‘We need to find the writer of this,’ he said. ‘He or she’s now our best suspect. So I expect everyone to concentrate on it. Alistair, did you get a chance to check out the rest of the letters in the box?’
DS Watt nodded. ‘Yes, Sir. They’re all very similar in tone and content. Vague threats or pleas. But I didn’t see anything in them to provide us with any additional clues on the author’s identity. All that seems to emerge is that the writer doesn’t want the wind farm development to go ahead as it’ll “destroy” him and his family if it does. Presumably they must live somewhere near the site or, at the very least, have some interest or other near it which will be damaged if it gets the go-ahead.’
‘I’ve handed over the principals to the graphologist, Sir,’ DC Trotter interjected eagerly, ‘and they’re looking at them the now. They’ll let us know if any of them were written by a different individual. Forensics are going to check out the paper after that.’
‘Good. Now do any of you know anything about sodding wind farms or wind farm activists?’ the Chief Inspector asked.
‘I do, Sir,’ Alice replied. ‘I’ve learned a little about both from my father. He’s involved in a group. I think that there are a number of ways for us to find out who’s been putting pen to paper…’ she tailed off, conscious of a certain presumption.
‘Go on then,’ the DCI said encouragingly, ‘we’re all ears.’
‘Well, there’ll probably be a particular group who have banded together in their opposition to the Scowling Crags development. The group could be made up of just a few individuals or quite a sizeable number. They’re usually composed of those most immediately threatened…’
‘Threatened? How threatened?’ DI Manson demanded.
‘Threatened by a wind farm around their house or in close proximity to it or their business or whatever. They’ll organise themselves…’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ Eric Manson butted in again, ‘how the hell is anyone threatened by a wind farm! We’re talking about a murder here, right?’
Alice sighed. She had anticipated scepticism in some form.
‘It’s difficult to explain, Inspector, but I’ll do my best. I’ve seen it at first hand. A couple of weeks ago I went to a wind farm meeting-never mind why-and I can assure you that the protestors loathe not only the developers but also the landlords benefiting from the schemes. I’ve rarely witnessed such raw emotion on show in a supposedly civilised gathering. Some of the group could hardly contain themselves. If you’d seen it I don’t think you’d doubt that they feel threatened. They love the countryside. They don’t expect radical change to happen round about them…’
‘They’re just bloody nimbys then,’ the DI said.
‘Maybe. Anyway, well, I’m just trying to explain. OK?’
‘On you go, dear,’ Eric Manson said, as if in charge, unperturbed by the look of annoyance that passed over his superior’s face.
‘Even if they own very little land they consider that, in some sense, they also have a claim on the ground beyond. On their view. Ordinary agricultural work on it by the landowners is fine, expected, even welcomed. In any event…’ she paused, grappling for the right word, ‘understood. But the imposition of gargantuan machines with all the infrastructure required for their erection and maintenance… that’s something else altogether. The anti-wind farm protestors are passionate, truly passionate, in their belief that the desecration of the countryside, as they see it, is wrong. Morally wrong. Completely unjustified.’
‘As I said,’ Eric Manson cut in again, ‘sodding nimbys.’
‘Whatever. The only…’
‘All right, Alice. Speech over. Can you get on with telling us about the organisations?’ DCI Bruce enquired.
‘Of course, Sir. Sorry. I expect there’ll be a group of those immediately affected by the development. There usually is. Then there’ll be associated groups, friends of the area, walking associations, equestrians and so on and, finally, there’ll be the individuals, each acting completely independently. Usually, all of them, groups of whatever nature, individuals, shower the local Planning Authority with letters, emails, objections in a variety of forms…’
DCI Bruce interrupted again. ‘OK. Eric, I want you to contact the local Planning Office-Perth I suppose-and get a list from them of anyone who’s objected to the Scowling Crags wind farm application. And make sure and ask for any letters they’ve received, handwritten stuff particularly, and we’ll pass it on to the graphologist and forensics. You could pick it up while you’re at their offices.’
‘OK, Boss.’
‘Alice, how would you go about contacting the… er, local group?’
‘Sometimes they’ve a website. We could put “Scowling Crags” into Google and see what comes up. If we’ve no luck with that, then the easiest thing to do would be to go and visit someone living in the houses in the centre of the development or as close as possible to it. And James Freeman, Christopher Freeman too, both of them, are almost bound to have been supplied with copies of the information that the developers have to submit to the Council in support of their application. They could give us that information. I need to see Christopher Freeman anyway and I could collect the stuff from him. He may have been getting letters too.’
‘Yeh,’ the DCI agreed, ‘yeh, you do that. If the Sheriff’s been threatened it’s possible his brother’s been too. I want to know if he’s been getting the same shite through the post. Alistair, see what you can find on the computer, eh?’
The waiting room of McCowan, Cheyne & Little in Abercrombie Place was plush. Redolent of corporate wealth, landed private clients and a thriving trust department. Only Dundas Street separated it from Heriot Row, one of the most desirable addresses in the whole of the New Town, and its front windows overlooked Queen Street Gardens, providing a view of trees deep within the professional heart of the capital.
A grand portrait in oils of Torquil McCowan, WS, founder of the firm, stretched from the top of the mantelpiece to the ceiling and on either side of it were more modest portrayals of lesser men, recent senior partners meriting only depictions in crayon. Copies of Country Life, Homes & Gardens and Scottish Field were strewn artfully on the heavy oak sideboard, and none of the magazines was out of date. Nicholas Lyon perched on a hard upright chair by the door inspecting his still slightly grimy fingernails. He wished he was somewhere else, at home maybe, in the garden. There was plenty to do there. Both the black and the red currants needed pruning, the Cosmos daisy seedlings could be planted out to give them a good start and the henhouse was in need of a clean.
‘Would you like any coffee or tea, Mr Lyon?’
The enquiry from the elegant young receptionist, clad stylishly in a blue linen suit, returned him to the sedate waiting room and he declined, politely, wishing all the more fervently that he was somewhere else. This was James’ milieu, and he was impressed anew by the ease with which his partner had inhabited two such dissimilar worlds. One quintessentially urban and urbane and the other rural, simple and organic. No sooner had the young lady gone than she returned, addressing herself to him again.
‘Mr McKay can see you now, sir.’
As Nicholas Lyon loped through the door of the solicitor’s office he witnessed its occupant tossing a grape up into the air and then catching it, seal-fashion, in his mouth. Neil McKay, on seeing his visitor, immediately dropped the bag of grapes onto the floor and swallowed the morsel hastily as if to conceal his circus trick. Seeing the futility of this approach, he said sheepishly, ‘The grape diet, you know. Apparently, they’re almost entirely composed of water. I’ve had too many business lunches.’ And he patted his well-rounded belly fondly before gesturing towards a chair and muttering, ‘Take a pew.’