that. It adjoined the airport and could be reached by driving halfway around the perimeter. Light aircraft were hangared here, and according to the sign on the gate, it was also home to a flying school. There was a phone number below: the number Siobhan had copied from the phone book. The high metal gate was padlocked, but there was an old-fashioned telephone receiver in a wooden box attached to a post. Siobhan picked it up and heard the ringing tone.
“Hello?” A man’s voice.
“I’m looking for Mr. Brimson.”
“You’ve found him, sweetheart. What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Brimson, my name’s Detective Sergeant Clarke. I’m with Lothian and Borders Police. I was wondering if I could have a word with you.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then: “Just wait a tick. I’ll have to unlock the gate.”
Siobhan started to say another thank-you, but the phone was dead. She could see a few hangars, a couple of airplanes. One had a single propeller on its nose, the other boasted two, one on either wing. They looked like two- seaters. There were also a couple of squat prefabricated buildings, and it was from one of these that the figure emerged, hoisting itself into an open-topped, venerable-looking Land Rover. A plane coming in to land at the airport drowned out any sound of the engine starting. The Land Rover jolted forwards, speeding the hundred or so yards to the gate. The man leapt out again. He was tall, tanned, and muscular-looking. Probably just into his fifties, with a lined face that had cracked into a brief smile of introduction. A short-sleeved shirt, the same green-olive color as the Land Rover, showed off silver-haired arms. Brimson’s thick head of hair was the same silver color, and had probably been ash-blond in his youth. The shirt was tucked into gray canvas trousers, showing the beginnings of a gut.
“Have to keep the place locked,” he started to explain, jangling a vast set of keys taken from the Land Rover’s ignition. “Security.”
She nodded her understanding. There was something immediately likable about this man. Maybe it was his sense of energy and self-confidence, the way he rolled his shoulders as he walked up to the gate. That brief, winning smile.
But as he pulled open the gate for her, she noted that his face had become more serious. “I suppose it’s about Lee,” he said solemnly. “Bound to happen sooner or later.” Then he motioned for her to drive in. “Park by the office,” he said. “I’ll catch up with you.”
As she drove past him, she couldn’t help wondering about his choice of words.
Seated opposite him in the office, she got the chance to ask.
“All I meant was,” he replied, “you were bound to want to talk to me.”
“How so?”
“Because I’m guessing you want to know why he did it.”
“And?”
“And you’ll be asking his friends if they can help.”
“You were a friend of Lee Herdman’s?”
“Yes.” He frowned. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“In a roundabout way, yes. We found out that both yourself and Mr. Herdman paid visits to Carbrae.”
Brimson nodded slowly. “That’s clever,” he said. The kettle, having come to a boil, clicked off, and he leapt from his chair to pour water into two mugs of instant coffee, handing one to Siobhan. The office was tiny, just enough room for the desk and two chairs. The door led back to an anteroom with a few more chairs and a couple of filing cabinets. There were posters on the walls-various forms of aircraft.
“You’re a flying instructor, Mr. Brimson?” Siobhan said, accepting the mug.
“Call me Doug, please.” Brimson sat back down. A figure appeared, framed by the window behind him. A rap of knuckles on the pane. Brimson turned his head, gave a wave, which the other man returned.
“That’s Charlie,” he explained. “Going for a spin. Works as a banker, says he’d swap jobs with me tomorrow if it meant he could spend more time in the sky.”
“You rent out your planes, then?”
It took Brimson a moment to follow her question. “No, no,” he said at last. “Charlie has his own plane; he just keeps it here.”
“The airfield’s yours, though?”
Brimson nodded. “Inasmuch as I rent the actual ground from the airport. But, yes, all this is mine.” He opened his arms wide, offering another smile.
“And how long have you known Lee Herdman?”
The arms dropped, and the smile with them. “A good few years.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Pretty much since he moved here.”
“That would be six years, then?”
“If you say so.” He paused. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name…”
“Detective Sergeant Clarke. Were the two of you close?”
“Close?” Brimson shrugged. “Lee didn’t really let people get ‘close.’ I mean, he was friendly, liked meeting up, all that sort of thing…”
“But?”
Brimson frowned in concentration. “I was never really sure what was going on in here.” He tapped his head.
“What did you think when you heard about the shooting?”
He shrugged. “It was impossible to believe.”
“Did you know Herdman had a gun?”
“No.”
“He was interested in them, though.”
“That’s true… but he never showed me one.”
“Never talked about it?”
“Never.”
“So what did the two of you talk about?”
“Planes, boats, the service… I served seven years in the RAF.”
“As a pilot?”
Brimson shook his head. “Didn’t do much piloting back then. I was the electrics wizard, keeping the crates up in the air.” He leaned across the desk. “Have you ever flown?”
“Just holiday trips.”
He wrinkled his face. “I mean like Charlie there.” He hooked his thumb towards where a small plane was taxiing past the window, engines droning.
“I have enough trouble driving a car.”
“A plane’s easier, believe me.”
“So all those dials and switches are just for show?”
He laughed. “We could go right now, what do you say?”
“Mr. Brimson…”
“Doug.”
“Mr. Brimson, I don’t really have time for a flying lesson right now.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“I’ll think about it.” She couldn’t help smiling, thinking that a thousand feet above Edinburgh might be safe from Gill Templer.
“You’ll love it, that’s a promise.”
“We’ll see.”
“But you’ll be off duty, right? Which means you’ll be allowed to call me Doug?” He waited till she’d nodded. “And what will I be allowed to call you, Detective Sergeant Clarke?”
“Siobhan.”
“An Irish name?”
