Where The Shadow Falls

by Gillian Galbraith

  The sheer passion evinced by the woman both appalled and enthralled Alice. There was nothing false or manufactured about it, she was speaking from the heart and all eyes were on her, silently supporting her, egging her on. But Ewan Potter, sensing that any vestigial control he had over the meeting was slipping away, said loudly: ‘Any further questions from anyone?’

  ‘Your reports-hydrogeology and so on-you say you’ve received them all now. Can we see copies of them? No reason not to share them with us, eh… in the spirit of consultation and all.’ It was a woman speaking, standing up to make sure she was heard.

  ‘Er… No… They’re only in draft form, unfinalised-so, no. Any other queries?’

  Alice watched as the members of the group exchanged glances as if to communicate to each other and to the two outsiders present their contempt for the proceedings. As they were doing so an old lady, sitting in the front row, eased herself to her feet.

  ‘Aye, I’ve yin.’

  Ewan Potter gestured with his hand for her to continue.

  ‘It’s aboot a’ the burds…’ she began, licking her lips nervously and twiddling her crooked thumbs as she spoke. She had faded brown eyes, the irises encircled by bluish rings, and although she was indoors, her head remained swaddled in a thick, woollen bonnet.

  ‘The eagles, ye ken…’

  Potter said, with pretended patience, as if to encourage her, ‘And what about… the eagles?’

  ‘Ye’ve nae mentioned thae burds in yer report, but they’ll be the yins tae git chopped up wi’ the giant blades. What’ll ye be daen aboot that? The buzzards an’ that I’m nae sae bothered aboot, there’s that many, but the eagles, noo, they’re special. An’ there’s only the fower o’ them…’

  ‘We’ve not mentioned the eagles, because there are no eagles,’ Potter replied trenchantly.

  ‘Says who?’ came back the startled response.

  ‘Says ECO-Co. They’ve had independent ornithological experts studying the site for two whole days and seen no eagles.’

  ‘Oh, twa hale days, eh…’ The old lady repeated sarcastically and then continued: ‘Twa hale days… a’ devoted tae the eagles?’

  Doctor Long answered, looking less assured than his superior.

  ‘Well, no, actually. Not two whole days for the eagles as such, but for the bird study in general.’

  ‘A’ the burds?’ The tone was incredulous.

  ‘All the birds, yes. The expert ornithologist we employed saw no signs of eagles or eagle activity in any form.’

  The old woman smiled mirthlessly before mimicking Long’s reply: ‘“No signs of eagles or eagle activity in any form”. Yon buggers must be blind, then! It’s a disgrace… you’re a’ a disgrace. I’ve stayed oan Gimmerfauld fer the past fifteen year, and I dinnae ken a’ the burds oan it yet. Yous breenge in for twa days an’ tell me that there’s nae eagles ’cause ECO-Co says so. If I’d nae heard it wi’ ma ain ears I’d nae hae believed it. Twa bloody days… that’s a’ it’s worth to yous. Ye’ll nae ken aboot the blackcock neither, I’ll be bound…’

  Doctor Long, chastened by the woman’s disdain, said, almost in a whisper: ‘ECO-Co say there are no black game present within the site boundary.’

  ‘ECO-Co say… ECO-Co say. They’re nae gods, ye ken! Well, tell ECO-Co that there’s a lek less than a quarter mile frae my ain hoose and I’ll show them ma’sel if need be.’ The old lady glared at Firstforce’s representatives and then, unexpectedly and as if she could no longer stand the sight of them, sank back into her chair and covered her eyes with her left hand.

  ‘About the community-fund…’

  The voice came from a bearded man leaning on a large mahogany sideboard. Before either of the company’s representatives had a chance to say anything, Sue Lamont hissed ‘Judas!’ and the fellow, now cowed, hurriedly made for the door.

  Ewan Potter looked at his audience, confrontational in his unblinking stare, and then gathered up his papers and crammed them into his briefcase. Without any further words to the group, he and Doctor Long began to converse in low voices before they took their leave of the drawing room, both walking at an exaggeratedly slow pace, as if concerned to conceal the urge to run.

  Alice looked at the old lady. Her blue-veined hand, tendons stretched beneath parchment skin, remained over her eyes, but it was trembling and a tear had escaped down the side of her bony nose.

