by Tana Collins
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Right girl for the job, then. I’m aware it might be difficult after–’ Bingham coughed. ‘You know. But best get back in to the saddle. Think you can handle it?’
‘I can handle it.’
Bingham nodded. After he’d left the room Fletcher sighed in frustration. How typical that the minute they had their first breakthrough she was likely being sent on what would most probably be a wild goose chase. She grabbed her purse and headed to the canteen for a bar of chocolate.
Fletcher looked at her watch. She was early for her meeting with the Heatons. Parking up in a space three doors down from them she glanced up at the sky to see a chink of light between the grey clouds. Decided to chance it. She unbuckled her seatbelt and in one fluid movement got out of her car and shut the door. Throwing her coat on, she deftly fastened the buttons and turned up her collar. She started walking up the quiet, narrow lane outside the row of terraced Victorian homes on Cults Road that led to a footpath to the University of East of Scotland’s Braidwood Campus and the nature reserve.
As she passed the Pink Building she glanced up at the narrow prison-like windows and shuddered. In the distance she could see other university buildings dotted around the landscape – all similar Victorian-looking institutions and at odds with the character and architectural style of the Pink Building.
As she slipped through the gap in the old stone wall, her thoughts drifted to the old man’s violent death. He’d been killed with a single stab wound to the heart. There had been no defensive wounds on his body. The most likely scenario was that the victim knew his attacker. That way the perpetrator had got close enough to kill him before he had a chance to react and raise his hands and arms. Of course, they all knew that most murders weren’t random; that victims were most often killed by those closest to them. The fact Ruiridh Fraser had an estranged son made everything all the more interesting.
Fletcher sidestepped a puddle, glancing down at the boots she was wearing. So why did she intuitively feel that this case was going to be complicated? She stood opposite the tree where the body had been found. There was nothing to mark the spot where he had died except the fluttering yellow police tape. She frowned and blew her nose, wondering who or what had brought him out to this spot. And the most interesting thing, as far as she was concerned, was that there had been no attempt to bury the body. Why?
She scuffed the hard earth with her foot, smelling dirt and dead leaves. Despite a recent thaw, it would still take some effort to bury a body in woodland. In the dead of a Scottish winter. Ruiridh Fraser had been murdered on one of the coldest nights of the year so far. If the murder had been premeditated, the murderer would surely have brought a spade with him, or some digging implement. Or at least made an effort to cover the body in mulch and leaves. But if he’d wanted to keep it hidden, would he have even brought it to a nature reserve and walker’s paradise? It just didn’t make sense. Unless it wasn’t premeditated – or the murderer didn’t care about getting caught. She shook her head, perplexed and walked round the old oak tree with its gnarled branches. She breathed in the decay. Shivering, not just from the cold, she turned and swiftly headed back to conduct her interview.
‘We really don’t want her to go through this again. She’s already been questioned once.’
This from Eva’s father, a slim built man in his early thirties with round glasses and wavy shoulder-length chestnut hair. Fletcher was in the family’s big kitchen, one hand leaning on a large heavy built oak table, her other hand wrapped around a welcome cup of tea.
‘Is it OK if both myself and my wife sit in?’ Mr Heaton pushed his glasses back on to the bridge of his nose as he said it.
‘Of course, Mr Heaton. Look, I know this is really unpleasant for your daughter but I’ll be as gentle as possible. It’s surprising what somebody can remember a couple of days later, however insignificant it may seem.’
‘I take it you suspect foul play, otherwise why would you be back here? Was he local?’
The man had been stabbed to death, she thought. Of course it’s foul play. ‘Cellardyke.’
‘That’s a good few miles away.’ Eva’s father stood up. ‘OK, I’ll bring her in. She’s up in her bedroom.’
Fletcher took a seat and shifted some unopened post and coloured crayons so she would have somewhere to put her cup. Her eye caught a leaflet. The words on it jumped out at her.
‘Stop the developers ruining Braidwood!’
