‘You tried that trick the last time,’ she said coldly enough to send tendrils of frost creeping up the security glass. ‘It didn’t work then either.’
‘Look, all I want to know is why he can’t put the murder case through today. Could you at least pass the message on?’
‘Thanks, Karen, I’ll take over from here.’ Hugh Ogilvie slithered from the shadows. Taking a step back to allow his admin assistant’s exit stage right, he approached the counter and looked at me as though I’d dropped by to report a Bigfoot sighting. ‘Murder? What are you talking about?’
‘It’s a legal term, Hugh. Look it up, it’s in most of the good law books.’
He unlocked the security door and held it open for me. I came around the dark side of the counter and followed him through the open plan office to his glass-fronted room.
‘I’ve not had a report of a murder,’ he said, once he’d closed the door behind him. ‘All deaths in the locality have to come across my desk.’
In which case he would have noticed it for his desk seemed unnaturally tidy. You could even see the surface, a highly polished wood laminate. The surface of mine was like gravity; you knew it had to exist, it was just that no one had ever seen it.
Ogilvie lifted his phone, pressed a button and waited. And waited. Now he knew how the rest of us felt. Eventually he slammed the receiver down and strode to the door. ‘Who was on death-duty last night!’
Without looking up from her typing, the admin assistant sitting at a workstation a metre or so away mumbled something I didn’t quite catch.
‘Did he say anything about a murder?’
His assistant dragged herself out of her chair and walked into his office. Not looking at Ogilvie, she pulled open a desk drawer and removed a sheet of paper. Ogilvie snatched it from her. His curt ‘thank you’ was her cue to leave.
‘Four deaths. No reports of anything suspicious,’ Ogilvie said, letting the sheet of paper float to the desk. ‘Is this some kind of joke? If you’ve wheedled your way in here on the pretence of a murder case, just so you can try and talk me into some kind of a soft plea for one of your—’
‘I can assure you that Mr Turpie and his employee are both under arrest at this very moment for murder,’ I said. ‘If you’re not going to release them, at least put them through court today. What’s the point of keeping them banged up for another twenty-four hours?’
A smile crept across Ogilvie’s face like mould on a Petri dish. ‘Turpie? Jake Turpie?’
Ogilvie really did have no idea. There had been a murder on his doorstep and no one, it seemed, had bothered to mention it to the head of the local prosecuting authority.
‘So you’ll see,’ I said, after filling him on a few details, ‘there’s not a scrap of evidence against them.’
The smile just wouldn’t leave the PF’s face. ‘Apart, you mean, from being at the scene of the crime and their respective histories of extreme violence?’
‘Don’t give me that,’ I said. ‘Once the report lands on your desk I’m expecting a PF-release for both of them. An apology wouldn’t go amiss either.’
Still smiling, Ogilvie went to the door again. ‘Karen. Nip over to Costa’s and fetch us a couple of coffees, will you?’ He turned to me. ‘Black, isn’t it, Robbie?’
Ogilvie offering me coffee and using my first name?
‘Two sugars,’ I managed to get out.
He came over to me, pulled out a chair and patted the seat. ‘This murder. Tell me some more about it.’
11
‘I knew I should have locked you up too.’ Dougie Fleming held open the door allowing entry to the inner sanctum of Livingston Police Office and led me down a corridor to his office. Compared to Hugh Ogilvie’s, the DI’s room looked like the aftermath of a bomb blast. Piles of paper were heaped in one corner, a toppled whiteboard with partially erased marker pen scribblings occupied another, and somewhere, under a pile of ring binders, coffee mugs and evidence bags, was a desk. Chuck in a desiccated umbrella plant and it could have been my own office during Grace-Mary’s summer holidays.
Fleming stopped, turned and leaned against the edge of the desk. He stared me in the face, lips compressed, eyes narrowed, like a gorilla holding in a fart. ‘After your little visit to the PF this morning, I’ve had him breathing down my neck wanting to know what’s going on,’ he said.
‘What is going on?’ I asked.
