe the man?’
‘Yes, I did. Why wouldn’t I? I’m not sure what I’d do if I found out I had something like that. Freeman, apparently, took an overdose of amitriptyline. I think I might well choose to opt out, too.’
‘Maybe, but when his partner was killed he didn’t appear, didn’t help us in any way whatsoever, and that’s bloody odd, I’d say. He might have told you about the amy… whatever, in the knowledge that an explanation would be required-for the drug I mean. Any idiot would know there’d bound to be a PM.’
‘True, but there was nothing at the post mortem to suggest that the Sheriff had been forced to ingest anything. Anyway, I’m due to speak to Lyon again, but, remember, if this was the dead man’s widow we wouldn’t be quite so quick in assuming that she’d done it. We’d all be falling over ourselves, trying to understand her predicament. Comfort her, even. He didn’t abscond, disappear or anything, he simply waited for us to find him at the home he shared with Freeman. That’s not such suspicious behaviour in their particular circumstances.’
‘I’m not convinced. Don’t forget, there was nothing in the post mortem report about any disease at all, and the drug could have been added to food or drink. And who’d give a stuff about the Sheriff being gay nowadays? I don’t think it hangs together at all.’
‘Well, Professor McConnachie was pretty sure about the cause of death, and it looked convincing enough. The big holes in the skull. I think we should go back to him and see if there was any evidence, from the brain, spinal cord or whatever, about motor neurone disease. If the old man had it, then his partner’s version of events could be possible.’
She paused, thinking, and then continued: ‘Certainly, there’d be no need for Lyon to whack him over the head if he knew the Sheriff was already full of a fatal dose of amitriptyline… and, like I said, there’s no evidence of any force-feeding. Anyway, even if the old fellow was wrong about any press interest in their relationship, as long as his belief was genuine then it would still explain his action-or inaction. Wouldn’t it? By the way, Alistair, why did you miss the meeting?’
‘Because DI Manson noticed in your report on the funeral that you described Mrs Nordquist as tearful, and he thought she ought to be talked to again, the tears suggesting something other than neighbourly feeling. This being Edinburgh and all. Also, he said DCI Bruce asked her to ID the body in the mortuary, before we managed to contact Christopher Freeman, and she’d been completely unbothered by the prospect. Odd, with her weeping at St Giles.’
‘And did you find anything?’
‘No. Mrs Nordquist had been imbibing again; actually I’d say she was drunk this time. Anyway, I couldn’t make head or tail of what she was saying, with her accent and all, and she kept trying to press that liqueur stuff on me. She got furious when I wouldn’t join her and then edged towards me on the sofa and started crying. We’ll have to go again, or on reflection, perhaps, just you.’
5
DCI Bruce whirled round at speed in a full circle on his revolving chair. It could have been simply joie de vivre, but Alice sensed that the man had done it to proclaim his dominance over his territory and over the only subordinate present, herself. Returning to his place at the front of his desk he pressed the ends of his fingers together, as if praying, and began to speak.
‘That’s very useful stuff, in its way, Detective Sergeant. Almost, but not quite, makes up for missing my meeting…’ he smiled with no warmth. ‘Anyhow, the toxicology report should make entertaining reading, so I suggest that you go off and harry the lab for me. It’s over three weeks since the post mortem and this case, surely, deserves some priority.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And when you talk to Nicholas Lyon again, bring him in here, eh? Just to let him know what he’s got himself into.’
‘What has he got himself into, Sir?’
‘A murder enquiry, remember?’
‘I hadn’t forgotten that, Sir, but he’s not really a suspect at present, is he? Mr Lyon’s the… the… well, the bereaved. He lived with the victim for over forty-five years. We’ve got nothing to suggest that he was involved in any way, and I’d much rather see him in his own home; he’ll be more relaxed there.’
‘Get real, Sergeant! He didn’t come to us, did he? We had to go and winkle him out, and that speaks volumes in my book. He’s a suspect as far as I’m concerned! So let’s give him a dose of reality and bring him in here “to assist us”. In fact, I’ll do the interview myself to make sure we get everything we need.’
The Professor’s desk was almost invisible beneath the array of empty coffee cups and polystyrene mugs stacked on it, and the man’s expression betrayed irritability when he looked up from his computer screen as the policewoman entered.
‘I’ve tracked the report down, Alice.’ He sounded defensive. ‘It’s with Doctor Zenabi for his signature. We were going to email it to you later this morning, but if you want to pop in and collect it, his room is further down this corridor, third on the left. He should have signed it by now.’
‘There were one or two things I need to ask you, first, if you’ve got the time, Professor?’
‘When have I ever got the time on a lecture morning? But fire ahead. I can give you until eleven o’clock, and then I’m off to give a talk on “Paradoxical Undressing”. Law students on this occasion. No, we’d better make that quarter to eleven, in order to give me time to get to Old College.’
‘I’ve spoken to the Sheriff’s partner and he told me that on the Monday night, Freeman planned to take an overdose of amitriptyline…’
‘He?’
‘He.’
‘Well, the toxicology certainly confirmed that,’ the Professor said, gathering together, as he spoke, a couple of lever-arch files from a desk drawer. ‘It was an unexpected finding-that it was in his system, I mean. There was none among the drugs swept from the various cabinets and drawers in Moray Place. Did he tell you where the man got it from?’
Alice nodded. ‘From their other house, in the country, in Kinross-shire. Nicholas, that’s the Sheriff’s partner, had some. He told me that he was given it a while ago when his mother died, and that he’d never got round to throwing it out because…’
‘Mind you,’ the Professor interrupted, ‘it wasn’t the cause of death. He was undoubtedly alive when he was attacked. After all, we took over 150 millilitres of sub-dural blood from the brain, a massive haemorrhage. But it was certainly a fatal dose, the amitriptyline, I mean.’
‘What sort of condition would the Sheriff have been in between, say, about seven o’clock and ten or thereabouts?’
‘Well, you’ve got to remember that he’d been knocking back alcohol a bit-not that much-about fifteen milligrams, no more than a few double whiskies, I suppose. By that time, seven onwards, I’d say that most of the effects he’d be feeling really would be from the drink. Maybe his speech would be a little more slurred with the two in combination… he might have been a bit slower in thought, too. Unsteady. As the evening progressed the effects of the drug would begin to kick in.’
‘And there was no sign of him having been forced to eat or swallow anything? I’m thinking of the pills?’
‘No. Certainly, the oral examination showed nothing unusual.’