  ‘They’ve gone now,’ Alice said.

  ‘I ken, but thanks anyway, dear. Ye’ll be Mr Rice’s daughter, eh? I seen ye in Prue’s kitchen, but I wis talking wi’ Rab. Ye’ll be the policewuman, eh? A sergeant, I’ve heard.’

  ‘That’s right, a detective sergeant with Lothian & Borders CID. I work at St Leonard’s Street in Edinburgh. You must be one of my parents’ neighbours. Whereabouts do you live?’

  ‘Aye, I’m a neighbour an’ a friend an’ a’. I stay in the wee white hoose at Crawfourdsden, ’ken on the other side o’ the toll road. Tell yer dad that Jessie wis asking aifter him, eh?’

  Thinking that she had now completed her duties, and still reeling from the pyrotechnic display she had witnessed, Alice made her way to the door, eager to return to her parents house and ostensible normality. Prue MacGregor, however, had other ideas, and herded her towards the kitchen where the hardliners within the group were congregating in the absence of their enemy, preparing to reconsider their strategy. In the middle of the kitchen table lay a pile of bound volumes produced by Firstforce, and on top of the heap rested a blue and white striped sugar bowl. Sue Lamont removed one of the books and began flicking through it.

  ‘Look at that! Their own ZVIs show that the turbines will be visible on the other side of the Forth. Let’s see… they’ll be seen practically the whole way up to Perth.’

  ‘Yes, yes, we know that, but the point is what are we going to do?’

  The accent was English, and the tone languid. Alice glanced towards the speaker, who had his back to the others, inspecting the fridge for milk. Having found it, the man sat down and continued. ‘We should have tried to nobble their mast, convince them that the wind “harvest” would be insufficient, but we didn’t. We should have complained to the Police about their trespassing on our ground to put up sound equipment, but we didn’t. We should have reported our Community Councillor for not agreeing to a special meeting, but we didn’t. All we do is talk and talk and talk, and so far, that’s got us nowhere.’

  ‘They stop motorways being built with direct action and, if necessary, I’ll take it,’ Sue Lamont said. ‘Make no mistake, I’ll lie down in front of the bulldozers, chain myself to their cranes…’

  ‘But by then the permission will have been granted,’ the man interjected impatiently. ‘We need to ensure that the council refuses the application. I suggest that we start liaising with other groups, the ones on Lochawe, Lewis, the Ochils, to find out how they’re tackling the problem. I heard yesterday that THH’s application at Muirness was turned down.’

  Conscientiously, Alice continued to record the views expressed in her notebook, hampered as before by ignorance of the names of most of the speakers, attempting to memorise their faces for later identification by her father. Dougal Thomson leant back in his chair, blew noisily on his coffee and grinned, revealing his broken teeth.

  ‘I’ve been busy on the computer getting stuff from Companies House. Firstforce are not a big company, in fact, they’re not even a Scottish company as they’ve been pretending. They’re just a collection of four individuals from Bradford, all with the surname of “Owen”, who have somehow allied themselves to an Italian conglomerate called “Grupposerck”. And, what’s more, their most recent balance sheet shows a loss of seventy thousand pounds. So all their talk of community funds and guarantees for the dismantling of the scheme after twenty-five years may mean very little indeed. Now, if that’s not ammunition I don’t know what is. I suggest that at our next meeting, in nine days, on the twenty-first of June, we compose a letter about them to our Councillor and get h
im to raise it with the planners.’

  Alexander Rice gazed at the photographs in the album on his knee. His wife, Olivia, smiling and holding aloft their new baby, Alice, with their elder daughter, Helen, standing, bemused, beside her. His eyes rested on his wife’s beloved red hair, wild curls encircling her face as if it was haloed by flame. The awful realisation that her wonderful mane, now more white than auburn, would all fall out, brought the tears back and he quickly turned over the page. A single black and white image confronted him. Olivia, still in her wedding dress, laughing, neck outstretched, as he, in full morning suit, genuflected on one knee before her, re-enacting his proposal of marriage. A photograph out of sequence, unexpected, and for which he had not prepared himself. He let out a low moan of sorrow, embarrassed himself by his own reaction and gulped down another swig of the raw whisky from the bottle by his side. The album had been selected to provide him with comfort, but he slammed its covers together, disappointed that it had proved itself to be a catalyst for grief rather than any source of help.

