by Ian Simpson
‘I can’t think why you’re asking me that, but I went for a long walk, by myself, up the Pentlands, parking in the Flotterstone car park.’
Baggo sensed that it was time to go. He decided to try a technique that had worked on the television for Colombo. Finishing his wine, he thanked Hutton very much and told him he had to be on his way. He said he would see himself out but Hutton rose from his chair and, staggering slightly, led him upstairs and into the hall.
‘One last thing, my lord,’ Baggo said at the front door, ‘you appear to be very friendly with Mrs Knox. Is there anything we should know about your relationship so that we can handle the matter discreetly?’
Hutton’s whole body twitched. His gimlet eyes boring into Baggo’s, he spoke slowly and calmly. ‘That is a grossly impertinent remark which I am reluctant to dignify with a reply. But I will say one word: no.’ He slammed the front door, pushing Baggo out onto the doorstep.
Baggo went to his car which still smelt of fish and chips. As he reversed out of his parking space he saw the judge’s white face glowering out of a ground floor window. On his way to his B and B, driving along Mayfield Road, Baggo was stopped by Edinburgh police and breathalysed. He was relieved to pass. The judge cast a long shadow.
17
Refreshed by her best night’s sleep for some days, Flick set off for the Thursday morning briefing in Cupar with new confidence. The previous evening, she had discussed developments with Fergus and she had allowed him to talk her into having a glass of wine. He agreed with her that the Traynors’ story had the ring of truth. Moreover, the only way Lynda could have known where the bows and arrows were, was if she had emerged into the corridor as they were being stowed. If she was the killer, she must have gone to the judges’ retiring room and picked up an arrow before returning to Court Three to stab Knox. If she had done that, someone would have been bound to see her. She had no motive for killing her lover and it seemed safe to eliminate her. The difficulty in taking an arrow from the retiring room unobserved also made the Chief Superintendent an unlikely killer, but he could not be entirely ruled out. He had, after all, lied about his knowledge of his wife’s affair with Knox, and Flick was sure he was responsible for the bruise on her face.
Still unsettled by his visit to Vita Dei, di Falco had phoned to report Dolan’s threats and his knowledge of the contents of the letters to Cuthbert.
Flick had said, ‘If he mistook Knox for Cuthbert, without his wig, and saw him going off to have sex with Mrs T, might he have imposed his own punishment? Remember, no one notices waiters, so he might have picked up an arrow, hidden it in his uniform, and gone to Court Three and back without anyone thinking anything of it. And they had white gloves, so no fingerprints.’ Fergus had agreed.
Baggo also had phoned to tell her about his meeting with Hutton, but neither Flick nor Fergus could see any motive for a High Court judge to murder a leading QC, even if he was a bit soft on his wife. Whatever she might say, Eloise Knox had a strong financial motive for ending her unhappy marriage through homicide, and she could not prove that she merely drifted about in the fresh air before the dancing began. However, it would have been difficult for her or the judge to pick up an arrow from the retiring room without being seen.
They had gone on to discuss the possible links to the fraud case. Flick said, ‘The trial is going smoothly and as it nears its end, two people who have no connection we know of, but who have a link with the case, are brutally murdered. If it’s a coincidence, it’s a very odd one.’
Fergus said, ‘My gut tells me it’s too much of a coincidence, but I have no idea how it all ties in. And it’s bizarre having two of the accused at the same function as the prosecutor.’
‘There would be the same problem for them as the Traynors, picking up the arrow from the retiring room without someone seeing them. I think we need to look at the waiters, especially the pair with records: Dolan, who’s violent and fanatical enough to kill both Knox and Walker, and Thomson, who happens to be the son of one of the accused, though they say they don’t get on.’
Fergus poured himself more wine. ‘That’s another coincidence. You’re getting there, my love. Slowly but surely.’
‘And to hell with Inspector No.’
As she drove past productive fields, rich and yellow with oil seed rape, Flick mulled over what had been said and began to sort out the priorities of the day and the tasks she would allocate.
