‘Hey, Mark,’ he said, putting a hand under the child’s chest and lifting him to the side of the pool, where he clung to the tiled edge, ‘your swimming’s come on a power in the time we’ve been here. But don’t overdo it. You don’t want to fall asleep over your pizza tonight, do you?’
‘Pizza!’ the boy yelled. ‘In the pink place by the beach?’
Bob Skinner nodded, pleased hugely by his foster-son’s juvenile delight. Although he was only seven, young Mark’s life had been so scarred by tragedy, with the separate violent deaths of both his parents, that the policeman had feared that he would never be a child again.
His offer to adopt the boy after his mother’s murder had been welcomed by all three of his surviving grand-parents, each of whom recognised their inability to raise a child to manhood. Even more vitally, it had been welcomed by Mark, who had come to know the Deputy Chief Constable well through his adventures.
Skinner grinned as he remembered their earnest conversation, on the beach, back at their other home in Gullane.
‘So, wee man, you’ll come to live with Sarah and me, as our adopted son, and as James Andrew’s big brother?’
‘Yes please. My daddy promised me a wee brother. But then he died.’
‘Well you’ll have one now, ready made, and he’ll be a handful, I’ll tell you. Now, is there anything you want to ask me?’
‘Will I call you Daddy and Mummy?’
‘No, I don’t think so.You should always honour your natural daddy and mummy. Uncle Bob and Auntie Sarah would be better, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I think so.Will I be called Mark Skinner?’
‘What would be right, do you think? When we adopt you, legally you’ll be our son, Auntie Sarah’s and mine. But that doesn’t mean that you have to change your name.Your mummy and your daddy were both very special people, and you can still carry their name if you want to. Do you?’
‘Yes, I think I do.’
‘That’s good, because although I’ll give you my name if you want it, I think it’s right for you to go on being Mark McGrath.’
It had been virtually plain sailing after that, although there had been one minor concern when Mark’s grand-father had questioned Bob’s decision to send the child to the local primary school in Gullane, and later to high school in North Berwick.
‘Look, Bob, if it’s a matter of money, Mark will inherit a fair bit from his parents. I can arrange for school and university expenses to be met from his trust fund.’
‘Mr McGrath, I’m not going to adopt the boy and expect him to pay for his upbringing. This has nothing to do with money. I believe that it’s better for him to be educated in his own community, especially if the facilities are excellent. My daughter went to those schools and left Glasgow University with a First in Law.’
‘Okay. I concede that. The truth is, I’m ambitious that Mark should go to Oxford or Cambridge. He’s very bright, you know. It might be difficult getting in there from an East Lothian school, but sometimes the private sector can pull strings for its pupils.’
‘Hah! The way things are heading in this country, all that privilege crap will be swept away by the time Mark’s eighteen. Even if it isn’t, and there are strings that have to be pulled, I think you’ll find that there are few people better at that than Chief Police Officers. Anyway, as you say, Mark is very bright, and when that time comes, he may well have his own views about his education, which should be respected. Right now, he really does want to go to the local primary.’
Bob grinned once more, this time at the sight of Jazz, buoyant in the blue water and paddling away furiously with his legs. Unlike his adoptive brother, who pushed himself off the poolside and thrashed off to meet him, he was a natural born swimmer.
Sarah eased over beside her husband at the deep end of the pool, and linked her arm through his. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘It’s been a success, hasn’t it, this family-building holiday in L’Escala. D’you think we could stretch it to a third week?’
‘Seven more days of Spanish sun?’ he replied. ‘I’d love to, but for one reason and another my Chief Constable hasn’t seen enough of me this year. I owe it to Proud Jimmy to get back. Anyway, you and I have a new house to sort out, and our older boy has to start his new school.’
He chuckled. ‘No holidays in term-time from now on, lady. Get used to the idea.’
Sarah wrinkled her nose, and pulled herself up against the wall of the pool, her breasts breaking the surface of the blue water. ‘Ugh. For how long, d’you reckon?’
Bob’s chuckle turned to a frown. ‘Christ, given our wish for at least one more child, probably until I’m about seventy.’