Fleming pushed himself away from his desk and stepped towards me. ‘I distinctly remember telling you . . . ’ There were only the two of us present; nonetheless, Fleming poked a finger in my chest just in case I thought he might be addressing somebody else. ‘Not to say a word about this to anyone.’
‘But—’
‘Anyone,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve got a tight unit working on this case and now that I’ve been forced to tell Ogilvie, the whole world is going to know.’
‘Isn’t the PF the first person who’s supposed to know about a suspicious death?’
‘Not until my enquiries are finished he’s not.’
‘What’s the big secret?’
‘The big secret is that I’ve got two dead bodies and I don’t know who they are.’
‘I thought you told me you’d found the girl’s mother?’
‘I told you we’d found the body of a female.’
Fleming wandered over to his desk and squared a stack of blank A4 paper, tapping its edge on the desk.
I followed him. ‘You’ve got absolutely nothing, have you? In that case, I want my clients released. If not, I demand to see them so that I can reassure them they’ll be getting out soon and so that they know the only reason they are being kept in is because of your vindictiveness.’
‘You’re not seeing them.’
‘Are you refusing your prisoners access to legal counsel? Do you mind if I make a note of that?’
Fleming peeled a sheet of paper from the wad in his hand and offered it to me. ‘Note away. You spoke to them last night. A very lengthy chat as I recall and . . . ’ Fleming picked up his phone and buzzed through to the custody suite. ‘Billy, has either Turpie or the other one asked to speak to their lawyer?’ Presumably Billy was the custody sergeant and equally presumably he replied in the negative. ‘Didn’t think so,’ Fleming replaced the receiver. ‘I think your clients’ rights have all been adequately catered for, Mr Munro. They had the benefit of consulting with you last night before being interviewed. Now that they are officially suspects and under arrest, I’m sure you’ll be permitted to speak to them tomorrow up at the Sheriff Court. If not, you can visit them on remand as often as you like. The Scottish Prison Service is very accommodating that way.’
I’d had enough of his crap. ‘I want to speak to the senior investigating officer.’
Fleming crushed the single sheet, straightened and thrust out his chins. ‘I’m the deputy SIO.’
‘Then I’d like to speak to your senior officer.’
He cleared his throat. ‘I’m also acting SIO at the moment.’
How could he be SIO and deputy SIO? He’d have to make his own coffee. Suddenly, I understood. ‘You’re stalling. You don’t want anyone else involved. Not the newspapers, not the PF and not your senior officers. You’re trying to keep it under wraps for as long as possible, solve the case and take the credit. Chief Inspector here you come, and if that means fitting up a couple of innocent men, then—’
‘Innocent?’ Fleming sneered. ‘Jake Turpie’s many things, but innocent isn’t one of them. I’ve spoken to Hugh Ogilvie. They’re both going on a murder Petition. There’s more chance of Voyager Two making a comeback than that pair getting bail. Which gives me plenty of time to nail them. And, trust me, I’ll get them for something. If my investigations reveal that Jake Turpie has been breathing heavily I’ll do him for stealing air.’
I was familiar with Dougie Fleming’s recipe for crime investigations: take one suspect, add evidence from which guilt might be inferred, discard any that might suggest otherwise and present to the jury. Jus
t like sculpting an elephant from a block of granite. Simply chip away all those pieces that don’t look like an elephant.
‘All you have is the two of them at the scene and then attending at a police station to report the finding of a dead body. That’s exercising their public duty, not a motive.’
Fleming yanked open an already full drawer and tried to stuff the wad of paper into it. ‘It’s enough of a motive for me.’
‘And you don’t even know who the dead people are yet. I take back what I said about you having nothing. You’ve got less than nothing, because I was there with Jake. In fact it was me who found the body. A body that had probably been dead for days.’
Fleming slammed the drawer closed, or tried to, because it jammed against the ream of paper. It must have been killing him. The knowledge that he had Jake and Deek under lock and key, and yet the two accused would spend no more than a week in custody before they’d have to be released due to lack of evidence. There was no way he could have them fully committed for trial on what little he had, no matter how thinly he stretched it.
‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘This time next week they’ll both be out. What’s seven days inside to them? Won’t make you look too clever, though. Big splash in the papers about two suspects being charged, only for them to be released, grounds no longer exist, a week later.’
