The grandfather clock chimed nine. Alone again. He looked around the drawing room, surveying it as if seeing it for the first time. In his youth its grandeur had both impressed and appalled him until, as the years passed, he had become accustomed to the strange collection of family relics it contained and ceased to shiver on finding himself looked down upon by the stern warriors arrayed on the walls. Slowly he walked upstairs, crossed the landing to James’ room and pushed the door open. The scent of his lover hit him immediately, unexpectedly and powerfully, and he buried his face in the pillows, painfully conscious that with time even this slight comfort would disappear. By the bedside was a framed photograph of himself, laughing on holiday in the Alps, and he turned it over, face down, onto the cabinet. It belonged to the past, and somehow, somehow, a new future would have to be forged, one in which he could live each minute of every hour as if it mattered, until, finally, he, too, would be released.
Removing his key from the lock he descended the stone steps to the pavement, watching, as he did so, a troupe of starlings bobbing up and down, bickering with each other on the black railings encircling the gardens. As he began crossing the cobbles, a screeching sound cut through his head, and he turned to his left, attempting to locate the noise. Then there was an ear-splitting bang. The impact of the car sent him flying, hurtling through the air as if he weighed nothing until, everything having slowed down, he slammed into a parked jeep with a strange crunching sound and felt himself sliding down the bonnet, crumpling onto the ground below.
I am still alive, he thought. He tried to open his eyes, to shout, call for help, but nothing happened. The blackness remained and no voice came from his lips. Blood trickling into his eye tickled the edge of his nose and, in his mind, he moved a hand to scratch it, but the itch remained and his fingers felt none of the warm, sticky fluid that was streaming from his forehead.
Someone had come, was leaning over him, shouting, crying, and he recognised, in the warm breath on his face, the smell of alcohol mixed with perfume. Liv. She was speaking to him, pleading, sobbing, and in his head he answered her, comforted her, but it seemed to have no effect. She carried on, screaming now, shouting, inconsolable. Her hair brushed against his face, tickling it unbearably, and he strained to turn to his side, prevent it happening again, maybe even to scratch his skin on the road surface. But another strand swept his cheek.
He shivered. When had it become so cold? The air had seemed kind earlier, hot in the late afternoon. Where had this chill come from? Seconds later he sensed a blanket being laid over him, rejoiced in its weight, waited for warmth that did not come. He could feel the woman close by, beside him, her hand in his below the rug.
9
DCI Bruce’s complexion, usually pale, was clay-coloured and his lips seemed to have been drained of blood. His tie had come loose and he was manically pacing up and down the murder suite. Once the entire squad had assembled, chattering together uninhibitedly, he stood stock still. The hum continued unabated.
‘Shut up, people!’ he commanded, and, electrified, every mouth closed.
‘Thank you and not before sodding time. I’ve just heard that last night, 5th July, probably at about nine o’clock or so, Nicholas Lyon was run down in Moray Place. The car driver didn’t stop and no accident’s been reported by any driver at that location. In other words, an effing hit-and-run, one likely to prove fatal to boot. An ambulance was called and he’s currently in the Western. The traffic department are still scouring the scene. We’ve no way of knowing, as yet, whether the Sheriff’s death and Mr Lyon’s accident are connected, but it would seem a remarkable coincidence if they weren’t. Accordingly, that probability needs to be considered. Alice, how did you get on with Major Freeman?’
‘OK, I think, Sir. He hadn’t any letters and seemed completely unaware that his brother had been subject to threats in any form…’
The DCI interrupted her. ‘Eric. I want you to go and liaise with traffic. All information must be shared, chat up the redhead in charge-what’s her name-Yvonne something or other. Tell her all about the connection between the two victims.’
‘Aye, aye, Sir. Yvonne Woolman’s her name,’ DI Manson said, stirring his coffee but remaining seated.
‘Well, move your arse, Inspector, and get on to it now. This very minute, OK?’
The policeman left the room, mug in hand, looking uncharacteristically chastened.
‘Alistair, how did you get on checking the stuff on the computer?’
DS Watt shook his head. ‘I didn’t get much, I’m afraid. I’ve discovered that there are hundreds of environmental protection groups, landscape guardians and so on, some of them general and some of them associated with particular wind farms or wind farm clusters, but there are no organisations that I’ve been able to find connected exclusively to Scowling Crags. I don’t think we’re going to get anything much from that source.’
‘Bugger. Alice, go on with what you were saying about Major Freeman?’
‘Just that he hadn’t received letters or threats. However, I did get the Vertenergy stuff from Nicholas Lyon and I’ve made contact with one of the anti-wind farm activists, a chap called Angus Kersley. He doesn’t seem to think…’
She stopped in mid-sentence noticing that DC Lowe had put up his hand.
‘Yes?’ the DCI said, looking menacingly at the constable.
‘Sir, I missed yesterday’s meeting, so I may be well out of order, but couldn’t the Sheriff’s murder and the hit-and-run on Nicholas Lyon be about… well, their homosexuality? Maybe someone’s got a grudge against gayboys. One of these fundamentalist Christians or something. That boy, Georgie…’
‘Thank you, Lowe,’ Bruce said coldly, cutting the man off mid-sentence, and then turning his attention back to Alice.
‘Go on then, Sergeant.’
‘He, Kersley, gave me the impression that he didn’t think that anyone in his group would have killed Freeman, but there’s a meeting on Sunday and I’m going to go and see what’s what.’
‘OK. I want DCs Lowe, McDonald and Trotter to go and help with the door to doors round about Moray Place. No doubt there’ll be uniforms there too. Someone must have bloody seen something. Speak to the officer in charge, Sergeant Joseph.’
‘Sir?’
‘Yes, Alice.’
‘Who reported the accident? Got the ambulance?’
‘That Nordquist woman. By the way, I want you to check on garages within the city. See if any vehicles have come in this morning, eh? Liaise with the traffic department.’
Alice nodded her head.
‘Should we get protection for Mr Lyon, Sir?’
‘No. He’s past that I reckon, in intensive care, so never mind him. After I leave here I’m seeing the ACC and he’s not going to be pleased. Trust me. We’ve got nothing-except a second sodding body! You are all going to have to re-double your efforts… I’m not carrying the can for this one.’
The intensive care unit was intimidating, leads and monitors beside each bed and frail lives depending upon them. The staff, however, seemed relaxed, busy measuring out the medications for the evening, so familiar with proximity to death as to be blasé about it. If they had been employed on a confectionery production line in a sweet factory they could not have looked less troubled, more at ease in their own environment. But the air was not scented with chocolate or peppermint, it had an astringent quality, the smell of disinfectant and mortality.