He brushed the bee, nonchalantly, off his bare hand and lifted the first layer from the hive. Every year the supers seemed to get heavier, and yet, paradoxically, they contained no more honey. Fitting his hive tool between two filled frames, Sir Archibald Learmonth levered one loose and then carefully raised it to examine the white seal covering either side. Nowadays, he strained to see anything through the fine gauze of his bee veil, and he cursed modern beekeeping equipment; it made the beeman’s task well nigh impossible. He swung the frame forwards and backwards in order to see if any honey would escape from the few remaining uncapped cells. No, the sticky fluid remained inside, so he added the frame to his pile for extraction. Next, the checking of the brood boxes to see what the varroa was up to. Picking up his capping fork from the roof of a nearby hive, he raised his trembling hand over an area of drone brood, before stabbing the fork into it and examining the larva impaled on its tines for any signs of the mite. Good, not a single black speck to be seen, those expensive strips had done their business. Carefully, he wiped the whitish goo off the fork onto the bird table. Another treat for the blue tits.
Under his broad hat he gradually became aware of a tapping sound, and looked round to see his wife at the window signalling for him to come in. Blast her! The job was only half done, and he’d just put a new cardboard cartridge inside the smoker; most of it would be wasted now. What on earth could be so important that it could not wait until the whole job had been done? He would have to explain to her, again, that the bees did not like being disturbed, and therefore any operation that had to be carried out on them must be allowed to be completed in order to avoid too many disturbances. Crossly, he re-built the hive, replacing the queen-excluder, stacking the supers, topping the whole with the crown board and the roof. He gathered together his full combs, swept the few remaining bees off with a large feather and headed towards the back door, his morning ruined.
Inside the kitchen of his Heriot Row house, the former Sheriff Principal of Lothian and Borders pulled off his hat and veil and then collapsed into an armchair, extending his legs and allowing his wife, wordlessly, to bend down and pull off his green Wellington boots. Hairy woollen socks encased his legs, and the elderly woman casually flicked a bee off one of them into a glass tumbler, before releasing the creature back into the garden.
Alice introduced herself and the old fellow, now mollified with a cup of tea and a biscuit, turned his attention to her.
‘I’ve come to see you in connection with the death of one of your brother Sheriffs, James Freeman. I understand that he was under you until he retired about ten years ago. I wondered if you could tell me anything about him,’ she began.
The Sheriff nodded benignly, crunching his mouthful of ginger snap, before replying: ‘Perhaps you could be more specific, Detective Sergeant Rice. What sort of thing exactly would you like to know?’
‘Just about anything you can tell me, Sir. His job-was he good at it, for example?’
‘I couldn’t fault him. He was absolutely first rate, always completely reliable, never shirked anything, including the residence stuff or even crime. His judgements were routinely well written and well reasoned, and he was very rarely overturned. Of course, he loathed our administrators, everyone does, but he took his turn on committees and so forth. As you are probably aware, for most of his time in Edinburgh, I was in Perth, but he was one of my Sheriffs for his last three years up until his retiral.’
‘Did you know anything about his personal life?’
The Sheriff looked keenly at Alice from beneath his unruly eyebrows, and when he spoke he sounded wary.
‘Very little. In fact, only what James chose to tell me. Obviously, as an unmarried man, albeit elderly, there were rumours-there always are-but I paid scant attention to them. I have been the subject of gossip in my time, plenty of it, so I don’t place much credence on such tittle tattle… however entertaining it may be.’
‘And what did Mr Freeman choose to tell you?’
‘Almost nothing. Simply that he had never married and would now never marry.’
‘And the rumours?’
‘Surely you can imagine?’ the Sheriff said impatiently. ‘Girls, boys, sheep-two legs good, four legs better-that kind of thing. It must happen in your own workplace. Certainly, the idle tongues waiting to be exercised in the ordinary Court enjoy nothing better than clacking about the orientation of those around them, any new liaisons or break-ups, no-one’s safe, but it’s all pretty harmless.’
