He frowned as he stepped from the car, as he recalled his last visit to the recently completed headquarters of the Scottish criminal prosecution service, as an interviewee rather than as a policeman. But putting the memory aside and concentrating on the matter in hand, he strode into the building.
The clerk at reception sat straight behind his desk as he approached. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Skinner,’ he said. ‘Lord Archibald asks if you would just go straight in. His room’s . . .’
‘That’s all right, thanks,’ Skinner retorted; a shade tersely, the clerk thought. ‘I’ve been there before.’
Norman King looked up in surprise as the Deputy Chief Constable entered the room. Even the Lord Advocate raised an eyebrow at the sight of the tall detective in uniform. ‘Funeral,’ Skinner muttered, all the explanation he needed to offer.
‘Ah, I see. Was it the officer who was killed last week?’
‘No, it was Harry Riach, the civilian. See what you can do about posthumous gallantry awards, Archie, will you . . . for both of them.’
‘I’ll mention it to the Secretary of State. Pull up a chair, Bob.’ He looked across at the third man in the room.
‘I’ve asked Bob Skinner to join us at this point, Norman. There’s something that he and I have to discuss with you.’ The DCC looked at the man as he took his seat alongside him. He was, he guessed, around forty years old, and wore the traditional junior advocate’s clothing of dark jacket, pin-striped trousers and plain white shirt, stripes being the prerogative of Silks. Skinner knew many members of the tight-knit community that is the Scottish Bar, but his path and that of King had never crossed before.
‘I’ve just been congratulating Norman,’ Lord Archibald went on, looking now at Skinner, ‘for two reasons. First, he’s to be appointed Queen’s Counsel, and second, he has been offered and has agreed to accept, the position of Home Advocate Depute.’
The policeman’s eyebrows rose as he nodded an acknowledgement to King. The Home AD was the third person on the Crown Office totem pole, after the Lord Advocate and the Solicitor General, and was the leader of the team of full-time prosecutors in Scotland’s High Court of Judiciary. Appointment to the office was recognised as an important step towards high office and a seat on the Bench.
‘Well done,’ offered the DCC.
‘Thank you, Mr Skinner. It’s come as a great surprise, I must say. I didn’t think I was sufficiently senior for the job, but Archie seems to have faith in me. What a pity though that my father didn’t live to see it.’
The smile vanished from the Lord Advocate’s face. ‘Yes indeed, Norman: and that brings me to the reason for Bob’s presence.’ King looked round at him in sudden surprise.
‘What d’you mean?’
Lord Archibald took a deep breath. ‘You’re aware that the Lord President asked, as a formality, for a post-mortem to be carried out on Billy?’
The son nodded. ‘Yes, he informed me. As you say, it was a formality.’
Skinner took the ensuing silence as a cue. ‘I’m afraid, Mr King, that Archie was over-optimistic. The autopsy has established, beyond doubt, that your father was poisoned.’
As he looked at him, the other man’s face became a caricature of shock. He shook visibly in his chair, and his mouth worked as if to form words.
‘You can’t be serious,’ he gasped, at last.
‘I’m afraid I am. Another pathologist might just have been content to make the most cursory examination of the body, but Archie engaged Joe Hutchison. You’ll be aware of his reputation for thoroughness.
‘As far as we can establish . . . although it’s still subject to confirmation . . . someone slipped cyanide into your father’s water carafe.’
Norman King buried his face in his hands and rubbed it vigorously, as if trying to wipe away his disbelief, then looked across at Skinner.
‘How in God’s name did they do that?’ he shot at the policeman.
‘That’s exactly what we’ve set out to establish. I have two experienced men up at Parliament House today, making very discreet inquiries. My Inspector phoned me while I was on my way here. They’ve interviewed Colin Maxwell, Lord Archergait’s attendant, and they think they know: not just how, but when.
‘They are now trying to establish whether anyone was seen in the corridor which leads to the judge’s ante-room . . . without success so far.’
Norman King looked at Lord Archibald. ‘Who would want to kill my old man?’ he asked, despairingly.
