Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

‘No’ still here are ye, pet?’ she said conversationally, smiling warmly at Alice’s presence. But her prey was wary, unwilling to engage in conversation, knowing only too well where it would lead, and nervous of participating in their well-rehearsed dance, having suffered bruised feet too often.

‘I am indeed,’ Alice responded, trying to sound cheery, ebullient enough to deflect any further probing.

‘Still no man then, eh?’

There had been no preamble this time; none of the customary circling around the subject; the pretence that anything else about the Sergeant was of any interest. The woman’s touch was sure, as ever; she had managed to destroy, bring crashing to the ground, her listener’s self-esteem, although minutes before it had been fine, high even. Alice immediately found herself wondering how to describe Ian Melville. She could say pertly, ‘No, I have a boyfriend now,’ only it sounded defensive, oddly undignified too, as if they were the stuff of teen magazines. But to say, ‘No, I have a lover now’ seemed over-explicit, an unnecessary whiff of carnality, the hollow boast of a desperate exhibitionist. Seconds passed like minutes as she perfected her chosen reply, all the while mocking herself for doing so.

‘I have, thanks.’

Nicely judged, she thought, before castigating herself again for wasting time on the semantics of an unwelcome exchange. The door banged open and DCI Bruce rolled in, eyes slightly glazed, bumping the edge of a desk before reaching his target. Alice.

‘S’at woman not finished yet?’

He gestured wildly at the cleaner who, over-sensitive to the hint, gathered her tools together and departed, shaking her head at the man and mouthing, mid-exit, a single word. ‘Fu’.’ And it was true, the inspector had been drinking; drinking to celebrate the end of the day’s work, drinking to celebrate his birthday, and drinking most of all to forget the lack of progress in his case. Companions had come and gone, few occupying the nearby bar-stool for any length of time. He sat down heavily on his subordinate’s desk and looked at her, saying nothing, gazing into her eyes. His face was only a few inches from hers. Had his gait or unnerving proximity not given away his intoxicated state, his beery breath would have, but he was neither aggressive nor threatening.

‘Alice… Alice… Alice… you-you of all people should not be working late.’

Nor would I be but for your sodding orders, she thought bitterly, but said, soothingly, ‘Nearly finished, Sir,’ while logging out and collecting her keys and purse from a drawer. Then she bent down to pick up her bag from the floor and, simultaneously, he reached over to touch her hair, but finding no resistance, toppled downwards, eventually smiling up at her from her own lap. Gingerly, as if handling an unpredictable beast, she lifted his head up, until, equilibrium temporarily restored, he was able to right himself. Before he had a chance to lunge at her again, she sprang out of her chair, and made a dash for the door. Heels clacking down the stairs, she sped away angry, irritable enough to spit at her own shadow.

‘He’s nae worth it, hen, trust me!’ shouted Mrs McLaren, sweeping the steps and innocently salting the wound.

All around Perth City Hall a crowd was gathering, growing from minute to minute as yet more latecomers arrived from each of the four points of the compass. And still the doors remained locked. Faded tweeds rubbed shoulders with tracksuits, and cardigans with crop tops, everyone good-natured, patient, united against a common foe. At seven o’clock exactly the bells of the nearby Kirk sounded, and as their peals died away the assembled mass were, finally, allowed into the dingy public building.

The back third of the hall had been reserved for exhibitions by the participating groups, and the chosen centrepieces favoured by most of them were displays illustrating the immense size of the second generation structures proposed by the more rapacious developers. Pathetically inept scale-models had been constructed, usually juxtaposing pylons and turbines, and in the comparison the pylons looked comfortingly familiar, outdated and gothic beside their vast, streamlined, sky-hugging neighbours. Protesters from all over the country had furnished their stalls with the same things, the essential armaments in the battle against the might of the big companies: petitions to be signed by any sympathetic passer-by, and pro-forma postcards containing objections to the granting of planning permission, every card ready stamped and addressed. Everywhere there were photographs of the targeted wind farm sites, showing idyllic sylvan glades, peaceful lochside retreats and heather-clad hills. Each one a beloved tract of countryside, free from mankind’s recent depredations and their accompanying detritus. In stark contrast were the images of the ‘farms’ in the course of construction, with Somme-like fields of mud, roads gouged through acres of felled trees, raw gashes left by drainage ditches and the unsightly pock marks created by borrow pits. Three of the Perthshire groups had executed wildlife surveys highlighting the creatures imperilled by the schemes. Endearing posters of pine martens, otters, badgers, red squirrel and hare were lined up beneath a banner stating ‘Protect Tayside’s Biodiversity’.

And everywhere ordinary, but desperate people steeled themselves to accost passers-by to persuade them to sign anything and everything if they showed the slightest flicker of interest.

At seven-thirty on the dot the lights dimmed and the Chairman opened the meeting with an introductory speech. Alice crept into a seat near the back and stealthily unwrapped her bundle of fish and chips. Extracting a piece of haddock in batter, she endeavoured to eat it silently, conscious that the woman on her left was grimacing, showing her displeasure at the aroma now rising from her newspaper-covered lap.

Joanna Hart took the podium to resounding applause. She appeared entirely self-possessed despite being the centre of attention, and some of the reasons for her sublime confidence were immediately apparent to all. The woman was black, statuesque and blessed with heavenly good looks. If that dusty platform in the small northern city had been a catwalk in Paris she would have ornamented it. She stood erect, hands placed lightly on either side of the lectern, and silently surveyed the hall and the multitude within it. Only when the clapping had ceased completely did she begin to speak, and then in measured tones. No over-hasty delivery, stammering or stuttering for her, rather the performance of a virtuoso, revelling in her mastery of her subject and the known sympathy of those to whom her speech was addressed. It was dry stuff: International Policy on Climate Change, National Planning Policy, Guidelines, Advice Notes and the Regional Wind Energy Policies. But delivered by her, the abstruse became clear, interesting even, and the dullest texts acquired some sort of spurious excitement.

Next she turned her attention to the approach taken by the developers: their disregard or token regard for the planning system and the ruses they deployed in order to ‘play’ it. Seamlessly, this merged into an analysis of the fortunes to be won by developers and landlords in the rush for wind. Rents in excess of thirteen thousand pounds per annum for each turbine, and ground, barren, windswept wild land, transformed in value from a few hundred pounds per acre to hundreds of thousands of pounds per acre, simply by the addition of planning permission for the turbines. It was, she explained, a bonanza. The massive subsidies payable by the government meant that the costs involved in submitting planning applications, appealing decisions and obtaining representation at public enquiries were as nothing compared to the size of the prize at the end. She finished on a popular note, contrasting the bottomless pockets of the development companies with the meagre funds scraped together by the little bands of protesters, and then she reminded her now enchanted audience that David had triumphed over Goliath.