‘I know Sheriff Freeman retired a good while ago, but can you think of anyone who might have a grievance against him, having been locked up by him or whatever?’
The retired judge sighed. ‘No. Most of the young neds he sentenced will be middle-aged men with their own children in tow now. Maybe even householders. Anyway, he didn’t end up with much crime. You see he was happy to listen to endless debates, complicated skirmishes over contractual terms and the like, civil proofs; and many of his brethren were less amenable to that sort of thing so they tended to get… well, the crime. Furthermore, any malcontent dealt with by him would have waited a very long time for revenge, and frankly, as a motive I find it pretty implausible.’
‘Did you ever visit his house in Moray Place?’
‘No, nor did he ever come here. I never went to Geanbank either. We weren’t friends in that way.’
‘Geanbank?’
‘It’s his house in Kinross-shire, somewhere near Carnbo. Deep in the countryside, I believe. Maybe you’d even get heather honey there…’
A precious afternoon off and here she was supping with the devil in a seedy bar in Roseburn. It had come to this. Alice savoured the taste of the white wine on her palate, oblivious to the incessant chatter of the man by her side. She sensed his eyes on her, uncomfortably aware that his real object was to possess her, not just any information she might choose to impart to him. It was nothing personal, any woman would do. And this time she had nothing to tell him and, worse, he had lured her to the pub on false pretences; he had no news either and his bar-room patter was no substitute. What the hell. They both understood the value of their relationship; the need to nurture and preserve it. Her companion, a pasty-faced crime reporter, finished his cheese toasty, offered Alice a refill and, when she declined on the pretext of her imminent return to the office, snatched up his jacket and hurried off in order to catch the four thirty at Musselburgh.
As she raised her glass for the final swig, Alice became aware that the newly vacated seat beside her had become occupied. Turning, she found herself looking into the dark brown eyes of Ian Melville and saw him flinch as their eyes met; he had not expected to meet her in O’Riordans. Perhaps he had not expected to meet her ever again, and his disquiet on doing so could not be disguised. No wonder. Not so long ago he had been a murder suspect pursued by her, interrogated by her, afraid of her, and now here they were sitting together, side by side, like old friends. As she made to rise, he spoke.
‘Stay, Alice, please. I didn’t mean to disturb you. If it bothers you I’ll move… there are plenty of other tables.’ It sounded genuine.
‘Thanks for the offer,’ she heard herself say, ‘but there’s no need to go. I’d welcome the company.’
And it was true. His company would be welcome, but she had, somehow, expected her brain to bridle her mouth as it usually did, keep back the truth and give only some anodyne reply, nothing as forward as a welcome. It must be the drink. But he had remembered her name, and no longer required, in using it, to preface it with her rank, and she had remembered his. The sparring that they had engaged in during those tense interviews the previous year meant, in some bizarre way, that they knew each other. No. Correction. The truth was that she knew a fair amount about him, but he knew little of her. He was a painter, a good one; he had proved himself, ultimately, to be an honest man. He was rational and loyal. And, to his eternal credit, he had taken an immediate dislike to DI Manson and had, without difficulty, routed him. Finally, she had always found his irregular, angular features alluring. Others could feast their eyes on fair-haired men with perfect, symmetrical faces. They left her unmoved.
Forty minutes later they left the pub together and strolled down the steps that led to the walkway running alongside the Water of Leith, inhaling the scent of brewing effluent and lime blossom that accompanied the river on its winding course through the city. Deep in conversation they passed through the cold shadow cast by the Belford Bridge, high above them, their words echoing eerily within the archway, past the Dean Village and on to the final stretch that led to Stockbridge and their immediate destination. Opposite the Rotunda of St Bernard’s Well their hands linked, though neither of them was conscious of having taken any initiative.
