‘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-exit, 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.