Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

‘Did James know anyone called Georgie, a bookseller… a second-hand bookseller up past the Bridges?’ she asked, tentatively.

‘No. Nor did I.’

‘Did he ever go to a pub, the Boar’s Head, on Salamander Street, Leith?’

‘I wouldn’t think so, he didn’t really like pubs any more, couldn’t hear in them. I don’t think so. Why do you ask?’ he looked genuinely puzzled.

‘Nothing. We have to follow up everything, however unlikely it may be. I wondered,’ she continued, keen to change the subject, ‘whether you’d had any thoughts, you know, if you knew of anyone that might wish James harm?’

Her companion sighed, and then asked ruefully, ‘In life, you mean?’

‘In life, yes.’

‘I have thought about it. And I’m not sure that I’m much further on, but perhaps you can be the judge of that. I found these…’ He handed over a cardboard box containing a number of sheets of paper. ‘I knew about them, of course. James told me about the letters but I’d never actually seen them before. I wish I had, then I could have shared the worry better, but I had no idea that they were so, well… threatening. James made light of them; he said a lunatic had begun a one-sided correspondence with him and would, likely in his own time, bring it to an end. Maybe he was protecting me. He knew how I hated dissension, hostility of any kind.’

Alice lifted a single piece of paper from the box and read:

‘I hope you die in hell, you selfish bastard. Thanks to your greed, my life will be ruined. You don’t even need the money. You have no excuse. You don’t live there so you don’t care. You, and the rest of them, will pollute everything. Can you imagine that? No-one will want to come. Stop it or else I’ll stop you.’

The words were written in green biro ink in an elaborate italic hand, and some of them, ‘selfish’, ‘greed’ and ‘ruined’, were underlined heavily twice. Although the content of the message was intimidating, its appearance was artistic, oddly beautiful. She removed another letter in the same hand, this time in red biro ink.

‘Stop it, bastard. You can stop it still. It’s your land. You have the access strip. I know who you are and I know where you live. If you go ahead you will destroy me and my family. It’s only money, for Christ’s sake! End the whole thing or I will put a stop to you.’

The paper was cheap, lined and textured as if recycled. The other messages were in similar vein, sometimes pleading, sometimes threatening, always desperate in tone.

‘Have you any idea who sent these, who wrote them?’

‘No, I don’t, and James didn’t either. You can see, they’re all anonymous. He hadn’t a clue who the author was.’

Alice nodded. ‘But what about their content? Do you know what they’re about? What exactly was James proposing to do that the writer wanted to stop?’

Nicholas Lyon blinked rapidly before he began to speak.

‘I think-well, we knew-that it was to do with Blackstone Mains. It’s a farm that James and his brother owned jointly. Christopher persuaded James to offer it to one of those renewable companies, Vertenergy, to put up turbines on it. All the land’s tenanted at the moment. It’s to be part of a gargantuan wind farm on the Ochils. I think there are to be thirty turbines or thereabouts. Massive things too, maybe one hundred and twenty metres high. The wind farm’s to be called “Scowling Crags”. The company’s still seeking planning permission from the Council, a decision on it’s not due until the end of September.’

‘Are any of the letters dated?’

‘No. But the last one was received, maybe, a week before James died. They were always addressed here, in James’s name, and he’d open them and tell me that it was just another crank missive.’

‘And you’ve no idea who sends them?’

‘Sorry. As I said, I don’t think James knew either, but, you see, he never took them seriously. So obviously I didn’t… and I’m kicking myself now. He said he’d come across this kind of thing in his job, he believed that the type of person who writes them never actually does anything more. He or she gets it out of their system on paper and then that’s it. James said they were usually sad, inadequate creatures, capable only of venting their spleen with words.’

‘What does it mean, “the access strip”?’

‘I think, though I’m not sure, that Blackstone was the access strip. A ransom strip, actually. For the whole development I mean. Blackstone’s on the main road, and none of the farmers round about it were prepared to allow their land to be used by the company. The ones at the back, on the hill, were really keen and that’s where the wind is anyway, but the developers needed land downhill, with access to the road, if the scheme was to go ahead. The Mains, Blackstone, provided access for the whole site and without that land, then it couldn’t go ahead. I was never for it in the first place, the wind farm, I mean, and I told James that too.’

‘Why? Why were you against it?’

‘Well, if you really want to know, because they’re ugly, inefficient things and the equation only comes out in credit if no value whatsoever is placed on beauty, the beauty of unspoilt scenery I mean. The answer isn’t to generate more, it’s to use less. We used to argue about it sometimes. Actually, I think I’d almost succeeded in persuading James. Maybe even the letters played a part. All I know is that he was less enthusiastic about the whole venture than he had been. I suppose Christopher will just go on with it though.’

‘I’ll need to take the letters if that’s all right, Mr Lyon?’

‘Nicholas. Please. I thought you’d want them. Take them in the box. I racked my brain after the conversation with the inspector and I couldn’t think of anything, anyone who’d want to harm James. And then, really by chance, I’ve found these things. Reading them chilled me, I can tell you. They were in one of his desk drawers together with something that I think must be his will. It’s addressed to his lawyers and I’m seeing them tomorrow.’

Alice walked quickly to the Astra, keen to avoid the attention of the Press who, like vultures, had spotted her and were now closing in, flapping towards the car. No sooner had she slammed the door shut than a rosy-cheeked young man pulled it open, suggesting, with a charming grin, that she might like to speak to him. Before she had time to answer, another figure insinuated himself into the same space to demand information about the Sheriff’s lover. Within seconds three more reporters had bent down, thrusting their heads towards her, each shouting, trying to outdo the others. A loud knocking had become audible on the driver’s side window, and she turned her head, briefly, to see DI Manson’s crony smiling seductively at her and gesturing at her notebook, apparently expecting a favour or some sort of preferential treatment.

Alice closed her eyes and breathed out. The creatures must be dealt with, although in their merciless pursuit of an old, heart-sick man, they had all but lost her sympathy. No. Like burying beetles, they had a place in the scheme of things. So, she must not indulge herself and give way to the overwhelming urge rising within her to shout expletives, put her foot down on the accelerator and shower them all with gravel. Temporarily calmed, she gazed at the woman and then, slowly and purposefully, drove off, watching in her rear view mirror as the reporter’s smile faded into her habitual scowl.

Another button missing but it could wait, the last one at the bottom of the blouse. No more than usual would be revealed. She folded it up, put it on the pile and began to iron a sheet, lost in Corelli’s Concerto Grossi and enjoying the clean scent of washing powder rising from the heated fabric. Was it Concerto No. 4 or No. 7? A repetitive clicking sound signalled grime on the disc, and she left the ironing board to go and wipe the CD. The telephone rang and she knew, intuitively, that it would be Ian Melville. The answer machine was on. Maybe she would listen to his voice, see what he wanted and then, if she chose and could pluck up the courage, return the call. Her recorded speech on the tape sounded unnatural, like some low-voiced stranger.