‘All the more reason to take another week, then.’
He slipped his free arm around her waist, as Jazz and Mark swam towards them. ‘I’ll give you two extra days, assuming we can change the ferry booking to Saturday night, but that’s as far as I can stretch it.’
He paused. ‘I really need to get back for Andy as well.’
Sarah’s eyebrows rose as she reached out to take Mark’s hand. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Martin? What’s bothering our future son-in-law? Nothing to do with him and Alex, I hope.’
Bob grinned. ‘Not this time, I’m glad to say.
‘No, he’s got himself worked into a lather about a spate of armed robberies on the patch. When we put Jackie Charles out of business we thought that we’d see a reduction in that type of thing, and a virtual end to organised crime in general. But it hasn’t happened. Now Andy’s thinking is that we may have a new Mr Big on our hands.’
His smile had faded. ‘If he’s right, and he usually is, then I agree with him. Whoever it is needs to be squashed, and damn quick. I don’t like criminals in general, but the sort who carry guns . . .
‘I tell you, Doctor Sarah, if there is someone back home who thinks he can turn my Edinburgh into Dodge City, then for sure the bugger is going to wish that you’d persuaded me to stay on here . . . even if it was only for another week!’
3
Detective Chief Inspector Maggie Rose looked up in surprise as Brian Mackie walked into her tiny office in the Haddington Police Station. She ran her hand over her red hair . . . less vivid than that of Nathan Bennett, Mackie noted idly . . . as she stared at the Divisional CID commander.
‘What are you doing back?’ she asked him. ‘I thought you’d be tied up in the High Court all day, and maybe into tomorrow. What happened? Did the defence case fold up?’
The tall, bald detective shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied, without the trace of a smile. ‘The judge did.’
‘Eh?’
‘Lord Archergait. He dropped dead on the Bench; right in the middle of my cross examination.’
Rose’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh no,’ she said, frowning. ‘Not old Archergait. That’s too bad.’ She hesitated. ‘What was it? Heart attack?’
Mackie nodded. ‘Yeah. A sudden massive coronary, the doctor said. He also said that he was surprised that it didn’t happen more often in the High Court, given the age of a few of the judges.’
He smiled suddenly. ‘Here, you’ll never guess who the doctor was. That guy Banks.’
‘What,’ his deputy responded, surprised, ‘the bloke that Andy Martin fell out with? The guy he had thrown off the list of force MEs?’
‘Aye, that’s right. He was giving evidence in a civil case on one of the other Courts. He was puffed up like a wee bantam cock at being called in to help.’
‘I’ll bet.’
She looked up at Mackie once more as he leaned against the window of the small room gazing out on to the main street of the little market town. ‘So what happens about the trial?’ she asked.
‘We begin all over again . . . unless Kilmarnock recognises that he’s flogging a dead horse and offers a plea.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘Shouldn’t think so. He’ll fancy another go at me.’
‘What if he did offer a plea to a les
ser charge? D’you think the Crown would accept it?’
‘Not if Andy Martin got wind of it. He’d raise hell with Mr Skinner, and he’d have a word with his pal the Lord Advocate. With one thing and another the Crown Office owes the Big Man a few favours.
‘No, Mags, Mr Nathan Bennett is going to be convicted of armed robbery, nothing less, and he’s going to get the ten- or twelve-year stretch that he bloody well deserves. Remember the old lady customer who fainted right at the start of the raid. Those bastards just left her lying there, while they got on with it, and she died of her stroke a week later.
‘Bennett’s on a reduced charge already as far as I’m concerned. If it was down to me, they’d be trying him for murder.’
Rose raised an eyebrow. ‘But what if he decides to co-operate with us?’ she asked. ‘What if he suddenly remembers the names of the other two guys who did the bank with him?’
‘What if he wakens up tomorrow with the power to heal the sick,’ said Mackie, ironically. ‘There’s about as much chance, I tell you. I’ve interviewed Bennett umpteen times. There’s no way he’s going to give those two guys up.’ Unexpectedly, he chuckled. ‘It’s nothing to do with honour among thieves, you understand. Bennett’s scared stiff of someone.
