08 - Murmuring the Judges

by Quintin Jardine

  In the wake of the sensational publicity which had followed the revelation of the circumstances of the deaths of the two judges, Colin Maxwell had been less than keen on being seen in conversation in Parliament House with Mario McGuire and Neil McIlhenney, Instead, he had suggested, ‘a jar across the road, lads. lunchtime, eh?’

  Like many Edinburghers in their age group, both of the policemen were traditionalists. They disliked instinctively the plasticised, made-over bars, selling designer beer rather than draught, which had proliferated in the city for a time. Instead they sought out places like Deacon Brodie’s, traditional pubs with a mature atmosphere, and with unfailingly good ale.

  McGuire settled back into the bench seat, watching McIlhenney as he made his way from the bar, three pints of brown, white-crested heavy beer nestling securely in his big hands. He laid them on the table then took three rounds of polythene-wrapped sandwiches from the capacious pockets of his double-breasted jacket.

  ‘Chicken Tikka?’ said the Inspector. ‘They’re all bloody Chicken Tikka.’

  ‘Very true,’ the bulky sergeant retorted. ‘I like Chicken Tikka and I’m buying. Sling them over here if you don’t fancy them.’

  With a muted growl, the swarthy, piratical McGuire ripped his pack open, leaning forward as he did and turning towards the little court officer, who sat quietly, tasting his beer. ‘Aye,’ he mused. ‘The best pint in these parts, this is. Cheers, lads.’

  ‘Cheers.’ McIlhenney looked at him, over the top of his glass. ‘How’s the Court today then? Any judges left?’

  Maxwell grunted, his eyebrows coming together. ‘Mine’s bloody twitchy, I can tell you. He fairly rattled through the witnesses this morning. He kept looking down at the accused too, as if he was saying “Why don’t you plead guilty, you bastard, and let me out of here.” The boy’s getting the message, I think. I wouldn’t be surprised if the trial folds this afternoon.’

  ‘Colin,’ said McGuire, pushing the crust of his first Chicken Tikka sandwich back into the plastic casing, ‘we were very interested in what you had to tell us about Lord Archergait’s attitude to his son. From what we can gather, Norman King didn’t like his father much either.’

  The little man’s face clouded. ‘That’s true enough. I’ve heard those stories too, about what a bloody awful father he was, but I take as I find, and I liked the old boy.’

  ‘What about Barnfather? Did you know much about him?’

  Maxwell took a long swallow of beer. ‘Old Walter? Nobody ever knew too much about him. There were stories, though.’

  ‘What kind of stories?’

  ‘The kind that get the Bench a bad name.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  The little man leaned forward. ‘Boys,’ he whispered.

  ‘You mean he was a paedophile?’ asked McIlhenney.

  ‘No, no. I don’t mean children. I mean young men: above the age of consent, although I’ve never heard of one carrying a birth certificate.’

  ‘What’s the big deal though? There are gay advocates these days. There are gays in just about every walk of life.’

  ‘Aye, but a gay judge is something else. The tabloids have a field day with that sort of thing. There’s gays and gays, too. The rumour about old Walter was that he liked them young, and so he went with male prostitutes; the rough trade down in Leith. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Did you ever hear of him having a special friend?’

  Maxwell shifted in his seat. As the policemen watched him, he ate a sandwich in silence. ‘There was a story,’ he said at last, ‘about him and old Archergait. But that’s all it was, only a story. They were good friends, I know that . . . They came to the Bar at around the same time . . . but I’m sure there was never any of that stuff.’ His face twisted into an expression of distaste.

  ‘Do you know of any connection between them other than just friendship?’ McGuire asked.

  The Court officer frowned again, and launched an attack upon his second sandwich. When he was finished he crumpled up the packaging, turned for a moment as if looking for a wastebin, then, finding none, laid it back on the table.

  ‘Well,’ he began, at last. ‘Old Billy told me a story one day at the golf; in confidence, but they’re both dead now, so what the hell. He and Barnfather were planning on leaving all their money to the Faculty of Advocates, to be used to support youngsters training for the Bar, and in their first year in practice.

