Through her open door she saw Alice Rice and called her, telling her to close it behind her.
‘How did you get on at the Lyon funeral?’ she enquired.
‘There was almost no-one there, Ma’am. Mrs Nordquist, she’d arranged the whole thing, a couple of neighbours from near Geanbank including his cleaner, a group of pensioners from Carnbo and a solitary relation, a nephew. Lyon’s sister didn’t come. There’d been a family rift over his homosexuality. Apparently she’s an ardent Catholic.’
‘OK Alice, well done. Now, about Colin Norris-Eric seems to think though that he’ll get a confession out of him, that we should caution…’
The Sergeant interrupted. ‘Even if Manson-sorry, the Detective Inspector-got one, I’d be very ginger about it ma’am. Unless it disclosed something only the murderer could know, it wouldn’t be worth much. The man’s a wreck… the last time I saw him his hands shook so much that he spilt his own coffee. In his state the defence would have a field day and we won’t get another bite at that cherry.’
The DCI nodded her head. ‘But all this wind farm stuff, it may be… well, just wind. Let’s go back to basics. Look at the family, eh? Lyon’s got none, apparently, except for the sister and nephew. That right?’
‘Yes. And no clear motive there,’ Alice said, thinking as she spoke. ‘The rift was maybe thirty years ago, I can’t see that figuring in any way.’
‘And the Sheriff, Freeman, what about him? Any family?’
‘There’s a brother, that’s all. No reason, though, to suspect him.’
‘Nonetheless, let’s check him out. Thoroughly. And I don’t think we’ll discount the nephew yet, either.’
But before the Scowling Crags chapter comes to an end, Alice thought, one last enquiry to pursue. She found Vertenergy’s number without difficulty and dialled it, noting as she did so that their office was in Edinburgh. To dot the i’s and cross the t’s properly, a check had to be made in case the company knew of any particularly hostile anti-wind farm campaigners, any individuals displaying more than the average level of hostility. And the news she received from the woman at the other end of the line surprised her.
‘Scowling Crags? That one’s not going ahead.’
‘Really? The protestors at the Perth meeting seemed unaware of that fact. Are you quite sure?’ Alice said in disbelief.
‘Hang on a minute and I’ll double-check.’
She waited, patiently, for two minutes, ears assaulted by a hideous loop of ‘Soave Sia Il Vento’ on the flute.
‘No,’ the voice returned. ‘It looked as if we were going to have to withdraw the application, but we’re not going to now.’
‘Do you know why it was going to be withdrawn?’
‘Yes. That’s what I’ve been talking to my superior about. Apparently, James Freeman withdrew permission for us to use the access strip but then that was countermanded…’
‘Countermanded by whom?’ Alice interrupted.
‘By his brother, Christopher Freeman.’
‘Sorry, when did all of this happen?’ Alice enquired.
‘Can you give me just another minute? I’ve got the file here in front of me.’
This time, fortunately, no travesty of Mozart to raise the blood pressure before the voice returned.
‘James Freeman withdrew his permission for the development in a letter. He sent back all the contract documents too.’
‘What was the date of that letter?’ Alice asked.
‘Erm… 7th June, this year.’
‘Okay, and the countermand?’
‘That was in a letter from his brother, Christopher. Do you want to know its date?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘It’s headed 13th June.’
14
By the time Alice arrived all the food had been laid out and the trouble that he had taken amazed her. China plates had been provided, glasses, napkins even, and dish after dish of her favourite things, including Scotch pies and strawberries. Two bottles of champagne rested on the grass, one unopened, the other with half its contents consumed. A late picnic supper on the banks of Dunsappie Loch with the sun still high in the sky was a treat underrated by the majority of the residents of the city, but not by Ian Melville. He fully appreciated the extraordinary good fortune that the burghers enjoyed, having in their midst Holyrood Park in all its pristine beauty. A breeze rippled across the loch, disturbing a pair of mallard, and they flew off, wheeling round towards Duddingston and the shelter of the reedbeds by the church. What a place, she thought, what an unbelievably wonderful place. And that was not all that he had for her. Shyly, he eased out from under the rug a parcel wrapped in newspaper and handed it to her. He was confident this time she would love it, not be surprised or disconcerted by the gift. After all, in creating it, in every line and in every shadow he had caught her essence. A slumbering cat could not have looked more elegant, perfect, ineluctably itself than she had, naked and asleep, that morning.
A little more champagne and with it, a lot more courage. Sufficient alcohol to loosen his tongue, allow the truth to escape yet let him withstand the consequences. Good or bad. With the Krug’s assistance, he would be able to look into her eyes and say what was on his mind, express what had remained on it for far too long. Unsaid. But how would she react to such a declaration? That she liked him was certain. And if she was half as attracted to him as he was to her then he need have no anxieties on that score. But love? That was another matter altogether, stronger, more elusive by far.
Having refilled her glass, he topped up his own, the champagne beginning to convince him that whatever he said would be understood. And here, now, with the waters of the loch lapping at their feet, no misunderstanding could arise between them. They were as one. True. He had said the words before, although not often. Elizabeth Clarke had silenced him, stopped him dead in his tracks; but this, surely, was a mutual passion if such a thing had ever existed.
A sudden doubt assailed him, pricking the expanding bubble of his happiness. Perhaps she would think that it was the drink talking, rendering valueless whatever he said. And, of course, it was the drink talking, but in vino veritas, and sober he might find himself unable to voice this most pressing concern.
‘Alice, I love you,’ he said quickly, but his voice was drowned by the whine of a passing car, and seeing him speak, but not hearing his words, she smiled contentedly at him before placing another strawberry in her mouth. No. This will not do, he thought. Such a declaration would have to be made with him stone cold sober. His restraint would have to be overcome not by champagne, but by the force of his clear will to say those three, difficult words to her.
As he agonised, Alice sipped her drink, saying nothing, pre-occupied by Freeman’s death and only dimly aware that her companion had sunk into silence. It was a benign silence, though, the sort usually only achieved in the company of dumb animals or small children, a stillness not requiring to be broken and replaced with chatter, however inane. A few minutes later she picked up the picture that lay, now unwrapped, at her feet and studied it. Where, she wondered, should she hang a naked portrait of herself? It would have to be somewhere prominent, otherwise he might be hurt, thinking it disdained, uncherished. Better that she be thought an exhibitionist, displaying her unclothed self to a critical world. A small flock of gulls swept over the water, wings spread wide, calling shrilly in the dusk. They encircled a lone swan, their quick, jerky movements contrasting with its slow, dignified progress. When Ian Melville suggested walking back to her flat Alice was not surprised, keen to walk with him, until she remembered the car. So she handed over Quill’s lead, kissed him and watched as he set off, running, the dog free beside him, leaping up and yelping with joy, both racing down the uneven slope in their haste to reach Broughton Place.