When she arrived at the office she found an autopsy report and an update from the Glasgow lab. Tam Walker had been struck on the back of the head with the African stone statue and then asphyxiated using a cushion. The pathologist gave the time of death at between six and seven pm on Tuesday evening. Walker had consumed beans on toast and lager about two hours before the fatal attack. His killer had been careful. The forensic scientists had found nothing that would aid the inquiry.
Looking at the whiteboard, Flick was pleased to see more green evidence than red questions. She drew a blank square beside Eloise Knox. If Chief Superintendent Traynor merited whiteboard anonymity, so did Lord Hutton.
The briefing started at nine am, Baggo being the last to arrive after driving from Edinburgh. More in command than she had been the previous day, Flick summarised the situation as she saw it then added, ‘If we are looking at a murderer who is connected in some way to the fraud, we may well be looking at someone involved in the scam who has managed to stay under our radar. If so, that person has felt it necessary to kill two people in the last week. We might solve both murders by looking again at the fraud.’
‘I agree,’ Baggo said. ‘The crown junior, Melanie Arbuthnot, told me that at the end of the court day last Friday, Knox said something about having to re-think things. He had been taking Burns through a lot of e-mails that he had sent but pretended not to understand. Maybe he really didn’t understand them. It could be that Burns has been set up to be the fall guy. After all, barring a mad jury, he is bound to serve some serious time.’
Flick said, ‘Why don’t you get a look at these e-mails? Perhaps you’ll find something we’ve missed.’
‘I was planning to, Inspector ma’am. I might even find the missing millions, but that may be pie in the sky.’
Wallace held up a copy of that day’s Good News. ‘There are a couple of things of interest here,’ he said. ‘First, a quote from Osborne: “I am sure Inspector Fortune is handling a most difficult case as well as possible. I trained her well.”’
Flick raised an eyebrow. ‘He wants something,’ she said. ‘But he’s not getting it. What’s the other thing?’
‘This is more serious,’ Wallace said. ‘Pete Bothwell writes: “The Good News reward of a massive twenty thousand pounds may be claimed later today. This newspaper has been approached by someone who says they can provide evidence against the savage killer of Farquhar Knox. Don’t fail to read tomorrow’s paper to learn more.” What should we do, ma’am?’
‘I don’t plan to read about it in the paper. We must find out who he’s meeting and see what they have to say.’
Baggo said, ‘The e-mails will still be there tomorrow. The paper is based in Edinburgh. Billy knows Bothwell by sight. I would like a shot at him, ma’am.’
Flick thought for a moment. By rights she had already given Baggo one important task and Wallace was her sergeant, ranking equally with Baggo. She should give Bothwell to him, but dealing with the press often required flexibility and inventiveness.
‘Sergeant Chandavarkar and DC di Falco are to find Bothwell and learn all they can. Keep closely in touch with me,’ she warned.
‘What do you want me to do, ma’am?’ Wallace asked. Flick sensed he had taken offence.
‘Please take acting DC McKellar and interview or re-interview people who were at the function on Friday, concentrating on whether they saw the Smails, Maltravers, Mrs Knox or Lord Hutton between the end of the archery and the start of the dancing. Did they see any waiter behaving oddly then? Also, did they see Knox talk to anyone, apart
from Lynda Traynor, at any time during the evening? We know he said something cheeky to Hutton before the archery. See if anyone remembers that. I shall remain here. DC Gilsland and I will be busy researching a variety of things on the internet.’
‘Thanks, Lance,’ she said to Wallace as they left the room.
‘Ma’am,’ he grunted.
Back at her desk she sat thinking how she might have handled it better.
* * *
Good News occupied a large steel and glass cube in the Newcraighall estate on the east of Edinburgh. What the building lacked in imaginative design it made up for with brashness. The paper’s name was plastered along the top of each of its four walls. Lit up at night, those letters whose neon still functioned could often be seen from aircraft coming in to land. The letters with non-functioning neon revealed the state of the paper’s finances more eloquently than any set of accounts.