The sign for Geanbank was nailed to the picket fence that marked the entrance to the driveway on the Carnbo to Cauldstones Road. The drive itself was flanked on either side by wild cherry trees, giving the place its name, and the fields beyond contained Highland cattle, long-haired and red-coated, their tails flicking incessantly to ward off the summer flies. Swallows chattered under the eaves of the house, their nests clinging perilously to the deep arches of the gothic windows where the mud used by them had splashed onto the soft yellow render of the building. The double front doors were locked, so Alice followed the perimeter of the house to the back door, but received no response when she rang the bell.
Stretching behind the house was a large walled garden and she looked in wonder at its perfect order. A caged area for soft fruit: raspberries, strawberries, black currants and red currants; straw laid lovingly beneath them all. Apple trees, espaliered, and row upon row of neat vegetables, each bed provided with the additional shelter of a dwarf privet hedge and not a single weed in sight. A feat that could surely only have been achieved by an Edwardian staff of gardeners. The shrill cry of a cockerel drew her attention to the farthest corner of the enclosed ground and she moved towards the noise-maybe someone would be feeding the chickens. On arrival, she saw a group of Light Sussex hens scratching up the earth and, occasionally, pecking at a stray grain of corn. All sure signs of life, but still nobody about.
She returned to the front of the house and noticed, for the first time, a figure in the distance, busy at the far end of the lawn tending to a wide herbaceous border. By the time she reached the man she was breathless. He was dressed in faded dungarees and a battered cap protected his head from the sun.
‘Excuse me, are you one of the gardeners here?’
‘Yes, I do the garden.’
Her enquiries were interrupted by a call from Detective Inspector Manson on her mobile phone. The tone of his voice conveyed urgency, that this was to be a monologue to which attention must be paid. If she had checked out Geanbank then she should return to the office immediately, as DCI Bruce had ordered the whole squad to attend the next meeting, re-scheduled for two pm. If she left now and put her foot down she’d miss nothing.
This village shop, Alice thought irritably, should have gone out of business long ago with the rest of them. The days when shopkeepers could lean on their counters exchanging local gossip with every shopper, however paltry their purchase, were thankfully over and their replacement with brightly-lit, soulless supermarkets could only be a cause for rejoicing.
‘Well, ma lass, what can ah dae fer ye?’
‘Just the crisps and the Irn Bru, thanks.’
The old lady fingered the crisp packets and can before placing them slowly in a carrier bag and, smiling up at Alice, apparently quite unconscious of her customer’s impatience, she continued with her chat.
‘Ye’re just visiting, eh?’
‘That’s it.’ Such brevity should convey the hint.
‘Who were ye seein’?’
None of your business. ‘I was at Geanbank. I just saw the gardener there and now I’ve got to hurry back to Edinburgh.’
‘Gairdner, there’s nae gairdner there. Just Nicholas.’
‘Sorry? What did you say?’
‘Ah says there’s nae gairdner at Geanbank. Just Nicholas… well, ye ken…’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Och, he’s a fine man, dinnae git me wrang. But he’s no’ the Sheriff’s gairdner, no, no. He daes the gairden a’richt. Daes it well, an a’. But he’s no the man’s gairdner… He’s his-well, ken, his wife, ye could cry him. Ma sister cleans their hoose. They’ve separate rooms but-ah kent the both o’ them fer the last ten year since they moved… Well, ye can tell, eh? Live an’ let live, ah always say, but Nicholas’s nae the gairdner.’
‘What’s Nicholas’s surname?’
‘Lyon. Ah always thocht he wis mair the lioness though…’ She chuckled merrily, pleased with her own joke, before her laughter turned itself into a bubbling cough.
