“Was he depressed in any way? Did he give you any cause to suspect he might be suicidal?”
“None. He was fighting mad about this problem with the works pensions. But completely himself. Vintage Ken Strachan I would say.”
Dr Hullah gave some further details about recent consultations by other members of the family, but they were all routine matters, grist to the mill of a typical surgery.
Jim Sugden was called next. He ran through some of the details of the problems with the pension fund, and Ken’s outrage when the scale of the black hole came to light.
“He were that mad,” Sugden told the court. “He swore they wouldn’t get away with it.”
“Away with what?” the Sheriff asked.
“With the theft. That’s what Ken always said it were.”
“Is it possible, Mr Strachan became morbid about the whole business? Did it prey on his mind?”
“He were worried, but not morbid. No, not Ken.”
“In your experience, is it possible that problems of this nature can affect the mind? Worry the nerves?”
My heart went out to Jim, as I waited for him to answer. His thumbs twitched erratically along the edge of the witness box.
“Aye, it can. It can affect a man’s nerves. This business has ruined the health of several of our members.”
The Sheriff coughed, and signalled for the usher to attend the clerk, who gave him a piece of paper to take to the witness.
“Can you say if this is Mr Strachan’s handwriting?”
Jim screwed his eyes up.
“Mr Sugden?” the Sheriff prompted.
Jim took his reading glasses out of his top pocket, but he didn’t put them on, as though afraid. His hands trembled, as he studied the scrap of paper.
“Aye, I’d say so. But I couldn’t be sure.”
“Thank you, Mr Sugden.” The Sheriff’s tone softened. “Could I please ask you to read the note to the court.”
Jim opened his lips, but nothing came out.
“Speak up, Mr Sugden.”
Jim took a deep breath. “It says, I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, Mr Sugden, that will be all.”
The Sheriff signalled, he could step down.
“Please call Ms Julia Lighthorn to the stand,” the usher’s voice echoed round the court. My turn had come. I made my way to the stand.
“Ms Lighthorn, you were visited by Mr Strachan in the week before he died?”
“Yes, with Mr Sugden.”
“Did he seem distressed?”
“He was absolutely incandescent with rage.”
“About the pensions?”
“Yes.”
“Was there anything about his behaviour… did suicide ever occur to you?”
Ah how to answer that one. Suicide had loomed large in my mind, but not for Ken.
“No. absolutely not, not with regards to Ken.”
“How did you find him?”
“He was angry, as we have heard. He felt betrayed and very much alone.”
“Distressed?”
“No, not distressed.” Then an image of Ken thumping my desk came to mind. “Yes, I supposed he was distressed.”
“Angry enough to harm himself or his family?”
“I shouldn’t have thought so. Ken was a wily operator. He loved a good fight.”
“You are absolutely confident, he could never have been violent?”
I went to answer “absolutely,” but the word died in my throat. I found myself thinking of my wedding day. My handsome husband, my beautiful dress, the music, the cake, mum and dad, Peter, a huge crowd of friends.
“Ms Lighthorn, can you please answer the question.” The Sheriff called me back.
“I’m sorry…” I was flustered.
“Are you confident Mr Strachan was incapable of violence?”
Why couldn’t I answer?
“Ms Lighthorn, can I ask you for the last time. In your opinion was Ken Strachan capable of murdering his family.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
The court grumbled as I left the witness box. Mr Alexander Ross was called to the stand. So here, at last, was the elusive Mr Ross, the independent trustee, who had been avoiding my calls for weeks.
He was not what I had expected. Blond grey hair crowned a youthful face, softened by blue eyes. Here was a man people would warm to and trust.
“Mr Ross, you are investigating the collapse of the Kelly Brewery pension fund, I understand,” the Sheriff asked.
“Yes, so I knew Ken Strachan well.” Ross spoke briskly and openly.
“He was convinced money had been stolen from the fund.”
“Stolen is an emotive word.”
“Were there grounds for his suspicions?”
“We are currently investigating certain financial transactions. That is all I can say at this stage.”
“Did you see him regularly?”
“Very regularly.”
“Did you see him in the week before he died?”
“I saw him the day before he died.”
“Was he depressed?”
“Not about the pension fund. If anything, he was rather more optimistic than I had seen him for ages. He seemed convinced, he was on the verge of some breakthrough.”
“Was he?”
“Not that I’m aware. Oh yes, and he said someone had come on board what he always called “our great campaign for justice” who would ensure they won the day.”
“Did he say whom?”
“I believe it was a journalist.” His tone became unmistakeably drier. I felt my face blush. “I believe it may have been Ms Lighthorn you have just heard from.”
“Would you say he was capable of shooting his family?”
“I am an actuary, not a psychiatrist.”
“As a human being then, would anything about his behaviour indicate, he may have been on the brink of something drastic.”
“Absolutely not. I find it unbelievable and will until the day I die.”
A wave of approval thundered through the benches as Ross left the stand. I felt ashamed, I had not been able to give such unequivocal assurance. The clerk hammered his desk, and the noise subsided.
