Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

Peals of laughter erupted from the floor, mingled with the hum of excited whispers. To his credit, Ewan Potter did not take advantage of the crowd’s brief distraction to slink off the platform, but stayed, waiting for the noise to die down, and then replied: ‘No, not Lawsmoor. But my view that such a location would be unsuitable simply means, Miss Lamont, that either we are all nimbies, every single one of us, you included, or that there, genuinely, is nowhere appropriate within this land… even though it is blessed with an outstanding potential wind harvest. So we’ll all just let planet Earth burn, shall we?’

So saying he strode off the stage, facing his onlookers, leaving them still digesting his response. Discreetly, Alice collected a few fallen chips from beneath her chair, added them to her fish supper packaging and joined the throng making for one of the exits. Stuck in a queue, she passed the time examining the stand closest to her, one devoted to the prevention of the Devonbridge Development. All the usual props were present on it and a middle-aged man was busy packing up the exhibits in cardboard boxes and polythene bags. A blown-up photo of the sun setting behind the summit of a hill caught her eye, and she looked at the simple caption below it: ‘Sunset on Devonhill’.

And, immediately, she recognised the handwriting. Extricating herself from the shuffling line of people, she worked her way to the stand and managed to catch its keeper’s attention. Busy dismantling the exhibition, the fellow appeared exasperated by her late show of interest.

‘Look, if you are needing postcards, or whatever, for the Council, you’ll find them on the way out, OK? I’ve put all of mine away. They cover all the sites, including Devonhill.’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘I’ve got as many as I can use, thanks. Could you help me with just one thing, though, can you tell me who wrote the caption beneath the photo?’

‘You mean “Sunset on Devonhill”?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Yes, it’s my cousin, Colin. Colin Norris. Why do you ask?’

‘I’m from Lothian & Borders Police, and we may need his help. Can I borrow it?’

‘The photo?’

‘The caption. Just for a few days, if that’s all right with you. Where does your cousin live?’ ‘He stays in a wee cottage, up from the farmhouse at Blackstone Mains. In Kinross-shire, by the Scowling Crags boundary, if you know what I mean.’

‘Thanks. I know what you mean.’

Sound travelled unhindered in the open-plan room, and any sneeze, burp or hiccup coming from a member of the squad was heard by all. Consequently, very few private telephone conversations took place within it, and everyone knew everyone else’s business. Whispering or a lowered voice alerted all to the possibility of a confidential exchange, and the listeners then re-doubled their efforts to make out what was said. If it had to do with the investigation they wanted to know, and if it did not, then, sadly, they discovered that fact too late.

When a young, solidly-built woman entered the murder suite, most of its occupants registered her entry, together with the fact that she was striding, purposefully, in Eric Manson’s direction. Her quarry was sitting with his feet up on his desk, nose flattened against his newspaper, chewing loudly on a sausage roll. His entire attention was being bestowed on a half-naked model, and he let out a gasp of admiration on reading her vital statistics. A sharp rapping on the front of his paper made him drop his shield but his face lit up immediately on recognising his visitor. As he stood up to greet her, arms extended for a hug, she sat down on the chair beside his own. Unable to disguise his disappointment with the rebuff, he followed her lead and, now seated, went to kiss her cheek. She accepted his offering as her due, something to be endured, but made no move to bestow any peck herself.

‘It’s about my mum,’ the woman began coldly.

‘Let’s leave that for now, eh, darlin’?’ Eric Manson replied, glancing around the room as if to alert her to their uninvited audience. ‘Tell me, how have you been getting on at uni, eh? You fixed up with a flat yet?’

‘No, we’ll not leave it, Dad. We’ll talk about it now. She’s back on the pills again and she needn’t be. If you just spent more… well, if you were ever there…’

‘I’ve a job to do, Kath, remember?’ he interrupted her, his tone conciliatory.

‘Yes, and so’s she. Every day she goes to that crappy surgery, answering abusive phone calls, fending off drunken patients and the like and then she has to return home to an empty house…’

‘It’s not always empty!’

‘Nearly always,’ Kathryn Manson corrected him. ‘And you spend a fair bit of your time in the pub, Dad, and she knows it. Think about it. She gave you a second chance, took you ba-’

‘Ssshhh… Kath, as I said, not here, eh, love?’ He looked at her plaintively and then nodded in the direction of Detective Sergeant Watt. The Sergeant was staring intently at his computer screen, occasionally typing a key at random, spellbound by the little domestic drama unfolding beside him.

‘Where, though, Dad? You don’t usually listen to me, but you know what? I think I’ve got ALL your attention right now. So let’s get on with it. My mum gave you a second chance, God alone knows why, and you’re throwing it back in her face. She thinks you’re seeing that cow from the papers again. Are you?’

‘Kath… Kath, for Pete’s sake. This is my office…’ Eric Manson begged.

‘So, are you?’ She was relentless.

The Detective Inspector suddenly stood up, but seeing that his daughter remained seated where she was, he sank slowly down again, looking at her, pleading silently with her for the conversation to end, but she returned his looks, stony-faced.

‘Well?’

‘Yes-no… I’m not sleeping with her…’ he sounded desperate and then, anger mounting, his voice changed. ‘It’s my bloody business. Not yours!’

Kathryn Manson, however, was not easily intimidated. She had a mission, and was determined to accomplish it. He had raised the volume of their argument, so she would simply do the same.

‘It is my business, Dad. Because it hurts my mum. She only came back because you promised to lay off that woman,’ she shouted.

‘And I have… I am, for fuck’s sake!’ Eric Manson raged in return.

At that very second DCI Robin Bruce walked into the murder suite with the Assistant Chief Constable, Laurence Body, in tow. Body, quick to sense the tension in the room, instantly marched over to the time-line to inspect it, leaving his Chief Inspector glaring at the antagonists. Kathryn Manson, dignity intact, rose to leave, but as she did so she bent towards her father’s ear and hissed, sotto voce but still audible to all, ‘You’d better have, Dad. Or I’ll be back. Back here, I mean.’

Alice knew as soon as they arrived at the Astra that the journey à deux to the Scowling Crags site would be an ordeal. Manson, fury still bubbling, slammed the driver’s door so hard that the wing mirror came loose. They then exited the pound, tyres burning as if in hot pursuit of a gang of international thieves, before rattling over the cobbles, heedless of comfort or safety. Every red light was treated as a personal slight, obeyed with ill-grace, accelerator depressed, roaring, for a racing start. On finding himself unexpectedly ensnared in a queue at Blackhall, he thumped the steering wheel loudly with both hands before, on impulse, screeching into the bus lane in an attempt to evade the jam. Discovering that he was now trapped between two stationary double-deckers he swore, while jinking out straight into the path of an on-coming heavy goods vehicle. Alice, eyes tight shut, cursed Kathryn Manson and her domestic concerns. Thanks to continuing discord within that dysfunctional household she would soon be deprived of her life, or limbs at the very least. With the Forth Road Bridge in sight, the Detective Inspector swivelled his neck from left to right, attempting to work out which stream of cars was moving fastest through the booths. A rapid swerve to the left and they were in the chosen lane, having missed, by inches, a collision with a red Mercedes and a motor cycle. Rigid with fear and flattening imaginary brakes with her feet, Alice smiled weakly at the motor cyclist, fist now raised at her, snarling, and signalling her responsibility for his near-death encounter.