  ‘Walter didn’t have any family to inherit his, and old Billy only had the two boys: one he hated, and the other earns upwards of two hundred grand a year, so he doesn’t need it.’

  ‘Surely Norman King must be a high earner too?’ McIlhenney interrupted.

  ‘No’ really. He has a mainly criminal practice, and Legal Aid fees are bloody tight these days.

  ‘Anyway,’ he went on. ‘Billy told me . . . this was just two or three weeks back, mind . . . that they were in discussion with the Dean, and some sort of joint trust was going to be drawn up, wills changed and so on. I don’t know if it ever was though. I hope so, for it can be tough for a young advocate with no pay during training and precious little for the first year or so. On top of that, most of them that come up from now on will still be carrying debt from student loans.’

  ‘Poor souls,’ said McGuire, without a scrap of sincerity in his voice. ‘Let’s hope everything was signed.’ He drained his glass, ‘Neil, we’d better get back across the road. There’s someone we have to talk to and we might just catch him before business starts again for the afternoon.’

  41

  ‘The Dean confirmed it, sir. The arrangements for the joint bequest were complete, the wills and trust documents were in preparation, and the whole thing was due to be signed and sealed next week.’

  ‘How much money are we talking about, Mario?’ asked Andy Martin, as he stood by his office window, looking at the street outside.

  ‘The Dean said he couldn’t be sure but he reckoned that Archergait was worth about seven hundred thousand, and Barnfather maybe a bit less. Under the terms of the deal they were both transferring their properties to the Faculty now, the value to be realised on their death.’

  ‘So Norman King may have had a lot to lose next week.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The Head of CID turned to face McGuire and McIlhenney. ‘If Maggie and Sergeant Neville can come up with a witness out at the Nature Reserve who’ll identify Norman King . . .

  ‘But I’m getting ahead of myself. We need to check whether King was a loser. For all we know there might be an existing will which disinherits him anyway. I don’t suppose the Dean mentioned the names of the solicitors acting for the old boys, did he?’

  The big sergeant smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, sir, he did, in passing. You’re going to love this one. Old Archergait’s lawyers are Curle, Anthony and Jarvis.’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ Martin gasped. ‘That’s Alex’s outfit. I can see her now, digging in her heels and going on about legal ethics and confidentiality and all that stuff.’ He paused.

  ‘I think I’d better get her old man in on the act . . . without delay!’

  42

  ‘The trouble is, Bob, although I’m the head of the firm, there’s a limit to my powers of compulsion over my partners. In fact, in theory I don’t have any.’ Mitchell Laidlaw looked at Skinner across the desk, unblinking.

  ‘You know Hannah Johnson, the head of our Private Client Division, don’t you?’

  ‘Thanks for your delicacy, mate,’ Skinner growled. ‘You’re bloody well aware that I do, since you recommended her to draw up my separation agreement a while back.’

  ‘Well in that case, it won’t have escaped your notice that Hannah is a stickler for propriety. Between you and me, when she gets on her high horse it can be difficult to persuade her to dismount.

  ‘I suggest that you speak to her and see how she reacts. Better that it’s just the two of you, I think. I wouldn’t want Mrs Johnson to get the idea that I was try
ing to lean on her in any way.’ The DCC nodded agreement, and the burly lawyer picked up his telephone. He spun his chair round so that his back was to Skinner, leaving his guest to admire the view of Edinburgh Castle as he spoke to his colleague.

  After a minute or two he turned again and replaced the receiver. ‘Give her a couple of minutes, and she’ll see you. I haven’t told her what it is, only that it’s official rather than personal business.’

  He paused. ‘Incidentally, if I may be indelicate for a change, how are you and Sarah getting along?’

  The policeman smiled. ‘Couldn’t be better,’ he replied. ‘It’s a funny thing, but surviving a thing like that can bring you closer together than ever as a couple. I guess some bonds are unbreakable.