Fletcher frowned and picked it up. The door opened and Eva’s father came back in. He was alone.
‘Sorry. She’s being a bit difficult. Says she won’t come out of her room. Lesley, my wife, is with her. Can you just give them a few minutes?’
‘Of course.’ Fletcher held up the leaflet. ‘This looks interesting.’
He pulled up a chair opposite and sat down. ‘Yes, the Friends of Braidwood are really good at giving us regular updates.’
Fletcher raised an eyebrow. ‘Friends of Braidwood?’
‘Oh. I assumed you knew. Braidwood Campus has been sold to property developers. The Friends of Braidwood are a local campaigning group.’
Fletcher’s brows knit together. ‘Oh? I didn’t know the university had sold up? Anyway, I thought Braidwood was a nature reserve. Can it be bought by property developers?’
‘Apparently, developers are now deliberately targeting protected green space.’ Fletcher was all ears as Mr Heaton continued. ‘If they can get planning permission to build, they stand to make a fortune. You’ll have seen for yourself. Site’s stunning.’
Fletcher was curious now. ‘And if they get planning permission what do they want to do?’
‘Conversion of the existing buildings and a hell of a lot of new build right across the existing orchard.’
‘And I’m guessing that it’s the idea of new build that’s proving unpopular?’ said Fletcher. ‘Is there a lot of local opposition?’
‘Let’s just say opposition is gathering momentum. You should go to this evening’s meeting. In the church hall. Seven o’clock. It’s open to the public. Both the developers and the Friends will be there. Strength of feeling being what it is, I reckon half the local community will be there. Locals have got a lot of questions that need answering.’
‘I’m assuming one of them being how property developers were even allowed to purchase land from a university when it’s a nature reserve with no existing consent to build?’
‘Yes, although interestingly the university has now become part of the consortium.’
Fletcher was digesting all this. ‘So the university stands to get a kick-back?’
Fletcher turned the leaflet over but it was blank on the other side. Might be worth a visit. She could go, under the guise of appealing for information, but at the same time observe the loyalties, rivalries and jealousies that were part and parcel of a small community. She knew that there was a lot of money at stake in a proposed development and if developers had bought a nature reserve in a conservation area, then they meant business. But how had they got permission to buy the land in the first place? She was so absorbed in her thoughts she didn’t hear the door open as a frightened little girl entered the kitchen clutching her mother’s hand.
5
‘Jim, do you mind if we take a rain check on supper tonight?’
Looking up from his paperwork Carruthers frowned. ‘No, of course not, Andie. What’s up? You OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. I found out there’s a Braidwood Community Council meeting tonight.’ Fletcher filled him in. ‘To discuss the issue of the campus. It’s been sold to property developers.’
Carruthers picked up his coffee cup, realising it was empty, set it back down on his desk. ‘And I’m guessing that’s not a popular decision given the fact it’s a nature reserve.’
‘Got it in one.’ She showed him the flyer. ‘Thought it might be a good chance to talk to both groups and members of the community. See if anyone knew Fraser.’
H
is eyes scanned the flyer. ‘That’s an excellent idea. What time’s it start?’
‘Seven at the church hall, Braidwood Road.’
He gave her the flyer back. ‘You got time to go to the meeting? It’s six now.’
‘I’ll be fine. I’ll get something to eat after.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No. I can do this on my own.’
‘Well, it should be done by eight thirty latest. Come to mine afterwards. We’ll have a late supper together. That way you’ll be out of your flat all evening, if that’s what you want?’
‘Are you sure?’
Carruthers smiled. ‘Yeah, it’s fine. We can catch up on the case. Gives me a chance to do some paperwork first. See you the back of half-eight. If you’re gonna be later than that, just text.’
‘Thanks, Jim.’ Fletcher was touched by this little act of kindness and, not for the first time, thought what a great boyfriend her boss would make.