‘That’s really what we wanted to ask you, Norman,’ the Lord Advocate replied. ‘Judges make a potential enemy every time they send someone down. Did Billy ever mention anything to you about any of his decisions that might have been preying on his mind?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, for example, can you recall a sentence which he thought in retrospect might have been too severe?’
Unexpectedly, the advocate let out an ironic chuckle. ‘Archie, my Pa only ever worried about a sentence if he thought he might have been too lenient. He used to say to me that part of a judge’s duty is to support the jury. He was always concerned that if he went too easy on a convicted person that might be interpreted as undermining, or disapproval of the verdict.
‘He didn’t like plea-bargaining, either, although he usually went along with it, since it didn’t involve a jury.’ He glanced towards Skinner, then back to Lord Archibald. ‘The chap Charles, that fellow you put away a few months back; Pa didn’t approve of that deal at all. He’d have given the bloke eight years, if it had been down to him. As it was, he refrained, since in the final analysis he always believed in supporting the police as well.’
King paused, smiling in fond recollection. ‘On top of all that, my father had a keen eye for public opinion, as expressed through the media. His firm belief was that leniency is the only thing for which a judge is ever really lambasted. He was right, too. Just look at how they turned on that chap in the States.’
The Lord Advocate leaned back in his chair and looked at Skinner across his desk. ‘All that, of course, just adds to the list of potential grudge-bearers.’
The detective nodded, as if in agreement. ‘In theory, but I think we can disregard those who are still in jail.’
‘What about their families, though?’ asked Lord Archibald.
‘Those avenues will be explored, don’t worry. Still . . .’ He hesitated, formulating his thoughts. ‘If we’re looking at a get-even murder by an old client or a relative, we have to consider their backgrounds. In my experience, and I’m sure in yours too, most criminals fall into two categories. There are the domestic offenders, violent husbands, abusive parents, or fairly frequently, people who have lost control only once in their lives, but with fatal results. Then there are the hooligans, the street boys. Usually, they run with gangs, and are into extreme violence . . . but with knives, clubs, or guns occasionally.
‘I don’t see this killer coming from the first group. Families want to put their troubles behind them. As for the second, if Lord Archergait had been attacked on his way home from Court and stabbed, or beaten to death, that would fit the pattern. But poison, no.’ He fell silent, staring at the window for a few seconds.
‘Look, Mr King,’ he resumed. ‘It’s possible that your father was killed at random, by someone with an irrational grudge against the law in general. But I don’t think so. This murder was premeditated and thoroughly planned. From what I’ve been told so far, the killer watched and waited for his opportunity, and when it arose, he took it.
‘Be in no doubt that if they have to, my people are going to look over your father’s career on the Bench, case by case. To help them, I’d like you to go through his notes, his papers, his diaries, any records he may have kept of his career. Speak to your brother as well; he may recall something that’s slipped your mind.’
The bereaved son nodded. ‘Of course I’ll do that. Don’t expect anything from it though. Pa wasn’t a great hoarder.’
He blinked,
hard, as the enormity of what he had been told began to sink in, and, as it did, the anger began to surface. ‘Good luck to you and your people, Mr Skinner. When you catch this bastard, I don’t imagine that I’ll be allowed to lead for the Crown.’ He smiled, wickedly. ‘However, thanks to Archie, and my new appointment, I’ll be in a position to ensure that whoever does leaves the judge and jury in no doubt as to what’s expected of them!’
28
Detective Chief Superintendent Martin opened the door of the small room opposite the CID suite. ‘How’s the viewing going, Sammy?’ he asked.
Young Constable Pye looked up at him, bleary-eyed. ‘I’ve got nothing so far, sir,’ he answered, quickly. ‘The fact is, I’m still working out how to tackle it. I’ll tell you now though, unless I get lucky, this is going to be a long job.’
‘I’m under no illusions about that. How will you go about it?’
Martin’s assistant pointed to the television screen on the table at which he sat. ‘Well, sir, as you can see from that, there are a lot of people on these tapes.’