Fleming pointed a finger at me. ‘If you really want, I could let you speak to your clients – by banging you up in the same cell as them!’
Fleming was vindictive enough to do it too. Just not sufficiently stupid. He might have managed to persuade Ogilvie to prosecute Jake and Deek because of their criminal past and presence at the scene, but lock up the person, a lawyer, who’d reported the crime and rescued a starving child? That wouldn’t look so good. He levelled an index finger once more at my chest.
‘You’re not going to start poking me again, are you?’ I asked.
Fleming lowered his hand, his face fading slowly from puce to its more natural crimson hue. ‘This is an ongoing enquiry. Until I know more about the victims and have had a chance to gather all the evidence, I’m not having you spreading rumours around. That means no phoning your pal at the Gazette.’
I wouldn’t have to. As soon as Jake and Deek appeared at court the next day on a murder petition, Kaye Mitchell, editor of the local newspaper, would be all over the story.
‘In fact I think I’ll give the editor a call and warn her that . . . ’ he fumbled in his pocket and then raked around his desk. ‘Where’s the number? I had it somewhere.’ He cobbled together a smile. Alarm bells. ‘Have you got the number on your mobile?’
‘I have, but I don’t have my phone with me.’
‘Left it at home again, have you? Turpie’s too smart to carry a phone around with him and that big clown he goes about with wouldn’t know how to work one. But strange that you never seem to have one on you either.’ Did the man never give up? ‘Why’s that then?’
‘Because I’m supposed to be on leave. My phone’s for business and I’ve left it at my office.’
Fleming grunted in disbelief. I knew he’d be dying to take a look at my phone, find out where it had been and who I’d been calling around the time of the murder, whenever that was supposed to have been. I had a good mind to ask Grace-Mary to hand the phone in, let him analyse it to his heart’s content and then puzzle over why in the last few days the only calls made from it had been to a series of middle-aged women and the Linlithgow Bridge Club.
‘If you want the phone, you’re welcome to apply for a warrant.’
‘Maybe I will,’ Fleming said. ‘My investigations have just started and I’m throwing the net wide on this one. Just watch out you don’t swim into it.’
12
‘You again?’ was the warm welcome I received from Grace-Mary. She was putting on her raincoat. It was three o’clock.
‘I need to speak to Joanna about something and, as you know, I don’t have a phone at the moment,’ I said.
Grace-Mary picked up a red nylon mail bag from the reception desk.
‘Leaving so soon?’ I asked.
‘I’m taking the letters to the post office and then Joanna said I could go home early.’
‘Did she indeed? Sounds like when the cat’s away . . . ’
Joanna walked into reception ‘Not cat,’ she tutted, and stroked me under the chin, ‘pussycat.’ She laid a couple of mini-cassettes on the desk. ‘I’ll leave these here. You can make a start on them in the morning, Grace-Mary.’
‘What’s all this about letting the staff go home early?’ I asked, once my secretary had left the building.
‘I was at court most of the day. I’ve dictated some stuff since I came back which Grace-Mary will rattle through in no time. The woman types like a machine gun. And so, as there are no appointments left this afternoon, I thought I’d let her go home early.’
‘Who’s answering the phones?’
‘I am. They’re not exactly ringing off the hook. Stop looking at me like that. If I let Grace-Mary leave early on slow days, then she won’t complain if I ask her to stay late to finish off something important one evening.’ It was a scenario I wouldn’t have put money on, but Joanna was certain of her territory. ‘It’s called personnel management. I read a book about it. You know, it wouldn’t do you any harm to praise Grace-Mary from time to time.’
‘You mean patronise her?’
‘No, I mean tell her when she’s done a good job.’
‘She always does a good job and she knows it. If I tell her I know it too, she’ll want a pay rise.’
‘That’s plain mean.’
‘No, that’s financial management. I haven’t read a book on it, but I have read my bank statement.’
‘Well, read it again,’ Joanna said. ‘It’s no worse now than it was before you went off. There’s no need to keep checking up on us.’
