‘Did you see the car involved in the accident… anything?
‘No, I’m sorry. All I saw was the man, Mr Lyon, lying in the street. I recognised him when I went out with the blankets.’
‘Had you heard anything before you became aware of your employer shouting?’
‘No. I’m really very sorry but I was busy putting away the supper things. I only heard her voice because… well, she was screaming, she sounded hysterical.’
‘Did you know Mr Lyon or Sheriff Freeman?’ Alice persisted.
‘No,’ the woman looked her inquisitor in the eye. ‘I didn’t know either of them. Mrs Nordquist does, so I have seen them both, on occasions, when they’ve visited here. I saw more of the Sheriff. The little I saw of them… well, I liked them. Mrs Nordquist was always very pleased to see either of them, and the Sheriff, you know, helped her a lot after her husband left her. And not just with the legal stuff; as a real friend, I mean. I think, and I may be speaking out of turn, but I think he was helping her to get off… well, the drink. She almost never touched the stuff in the old days. My life was a great deal easier then, when she was happy, I mean.’
‘Alice, love, I’ve left a little note on your desk,’ DI Manson said cheerily to her as she passed him on her way to the Ladies. The ill-suppressed glee in his voice forewarned her that its contents would not please her. Sure enough. It contained an instruction from the DCI that she now telephone all the garages round the edge of the capital; places like Musselburgh, Tranent, Penicuik, Portobello, Ratho and so on. Sheer unadulterated drudgery, probably given to her as a punishment for her unauthorised impersonation and, more damningly, the lack of remorse shown by her for it. At their meeting earlier that morning, Robin Bruce had impressed upon her his disappointment and disapproval of her conduct. And he had conveyed something altogether more sinister; that if the matter were to be taken no further she would, in some intangible way, be in his debt.
‘DS Rice, apart from anything else, scarce resources might well have been wasted in the search for Mr Lyon’s non-existent daughter.’
‘I know, Sir. I’m sorry, too, but I don’t think that’s very likely. Tracing the woman would have fallen to the murder squad, so I’d have heard about it and immediately explained that she didn’t exist.’
‘And if you hadn’t heard… because, say, you were out of the office attending to something or other?
Good point, she thought, but said only: ‘Well. As I say, Sir, I’m sorry. But Mr Lyon had nobody. I knew that he had nobody. And he was, obviously, dying. If I hadn’t pretended to be a member of the family the nurse would have kicked me out.’
‘Before you went to the hospital you didn’t know he was dying. What the hell were you doing there anyway?’
‘It sounded, from your report, as if he was close to death’s door. You said it was “likely to prove fatal” after all, and traffic was involved. I knew him a bit. I liked him. To be honest, I wanted to see him. It all happened in my own time.’
‘Well, we’re lucky that the Infirmary isn’t making more of a fuss about the whole thing. As far as I am concerned you can visit whomsoever the hell you like, in your own time, but do not, I repeat, DO NOT ever impersonate a relative like that again. Is that clear? This is a murder enquiry and you-you nearly sent us off on an expensive wild goose chase.’
‘Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.’
‘Oh, and Alice?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘For the moment, at least, this’ll go no further. Be our little secret, eh?’ And he winked conspiratorially.
And looking at the Yellow Pages she felt genuine penitence; ‘Boswell’s Garage’, ‘Butchart Motors’, ‘Chas’s Auto Repairs’, page after page of similar entries. But not for holding the man’s hand as he died. Jaded already, she picked up the receiver and dialled the first number.
‘Hello, is that Allanton’s Auto Services?’
‘Aha.’
‘This is DS Rice of Lothian and Borders Police. We need to know if any cars have been brought into your premises this morning, following an accident, for repairs. Or if you’ve had any phone calls asking if any such vehicles could be attended to in the near future?’
‘Eh?’ Apparent incomprehension.
‘This is the Police. Can you tell me, have you had any damaged cars brought in this morning for repairs?’
‘Eh? Damaged cars?’ Had she somehow lost the ability to speak English, she wondered.
‘Yes, damaged cars. Have any been brought into your garage this morning to be mended?’
‘I’ve nae idea. Derek! Derek! Come and speak, there’s a lassie on the phone…’
After three hours of non-stop calling, all she had to show for it was a black transit van in Loanhead, a motor bike in Ratho and a minibus in Port Seton, and none of them seemed likely candidates for the Moray Place accident. DI Manson rose from his chair, stretched and yawned and ambled over to her desk.
‘Alice, dear, I’ve just heard from the DCI that you are to prepare the press release for the witness appeal. It seems you’ve been on the phone for ages so he told me to tell you myself. Also, he wants you, for some reason, to draft something in case there’s to be another television appeal. He’ll do the appearance, obviously. Now, I’m just off for my tea. I could get you something only… I’m off to the pub after that. Oh yes, and you are to make arrangements for text messages in connection with the appeal. And… no, that’s it.’
