"Good. What have you found out about them?"
"That they have three proposed locations for the siting of the switching station. The preferred one, plus the second, is on Daniel Crowe's land. There is a third choice, but as I understand it, it isn't one they want to use if at all possible, but I don't know why. I thought it might be worth speaking to them directly, just to weigh up how much of a problem Beckett has been. If they don't see obtaining planning consent being an issue, then Crowe doesn't really have a motive."
Tom ran his tongue along the edge of his lower lip. Eric had a good point. Alternatively, should the company be facing having to relocate construction to a different site, one not owned by Crowe, then more weight might be put behind Crowe as a suspect.
"Call ahead. Make us an appointment to see whoever is in charge."
"We have one at nine-thirty," Eric said, smiling. "Liam Hansell, the company's liaison locally, is expecting us."
An almost inaudible beep sounded and the receptionist picked up the phone in front of her, glancing across at Tom and Eric as she spoke. They were sitting in a waiting area adjacent to the front office. The place had the feel of a pop-up establishment. Hastily erected panelled walls, melamine coated judging by the sheen and reflection they offered, were softened by large planters, containing four-foot high bamboo or fern-like foliage, carefully positioned in the spaces. The sofas they were sitting on were fake leather, made to resemble the ever-fashionable range of seating designed by Mies van der Rohe, but Tom figured they came from a popular Scandinavian furniture store at a fraction of the cost.
The receptionist rose from behind her desk, Tom and Eric doing likewise. Their appointment was scheduled for fifteen minutes earlier and they'd been ten minutes early for that.
"Mr Hansell will see you now," she said, gesturing towards the stairs. The office was located in a converted warehouse a stone's throw from the old quay at the centre of Wells. It was a shared space, utilised by a number of firms, but none of them was particularly large. Tom found himself wondering when, and not if, this building would be converted into apartments like so many similar local ones from the era had been.
They made their way upstairs to the next level, greeted upon reaching the top by a tall, slender man who shot them a welcoming smile. He was in his late forties, slightly taller than Tom himself, which was unusual. He lacked Tom's bulk though, being quite gangly in the arms and legs. He offered his hand, Tom took it. The shake wasn't firm and he didn't meet Tom's eye as they made contact. Instead, he looked at Eric, nodding a greeting as Tom introduced them.
"Come through, please," Hansell said, turning and leading them into his office.
The room had a similar feel to the downstairs. It was spartanly furnished with a single desk, chair and a couple of filing cabinets pushed against one wall.
"What can I do for Norfolk's finest?" Hansell said, a broad smile on his face as he sat forward in his chair, resting his forearms on the desk in front of him. Tom found it difficult to place his accent. It had a London or Thames Valley twang to it, but at the same time the intonation of some sounds seemed to be more continental European inflections. Hansell was a pale man with red cheeks and fine, wispy blonde hair brushed back from his forehead. His eyes flitted between Tom and Eric from behind thick glasses.
"We're investigating a murder, Mr Hansell."
The smile dissipated and his lips parted as he looked directly at Tom, holding his gaze for the first time since they met.
"And there is the suggestion that the murder might be related to the proposed construction of the planned Norfolk Wash Wind Farm."
Hansell shook his head ever so slightly. "I… a murder you say? I really don't see…" He stopped, took a breath and steadied himself. "How is it related?"
"We understand there has been some push-back from certain members of the community opposed to the siting of a switching station."
Hansell visibly relaxed, biting his lower lip and sucking air through his teeth. He nodded. "Yes, there has been a degree of opposition, that's true. They are a minority, though. A very vocal minority, it has to be said." He frowned, looking directly at Tom. "I'm sorry, who did you say died?"
"I didn't," Tom said. "A lady named Mary Beckett."
Hansell sat back in his chair, his mouth falling open as he briefly looked to the ceiling before his eyes came back to rest on Tom. "Mary. Good Lord."
"And she was murdered."
"Yes," Hansell said, raising his eyebrows and making an O with his lips as he breathed out. "When was this? Recent, I presume."
Tom exchanged a glance with Eric, who also seemed to find it surprising he hadn't heard. There had been nothing else reported in the news locally for days besides the Gage and Beckett murders. There were precious few cases like this in Norfolk for much of the time and two murders, particularly ones so close together, were highly unusual. Hansell must have understood the unsaid communication passing between them.
"I went home at the tail end of last week, Inspector. I only got back Monday lunchtime. I did catch something on the news, but it was on in the background. Mary Beckett, you say? That's a surprise."
"Why would you say that?"
"Oh… well, why would anyone want to hurt Mary?"
"Perhaps someone who had something to lose from her campaigning?"
Hansell smiled nervously. "Well, maybe. Yes, I can see why you might think so. Mary Beckett might well be a thorn in the side of people like me… but it's not worth killing someone over."
"We understand she