‘Why would you think I was checking up on you? And can I just say what a great job you’re doing?’
Joanna elevated an eyebrow. ‘Either tell me why you’re here or go now, while you can still walk.’
‘Jake Turpie and Deek Pudney have been charged with murder. They’re appearing in court tomorrow. They’ll both be 23D’d, so it’ll just be a case of no plea or declaration, continued for further enquiries, bail refused.’
Scots law had adopted the European Convention on Human Rights in 1999 and the government had been trying to circumvent it ever since. The Convention had put paid to the old rule of no bail for murder accused, and so the Scottish Parliament had introduced section 23D of the Criminal Procedure Act to prevent any accused who had a prior conviction on indictment for a sexual, violent or drug-trafficking offence being granted bail unless there were exceptional circumstances. To date, Sheriff Albert Brechin had never found anyone’s circumstances remotely atypical far less exceptional.
‘I think I can just about handle that,’ Joanna said. ‘Are you going to cut one of them out?’
Even though I couldn’t see any conflict of interest, it wasn’t worth the risk acting for two accused in a murder case, and, anyway, it wasn’t like Jake would pay any more. He’d expect a two-for-one deal. If I cut Deek out to another lawyer then I could bill Jake privately, and his big, ugly co-accused would qualify for legal aid.
‘Yes. Keep Jake. Give Deek to Paul Sharp. No need to bother him today. Let him know after court tomorrow and he can take it from there. Say I’ll speak to him about the case soon.’
‘And you think that Jake Turpie’s going to be all right with me appearing? I told you he didn’t even want me to speak to him when he was arrested. He insisted that I call you.’
‘Tell him he’s just going to have to get used to you.’
‘Why’s that, then?’
‘Because, while there’s no reason I can’t prepare his defence, when it comes to the actual trial, I can’t be in the courtroom and the witness room at the same time.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It looks very much like I’ll be defence witness numero uno. After all, I was there when the bodies were found.’
‘Bodies?’ As usual I heard Kaye Mitchell before I saw her. She thrust a parcel at me. It was gift-wrapped in blue paper featuring pictures of swaddled-babies and storks. ‘Sorry about the paper.’
I took the parcel. An item of clothing I guessed. As a boy, at Christmas and birthdays I’d hated that soft squishy feel when what I’d really wanted was something hard with edges.
‘Thanks.’ I dropped the parcel onto the reception desk. It struck Joanna’s mini-cassettes sending them skidding across the surface and onto the floor. Kaye went over, picked them up and studied them. ‘Really? Tape? Haven’t you heard of the digital age?’
‘Thanks for the present, Kaye. I’m sure Tina will love it, but do you mind? I’m trying to have a confidential meeting with my business partner.’
‘You never told me you were taking on a partner.’ Kaye placed the cassettes on the desk again and stuck out a hand to Joanna. ‘Congratulations . . . I think.’
Joanna looked from Kaye’s outstretched hand to me.
‘When I say partner, I mean colleague. Joanna’s standing in for me while I look after Tina.’
‘And where is the wee smasher?’
‘Looking after her granddad. I should have collected her half an hour ago.’
Kaye sat down on the edge of the desk. Hints and the taking of them had never been one of her strong points. ‘So, anyway, you were saying. Bodies? I take it we’re talking dead ones?’
I remembered Dougie Fleming’s threats. ‘Sorry, I don’t have the time right now. I’ll need to get home. Joanna, would it be all right if you gave me a call later on after I’ve given Tina her tea?’
‘Bodies?’ Joanna said. ‘Bodies, plural?’
It was half past four. The Linlithgow Gazette came out on a Friday and, this late on a Thursday afternoon, would have been put to bed long before now. Plus Jake and Deek would be appearing in court tomorrow afternoon and then the whole world would know.
‘Is that it?’ Kaye asked after I’d recounted my story. ‘You don’t even know who the murder victims are? What good is that to me? I need facts. What do you give me? Two unknown people are murdered somewhere out in the sticks at an address the main witness can’t remember. Quick! Hold the front page.’ She looked down at her notepad, shaking her head. ‘Spell the names of the two suspects for me. At least I can get that right.’
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