Murder in Court Three

by Ian Simpson

  ‘I don’t remember saying that either, but it’s something lots of women say every day.’

  Flick decided to intervene. ‘Come on, Mrs Knox. Please don’t insult our intelligence. I know this is distressing and embarrassing, but the sooner we conclude our investigation the better it will be for everyone. We know, yes, we know that your husband had been having an affair with Mrs Traynor and that they went off to Court Three to have sex immediately before he was killed. We know that when the archery was over you went out for a cigarette. We also know that you did the Dashing White Sergeant with the Cuthberts. But there is a gap of ten to fifteen minutes which you have not accounted for. You could have killed your husband during that time. Please help us. If you can establish what you were doing then, we can eliminate you as a suspect.’

  ‘I’ve already told you …’

  Flick cut in. ‘With respect, you haven’t. The last time we met you said you came in from smoking and then the dancing started. But there was a gap.’

  ‘Maybe I went to the Ladies. I can’t remember.’

  ‘You had been to the Ladies after dinner.’

  ‘Maybe I went again. I can’t remember exactly.’ Her voice caught and Flick could tell that real tears were not far away. ‘All right. I knew about Lynda Traynor and I was furious, really furious, that Farquhar should make a fool of me by going off to shag her when I was being the dutiful wife. I sort of drifted about for a bit outside – it was a pleasant night – and calmed down before going back in. And, before you ask, no one can confirm that. How was I to know someone was going to stab him then?’ She glared at the officers, her face full of hurt and anger.

  ‘There’s something else,’ Baggo said softly. ‘We know about the three million pounds insurance policy. Was that your idea?’

  She looked at him steadily. ‘No it was not. My husband found fidelity a challenge, as he put it. After yet another argument over one of his many affairs, he insured his own life for three million. Of course I was very grateful until he told me it was to protect himself. Because the sum was so large, if he was ever murdered I’d be the prime suspect. There would be no way the insurance company would pay out until they were sure I had nothing to do with his death. I remember his words, “With this policy, there’s no way you’ll ever dare to kill me.” And he was right.’

  ‘You thought about it?’ Baggo asked.

  A twisted smile on her face she said, ‘Yes. But I only thought about it.’

  ‘So have we finally got the truth from you?’ Flick asked. ‘You had your smoke, then went for a walk to calm down and then came in for the Dashing White Sergeant?’

  As she nodded, Lord Hutton burst into the room. This time he wore a well-tailored dark suit and it was easy to believe he was a High Court judge. ‘What is this outrage, Inspector?’ he blustered. ‘I thought I warned you the last time we met. Mrs Knox is a very vulnerable person. You will hear more of this matter.’

  Flick gave him her sweetest smile. ‘She’s a lot less vulnerable than she was, Lord Hutton, now that she says she has finally told us the truth. We’ll see ourselves out.’ Without giving him time to come back from that, they left.

  ‘Did you hear the doorbell then?’ Baggo asked as they walked up the hill to their cars.

  ‘No,’ Flick replied.

  ‘So does the upright judge have a key so that he can comfort the grieving widow any time he wants?’

  ‘My thoughts entirely.’

  ‘Did you see his jaw drop when you said about her telling the truth?’

  ‘It practically bounced up off his tie.’

  ‘Interesting, perhaps?’ he asked.

  ‘But he wasn’t there on Friday night. I checked the list.’

  ‘There was some late swapping of tickets. I think I’ll double check he wasn’t there. I know just the person to ask.’

  * * *

  Baggo arrived at the fraud trial in time to hear a red-faced man tell the jury that Joe Thomson was totally honest. He was overdoing it, and the raised eyebrows in the jury box told their own story.

  ‘If he hears of one of his men doing a homer for cash he’ll sack him,’ the witness said belligerently.

  Thomson’s advocate decided not to ask any more. Baggo could see that Melanie wanted Radcliffe to cross-examine but he remained seated and the witness was discharged. That concluded all the evidence in the case and Lord Tulloch told the jury that the next day they would begin to hear speeches from the crown then the defence and he hoped the case would finish early the following week.

  ‘See you tonight?’Baggo whispered to Melanie as she collected her papers.