  On her return Alice found her father on his own, ostensibly tranquil and composed, reading the newspaper. She noticed immediately the glass with the empty quarter of Strathfillan beside it. Not his whisky, a brand given to him and usually, in turn, quickly given away. Something was undoubtedly amiss.

  ‘Dad-please tell me, I know there’s something wrong.’

  Without replying he patted the seat of the armchair beside his own, gesturing for her to sit next to him. As soon as she was seated, his arm reached across for his drink, slumping back onto his knee when he realised that the bottle had already been drained of all comfort.

  ‘Please, Dad, tell me what’s wrong,’ she said again, as seconds passed and he remained silent.

  ‘All right…’ he began slowly. ‘It’s about your mother, I’m afraid. She was at the Murrayfield this afternoon seeing a specialist and… well, she’s got breast cancer. That’s why I needed, to be frank, to get you out of the house. So that we could discuss it, alone, together. The hospital finally confirmed it today. On Wednesday they plan to take the lump out, and then she’ll have chemotherapy…’

  His voice tailed off, tears now pouring down his face, eyes tight shut in desperation, oblivious to everything except his all-encompassing grief. Instinctively, Alice put her arms around his neck, but his undisguised distress frightened her as if, as in her childhood, he knew something that she did not; that the battle with the disease was already lost, and any remaining hope futile.

  Half an hour later, having attempted to console her father with such reassurance as she could muster, she climbed the stairs to her parents’ bedroom and peered through the doorway of the dimly-lit room. She felt the need to be near her mother for a little while, even if she had already fallen asleep, and was completely unaware of her presence.

  ‘Alice?’ It was her mother’s voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come in, darling.’

  2

  Skimming through a report on the probable time of death, Alice gagged on her egg roll.

  ‘Blowflies had already laid their eggs in a white fluid in the mouth and rectum… maggots, together with a few pupa, were found in the bi-lateral avulsion injuries on the lower limbs.’

  She returned the document quickly to its file and made her way to the ladies. The female toilets in St Leonard’s Street Police Station were kept scrupulously clean, the air permanently scented by noxious floral sprays that hissed conspiratorially every so often as they discharged their asphyxiating perfume. She dried her hands on the starched blue roller towel while scrutinising her reflection in the mirror. Looking back at her, and equally unsmiling, was a tall, dark-haired woman with hazel eyes and a wide mouth. Suddenly, the tongue shot out at her, only to be as hastily retracted as the sound of flushing became audible from an adjacent cubicle. She departed before her colleague had unlocked the door.

  On returning to her office, DCI Elaine Bell looked wistfully around it. Her few personal possessions, no more than a mug, brown with caffeine, and a faded photograph of her twin nieces, were safely in the carrier bag. She wandered over to the window to gaze onto the crescent of Salisbury Crags, their reddish rock now bathed in late afternoon sunshine. A view unequalled in the town, peaceful, providing balm to her troubled soul. From nowhere the ache in her shoulder joints returned, and she retrieved from her desk drawer the last two painkilling tablets, conscious that they now provided no more than the hope of relief rather than relief itself. Five weeks rest, at home, might help shift the ME, the doctor had said, and rather to her surprise her husband had encouraged her to take the time off. Maybe he still cared. However, dread was the principal emotion she felt on contemplating such a period of leisure, all alone, and to be spent in their spotless, modern house in the new estate at Cammo, surrounded by complacent housewives. It sounded like an eternity. Without the adrenalin, the excitement of her work, all those old, unwelcome preoccupations might return to unsettle her. The sound of children’s laughter in the street, and on the television, advertisement after advertisement for nappies or baby food, somehow reviving hopeless dreams.

  She should never have agreed to see that occupational health quack; after all, she had coped, managed to thole the pains for long enough. And then, to cap it all, she’d had no say whatsoever in the selection of her temporary replacement. If the Chief Constable knew half as much about DCI Robin Bruce as she did, Bruce would have remained in charge of his disgruntled troops at Torphichen Place. In her younger days she had suffered a bruised buttock or two at his hands. The man had been a compulsive bottom-pincher with no desire to be cured. Maybe nowadays the climate of political correctness or, more likely, fear of the law, would have wrought some change in his behaviour. On reflection, perhaps her buttocks were no longer tempting, insufficiently pert. This unpleasant train of thought was derailed by a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Alice entered the office, carrying a cup of coffee.

