‘A gin and tonic for the lady and, eh… a pint for me,’ he said to the barman, before adding ‘make it a Bitter and Twisted, eh?’
Turning his attention back to the journalist perched on the bar-stool beside him, he smiled broadly at her and was nonplussed when she displayed signs of dictating the pace of the meeting.
‘So, Eric, what exactly d’you want?’
The Inspector attempted, as usual, to disguise the disappointment he felt at the sound of her voice. It was a high-pitched squawking noise, and whenever he heard it, he recoiled, dismayed by its ugliness. As if an exquisite bird of paradise had opened its beak and screeched like a magpie. She should have made a low, purring sound, perhaps, with the slightest hint of a lisp; and he had wanted the illusion of a social drink between friends to be maintained just a little longer, but so be it. If it had to be down to business, then fine, she would be impressed with his offering whenever it was laid before her.
‘It’s not a question of what I want, love, more what you’ll want.’ He winked, inwardly congratulating himself on his answer. Flirtatious, intriguing even.
‘Don’t play games with me. I’ve not got all sodding night. If you’ve got something to say, then just say it, eh? I’m needing the loo and I’ve better things to do than lounge around the friggin’ Balmoral all evening.’
‘It’s about Sheriff Freeman.’
‘The murdered one?’ Her voice betrayed rising interest.
‘Aye. The murdered one,’ he nodded, tantalising her.
‘Well?’ Another squawk.
‘Well. Wait for it… he was gay!’
The semblance of a smile. ‘How d’you know?’
‘Because we had his partner in the station, at St Leonards. Another old bloke, lived with Freeman for years and years.’
‘‘Tell me he’s a suspect?’ Her eyes now glittered with excitement.
In for a penny, in for a pound, the Detective Inspector thought, replying: ‘Aha. He certainly is!’
The woman uncrossed her long, shapely legs and leant towards the policeman. A little notebook was extracted from her shoulder-bag and she began, for the first time that evening, to bestow her full attention upon him.
‘Go on then, Eric… talk to me. For you, pet, I’ve all the time in the world.’
DI Manson drained the dregs of his pint, swallowed a burp, and allowed his left foot, accidentally, to brush against hers.
Shortly before three o’clock in the afternoon, Nicholas Lyon put up his umbrella and set off to walk to the village shop to collect his bread and milk. A soaking was just what the ground needed; the soil had become dust-dry and the lawn was disfigured by leprous yellow patches where the grass had died. He squelched through the puddles on the drive in his boots, breathing in deeply to inhale the pungent scent of aniseed released as the rain sank into the parched earth, slaking its summer thirst.
Reaching the store he cast his eyes over the billboard propped up against the plate glass window. Most days it was of little interest-‘Fife Councillor on the Take’, ‘Road Bridge Toll to Go Up’, or ‘T in the Park – a Record Success’. Once in a while someone else’s tragedy had become news: ‘Local Boy Dies in Motor-cycle Crash’ or ‘Mother’s Coma Vigil’. He had ruminated over the incidental cruelty involved. A private grief magnified to assuage the public’s insatiable appetite for ‘human interest’ stories. And then the relatives’ reaction, exacerbated by the news coverage, might, in itself, provide more columns of newsprint. This time the hastily scrawled black lettering on the white background spelt out ‘MURDERED SHERIFF’S GAY LOVER NOW A SUSPECT’. On reading it he was swept by an overwhelming feeling of dread, a sensation of fear, unmistakably physical, like nothing he had ever experienced. Cold sweat rose on his forehead and acid seemed to be seeping into the pit of his stomach. What would everyone think? And then, and worse still, came the conviction that, somehow, he had let James down. In death, James Freeman had become cheap, tabloid fodder, a source of vulgar amusement at best, infuriated disgust at worst. And the easiest label of all would now be bestowed upon him, that of hypocrite.
A hand tapped on his shoulder and he opened his eyes to see the plump form of the shopkeeper beside him.
‘Ye all richt, Mr Lyon?’
He nodded, embarrassed, incapable of speech, afraid that if he attempted to say anything he might break down and weep, and then be unable to stop himself.
‘Come in oot the rain eh? Dinnae worry yerself aboot yon board. S’only up the day an’ it’ll be doon afore tomorrow morn. Fish ’n chips frae then oan. We a’ ken you, an’ aboot the Sheriff an’ a.’
‘Yes! A result!’ Eric Manson slammed down the receiver and punched the air. Alice caught Alistair’s eye. Should they indulge the man in his excitement, ask the inevitable question or, sadistically, let the seconds tick by, force him to wait for a bit? Even say nothing at all and twiddle their thumbs before another exhibition was staged in an attempt to whet their curiosity further? DC McDonald, unaware of the tensions within the squad, resolved their unspoken dilemma.
‘What is it, Sir?’
‘Only a lead. That’s all! Some poof’s been boasting in a gay bar, the Boar’s Head down Leith way, that he was having it off with the Sheriff. Come on Alice, turn off the computer, we’re going to…’
Before DI Manson had finished speaking his phone rang again, and he snatched it up impatiently, annoyed at being delayed.
‘Yes! Oh, I see, Sir. Of course, I quite appreciate that. I’ll come through right away. I had been on my way to check out something urgent in Leith, a boy we need to see there. Maybe I should go there first?’ He grimaced at Alistair. ‘Yes, Sir, Alice and DS Watt could easily go in my place. If the Assistant Chief Constable needs a report then, obviously, that takes priority. I’ll attend to it now.’
The traffic on Leith Walk was gridlocked, moving little more than a few feet every minute and, in the still, warm air, the stench of exhaust fumes was overpowering. But no escape presented itself. A bus driver hooted his horn angrily, and in vain, at two parked cars blocking his lane, and a stationary taxi-cab, immediately ahead of them, disgorged its overheated passangers. The two Police officers wound up their windows simultaneously, desperate to preserve such fresh air as the Astra contained, knowing that they would now swelter in its furnacelike interior. By the time they reached Salamander Street both of them had, somehow, stuck to their plastic car seats. They immediately flung the doors wide, enjoying the cool sea breeze, preparing to peel themselves off the vinyl.
A few tables, sporting faded parasols, littered the pavement frontage of the newly-decorated pub, and a shaven-headed bulldog of a man turned out to be the inspector’s contact. He seemed pleased that they had been sent in Manson’s stead, and led them through the bar into the back kitchen, shooing out two pale youths who were occupied stirring, lethargically, the contents of a gigantic aluminium tureen. The snout was helpful, eager to provide such information as he could, but scrupulous in distancing himself from any accusations potentially associated with it. The press had already been sniffing about the place, he explained. Georgie was the name of the customer who had been boasting; a flamboyant, middle-aged extrovert who revelled in being the centre of attention. But, the bull-dog cautioned, maybe the boasts had been no more than empty talk, a bid by Georgie to upstage a popular raconteur, who had been regaling the regulars with tales of his adventures as a transvestite fire-eater. In any event, he said, he was simply passing on the guff for what it was worth. He did not know the fellow’s surname, only that he worked in a small second-hand bookshop on Nicolson Street, up near the University. They would recognise him by his shock of blond curls and his invariable buttercup-coloured tie. Oh, and he was a smiler.