Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

‘This is Alice Rice’s answer phone. Please leave your message after the beep.’

On impulse she dashed across the room and picked up the receiver.

‘Hello.’ She sounded breathless.

From the more than momentary silence that followed she recognised the caller’s re-adjustment as he prepared himself to speak to a human being rather than a machine.

‘Alice, hi, it’s me. Ian. I thought you must be out.’

‘I’ve just got in.’ A whitish lie.

‘I was wondering if you’d be free tomorrow… tomorrow evening? Maybe join me on a walk? We could go to the beach at Tyninghame or somewhere. What d’you think?’

I would love to. I would really love to. ‘Mmm… that sounds fine. What sort of time were you thinking of?’ Without alcohol a measured, less-truthful response.

‘How about six thirty? I could pick you up in Broughton Place and we could have a meal afterwards, after the walk, I mean.’

Perfect.

‘Thanks, yes, that’d be great. See you then.’

He had called again. She had hoped that he would, but prepared herself in advance in case it was not going to happen. Now she could relax, luxuriate in the knowledge that he wanted to see her once more. He must feel a little, at least, of what she felt.

Eric Manson yawned, took off his jacket and slung it across the back of his chair. Then he rolled up his sleeves and wandered towards the nearest window, intending to open it. Straining loudly, he pushed upwards on the lower half but, despite the veins now pulsating in his neck, achieved not an inch of movement; it was glued fast with paint. All the other windows in the room proved equally resistant. He took a sip from his bottle of water, switched on the fan nearest to his desk and settled down to read his newspaper.

The voices of DCs Trotter and Drysdale could be heard, arguing loudly, as they clattered up the stairs, exchanging heated views in a medley of tenor voices. Davie McDonald followed close behind them, mouth full of bacon roll, unable to participate in their row. On entering the murder suite he made a beeline for the coffee flask, emitting a stream of curses on finding it empty. DCI Bruce glanced down at his watch. Three minutes to nine and only four out of the expected six had appeared. The absence of DC Lowe, he decided, should be viewed as a cause for celebration. The moron held everything up, needing instructions endlessly repeated or clarified, and the sooner he was returned to the uniform branch the better. Let the doctor put up with his vacuous prattle for a change.

‘Morning, Sir,’ DS Watt said cheerily, switching off Manson’s fan as he passed it and taking a seat beside the vacant chair usually favoured by Alice Rice.

‘Anyone actually seen Ms Rice yet?’ the Chief Inspector said testily.

‘Yup,’ Alistair Watt replied. ‘I saw her heading off towards the Ladies’, less than a minute ago,’ and before he had finished his sentence his friend swept through the door to find all eyes on her and DCI Bruce tapping his watch. She glanced at her own. Nine o’clock on the dot. A triumph, in itself, to arrive on time, given Miss Spinnell’s uncharacteristic garrulousness on Quill’s handover. With an effort she managed to smile at DCI Bruce.

‘Morning, Sir, just in time for your nine o’clock meeting.’

The Chief Inspector slid his buttocks off the desk and handed out to each of the members of the squad a copy of the most recent anonymous letter sent to James Freeman.

‘We need to find the writer of this,’ he said. ‘He or she’s now our best suspect. So I expect everyone to concentrate on it. Alistair, did you get a chance to check out the rest of the letters in the box?’

DS Watt nodded. ‘Yes, Sir. They’re all very similar in tone and content. Vague threats or pleas. But I didn’t see anything in them to provide us with any additional clues on the author’s identity. All that seems to emerge is that the writer doesn’t want the wind farm development to go ahead as it’ll “destroy” him and his family if it does. Presumably they must live somewhere near the site or, at the very least, have some interest or other near it which will be damaged if it gets the go-ahead.’

‘I’ve handed over the principals to the graphologist, Sir,’ DC Trotter interjected eagerly, ‘and they’re looking at them the now. They’ll let us know if any of them were written by a different individual. Forensics are going to check out the paper after that.’

‘Good. Now do any of you know anything about sodding wind farms or wind farm activists?’ the Chief Inspector asked.

‘I do, Sir,’ Alice replied. ‘I’ve learned a little about both from my father. He’s involved in a group. I think that there are a number of ways for us to find out who’s been putting pen to paper…’ she tailed off, conscious of a certain presumption.

‘Go on then,’ the DCI said encouragingly, ‘we’re all ears.’

‘Well, there’ll probably be a particular group who have banded together in their opposition to the Scowling Crags development. The group could be made up of just a few individuals or quite a sizeable number. They’re usually composed of those most immediately threatened…’

‘Threatened? How threatened?’ DI Manson demanded.

‘Threatened by a wind farm around their house or in close proximity to it or their business or whatever. They’ll organise themselves…’

‘Hang on, hang on,’ Eric Manson butted in again, ‘how the hell is anyone threatened by a wind farm! We’re talking about a murder here, right?’

Alice sighed. She had anticipated scepticism in some form.

‘It’s difficult to explain, Inspector, but I’ll do my best. I’ve seen it at first hand. A couple of weeks ago I went to a wind farm meeting-never mind why-and I can assure you that the protestors loathe not only the developers but also the landlords benefiting from the schemes. I’ve rarely witnessed such raw emotion on show in a supposedly civilised gathering. Some of the group could hardly contain themselves. If you’d seen it I don’t think you’d doubt that they feel threatened. They love the countryside. They don’t expect radical change to happen round about them…’

‘They’re just bloody nimbys then,’ the DI said.

‘Maybe. Anyway, well, I’m just trying to explain. OK?’

‘On you go, dear,’ Eric Manson said, as if in charge, unperturbed by the look of annoyance that passed over his superior’s face.

‘Even if they own very little land they consider that, in some sense, they also have a claim on the ground beyond. On their view. Ordinary agricultural work on it by the landowners is fine, expected, even welcomed. In any event…’ she paused, grappling for the right word, ‘understood. But the imposition of gargantuan machines with all the infrastructure required for their erection and maintenance… that’s something else altogether. The anti-wind farm protestors are passionate, truly passionate, in their belief that the desecration of the countryside, as they see it, is wrong. Morally wrong. Completely unjustified.’

‘As I said,’ Eric Manson cut in again, ‘sodding nimbys.’

‘Whatever. The only…’

‘All right, Alice. Speech over. Can you get on with telling us about the organisations?’ DCI Bruce enquired.

‘Of course, Sir. Sorry. I expect there’ll be a group of those immediately affected by the development. There usually is. Then there’ll be associated groups, friends of the area, walking associations, equestrians and so on and, finally, there’ll be the individuals, each acting completely independently. Usually, all of them, groups of whatever nature, individuals, shower the local Planning Authority with letters, emails, objections in a variety of forms…’