A deadly hush descended when the usher called Mrs Margaret Strachan to the stand. With poker-straight back, the old woman rose.
“Mrs Strachan,” the Sheriff’s voice noticeably softened. “Did you see your son in the days prior to this terrible event?”
“Aye. I saw Kenny every day of his life.”
“Did you see him the day he died?”
“Aye. He came round for a cup of tea on his way out for the day, like he always did.”
“Did he say anything which seemed unusual?”
“Nay, he did not.”
“Did he seem in any way…”
“Mr Sheriff. My son never murdered anybody.”
“Was he being threatened by anyone? Was there anyone else who could have done such a thing?”
“Somebody murdered my family. It’s for the porliss to investigate.”
The Sheriff thanked Mrs Strachan and the frail figure hobbled on her stick back to her seat. She was the final witness, but the hearing was not adjourned, as I had expected.
Instead, the Sheriff looked down at his bench and shuffled papers around for a bit, before taking off his glasses, and staring into the distance. For a few moments, we all stared with him into the comfortable suburb of Bearsden, at teatime on October 3.
Then, he cleared his throat, and the clerk began hammering on his table, indicating an announcement was imminent.
The Sheriff began. “I am concerned at the police handling of this case. It is possible that a teenage girl died because of the delay in entering the house. I am commissioning a full investigation into Strathclyde police’s procedures, to be led by Scotland Yard’s Chief Inspector Pitcher, who is in court today.
“I will not, however, be requiring further investigations into the deaths of the Strachan fami
ly. I am satisfied that Ken Strachan shot his family, while the balance of his mind was disturbed, and then turned the gun on himself.”
A piercing cry erupted from the front bench, where Mrs Strachan was sitting. The frail figure leapt to her feet and screamed, “It was murder I tell, you. Murder. My son loved his wifie and wains. Is there no justice in this country?”
The Sheriff was too quick for her. He jumped to his feet and disappeared from the court. Mrs Strachan crumpled sobbing onto her chair. A tiny, broken, pathetic figure.
Part of me wanted to go to her, but I didn’t know what to say, so I left the court quickly. I wanted to catch a word with the elusive Mr Ross. I reached the foyer in time to catch a glimpse of Carlton Crabb disappearing down the broad, winding staircase.
I waited for Ross to emerge.
“Mr Ross, you are a very difficult man to get hold of. I’m Julia Lighthorn,” I stretched out a hand, with what I hoped was an engaging smile.
“I know who you are, Ms Lighthorn,” he turned strikingly blue eyes towards me.
“I’m investigating the Kelly’s pension fund collapse.”
“How nice for you,” his tone dripped irony.
“Ken asked me to…”
“Ken Strachan had a great deal of faith in you.”
I tried one more time.
“Can I make an appointment to see you before I go back?”
“I am a very busy man Ms Lighthorn…”
He was cut dead by screams from inside the court. “Get a doctor, get a doctor,” people were shouting.
Ross pushed his way, against the flow of the crowd, back into the court room. I followed close behind. Professor MacIntosh and Dr Hullah were laying Mrs Strachan out on the floor. She was as limp as a rag doll. In turns, they pumped her chest and tried to breathe life into her.
I looked at Ross in horror.
“Congratulations, Ms Lighthorn,” the blue eyes darkened. “You came for a story and it looks like you are about to get one.”
With that, he pushed through the crowd to Mrs Strachan’s body. He spoke to Professor MacIntosh and then to the police standing around the patient. It could not have been more apparent, while I was an outsider, he was a trusted member of this community.
I watched for maybe twenty minutes, as they tried to resuscitate the old lady. Someone called an ambulance, and paramedics arrived with more equipment.
It was hopeless.
I left the court room, as they were placing her body on a stretcher ready for removal. Pitcher was waiting for me at the bottom of the winding stair case.
“You look as if you could do with a cup of tea,” he said, leading the way through huge wooden doors.
Chapter 17
12.45 am Wednesday, October 24,
Glasgow
I followed Pitcher across the road.
“Hard to believe this used to be a prison,” he said, as we entered a restaurant. “Makes the Scrubs look a bit basic.”
His constant chirpiness was maddening. We found a table in a corner, but I didn’t sit.
“Hungry?” he asked. My stomach heaved at the thought of food.
“I have to call the office,”
I needed to let them know Mrs Strachan was dead. I left him scanning the menu, returning to the lobby and dialling Ludgate direct. He picked up after one ring.
“Julia. Shoot.”
“Big story. Old Ma Strachan collapsed at the inquest. She’s dead.”
“So, the old dame croaked eh?”
“Heart attack, stroke or something.”
“Broken heart most like .Anyone else there?”
“There’ll be some local press, but that’s all. No one from London.”
“Good, how soon can you file?”
“There’re some loose ends, I want to tie up first. I’ll be across before six.”
“Anything else out of the inquest?”
“Loads.”
“Good girl, keep at it.”
The line clicked dead. I rejoined Pitcher. His food arrived. Full works, steak, fried egg, tomatoes, sausage, mushrooms, griddle cakes, black pudding, bake beans and chips. Not a green vegetable in sight.
