A group of detectives from Newcastle had been drafted to help and they milled around the Incident Room until Ramsay sent them off to Brinkbonnie to begin the house-to-house enquiry.
Hunter arrived at work elated and energetic after his night in Newcastle, wanting action, immediate results.
“Did you see the Elliots last night?” Ramsay asked.
Hunter nodded.
“Anything?”
“Not much. They weren’t very communicative.” I bet you weren’t either, Ramsay thought. You’d want to get the interview finished as soon as possible so you’d be in Newcastle before your date walked out on you.
“Did Charlie Elliot tell you he’d been to the pub?” Ramsay asked.
“Yes.” If Hunter was impressed by Ramsay’s knowledge, he did not show it.
“What time was he home?”
“About eleven. His father confirmed it.”
“How did he strike you?” Ramsay asked. “Apparently he’s been making a nuisance of himself with Maggie Kerr, the barmaid in the Castle. They were engaged when they were teenagers and he never got over it. Did he seem unbalanced to you?”
“Not unbalanced,” Hunter said. “Moody perhaps.”
“Well,” Ramsay said, “ if he was home by eleven, he can’t have murdered Mrs. Parry. She was still in the Castle then. She definitely left Henshaw’s and went straight to the pub. The barmaid said she was upset, but Henshaw won’t admit that there was any unpleasantness. Perhaps you could make some enquiries in the village. Find out all you can about him. He drives a Rover. See if anyone saw it late Saturday night.”
“Are you coming to Brinkbonnie?”
“Later. I’ve an appointment with the council’s planning officer. I want to find out about these houses.”
Despite Hunter’s scepticism he was convinced that Henshaw’s development had in some way triggered the series of events that had resulted in Alice Parry’s death. Henshaw’s version of the confrontation with Alice Parry was false. Something had happened to distress her, and almost immediately after she had died. The man’s lying must be significant.
The council offices were in a shabby building that always reminded Ramsay of a large working-men’s club. The planning officer was a small, solid man with a thin grey moustache. He had Henshaw’s plans laid out on his desk.
“I don’t understand the planning procedure,” Ramsay said. “ It might be relevant in this case. Perhaps you could explain.”
“Mr. Henshaw made his original application for Brinkbonnie late last summer,” the officer said. He had a brisk, clipped voice and spoke with the formality of a man used to local politics. “Previously the land had been of marginal agricultural use-occasionally leased to a local farmer for grazing cattle. After being purchased by Mr. Henshaw, I believe that arrangement stopped. The council felt that the plans were inappropriate for a village of Brinkbonnie’s size and refused permission to build.”
“Was there a lot of publicity at that time?”
“Not a great deal. We put a notice in the local paper and received several objections, but no-one seriously believed the development would be approved.”
“Would a smaller scheme have been more favourably received?”
“I can’t speak for the council, of course, but yes, I would have thought so.”
“What happened then?”
“The developer, Mr. Henshaw, appealed to the Department of the Environment’s inspector. The case was heard at the beginning of February.”
“And the result of the appeal came through last week?”
“Yes. I received the inspector’s report on Monday.”
“And he found in Mr. Henshaw’s favour?”
The planning officer sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. The inspector does seem to be taking a less restrictive view of planning rules now. And there is a move to release less valuable agricultural land for building.”
“So what was the point of the Brinkbonnie residents holding their protest meeting on Saturday afternoon? Surely the planning procedure had been exhausted.”
“No,” the planning officer said sadly. “ Not quite. There really is very little likelihood that the inspector’s decision could be overturned at this point, but there is a faint possibility. I don’t think the council would want to take the action any further because of the cost, but if there was sufficient public pressure, I suppose they might feel they had to make the gesture. I’d advise them against it, but they don’t always take my advice.”
“And what action could the council take?”
“They could appeal to the high court.”
“And could Henshaw proceed with the building while the appeal was being heard?”
“Oh, no!” The officer seemed almost offended at the notion. “ It would mean another delay.”
“What would it take to persuade the council to appeal to the high court?” Ramsay asked.
The officer shrugged. “A widespread press campaign. A number of well-attended meetings, a petition, noise, demonstrations.” He gave a little smile. “ There are county council elections in May,” he said. “I think the councillors would be prepared to listen.”
“How long have the villagers got to persuade the council to appeal?”
“A month,” the officer said. “ They have until the end of the month.”
“I don’t understand,” Ramsay said, “why there wasn’t more fuss when the plans were originally proposed.”
“Well I believe there was some confusion in the community about the exact nature of the development. And, of course, there are people who don’t bother to read the planning notices in the local paper.”
“Is Henshaw involved in other developments in the county?”
“Oh, yes,” the officer said. “There have been half a dozen applications in the past two years.”
“Have most of them been successful?”
“Yes,” the officer said. “ I believe five out of six were allowed. The most recently completed was at Wytham.”
“Henshaw built those, did he?”
Ramsay drove through Wytham on his way from Heppleburn to Otterbridge and had seen the buildings grow. The estate was surrounded by a stone wall with pillars, which made him think of a decorative prison. Each house had a mock-Victorian conservatory. They had seemed to him ridiculously expensive, but all had been sold.
“Is that sort of success rate usual?” he asked.
The officer paused. “ There may have been a couple of surprising decisions,” he said, “but Henshaw is very clever, you know. His developments are relatively small and not designed to upset existing communities, so it’s hard for objectors to get the level of support they need.”
“You never suspected corruption?” Ramsay asked. “ Henshaw doesn’t have any special friends on the planning committee?”
“Oh, no,” the officer said. “ There’s never been any question of that sort of dishonesty.”
But Ramsay would have believed anything of Henshaw, and the planning officer was a loyal civil servant. He would hardly pass on rumours of fraud. Ramsay needed other, less partial information.
The council offices were stuffy, overheated, with waves of warm air from the open doors into the corridor where Ramsay was walking, and he reached the street with relief. Outside it was still cold and grey. There had been an inch of snow overnight and in the market square people stood in groups and talked about the weather. He collected his car from the police station, then was stuck for twenty minutes in crawling traffic.
When at last he was out of the town, he drove first not to Brinkbonnie but to Heppleburn. When he had worked on an enquiry in Heppleburn he had met Jack Robson, a county councillor, and it occurred to him now that Jack might be willing to help with information about Henshaw. Jack would have no affection for land speculators and Ramsay was convinced of his integrity.