‘Which bank is this?’
‘This is Dalkeith, where the first robbery took place.’ He pressed the pause button on the video player, and stood up to face the Head of CID. ‘I’ve decided to run through each bank’s tapes at least twice, to familiarise myself with the faces. That’s not as bad as it sounds, I can fast-forward, and I can cut out obvious non-runners . . . old people, young girls delivering shop takings or getting change, handicapped people and so on.
‘My reasoning is that we’re looking for a male, probably in his thirties or forties, somebody with the potential to scare a guy like Nathan Bennett into silence. On my first run-through of each tape, I’ll note down all the possibles by date and time reference, then go through them again, concentrating on their appearance.
‘If I see the same face at more than one bank, that’ll ring an alarm bell.’
Martin nodded. ‘That sounds like a pretty fair plan. But are you sure you’re happy to tackle this on your own? I could give you a team of watchers if you thought it would it help.’
Pye shook his head. ‘No, sir. You and Mr Skinner are right. We could fill this room with people, yet everyone would still have to look at all the tapes. I’ve always had a good memory for faces. I’m confident that if there is a lead in here, I’ll find it.’
‘Okay, Sammy,’ said the Head of CID. ‘I’ll go with that. Have you got any feel for timescale yet? I don’t have to tell you how important this is.’
‘I know, Boss. Let’s see.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s mid-day Tuesday. If I find a suspect quickly, I’ll give you a shout at once. Failing that, how would it be if I report progress at close of play on Thursday?’
‘That’s acceptable.’ The DCS stepped towards the door. ‘I’ll let you get on with it.’
‘I’ll tell you one thing, sir,’ said DC Pye just as he reached it. ‘After this I won’t be wanting to watch telly for a long, long time.’
29
‘Want to talk about it?’
Tall even in his open-toed sandals, Bob looked down at Sarah, who grinned back at him as they made their way down the high dune. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked her.
‘You know damn well. You’ve been in another world since you got home this evening. Not one word of more than two syllables has passed your lips, and when I suggested that we should take the boys for a walk before we ate, you jumped at it.
‘I know you, husband, and I know when there’s something chewing at your brain. What is it? The bank robberies? Lord Archergait?’
He nodded as he side-footed his way down the slope, holding Jazz steady in his front-slung carrier. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘It’s both of those things.
‘We have our best people on each inquiry, yet so far each one’s as cold as a witch’s tit.’
‘Tit,’ Jazz repeated, enunciating clearly.
‘Yes, Jazz,’ said Sarah quickly, throwing a mock-frown at Bob. ‘Like the birds in our new garden. Bird, bird, okay.’
‘Bid, Mummy, bid,’ he shouted back at her.
They cleared the last of the dunes, and stepped out on to the path which led eastwards from Gullane’s curving mile-wide beach. Mark trotted on ahead of his adoptive parents, who strode out to keep him in sight.
‘It’s early days in both investigations, honey.’ She took his hand in hers as they walked.
‘Sure, but that’s the time when our hopes of success are best. With every day that passes the trails go colder, it gets tougher for the team.
‘What have we achieved today?’ He broke off. ‘Careful, Mark! The path falls away there. Keep close to the fence.’
‘Well,’ asked Sarah, breaking the silence which followed. He looked down at her. ‘What have you achieved?’
‘Sum total? We’ve established that someone walked into the ante-room of Archergait’s Court and slipped cyanide into the water carafe which Colin Maxwell had just refilled. We’ve also established that no one saw him do it.
‘As for the robberies, we’ve established that Malky McDonnell, our last living lead, is well gone. Not exactly what I call progress, on either front, my love.’
‘What about Maxwell?’ She sounded hesitant. ‘Are you sure . . .’
He laughed, ironically. ‘Wee Colin? I suppose you’re right to ask the question. There’s no argument that he filled the jug that poisoned the old boy. We’ve only got his word for it that he left the room empty and unlocked afterwards. He even stopped Brian Mackie from taking a drink from the carafe.