  ‘Not tonight. Mark wants to go through his speech with me.’ She gave him a sad smile.

  ‘Well can I meet you for a quick drink in half an hour? I need to ask you a couple of things.’

  After arranging to meet her in The Verdict, Baggo turned his attention to the accused in the trial. They were all in the foyer talking to their lawyers. Wallace and McKellar waited nearby to check alibis for Tam Walker’s murder. They agreed that Wallace should speak to both Smails, McKellar to Maltravers and Baggo to Thomson.

  The builder was about to ignore him and walk away when Baggo asked if he knew Tam Walker. ‘No,’ he replied quickly but the flicker of his eyelids suggested otherwise.

  Baggo explained that he was investigating his murder and asked what Thomson had done from the time he left court to eight pm the previous evening.

  Although he wore an expensive suit, Thomson looked like a man who had worked his way up from a poor background. His skin was coarse and bore a few scars. To Baggo it suggested whisky, fights and open air. His hands had been hardened by work. Showing neither surprise nor resentment at being questioned, Thomson said, ‘I was going round my building sites, checking the work.’ In a matter-of-fact way he described how the sites were spread round West Fife and West Lothian. Baggo took down details of all of them. Everyone had knocked off for the day by the time the boss arrived and no one could back up his account. ‘I made some phone calls too of course,’ Thomson added. ‘Business calls, on my car phone.’ He set his jaw, as if inviting a challenge.

  ‘When did you last see your son, Gary?’ Baggo asked.

  Thomson looked startled. ‘What has that got to do with anything?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a perfectly innocent question, sir,’ Baggo pointed out.

  ‘If you must know, a long time ago.’

  ‘Months or years?’

  Thomson glared at him. ‘Years.’

  ‘When did you last speak with him?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Years.’

  ‘Did you know he was working as a waiter at the Advocates and Archers function last Friday at which Mr Knox was killed?’

  Thomson scowled. ‘I see. You’re wondering if I put him up to killing the man prosecuting me.’

  ‘I have to make full and thorough inquiries, sir.’

  ‘Well understand this. That ungrateful shite would have helped any enemy of mine. So if he did kill Knox he didn’t do it for me.’

  There was no more to be learned from Thomson. Wallace reported that the Smails said they had left court together and driven home to Fife. No one could back this up. Only Maltravers had given names of people he had seen after court the previous day. These were business contacts and he had implored McKellar to be discreet when checking his alibi.

  * * *

  Melanie was waiting in a booth far from other customers when Baggo arrived at The Verdict. She had bought pints and gave him a frothy smile as he slid along the bench opposite her. For a time they chatted about the trial, then Baggo asked if she had seen Lord Hutton on Friday night.

  ‘’Orrible ’Utton? Yes, I did. I bumped into him, actually. Why?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a bit, but how did you bump into him?’

  ‘Remember I was pissed? Well I was on my way to the Ladies when he sort of loomed in front of me. Actually he was looking down the corridor towards Court Three.’

&nbs
p; ‘When was this?’

  ‘I think, yes it was, just after the archery had finished. I was surprised to see him on his own like that, just staring down a corridor. He had been one of the Faculty’s archers, not very good but at least he hit the butt every time. Not like poor Bradshaw, who missed completely with his first shot and damaged the wall.’ She giggled.

  ‘Hutton must have been a late substitute. He wasn’t on the list we were given.’

  She frowned. ‘He was, now you mention it. Lord McNorris was supposed to be one of our archers, but he’s on circuit in Inverness and someone offered him a weekend’s fishing on the Spey. So he called off. Hutton can shoot with bows and arrows and he was persuaded to take McNorris’s place. McNorris is divorced and Hutton’s wife spends all her time in the Borders so the numbers worked out. The only thing was, Hutton had to join Lady Pumpherston’s table and they’re supposed to hate each other. We were all chatting about it.’

  ‘Are all Scottish judges Lords or Ladies?’

  ‘All High Court judges. But it’s only a courtesy title. Their children don’t inherit, unless they become judges too, of course, and that’s not inheritance. Well, it’s not supposed to be.’ She smirked.