  ‘The new house was a good idea too. We’re going to throw a party before the summer’s over, so keep a Saturday in September free.’ He stood up, and Laidlaw led him to the door and out into the panelled corridor.

  ‘There’s a meeting room available just along here, Bob.’ In a few strides he reached a dark wood door which he threw open. ‘Hannah will join you any minute now.

  ‘See you tonight?’ Laidlaw asked, as Skinner stepped past him into the windowless room.

  ‘Lads’ night? I never miss it if I can help it. And after the week I’ve had so far, I’m looking forward to letting off some steam.’

  ‘That sounds ominous. See you later, then.’

  He left the policeman alone in the meeting room. However, he barely had time to glance at the pictures on the grey-papered walls before the door opened once more and the slim grey-suited figure of Hannah Johnson entered.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Skinner,’ she began. ‘It’s nice to see you again . . . I think. How can I help you?’

  ‘You act for Lord Archergait, I believe, Mrs Johnson . . . or at least for his estate.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘As you’ll be aware, his death, and that of Lord Barnfather, are the subject of police investigations. It’s been brought to our attention that the two of them were in the process of setting up some sort of joint trust, vesting their property in the Faculty of Advocates.’

  The solicitor reached up a slim hand and touched her immaculate silver-blonde hair. ‘That’s correct,’ she said slowly. ‘The documents were being finalised when Lord Archergait died.’

  ‘Finalised but not signed?’

  ‘That’s correct.’ She flashed him a quick, mischievous smile. ‘Unfortunately for the poor boys and girls up in Parliament House.’

  Skinner grinned back at her. ‘They’ll survive, I’m sure.

  ‘The thing is, Mrs Johnson, this is all potentially relevant to a murder investigation. So far, my officers have been told a few stories about Lord Archergait, and his family relationships. We need to sort out truth from fiction, and I was hoping that you would be able to help us, informally.’

  The woman’s slim features creased into a frown. ‘Did Mitch Laidlaw say I would?’

  ‘Absolutely not. He was quite emphatic that you would follow your own instincts, and that he couldn’t influence you.’

  ‘Are you asking me to breach my duty of confidentiality to my client?’

  The policeman scratched his chin. ‘No, I don’t think I am . . . since your client is dead.’ He paused. ‘As far as the interests of the Estate are concerned, why don’t I try you with a few specific questions. If you have a problem with any of them, tell me about it, and we’ll see where we go from there.’

  Hannah Johnson raised an eyebrow. ‘For example, we might go to Court, to force me to co-operate?’

  ‘God forbid,’ said Skinner. ‘The last thing I want to do is take legal action against my daughter’s employers.’

  She laughed. ‘Yes, I’d forgotten about Alex. Okay, let me see how far I can help.’

  ‘Good. So let’s begin. First, can you tell me how long the firm has acted for Lord Archergait?’

  ‘Since before my time here. This is an old-established practice, as you know. I believe that decades ago Lord Archergait completed his initial training here before going to the Bar, and that we’ve acted for him since then.’

  ‘So that means that you acted throughout his marriage to Lady Archergait and in the period leading to her death.’

  ‘Yes we did, although at one point, Lady Archergait used her own family solicitors.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because at one point, they were involved in drawing up a will on her behalf.’

  The DCC showed surprise, involuntarily but only momentarily. ‘We’ve been told that Lady Archergait had made a will leaving all her property to her two sons,’ he continued. ‘According to our source, at the time of her death Lord Archergait destroyed it and denied its existence.’

  ‘Then either your source or their source is malicious,’ said the solicitor. ‘Because that story just isn’t true. Lord Archergait didn’t tear up the will: it was superseded, about five years before Lady Archergait’s death, by a joint will in which they left their property to each other, passing to the sons after them.’

  ‘That’s funny. It doesn’t quite fit the picture painted for us of Lord Archergait as a domestic tyrant.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure. The joint will was Lord Archergait’s idea. I was only an assistant then but I was entrusted with drawing it up. I got the impression that he had only just found out about Lady A’s earlier arrangement and had made her change it, naming him as principal beneficiary. From a hint she dropped once, I formed the impression that she had only agreed on the basis that the sons were named as second beneficiaries.’