It was well after mid-morning when Baggo parked outside the offices. A pretty girl in the shabby reception area greeted them with what seemed like genuine friendliness. Yes, she said, Pete Bothwell was in. Baggo told her that they were there to see him about the Knox case. He gave their names but did not say they were police. She lifted the phone but got no answer. She dialled another number and asked for Pete. Whatever was said made her giggle.
‘He’s avoiding me again,’ she told the officers. ‘Don’t worry, though. I’ll find him. Take a seat over there. There’s a coffee machine in the corner.’
The coffee tasted like the residue from a chemical experiment and the magazines were old. More than half an hour passed without any sign of Bothwell. It was time for a different approach. ‘We are police officers on a major investigation and we need to see Mr Bothwell now,’ Baggo told the girl. ‘If you don’t find him within ten minutes I shall have to see the editor.’
Her face wrinkled with concern, the girl phoned different numbers, asking for Pete. Baggo stood over her. ‘I just can’t find him,’ she said, anxiety making her voice shrill.
‘I trust you are not giving us the run-around,’ Baggo said quietly, ‘or you could be in serious trouble.’
‘No, honestly, no,’ she stammered.
‘Well I need to see the editor now. I can’t afford to waste more time.’
‘But Mr Waddell doesn’t see people without an appointment.’
‘He’d better start or he will be prosecuted for obstructing the police.’ Baggo turned to di Falco and told him to stay there and make sure Bothwell didn’t slip out of the building. Then he stood over the girl. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘take me.’
Throwing her head back in a huffy gesture, she led him through a door leading to an open-plan office. At the far end was a door with EDITOR written on it. Tentatively the girl knocked on it. She was answered with a bellow of ‘Fuck off’. Baggo opened the door and stepped into a cluttered, dusty room. A small, bespectacled man with rabbit’s front teeth sat behind a large, pine desk. His pink shirt was crumpled and sweat-stained. A smell like the stench of prisons hit Baggo’s nose. The man looked up from the computer in front of him. ‘I thought I told you to fuck off,’ he said.
‘I am a police officer and I need to speak to Pete Bothwell urgently,’ Baggo said, producing his warrant.
The girl slipped out, closing the door behind her.
‘Why do you need to speak to Pete?’ The editor’s eyes shifted round the room as his tone became almost casual.
‘We have reason to believe that he might be able to lead us to a crucial witness in an on-going murder inquiry. Please help us find him.’
‘I don’t keep tabs on my journalists.’
‘I know you’ll be looking to Bothwell for a story to put in tomorrow’s paper, and I’m sure you’ll be able to find him if you want to. You don’t want to be charged with obstructing the police, do you?’
‘No. Look, there’s no need to take that sort of approach.’
‘Well find him. Now.’
All bravado gone, the editor shrugged and lifted his phone. ‘Alfie, where’s Pete? Yes, now.’ He listened, smiled then got up. ‘Follow me,’ he said.
Baggo followed as the editor went through the open-plan office and into the male toilets. One cubicle was occupied.
‘Pete, you daft wanker, come out of there,’ the editor shouted.
Slowly the bolt was withdrawn and an apprehensive-looking young man emerged. Baggo saw why Inspector No called him Pizza.
The editor grasped the front of Bothwell’s shirt, making up with aggression for his lack of height. ‘This is a police officer. We don’t fucking mess with them. Right?’ He turned and left.
‘Right, Mr Bothwell, we need to find somewhere we can have a word in confidence,’ Baggo said.
Pausing to pick up di Falco at reception, and to give the girl a stern look, Baggo went with a cowed Bothwell to a disused office. He told him to sit on a chair facing a desk. He and di Falco sat on the edge of the desk. It was designed to be intimidating and, from the expression on Bothwell’s face, it was.
Quoting that day’s paper on the subject of the reward being claimed, Baggo put his face close to Bothwell’s. ‘Three questions. Who? Where? When?’
‘Journalists don’t reveal their sources,’ Bothwell’s voice caught.
‘This isn’t a source. It’s someone claiming a reward and they’ll have to come out in the open.’
‘Right now they’re just a source.’