  ‘Gather you’re off sick for a month or so, Ma’am. We were all wondering… well, d’you know who’ll be in charge, while you’re away, I mean? The rumour is that it’s to be Moira Longman…’

  ‘Over my dead body! Nope, they’ve roped in DCI Robin Bruce. I was at Tulliallan with him, so I’ve known him for years. He’s been at Torphichen forever, so I should think he’ll relish a change of scene. But he’d better not get too comfy in my chair, because I’ll be back before he can bloody blink.’

  The brightest star in the firmament of the New Town is Moray Place, a 12-sided circus composed of pedimented and columned mansion facades joined by simpler, plainer houses. It has a grandeur unparalleled in Georgian Edinburgh, or anywhere else in the city, and yet, within the small and intimate capital, it has not become a haven for commercial corporations or sleek partnerships, keen to display to the world their endless wealth, but remains a home for the cream of the middle-classes and their offspring. Most of them now have to make do with flats, but the privileged few, the elect, inhabit intact, undivided dwellings.

  When DCI Bruce received news of a murder at such a location he felt, instantly, a frisson of elation. A dead body within such august portals was unlikely to be that of a vagrant, a death of no more than passing interest to the few, a loss likely to remain unrecorded even in The Big Issue. No, the corpse would probably be that of some High Court judge, brewing magnate or elderly neurosurgeon, in any of whom the journalistic profession would have a lively interest. Reputations were to be made where those gentlepeople were found. Elaine Bell would surely have fought tooth and nail to stay if she had but known, and lo, it had fallen into his lap! And this could be the one; the one to revive his flagging career and remind all and sundry of his undoubted talents.

  The names of those in his squad, the murder squad, were now public knowledge. Please God, he thought, some competent individuals for this choice task, capable of exposing the truth without frightening the horses. Detective Sergeants Alice Rice and Alistair Watt, thei
r names were familiar as a result of the Mair killings; DI Eric Manson, another known name, although this time from the golf course; and DCs Trotter, Lowe, Drysdale and McDonald, unknown quantities all, were to complete the team. An arbitrary selection of individuals to be beaten into shape as quickly as possible. His much delayed promotion might depend upon it. Catching the killer, too.

  The interior of the house at Moray Place was as elegant as its exterior, but the building had been furnished by its occupant in an idiosyncratic manner and the atmosphere was reminiscent of a museum rather than a domestic dwelling. Huge portraits, in gilded frames, hung at regular intervals above a stair balustrade that curved ever upwards, most of them depicting military men in red tunics helmeted in Glengarries, Balmorals or Feather Bonnets. Adorning many of the door lintels were bellicose arrangements of crossed swords. On entering the drawing room two yellow glass eyes in a ram’s head, severed and stuffed and sitting incongruously on a ‘D’ end table, caught the light and were, in turn, reflected in the glass of the display cabinets. Inside the cabinets were brightly coloured ribbons, medals and orders, each with an ivory label proclaiming the recipient and the campaign. Mementos from the sacking of Tibet, the Boxer Rebellion and the Indian Mutiny were on show, with prayer wheels, Buddhas, and an elephant god huddled side by side in a mahogany corner cupboard. Framed swatches of weathered tartan hung on either side of an Edwardian mantlepiece, and above it, in pride of place, another portrait, a full-length likeness of an ancestor in the 79th Cameron Highlanders in full Highland dress, resplendent with basket-hilted sword and sgian dhu. A few dog-eared rugs overlaid the sanded boards, and the sofas and armchairs were covered in plain blue covers, stained and patched. It was a man’s room, unashamedly so, completely devoid of flowers, porcelain ornaments, cushions or the other touches which tell of a female hand.

  The photographers and fingerprint officers busy in it, although used to working in most environments, seemed subdued, almost reverential, attending to their business in near silence and without the usual cracks and guffaws that kept them sane. And the chatter that usually accompanied the Procurator Fiscal wherever she went was absent, replaced by a tuneless rendition of ‘John Brown’s Body’, hummed under her breath.