Free A Dead Liberty by Catherine Aird Page B

promising chiaroscuro of light and shade through the glass and even at a distance the flowers of one or two exotic plants. Now that the two policemen were in the sitting room, he had a better view of it still through the glass doors which led into the conservatory. Roses were his own favourite plant but he was prepared to be broadminded about the enthusiasms of other gardeners.
    â€œWe feel so helpless,” chimed in Mrs. Bolsover. “There doesn’t seem to be anything that we can do.”
    Sloan agreed that inaction was always difficult.
    â€œWhat with her father being abroad and everything,” said Phyllis Bolsover.
    â€œHe’d only just gone overseas,” amplified Ronald Bolsover, “before all this happened.”
    â€œBill had wanted to go earlier,” said the woman, “but he couldn’t get away because of the tunnel opening ceremony. He left straight away afterwards.”
    Sloan nodded his understanding. At the end of every civil-engineering construction someone cut a ribbon. It was no less a ritual in its way than the performing of a tribal dance. He wondered how the new town in Africa would celebrate its completion.
    â€œThe Minister of Transport himself,” explained Bolsover with modest pride, “came down to perform the ceremony. There’s a plaque.”
    â€œI think I remember some photographs in the newspaper,” began Sloan.
    A shadow crossed Bolsover’s face. “It was a pity about the demonstration,” he said.
    â€œHappens all the time,” said the police inspector philosophically.
    â€œIt was the Action Against Marby Group,” said Ronald Bolsover. “They’ve been against the nuclear waste plant there right from the beginning and saw their chance to get some extra publicity.”
    â€œWhich they did,” said Phyllis Bolsover astringently. She was a rather faded woman with neat features and must have been quite pretty once.
    â€œThey managed to get a banner right over the tunnel mouth,” said Bolsover. “Lowered it just as the Minister arrived. Far too late for us to do anything about it.” He winced at the recollection. “It said MARBY CAN SERIOUSLY DAMAGE YOUR HEALTH .”
    â€œYou could hardly see the entrance,” said Mrs. Bolsover. “It was a shame.”
    â€œI’m afraid that’s true, Inspector,” agreed Ronald Bolsover. “It was most unfortunate from a publicity point of view. All that the press wanted to do was to focus on the activists.”
    Sloan agreed that publicity could sometimes misfire badly.
    â€œMisfire!” exploded the deputy chairman. “I’ll say it misfired. The reporters weren’t interested in either the Minister or the tunnel. They practically ignored our press handout and concentrated on the Marby lot instead.”
    â€œMrs. Othen,” contributed Phyllis Bolsover, “said that her husband was most upset too. I was standing next to her.”
    â€œEric Othen,” explained Bolsover unnecessarily, “is the County Surveyor.”
    Sloan nodded. The name of Eric Othen was on all the paperwork from County Hall that concerned the constabulary and the road network of the county of Calleshire, and was thus well known to all policemen.
    â€œAnd I’m not surprised that Othen was upset,” continued Bolsover. “I’ve never heard such a load of nonsense as the Action Group gave the reporter. Melissa Wainwright—that’s their leader—went on at him for ages. What she knows about how a nuclear waste plant functions would go on a sixpence. The fool lapped it up, too, and the next day it was all in the papers. They hardly mentioned the tunnel.”
    â€œDisappointing for you, sir,” said Sloan. The Calleshire County Constabulary didn’t have an official view on Nuclear Waste Disposal Plants: only on demonstrations for or against them. It was sometimes too subtle a distinction for the