Back in the Police pound, the two officers piled out of the car, thankful to leave its close atmosphere, only to find themselves immediately separated, DI Manson summoning Alistair to the office. But Alice had no intention of waiting for him and delaying following up such a promising lead. He might be able to join her later in person, and the shop was within easy walking distance. A stroll in the bright sunshine, on her own, down the Pleasance and along Drummond Street, would have been a joy even if she had not been getting paid for it.
Their quarry was discovered, less than twenty minutes later, perched on a high stool in his bookshop, nose deep in a leather-bound copy of Court Dress through the Ages. Georgie was so engrossed in his book that he appeared unaware that a potential customer was at his elbow until a discreet cough alerted him. On seeing her, his face lit up as if he had encountered a long-lost, and very dear friend, and his bonhomie was catching. Alice felt herself smiling warmly in return, until she recollected the real purpose of her visit and, assuming a more appropriate, business-like expression, showed him her card.
‘And what can I do for you, my lovely?’ he asked, inserting a till receipt to mark his place in the book.
When she asked him about his reported boasts, deliberately affording him an opportunity to deny them, he chose not to do so. Instead, he maintained, with a degree of exaggerated indignation, that he had, indeed, slept with the Sheriff. Their only tryst had taken place a few days before the fellow’s death, in Georgie’s flat in Cumberland Street. He volunteered that while he might have been slightly intoxicated on the night, incapable of recollecting all the evening’s events with complete clarity, the essentials remained clear, including his pick-up’s identity. After all, he had seen the judge’s photo in the paper within days of their meeting. Anyway, he said, now in mock anger, he was not in the habit of fabricating false liaisons, someone so delectable had no need to do so.
When questioned on his whereabouts on the night of the murder, he replied that he had been, as far as he could remember, on his tod, attending to the accounts for the business and parcelling up a few books for mail-order customers. His bookshop, he said proudly, had cornered the market in fashion and footwear literature, dispatching stock all over the country and beyond. He seemed unconcerned by the gentle interrogation he was undergoing, untroubled in admitting his recent encounter with a murder victim, and, incongruously, pleased with his involvement in the whole affair. It appeared that the limelight was irresistible, whatever it illuminated. She left him as another customer arrived, noting that his face showed as much pleasure on seeing the stranger as it had done when first she interrupted his reading.
The hall carpet in Geanbank had been partially covered by a dust sheet. In its folds, in disarray, were cut stems, sprays of leaves and a few crumbs of Oasis sponge. Above the sheet, on a bow-legged table, was a vast flower arrangement with pale blue irises, delphiniums and cream, full-bloomed roses. Nicholas Lyon led the policewoman past it, and Alice smothered the impulse to congratulate him on its perfection. On entering the drawing room he went straight to the window and drew the curtains tight shut, excluding the prying eyes of the Press, now camped en masse outside. He poured her China tea from a silver teapot and offered cake, apologising as he did so for the lack of biscuits and explaining that, for the moment, he was unable to leave the house to get more. Alice braced herself for his reaction before dutifully warning him that the Press interest had probably not reached its zenith. It was possible that reports might appear, fed by those claiming close acquaintanceship with the Sheriff, reviving the story, artificially expanding its lifespan. The old fellow listened to every word, blinking furiously and occasionally giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
‘Did James know anyone called Georgie, a bookseller… a second-hand bookseller up past the Bridges?’ she asked, tentatively.
‘No. Nor did I.’
‘Did he ever go to a pub, the Boar’s Head, on Salamander Street, Leith?’
‘I wouldn’t think so, he didn’t really like pubs any more, couldn’t hear in them. I don’t think so. Why do you ask?’ he looked genuinely puzzled.
‘Nothing. We have to follow up everything, however unlikely it may be. I wondered,’ she continued, keen to change the subject, ‘whether you’d had any thoughts, you know, if you knew of anyone that might wish James harm?’
Her companion sighed, and then asked ruefully, ‘In life, you mean?’
‘In life, yes.’
‘I have thought about it. And I’m not sure that I’m much further on, but perhaps you can be the judge of that. I found these…’ He handed over a cardboard box containing a number of sheets of paper. ‘I knew about them, of course. James told me about the letters but I’d never actually seen them before. I wish I had, then I could have shared the worry better, but I had no idea that they were so, well… threatening. James made light of them; he said a lunatic had begun a one-sided correspondence with him and would, likely in his own time, bring it to an end. Maybe he was protecting me. He knew how I hated dissension, hostility of any kind.’
Alice lifted a single piece of paper from the box and read:
‘I hope you die in hell, you selfish bastard. Thanks to your greed, my life will be ruined. You don’t even need the money. You have no excuse. You don’t live there so you don’t care. You, and the rest of them, will pollute everything. Can you imagine that? No-one will want to come. Stop it or else I’ll stop you.’
The words were written in green biro ink in an elaborate italic hand, and some of them, ‘selfish’, ‘greed’ and ‘ruined’, were underlined heavily twice. Although the content of the message was intimidating, its appearance was artistic, oddly beautiful. She removed another letter in the same hand, this time in red biro ink.
‘Stop it, bastard. You can stop it still. It’s your land. You have the access strip. I know who you are and I know where you live. If you go ahead you will destroy me and my family. It’s only money, for Christ’s sake! End the whole thing or I will put a stop to you.’
The paper was cheap, lined and textured as if recycled. The other messages were in similar vein, sometimes pleading, sometimes threatening, always desperate in tone.
‘Have you any idea who sent these, who wrote them?’
‘No, I don’t, and James didn’t either. You can see, they’re all anonymous. He hadn’t a clue who the author was.’
Alice nodded. ‘But what about their content? Do you know what they’re about? What exactly was James proposing to do that the writer wanted to stop?’
Nicholas Lyon blinked rapidly before he began to speak.
‘I think-well, we knew-that it was to do with Blackstone Mains. It’s a farm that James and his brother owned jointly. Christopher persuaded James to offer it to one of those renewable companies, Vertenergy, to put up turbines on it. All the land’s tenanted at the moment. It’s to be part of a gargantuan wind farm on the Ochils. I think there are to be thirty turbines or thereabouts. Massive things too, maybe one hundred and twenty metres high. The wind farm’s to be called “Scowling Crags”. The company’s still seeking planning permission from the Council, a decision on it’s not due until the end of September.’
‘Are any of the letters dated?’