‘Nope. It’s Councillor Garth you need to speak to, and you can forget the Community Council, they’re hopeless. I’m afraid I’ve got someone here so I must go. Bye.’
So saying the man took the phone off the hook and they both, momentarily, enjoyed the silence before Alice attempted to re-start the interview.
‘It’s about the Scowling Crags wind farm, Mr Kersley. You seem to be part of the group, quite possibly its leader judging by the stuff your study’s now filled with, and all those telephone enquiries…’
‘I am, for my sins. Absolutely,’ he replied. ‘I’ve a house within the proposed development, Wester Broadhill, and I’d planned retiring there. But the place will be ruined if the developers get their way. How can I help you, Sergeant?’
‘First of all, can I ask you where you were on Monday 12th June between, say, seven pm and ten pm?’
‘Easy. I was here, preparing for the next day. I’m a solicitor. I had a complicated fatal accident enquiry in Glasgow Sheriff Court, all about a suicide in a mental hospital. I had to work on it until about two am to try and master some of the more arcane stuff about staff rotas and so on.’
‘Was there anyone here with you?’
‘Aha. My wife, Angela. She can confirm it for you if you want. She’ll remember all right, because we had a blazing row that night as we were supposed to be having dinner with friends and I said I couldn’t go. Caused some unbelievable fireworks.’
‘Those lists on the wall, the Councillors and so on. Is that your handwriting?’
The man looked bemused. ‘Yes. It’s mine.’
Alice handed over a sheet bearing examples of the anonymous letter writer’s script.
‘Can you tell me, do you recognise that writing, Mr Kersley?’
The man examined the paper carefully before handing it back.
‘No. It’s very distinctive. Artistic looking. Why?’
Alice ignored the question. ‘Would it be possible for you to give me a list of all the people in your group?’
‘No problem. Anything else you need?’
‘Thank you. Do you know who the landlords are, I mean those allowing Vertenergy to put up the turbines on their land?’
‘Yes, of course. I tried, personally, to persuade some of them not to go ahead. Let me see… they’re mainly absentees, of course. Well, there’s Tony Theobold, Kenneth Winston and the retired Sheriff, James Freeman. The dead one. Is that why you’re here?’ A look of anxiety passed across his face.
‘Was Sheriff Freeman one of the ones you met with?’
‘So that’s what this is all about. I see,’ he smiled weakly. ‘My leg’s been in plaster for over six weeks, Sergeant, so I couldn’t have killed him even if I had wanted to. And I didn’t, by the way. Either want to. Or kill him. Yes, I met with James Freeman at the cottage. It must have been months and months ago. Spring, I think. The daffodils were certainly still out. He was polite, as you’d expect, but obstinate. He lectured me about clean, renewable energy, although, to be fair, he did listen to my counter-arguments. It was all very civilised.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but are there any members of your group who feel particularly passionate about the development, stopping it, I mean?’
‘I wouldn’t know where to begin. They all, I repeat, all, hate it. Really hate it! Would any of them kill someone to stop it? I don’t know. No-one sane for sure. But why don’t you come and see for yourself? There’s to be a big meeting in Perth Town Hall, four days hence, on Sunday 9th July. There’s no admission charge and virtually all of us plan to attend. There’s supposed to be groups from all over the country.’
‘Will Joanna Hart be there?’
‘I’d be surprised if she wasn’t. She’s one of the speakers.’
The PM programme was just starting on the radio, so time was plentiful. She turned on the cold tap with her big toe, reducing the temperature of the water until it was just above tepid. The air in her flat, like that in the street outside, was warm. It would dry her without the need for a towel. Resting on the bath was her glass of white wine, all but empty, and she drained its dregs, relishing the taste on her tongue. While so thoroughly relaxed she should, she thought, plan what to wear. If they were going for a walk by the sea then her black jeans would do and, maybe, her red tee-shirt. No, she would have to think again. That tee-shirt was still in the wash, and with it her second favourite top, a light-blue short sleeved blouse.
Eddie Mair’s voice, interviewing the latest Secretary of State for Defence about the campaign against the Taliban in Afghanistan, re-directed her thoughts away from clothes and back onto an old and well-worn track. Women had been oppressed in that country for years and years, and no-one in the West had given a stuff. Scant bloody Radio Four coverage of their suffering then. Now thoroughly annoyed, she rose from her bath and stomped off to her room to dress.
At six-thirty on the dot the doorbell rang, and the tall form of Ian Melville, slightly out of breath from running up the tenement stairs, stood before her. ‘Let’s go to the Dean Cemetery and have a look around it, eh?’
Not what she had planned. ‘OK. I’ve certainly never been. Have your got your car?’
‘No,’ he looked slightly uneasy, ‘the exhaust’s fallen off, but I thought, perhaps, we could walk there? I’m really sorry. Quill could come on the lead.’
Again, not what she had planned. ‘That‘ll be fine. But do you mind deciding on our route? I’ll follow happily, but I’ve had enough decision-making today.’
As they emerged onto Broughton Place the tinny, discordant chimes of an ice cream van could be heard on the windless air. The sun was high in the sky, and on the pavement, in places, the tar seemed sticky. They strolled down the hill towards Canonmills, intending to use the Water of Leith Walkway as a route across the city. A thin mist hung above the turbid waters of the river, making its characteristic scent more pungent and, in the dense shade of the overhanging trees, the atmosphere was unexpectedly dank and humid. Quill, eager to run, strained on the lead as if an invisible hare was half a metre in front of his nose, and by the time they reached the Colonies, Alice’s arm ached. Half of Stockbridge seemed to have decided to promenade along the river that evening, and the couple strolled together, hand in hand, amongst the others, occasionally lurching unpredictably to the left or right, following Quill’s whim like puppets.
They arrived at a discreet back-entrance to the cemetery, having left the river at Bells Mills, retraced their steps up Belford Road and crossed the grounds of the Dean Gallery. A ‘No Dogs’ sign immediately confronted them. Alice tied Quill’s lead to a tree and tried to ignore his piteous yelps, as he railed against the division of his pack and, in particular, her desertion of him. As they entered the consecrated ground, a massive, pink granite pyramid stood on their right, a strange cave hollowed out of one side, making the structure imperfect and profoundly pagan. Still holding hands they meandered past memorials, grand and grander, until, on reaching the apotheosis of grandeur, Buchanan’s Monument, they watched in amazement as a pair of grey squirrels frolicked all over it, using it as a gymnasium, unabashed by the disapproving chorus set up by the magpie residents in the canopy above.
Having torn themselves away from the display, the couple came across a tall sculpture and stopped, rapt by its eccentric charm, the delight of each enhanced by the presence of the other. The base of the piece was composed of winged lions supporting a pedestal with rams’ heads on it and they, in turn, supported spindly pelicans.
As they examined it the Dean Bell tolled mournfully and, as if on cue, a few raindrops began to fall, rapidly followed by a heavier downpour. Dropping Ian’s hand, Alice raced off towards the pyramid, tearing breathlessly past deceased lawyers, engineers and architects, and on reaching it crouched down in the hollowed-out section. Within seconds he had joined her, and Quill, sensing their closeness, began howling afresh. And in the grounds of the Necropolis, surrounded by the remains of the great and the good, they kissed.