The hall was packed with people sitting on tight rows of plastic chairs. Fletcher managed to find a spare seat on the edge of the room and sat down. She was aware of people coming in behind her having to stand.
A silver-haired woman wearing cream blouse and brown tweed skirt stood up at the front of the hall and addressed the crowd.
‘As you know, this is no ordinary community council meeting. We’ll be having that next Tuesday instead, same time and place. Tonight we’re here to discuss the future of Braidwood Nature Reserve. I’m delighted to say we have both the developers and members of the campaigning group, the Friends of Braidwood with us. We would also like to welcome Detective Sergeant Andrea Fletcher from the Fife Constabulary. As you will no doubt be aware, a man was been found dead on the site in the last few days. Before we proceed, I would like to give DS Fletcher the opportunity to appeal for information about this suspicious death. I’m sure any information you may have will be dealt with in the strictest confidence.’
Fletcher stood up. She got through her speech and finished by giving out a phone number for anyone who had information on the deceased. It became apparent, from the silence that followed, that neither the developers nor the Friends knew Ruiridh Fraser. At least, if they did, they weren’t admitting it in public.
As she retook her seat she glanced at her watch. On schedule. She settled comfortably back in her chair and listened as the immaculately dressed developer stood up and pitted his charm against what she expected to be the passion of the local campaigning group.
He was introduced as Edward Buchanan, a slender, not unattractive man whom Fletcher judged to be in his late forties. He spoke as if he had a plum in his mouth. Fletcher couldn’t tell if he was English or very posh Edinburgh. He also exuded a natural charm and not a little arrogance. He outlined the ambitious plans he had for the site, detailing how the new build would pay for the sensitive conversion of the Grade A listed buildings in to luxury flats.
All of this sounded quite reasonable to Fletcher and she was starting to wonder what all the fuss was about when an attractive, dark-haired woman in her late thirties stood up and spoke.
‘I think we need to be very clear what you’re proposing here. Let me get this right,’ she said, brushing back a lock of unruly black hair which had fallen over her face. ‘You’re wanting to place eight new development sites on this land.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ The developer was smiling.
‘The whole site of Braidwood sits within a conservation area.’ The woman addressed her comments not to the chair but to the public. ‘The amount of new build proposed ignores all the planning protections on this site.’ She jabbed a finger towards the developer. ‘This is not a brown field site, nor is it detailed in the Fife Local Plan as an area proposed for building.’ There were murmurs from the audience.
‘Now look, Alison,’ said the chair standing up, ‘the Friends of Braidwood will get their chance to speak later. ‘Let Edward talk.’ She promptly sat down again with a flourish. The woman, Alison, remained standing.
‘We all know it is a heavily protected site,’ said the developer, his crocodile-like smile having evaporated. He took off his dark blue tailored jacket and hung it carefully on the back of his chair.
‘That’s just my point though,’ continued the dark-haired woman. ‘We wouldn’t know that by looking at your website. Nowhere on it do you mention the fact that it is protected green space.’ The developer was momentarily quiet. ‘Well, do you?’ the campaigner continued, completely ignoring the chair.
A sheen of perspiration was starting to appear on Edward Buchanan’s forehead. His cheeks flushed. At last he spoke. ‘Look, as I said, we all know that this land is heavily protected.’
‘Not from your website,’ the dark-haired woman continued. ‘In fact, from reading it we would think there was already planning permission to build on the site.’
‘There is.’
‘There is NOT!’ The woman was controlling her temper but it was obvious to Fletcher from the spontaneous cheers and claps from the crowd that feelings were running high and this feisty woman who was clearly the spokesperson for the Friends of Braidwood was stirring them up in to somewhat of a frenzy.
Fletcher noticed that every so often Buchanan would glance down at two men to his left. They were both smartly dressed, in suits. The man to his immediate left was clearly a body-builder, the shirt straining over his torso and pumped up arms. He looked menacing, even in a suit. Fletcher wondered if he was there for protection, should things turn nasty. She then reminded herself that this was a community council meeting in a wealthy part of Fife.
