‘No. But the last one was received, maybe, a week before James died. They were always addressed here, in James’s name, and he’d open them and tell me that it was just another crank missive.’
‘And you’ve no idea who sends them?’
‘Sorry. As I said, I don’t think James knew either, but, you see, he never took them seriously. So obviously I didn’t… and I’m kicking myself now. He said he’d come across this kind of thing in his job, he believed that the type of person who writes them never actually does anything more. He or she gets it out of their system on paper and then that’s it. James said they were usually sad, inadequate creatures, capable only of venting their spleen with words.’
‘What does it mean, “the access strip”?’
‘I think, though I’m not sure, that Blackstone was the access strip. A ransom strip, actually. For the whole development I mean. Blackstone’s on the main road, and none of the farmers round about it were prepared to allow their land to be used by the company. The ones at the back, on the hill, were really keen and that’s where the wind is anyway, but the developers needed land downhill, with access to the road, if the scheme was to go ahead. The Mains, Blackstone, provided access for the whole site and without that land, then it couldn’t go ahead. I was never for it in the first place, the wind farm, I mean, and I told James that too.’
‘Why? Why were you against it?’
‘Well, if you really want to know, because they’re ugly, inefficient things and the equation only comes out in credit if no value whatsoever is placed on beauty, the beauty of unspoilt scenery I mean. The answer isn’t to generate more, it’s to use less. We used to argue about it sometimes. Actually, I think I’d almost succeeded in persuading James. Maybe even the letters played a part. All I know is that he was less enthusiastic about the whole venture than he had been. I suppose Christopher will just go on with it though.’
‘I’ll need to take the letters if that’s all right, Mr Lyon?’
‘Nicholas. Please. I thought you’d want them. Take them in the box. I racked my brain after the conversation with the inspector and I couldn’t think of anything, anyone who’d want to harm James. And then, really by chance, I’ve found these things. Reading them chilled me, I can tell you. They were in one of his desk drawers together with something that I think must be his will. It’s addressed to his lawyers and I’m seeing them tomorrow.’
Alice walked quickly to the Astra, keen to avoid the attention of the Press who, like vultures, had spotted her and were now closing in, flapping towards the car. No sooner had she slammed the door shut than a rosy-cheeked young man pulled it open, suggesting, with a charming grin, that she might like to speak to him. Before she had time to answer, another figure insinuated himself into the same space to demand information about the Sheriff’s lover. Within seconds three more reporters had bent down, thrusting their heads towards her, each shouting, trying to outdo the others. A loud knocking had become audible on the driver’s side window, and she turned her head, briefly, to see DI Manson’s crony smiling seductively at her and gesturing at her notebook, apparently expecting a favour or some sort of preferential treatment.
Alice closed her eyes and breathed out. The creatures must be dealt with, although in their merciless pursuit of an old, heart-sick man, they had all but lost her sympathy. No. Like burying beetles, they had a place in the scheme of things. So, she must not indulge herself and give way to the overwhelming urge rising within her to shout expletives, put her foot down on the accelerator and shower them all with gravel. Temporarily calmed, she gazed at the woman and then, slowly and purposefully, drove off, watching in her rear view mirror as the reporter’s smile faded into her habitual scowl.
Another button missing but it could wait, the last one at the bottom of the blouse. No more than usual would be revealed. She folded it up, put it on the pile and began to iron a sheet, lost in Corelli’s Concerto Grossi and enjoying the clean scent of washing powder rising from the heated fabric. Was it Concerto No. 4 or No. 7? A repetitive clicking sound signalled grime on the disc, and she left the ironing board to go and wipe the CD. The telephone rang and she knew, intuitively, that it would be Ian Melville. The answer machine was on. Maybe she would listen to his voice, see what he wanted and then, if she chose and could pluck up the courage, return the call. Her recorded speech on the tape sounded unnatural, like some low-voiced stranger.
‘This is Alice Rice’s answer phone. Please leave your message after the beep.’
On impulse she dashed across the room and picked up the receiver.
‘Hello.’ She sounded breathless.
From the more than momentary silence that followed she recognised the caller’s re-adjustment as he prepared himself to speak to a human being rather than a machine.
‘Alice, hi, it’s me. Ian. I thought you must be out.’
‘I’ve just got in.’ A whitish lie.
‘I was wondering if you’d be free tomorrow… tomorrow evening? Maybe join me on a walk? We could go to the beach at Tyninghame or somewhere. What d’you think?’
I would love to. I would really love to. ‘Mmm… that sounds fine. What sort of time were you thinking of?’ Without alcohol a measured, less-truthful response.
‘How about six thirty? I could pick you up in Broughton Place and we could have a meal afterwards, after the walk, I mean.’
Perfect.
‘Thanks, yes, that’d be great. See you then.’
He had called again. She had hoped that he would, but prepared herself in advance in case it was not going to happen. Now she could relax, luxuriate in the knowledge that he wanted to see her once more. He must feel a little, at least, of what she felt.
7
Eric Manson yawned, took off his jacket and slung it across the back of his chair. Then he rolled up his sleeves and wandered towards the nearest window, intending to open it. Straining loudly, he pushed upwards on the lower half but, despite the veins now pulsating in his neck, achieved not an inch of movement; it was glued fast with paint. All the other windows in the room proved equally resistant. He took a sip from his bottle of water, switched on the fan nearest to his desk and settled down to read his newspaper.
The voices of DCs Trotter and Drysdale could be heard, arguing loudly, as they clattered up the stairs, exchanging heated views in a medley of tenor voices. Davie McDonald followed close behind them, mouth full of bacon roll, unable to participate in their row. On entering the murder suite he made a beeline for the coffee flask, emitting a stream of curses on finding it empty. DCI Bruce glanced down at his watch. Three minutes to nine and only four out of the expected six had appeared. The absence of DC Lowe, he decided, should be viewed as a cause for celebration. The moron held everything up, needing instructions endlessly repeated or clarified, and the sooner he was returned to the uniform branch the better. Let the doctor put up with his vacuous prattle for a change.
‘Morning, Sir,’ DS Watt said cheerily, switching off Manson’s fan as he passed it and taking a seat beside the vacant chair usually favoured by Alice Rice.
‘Anyone actually seen Ms Rice yet?’ the Chief Inspector said testily.
‘Yup,’ Alistair Watt replied. ‘I saw her heading off towards the Ladies’, less than a minute ago,’ and before he had finished his sentence his friend swept through the door to find all eyes on her and DCI Bruce tapping his watch. She glanced at her own. Nine o’clock on the dot. A triumph, in itself, to arrive on time, given Miss Spinnell’s uncharacteristic garrulousness on Quill’s handover. With an effort she managed to smile at DCI Bruce.
‘Morning, Sir, just in time for your nine o’clock meeting.’
The Chief Inspector slid his buttocks off the desk and handed out to each of the members of the squad a copy of the most recent anonymous letter sent to James Freeman.