‘Sure, we could lift him and question him for twenty-four hours. We could give him a really hard time. At the end we might even be able to charge him. There’s only one thing wrong with that scenario.’
‘What’s that?’
‘No way did the poor man do it!’
She stopped in her tracks, pulling him to a standstill too. ‘Have you ever been wrong?’ she asked him.
‘Sure, as you well know. But not this time.’ He tugged at her hand and they resumed their walk. ‘Listen, we’re not being unprofessional about this. We’ve done checks with every chemist in town, to see if anyone’s been buying cyanide lately. Colin certainly hasn’t. And we’re also going round all known users of the stuff, to see if any have stock discrepancies. So far, no one has. ‘I asked Norman King, Archergait’s son, about Colin. He says that he and his father were good pals, going back to the old boy’s days at the Bar. They played golf together at Murrayfield. Quite often they partnered each other in the monthly medal.
‘No, love, trust me on this one. Colin Maxwell is not a murderer.’ He smiled at her. ‘Before you suggest it, he isn’t one of our bank robbers either!’
He looked down. Jazz, in his carrier, was sound asleep. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘That’s enough of the shop talk. Look what it’s done to the wee man.’
They walked on, to Freshwater Haven, and the spring from which it took its name, then round to the east sands. Normally the white beach was deserted, but on this warm evening two riders were exercising big, thoroughbred horses, letting them stretch their legs along the water’s edge. They caught up with Mark, who had stopped and was gazing down at them from the grey wall of a ruined cottage.
‘Whose are they, Uncle Bob?’ he asked.
‘I have no idea, son. Quite a few people around here own horses.’ He was on the point of asking whether Mark wanted a horse, but bit the words back. ‘One step at a time, Skinner,’ he told himself.
Leaving the galloping horses behind, they headed up from the beach and found a narrow path which ran for over half a mile around the edge of Muirfield golf course, before leading them back to the bridle path by which they had descended to the beach. By the time they reached home twenty minutes later, Jazz was stirring, but Mark was beginning to flag.
‘This is the best thing we’ve done as parents,’ said Bob to Sarah, as they watched their older son sitting on the front doorstep, wearily shaking the sand from his trainers. ‘I wish I had be
en brought up in a place like this.
‘How was school today, Mark?’ he called out.
‘Great,’ cried the youngster.
‘See what I mean?’
Sarah smiled as she took the boys off to prepare for bed, leaving Bob to set out their supper of salmon and avocado sauce, which she had cooked that afternoon, to be eaten cold. It had become their custom to dine in the conservatory, watching the sun going down towards the horizon. When Sarah appeared to take her seat at the table, having changed out of her T-shirt into a loose-fitting blouse, she was carrying a bottle of white wine in a cooler, and two glasses.
‘I know we decided we weren’t going to have alcohol every night,’ she said brightly, ‘but tonight, I think you need this.’
Bob nodded. ‘Yeah, I wouldn’t mind. With the funeral, then a difficult meeting with Archergait’s son, the day’s been pretty stressful. I don’t see it getting any better this week. I’ve got Annie Brown’s service tomorrow, then the old judge’s on Thursday.’
He accepted a glass from Sarah and held it as she filled it almost to the brim. ‘Christ, there won’t be many of them in the bottle.’
‘There’s another in the fridge if you need it.’
He nodded. ‘This may turn out to be the case,’ he said.
As they ate, Sarah recounted Mark’s description of his first day at his new school. ‘He seems to have made a couple of friends already. There’s a boy who lives along in Marine Terrace, and a girl round in Nisbet Road. He mentioned both of them.’
Bob grinned. ‘He won’t have any bother settling in, that one. It’s the teacher I feel sorry for. She’ll never have been hit with so many questions.’
Sarah pushed away her empty plate. ‘Speaking of questions,’ she said, quietly, ‘you still haven’t really answered mine from earlier. There’s something else troubling you, isn’t there, as well as these investigations.’
He picked up his glass, only to find that it was empty. Refilling it from the chilled bottle, he leaned back in his chair.
08 - Murmuring the Judges Page 13