The second was a ferret of a man with shrew-like eyes. He was taking notes on a tablet. There was a shiftiness about him that Fletcher didn’t like. She was sure she recognised him from somewhere. He met her gaze and hastily looked away. She was convinced that he’d recognised her. She couldn’t place him and that frustrated her.
The dark-haired woman faced Edward Buchanan again. ‘What you are alluding to on your website is planning permission that expired in the mid-1990s.’
‘Well, I—’ he said.
‘That planning permission was overturned when this whole area was made a conservation site, with all its attendant protections. I have to tell you, I find your website very misleading. You don’t care about this land at all, despite what you say. For you, it’s all about making a profit. It’s greed, pure greed.’ The woman sat down to cheers.
‘Right, that’s enough,’ roared the chair. ‘The Friends of Braidwood will get your turn to speak. And you have had more than enough speaking time, Alison Stephens. Sit down. I want to hear from someone else who hasn’t spoken and who isn’t a member of the Friends.’
‘Let her speak,’ shouted a young woman from the back. ‘This is supposed to be a public meeting and the Friends are members of the public.’
The chair clicked her tongue in annoyance. Fletcher wondered if she’d been a schoolteacher.
‘Look, as I said, we all know there are numerous designations on this site,’ the developer continued, his smile fixed firmly back in place.
Like a jack-in-a-box Alison stood back up again. ‘Perhaps you would like to list them for us?’ she said with a sweet smile. Buchanan threw her a look of such hatred that Fletcher was starting to wonder whether her role would develop into a peacekeeping one. A UN hardhat would come in useful.
‘I have no problem talking about the protections.’ He reached out and poured himself a glass of water from the jug on the table in front of him. Fletcher wondered if this was a stalling technique.
‘We all know, for example, that this is a local nature conservation site. Do you not think I would rather keep this site as it is and just develop the listed buildings?’ At this Buchanan picked up his pointer pen and waved it at the overhead projection of the image of Braidwood on the wall behind him. ‘Of course I want to preserve the beauty of this very special site and we will; but sadly, financially, we also need to do some new build. It’s inevit
able, I’m afraid, and the only viable way forward.’ At this, Buchanan coquettishly turned his head to the side, in a manner that reminded Fletcher of the footage of Lady Diana when she talked about the failure of her marriage to Charles.
‘I mean, nobody wants to see the Grade A listed buildings fall into disrepair, which is what will happen if the new build is axed. Now.’ He paused. ‘Let’s move on, shall we?’ The developer lifted an eyebrow in a sardonic look. ‘Look, the new build takes only three per cent of the site and most of it is through scrub. Nobody can possibly have an issue with that. It’s of no use to anyone.’
‘I think you’ll find, if you actually bothered to read the Fife Local Plan,’ continued Alison, ‘that the scrub at Braidwood is valid in its own right as a natural habitat for some of the site’s protected species. You do know that there’s both bats and badgers on the land you bought, don’t you? Both of these are highly protected by law.’
Buchanan spoke to the woman as if he was talking to a rather bothersome five-year-old. ‘Of course, but rest assured we will be doing a full and impartial environmental impact assessment that will accompany our plan.’
The chair once more rose to her feet. ‘Now I have a question of my own. I would like to ask Edward about his financial justification for what some people here obviously see as excessive new build.’
‘Yes, certainly. What I will tell you is that full disclosure of the financial arguments will be available to the public in due course.’
‘When? When?’ shouted Alison. ‘We have been asking for them for a year. A year! I put it to you,’ her arms were flailing wildly, ‘that there is no financial justification.’ She almost spat the final word. ‘And that is why the figure hasn’t been disclosed.’ There were cheers and some individuals got to their feet during the applause.
‘Now, Alison, really, would you please sit down.’ said the Chair. ‘Can I have comments please from people who are not active members of the Friends of Braidwood.’