An electronic alarm bell rang informing the audience that the Question and Answer session was about to begin. Alice resumed her original seat, noting that her neighbours on either side had disappeared, and then, disconcertingly, she spied both of them at different locations. The session proceeded much as she had expected. Sympathetic enquiries were directed at the speakers and sympathetic answers bounced back. The converted were preaching to the converted, reassuring each other with every exchange. Only at the very end did any sense of theatre materialise. The Chairman, relaxed and jocular, a glass of whisky in his hand, enquired benignly if there were any developers present and, if so, did they wish to contribute to the evening. The hall fell unusually silent as its occupants looked around, craning their necks to see if any of the enemy was present. After a short interval, a single hand was raised and the Chairman, surprise unconcealed, invited this Daniel to address the lions.
It was Ewan Potter of Firstforce, and spurning the putting of his question from the floor, he edged himself to the end of his row, strode to the stage and, more importantly, the microphone. Standing behind it he looked at the stunned audience, defiant and unbowed.
‘Yes, Mister Chairman, I have a question. We’ve heard, tonight, all the myriad reasons why there shouldn’t be wind farms in, as far as I can make out, any part of Scotland including the islands. So, what I’d like to know is…’ he waited for a few seconds, his sense of timing perfect, ‘where exactly in this country should the land-based wind farms be sited, bearing in mind global warming, government policy and so on?’
At first, his query was met with an anxious silence, until his old adversary, Sue Lamont, stood up and faced him.
‘How about, Mr Potter…’ she began, voice a little shaky, ‘how about fifteen turbines, maybe more in the second stage, at Lawsmoor-you know, by Lanark. There’s a good wind harvest there, eh? Little birdlife, willing landlords, no peat… it’s got everything. All the prerequisites are met there. How about Lawsmoor?’
Ewan Potter’s expression changed as he digested her words. Seconds before it had beamed a sort of aggressive self-satisfaction as if he had checkmated an army of opponents. Now his brow furrowed, uncertain of her next move but wary all the same. The man made no attempt to answer, and aware of her advantage Sue Lamont continued: ‘I understand that there’s an application in for Lawsmoor, not your company, of course, but one of your bigger rivals. And you know what, Mr Potter… well, I heard that-well, that you live there, and…’ she waited-he was not the only one who could work a crowd-‘that you are one of the objectors to it. In fact, that you started up the “Lawsmoor Protection Group”. Would that be right, now? So, how about there? Would you choose that place?’
Peals of laughter erupted from the floor, mingled with the hum of excited whispers. To his credit, Ewan Potter did not take advantage of the crowd’s brief distraction to slink off the platform, but stayed, waiting for the noise to die down, and then replied: ‘No, not Lawsmoor. But my view that such a location would be unsuitable simply means, Miss Lamont, that either we are all nimbies, every single one of us, you included, or that there, genuinely, is nowhere appropriate within this land… even though it is blessed with an outstanding potential wind harvest. So we’ll all just let planet Earth burn, shall we?’
So saying he strode off the stage, facing his onlookers, leaving them still digesting his response. Discreetly, Alice collected a few fallen chips from beneath her chair, added them to her fish supper packaging and joined the throng making for one of the exits. Stuck in a queue, she passed the time examining the stand closest to her, one devoted to the prevention of the Devonbridge Development. All the usual props were present on it and a middle-aged man was busy packing up the exhibits in cardboard boxes and polythene bags. A blown-up photo of the sun setting behind the summit of a hill caught her eye, and she looked at the simple caption below it: ‘Sunset on Devonhill’.
And, immediately, she recognised the handwriting. Extricating herself from the shuffling line of people, she worked her way to the stand and managed to catch its keeper’s attention. Busy dismantling the exhibition, the fellow appeared exasperated by her late show of interest.
‘Look, if you are needing postcards, or whatever, for the Council, you’ll find them on the way out, OK? I’ve put all of mine away. They cover all the sites, including Devonhill.’
‘No,’ she replied, ‘I’ve got as many as I can use, thanks. Could you help me with just one thing, though, can you tell me who wrote the caption beneath the photo?’
‘You mean “Sunset on Devonhill”?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Yes, it’s my cousin, Colin. Colin Norris. Why do you ask?’
‘I’m from Lothian & Borders Police, and we may need his help. Can I borrow it?’
‘The photo?’
‘The caption. Just for a few days, if that’s all right with you. Where does your cousin live?’ ‘He stays in a wee cottage, up from the farmhouse at Blackstone Mains. In Kinross-shire, by the Scowling Crags boundary, if you know what I mean.’
‘Thanks. I know what you mean.’
12
Sound travelled unhindered in the open-plan room, and any sneeze, burp or hiccup coming from a member of the squad was heard by all. Consequently, very few private telephone conversations took place within it, and everyone knew everyone else’s business. Whispering or a lowered voice alerted all to the possibility of a confidential exchange, and the listeners then re-doubled their efforts to make out what was said. If it had to do with the investigation they wanted to know, and if it did not, then, sadly, they discovered that fact too late.
When a young, solidly-built woman entered the murder suite, most of its occupants registered her entry, together with the fact that she was striding, purposefully, in Eric Manson’s direction. Her quarry was sitting with his feet up on his desk, nose flattened against his newspaper, chewing loudly on a sausage roll. His entire attention was being bestowed on a half-naked model, and he let out a gasp of admiration on reading her vital statistics. A sharp rapping on the front of his paper made him drop his shield but his face lit up immediately on recognising his visitor. As he stood up to greet her, arms extended for a hug, she sat down on the chair beside his own. Unable to disguise his disappointment with the rebuff, he followed her lead and, now seated, went to kiss her cheek. She accepted his offering as her due, something to be endured, but made no move to bestow any peck herself.
‘It’s about my mum,’ the woman began coldly.
‘Let’s leave that for now, eh, darlin’?’ Eric Manson replied, glancing around the room as if to alert her to their uninvited audience. ‘Tell me, how have you been getting on at uni, eh? You fixed up with a flat yet?’
‘No, we’ll not leave it, Dad. We’ll talk about it now. She’s back on the pills again and she needn’t be. If you just spent more… well, if you were ever there…’
‘I’ve a job to do, Kath, remember?’ he interrupted her, his tone conciliatory.
‘Yes, and so’s she. Every day she goes to that crappy surgery, answering abusive phone calls, fending off drunken patients and the like and then she has to return home to an empty house…’
‘It’s not always empty!’
‘Nearly always,’ Kathryn Manson corrected him. ‘And you spend a fair bit of your time in the pub, Dad, and she knows it. Think about it. She gave you a second chance, took you ba-’
‘Ssshhh… Kath, as I said, not here, eh, love?’ He looked at her plaintively and then nodded in the direction of Detective Sergeant Watt. The Sergeant was staring intently at his computer screen, occasionally typing a key at random, spellbound by the little domestic drama unfolding beside him.