22
Like many advocates, George Harcourt lived in the
network of streets which stretches downhill and northward from
Heriot Row, in grey and ordered simplicity.
‘Mr Harcourt. Advocate,’
the brass name-plate announced. However its portent of aloofness
was not borne out by the man who answered the door to Skinner and
Cowan, and who invited them into a book-lined drawing-room.
George Harcourt was a slightly rumpled Glaswegian,
with a round head, set on a stocky frame. He had a voice which
seemed to echo from the depths of a well, and which in court had
the effect from the outset of his trials, of convincing juries that
they were there on serious business.
Skinner had encountered him twice professionally;
on the first occasion Harcourt had been acting for the defence, and
on the second he had been prosecuting. He had been impressed by the
man, in each role. A judge in the making, he had decided.
Harcourt poured each a Macallan, and offered them
seats in red leather Chesterfield chairs.
Skinner took a sip from his glass. ‘George, I’m
going to ask you to look at a picture.’ He drew Yobatu’s photograph
from its brown envelope and handed it to his host.
Harcourt looked at it and gave a start which in
other circumstances would have seemed theatrical. Skinner did not
doubt its sincerity for a moment. The stocky advocate looked
towards Cowan.
‘That’s the guy, Peter. That’s the guy I was
telling you about. I’d know that face anywhere. That’s the guy who
sat through the McCann trial, staring at Rachel. If she’d asked me,
I’d have had the judge throw him out. As it was, she never said a
word, but I could tell that she was aware of him, and that she was
rattled. And no wonder. Look at those eyes!’