‘Whether it’s those two, or someone else: that’s the question.’
‘Hmm,’ Maggie grunted. ‘I know that’s what’s worrying DCS Martin.’
‘Speaking of our Head of CID,’ said the Superintendent, ‘I had a call from him in the car on the way back here. He’s called a briefing of Divisional CID commanders and deputies at Fettes, first thing tomorrow morning.
‘After today’s débâcle, there are no prizes for guessing what’ll be on the agenda.’
4
Andy Martin and Alexis Skinner, his fiancée, had an understanding.
Early in their domestic life together, each had recognised and accepted that the other was constitutionally incapable of leaving the day’s work behind in the office. Therefore they had agreed that the evening meal was for the discussion of professional problems and worries. The watershed was marked by the placing of the last dirty plate in the dishwasher.
She stepped up behind him as he tossed beansprouts, sliced peppers, mushrooms, and fish, in the hot oil, stirring the wok intensely all the while. He jumped, involuntarily, as she squeezed his buttocks.
‘Careful,’ he warned her. ‘This is delicate work.’
‘So is this,’ she chuckled. ‘But I’m glad you can still speak. I was beginning to think that you’d been struck dumb. Come on, out with it, my man. What’s bothering you?’
He shrugged his shoulders as she slipped her arms, carefully, around his waist. ‘Nothing new,’ he muttered, still watching his stir-fry intently. ‘The same thing that’s been bugging me for a while.’
‘Ahh,’ said Alex, knowingly. ‘Your hold-up men! The Hole in the Wall Gang.’
He shook his head as he lifted the wok from the hob and began to spoon the contents into two white bowls. ‘Not the Hole in the Wall Gang,’ he grunted, ‘in any way. Everybody knew who they were. Old Butch and Sundance were famous in their own time, long before the movie.
‘I haven’t a bloody clue who these guys are . . . save the one we nicked through his own stupidity. That’s failure, in my book, and it’s down to me.’
Alex frowned as she picked up her dish and an uncorked bottle of white wine in a cooler, and carried them through to the dinner table. ‘Andy,’ she retorted, at last. ‘You’re getting to be as bad as my dad, for taking everything on yourself.
‘You’re the head of a team, not a one-man army.’
Andy laughed, ironically, as he poured the wine. ‘Hah! You say that. Yet who gets it in the neck every time Rangers are blown out of Europe? The manager, that’s who. Not the players. When he gets back from Spain, your old man isn’t going to fire the awkward questions at Brian, or big Neil or anyone else. He’s going to come straight to me.’
She looked at him as she despatched a forkful of supper. ‘Are you sure that you’re not seeing a conspiracy when there is none? Couldn’t these robberies just be a hat-trick of one-off crimes? You’re not getting a bit paranoid, old chap, are you?’
‘Of course I am . . .’ he retorted, sharply. ‘I’m a copper. But you know what they say, my love. Just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean that the bastards aren’t out to get you. These raids are connected, all right, but we don’t have a clue who’s making the connections.’
‘So what are you going to do about it?’
‘Turn the screw, sweetheart. Just as hard as I can. I’ve called the troops in tomorrow for some motivation.’
‘Just like a good manager.’
‘Sure,’ he acknowledged. ‘And I might just prove it by chucking a few teacups!’
He sipped his wine, and turned his attention to dinner. ‘That’s enough of my day. What about yours?’
She shrugged, tossing her mass of dark curls. ‘I spent most of it up in the Court of Session with Mitch Laidlaw.’
‘Still the senior partner’s pet trainee lawyer, eh. D’you take him in an apple every day?’
Alex snorted, her big, round eyes flashing him a meaningful look. ‘Don’t push your luck, or your apples’ll be in jeopardy,’ she responded evenly. ‘In fact I was assisting Mr Laidlaw in a very important civil case. We’re acting for a law firm that’s been accused of negligence by a disgruntled client. To be absolutely accurate, we’ve been instructed by the professional indemnity insurers, but it’s almost the same thing.’