Nicholas Lyon did not put down the string he was weaving around the peonies when he saw the Astra return to the gravel sweep. He wound another length of it between their reddish stems and then tethered the twine, finally, to a thin metal support. It had to be done. Otherwise a strong wind could come at any time and destroy the plants, never mind the damage the rain would do, rotting their glorious crimson heads while they were still tight in bud. He had done all he could to protect them and, if he had the time, he’d stake the delphiniums too. James loved delphiniums, ‘delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red)’ and neither of them had ever tolerated chrysanthemums in any colour. The woman approaching him seemed to be quite young, the same one he had seen before; her leaving had seemed too good to be true.
‘Mr Lyon? I’m Detective Sergeant Alice Rice of Lothian and Borders Police. Could we go inside the house? I’d like to talk to you.’
Looking at the elderly gentleman putting the kettle on the Aga in his kitchen, Alice cursed her own stupidity. Of course the face was familiar, she could place him now. He was the fellow she had seen at the Sheriff’s service, sobbing, overcome by grief. The image of him had remained fixed in her mind simply because at the funeral he had been almost the only one, bar Mrs Nordquist, to exhibit any kind of sorrow.
‘Mr Lyon, I need to talk to you about the Sheriff, James Freeman.’
The old man nodded his assent as he poured out the tea into two mugs. But his eyes never met hers, they flitted nervously to the floor, to the ceiling, left and right, and all the while he blinked copiously.
‘I understand that you lived together?’
The question had come, as he had known it would. Nicholas Lyon thought long and hard before replying, although he had already allowed himself ample time to rehearse any response. ‘Lived together.’ He knew exactly what was meant by this apparently innocuous phrase. That he and James lived together as homosexuals, inverts, nancies or whatever… There were few such objectionable epithets with which he was not familiar. People must have known, of course they must, but never the people that counted. Or, if those people had known, then it had not mattered as James had been so discreet. He, both of them, had never chosen to venture out of the closet. Maybe it was claustrophobic inside, but, fortunately, they had only ever needed each other and, anyway, it had been necessary. Many, no doubt, had found it suffocating, undignified certainly, but they had coped and nothing in James’ private life had prevented him from becoming a QC nor, eventually, from being elevated onto the Shrieval bench.
If such involuntary incarceration had been the price for his career then they had paid it. And when the militants had gone mad and smashed the closet doors around them to sawdust, he and James had declined to join in, having become accustomed to their private retreat and the double life that society had, once, enforced upon them. It was too difficult, breaking the habits of a lifetime. Of course, James had been a master of the half-truth, the distraction. He was a verbal-impressionist: a single well-chosen word and the inquisitors would create for themselves some unsuitable female consort for him, her nonappearance immediately explicable to them, and they would secretly pat themselves on the back for their perspicacity in the face of such subtlety. Others again, just assumed that he was asexual, had no ‘passionate parts’, and, insulting as it was, he let it pass. ‘Confirmed bachelors’ were not threatening and needed no further investigation.
It was just a case of triggering expectations, people seeing what they expected to see despite the truth staring them in the face. And with his simple assent their well-worn carapace would be stripped away, never to be replaced. Still, no harm could now come to James or his career with such an admission, and pretence would be futile, maybe even dangerous. A private life was a thing of the past.
‘Yes,’ Nicholas replied baldly, interlinking his fingers to control the shaking that had begun in his hands.
‘For many years?’
‘For forty-five years and three months exactly.’
‘Why didn’t you come forward to help us… when the Sheriff was killed? You must have known; it was in all the papers.’
Another simple question to which no simple answer could be provided. Difficult to think where to begin, but a start must be made somewhere. The incompatibility of their early relationship with James’ advancement, perhaps? Or the motor neurone disease? The amitriptyline, even? Something must be said, seconds were ticking by. But Christ, what? He felt like a snail being torn out of its shell, soon to be exposed in all its vulnerability.
‘I’ll tell you, Sergeant, as best as I can.’ She appeared sympathetic; maybe she would listen, even comprehend. Certainly, silence was no longer an option.