‘This is a murder investigation. If you obstruct us we will prosecute you.’
‘If this works as it should, I’ll get my story, my source will come forward and get the reward and you’ll have your witness. Without the reward this witness would not have come forward at all. I’m helping you, if only you’d realise it.’ As he spoke he gained confidence, lacing the last words with contempt.
‘We have to know now …’ Baggo was interrupted by his mobile. It was Inspector No. He listened then said, ‘Right, we’ll be there.’ He said to di Falco, ‘Don’t let him move.’ Then he went out to the car to phone Flick without being overheard.
18
That day Osborne had wakened early, sunlight streaming through half-pulled curtains. His encounter with Baggo had stimulated him, got the juices flowing. He wanted to solve Knox’s murder from the sidelines, show the politically correct bureaucrats infesting the top ranks of today’s police force that old-fashioned methods really were the best. And more of this consultancy work would spin out his pension wonderfully.
To keep Baggo on side he had told Pizza, through gritted teeth, that Fortune was doing a difficult job very well. He needed to know what was really happening in the investigation in order to keep Good News at least apparently ahead of the game. The previous evening, Pizza had sounded strange on the phone and had then admitted he had been contacted by someone who wanted to claim the reward. The mystery caller had insisted that neither Osborne nor the police should be involved, and Pizza could not be persuaded to ignore that condition. It had been very frustrating.
As he devoured another fry-up he wondered how he should pass the day. Listening to lawyers in the fraud trial would drive him to drink, but there was not much else he could do. Unless …
After a couple of hours Googling the Catholic Church he changed into a purple shirt and dark jacket and trousers and took a train to Glasgow. It was not a long walk from the station to the High Court and cheery Glaswegians were happy to direct him. By mid-morning he found himself at the back of the public benches, watching the legal debate in the assisted suicide trial.
It was easy to spot Vita Dei. Dark-clothed, with tense body language, some paid close attention to the case while others bent their heads in prayer. Osborne looked carefully at them. There was a young man with sharp features whose lips moved as he read the book on his knee, presumably The Bible. His swollen, red knuckles showed Osborne he was a fighter. This would be the suspect. As he watched he was aware of another man turning to look at him. This man wore a dog collar and had an inquiring expression. Osborne smil
ed at him then pretended to listen to the lawyer’s argument.
When the court rose for lunch, Osborne waited behind with Vita Dei. After the other spectators had filed out, the police waved the priest and his flock to follow. Osborne went with them. Out in the street he approached the priest, who appeared to be the leader.
‘Are you Vita Dei?’ he asked.
‘Why yes,’ the priest replied pleasantly. ‘How do you know about us?’
‘Good news spreads as well as bad news,’ Osborne replied.
The priest looked him up and down. There was intelligence and scepticism in his eyes. He was not someone to underestimate.
‘And we are good news, I hope?’
‘Oh yes. We must take a stand against suicide.’
‘Which we do. Will you join us for lunch, my friend? Nothing too fancy, but in the church hall the blessed Marjorie will have soup and sandwiches and perhaps even a chocolate cake. I’m Father Neil.’ The Irish brogue came across clearly.
‘Er, thank you, Father. That would be wonderful.’ Osborne shook his hand warmly, wishing only that there might be something alcoholic. He felt the need for Dutch courage. ‘I’m Noel,’ he added.
The priest’s smile revealed shining teeth. ‘So you share your birthday? What a blessing!’
‘Share my … oh yes, of course. Jesus.’ He felt he had recovered in the nick of time. As a child, a Christmas Day birthday had meant fewer presents. Definitely not a blessing.
On the way to the church hall Osborne told Father Neil that he was a retired publican from the East End, currently visiting Scotland on holiday. Remembering the Catholic view of divorce, he said his wife was dead, silently wishing he could have persuaded her to commit suicide. He said he had seen newspaper reports of the assisted suicide case and felt so strongly that, when a priest in Edinburgh’s St Mary’s Cathedral told him about Vita Dei, he wanted to come through to back them up. He hinted that he might be able to give some money.