  ‘Flick was talking about a Lord Craigdiller. He’s not a judge, is he?’

  ‘No. He’s the chief Archer, I believe. As my mum would say, he’s a proper lord, blue blood in his veins and rattling about in an ancestral pile but strapped for cash.’ She shrugged.

  ‘What’s Hutton like? You called him ’Orrrible ’Utton.’

  Melanie winced. ‘He can be really vicious, particularly if people don’t stand up to him. And woe betide you if you go into his court unprepared. Apparently he’s reduced quite experienced counsel to tears. He’s a very sound lawyer, of course. But tell me, why all the questions about him?’

  ‘Please keep this under your hat, as you say, but he seems to have taken a shine to his neighbour, Mrs Knox, who stands to collect three million pounds insurance money as a result of her husband’s death. He is terribly protective of her and I wonder why.’

  ‘Chivalry,’ she said with a straight face, ‘or lust.’ She started to giggle. Baggo wondered what was so funny but he found himself joining in.

  ‘He has a pretty twisted view of life. Apparently, not so long ago he was talking to a tree surgeon and said something like, “You cut trees down to size and I cut people down to size.” And he does. So is he a warm suspect, then?’ she asked gleefully.

  ‘Not really. We’ve had some bizarre leads, and we are even investigating am extreme Catholic sect called Vita Dei in Glasgow. They’re taking a great interest in the assisted suicide case that’s on at the moment and it’s just possible one of their crazier members killed Knox. He might have mistaken him for the QC defending in the assisted suicide case. So we’re still looking in all directions.’ Aware that he’d said more than he should have, he added, ‘But keep all that to yourself, and if the evidence in the fraud trial gives you any ideas …’

  ‘I know,’ she said indignantly. ‘I can keep a secret. Now, must dash.’ She got up to go. Baggo opened the pub door with a flourish and waved her through ahead of him.

  ‘Nice arse,’ a cockney voice said.

  15

  Kenny Cuthbert was on his feet when di Falco arrived at Glasgow High Court. He was arguing that the right to control the length of one’s own life was a basic human right, but was facing hostile comments and questions from the bench. The Vita Dei group were where they had been the previous day. Di Falco squeezed onto a bench beside Dolan, who was once more reading his Bible. It was the passage in 1Samuel describing David’s victory over Goliath. As the afternoon wore on di Falco noticed that, although his lips moved as he read, he never turned a page.

  When the court rose, Father Neil greeted di Falco warmly. ‘A good day for us, I think, Billy,’ he said outside. ‘I believe their lordships may be coming to understand that human duties are at least as important as human rights.’

  Di Falco agreed with him then explained how a mix-up of his shifts in the hotel had enabled him to come to the court unexpectedly. He accepted an invitation to join the group for prayers and tea.

  Again di Falco had a rickety chair in the same upstairs room in the Gallowgate. This time, Father Neil’s short sermon dealt with Christian duty. He argued that duties were imposed by God and so were far more important than rights, which were of man’s devising. Di Falco was impressed by the way he picked up on the themes that had dominated the day’s proceedings in court and gave them his own, very Catholic treatment.

  After the sermon came a prayer, Christian duty the issue that was being addressed. Di Falco’s attention wandered as he planned how he would tackle Dolan. Then something Neil said made him think.

  ‘… and we pray for those who confuse duties imposed by human society with those fundamental duties that God has laid upon us. Sometimes man-made duties conflict with God’s duties. Sometimes, faithful to man-made duties, a sinner can bear false witness before God and His church. Oh Lord, we have one such person here, in this very room. That person is preparing to persecute Your followers in the name of his man-made duty. Oh Lord, help that sinner confess and repent. Help that sinner to speak out now and renounce the works of the devil. Vita Dei, Vita Dei, Vita Dei!’

  As he ended, the rest joined in the chant. Di Falco looked up from the floor and saw that everyone was staring at him. He felt very scared.