He had ordered me coffee. The strong black liquid hit my nervous system like a shot of valium.
“So, what are you really doing here?” I asked him.
“You heard didn’t you?” Steak and tomato juices ran down his chin. “I’m the lucky bugger who gets to investigate Strathclyde.”
“That won’t win you any friends. They screwed up, didn’t they?”
“Oh yes,” his face darkened. “They screwed up big time. That little girl might well be alive if…” he stopped, as if forgetting himself, and quickly resumed his customary broad grin.
“Of course, this is idle chatter,” he was cutting into his steak again. “I have no idea what the investigation will show.”
“Quite. But that hearing was pretty damning.”
“Damning. It was a shambles. What d’you think about the forensics?”
“I don’t remember…” now he mentioned it, what had they said about the scene of the crime, DNA and so forth?
“They weren’t mentioned. The Scottish legal system’s a disgrace. Deaths are buried behind closed doors. There’s no routine system of public inquests. Even when one is conducted, like today, it’s sheer theatre. And they’re talking about introducing this system down south.”
“But we did learn...”
“I learnt nothing they didn’t want us to learn, which we didn’t know already,” he interrupted. “As for getting poor Jim Sugden to read that note. Why didn’t the copper read it?”
“Maybe the Sheriff thought…”
“Maybe they thought it would be more damning from the mouth of a friend. Pure theatre,” he repeated.
“I see,” I was beginning to suspect there might be more to this Essex donkey than I’d given credit for.
He finished his food, pushed the plate aside and wiped his mouth with a serviette.
“I’ve got an offer to put to you.”
I said nothing.
“You’re right,” he continued. “It’s gonna be lonely for me working here. The tartan mafia will do everything they can to block my inquiries.”
“My heart is bleeding.”
“Let’s pool our resources.”
“What you mean?”
“We both have a lot of unanswered questions.”
“We’re not necessarily asking the…
“Same questions, yes I know. You’re close to this story. You understand things I’ll struggle with. I can do stuff you can’t.”
Police and press often traded information.
“What’s your brief?” I asked.
“I find out why the Scots mucked up.”
“Not who murdered Ken and his family?”
“Murdered? There’s no evidence they were murdered.” There was a look in his eyes, I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was gone in a flash.
“You said yourself that the inquest…”
“Was a joke, doesn’t mean it reached the wrong conclusion.”
“Mrs Strachan was convinced someone had murdered them all.”
“She was biased, God rest her soul.”
He had a point.
“The money?” I said.
“Don’t care, not my business. Who cares about pensions...just a load of dead money.”
“Dead money, huh,” that was one way of describing it.
“I’ll never solve your mysteries for you. But, work with me and I’ll put what I can your way, if you…”
“Put anything I pick up your way.”
“Goddit. We’re neither of us popular up here. Let’s be friends. We could make a good team.”
“Team?” I laughed.
“You know, like Holmes and Watson, Morse and Lewis, Barnaby and Troy …”
“Laurel and Hardy?” I was in no position to turn down his offer, but I still didn’t trust him.
“
OK,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “Let me show you my good faith. Ask me for a favour.”
I told him about Raeburn’s allegations regarding possible corruption in the Hannigan case.
“And there’s something else.”
I repeated Ragland’s insinuations; neither seemed to come as news to him.
“He implied there were police files,” I added.
“I’ll look into them both. If there are files, I’ll find them and see what I can share with you.”
“Do you think it could be true?”
“That he was a paedophile?” I flinched at the word. “He was your friend.”
“I guess….”
“People let you down, that’s life,” he tipped his cup right up to drain the dregs.
“So you think...”
“I don’t think anything. This is just the start,” he said, placing it back in the saucer.
“Where will you work?”
“They’re giving me an office here. But I’ll be heading back south in a day or two...you?”
“I’m off to the asylum centre, then I’ve copy to file. I’d also give anything to see the independent trustee before I go home.”
“Alexander Ross?”
I nodded.
“Good man. Best I’ve met up here so far.”
“Doesn’t like journalists. Won’t take my calls.”
“I’ll give you his mobile. Don’t say it came from me.”
Pitcher was rising in my estimation.
“You may need to try a few times. Don’t leave a message. I find he doesn’t call you back.”
“It’s reassuring to know mine aren’t the only calls he ignores,” I smiled.
“He’s a busy man, runs the company.”
I nodded.
“He’s a widower, with four kids. They run him ragged. What with this case, the firm and the kids, I’m not surprised his secretary guards him like a hawk.”
I digested this information, as I punched the number into my mobile, before pulling on my jacket to leave.
“Three tenners should do it,” he said, pointing to the table.
What cheek, I thought, taking the notes out of my purse and threwing them down.
“One more thing,” I remembered, “That missing actuary. Any news?”
“You know as much as I do. But hey, grown-ups walk out on their lives all the time. Often the best thing. Better than…” he stopped himself suddenly, looking at me sheepishly.
DEAD MONEY Page 8