‘What’s it about?’
She looked at him, pleased by his genuine interest. ‘It’s quite interesting really,’ she began. ‘The pursuer was a hotelier. He owned a place called Merryston House, just outside Lauder, but he’s bust now. That’s why the action began. It centres around an extension he wanted to build, to allow him to open a new supper bar. He was given firm advice by his solicitor, a bloke called Adrian Jones, that there were no grounds for objection. The client’s interpretation of that was that there was no need for planning permission.’
Andy looked at her in surprise. ‘That’s a bit of an assumption, isn’t it?’
She hesitated. ‘Yes . . . but Jones’ letter was pretty poorly drafted, and it did say that full planning permission might not be required in cases where an extension was less than a certain percentage of the total area of the property. Also, the hotel was a big baronial place, in its own grounds, with no near neighbours.
‘On the strength of the solicitor’s letter, the hotelier . . . his name’s Bernard Grimley, by the way . . . went ahead and got a builder pal of his to knock the thing up for him, cheap and cheerful. He’d been open for two days when the local authority came along to see him. It turned out that one of his first customers had written to them complaining.
‘Not to put too fine a point on it, the faeces hit the fan for poor Mr Grimley, and consequently, for Green Symonds, of South Queensferry, Adrian Jones’ firm. As well as giving him dodgy planning advice, it turned out that they had neglected to point out that the hotel was a listed building, noteworthy for a particular type of architecture.
‘Enter Historic Scotland, the Secretary of State’s guardians of our heritage, raising objections. Grimley tried for planning consent retrospectively, but he was stuffed. The Secretary of State called in the application, and ruled almost at once. He was ordered to take down the extension and restore the building to its original condition . . .’
Alex paused, for breath and for wine. ‘That was it for the man. His business was pretty marginal, at best, and the abortive costs finished him. He couldn’t even afford the reconstruction work. In the end, the hotel was sold and turned into a nursing home, and he went back to his original trade as a metal finisher.
‘To cap it all, his wife left him last year and went to live with one of the council planning officers. He’s on his own now, in a rented house near Humbie.’
Andy shrugged. ‘So how come the case wo
und up in the Court of Session? Sounds to me that your insurer’s solicitor client is on pretty shaky ground.’
‘Very,’ she agreed immediately. ‘In fact we admitted negligence ages ago. The problem is the quantum, the amount of damages. The insurance company started off with an offer of seven hundred thousand. Bernard Grimley wants five million.’
‘Eh? Why are they so far apart?’
‘It’s a matter of wishful thinking. Grimley never made more than twenty-five grand in profits in the three years he owned the place. He’s forty-three, so the insurers did their sums based on likely income till his retiral, plus the costs of the work, plus loss of potential profit on the sale.
‘But the basis of Grimley’s argument is that the new bar was the missing link that would have helped him turn Merryston House into a five-star country house hotel. He’s projected vastly increased income, and a sale value of millions.’
The meal at an end, Andy rose from his seat and picked up the bowls. ‘But the planners wouldn’t have let him build the extension anyway. Doesn’t that flatten his case?’
Alex followed him into the kitchen and watched as he reached down to open the dishwasher door. ‘We think that it damages it,’ she agreed. ‘But Grimley’s argument is that if he’d been given proper advice, he’d have found another, unspecified, solution. From what we can tell, the judge seems to be impressed by it.
‘He’s had all sorts of witnesses. Architects, hoteliers, even a doctor to give evidence about the damage to his health resulting from the negligence. He’s an old acquaintance of yours, in fact. Doctor Banks.’
She frowned. ‘There was quite a commotion during his evidence. He was excused from the witness box to go and attend to one of the judges who’d collapsed on the Bench.’ She paused. ‘I heard later that he had died.’
‘That’s no surprise with Banks in attendance!’ said Andy, his vivid green eyes flashing. ‘If I never meet that man again it’ll be too soon. He must have loved being the centre of attention, the glory-seeking wee bastard.
08 - Murmuring the Judges Page 2