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 best, 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.’
A pair of spectacles was extracted from the grease-stained blue husky jacket, and Prue MacGregor peered at the proffered sheet, putting her face close to it as if nearness to the paper might force it to reveal its secrets. Whilst she was still engaged in her minute examination of it, mouth forming silent words, her mobile went off and she picked it up immediately.
‘No! No! We arranged it. I’m going to go to the Parliament. You deal with the newsletter this time. It’s too late to change everything around. Incidentally, I noticed that some bastard has been tampering with our signs, so that they now read “More Turbines on the Lammermuirs”. The initial No’s been painted over. Get Neil to sort that one out tomorrow.’
Having despatched her caller, she handed Alice’s sheet back to her.
‘Nope. Can’t help you… Ah, Joanna.’ Her attention shifted to the tall, elegant figure who was collecting a cup of coffee from a nearby table. The speaker joined them, and Alice saw that she was holding in her left hand the handwritten notes for her speech. They were heavily annotated and revised, all in a distinctive copper-plate hand. Quickly becoming aware that the two women wanted to talk exclusively to each other, she drifted back to the Ochil stall. Ten of the photos had captions below them, but each one had been printed using Arial font.