  Slowly, he got up and went to stand beside Neil, the semi-circle of acolytes in front of him, their expressions hostile. ‘The Father is right to some extent,’ he began. He feared his voice sounded quavery and weak. ‘I am a police officer, but I have no intention of persecuting anyone or renouncing the works of the devil because I do not do the devil’s work. I am concerned about a number of letters, anonymous letters, that were sent from Glasgow to Mr Cuthbert. Does anyone know anything about them?’ He searched the faces in front of him then turned to look directly at Father Neil who stared back, cold-eyed and unforgiving.

  ‘No one here needs to confess to you,’ Neil said.

  No one moved and no one spoke. The only noise came from rush hour traffic on the Gallowgate. Di Falco tried to out-stare Neil but gave up. Moving slowly, as if from a dangerous animal, he walked to the door and left the room.

  Continuing to tread steadily, he went down the stairs, aware of footsteps close behind. He was about to open the front door and reach the sanctuary of the street when someone whispered in his ear. ‘Where the fuck do ye think you’re going?’

  It was Dolan. Di Falco felt something hard and sharp prick his right side and he was pushed into the main hall, which was deserted. Dolan shut the door behind them. He had a six-inch, serrated blade in his right hand.

  ‘You’re no’ here about these poxy letters, are you?’ Dolan hissed.

  ‘Yes, actually, I am.’ Di Falco tried to sound brave.

  ‘Don’t give me that shite. They wernae even threatening. You’re here tae pin that lawyer murder on me as I’ve got a record.’

  ‘I don’t pin crimes on people.’

  ‘Haw, that’s whit they all say. You’ll no’ go after the guy whose wife was a right fucking Jezebel because he’s one of yours. Ye see my record and it’s easy. Just like the retired polis in the paper said.’ Shaking with rage, he pushed the point of the knife under di Falco’s chin.

  ‘I promise I’m not here to fit you up,’ then, with a silent prayer, he added, ‘But I would like to question you.’

  ‘I’ll tell you once and that’s all: I didnae kill that man. And I’m no’ answering yer fucking questions.’ He pressed the knife deeper, breaking the skin. ‘And if you bear fucking false witness against me, I’ve got friends who’ll make you wish yer mother had remained a fucking virgin. Remember that.’ He took a step back, hid the knife under his shirt and went to the door. ‘And remember, Father Anthony in St Andrews told Father Neil a lot about you. I know where you live. And where your family live.’

&nb
sp; Di Falco lost no time in leaving the building. He forced himself to walk at a normal pace to the station. His chin had stopped bleeding but he was still shaking when he boarded the train to Fife.

  * * *

  Before seeing Baggo entering The Verdict, Osborne had passed an uneventful day. His hangover was far from the worst he had experienced, but it still made him ponder whether he should give up drink completely. The sight of a bottle of beer in the fridge made up his mind and he succeeded in finding the opener as Bothwell phoned from the lobby. Osborne had forgotten about their ten am meeting. He decided to give his hangover the fry-up treatment, pulled on some clothes and went down full of bravado to cover for his lack of ideas.

  In the breakfast area Bothwell sipped a coffee while Osborne, in default mode, told him how he cleaned up the East End, omitting incriminating details.

  ‘These posh hotels don’t do a fry-up like a proper greasy spoon caf,’ he complained after Bothwell had asked how he’d persuaded a particular villain to confess. A mouthful of black pudding gave him thinking time. ‘Guilt’s a burden,’ he said, not mentioning the accused’s broken arm. ‘Sometimes it wells up inside the worst villains. They need to confess and they can’t hold it in. The jury could see that and he went down.’ No thanks to the ivory-tower, do-gooder on the bench, he thought to himself.

  ‘So what do we put in the paper tomorrow?’ Bothwell asked.

  ‘Dunno yet, Pizza. Phone me later. I’m going to take a gander at this trial. Sniffing about, listening to your gut. That’s what good detective work is all about.’

  Soon afterwards, blinking in the sunlight, Osborne crossed the Lawnmarket to the High Court building and found the fraud trial that Knox had been prosecuting when he was killed. A tall, unhappy-looking man, clearly one of the accused, was giving evidence, denying that he had known from the start that the project was one massive scam. He was the sort of white-collar criminal Osborne detested, with his posh voice and fancy suit. He didn’t like the prosecuting lawyer either. He was smooth, smug and artificially courteous.