‘My relationship with James has never been public. If it had been you would have been here much sooner. We are just an old married couple really… but nobody, well almost nobody, knew that. I mean KNEW that. Some suspected, maybe others guessed. James’ career had to be protected, you see, and to be honest, his privacy, our privacy… what business was it of anyone else? But the tabloids would have taken a prurient interest in James-gay Sheriff found dead-in both of us, I suppose. Now? Now, maybe it is acceptable, but then it wasn’t, and we got used to things the way they were. Why should he, or I, put up with being called an “old poof” and all the other far more unpleasant things that go with such a label? Why should we, on sufferance only, be allowed into polite society? And what a misnomer that is! We managed very well without them all.’
‘So, you didn’t come forward as you didn’t want the nature of your relationship to become public?’
‘Yes, that’s partially true. It was part of the reason, but there was another, too, which you may or may not understand…’ His speech ended, nervousness having drained him of all energy. It felt so unreal, listening to his own voice laying bare their lives, exposing secrets that should have gone to the grave with them.
‘Go on, please, Mr Lyon.’
‘About eight months ago James began to have difficulty with his words. Not in remembering them or anything like that. More, in articulating them, his voice changed and his speech seemed to become slurred. Sometimes badly so, especially when he was tired. Next thing, he couldn’t swallow his food, kept choking, and it frightened him. It frightened me, too, actually. I had to learn the Heimlich manoeuvre, for all the good it did. Eventually, I bullied him into seeing a neurologist, and the man carried out various tests, scans and so on and then we got the news…’ The old man paused again as if reliving the moment.
‘The news?’ Alice prompted.
‘The news that he had motor neurone disease, a form of it anyway, something called “progressive bulbar palsy” to be exact. James’s intelligence would remain unaffected but, slowly, inexorably, crucial muscles would cease to function until, eventually, he wouldn’t be able to breathe unassisted.’
‘Why would that mean that you wouldn’t come forward when James was murdered?’
‘I am coming to that,’ the man said reproachfully, twisting and untwisting his hands. ‘James was a very determined man, you know. I would have nursed him until the end, I didn’t care. But he decreed otherwise and was implacable. He decided that he would end his own life. The thought of God’s reaction troubled him for a bit, but he concluded that no benign deity, worthy of such a name, would expect any creature to suffer a slow, terrifying death if an alternative quick, clean one was available. Even if that alternative death was suicide. So, he began planning his end. He did it meticulously, like everything else he did. He didn’t fancy Switzerland, that… er… Dignitas set-up. He chose the house in Moray Place. He used the house, particularly, during the week, and I think he saw it as the home of his ancestors in an almost Japanese way and thought it would be fitting to return-to wherever-from there. Also, and crucially, he didn’t want me involved in any way.’
‘Involved in what respect?’
‘In his suicide. If he had done it in Geanbank then… well, that was ours. Our home. I almost never went to Moray Place. It had always been his, whatever other houses we owned. He was going to take my amitriptyline-old stuff, I got it when my mother died-and the Brahms double violin concerto. Said he’d like to go listening to celestial music with a dram or two for company. I suspected when he left here on Monday afternoon that he’d determined to do it that evening. He’d choked at lunchtime and some of the muscles in his tongue had begun to twitch. Anyway, it was so different when he said goodbye. He didn’t cry or anything like that, James almost never cried, but he looked hollow… lost… it’s hard to explain. I tried to talk to him about it, but he wouldn’t. He said if I had no involvement, knew nothing about it, then I’d be quite safe from the Police. I phoned the house the next morning and there was no reply. I was in the process of collecting my things to go there when Liv called.’
‘Liv?’ Alice interrupted.
‘Liv Nordquist, our neighbour. She knew-about us, I mean. James trusted her completely. She knew about the disease too. She told me that James had been murdered… and that you, the Police, were already involved. So I’ve been waiting for you to come.’
Finally, Nicholas Lyon looked into the policewoman’s eyes and she nodded her head for him to continue.