  ‘I see,’ muttered Skinner. ‘So presumably that joint will remains in existence, given that Archergait never did sign the most recent one in favour of the Faculty?’

  Mrs Johnson hesitated. ‘This is where it starts to get difficult for me.’ She stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, then back at the policeman. ‘Oh, what the hell. You’re a client too, so this is just between you and me.’

  ‘Until it gets to the witness box.’

  ‘Fair enough. The joint will is no longer in force. Lord Archergait gave me a letter a month ago, renouncing its terms.’

  ‘Why did he bother?’

  ‘It was part of the setting-up process for the bequest. He and Barnfather knew that it couldn’t be done overnight, so to guard against either one of them dying during the setting-up process, they entered a joint minute of agreement setting out their intention and naming each one as the other’s executor, in the event of death, with power to complete the transaction.’

  The DCC threw his head back and sucked in a long hissing breath. ‘I see.’

  He looked across the table at the lawyer. ‘So what’s the position now?’

  ‘There’s no one left to execute the trust deed. In theory both old men died intestate.’

  ‘In theory?’

  ‘Yes, because the King brothers could execute the deed, on their father’s behalf at least. Alternatively, they could go to Court to have the original will reinstated. Or they could do nothing and it would have the same effect, since they’re the only blood relatives.’

  ‘For the brothers to execute the deed, would they have to be in agreement?’

  ‘For sure. If either one objected, it couldn’t be done . . . unless, of course the Faculty tried to raise an action to implement the joint minute of agreement.’

  ‘Would such an action succeed?’

  Hannah Johnson smiled again. ‘It might, but my guess would be that it could be appealed all the way up to the House of Lords. In that event the whole estate would go on legal fees.’

  ‘Have you had any indication yet of what might happen?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ve had a letter from solicitors acting for Norman King, asking for information on the amount of the estate. I’ve spoken to them. They didn’t confirm it but I’m in no doubt that he intends to claim a half share.’

  ‘Do you think Norman King knew of his father’s intention, an
d of the joint minute?’

  ‘The letter from his solicitor seems to indicate that he did, which surprises me a little, since Lord Archergait and Lord Barnfather both stressed the need for confidentiality. I hope I need not tell you that nothing would leak from my office.’

  ‘Of course you needn’t,’ said Skinner. ‘But who could have told him about it?’

  ‘That’s the big question,’ she answered. ‘So far, I can only think of the person who witnessed the document.’

  ‘And who was that?’

  ‘Lord Archibald, the Lord Advocate.’

  43

  Bob Skinner stood at the window of the Chief Constable’s office and gazed at the empty chair behind the desk.

  ‘Where are you when I need you, Jimmy?’ he pondered aloud. ‘If ever I missed your sound political touch in an investigation, then it’s now.’

  Seated in the soft leather suite, Andy Martin, Mario McGuire and Neil McIlhenney looked up at him. ‘Come on, Boss,’ said the Head of CID, ‘this idea of the Chief as a smooth operator is a figment of your imagination. On most of the occasions when he’s had to deal with politicians he’s done it with a great big club.

  ‘He gets on with Councillor Topham because she’s fucking hypnotised by him, that’s all. And in the past he’s seen off at least one Minister of the Crown that I know of.’

  Skinner scowled at him from his seat in the fourth chair in the group. ‘Maybe so, but I still wish he was here. I value his judgment as much as his skill as a hypnotist. Christ, what a situation we’re in. The Home Advocate Depute is shaping up as the number one suspect in a double murder. Not only that, but the Lord Bloody Advocate could be involved too.’

  He looked across at McGuire and McIlhenney. ‘You checked with the Dean of Faculty, and with Maxwell, like I asked?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the Inspector confirmed. ‘The Dean said that only he and the Treasurer of the Faculty knew about the bequest . . . and they didn’t know about any minute of agreement. As for Colin, he swears blind that he didn’t tell anyone about Archergait’s plans, other than us.’