Maybe the woman would be late, held up by a benevolent deity, Alice thought. But the ominous sound of the cleaning trolley, mop clanging against the bucket, confirmed the nuns’ claim that He moved in mysterious ways. Mrs McLaren pushed her chariot towards the bank of wastepaper baskets and began tipping the rubbish, untidily, into a black bin-bag. An organic, vinegary odour clung to her, occasionally masked by drifts of air-freshener or furniture polish, and as she propelled the cart onwards, using it as a makeshift Zimmer, wafts of her overpowering perfume were dispersed throughout the room. The job bored her; she was not one of nature’s domestics and her own home would not have borne inspection, too much of a busman’s holiday for her to flick a duster in any of its nooks or crannies. Lavatories alone provided her with job satisfaction; immaculate porcelain and glistening mirrors. So unlike offices, veritable death-traps of cables, usually attached to expensive machines.
‘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-e
xit, 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.
11
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.
‘So David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a stone, and smote the Philistine, and slew him; but there was no sword in the hand of David.’
The next speaker was a small man, dwarfed by the lectern, and his task in following the goddess was impossible. Dr Mungo MacGowan was a shy academic, intimidated in a cosy lecture theatre by his own students, and, somehow, he had to compete with an orator capable of changing peoples’ minds and rousing crowds. He licked his lips nervously and then made a hurried preamble before attempting to rely on modern technology. But his Powerpoint presentation ceased within seconds, ‘NO SIGNAL’ flashing ignominiously across the screen. Feverishly, he attempted to remedy the hitch, sweat glistening on his forehead, until, unable to do so, he abandoned his props and turned, once more, to face the crowd. To his evident surprise his ineptitude had not been met with boos or hisses, slow handclaps or heckling, and the essential goodwill of his onlookers appeared to revive him. Gradually, he began to get into his stride, speaking almost animatedly about the landscape surveys carried out throughout Scotland, the approach taken by the consultants charged with the task and the requirement for developers to take into account the topography of the chosen area. The piercing whine of feedback from the microphone startled him momentarily, but he soldiered on, soon rewarded by being reunited with his electronic assistant, a technician having fixed it in the interim. Eventually the Chairman gestured at his watch, indicating that Doctor MacGowan had overstayed his welcome, and, smiling delightedly, the little fellow gathered up his equipment and vacated the stage.
The final speaker, the Chairman announced, had been billed as David Stein QC, a lawyer familiar with the planning enquiry system. Unfortunately, a message had been received from him that he would be unable to attend, his car having broken down in South Queensferry. By great good fortune, however, a last minute substitute had been obtained: Mr Kevin Wylie, a well-kent local anti-wind farm activist. He had volunteered to fill the gap.
His appearance, the organisers later agreed, had been a mistake. He was, at b
est, a rabble-rouser, loud-voiced and passionate, but short on facts or any semblance of balance. His rant lasted for ten minutes; confused, repetitive and structureless. Seeing the audience beginning to fidget and shift in their seats with embarrassment, some whispering mutinously to their neighbours, the Chairman ended the unscheduled contribution prematurely, turning the lights on and relying on the need for a coffee break before starting the Question and Answer session.
Clutching a handful of leaflets, Alice left the Dalmellington stall and headed for its neighbour, a higgledy-piggledy group of tables under a banner proclaiming ‘Save The Ochils’. She scanned their photographic display, panning past Little Law and Mellock Hill and the other proposed wind farms, until she reached Scowling Crags. Another unspoiled area, with rolling hills fed by rushing burns and blessed with groves of ancient woodland. Pictures had been created showing the site with the threatened thirty turbines in place on it, and the scene had been transformed from one of quiet, pastoral beauty into a quasi-industrial landscape. Pinned up below the photomontages was a drawing showing the size of the turbine blades, each one equivalent to the wingspan of a Jumbo Jet.
‘Hello, Alice.’
She turned and saw the ruddy complexion of Prue MacGregor, her gruff hostess at the anti-wind farm meeting held near Stenton. Before Alice had time to respond the woman continued: ‘I knew your father wasn’t coming tonight, but no-one told me that you were. Perhaps you could relieve Mrs Sinclair at our stand unless you have something better to do.’
She was nothing if not direct.
‘I’m afraid I can’t this evening. I am here on Police business. But maybe you could help me. I was looking for…’ she fished in her pocket for the photocopy of the specimen italic handwriting, found it and held it under the nose of her interlocutor, ‘for the writer of this.’
Where The Shadow Falls Page 12