‘That’s it, really. Why I didn’t come forward. In the papers it wasn’t “Gay Sheriff found murdered”. No. No-one could speculate about some homosexual crime of passion, or any of that sort of thing. And, yes, I believed that James was going to die that night but not… that he was going to be killed. I reckoned you’d come to me in the end. You see, James had lived as straight in the world, but my very existence made that a lie. And all I cared about, then, was that he was dead. Nothing else mattered.’
After the policewoman had gone, Nicholas Lyon wandered into the rose garden, desperate to calm himself, to restore his shattered nerves and dispel the fears that seemed to have taken control of his mind. A momentous change had occurred and it had happened against his will. Now, the known had become the unknown; the familiar, unfamiliar; and in this new, unwelcome environment he would have to survive.
‘Tuna fish today-nice chunks of greasy… eh, flesh. How would that suit you, Quill?’
Miss Spinnell opened the cupboard above the sink and scrabbled blindly inside, delving for the chosen tin. Two forefingers landed in a pool of oil and she withdrew them quickly, smelling them before reaching back inside and extracting the opened can.
‘They’ve done it again,’ she muttered to herself, ‘drinking the very milk from my cartons, and now the very… dog flesh… from my, eh… eh… tinister… boxes.’
Quill’s dish was soon full of a strange assortment of ingredients from the store cupboard, but he gobbled it down greedily before lapping up the bowl of Ribena that had been thoughtfully laid out for him.
When Alice arrived and knocked on the old woman’s door she was surprised by the silence that greeted her before Miss Spinnell’s thin voice could be heard. Where were the usual clanks, clicks and rattles that always heralded the relaxing of her domestic security, appropriate for a nuclear reactor, protecting her Broughton Place flat? The door did not open its usual ten inches, a single chain remaining, for inspection of all visitors.
‘What do you want, caller?’ The tone sounded surprisingly aggressive.
‘It’s just me, Miss Spinnell, I’ve come to collect Quill.’
‘I’m afraid that will be quite impossible tonight, I’ll have to keep him with me. I have been locked in here by those rogues. My door, simply, will not… out… ehm… open.’
Alice sighed. Work had been arduous enough without having to endure the additional burden imposed on her by her neighbour’s gradual loss of all remaining wits.
‘Perhaps, if you undid the locks, the internal ones, you could free yourself?’ she said slowly, attempting to keep the impatience she felt out of her voice, reminding herself of her beholden state.
The reply sounded querulous, doubtful: ‘I’ll give it a try, this once.’
The usual cacophony of metal on metal could be heard before the door swung open to reveal a slightly startled, blinking, Miss Spinnell with Quill sitting beside her, restrained by a lead.
‘Your dog must be tested,’ the old lady said stiffly.
Alice was baffled. ‘Tested? Tested for what?’
Miss Spinnell’s bulging eyeballs, in unison for once, travelled heavenwards. It was all so obvious. How could this socalled policewoman (God help us all) not understand?
‘His hearing. A hearing test. Men-men-I repeat, MEN… have been in my flat and locked the pair of us in, but was there so much as a howl, a growl, a bark even, to warn me? There was not. This… this,’ she struggled for the word ‘this… eh, horse… this hound… has a hearing problem and a carefree… er, caring owner would have detected it eons ago. Things could, possibly, then have been done, but it will be too late now. Poor Quill must be stone deaf.’
So saying, she patted Quill’s soft head before blithely issuing her order, ‘Off you go, boy.’
The phone rang in Alice’s flat. It was Alistair. Thankfully, no effort would be required.
‘Did Bruce have a go at you, too?’
‘Yes. I missed the meeting completely. I gather you did too. Not a great start, eh?’
‘Nope. How did you get on at Freeman’s other place?’
‘Well, it’s a long, long story. I met the Sheriff’s other half and I reckon that the plentiful alien DNA in Moray Place will turn out to have come from that source.’
‘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.’